My 40s in Symbols

I didn’t get my first tattoo until I was beginning my 40s. In a few days, I’ll be 49. Today I just got my 9th tattoo.

Each tattoo is a symbol for something. This past decade I have been through some very dark moments, and have shed many things of myself.

This was the first. I had just surpassed my Mother’s age of death. This is my blood, my Celt roots, my Nan, my Mom, my son and my daughter. This was my mark to celebrate the gift of life.

My Ouroboros and Pentacle. My rebirth into my spiritual practice. Something in me felt a deep pull to learn and reconnect to the things that speak to me. This would be more important than I would have ever guessed.
‘Witch Know Thyself’

This sigil is a reminder I am stronger than my demons. At this point in my life I had made a kind of peace that anxiety and CPTSD may always be a part of me, but they would not defeat me

Next in Moon Glyphs I choose to keep another version of the elements with me. The Pentacle being the other. The two on the top represent balance and life. It was a reminder that I will strive for harmony with in myself and my environment

Things started to get a little shaky for me. Mental health wise I shut down. A mix of burnout and elevation of anxiety and old trauma surfacing. Being compounded by upheaval and high tension around me.

A symbol to honour the Goddess Morrigan. I had connected with her to help guide me as I found my self in a very dark, anxious place. This was a reminder I was not alone in this pitch, she would prop me up when I fumbled.

There can be a point when it feels like all your pieces have blown apart. A raw exposed nerve. I felt so ugly, shamed, worthless. This piece ( The Enzo) represents finding beauty in unfinished imperfection. Even though I did not feel beautiful, I could identify with not yet being finished.

A very tumultuous time preceded a much needed break and reconnecting trip with my husband to my spiritual home – New Orleans

This was at the end of the first year of Covid, I knew my mental health was taking a hit. I was struggling under the weight of old trauma patterns I wanted to break. The uncertainty of the world, and a deep disconnected feeling. The arrow was to remind me know matter how far back I feel I’ve gone, my trajectory is forward. AKF has been an important part of sustaining me. It’s a wonderful online support ( Always Keep Fighting)

I have been doing intense work over the last year. Working on releasing trauma patterning, learning about myself, the light and dark. At times the realizations have been hard. The pain uncovered, the isolation. Things I want to repair but am unsure how, setting firm boundaries. Again I’ve called to the Morrigan to remind me that I’m am strong, a worthy warrior.

Which bought me to this, as I’m days away from my 49th. A reminder of the armoury I am building. I have defences that are not toxic, but are strong. It is within hands reach.

I do not know what this last year of my 40s will bring, what I do know is, that this past decade has had incredible highs and lows. I’ve gained and lost so much. I am hoping my 50s will be more learning but less drops. I know it will be recorded, the pictures on my skin a reminder to myself of my journey, my growth and my power.

Awkward Tales from the Shadow Side: Reflections Underneath

I stand in front of the mirror

Armour on

Battle worn, cracked and brittle

Some areas thick and rigid with hasty repair

Is this the way you love me?

Lifting the helmet, what can’t be seen, as they reside so deep, are the howling banshees who live inside. Burrowed in, born of survival, fear and pain. Revealed, tired, wanting eyes.

The cuirass goes next, throat exposed

Words have died here

Breath extinguished

Fine network of scars unseen but felt

Pauldron lifted, the weight had held my arms in place to brace against the blows. Shoulders curled forward with the phantom weight of all that was, without the bindings now threatening to disengage

Plackart next, twisted scars over where the heart resides

Thick, thorny vines at once piercing and protecting the beating centre

Jagged lumps of torn tissue across the upper back holding my arms in place

Faulds removed, one by one, exposing my sex. Sometimes taken, sometimes gifted

Mistaken often for the sole root of power – it is but one area I can hold sacred

The cuisse loosened to fall away, revealing legs with nearly invisible trails of scars, some inflicted through war, some used as a release to quiet the banshees on their terror.

Here I stand, the mirror reflecting all that was hidden beneath the armour

The ugly truth of the damage. The damage that created the need for the armour.

Can you love me this way?

Can I love me this way?

A Message on the First Night of Yule

The 12 days of Yule have begun. It is also the night before Winter Solstice. I had been thinking over the weekend how I wanted to honour the start and celebrate my Ancestors, my Kin and my own Spirit.

The Universe directed me. I have hit a wall, a hard one. Physically, emotionally and mentally.

By the time I finished my ‘official’ day yesterday I was done, my body and mind were heavy and exhausted.

