Sunday 28 April 2013


I can not do a vast number of household chores in one day or even a week because of my stupid health problems. I do what I can when I can, and I never feel it is enough. There is always something to do and I am not always able to it. Some days, I feel I can do a lot more than others; the "other" days might involve me laying on the sofa unable to move. I never know. It's like Ovarian Bingo.

This is a very personal insight to how I see things in my home. My parents both have their own health problems - Mum's cancer bother and treatment, and Dad's agonising arthritic hip and back, for just a start. I don't happen to think doing all you are able to help the people who have done, and continue to do, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g they can for you is unreasonable. But what do I know?

NaPoWriMo 2013 - day 28, part bjtvggshb... I don't know...

Before we had a dishwasher,
I washed up the cups and pans,
And the plates and cutlery,
Monotonously cleaning by hand
Your crumbs and coffee stains,
The grease and the grime,
From your unhealthy foodstuffs,
Not my chosen way to spend my time.

I'm often hunched over the worktops,
Such heavy aches in my back,
But you never bother to ask how I am,
Lest you think about others - imagine that!
You see me stop in the kitchen,
Frozen, breathing heavily through my pain,
And, instead of filling my hot water bottle for me,
You simply sigh and complain
Because I'm in the way of the kettle
And you can't make your coffee
Or I'm selfish about the water
Because I'd filled it up for me.
I hoped the heat may help me relax
After walking up, then down, the stairs,
To fetch another load of washing
Before taking tablets to ease these pains I can't bear.

You most often see me sitting down,
So you seem to assume it's all I do,
But never seem to consider Mum's not alone in
Keeping the home free from the smell of cat poo
Or dirty floors, or limescale-free taps
So I must only ever eat codeine and sleep,
Despite every day SEEING me do housework,
The fatigue in me runs so painfully deep.

The clothes in the ironing pile,
Some more wrinkled than others,
But all must be pressed, and, invariably, it is I
Who stands for hours because you never bother
To offer to iron even only your own clothes
Because it "doesn't matter" if they are not done,
But if I don't do it, the only other person who can
Is the one who suffers enough already - our Mum.

Cleaning has to be done,
Things must always be cleaned,
Including windows and sinks,
Something you still don't seem to glean.
Cleaning your car does not count,
Huffing and puffing never occur
When the buckets and sponges make their appearances,
Why do you so rarely think of Mum? Think of HER.

The recyclable card and plastics
Must be washed and sorted.
They don't magically clean themselves
Have you never had a moment when you thought if
You did that something or other,
Which always seems hard work
You might save your mother some stress,
Rather than just walk on by? It is the behaviour of a berk.
After I've dusted the surfaces
And vacuumed the carpets,
I feel so achy and heavy,
And I've only just started!

Why must you wait to be asked
Before lending your reluctant hand?
Why will you not just offer to help?
Grow the fuck up and be a better man.

Thursday 18 April 2013


Colourful stickers
Have travelled the planet
On parcels that journeyed
From Moscow to Thanet.
Letters from sweethearts
Delivered and treasured
Because one little label
Enables such pleasure.

Scientists' discoveries,
Seasonal flowers,
War leaders' triumphs,
Hurriedly devoured
By passionate people
With a penchant for detail,
Searching for gold dust
In auctions and retail.

Millennium, Christmas,
The sovereign's sceptre,
New Zealand's history,
Olympiad spectres,
The owl and the pussycat,
Shakespeare and Dickens,
Aardman, The Gruffalo,
Oxen and chickens,
The greatest of Britons,
And Doctor Who,
I see immense beauty in stamps,
Perhaps you do, too.

Wednesday 17 April 2013


Upon opening the front door, I heard a robin singing while the soothing and warm evening air swirled around me and caused me to close my eyes and breathe in and just listen. An almost perfect evening atmosphere. The kind where a walk is necessary. The kind where sitting in the garden and just... sitting... and listening, really listening to the myriad sounds, is the best and easiest thing to do, like a kind of meditation.

I listened to the oddly comforting rhythmic clunking of trains on their tracks, the gentlest breeze whispering through the sparsely-leaved trees, a blackbird singing its cheerfully fluid song.

No coat. No blanket. (Yet.)

Just sitting.

And listening.

And (just) being.

Saturday 13 April 2013

You look well!

NaPoWriMo 2013 - late poem.

The curtains may be closed
When you walk through the door,
As you make your way to your job.
My laying in bed until 9:53
Does not make me a slob.

Pain so intense and so deep within me
Still not numbed or held back
Keep me from sleeping the hours I ought.
Your assumptions from what? Conjecture and ignorance?
Perhaps you should learn some forethought

Because, when you say, "You LOOK fine",
A chill runs down my spine
And it's clear you've never been like this;
You don't know how I hurt, and don't see when I cry,
I'm not exaggerating or taking the piss

Out of "the system", or you,
Or my doctor or consultant specialist,
When I sit on the sofa at home.
I ask for some help from my Mum, "I can't move",
Once again, it's my fucked-up bloody womb.

If I walk to the shops,
Or visit a friend,
Or dare to be bold and wear lipstick,
I am not cured of pain, and I am not "right as rain".
I am floating on codeine, you dipstick.

Illness but no wounds,
And no tubes or devices
Betray the truth of my shitty condition.
I want to be a worker
So don't dare call me a shirker
And forget your misplaced and mistimed contrition.

I can try to cover dark circles
Beneath my heavy eyes
But the damage you'll never see
Of what endo does to me,
Because it's invisible, hidden deep inside.

Thursday 11 April 2013

Travelling poetry bag shops.

