Category: Chapters

  • Stuck In My Head

    Stuck In My Head

    The only way I knew how

    was to think my way out of —

    and around — my life.

    How can I solve this?

    How can I make things better?

    How do I fix this?

    Stuck.

    So stuck.

    Right inside my own head.

    Padlock on. Key hidden somewhere “safe” — as if I’d never need it again.

    Because, obviously, the answers were all up here… in my noggin.

    1. Think first
    2. Look outside = life’s answer.

    Simple equation, right?

    I thought I was the intelligent one… until my body quietly raised its hand and said:

    “Check your spam. I’ve been trying to contact you.

    Oh — and while you’re there, unblock me, ffs.

    It’s time.

    Time for the real truth.

    Because this whole living-outside-of-your-body thing?

    Yeah… that went out with that white with neon stripes shell suit you donned!.” (insert cringe emoji if there is one!)

    With love,

    Your body

    Living outside of my body looked like many things.

    Alcohol.

    Doing.

    Even relaxing — still doing.

    Seeing people.

    Helping people.

    Watching TV.

    Listening to audio stories.

    Relationships especially the toxic ones!

    Playing PS4.

    Scrolling social media.

    Planning.

    Cleaning.

    Working extra hours.

    Watching sport.

    Binge watching.

    All of it lived outside of me.

    And here’s the thing — I enjoyed these things.

    They helped me switch off.

    They gave me relief.

    But what I didn’t realise at the time was what I was switching off from.

    I was switching off from time with myself.

    Time with my body.

    Time with my true thoughts.

    Time with nothing at all.

    I’d only ever had snippets of that kind of presence — never long enough to really notice the difference.

    Never long enough to ask the questions that mattered.

    Am I inside myself right now, or outside?

    Am I out of balance — and does that even feel okay?

    How do I return inside?

    How do I check in with myself

    and nurture both my inner world

    and my connections outside?

    What do I genuinely enjoy on the outside?

    And what do I genuinely enjoy on the inside — naturally, without substances or numbing?

    Outside focus.

    Inside focus.

    I didn’t have a clue what that meant.

    Yet again, life forced me to learn the difference.

    Not gently — but through annoyance, anger, frustration, and heartbreak with myself.

    I kept repeating the same self-destructive patterns, and they kept bringing me pain and suffering.

    It took a while

    (not quite as long as it took that shell suit to go out of fashion! *internet search “are shell suits back in fashion?”)

    I was on rinse and repeat

    for longer than I care to admit.

    Until eventually the patterns became impossible to ignore.

    Holding on wasn’t living.

    It was just existing.

    And that’s when I sat with my old friend

    – hopelessness.

    Then came helplessness.

    The passing of my boy —

    and the loss of that reminder of being

    loved unconditionally —

    changed something in me.

    As devastating as it was,

    helplessness turned out to be a softer

    place than hopelessness.

    It carried something unexpected with it:

    hope.

    A quiet faith

    in something beyond what I could control.

    I began to see that my outside focus

    had always been about acceptance.

    Being useful.

    Being liked.

    Being needed.

    Dogs don’t ask for any of that.

    They let us be our most authentic, real selves.

    And somewhere in that truth,

    I realised something uncomfortable –

    and important:

    Maybe that’s how I need to be with other humans too.

    But most importantly,

    with myself.

    I needed to learn how to like her.

    To stay with her.

    To stop running

    from the ugly, imperfect parts of me.

    Which is ironic, really.

    You’d think running would be off my list

    of capabilities —

    but surprising how much running I’ve done

    while being in a wheelchair.

    Running away from myself.

    Only to realise,

    slowly and painfully,

    that all along…

    I’d actually been running towards myself.

    Towards the true me.

    Disclaimer: A white with neon stripes shell suit was not harmed in the making of this chapter – only Sammie’s now outed 90’s fashion sense!

