broken brained, From the heart, musings of pixie heart.

Raw.

Raw.

I sit, numb and bleeding. I feel the tears rolling down my check , on to my t-shirt, but I make no noise. I don’t remember how I got here , or why I’m crying, or what is hurting the must. Is it cut arm my arm or the ache in my heart. I remember picking up the razor and pushing in tonmy skin, the burn I felt as if sliced in to the flesh, and the sense of calm that I felt as I saw the blood running out of me.

I remember the physical pain I felt with him. The pushing , that turned to shoves, that led to kicks, that led to me cowering on the floor. Him towering above me, anger burning in his eyes, fist clenched. I remember the slaps that turned to punches. Never leaving a mark on my face or any place people would guess how I got them. I remember the occasional slaps, turn to daily punches , that led to beatings so bad I could not move properly days.

I remember the mental pain he could inflict. The little put downs that turned to viscous name calling. How his words could maim and injury much more than a fist could any day. I remember the ways he controlled everything, losing friends, contact with my family. I remember the fear, pain and terror I felt, when he lashed out with those vile words. How it felt to believe them and the sense of total worthlessness. I remember the sobs that would rise up through my body , after he told my I was scum, stupid or disgusting.

I remember the fear and disgust I felt from the aggressive coercion to take part in or perform sexual acts that I did not want. I remember the deep feeling of shame , disgust at myself and the hopeless resignation I felt after the sexual violence. The searing pain and the loss of blood after fishing’s went wrong. The look of pure madness on his face when I told him no. The terror of being held down and raped, over and over again. The belief that I was not going to live till the morning. The look in my fathers eye when I had to tell him what he did to me, that will never, ever leave me till my dying breath.

And still , I rose again , to fight on , to live another day.

But some times, like now, all the memories come flooding back. Sitting in my mind and festering. Till they have to come out, some how. Yes they are less painful, not so bright, fading each day. But they are still there and on days like this the still feel raw, jagged and bright. They had to come out, and though I know the cutting is wrong, I chose that , over hurting those I love.

So as I sit, watching the blood and tears dripping to the floor. I remember it may feel raw for awhile. But with time it will fade to a faint scare, never truly leaving me, but becoming a scare, left to remind me, that I too, will rise again.

I wrote this after a meeting with my therapist a couple of years ago. I never thought I would ever think of , let alone hit the publish button on this. It is a real part of me and is as the title says, pixie laid raw at your feet.

Thank you for reading,

Hugs,

Pixie x

broken brained, From the heart, musings of pixie heart., social

From the heart – broken brain update

Hello, hi , hay! So I have not been posting that much or writing much. Normally when that happens , well it’s down to life is busy or I’m working or I have important stuff happening. But not this time people. This time it’s because I don’t or haven’t seen the point. My depression is back and my anxiety levels are through the roof. I’m not coping well, I’m angry, confused and tired. I feel invisible, unliked and ugly. I am hurting , sore and had started hating myself again.

I don’t hide that I have mental health problems, well illness. But I fight it , every bloody day and for the most part I’m winning. But over the last few weeks, not so much. This has largely been bought on by my mum being sick and her death. But the have been other thing at play to. My gp changing my meds with out consulting me or my physiatrist or me, has thrown me off balance. He changed my antidepressant to normal to modified release. Meaning that in the morning I would get a massive high, a huge kick of happy , that by 2.30 pm was leaving and by 5 pm was leaving me flat and on a downward spiral. He cut my main anxiety meds from 5mg 6 times a day, to 1mg 4 times a day. Meaning my anxiety level went from liveable, to through the roof and frightened to level the house. He increased my thyroid meds from 200 mg to 350mg straight away. Meaning I got even more anxious, slept less and felt every so slightly manic. Added to this he stop my anti inflammatory med and took out 2 levels of my pain medication plan. Leaving me trying to cope on less pain medication than I need , not wanting to jump to the really high levels.