Travelling poetry bag shops -
I don't think I've seen one before.
Often I've wondered
How poetry travels,
Steam train or maybe Concorde?
Horse and carriage! Or pony and trap?
Or stowed away on a goods-laden boat?
Would it all be too heavy,
All the letters and ink?
Or would it all simply rise up and float?
It may hover and circle,
Hanging up high,
Watching, resting, waiting.
It might be sent through the post,
But by gold class or second?
It'd probably just be gold-plating.
The attire it sports
Could be classy and light,
And be elegant with, maybe, a hat.
Travelling poetry bag shops aren't real;
Two comic masters invented that.

Friday 5 April 2013


NaPoWriMo 2013 - part five. Day five. Yay me. Etc..

Caffeine, crocheting, and codeine.
Which one do I like the most?
Caffeine keeps me awake,
Crocheting keeps my hands active,
Codeine keeps pain from making me shake
From the burning,
And piercing,
And stabbing inside.

I daydreamed, as a child,
Of what I would do
When I could work and drive,
When I'd said, "Goodbye" to my youth.
Alas, none of it's happened,
At least, not so far.
Some days, I feel lost
To endo, but my Ma
Helps me, always,
To attend more hospital visits,
And picks up my repeat prescriptions,
Answers people asking, "Ohh, what is it?"
When I struggle to breathe
I try to call for my Mum
Because there's a little-known language
Understood by just one
Other person (excluding me).

If not for my Mum and Dad,
I don't know how I would live
When some days I can not walk
And she tells me there is nothing she would not give
To see her little girl free of all this pain.
While she lifts me from the floor,
I hold her as tightly as I can,
Knowing the sofa is, once more
My destination for the day
And the woe is just too much
And I wish I'd never woken up.

Crocheting helps me create,
The caffeine helps to revive.
But neither can ease the heaviness in my heart,
Because I know I need codeine to survive.

Dead Happy.

NaPoWriMo 2013 - part four. Day five. Damn...

Who wins
When horses die
After jumping hedges
With the risk they'll lie
Still and quiet, while
The jockey gets up,
And one of those people
Will lift a cup, and
The trainers get money,
The gamblers get paid,
But do gamblers care
Where the horse is finally laid?

Wednesday 3 April 2013


NaPoWriMo 2013 - part three. Day three.

Sweet peas
And roses,
In posies.

Stuck with
The posies
By blankets
And Rosie.

Tuesday 2 April 2013

Another old yarn...

NaPoWriMo 2013 - part two. Day two.

Needles and hooks
And wools and yarns
Form flowers and stems
And bring aches in my arms
Crafting leaves of green
And petals of pinks
I need more caffeine!
I must plan and think
Of the rainbow delights
In my scarf (with some glitter).
It's a bit like The Doctor's...
I'll debut it on twitter!

My vow to complete it,
And not leave it unfinished
Remains a real promise to myself;
I shan't let it diminish
Or become another attempt
To occupy my mind,
To be productive, to do STUFF,
I will not just let it lie
In a bag in a cupboard
With the needles and hooks
And the yarns and the wools,
And I WILL read those books... probably...


NaPoWriMo2013 - part one. On day two. Oops.

I don't profess to be a poet, or to be capable of writing a poem with any skill or reverence. I loved doing the NaNoWriMo in 2011, and wanted to take part, again, last year but I didn't feel able to do it because of a certain Noristerat injection, which caused suicidal thoughts, along with the too-familiar depression and anxiety. It didn't help my endometriosis symptoms much, either. Failed treatment number 423.
So, then, here is my first "bit" to be followed, hopefully, by more. I may or may not post each poem I cobble together.

Words were never enough
To explain my gratitude
For the precious time and care and kindness
Lisa continuously showed
To me, my Mum, my family,
To people she'd never met.
That kindness never waned
And I shan't ever forget
How tightly she held me when I felt
I had to leave the party, because
My anxiety built and I had to get out
But immediately, I wished I'd stayed inside
To spend more precious time with her.

I crocheted her some flowers,
And made a card or two
Because I felt I had to do something
But I just didn't know what to do.
I still feel I should have said or done more
But what? I don't know. Do you?

My sub-standard health can take over, and
Days, and weeks, and months seem to
Disappear like vapour, leaving me
Wondering, "What the hell happened?
I've done nothing and been nowhere".

Notebooks were opened and
Many sentences begun with hopes of
Train journeys to London and
Exciting days with friends, but that
Optimism has been crossed out.
I've rewritten and ended
Those sentences and lists
Of where I want to go,
But there's always a part of my mind reminding me
It's hard for my body,
Which I always know.

Last week was hard,
For my body and for my mind,
Riding on trains and buses,
Seeing recognisable skylines.
I was in a busy, cold, and unfamiliar city,
Familiar faces were there,
Heads down, crying, sitting
Together for their hardest day yet.
So much love, and devotion,
Compassion, and grief
For a woman so wondrous,
So funny, and passionate,
So loving, so generous.

It's the middle of the night,
And here I sit, tapping my phone
All alone but for a cat and insomniacs' news.
I'm piling hope upon hope that my sleep might arrive soon.
Lisa was the one who inspired me to write,
To begin my blog about depression,
And endo, to talk about my life as it really is,
And through it, I learned
New ways of "self-expression",
I learned new ways of writing and "met" people
I never would've before,
And if that's all she gave me
I'd be grateful, but there's so much more
She maybe never knew she did for me,
For my Mum and my Dad.
I can't thank her now, but I wish, more than words can say,
That I had.