Hey guys…here is my #sharpie sunday for today…

The photos are for the press release my local Mind/NHS trust are putting together about my fundraising and awareness campaign. I’m trying to encourage people to run the Bamburgh 10k with me by sharing my personal story and sharing some training pics beside the iconic Bamburgh Castle. This is being sent to media peeps in the North East, so to me this is HASHTAG IMPORTANT!!!

The news of us getting up to head to the beach made three people who wanted a lie in however, very resentful!

My burgeoning media presence means little to them (on occasions like this where I am asking them to get up and dressed and head outside on a Sunday morning when they’d rather be in bed!)

I reminded them they would probs think foregoing their Sunday lie in was worth it when they see the photos in the press. But still they grumbled…and my husband was the chief grumbler who was modelling grumbling to our offspring which I got quite grumpy about. So it got quite awkward and the mutual grumbling continued…it became a bit of a grumpy domino effect.

I then had to think of a way to break the ice….

So I did this…

This is him holding the picture…

…He didn’t like the picture πŸ˜‚

…Which is actually quite good and FAR better than mine. #Storyofmylife πŸ˜‚

This is me holding the picture, still in pose…

Fortunately we got some decent running pics….though the grumpiness has continued since we got home.

I’m bitching at him. He is bitching at me….It’s just one of those grumpy Sundays.

I always feel pressure to enjoy my weekends and it always be happy families consistently from Friday evening to Sunday night. But sometimes at weekends we all get grouchy. It isn’t all instagrammable moments of delight joined up by sunbeams of elated dreaminess.

In a full week that is 7 days and 24×7 long why do we have to be selectively happy for 48 hours of that? Just because it’s the ‘weekend’?

Sometimes often I feel shit at weekends. ..in fact I usually do. Because I’m not on my own. The house is crowded. The routine is non existent, noise levels are uncomfortably high; and on a Sunday I always feel daunted about the next five days ahead of me. I wonder how I’ll possibly do it.. Β  I feel tired and lethargic and generally listless and useless. I bum around bouncing off imaginary walls. .the partitions I’m talking about metaphorically criss cross their way across my mind, creating lattice work patterns and meaningless random divisions. I feel bored but overwhelmed at the same time. A state of uncomfortable bored overstimulation ensues. My brain is being challenged by the sense of lack.

I overdose on lack.

I binge on it. (Or it binges or feeds on me.)

It’s the borderline emptiness invading again.

The brain mess is spacious and palacious and cavernous and restricted and tight all at once- a contradictory mess of complex randomness.

I excess on nothingness.

Sunday grumpiness hurts and frazzles.

My head is FULL yet vacant.

I remain dissociated and zoned out, yet sensitised to threat from long ago.

PTSD pollutes my dreams reminding me that even if life is generally getting far better and shinier and brighter; that the shadows of the past will always cast large shapes across my mindscape….black holes where any light is absorbed and sucked in as if it were never there in the first place.

My lips pout just a little more.

A band of uncomfortable psychic energy radiates around my head and down the nerves towards my jaw.

My neck is stiff. My head is swimming and too heavy for my body to support it.

I lay back and swirl and sway and fall into it.

I’m drunk and disoriented and disorderly.

I know where I am.

I’m in the past.

I’m in that church.

In that room.

How many years ago now?

What age was I then?

12 probably?…. I’m 35 now.

The room I’m mentally in is where I had the most intense teeth clenching trauma of my life.

Don’t go there Summer.

This is a post trauma blog where lately I’ve avoided the trauma. I‘ve been far too busy.

But let me tell you, the trauma hasn’t gone. It never will. I will be haunted by this till my breathing stops and my body is cold and my ashes have been dispersed into the salty marine air where I want them released.

Mood swing happening as I write.


Do you feel the energy change as I write?

What’s the solution.Β Stop writing?Β 

If I stop writing will the shit go away?

No of course it fucking won’t.

But maybe it is something I just learn to fold up into neat concertina shapes.

Traumatic origami.

Art and form and meaning created by beautiful crisp deliberate folds made by the artist scratching deep into the fibres of the paper in every artistic fold.

Fold it up Summer.

Crisp lines.

This post has altered from where it began.

Silly Summer writes about silly things with silly pictures.

But really summer is sad, hurting, empty, screaming for someone to hold her till the bad stuff leaves her be and she can find peace again.

I must go. I must publish. I must close my eyes and curl up and hide somewhere where the trauma cannot get to me.

I will shine again. Just not right now. Sometimes the hurt just can’t be ignored or doodled away.

Sometimes I’m just there πŸ˜£πŸ˜”