Now normally I can cope with a depressive bleep, but I have been dealing with loss and grieve, for people I loved or had very mixed and complex feelings for. Not knowing how to feel or deal with, well it all started to get to much again. I was going through the motions each day, but not feeling anything. I was numb and confused. It’s when this happens that the anxiety and ocd side of my kicks in . I also start to get paranoid and start seeing things in other people’s behaviour towards me that makes me even more paranoid and sad. People not replying to msgs , cos they are busy and stressed , to me is them saying I hate you, get out my life, your a vile bitch and I hate you. It’s not the case , but in my head it was or is. It’s like the worse form of rejection and it hurts. Then the voices start to come back, telling me I’m worthless , hopeless , ugly, vile and a waist of oxygen. Trust me they frighten the fuck out of me.

I got to Thursday last week , and I was dragging my bum out of bed , and just going through the motion of being me. To an outsider I looked like I was doing good. That’s cos I have , over the years got good at putting on a front of being good. I had to, or thought I had too. I don’t like bringing people down or being a pain. I mean I’m the sad sack , why should I bring them down with me, right. I stop a sling things, or for help or for support . I but inside, every time I see someone happy , it twists the knife and kills me a little more.

By Friday , well the pain, hurt and yucky feelings got to much. They left me feeling so sad and anxious, it becomes like a physical pain. So strong it takes you breath away and brings tears to my eyes. I was hurting so bad I started to lash out at people. Not hitting or slapping , but with spiteful words and hurtful actions. I grumped at people on twitter, I thought ill of people and refused cuddles from my darling kitten. Things came to head when uncle Fred ask me how I was doing, and I just broke in to a thousand pieces. Thankfully or sadly , depending how you look at it, he and kitten knew I was not well. The called maîtser, who came home from work. Took all my. Tech away and made me take my meds for anxiety attacks . I was tucked in bed with little bear, I cried and feel asleep in her arms.

Maîtser knew what to do, he always does. He came home from work, checked my tech and meds . (I used to hide things that upset me and I have some times stopped taking my meds when I’m poorly). He phoned my cpn and got him to do a home visit. They looked and saw what had happened with my meds , and my cpn phoned and dealt with my gp and my meds. They got my an appointment to see my head doctor for Monday and agreed on a plan for the weekend. Basically I had to do as I was told, rest and let myself be looked after. I think not having to think about stuff and being looked after was really what so needed. I went to bed on Friday, took my sleep meds and slept for 13 hours straight. I spent Saturday playing with my dogs, watching Disney films and cuddling my babies. Sunday I wrote a little, went out for a roast dinner, played with my babies , cuddled kitten and wrote a little more.

Well Monday morning hot hear, and I was a terrified again. I still had in my head that I was having some sort of phycotic break or something worse and that oil was going to be made to stay in hospital. Aunty May came with me, even coming In with me (I seriously thank the nhs needs great aunties as a way to help look after people with mental Health problems) . After 20 mins of chatting and looking at things, the verdict was in. I’ve not gone mad, or lost the plot or need to stay in hospital. What is wrong with me then? My mother died, my dr changed my meds, triggering a depressive blip and I could not cope with it. Simple! We have made a plan on how to deal with this. It involves medication, therapy , hard work and time. But I have a plan, and when I have a plan , well it sort of makes me see I can and will get better.

But I have also had to realise some pretty hard truths, that really have hurt to come to. The are people who I have hurt, and they may not want me around for a while. That some people may not want me as a friend or in theief lives. That people sometimes only have time for the happy , funny and silly pixie. My behaviour has made me open to critasism and reproach . That some people say one thing and mean another. That I am only human and myself, and that even if they say not , that is not enough or what they want. That others are more their. Up of tea . And even though it should not matter , that my bad mental health, is not something they want to deal with or have in their world. I have to except this and move on but it hurts like hell and it is the thing I’m struggling to except, and will take a long time to deal with or get used to not being enough, but I’ll get their. It is hard to except , it hurts and is going to for a long time. But I guess the is worse things than losing people you thought were friends and liked you. It just hurts and makes me feel invisible.

