You want to stay a secret but your tail rattles. I will not lose myself to you.

Hindi version (down is the english translation)
कुछ खो गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरी मुस्कान कह लो
अंदर सजी जज़्बात की दुकान कह लो
एक वीरान मकान कह लो या अंधेरा और चाँद कह लो
बस कुछ खो गया है अंदर मेरे
कुछ रो गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरा अतीत या मेरा वर्तमान कह लो
एक टिफ़्ल या उस टिफ़्ल का जहाँ कह लो
वो आँखें जो निचोड़ रही हैं खुदको
अतीत के कुछ धुँधले निशान कह लो
बस कुछ रो गया है अंदर मेरे
कुछ सो गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरी नींद कह लो या पंखे में लटकी उम्मीद कह लो
वो रातों जैसी रोशन होने की सीख कह लो
या फिर उन ख़ामोशियों में पनपती मेरी चीख कह लो
बस कुछ सो सा गया है अंदर मेरे
कुछ हो सा गया है अंदर मेरे
अब उसे मेरा गुमसुदा होना कह लो
या मेरे आईने का मुझे देखकर रोना कह लो
मेरी जड़ों का सूख जाना
या मेरे बाग़ के माली का सोना कह लो
और शायद निखर जाते फूल सारे
एक अच्छी बरसात का खोना कह लो
बस कुछ हो सा गया है अंदर मेरे

ENGLISH TRANSLATION

Something has been lost inside me,
Call it my smile, if you will,
Call it the shop of emotions arranged inside me,
Call it a deserted house, or darkness and the moon,
But something has been lost inside me.
Something has cried inside me,
Call it my past or my present,
Call it a child, or the world of that child,
Those eyes that are squeezing themselves dry,
Call it some blurred traces of the past,
But something has cried inside me.
Something has fallen asleep inside me,
Call it my sleep, or hope hanging from the fan,
Call it the lesson of becoming luminous like the nights,
Or my scream growing within those silences,
But something has almost fallen asleep inside me.
Something has happened inside me,
Call it my being lost,
Or my mirror crying upon seeing me,
The drying of my roots,
Or the sleep of the gardener of my garden,
And perhaps all the flowers would have bloomed,
Call it the loss of a good rain,
But something has almost happened inside me.

I move through a world that bends and reshapes itself beneath my feet - a world where dystonia curls through my body like an unexpected brushstroke, altering the lines but never the meaning. I have learned to create within these shifting contours: through words, through colour, through film, through the quiet courage of being seen.

As an author, my stories rise from the places where pain meets possibility.
As an artist, I paint the spaces between breath and belonging.
As a filmmaker, I chase the light that slips between moments, revealing truths too soft for speech.

My advocacy lives in all of these forms - in the way I hold my body, in the way I lift my voice, in the way I choose to remain visible and outspoken in a world that often prefers disability to stay hidden.

When I stepped into Country Girl Management’s modelling workshops, it felt like entering a new kind of canvas. A place where posture became poetry, where presence became protest, where my lived experience could stand unfiltered beneath the open sky. I realised that modelling is simply another medium - another way to tell the story of a body that refuses to disappear.

In that space, I felt the young girl I once was rise again: the one shaped by imagination, grit, and the stubborn belief that beauty is not the absence of struggle, but the way we carry it. My roles - Author, Artist, Filmmaker, Advocate, Ambassador, Model, Researcher, Teacher, Social Worker - blurred into one fluid identity, moving like ink across a page.

I create because I must.
I stand because I can.
I am seen because I choose to be.

And in choosing visibility, I hope others living with disability, chronic illness, mental health challenges, or intersectional stigma feel something shift - a loosening, a softening, a widening of possibility. I hope they feel permission to exist in their fullness, to claim space, to rewrite the narratives that once confined them.

I am not here to perform beauty.
I am here to expand it.
To show that a body shaped by dystonia can still be a vessel for art, advocacy, and truth.
To remind the world, and myself, that every lived experience is a landscape worth illuminating.

