On Sundays we do walks. We go long, we go hard, we go far. In our house we do fresh air, we do physical activity, we do large hearty lungfuls of sea air, we climb big steep steps, we look out onto bays, with our hands at our hips like we’re Superheroes and we forget what’s on our minds for a small quiet time.
The first photo is my kiwi friend at the ice cream kiosk at Belvoir Bay, Herm. The rest of the photos are from the walk we took a few Sundays back, from Fermain Bay to Moulin Huet.
“The skin is the largest organ in the body. It protects us, holds us together, literally lets us know what we are feeling. The skin can be soft and vulnerable, highly sensitive, easy to break. Skin doesn’t matter to a surgeon. We’ll cut right through it. Go inside, find out the secrets underneath. It takes delicacy and sensitivity. … No matter how thick skinned we try to be, there’s millions of electrified nerve endings in there. Open and exposed and feeling way too much. Try as we might to keep from feeling pain, sometimes it’s just unavoidable. Sometimes that’s the only thing left, just feeling.” (Meredith Grey)
Summer is coming. And that means covering up all of the scar tissue. Winter is easy, Summer is hard. My current job, is begging me to wear loose, sheer, floaty, feminine, girly short and sleeveless dresses but that I cannot do. At least I have all of my tattoos as an excuse. At the moment the office heater chug chug chugs heat throughout the day and if I only wore my vest and pants it would still be armpit-dampening kinda hot. I hope that we have a chill sunny Summer. I also hope that I can appear like I am not weirdly overdressed for every day of the Summer. It is hard enough to dress appropriately in my spare time. Self-inflicted scars will not be tolerated whatever the skirt or sleeve length is, I fear, I know. The odd one or two however goes largely unnoticed. Every office needs a mad Sia, right?
I am trying to wear yellow more. I think that this is a powerful colour that assaults the eyeballs, like tiny balled fists that pummel gawking pupils screaming (in a lock, stock cockney accent) “faackin leave it out ‘ann look elsewhere ya c**t” A bright yellow floaty, girly, feminine dress could let me be in peace, perhaps. I don’t think I have yet mastered a good Summer wardrobe that keeps all of my scars and tattoos happily hidden. My scars flare in the heat, they feel tired and taught. I am yet to wear anything that is made out of the colour yellow. The self-harm survivor road is long.
“It’s a common belief that positive thinking leads to a happier, healthier life. As children, we’re told to smile and be cheerful and put on a happy face. As adults, we’re told to look on the bright side, to make lemonade, see glasses as half full. Sometimes reality can get in the way of our ability to act the happy part though. Your health can fail, boyfriends can cheat, friends can disappoint. It’s in these moments when you just want to get real, drop the act and be your true, scared, unhappy self. Ask most people what they want out of life and the answer’s simple: To be happy. Maybe it’s this expectation, the wanting to be happy, that keeps us from getting there. Maybe the more we try to will ourselves to states of bliss the more confused we get to the point where we don’t recognize ourselves. Instead we just keep smiling, trying like hell to be the happy people we wish we were. Until eventually, it hits us. It’s been there all along. Not in our dreams, our hopes but in the known, the comfortable, the familiar.” (Meredith Grey)
The Bardo Retreat 