I went to bed early. Knowing enough to try to rest as today was another full tilt one.

This morning I had a headache and I felt like I ran a marathon ( this is a common body response when my anxiety has been high). While I have had some anxiety peaks in the last month, I did not feel this was the sole cause of my malaise.

I am burned out. The stress of the outside world has pecked away consistently at my armour. I have been on go for so long I’m not sure, other than when receiving a massage, when else I’ve actually hit pause. Even sleep feels like a momentary dead drop and right back at it.

It’s almost amusing, because one of the things on my never ending ‘to do’ list is to rearrange my schedule in the new year to have more ‘life, quiet, creative, connection time.’ It moved up the list to a top spot.

On this first day of Yule, the day to honour the Mother, the strong feminine, I honoured myself.

So today, I hit a full pause. I am grateful for the clients who understood, rebooked for another time and encouraged my day of rest.

I kept my pjs on. I ate light, I slept, read, listened to podcasts, curled up with my dogs.

I honoured my wisdom to listen to my body, my strength to not push through, I nurtured myself.

There is guilt lurking in the back ground, things left undone, not productive enough for the day. But the self talk I am practicing is that, this is what I needed, this was critical soul food. That in order to be present and participate, I needed this recharge.

Do I feel whole? No, but I feel a little more peace. The burning stiffness that anxiety trails through my muscles has softened. The pounding in my head receded. I don’t feel as emotionally drained.

I am not the only one. But I am one of the few that finally gave myself permission to stop.

I should have done it sooner. I have been the one who did not listen, who crashed hard with illness and yet kept going. Waiting for someone else to tell me it’s ok, that I am deserving to rest.

Do you feel this? Are you just trying to carry on despite everything?

On this first night of Yule, my gift to you is permission to hit pause.

You are worthy and you are very deserving.

Rest, move mindfully and know that’s more than enough.

Awkward Tales From the Shadow Side – for the child that was me, for the child I have, for the children lost and not yet found

There’s so many things crashed inside my head right now. The weight of the world seems to be bearing down today, I’m not a damn thing I can do about it.

Universally I feel devastated today, I can’t help but think how we have undercut and undervalued whole peoples because they were different. I think of the thousands of Indigenous children who were stolen, abused, and murdered. I think of all the parents and families that felt that missing piece, who feel that missing piece and that there is no way to make this right. The best we can do is shine a light.

Universally I feel crushed by this never ending pandemic, the reality of how it affects mental health. How exhausting it is, to be in a push/pull of society between trying to do what’s best for the ‘we’, with out a heavy cost to the ‘me’.

Today I also feel in my own personal heart space a confusion of heaviness. Grieving for the devastated child that still resides in me.

As I am on the cusp of parenting a newly minted teen ( in less than 72 hours she will officially enter the teens), I feel so much loss and grief. I did not really expect it. I did not expect to remember the loneliness I felt at her age. The fear. The deep abandonment of loosing my Mom the year before and an absent alcoholic father.

I feel lost now. How do I parent her? How do I protect her from the horrors of this world, that I keenly experienced? How do I know if it is the right guidance- what she needs VS what I needed/wanted at that age. Her situation is so very different than mine. I try to never impose the ‘me’ needs over the reality that she is not me and she has different needs. That was good until she surpassed me at still having both parents, intact and present.

I had tried to set up much in the way of distraction today, but it all has fallen apart.

So into my head I will stay, for just a little while, I’ll listen to the little girl with the wounded heart. Who is still so frightened and alone. Who navigated a dangerous place and came out with scars and wounds yet to be healed. But grew into someone mostly intact, praise her for growing into a loving mother who cares, who worries, who’s willing to grow.

I will go stand in the sun, and remind myself that even though I did it alone, my daughter isn’t. That she is a fortunate one, not like the thousands of children still not yet found but always cherished.

I know that if I lead with my heart and that she knows I’m leading with my heart, it will all be OK. And in the future, hopefully, she won’t be sitting on a warm fall day, with tears on her cheeks, mourning for the child that she was, for the child that felt abandoned and lost and hopeless.

That she will be sitting on a warm fall day with a smile knowing deeply how much she was loved and cherished and protected.

Awkward Tales from the Shadows- Start Point

Other stories on this blog do a decent job of explaining a few things about me. As this journal progresses I imagine so much more will be revealed. But a little back story to what brought me to this ‘start point’.

I’m firmly entrenched in midlife, chronologically but in my head I still feel like I’m in my early 20s- I’d like to think that is perpetuated by my eternal curiosity.