    Written and painted by

    Sammie Edgar

  • Creating Space

    Creating Space

    I’m having to think and feel my way into this one, because finding the words for how I created space is… ironic. (Lol – I didn’t create it. It’s always there.)

    So if it’s always there, did I find my way to it?

    Or did it come to me?

    (Insert thinking emoji.)

    I could happily disappear down that rabbit hole, but for the sake of not boggling around forever, I’ll park the was it me or was it IT? question and stick with the how.

    Bear with me while this unravels — I don’t know exactly where it started, but I’ll start somewhere and see where it goes.

    What I do know is this: by the time I wanted – needed – space between things, I was in a pretty uncomfortable, bumpy, suffering state.

    Physically, I was in more pain. There were scary episodes.

    Emotionally, I was reacting to the world with anger and frustration – full judge and jury – and I didn’t like how I was showing up.

    I was reactive to everything. Fearful. Questioning my existence. Quietly thinking, what’s the point?

    This wasn’t duvet-hopelessness.

    This was hopelessness dressed up for a night out.

    Neither were comfortable. And both left me not wanting to be in the world – or in my own skin.

    One strong thread keeping me here was what I call home: my boys 🐶🐶

    Their love. Their quirks. Their joy. Their simple, everyday presence kept my heart warm. Even now, my eyes fill with gratitude thinking about that love. They were a constant. A reminder.

    Not everything in this world is broken.

    Not everything in my world is hopeless.

    There is warmth.

    I felt something similar when I watched the birds. Seeing them fly high and noticing they don’t always flap their wings – they soar. They float. (If you’ve never noticed this, I recommend it. Especially the little ones up high — watching how they navigate was really comforting.)

    I watched clouds forming shapes. Learned that lower clouds move faster – who knew?

    I listened to the rain.

    I tried listening to my breath, breathing deeply – though that felt like a stretch, probably because it was too close to me, too inside.

    I did these things because they were the opposite end of the spectrum from being in the world.

    Because the world felt rough.

    Going to the post office meant rude, bumpy interactions. Wheeling to the shop meant teenagers laughing, making comments as they passed. One day, despite trying really hard to “let it go,” I snapped.

    “I’d rather be in a wheelchair than be a nasty @&£))((;;:;/?)£/&&/& like you!”

    Oh lordy.

    After that, I didn’t feel good. I felt like I’d been sucked straight into the ugly energy of the world. Yes, I got a few good for yous, and yes, I might say it again – but underneath that was turmoil. Injustice. Grief.

    And a little girl inside me screaming:

    It’s not my fault.

    Where do I fit?

    How do I fit in this insane world?

    I started landing on the same conclusion again and again:

    What’s the point of me if I can’t even pop outside without witnessing ugliness? Without being triggered? Without seeing how unkind, self-absorbed, and careless humans can be?

    And then the harder truth landed.

    I am a human too.

    I might not have been acting out by being abusive, unkind, or attacking others. I wasn’t keyboard-warrioring or lashing out at every injustice. But inside? Inside my head and body, I was still suffering.

    I was stomping – or whatever the wheelchair version of stomping and flouncing is (insert laughing emoji). I was radiating p:??ed-off energy. My face knew how to do disapproving, angry, judgey, dismissive very well.

    That energy still went out into the world.

    And the more I resisted what I saw – the more I needed the world and people to change before I could feel okay – the more I became the very thing I hated.

    Not through my actions.

    But through my reactions.

    They weren’t going to change in those moments. They were acting out their feelings – yes, often more obviously and cruelly – but so was I.

    And I was deeply, painfully unhappy.

    Feeling pointless.

    Wondering what the point of me was… and what the point of this world was at all.

    Something had to change.

    Not because I suddenly felt empowered – but because I desperately wanted to. And eventually, I did. (Insert whoop emoji.)

    I despised becoming what I hated.

    Which brings me back to the birds.

    Flapping their wings. Changing direction.

    Not flapping still gets them where they’re going.

    And that mattered more than I realised at the time.

