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A Ditty, Not A Titty

Here’s a little ditty I wrote to keep up with the trying to shed myself of the self-worth issues.

I’m starting to actually almost, I said ALMOST, have fun with this video stuff.

My songwriting is building up and I’m really enjoying the therapeutic effect of that. But I’m still so self-conscious it’s painful to get through a filming session.

You can see my latest video, ‘Ditty, Not Titty’, here:

In other, also exciting news, my mandala colouring in book is almost done. Should be ready for sale on Amazon within the next couple of weeks.

Ok. That’s me. Hope everyone’s having a great weekend and sharing their love around, heaven knows, we need it.

xxx Zoe Inez

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I Wish Support For You

Someone asked me today, ‘Do you have support?’ 

I’m lucky that I could say yes. An absolute, unequivocal YES!

My family and friends who support me are angels. 

It’s not easy to support a chronically ill person. I get that. It’s hard to see someone you love hurt, weak etc. And it can be physically and emotionally hard to help or even just watch someone you love be chronically ill.

My support family make my life bareable. That sometimes we can laugh about some pretty serious issues, and at other times come together and find a solution to a problem we never thought we’d solve, as if pulling a solution out of a magicians hat, is remarkable to me.

My support team are my soft place to land. They are my reminders that there are good times ahead. 

They are my ‘I can’ when every part of me is screaming ‘I can’t’.
Thank you, support team. I love you now. I will love you forever. And even though sometimes it’s hard to see, I am appreciative of every second that you make me feel worthwhile of care and love.

My wish for everyone with a chronic illness is that you either have your support family already, or you find one, because you deserve one — and you can add me to it if you wish!

Here’s to our support saviours. Our earth angels!

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

(Tag someone who is a support angel for you.)

Photo: me with some of my support angels.

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A Date Gone Wrong

Decided to share a little something different today. I love thinking back over outrageously funny moments in my life — or even just outrageous moment. 

(This is a post I pulled from an old blog of mine, because I can’t currently draw, or do much of anything actually, due to overdoing it d creating a pain flare.) So if you’ve read it before, you should read it again for the giggles! Ha πŸ™‚ 

I once went on a date with a guy called Bob, who decided to surprise me at the end of the night by telling me that he would be rowing me home in a rowboat, rather than driving in a car.

Backstory: he was my boyfriend and was a sweet boy who I think was trying desperately to be romantic. 

We lived next door to each other, and also lived in beachfront houses, not too far across the wide open ocean, once you got out of this bay. So theoretically the whole rowing home thing could have worked. Bob could have literally rowed us up onto the shore in front of our houses. Apparently people had done this successfully before but I wasn’t really a boat person, and was mildly terrified of being attacked by a shark, so I had my reservations.

After coming to terms with the fact that this wasn’t a joke and that the only way home was across the ocean in a rowboat. I convinced myself that there was some kind of speckled patterned romance in this scenario. I got my spontaneous on. And I rolled with it.

It was about 11pm by the time we got going.

At first it was indeed almost romantic, with the quiet night surrounding us, the sound of soft water lapping at the sides of the boat and our conversation ebbing and flowing with ease.

Most of that ease was, of course, due to the fact that we were only moving through the still waters of the bay between the two headlands. We weren’t yet in the open ocean, you know, with waves and stuff.

I remember it taking a lot longer than Bob had anticipated, to row to the end of the bay. I remember watching the houses as we passed them, some with lights still on, some with lights off. Bob and I creating stories about what was happening in each house.

And then, I remember, as I became colder and colder and the rocking of the rowboat became rougher as we neared the end of the bay, looking at the houses with more of a longing for the warmth and soft beds I was imagining.

Did I mention that I’m not much of a boat person?

Anyway…

As nature would have it, the wind really picked up that night. By the time we reached the end of the bay and were trying to push our way out into the ocean, we were not even at a stand still, we were actually floating backwards, back into the bay.

It took Bob a fair while longer than I, to realise that his heroic efforts to row harder into the incoming ocean swell were beyond futile. 

At one point, I remember being so cold, with the waves now washing into the boat, and disorientated by the pitch blackness, that I wasn’t even that concerned about sharks anymore. It seemed it would be easy enough for a small shark to just float right in on the back of one of the waves, but it didn’t really bother me now.

I figured we were going down anyway. What did it matter if it were by drowning or bleeding to death from shark bite?

In hindsight, that was probably the disorientation talking.

By the time Bob finally admitted defeat, I was soaked through, exhausted, freezing cold, had absolutely no idea where we were and wasn’t sure whether I had a migraine or an aneurism coming on, but was starting to favour the aneurism as I felt I just needed this night to end and if it had to be by death then, at this point, so be it.