I had a lot of trauma in my younger years. I have GAD ( generalized anxiety disorder) and CPTSD, those two combined at time are a big rollercoaster of hellish fun.

I struggle with chronic pain, some resulting from my mental health issues, some from old injuries and sadly I’m sure some is a little from age.

I am a practicing Pagan, a Grey Witch ( if such a title is needed).

I am a survivor of rape and abuse.

I work as a massage therapist, energy healer, teacher, tarot reader, intuitive and writer.

I am a mother to an incredible teen daughter and a biological mother to an amazing young man.

I am a wife, sister and friend.

I am amazingly strong and easily hurt.

I have hope that seems to stay like a beacon of light even when I feel taken down by despair

How did I come to the ‘dark night’ awakening?

I can not pin point one moment, but a cascade of things.

I dreaded my 40s for as long as I could remember, a fatalistic view really. My mother died at 44, I was 12. That death shadow hung over me, somewhere in my head I had always believed I too would be gone young. To that end, I did enough for my mental health to ‘survive’ to keep a lid on all the poison. I had fooled myself into believing I had a handle on my ‘stuff’. Because honestly could someone who didn’t ‘have it together’ how could I achieve so much?

I thought I had begun to do positive work, building a strong life.

Just after my 45th birthday there was a tipping event involving betrayal, abandonment, humiliation and a break down of self.

I was so lost, just trying to make it through the day and fill the expectations of the roles I play. My anxiety was getting worse, social anxiety symptoms that I hadn’t experienced in years took me down hard. To complicate matters, within a year, as a planet we entered a pandemic that is ongoing and we are feeling the acceleration of the effects of climate change. The darkness and fear was closing in. The grasping of things, friends, comprise of self, use of substances for escape all becoming a sand trap I was silently drowning in.

The cross roads epiphany struck like lightening ‘work through this, find your life spark or face soul and/or real death.’

First came the stacks of books, workshops and podcasts. I journaled, I had recognitions, insight and so much, however the amount of information and emotion surfacing became overwhelming.

Then the inner knowledge I need help filtering the all information in relation to myself. Due to the tipping event I did not feel that anyone in my circle was a reliable source of deep support. Also knowing that I was entering a place of really wanting to be able to observe myself with a ( hopefully loving) critical eye, professional help was needed. This was hard for me, I had not done therapy since I was a kid, I’d always believed I was self sufficient/smart enough to work through my things with books, workshops and podcasts. Finally making that decision, I was choosing self love. The Shadow work was really about to take a deep direction.

And so it began…

What is ‘Awkward Tales From The Shadows’ about?

Hello readers,

Until now this blog has been a stream of consciousness for me, often revolving around my battles with anxiety, some poetry and a few political rants. I’m going to add a couple of other streams of writing. I’m searching for my bravado to start adding some of my fiction to this site, and that will come. But the newest addition is going to come in a journal type format.

It will be identified under the heading of Awkward Tales from the Shadows. This is my journey of healing, determination, acceptance and accountability.

I am aiming to have a narrative about what I’ve actually been doing to work through my dark night ( well a three year night, but who’s counting) of the soul. The Shadow work I’ve undertaken, the revelations that have come from therapy, the revelations that have come from diving into my Pagan spiritual work and the physical work I am undertaking and how all of these things intersect in the relationships I have with others and myself.

I do not have a degree in psychology, I am not a doctor, what works for me, may not be suitable for you, dear reader. I am not writing this as a how to guide, each of our journeys and needs are unique, there is no shame in medications, therapy or any other help or healthy tools you need to grow in your life.

The truths are mine, the perceptions are mine. The losses and victories are mine.

Some people won’t like this, and that’s ok. This isn’t for them. I’m not writing this to punish or blame anyone- we all affect each other. I will not name people outright. But if they’ve had a part in my journey, for good, bad, ugly or a combination of all, then they will appear here. There are wonderful moments and people that have also had an enormous effect in shaping who I am. These are just as important to acknowledge as the trauma side of things. There are things that have happened to me that were not fair, kind or wanted. I do not have false gratitude for these events, but what I am working on is appreciating what I have been capable of doing to survive.

I’m on a mission. For myself, for my children and for anyone that may find a kindred spirit or inspiration in what I’m doing. This may not be easy, it may not be pretty, but I also know it will not all be heavy and dark.