    Written and painted by

    Sammie Edgar

  • Nowhere To Run

    Nowhere To Run

    I find this hard to explain, to be honest.

    Mostly because I don’t want to assume we all feel things in the same way.

    And also because the phrase ‘feel it all’ can sound like… a lot.
    Like an invitation to overwhelm.

    If I were reading it, I might already feel my nervous system bracing.

    So let me clarify.

    When I say ‘all’,
    I don’t mean every emotion all at once (that would be… colourful).

    I mean everything that accompanies a feeling —

    before,
    during,
    and after.

    The full chain reaction.

    Here’s an honest share (insert awkward emoji).

    Some mornings I would wake up already anticipating
    sometimes dreading –
    how my physical body was going to scare the absolute bejeebers out of me that day.

    A really positive way to start life, right?

    Not exactly optional though.

    Living with chronic pain and disabilities meant things could happen in my body out of the blue,
    or for a very clear reason.

    Either way, symptoms showed up.

    So I learned to get ahead of it.

    Not in a negative way –
    more a realistic one.

    Pain was likely to appear.

    If it didn’t, great.
    If it did, I wanted to be prepared.

    But what that meant in practice
    was waking up with fear already switched on.

    Anticipation layered on anticipation.

    It’s coming.

    This is going to be bad.

    I won’t be able to cope.

    Then came the physical sensations –
    pain,
    discomfort,
    loss of control –

    which ramped the fear up even further.

    And after that,
    the thoughts:

    What do I do?

    Is this going to get worse?

    I’m alone.

    And somewhere inside all of that
    was the raw emotion.

    The crying.

    The desperation.

    The pleading for a way out.

    What more can I do?

    Please make it stop.

    How can I fix this?

    Who can help me fix this?

    So when I say feel it all,
    it’s because I did.

    It was one big bundle –
    fear,
    noise,
    reactions,
    sensations,
    thoughts –

    all tangled together.

    I wasn’t choosing this.

    It was automatic

    (bear with on that –
    as a few years ago I’d have thought
    “erm yep you are”)

    But then I studied
    and dove a level deeper than my mate ye old critical voicey-o! 

    And the truth was:
    the only way through it
    was through it.

    For me, feeling it all meant allowing myself to feel into the epicentre of what was happening –

    not just the pain,
    but the fear of the pain,
    the story about the pain,
    the meaning I was attaching to the pain –

    and then out the other side.

    (Insert yay emoji, though it rarely felt yay at the time.)

    I felt the fear.

    I heard the automatic thoughts.

    And then –
    gently,
    imperfectly –

    I felt around for thoughts that could help me ride it out.

    Thoughts that soothed my anguish
    instead of ridiculing me.

    Thoughts that didn’t shame me
    or pile on more suffering.

    Sometimes I had to dig really deep.

    Sometimes I sank straight into the suffering
    I knew so well.

    Sometimes I got frustrated.

    “Here again!

    For ffs,
    why can’t you learn?”

    So stupid.

    Each time one of these “events” happened –
    that’s what I’ll call them —

    I went round and round,
    up and down.

    Because deep down,
    I didn’t trust myself.

    I didn’t have confidence
    in the kinder words I was trying to offer.

    I believed I had to stay on guard at all times.

    Fear everything.

    Trust no one –
    not even myself.

    Until something shifted.

    I realised my thoughts weren’t trying to destroy me.

    They were trying to protect me
    from a perceived threat
    (thanks for bearing with!).

    And with a highly sensitive nervous system,
    they were doing their job –
    just…

    a bit too enthusiastically.

    What I truly wanted wasn’t to stop feeling.

    It was to feel it all

    so I could find a way through to something truer.

    Or at least one step closer to truth.

    Or, at the very least,
    to be open to the possibility
    that I might actually be safe.

    And that I could begin –

    tentatively –

    to trust a new thought.

    They felt unfamiliar.

    A bit flimsy.

    But I decided to give them a chance.

