Sorry it’s suddenly May and I haven’t posted anything in over a month.

I am somewhat scattered—

Thoughts, feelings, unfinished projects, there are pieces of me crumpled up in pockets and wedged into corners

Just as quickly as I come to a feeling I am ripped from it by external forces, never settling in to myself long enough to breathe or know what’s next, yet ironically, I find myself easily slipping into despair if left standing still for a moment too long

I have to keep moving

I have to remain calm

I have to stay afloat

Every part of me is in disarray, and I can’t write, or create, to gather myself

Disjointed thoughts lay stretched out in front of me, lining the pavement, the walls, the bed, the screen, and though I keep attempting to, I can’t seem to string any coherent ones together

I am rough around the edges

Physically too, the skin on my face is not as smooth as it once was

I’ve been saying “I’m just putting one foot in front of the other” a lot lately, to anyone who’ll ask how I’m doing - because I really don’t know what else to say. All I can do is keep moving forward, and keep trying to create, no matter how completely impossible it has felt. I keep trying and trying, desperate attempts to make something, and nothing sticks. I’m having to continually remind myself that my struggle to create or apply myself is caused by being in “survival mode”, and is not an inherent failing. Accepting what I cannot control (everything), intentionally moving towards the things that feel life-giving, trying my hardest to stay present. Eternally searching for the balance of resilience and remaining soft. Not letting myself become jaded, hardened, bitter. Building a strong sense of self, rather than a shell.

Rebranding “routine” as “ritual” to give my little habits purpose and intention

Everything I do is ritual, from the way I wake myself, to my work, to the time I give to others. I have built all of these rituals to stay grounded and feeling alive. Finding ritual and romance in the mundane is how I keep myself moving forward. Gratitude is the foundational ritual I move from.

The practice of gratitude is one that I started implementing daily a while ago, and now exists in me as a reflex that has changed my life.

I list every thing in my line of sight that evokes a positive feeling. On long sunny walks this goes on for so long I lose track of why I started. The light through a bed of green leaves above me, the dappled sunlight on the pavement. The buzzing of bees nearby, a cluster of sprouting leaves. Fluffy white blossoms against the pale blue of the early evening sky, orange beams of light bouncing off high rise buildings from the setting sun. I count every mushroom as a good omen. Every crow is a messenger. Every butterfly a sign of change to come. I keep fortunately walking under blossoming trees, taking slow deep breaths, and letting myself be enveloped in the sweet smells.

Recently I’ve been playing a game of finding contrasts—

I feel unstable and unsafe in my housing, I am grateful for the friends who’ll happily house and feed me for a night. I am in a state of fight or flight frequently throughout the day, I am grateful to be able to find peace and stillness in nature. I feel internally paralysed by overwhelm, I am grateful to have a body I can move and use to expel anxious energy. I am challenged daily with misunderstanding and regressive communication, I am grateful to have my chosen-family who speak clearly and compassionately to me.

From my window I watch a cat perched on a high wall overlooking the backs of neighbouring gardens. He sits there in the morning sun keeping an eye on the birds in the trees that swoop down occasionally. I watch him, watching them, and I wonder where he goes for the rest of his day.

I’ve been listening to this playlist in the mornings recently, to gently start the day. The playlist is named “remi” after my dear friend, because it was originally made for them, for a tattoo session we had where we made this big, sprawling tattoo1 inspired by the ocean, some time last year. I tried to collect a selection of tracks that felt like being underwater, and I find that it’s the perfect soundtrack to wake up to.

I’ve also been listening to it when I’m commuting.

Listening to my “remi” playlist on the tube, I’m walking through stations feeling like a little fish floating around

I am safe in my bubble as I gently swim around the many people, the busy coral reef

I inevitably think of Remi and wonder what they’re doing or what’s on their mind in this moment

I internally pause to say

hi remi, I love you

We’ve been apart for over a month and we’ve unintentionally built a ritual of communicating mostly through voice notes, on average each about 25 minutes long (yes, really). We jokingly call it “podcasting time” and each take notes to keep track of what the other has said (I tried freestyling a reply once or twice and it became immediately clear that I couldn’t remember a thing). We most often record these voice notes when we are sitting outside in nature, and the surrounding sounds of insects, animals, and the wind in the trees provide a backdrop to our ramblings. I think about holding their hand, I think about how good it will feel to hug them, I think about hearing their voice in-person for the first time again.

I am grateful to have love in my life that sustains me

I’ve always been a vessel of extremes, and as many contrasts as I can count around me, I contain

Lighthearted and intense, I bounce back and forth between almost-all-consuming distress and guttural silliness, weighted laughter becoming the only way to stay present, and simultaneously shift away from reality for a moment

If I can’t cackle at the absurdity of everything, I might dissolve in the rain

I’ve been caring for family members, in environments and contexts that make me question my own reality. One individual’s ever-deteriorating mental state lead him to become hostile and aggressive, whilst not having any agency or recollection of his actions. I am faced with broader family dynamics, silencing, and repression beyond my understanding, that spans generations. I am vulnerable and open in my personal life, and a completely different person in this space. My transness being invisible (erased?) to these people is such a strange experience. I live a dual life, a hidden identity visible for all to see online, and we, as a family, uphold a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in person. It has always felt easier to maintain a distance, and speak in half-truths about my identity, knowing that to open that can of worms would mean facing the work of teaching, battling ignorance, dismissiveness, and potential rejection. I am inadvertently repeating the habits I have inherited.