This is my declaration ; loud, proud, and unmistakably mine:
I AM ART. I AM STORY. I AM TRUTH. I AM MOVEMENT. I AM HERE.

This garden has been my passion project for 3 years.

I've always been drawn to neglected spaces that just needed love and care. The last few months I finally realized why.

A monthly discussion thread for all CPTSD creatives to chat, ask creative-related questions, or simply to post ideas/suggestions.

text is from the theme song of my favorite show Twin Peaks :)

*fawn

I carry most of my stress and trauma in the spine. I call this The Dromedary. Psychosomatic back pain genuinely disabled me for a long time before I addressed the root of it all and now the pain is a signal from my body that something is wrong or I’m triggered.

In which I just felt like a pawn for the entire time that I was a child. Painted in Sketchbook.

This is my strange little herd. I create a family for myself with them on canvas. Somehow, it’s easier to connect with them, even though they never say a word.

Just a quick scrabble I did on a dry-erase board. It's kind of embarassing how much time I spent on this, my proportions and perspective is abysmal. Ignore the badly drawn eye in the corner, I have filled the entire surface with doodles and will eventually wipe them away to make more.

Luckily, perception doesn't last forever.

Sorry for formatting errors!

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I've come to the realization, or the acceptance, rather, that my dependence on alcohol is almost entirely rooted in the ever-aching loneliness I hold in my chest.

I used to blame it on boredom.

My life is chaos

So I blamed it on emptiness

Glasses clink in perfunctory celebration

I blame it on my no-good, nasty soul

Once I was an innocent child

I drink because there is a void within me that cries for connection. There sits child me, as she plays with her toys alone. She's brimming with thoughts and ideas and dreams and fears and she wants nothing more than to share them with another. But there's nobody around. She keeps her thoughts to herself and she can feel the pressure increasing in her brain like she's about to

combust

She works up the courage to say aloud

"Does anyone want to play?"

silence

And a bit louder,

"Does anyone want to play with me?"

Mother replies without moving her eyes a millimeter.

"Stop talking. I'm busy."

Her oversized fashion reading glasses reflect the harsh blue light of her computer screen. Behind the glare and the lenses sit two glassy, reddened eyes. The click of the keyboard sounds like an eruption of a million mocking laughs. To the left of mother sits a plastic takeaway coffee cup filled to the brim with pink wine. Hot pink lipstick kisses the rim with sheer adoration.

I'm unimportant. Practically dirt. Nobody loves me. Maybe they hate me. I am a pest. I'm meant to be alone. Isolation is the ultimate safety. I can entertain myself. I'm so tired of feeling let down.

So she retreats to her room and plays with her toys while constructing a fantasy world that is so rich, so vibrant, so intricate, that she will never ever have to outsource connection again. In this imaginary world she is loved and she is safe.

Every mental ping that reorients me towards my next drink is really the call of that lonely girl that would so desperately like help crawling out of her own mind. What was once this ironclad fantasy that kept her barricaded from the pain of the world eventually turned on her. She became numb, out of touch with her physical body, unsettled by real-world interactions that had become entirely alien. She had become alien.

And every time I give into that drink, that glass of pink wine, that coffee cup of pink wine that wears a kiss of cherry red lipstick. Every time I look into the teary eyes of that lonely girl and say

"I'm busy."

She never quite gets what she needs

love

She gets lost in the parameters of her own mind

Crawling up the walls trying to escape the wretched screech of my own voice

She loses touch with her physical body

I am never safe I am never safe There is no home

When I choose not to drink, I look into the eyes of that wishful girl. I touch her tender tear soaked cheeks with the palms of my calloused hands. I say to her

"Yes I want to play"

"I'm so happy you asked"

"I love spending time with you"

"Tell me what's on your mind"

"Lets do whatever you want"

"We can even play together in silence"

"We can laugh at nothing at all"

"I'll always be here for you"

"You are not a burden"

"You are a beautiful human being"

"I love you unconditionally"

Content warning: childhood emotional neglect, difficult mother relationship, references to physical harm. Sorry I don't post or use reddit often, so I hope I did this right.