We managed to get the boat to some rocks in front of a waterfront property.

Where we BOTH had to drag the boat up over the rocks and carry it to a safe place for the night.

I felt like I was in some kind of bizarre b grade noir/horror movie. The two of us, soaking wet, hoisting the rowboat above our heads and carrying it to safety. I was just waiting for some monster to jump out of the bushes. Which was making the shark attack and/or aneurism look more and more appealing.

Not to mention the moderate case of what-the-fuck’s I had going on in my head as we hauled the bloody boat to a safer place.

A safer place? For the fucking BOAT? 

Oh yeah, sure, we’ll get that bleed in my brain sorted out in a minute but first let’s make sure the fucking boat – which, let’s face it, should have been a car – has a safe place for the night. 

Apparently we were hoping the boat wouldn’t get damaged overnight. Well, I can say with certainty that not all of us were hoping for the same thing.

The night ended with us calling Bob’s mother to come and get us. Me getting a migraine rather than an aneurism (thankfully) but it being one of those glamorous migraine with vomiting — so the 45 minute drive home was a hoot.

That night was one of the worst ends to a date I’ve ever had. But I do remember watching, with fondness, the ambition of Bob as he tried so desperately to make something unique and special happen. 

His desire to create a wonderful memory for us both, whilst a tremendous failure, was also incredibly endearing. There’s a certain kind of romance in this type of epic failure that makes my memory of that date a happy memory. 

That quality of optimism despite all the odds being stacked against us, that is very romantic.

Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t relive it even if my life depended on it, but it was romantic all the same.

Thanks, Bob. Thanks for trying. And for a date gone so terribly wrong that in the world of my memory, twenty-ish years later, I actually see the romance in it. Sorry I couldn’t see it on the night πŸ˜‰

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Your Dreams. Your Life.

A lot of people have, hidden somewhere in their homes, a treasure box in which they collect mementos from their favourite experiences. From things that happened. From things that they did.

All over the world, there must be millions of stashes of these physical representatives of great moments that people have experienced and not wanted to ever forget.

What I have been wondering about recently, though, is how many equally important boxes there are in the world, that are full of dreams people stashed away for later, for when they had more time, better health or less responsibilities.

How many people left their dreams in a box under their bed?

I did it.  I remember the day I left my dreams in a box.

Took me more than 30 years, and a deep pit of desperation, to open the box up again.

And boy am I glad I did.

I’m not glad my daughter was sick. I would never wish that on anyone.

But I am glad that I allowed myself to acknowledge the desperation I was feeling in my heart and soul. Because it did open me up to NEEDING to reach into my box of dreams, because I needed something outside of my 24/7 to give me hope.

And that’s what our boxes of dreams are. They are hope. They are love, passion, creation, colour, happiness and joy. And by opening our boxes again, we are letting those things back into our lives.

They are us, exploding into a million pieces of our best selves and then bringing all those pieces back together again in a new, more sparkly, more alive, more fantastic person than we ever thought possible. 

Even if we don’t end up being masters of any of our dreams. Even if we suck at them all. The point is that they were things we wanted to try — and try is all we need to do.

If we keep our dreams in boxes, tucked under our beds or at the back of our closets, we are not only denying ourselves but we are denying the world.

We usually have reasons for not dragging our dreams out into the light: ‘we don’t deserve to shine’, ‘we can’t do it’, ‘we’re a loser’, we’re scared of what people will think of us, we feel too old, or not talented enough.

Most of those reasons manifest in either denial that your dreams exist at all, or fear of the dream itself.

Denial will lead to anger, resentment, depression and more…. Fear will lead to anger, resentment, depression and more….

So, denial will not serve you well in the long run.

But it’s not easy. It’s really not. Coming out of the dream closet can be fucking terrifying. People may well think you’re crazy. And they may feel they have the right to tell you that. They may look at you like you’re alien or speaking a different language — one they don’t want to even try to understand. And that’s because you are speaking a language a lot of people don’t understand.

Most people don’t track down their dreams and take a journey with them. So a lot of people won’t understand you. At first. But after a while, everything becomes normalized. And so too will your dream following.

In any case, of course, you can’t do it for anyone else anyway. 

This is your dream: Your deal. Your box. Your life.
The only right thing to do for yourself is to drag that box of dreams out of the closet, take a deep breath, open the lid, and see what’s been sitting there waiting for you to return to it.

It’s never going to feel like it’s the right time to find your dreams, but the truth us that it’s always the right time.

Happy dream finding…

zoe xxx

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