Balancing the sobering intricacies of caring (as well as navigating a hostile home environment), with the rest of everyday regular life puts everything into perspective; nothing is ever that serious. I have limited time and capacity, I physically cannot stand wasting it on empty conversations, false exchanges, hollow company. Failed reciprocity, or anything that demands my labour where I am not met halfway simply doesn’t have a place in my world. I have been shedding dead weight and versions of myself that I can no longer sustain. My transness is not at the forefront of my mind most days, but it peppers my thoughts when I face the artificially constructed form I take on in front of my family. Who’s being false now?

I am grateful to have had the resources to build a place within me that is safe— to finally feel more at home in myself, so that even when my physical home (the roof over my head) is turbulent I am still able to find a piece of stability.

When the space I inhabit is constantly threatening, unstable, and volatile, when I have nowhere to exist neutrally and at baseline, I wonder how much of my identity and inner piece I have had to sacrifice for survival. How much will I continue to sacrifice? Even as I transition out of this space, and into myself more, will I maintain these fake versions of myself? Are the relationships built around them sustainable?

The individuals who aren’t rooted in the real world are hard to engage with at times, but at least I can accept them for their faults—

A deteriorating brain can’t be blamed for its failings. Those who are mentally cognisant, are harder to accept. Can I make peace with the reality of disinterest in who I really am?

I am grateful to have a job that requires me to be present, to slow down, and to finish what I’ve started - because the final piece is not for me to keep.

Unlike every other thought, piece of writing, painting, creative project, or aspect of my life, when I show up to the studio I have no choice but to complete a task. I have to be grounded; settle into the space and into myself, and accept whatever ways I am showing up that day. I have to host; create an environment that feels calm and welcoming, trusting myself in order to invite my client to put their trust in me. I have to be a guide; curating the session to invite my client to move with me from discussion, to drawing, to preparation, easing into the tattoo. Monitoring their wellbeing, encouraging them to stay in touch with their body and advocate for their own needs. Transitioning out of the physical aspect of tattooing, to the aftercare, helping them settle back in to a neutral state, and bring the session to a natural close. Every step is integral to the next, and has to be done with intention. Every tattoo is a ritual, from start to finish.

I’ve been wanting to write about my tattooing process, the pride I take in my work, and the way I approach tattoos in general, but of course, none of the words I type make sense together at the moment. Putting together this post has been a battle from start to finish, and I’ve ultimately just had to force myself to smash together whatever pieces I have and let go of any notion of completing anything. I want to help my clients (and potential clients) understand the ways in which I work, but for now I have to just hope that it continues to speak to the right people. Because I can’t write the things I want to write, and posting anything feels really hard. I have to trust those who are drawn to my practice will continue to come.

Everything feels hard and sharp and I am so tender, my muscles ache

My skin craves contact, a warm hand on the small of my back

I take my rings off and apply lotion lovingly to my own hands at every opportunity, giving each finger, fold, crease and knuckle time and attention

Easing tension, tendon pain

I cannot cry—

Not because I don’t want to, but because my body will not let me; my brain seems to have locked me out of releasing fully

So I text my friends and we laugh in tandem. I groan, and shout, and giggle, and rant, and apologise for saying the same things over and over. And they say “don’t be silly”, and my heart feels like it grows, cartoonishly, three sizes bigger

I began this year so fearful of change, yet trying desperately to welcome it; hating every second, I grasped at the last bits of familiarity, kicking and screaming. Somehow, now, consistency feels unfamiliar. Kicking and screaming is pointless, and tiring in the long run. I don’t know how I can feel fragile yet resilient at the same time. I am stretched so thin I fear I may be becoming translucent, one wrong move and I might tear. I try to take pleasure in small things wherever I can. I try to remain light.

I try, I try, I try. If I am not trying, I am not living. Everything feels silly and cringey and weird, but if I don’t put it on paper it continues to litter the space between my eyes, and I am dizzy from the noise

If any (all) of this feels disorganised and fragmented, it’s because it is

I have bits and pieces of poems, single trains of thought, open-ended letters to myself

Reminders, repetitions, something else beginning with ‘r’

Footnotes to conversations, recommended books I might never read, a gut-wrenching 3am thought squeezed between to-do lists, my internal world categorised in the Notes app

Habitually I collect leaves and flowers, pressing them between the pages of sketchbooks

Any sticker I can get my hands on, receipts and scraps of paper

I feel heavy with everything I’m carrying, information overload, static and distraction, there is nowhere to put it down

But I keep collecting things because

I’m trying to stay child-like; gentle and forgiving

I feel wiser the more I unravel, and steadier with uncertainty

Reminding myself to let go, ease up, loosen

None of this will last

1

P.S. Here’s the big, sprawling, ocean-inspired tattoo we made last year, in case you were curious.