    With these small tweaks,
    and by spending time staying with the experience
    rather than fighting it,

    my system began to calm.

    A new internal dialogue
    was quietly saved for next time

    (if there was a next time).

    This was huge for me.

    Yes, these events happened again and again.

    But over time,
    I created enough space
    to catch the spiral earlier –

    and suffer less.

    Eventually,
    the suffering stopped altogether.

    I could experience discomfort or pain
    without the additional battering
    of conditioned thoughts
    trying to wrestle me to the ground.

    They called for me

    Or was it more
    ‘knock and run?

    But this time,
    I had a Ring doorbell
    (other doorbells are available –
    insert laughing emoji).

    I saved my energy.

    And didn’t open the door.

    There was space.

    A glimmer of time.

    A chance to witness what was happening
    and choose a gentler response –

    for myself
    and for my poor body,
    which was only ever doing its job.

    We became a bit of a team.

    I still want a perfect body at all times
    (obviously).

    But it’s a relief
    to relate to my body
    instead of running from it.

    And on the subject of running from feelings…

    Have I mentioned my journey with alcohol?

    Oh Lordy.

    Buckle up –
    it’ll be on its way soon!

    Written and painted by

    Sammie Edgar

  • Just a ‘Camel Toe’ Tale

    Just a ‘Camel Toe’ Tale

    Okay.

    I’m on a funny as I reminisce!

    And for a Brucey bonus
    it involved a hoist and firefighters –
    who’da thought it?

    (genuinely never spelt that in my life!)


    (Pick your emoji.)

    Lucky day, right?

    Not quite.


    Though, as usual,
    I’m bringing humour to a moment of vulnerability and fear.


    So this was pretty early on in my neuro physio,
    after a lot of work on safe transferring techniques.

    You know —

    on the commode,
    off the commode,


    repeat until dignity becomes optional.

    I’d progressed to

    “Okay brain… remember your feet?”

    And jeez — this level involved a harness.

    Lots of clippety-clips to a harness later,
    armed with a full camel toe
    and a determined mindset,
    I decided I was ready to dangle.

    Bearing in mind all my body knew
    was a sit and a hunched over type transfer at this point.

    Picture this:
    a tall metal frame on wheels,
    and me hanging from the top.

    It sounds like a crane — it’s not —
    but it feels like one.

    Basically, it takes the weight off your feet
    and allows a kind of supported standing.

    How much weight goes through your legs can be adjusted.


    So there I was.

    Standing.

    Well… supported standing.

    How cool did that feel?

    I was fine —
    until my wheelchair,
    my trusted steed,
    was suddenly across the room.

    That was scary.

    I hadn’t realised just how reliant I was on it.

    Obviously for practical reasons —
    but also because it grounded me.

    It told me what I could and couldn’t do.
    Where my edges were.

    And now here I was,
    camel toe and all,
    being gently rotated in a circle.

    I hadn’t turned my body left or right in…
    I don’t even know how long.

    And suddenly my world was moving.

    I felt sick.

    Not dramatically —

    just that deep,
    unsettling nausea
    that comes from motion your body hasn’t experienced
    in what felt like forever.

    A tiny 360-degree turn,
    yet somehow monumental.

    And then —

    something incredible.


    My brain started reconnecting with my feet.


    Everything in between
    joined the conversation too.


    This was a big deal.

    A huge achievement
    in ways that are hard to explain.

    I could have opted out through fear.

    Deep down,
    I didn’t want to feel what I had lost.

    I could have said no.

    But I wanted to know.

    I wanted to feel now

    what I could — or couldn’t — do.

    Something in me

    wanted to remember what standing felt like.

    Relaxed.

    Supported.

    Without fear of falling.


    I felt my body again.

    Part of me
    wept quietly inside.


    A much bigger part of me smiled.


    (Insert emoji that says moved but not sad.)


    This was the beginning of something — though I had no idea what.


    Oh. Wait.


    I forgot the fire.