“Share your knowledge. It’s a way to achieve immortality. One learns so much just from living a lifetime. Share that knowledge with the people you come across, it can only help them in their journeys. Even more important, share your failures so that others will not repeat them.” Jordan Lejuwaan

No Longer

I no longer fit.

Every title

Every category

you’ve ever given me

no longer applies

by your terms.

In the same breath

to cross my lips

would be

thank you fuck you

It’s been exhausting to

Please

Defy

You –

much is met with indifference

Horror

Admiration

I shrank to meet your comfort

I bloomed for your

Entertainment

I died a thousand times

To be remade in desired image

Ignored

Bled dry

Imprisoned by Worship

Impaled by disdain

I no longer fit

I will grow

I will learn

Defined

by my own Terms

Opaque

Where does this empty come from?

What am I looking for?

Maybe… it’s nothing? But it feels like everything

Why is the validation so needed- to prove I am here? I exist? I made a difference.

I imagine this is what a ghost feels like

A neat anomaly- presence sometimes detected

Rarely seen

Rarely heard

Do they go on day to day? Doing their ghostly things to keep them busy. Hoping for relief from the empty where they are stuck. Do they hang around to see if their existence made a difference? Do they feel the same there as they did in life?

Maybe I am a ghost. Doing ghostly things. Sometimes being heard by those who are sometimes sensitive- sometimes being seen when it’s time for parlour tricks.

The Risk of Speaking

When I was a child I don’t remember being comforted often when I would cry or was fearful. The few times I recall my Mother comforting me, would have been when my father was on a drunken tear, or we were on the run. When I was twelve and my Mother was dying I never really cried in front of anyone. Not even at her funeral. I tried hard to never complain. I was praised often for being strong.

Even before this, in my family, openly expressed emotion other than rage and anger was never safe. Rebuked for being pouty and weak, tears, pain and fear were to be kept hidden. Eggshells must be walked to keep this peace.

Then came the praise. ‘You’re so strong. We never have to worry about you, you just get on with it.’

No one helped me or showed me then, that sorrow, grief, fear and vulnerability are all acceptable and worthy of support.

This burying of emotion became a lifelong destructive habit.

Fast forward through added trauma of rape and abuse in my teens.

I can tell you with clear eyed accuracy what these events have done to me. But the open vulnerability, expressed pain, tears – that was only expressed alone, often late into the night. Curled in a ball, howling, searing pain, hot uncontrollable tears. The breaking moments often resulted in self harm, cutting, hitting myself until raw and bruised. Praying for death but not wanting to hurt anyone who might be affected by it. Eating until I was numb. Trying to gain control. Manic in achieving what no one believed I could.

But… ‘Hey, you’re so strong, look at you! You moved forward, away from it.’ Physically yes, but those monsters are beaten deep down into me.

No one saw me cry, or held me through the pain of giving my son up for adoption. Praised and congratulated for making such a wonderful decision, a needed and good decision. I’ve never regretted it, but as any mother knows the pain of separation from your child rips through you and you are not sure how you will survive.

More praise for my strength, my fortitude and my ability to make something of myself. This, I had read as, to not crack in front of anyone, to never really let anyone know that I don’t have it together, I am in pain or that I am unsure of what I can do.

Praise for my ability to be such a great open support for others. Always a shoulder, an ear, a firm unwavering hug as one would melt down and open up. I never blink, condemn or walk away from anyone in these moments. I give freely what I crave so deeply.

I cry in movies, tv shows, certain books have opened flood gates and being witness to other people’s tragedies can bring heartfelt tears quickly. I have the added good fortune of being an empath through and through. Often chided for being so affected by the things and people around me.

More praise for how open I am about trauma and my journey. The wonderment at what I’ve built, how far I’ve come, my ability to always have a survival plan when shit goes sideways.

Plaudits for being able to describe the inner battles with my mental demons and the hard painful darkness where my mental health battles take place. Yet- it is not allowable for anyone to see the physical release, the raw vulnerability of my emotions.

On the rare occasion the actual emotion bubbles out ( not the description, or the story after the fact), it is met often with

‘Don’t cry, I can’t handle that right now.’

‘You’ll figure it out, you always do.’

‘It’s not so bad.’

‘You’re strong, you’ll get through it.’

Well meaning most times, but reinforces in my head that I am not allowed this vulnerability, it (I) will be rejected.

My fear is that I will be abandoned, viewed as ugly, unhealed and unworthy.

The more praise I get for who I present that I am, what I do and my strength and compassion, the more stifled screaming in the shower, pinching and scratching takes place in the dark.