Well that’s the end to this mental health ramble . Self pity and whining will be kept to a mom I promise and normal pixie is back soon, just not yet.

Hugs,

Pixie

From the heart, musings of pixie heart., social

Things I don’t believe in….

Things I don’t believe in….

Ok, ok I know I seem to be doing down beat blog posts this week, I know ! But this is less down beat than the tittle would have you think, ok? It kind of came to me this morning, laying in bed after a rather lovely morning fuck. Maîtser was humming one of ‘are songs’, Dream by Gabriel , and as I snuggled in close and started drifting back to sleep and my own dreams, I was hit by thoughts of my nana. I have been thinking a lot about her recently, with my own mother coming to the end of her own life. I was really close to my nana, and she taught me so, so ,so many things. Like how to clean house, how to take care of babies and how cook for 14 people without breaking a sweat. But I also remember all her ‘funny’ ways of looking at the world. To an outsider looking in, she was a very simple creature. A country girl, a wife, a mother and housewife. But she also was a feminist, peace protester and loved learning. The 3 things I remember her saying the most often were, always have a dream , nobody is perfect, and I just want them (her family) to be happy. This got me thinking about how she always refused to believe anything was perfect, and then on to the things I don’t believe in. So I thought I would write about them.

Perfection and paragons – ok so this kind of a stolen one from my nana (sorry nana!). But I really don’t believe anyone or anything is perfect, I just don’t. Growing up in a very strict Orthodox (Russian) / Catholic household we learned the bible forwards, backwards, upside down and standing on are heads. So I knew the words ‘he, who has not sinned cast the first stone’ really well. My nana used that to stop arguments, and my daddy coming down to hard on us, when we did something wrong. But my belief goes a little deeper than the bible . I also think that it is impossible for things to be perfect. They may seem it or look it, but if you dig a little deeper the is always a flaw or an imperfection. I also think that some of the most beautiful things and people in the world have imperfections. In fact , those imperfections , make them so much more wondrous. Don’t get me wrong I always aim for as good as humanly is possible, but by excepting things having flaws, it save heaps of time and a hole lot of worry.

Miracles – now this is going to sound mad, coming from someone who thought she could not have children, who had non identical twins girls. But the reason I don’t believe they were a Miracle, is simply the fact that non identical twin girl do happen. Mine are not a one off, the are a fair few around. I also don’t think people ending up millionaires from winning the lottery isn’t a miracle, for the same reason. I also hate, more than words , when people say to me, ‘oh it’s a miracle you turned out so well” or “ it’s a miracle your still alive” . Everything I have or have gotten in my life has either come from a lot of hard work, or a great deal of hardship and loss. I have the great fortune to of inherited, a pretty large amount of money, when I was younger. But I only have that due to losing my god mother to breast cancer. I have had 3 really good jobs and I am respected in the fields I have worked in. But again I worked really hard to get there.

Respect your elders and betters – No, no, no! this is just not true. I believe that you should respect everyone, without exception. But people can lose that respect, and telling me I need to respect them, just because they are older or in a ‘better’ position than me. oh and while we are the subject of respect I completely disagree with the idea that respect needs to be earnt. Bull squirt! Respect should be given to everyone freely without exception. But as I said, I also believe that respect can be lost, and it can be lost very easily, and then it has to be earnt back.

Sorry is the hardest word to say – Again to me this is Bull squirt! Sorry is really easy to say. What is hard , is saying sorry and really meaning it from the bottom of heart, or that you were wrong, when you are wrong. My ex said sorry every time he beat me or sexually abused me, was he sorry no. sorries that are hollow and meaningless are in fact an insult to the person receiving them, or at least they are to me.