    So there I am —

    dangling,
    feeling my feels,
    reconnecting with my limbs

    and sporting a proper camel toe outage —

    when suddenly…


    The fire alarm goes off.


    Fire doors lock.


    Lights flash.


    And no —

    it’s not a drill.


    My wonderful physio clocked my dread immediately.

    I was still very much attached to the crane
    (yes, it’s a crane now).


    We shared a quick
    “what are the actual chances?” chuckle

    before shifting rapidly into:


    Okay.

    Unclippety-clip.

    And goodbye camel toe,
    it’s been emotional.

    Drop into quickly placed wheelchair.

    And Exit!


    Faithful steed reclaimed.


    Camel toe
    exiting stage left.


    The goal?

    Avoid interaction with firefighters.


    Avoid interaction with any humans.


    Because I do not often wear
    bright green,
    sumo-style hoist pants
    in public.


    Assisted standing:

    completed it mate.


    Perceived public humiliation:

    narrowly avoided.

    Disclaimer: no camels were shamed during the making of this piece.

    And all firefighters returned to duty non-disturbed (insert a mixture of laughter, relieved & disappointed emojis!)

    Written & painted by

    Sammie Edgar

  • Past Lives

    Past Lives

    (Spellcheck tried to rename this chapter “Past Loves” —

    insert face-palm here.

    Honestly though… that might be more accurate.

    I’ll stick with Past Lives for now. Maybe.)

    It hit me in the chest when I typed it.
    Because what floats through my awareness
    isn’t just another version of me —
    it’s the love of what used to be ‘easy’
    including the delusional kind. (No offence Sammie. None taken.)

    The love of just getting up,
    getting in the car
    and walking my boys.

    Running out of chocolate and thinking,
    “I’ll just nip to the shops”.

    Fancying a sit by the sea —
    off you pop then.

    Calling a friend, “Fancy a cuppa?” —
    “I’m on my way.”

    Feeling crappy and deciding to go for a drive.
    Somewhere.
    Anywhere.

    Just not here with my thoughts.

    So many up-and-outs.

    So much just going where I wanted,
    when I wanted.

    I’ll probably boomerang back to that last one later… hmm.
    Stuck sitting with myself.
    Now how did that happen?

    The one thing I resisted the most —
    being alone with me —
    is exactly where I landed. (Insert thinking emoji.)

    The boomerang definitely just came back
    and clobbered me for going there too early.

    I’m wincing,

    squirming (no idea if that’s spelled right but it fits the discomfort).

    Surely that’s not the cause.
    (And don’t call me Shirley.)

    There it is — humour.
    My default setting.
    My superpower.

    And I’ll forgive myself for it.
    Because I’m still here, right?
    Typing while the nerve is exposed.
    That’s progress.

    It used to hijack me for days, weeks —
    or I’d quickly self-medicate
    with a brandy-infused soother.

    (I really, really get why I drank.)

    Blimey, it’s all coming now.
    I should write a book —

    oh wait.

    Right.

    Back to Past Loves.
    I mean Lives.

    The things I used to love doing —
    or even simply could do —
    feel like they belonged to another lifetime.

    This week I visited an area I once lived in.

    A place where I found peace and comfort.

    Where, with the help of an amazing therapist,
    I began unravelling what in the pyjamas
    was actually going on inside me.

    What I was putting up with.

    The toxic individuals.

    And the why behind it all.

    Why did I accept so little?

    Why did I allow abuse?

    Where were my boundaries?

    Why did I believe I should stay small?

    Why couldn’t I stop addictive coping strategies?

    Why would I harm my own skin for relief?

    Why exhaust myself until my body forced me to stop?

    Why was I not important too?

    Who the hell was I?

    That’s just a snippet.
    But it was deep,
    necessary,
    life-changing work.

    Being by the sea helped me breathe again —

    really breathe.

    It helped me step back and see the whole canvas of my life.

    And I realised no matter how many bright colours I used,
    I kept painting
    the same muddy picture.

