Handwriting on the wall

I always had to be prepared. Whether that meant that I had to have a conversation with the shower head before an interview, or I had to learn about everything so that I don’t get embarrassed when somebody mentions something I didn’t know.

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There was writing on the wall.

My emotions were all over the place, I didn’t understand them, I couldnt plan for them. So I had to weigh myself down to complete every incompleted task so that when something is due, I wasn’t nailed to my bed in agony of yet another dissociative episode… enough to never complete them.

The writing was on the wall.

I always knew what it felt like to hold so deeply in my hands the words so perfect that they could fill an entire page, right where they needed to be… I knew what it felt like to hold myself so tightly that I would throw up the words that my soul needed to deliever… but losing them to tiredness, light headedness and a fever of bad energies displayed under my light bulb.

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There was another sentence on the wall.

I had to pray away the devil, put him under submission to the words of this apparent God.

Everything that I held so close to me would be swiped away by this demon, by this fallen angel…

But apparently this book would help me to throw him off his game, and then I would have all my treasures in one hand.

The writings on the walls are blurry.

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I was made to become a ghost chasing after myself when I awoken from my grave, I was the devil.

Gleaming at myself, telling myself that I must be standing up before he comes around the corner.

I was standing in my own way… every, to do, dated.

I was running on a treadmill, never learning how to wait on myself, I had to race with the devil.

I had to plan for my memory, the lack thereof.

I was sat in the chair in therapy, I wasn’t prepared to be asked about a childhood that in my mind… never existed.

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I told her about the trees, the cheeries and the green grass. But not the dirt, the mud and the rocks underneath the soil.

I grew no closer to myself, I should’ve planned for this. Maybe I would’ve had the answers to all her questions.

I was too tired by the time I booked the first appointment, how many hours days, weeks did I need to prepare for her to prepare for me?

I knew the birds hit the fan when I woke up remembering nothing at all, my name was gone, my address was mising.

Whose house was I in?

What time will they be coming home to claim this bed?

It lasted for about an hour.

*

I learned to have patience with life in order to have patience with myself.

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Putting myself above the numbers, above the lists and above overachieving if it meant that I was breaking my body down with every string I pulled.

The most important thing for me is to know what needed to be done in the next two days, and focus on the two days…section at a time.

I owe that to myself.

If I love myself, I cannot give myself the impossible task of becoming a superhuman who is out performing everybody… including myself.

I needed to understand that it is okay to be unprepared for something, that there is beauty in that.

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There is beauty in being unapologetic about what I can’t do, even when I appear to be okay, both to myself and to others.

The keyword here is ‘appear.’

What we see is not always what it is.

*

My mother wanted to be prepared for the pasta sauce glass jar that she broke, she wanted to go back in time and take the same steps she did, in order to land the jar on the top of the fridge instead of on the floor.

The miserable twist is a neglect of self.

The burn out of self, would double the unpleasant truth of not having it all together.

That jar wouldn’t be the only thing broken. It would impede her chances of getting anything prepared for the future, shes stuck on going back to the past while having one leg in the present.

There was writing on the wall.

*

The words grew bold on the wall.

There would be indecisiveness, coming in like a brother with a knife dictating what should be done first. Often resulting in a plan that never worked.

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Do we wash the dishes first before writing down that idea you just thought of?

Do we take out the trash after brushing our teeth, or would that get in the way of the emails you still need to send?

Do we drive the kids to school, or should I take the clothes out the machine so I could fold the sheets in order of colour?

Do I buy the grocery before my doctors appointment, or would that interfere with my anxiety? So that I am late for the appointment and missing three key ingredients for dinner tonight.

Getting a bottle of wisky instead, to temper the blow you experienced five doctors visit ago.

Developing an illness we created, that cannot be medicated until we breathe the erase on the wall.

The wall is broken.

The writings disappear.

Here is your peace.

Go along and do what you haven’t prepared.

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Published by healinghands231

She is a witch, a writer, a fiancée and a queen at healing the masses within. A 24 year old woman, based in the UK, she finds peace in the tarot, peace in the oracle. She breathes humility and a passion to help bring the art of your mind to life in a snap. Bring to her your work, create by night by day and she will be there to help you pursue like a coin displayed on a tray.

6 thoughts on “Handwriting on the wall

  1. How amazing you are!!! I love all that you write. Even your comments are poetic!!!! I wanted to tell you hi!!! Just because 💛……!! Im an empath, so I never know where the feelings originate, but I do know that
    they are always with the best of
    intentions. Take care and “be reading you”!!!

    Like

    1. Thank you!

      And hello Donna. It’s so nice to have another Empath here I could relate to.

      Your presence will always be welcome; I look forward to learning more about you, and reading you just as much as you, me.

      Thank you so very much once again and take care 🌹

      Like

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