Swearing show how unintelligent people – Well then Mastier is stupid! (No his not, I’m not saying that maitsier) . So many super clever people I know swear like dockside navy. Steven Hawkins swore. Swearing is actually good for you. it’s a great way to relieve stress and realise happy endorphins .(ok can I may of made that part up)

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger- again, wrong on so many levels. Not wanting to make things about me, but things that have nearly killed me (yes I mean kill me!) have in-fact had the apiarist effect. Physical health stuff has left me with arthritis, lung damage and poor hearing. My ex beat so badly that I have had 6 operations to fix what he broke. Sexual assault and rape left me so frightened and depressed that I tried to take my own life. It also gave me ptsd, extreme anxiety attacks and full of triggers. But all this has left me with a need to slowly rebuild myself. It taught me to be open, caring and forgiving , as well as making me pretty mentally tough and determined to live. So I guess it is a-least a little true.

So that is what I don’t believe in, but I do believe in loads too ! So to close I will leave you with my grandads and mr Walt Disney’s saying “you gotta have a dream to make a dream come true”

Hugs,

Pixie

Dreams, by Gabriel

From the heart, musings of pixie heart.

A biker through and through.

It hit me this morning while I was sat feeding the babies, I have been a biker in one way or another for 33 years this year. It made me think about what a big part of my life they have been and hopefully continue to be. Then it hit me I have never really talked or shared much about my love of motorbikes with you lovely lot. This is something I feel that needs to be fixed as soon as possible, so that is what this post aims to do.

I guess you could say that motorbikes are in my blood. My Granddah was a biker, my daddy and all his brothers are bikers. My daddy is a hard core, old school biker. He was very much a rocker growing up and has always had a motorbike. He can, due to his mental health problems, be a little obsessive about things and is very much an all or nothing sort of person. He and my mother always wanted a son, so when they had me, and my mother found out she could not have more children, they were left heart broken that they did not have the son they wanted. My mother resented me for it, but my daddy didn’t. no, I may not be a boy, but I could still do ‘Boy’ things. So, I was the one he took fishing with him, taught how to climb trees, encouraged to get muddy at every opportunity and passed his love of motorbikes on too. Much to my mother’s outrage. I was a true daddy’s girl and a tom boy.

Some of my earliest memories involve motorbikes. Dad would go and tinker with bikes at my Granddah and nana’s house. His brothers and Granddah would all be there, tinkering, drinking tea, and talking about life. I was about 3 when dad started taking me. I would be sat on the work bench, sitting on a biscuit tin, Sippy cup of milk and allowed to pass spanners and bits to who ever was passing by. I also remember my Granddah taking me for rides on his old James. They were stationery rides, with Granddah sat behind me and he would tell me all his stories about his adventures in as a boy in Belfast and his war time antics in the mild-east.

When I turned 6 my daddy bought my first scrambler and taught me to ride it. When most girls were doing ballet and gymnastics, I was learning how to fall off a motorbike. I decided to learn trials ridding and with in a few years I was competing and loving it. I don’t think I was ever going to be a graceful dancer or a talent musician, but I could ride. It is the reason me and my daddy were so close. My mother hated that I had a love of bikes and ridding, but even my nana stuck up for me when she tried to make me stop. Having to sisters who shone in everything they did, this was my way of being good at something they weren’t.

As I got older I kept up my love of bikes, but also developed a love of the whole culture that goes with them. When I turned 18 I jumped feet first in to the world of Bikers and the festivals that go with them. It is weird, but I never felt unsafe or disrespected once. The guys I hung out with always excepted me as one of their own. I guess I was lucky.
I started going to drag racing meets and road races, then I started to help in the pits and then I started to test the bikes. I one day got asked if I wanted to do a timed run and jumped at the chance. That was the start of me racing, it was one of the happiest times of my life. It was one of the only places I felt relaxed and safe enough to let down my guard a little.

When I split with my ex and all the fall out from that happened, I sort of lost touch with my biker friends. Not due to them not wanting to know what had happened, but it was more a way to punish myself. Bikes were my happy place, and I felt that I did not deserve to be happy. Stupid I know, but I was sick at the time. After treatment maîtriser encouraged me to start to get back in to it. A biker and he went to a thing at the Ace café in London with me on a date. It was there that I refound my friends and feel back in to biking.