    I’d love to say I found a new palette,
    created a masterpiece
    and proudly displayed it for the world.

    But life doesn’t wrap up like that.

    The rose-tinted glasses I still clung to needed smashing.

    The expectations of who I should be.

    The dragging my body around exhaustingly to “figure it all out” immediately.

    The controlling of circumstances
    because deep down
    I was still petrified.

    Petrified of a world that hands cruelty and pain to innocent
    children,
    humans,
    animals,
    the planet.

    I don’t need to unpack my trauma here.
    But the impact on my nervous system was profound.

    My central nervous system struggled to regulate —
    at times to the point of unconsciousness.

    I wasn’t failing.

    I wasn’t weak.

    My system was doing its job —
    protecting me from perceived danger,
    even when I was safe.

    Zoomed out,
    it’s intelligent.

    Zoomed in,
    it felt and was terrifying.

    Like a drunk Mr Tickle
    windmilling his arms in a violent rage
    trying to swat a mosquito that just won’t show itself.

    You know the one.

    Looking back,
    it feels like several past lives crammed into one.

    And yes —
    past loves too.

    Humans, of course.

    But also places.

    Safe spaces.

    The sea.

    The kindness of people.

    New friendships.

    Nature.

    The Red Arrows flying overhead.

    My dogs.

    My cats.

    All Lifelines.

    Without therapy that opened my eyes and heart —
    where would I be?

    Without kindness?

    Without those friendships?

    Without the sea?

    This wasn’t months.
    It was years.

    Digging deeper than ever.

    Waking up to truths I could no longer avoid.

    Something was calling me forward.

    No matter how afraid I was,
    I knew the fear wasn’t who I truly was.

    I loved to laugh.

    I loved painting
    and how it made people smile.

    I loved my friends dearly.

    I believed in Love —
    not the small version,
    but the Love that connects all life.

    That belief
    unknowingly kept me here.

    Hope.

    Faith.

    Way down deep,
    I knew what was happening inside me wasn’t the whole truth of life — or of Love.

    It was a survival version.

    A worn-out,
    over-compensating,
    trying-so-damn-hard-to-be-good version.

    Pushing sludge down.
    Holding everything together.

    The energy to do that took its toll.

    The toll was not loving myself.

    Living outside myself.

    Compensating for a void.

    Blowing up my nervous system so dramatically
    that the only place left to reside…
    was within.

    No more up-and-outs.

    No more doing what I “wanted”
    when I wanted.

    No more walking the dogs
    just to clear my head.

    No more distracting relief.

    Whoosh.

    That life ended.

    I had to go inside.

    Into the body I resented
    because it wouldn’t keep up.
    Because it stopped me doing the things I thought I wanted.

    But I know now —
    my body and I were refusing the bigger “No” I’d been living.

    The No to loving myself.

    The No to rest.

    The No to feeling what hurt so so deeply.

    The No to truth.

    The No to my own worth.

    For years I’d been saying yes to everything else.

    Yes to being strong.
    Yes to coping.
    Yes to carrying.
    Yes to surviving.

    But underneath it all was a quiet,
    abandoned no to myself.

    My body wouldn’t carry that anymore.

    It stopped me —
    not to punish me,
    not to ruin my life —

    but to bring me home.

    Home to the only place I’d been avoiding.

    Me.
    (And there’s the boomerang)

    And somewhere in the rubble of past versions,
    past coping,
    past identities,
    I began to hear something softer.

    Not a roar.

    Not a grand revelation.

    Just a small,
    steady whisper:

    What if this isn’t the end of your life —
    just the end of the life that wasn’t loving you back?

    Past lives.

    Past loves.

    Past coping.

    Past running.

    All of it brought me here.

    And here —
    in the stillness I once resisted —
    I am learning something that goes deeper.

    Not how to get my old life back.
    But how to say yes.

    Yes to being.

    Yes to healing.

    Yes to a nervous system that tried its hardest.

