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I Don’t Want This Body. You Want Your Hands on It. Explain That to Me.
I don’t particularly like my body right now. The strange thing is that other men apparently do. What happens when someone looks at the body you’re busy criticising and thinks, “Fuck, he’s hot”? Perhaps I don’t need to fancy myself. Perhaps I just need to believe you when you say…
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I Like a Belly. I Hate Mine, and what it says about me and my past.
I like a belly. There, I’ve said it. That’s hardly a shocking revelation from a man who describes himself as a bear, but a belly on a man can be a wonderful thing. Soft, hairy, round, substantial, or solid and firm; something you can put your hands on, something warm…
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I Don’t Need to Be Horny. Orgasm Isn’t the Goal. Connection Is.
Every now and then, the world gives me a moment that feels as though someone has quietly turned a key in a lock. Nothing dramatic changes; the world looks exactly the same as it did an hour earlier. But somehow a door has opened that I didn’t even know was…
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An Oil Tanker, A Wave, but the Same Destination
Last weekend left me convinced I was back where I’d started. This week, therapy gave me a different way of looking at it. If you read my previous post, Weekends Have Become the Hardest, you’ll know just how much I struggle when Friday rolls into Saturday. During the week, therapy…
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A Strange Feeling that there “Safety”
Sometimes healing doesn’t feel like relief. Sometimes it feels unfamiliar, uncomfortable and even a little frightening. This week, therapy taught me something unexpected: after years of living in survival mode, perhaps safety itself is something my body has to learn all over again.
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For Me Weekends Have Become the Hardest
Depression has a way of making an empty Saturday feel like every Saturday yet to come. This is a reflection on loneliness, boredom, and the small sliver of hope I’m trying to hold onto.
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The Glass Between Us
Their laughter echoed on the other side, yet I felt invisible—isolated even as I begged to be included.
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A Lighthouse and A Muffled Scream
Dreams have a way of telling the truth in symbols. A muffled scream and a forgotten lighthouse led me to reflect on trauma, memory, and the quiet hope that recovery might simply be remembering the way home.
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Therapy, Fear, Compassion & Learning to Trust Reality Again
Therapy, one difficult phone call, and a handful of quiet victories have taught me something unexpected: my anxiety can feel completely real without being right. For the first time in a long while, I’m beginning to believe recovery is possible.
