When I need to, I make everything about me..
I go outside, and I make what’s going on in my head, Universal! (symbolic)
nature tells it’s own stories and lights up my understanding.. I love exploring themes, external - and fictional characters, too
Writing can be a way of me exploring themes that I need to, in new ways. Using new symbology.
It isn’t complex and feels completely natural. Getting outside of my head and putting it down.
When I need to think something through, this is one of my tools for that -it’s an escape from my (standard) rumination!
I make visuals outside of myself, about my internalised experience!
Perhaps, that’s self-obsessed.. but I am me.
When it clicks in, it feels good..
When I write, I can feel selfish (trauma response, most probably). It also feels miraculous.
Poetry brings me so much joy and I am deserving, and worthy, of this.
When writing words that embody where my insides are, nothing feels more powerful.
It can be vague and I ‘sort of’ get it down, in a quick write. (As in the case of orange scattered flowers that fire up and blankets of pink, below..)
There can be more clicking in .. and depth, emotionally, too, which I adore.
It feels like there are these extraordinary seconds, when I embody exactly what I need to get out, through the pen, or keyboard. Harnessing some sort of external help, energy or source, that is way greater and more significant, than me.
I feel connected to it.
I’m a vessel but embodied.
That can feel monumental and the process of writing is ‘buzzy’, exciting and poignant, when I’m (briefly) clicked in.
For me, it’s not about anybody reading the words, but about the creation. I feel alive.
. .
This doesn’t last long. My body, and presence, dips in and out. There was something at my core, that needed expelling.
I scratched it, uniquely, in a way I’ll never remember (I’m ADHD and also experience dissociation).
I can’t touch on that moment deeply, in that way, again. Similar, yes.
When reading a piece close to the time of writing (and in some cases years after), there are echoes. I can be transported back to places. It can be after moving on slightly, but there’s a poignancy, or an realisation and I feel, or re-imagine, the fractured fragments of where I was.
Maybe that’s what Art is.. examining themes and ideas (of mine, and of others, of my imagination) in abstract ways.
Then, read through another’s experiences and lens.
The exact moment of writing, is now lost and I won’t be connecting to THAT moment again (although similar if it’s an ongoing, evolving, struggle).
So, capturing it feels beautiful, in a way..
It’s a diary, and way of seeing myself slowly moving forward. (Should, ‘gradually’ be a better turn of phrase?! ‘Slow’ feels hard on me and I use that to spit on my achievements, in internal dialogue.
I’m human. It’s not slow and there’s nothing wrong with any pace - we all change and evolve.
We might not see ourselves changing as we’re ‘with us’ everyday.
It’s happening).
I’ve spent so much of my life outside of my body. I’m hard on myself and, almost, demand that I ‘click in’ in an accusatory way.
That‘s not the kindest way of talking to Tara!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Gnarly shadows
and pink blankets
Prettiness that covers them up
The twists are beautiful
The softness, poetic
It needs to be the angry defiance
and cadence of the raw imperfections
that I love
Stuck in - and, outside of, my head
. . .
Orange sparks within a swirling cauldron of white Fire screeching through Flashing and beeping, from a rolling space Relinquishing control, letting it fire up is all I need to do Surrender to the idea that I think I have to be flashy Bright, when on display I need to lie in the weeds Give up the jig Amongst the steady and safety of stable ground - that exists That it’s ok to strip it down in moments Not think - and not be OK
This was about surrendering to a moment for me and not leaping out of it, immediately - Without feeling.
Letting the good ones in.
I feel I have to dismiss, deny, avoid, cover up. That isn’t the case in therapy. It’s feeling afraid of what’s coming up and then blaming myself when I can’t ‘touch’ it.
I want to be as real and authentic as I can be.
Feel in therapy, without having to over-explain and cover up the hard stuff, which the therapist sees is there, anyway!
Maybe shame and blame are ‘familiar’. They aren’t fun, but (I guess) have felt habit-forming. I want to shift into more awkward, uneasy places, when I feel small and want to verbalise those sides of me. In talking, but, for me, more significantly, in FEELING.
Being empowered to get that out and be raw, without having to put the presentation on.
When I’m ready and feel safe enough, or feel I have no choice.. I want to be able to say ‘f k it’ and open up.
Notice that avoidance is trying to kick in. Saying that.
It’s trying to stay in my body - and not shut off. Taking care of myself.
Being kind to yourself
It takes time.
That’s why, when it comes to trauma therapy, I wish that the (UK) NHS could always give those who need it the opportunity for consistent, long-term therapy (perhaps, with gaps, over years) with someone that they’ve chosen. Then, having the opportunity to build up trust and a wonderful therapeutic relationship / alliance, with that person.
Building trust takes time, as does starting to feel secure and safe. Knowing that you can bring up attachment stuff, that would have felt cringey, at one time. That you can try and talk about the relationship, if you are able.
Were you my first bully
It feels like you were my first bully It became me Empty Like my chest is a cavity Numbness unthawing I was never cold Ice felt less imposing The pass ag itches my insides and the shaming Were you my first bully Or, was that me? I wait for your closing.. It felt like
Spilled soup: the Amalgamation
Hi, I’m Tara. I explore trauma and my ADHD through writing and poetry. Over the last few years, I’ve written about a gloopy, mysterious, and encoded, trauma soup .. Everything I struggle with all floats around in there together! There is a definite crossover and overlap between the ADHD and trauma, when it comes to what I experience, and how I feel..…
Freefallin’, on writing..
Hi, My name’s Tara. I’m a poet and writer, covering trauma and ADHD, in particular.