abnormal, but expected

confessional #7

Ladies and gentlefolk, here we are again. Another week has sprinted by, and I am left scurrying after it. I am writing this entry in a coffee shop, listening to Hopelessly Devoted To You, and there is a sign straight ahead of me that says:

Tired, wired but inspired.

I am certainly two of those things.

In case you are new here, welcome to Planet Sensitive! This is my Confessional series; once a week, I lay my chaotic life bare for you to consider It can either be something for you to relate to, or use as a crutch to think, God, at least my shit is more together than hers.

‘Abnormal, but expected’ is what was written on my recent blood test results. When I got them through, I genuinely laughed out loud, because of course they are abnormal, but expected. Doesn’t that describe everything about me? Abnormal, but expected? There was no further clarification on why this abnormality was expected, but I imagine it will be something to do with the fact that my heart is currently not on its best behaviour. The good news is that the rest of my results were normal.

In all, I’m feeling more melancholy this week. I always try to hide behind a certain degree of British dryness, but I am just feeling life even more deeply than I normally do. I sat in therapy this morning and fought back tears the entire session. The tension between me and the packet of tissues on the table was palpable.

My therapist asked me if I feel safe. The question hit me like a ton of bricks. Because, despite my beautiful family and friends, despite my incredibly fortunate life, my answer is not really. This is no one’s fault.

I was caught so unaware by a cataclysmic trauma at eleven-years-old, that I’ve never let my guard down since. I said as much to my therapist, whom we will call Sara. Sara encourages me to acknowledge this and to give it space. To hold that feeling. Not that I really know how to give it space or to hold it. The feeling feels like a fledgling cupped in between my hands. If I let it go, it will fly away and I will never see it again. Even if it comes back, it will be different from the baby bird that I once knew.

It feels shameful to admit, but there is something so familiar about the trauma that has built you. It verges on comforting, which feels entirely oxymoronic. I simultaneously don’t want my trauma to define me, yet I also don’t know who I am without it.

My jaw is always clenched. I have a hypertonic pelvic floor. My back, neck and shoulders are like rock to the touch. My body is riddled with the effects of trauma. I would really like to be able to let that trauma go now. I think I worry it will be like someone removing the bones from me, and I’ll just plop to the floor like a blob of jelly.

Like Jenga, but trauma version.

The Goods:

Highlight of the week:

I walked into a local business and asked if they were hiring. It is a lovely ethical skincare business, and their products smell like a spa day. Now, I was just angling for shop work, but the owner asked me what kind of work I do (what kind of work do I do?). When she found out that I do some writing, she explained that they have been looking for a copywriter/social media co-ordinator, and I nearly spontaneously combusted. After years of job rejections, someone is looking me in the face and offering me hope in the rawest form. She gave me a brief that she wanted me to write, so that she could see my writing style. I have now sent this writing to her, and am in the most agonising limbo of waiting for her to get back to me. Will she want me? Will this just be a taste of being so close - again - but falling short - again? I don’t think I can take it if it doesn’t pull through.

Also, I found a fabulous dress in a charity shop - IN MY SIZE. I am a UK size 18 (for dresses), and I never find nice things in that size. Well, reader, I found a Marks & Spencer dress. It shall be having its first outing soon, so I will keep you posted on how it fares.

Most humbling moment of the week:

The curse of subscriber number 107. I think I have hit the 107 mark about six times now, and without fail, someone unsubscribes. I even hit 108 subscribers, and then two people unsubscribed at the same time (I do have a sneaky feeling my post about leg nipples could have something to do with it); it was comedy gold. The unsubscribing itself doesn’t bother me too much, because I get it. I overshare a lot and probably scare a lot of men away. Everyone is welcome here; I just tend to write more about what it means to be a woman. A sensitive one at that.

Maybe me and the 106 of you who are here can hang out forever instead - I’m very down for that if you are.

But, as I said, I am sensitive. I feel I need to be honest and admit it does bother me a little bit. My account is growing at quite a glacial pace, and I can’t help to compare myself. All those posts that say something along the lines of how few subscribers they have, and then they promptly go viral and get hundreds, maybe thousands, of subscribers. I’m pleased for them, because they are finally being seen in the way that they both want and deserve to be. They can perhaps even bite the bullet and enable paid subscribers. On that note, when on earth do you know if it’s the right time to do that? Is there a certain number of subscribers you need for it? A hit note? An article with heaps of engagement?

106 people is no small number; the idea of 106 people being quite happy for me to clog up their inboxes makes me quite emotional. 106 people could change the world. For the version of me who used to hide her stories away from the world, finding my legs and my voice on here has been the greatest compassion I have ever given myself. To keep showing up, again and again and again - even when comparison is the thief that it so often is. To keep showing up, and to be met with 106 friendly faces. It means everything to this sensitive person. Thank you for being the kindest, most thoughtful readers. When I am more financially stable, I will be paying to read your articles. That’s a promise.

Photos of the week:

This pillow that spoke to me on levels I didn’t even know I could reach

The sleepiest baby - he’s never had to apply for jobs or worry about abnormal, but expected blood tests

I am obsessed with good quality socks but can never justify buying a pair. LOOK AT THEM!

It’s been a heck of a week. Again. Tell me about your week and let’s have a chat in the comments. Thank you for reading!

All my love,

Emma