    Yes to grief.

    Yes to joy in smaller,
    quieter forms.

    Yes to Love —
    the higher one.

    Yes to living.

    Not the loud,
    up-and-out version.

    But the honest,
    inside-out one.

    Past lives

    and loves

    and losses

    and lessons —

    all of it counts.

    All of it is me.

    And this life, right now,
    slower
    and smaller
    and deeper
    than I ever imagined…

    Is still a life.

    And this time,

    it includes me.

    Written and painted by

    Sammie Edgar

  • I Miss You

    I Miss You

    Someone told me today how loved I am.


    Do I feel it?

    No.


    Do I want to?

    Yes.


    Have I felt loved?

    Yes.


    I feel it in some moments —

    and it’s taken a lot of work to be open enough

    to let love in when it arrives.


    I started this chapter

    stumbling around what I really wanted to say…

    and then I realised what it is.


    I really miss my boy 🐶.


    I’d already been sobbing before this chapter even formed —

    crying about being loved,

    and then crying again as I type these words.


    If you’ve never had a dog and don’t quite get it,

    that’s okay with me.


    If you do get it,

    I’m sorry if your eyes leak too,

    or if that familiar heaviness settles in your chest.


    I’m going to try to put words to the bond I had with my boy —

    partly because I want to understand it myself.

    I feel it,


    I know it’s real,

    and maybe it’s something that can’t fully be explained…


    but something’s pulling me to write,

    so I’m going with it.


    Smithy was twelve when he passed.


    His pancreas was breaking down,

    nothing could ease the pain he was in,

    and nothing more could be done.


    One last quick lick of my face.


    A small wag of his tail.


    I held his paws

    as he was gently assisted into drifting off peacefully.


    His journey here was done —

    I knew that.


    But the void he left behind was enormous.


    I filled part of it with gratitude —

    for having such an incredible dog

    walk alongside me in my life.


    I filled it with smiles

    at all the ridiculous nicknames I gave him

    (I still have no idea where titface came from).


    He put up with a lot:


    A depressed owner.


    A pissed owner.


    A “not today” owner.


    A stop barking owner.


    A dinner-is-five-minutes-late owner.

    But also the ‘I couldn’t possibly love you more owner’.

    The say I love you ten times a day owner.

    The give you weird names owner.

    The make up songs and stories


    with your name in them owner.

    The buy you far too many squeaky toys owner.


    I knew you knew how much I loved you —
    and that filled the void a little more.


    It’s been a year now.


    The empty spaces around the house
    have slowly filled with the energy of days passing without you…

    and yet,

    somehow,

    with you too.


    The real void lives here — in my heart ❤️


    Did I mention I miss you?


    I say it every day because I feel the missing.


    The routines have softened with time,
    but the ache still sits
    right here in my chest.


    It cracks open at moments like tonight,
    triggered by the words

    “you are so loved”.


    Because I felt unquestionably loved by you.


    Even in your grumpiness.

    Even in mine.


    It just was.


    When I heard those words today,
    the memory that came flooding back was you running toward me after your walks —


    full of joy,


    full of love —


    your mouth stretched into what looked like a toothy smile.


    If I was out of your sight,
    you needed to know where I was.


    You loved me without hesitation.


    And I loved you.


    I miss experiencing that love from you.


    I didn’t have to rummage around in my unlovable pot —
    it was obvious.


    On rough days.

    Imperfect days.

    Beautiful days.

    Fun days.

    Barely-getting-through days.

    Who the f@@k am I? days…



    There you were.


    A reminder.


    A constant.


    More than just a dog —
    a beautiful being who taught me so much
    and loved me exactly as I was.



    You’re still teaching me now,


    as I learn how to wheel around with this void in my heart —
    the one that reminds me…


    just how deeply I was loved by you.


    Thank you for everything, Titface.


    And as this chapter found its way onto the page,
    I realised something else too…


    Thank you for loving me still.

    Written and painted by

    Sammie Edgar