Now I ride whenever I get the chance. I take more care now, as a mother I will not run any chance of my little ones not having their mother around. But I still ride, and I will tech them to ride when they are old enough. I have my little side now and I have become a lot more girlie, but I am still the same biker at heart, just in lilac and Disney now. (my crash helmet has tinker bell on it). The guys I ride with know about my D/s side, and except it, as they do pretty much anything.

So that is me and my biker side!

 

Pixie x
ps – Written For the best biker ever, my Daddy.

bdsm, From the heart, Uncategorized, Writing comp

Something this wicked this way comes…. Deadline moved!

Hi all,

Well I seem to of done a bad job of getting the word out of the comp! (self-doubt and self-reproach time!) So I’m extending the deadline to Thursday 7th of December in a hope people decided to get writing!

hugs,

Pixie x x x x

Something wicked this way comes…..

 

musings of pixie heart., Uncategorized

Pixie prompt , Sir beasty's pick.

A Woman’s work is never done.

Photo 05-11-2017, 20 23 25
I had told them so many times to pick up after themselves and leave things how they find them. Is that too much to ask? I mean I know it’s my job as a wife and mother to take care of them and to run the home, but I am only one woman and I can’t do everything, all the time.
The day had started out badly. Towels on the bathroom floor, clothes tossed all over the bedroom, dirty coffee cups on the dining room table and a sink full of dirty dishes. Then he comes down demanding to know where his coffee is, and have I got the paper in off the front step. ‘Breath, just breath’ I say to myself. He’s just a silly man, who can’t do things for himself, he would be lost without me.
Then the children come stomping down the hall, in to the kitchen, dragging book bags behind them. ‘where’s breakfast mum’ and ‘have you ironed my football kit’ from Johnny, so like his dad. Sally is glued to her phone, but manages to hold out a coffee mug. Bless her, its such hard work being little miss popular.
I pour their coffee, serve up breakfast and fetch the paper. I find homework, run an iron over a football shirt and finish packing lunches. Just 10 more minutes and they will off out the door to work and school. Then I can get down to some light house work and then start to think about what to fix for dinner.
Then it happens I hear a loud mew at the back door and He yells ‘for Christ sake Susan let the cat in, or do I have to do everything for you’. what was I thinking, stopping to sip me Luke warm coffee? Instead I scurry of to the door and open it for the cat. In she comes and jumps up on the beautifully clean counter top and drops a dead and stinking mouse next to the coffee pot. That’s when thing get I little fuzzy …
I seem to recall picking up the coffeepot and swinging it at Bret’s head, then bringing it down repeatedly, the blood splattering all over the kitchen blind. The was a scream coming from somewhere and a gagging sound. Next thing I remember is the door slamming, me turning around to see the shocked faces of Sally and Johnny. Then the is shoe flying, the heal in baling Johnny to the fridge by the hand.
Next thing I recall is a retching sound coming from Johnny and me standing in a pool of blood, with a knife in one hand and sally’s tongue in the other. Her lifeless body at my feet, bloody and her pretty little head off in the other side of the kitchen.
Johnny was trying to pull his hand free, but I seem to of done a good job of keeping it in place. Now I know why those shoes cost quit so much! Walking slowly towards him, I feel a sense of calm and relief wash over me. only to be shattered by a high-pitched scream, then the sound of a knife hitting flesh and bone and then a soft thud and splash as his insides hit the floor.
At last the house is quiet and still, as I sit at the kitchen counter, sipping my coffee and servicing my handy work. The lifeless body of my husband, slumped in his chair at the head of table, his head and face a pulpy mess. My beautiful daughter lays on the floor, in a puddle of her slowly congealing blood, phone still in her hand, and her head clean off her shoulders. Johnny’s body hangs from the fridge by his hand, his guts at his feet.
I shake myself from my little day dream and breath a heavy sigh. ‘come on Susanne, time to get on’ I tell myself. ‘look at this mess, someone needs to clean it up’. I stand up stepping over sally’s body, thinking ‘I’m never getting the blood out of my dress’