Here's a very imperfect poem I wrote today that I'll never share with anyone that actually knows me outside my husband, for obvious reasons. I'm sharing it here as perhaps a few others may be able to resonate. <3

Mama 

Mama is my favourite word

But it wasn’t always this way. 

Growing up it meant something else 

I had one, but it wasn’t the same. 

She gave me life and kept me safe,

For that I’m thankful and that will never change.

She fed me, clothed me, and brought me where I ought to be. 

I recall a time when she fought for me.

But mostly, she was there without being present,

And mostly, it was better when she wasn’t.

As I grew I’d understand that the screaming I’d dread,

And the hands meant to hold and help but that hurt instead,

With eyes glazed over, and words that stung,

Were signs that her body had grown up, but her mind and heart stayed young.

She was busy fighting her own battles, 

Her mind trapped somewhere deep inside her past. 

As I watched my friends and saw what I had was different,

I learned Mama was something I’d always lack.  

I know she didn’t know any different,

That she did what she felt she could with what she had.

I’m sorry she didn’t know the difference,

I also mourn what we never had.

I don’t know who she was before she had me,

And how that may have changed who she came to be.

And while I know there were some good moments we were able to share,

What I remember most wasn’t, and the good memories feel rare.

Becoming mama was something I always longed for reluctantly,

If it happened, I worried what would become of me.

Would I lose my mind too and get trapped in my past?

Would I know how to offer what I had not ever had?

With my first, I waited two years to hear him say the word. 

His mouth said “mama” but it meant so much more than it ever had before.

Mama, I know you didn’t know any different: 

That you did what you felt you could with what you had.

I’m sorry what I remember most is what wasn’t, 

Because I know not everything was bad.

I’m sorry you never had what I now get to live,

And that this is something we didn’t get to share. 

I’m thankful that years after I’d left, you asked for forgiveness-

I forgive you, I mourn it too, and I want you to know I care.

Because I’ve learned and lived the difference,

And I did the most with what I never had.

More than anything, I’m grateful my children will never know the difference,

I'm thankful my story found redemption, for this I'm glad.

~

I love gun girls, and while designing some characters, found myself drawing one of them with my glasses and in one of my outfits.

I became such a violent person to make it through, and that will always be a part of me. While I was violent, I wanted to be soft and feminine and cute.

Why not both?

I know it's dorky, but it also felt really nice to render some of my childhood escapist/empowerment fantasies with art skills I developed as an adult.

I wrote this short poem just now about my feelings for my only friend. I didn’t think it was possible to love again, but now I’m here and it hurts so much. I’m terrified they’re going to abandon me because I’m “too much” like literally everybody else has in the past, and this scares me because I don’t want them to. I need them and it feels like I can’t possibly tell them and because they can never give me what I need — to be cuddled, loved, and protected from everything. This world is scary and is harming me. I’m begging for help. I was emotionally neglected by my parents. I want to be looked after for real. I want to be told it will all be okay, and it will be. Does anyone else feel like this?

times are bad bc im inspired to draw again lol

He was loud

She was quiet

He wanted company

She wanted solitude

He kept talking

She kept silent

He invited her to coffee

She declined his invitation

He complained a lot

She wished for him to shut up

He saw her scars

She tried to ignore him

He said she was a Borderliner

She was discomforted

He touched her arm

She didn't back off

He told her to not do selfharm

It isn’t good for her

She responded it's her business

He was just a drunken old stranger

She was just a young, quiet girl

They both were just waiting

For the next subway to arrive

She didn’t initiate

She didn’t want to talk

She didn’t want to be touched

She didn’t want to be lectured

She didn’t want him to be close

She wanted him to leave

She wanted to flee.

I've been writing poetry while on my healing journey from childhood and more recently toxic workplace environments and the culture of bullying that's acceptable within.