A few years back, there was a moment in time, that by circumstance and a series of things happened, triggered emotional responses I could not control. Significant losses coupled with burgeoning self realization cracked wide a firmly welded shut box of yuk. By some strange timing/alinement there happened to be a witness to these moments. It was someone I did not know well, but seemed to connect quickly to. At the time this person seemed to offer a non judgmental, safe friendship. I was not judged or stifled, I was validated and allowed the space to express. I felt like I had been heard and seen and not found to be disgusting. I had experienced a moment of safety.

This lasted a short time, as my fear was soon realized that this person, while kind at the time, eventually saw me as damaged and ugly… too much. I believe now, that in the instances I allowed my self the humanness, the vulnerability of raw expression in their presence, they felt trapped and forced to support.

There was a cold abrupt ending to this. I was too much. I had heard later from another, I had been actually seen as a triggering shrew. This was never said directly to me, just cold silence- no matter how I had tried to make amends. Falling into the old patterns of apologizing for my human failings and pain. Desperate to reclaim my value and worth despite the ugliness I could not hide. Again my monsters read this as proof, I am a helper not allowable to be helped. I have not openly wept in front of another person about how I am affected by life since then.

Please note- I am not relaying this to paint the other as intentionally hurtful or cruel, they too are to be given the grace of being human. I realistically understand most reactions (as are mine) are personal and a preset in that own person’s journey and I am not belittling this. However this is told from my perception and with lack of communication to understand the other’s point of view I can only operate from my own experience.

Fast forward a little more. I still share my journey, analytical, smooth writing, story sharing, describing emotion in order to connect with others ( a safe, removed way of partial vulnerability). Still open and unblinking in my support of others. Ready with space, a hug, acceptance of their dark, steady while their tears flow. I champion that expression and vulnerability to be allowable, acceptable and supported.

Those who’ve known me longest still praise the stoic. I’ve set up cycles where if my live emotion is detected it must be solved immediately to avoid inconvenience and discomfort.

After my most recent experiences in trying to find acceptance for my human reactions I collapsed deeper into distrust that I could find that safe space. I have been working on changing this, on being ok to risk that openness, but trust is a gossamer thread. When you open up and allow your vulnerability to be see by anyone and it is rejected, ignored, derided or completely trampled on, intensionally or not, it is devastating.

I asked once, why, when I ask for support or help I feel that I’m often denied the space, or my need is minimized. I was told I am at fault because I have set up the view that I can move forward and get through anything on my own. So no one believes I may need more.

My own survival techniques have failed me here- but my acting must be stellar.

I know there are beautiful souls who would offer me this grace and have. But the minute I perceive that they may allow me this, I freeze, stiffen and do not allow more than dry words to express where/how I am. No tears, no confusion, no real time release. No chance of rejection if I don’t allow it.

I don’t know how to change this. I don’t know if I have it in me to risk that part again. Yet I know how vitally important this is.

I am unafraid of seeing another’s deep wounds, but deeply afraid of showing the live versions of my own. I am working on this. I am hoping to be better at choosing the places where I will be safe. But for now this is my safest place. Flat descriptive words for sharing. Loud music and the shower for expressing.

I’m grateful to those who see me as safe and are willing to share. It is an honour to be a part of the journey. I’m grateful to those who read, converse with me and tell me they have space for me, when and if I am ever ready. But for now the risk of speaking triggers an immediate danger response I have yet to figure out how to cut the wires to.

Rest well

Goodbye sweet spirit.

We knew each other such a long time. Much mutual admiration for such hard roads travelled. We never really knew each other deeply, I was too young and frightened to invest, I owed you more.

Your art was moving, and spoke of the depth that travelled though you despite all of the challenges that held you under.

You inspired me. I’m not sure if I ever told you. I wish I had. You told me how much you loved Lily and loved hearing/ seeing her growing. I am grateful for this for reasons more personal and complex and that just belong to us ❤️.

The hardest part of this journey for you is done , the broken body that held your determined fiery spirit is now at rest. The chains that held you back are released, you are whole and free.

Thank you my friend, for your compassion, interest and inclusion. Forgive me my failings here, you really do inspire me. The beauty you witnessed and created with pencil to paper will always be a reminder of the big space you filled.

Tonite I look at the setting sun. On my exhale are the prayers for your peace, release and safety in the Mother’s Arms.

I hope in Transition my friend you hear and feel what I mistakenly did not adequately say in life.

Blessed Be Dear Soul. I look forward to the time we break bread together again ❤️