Thursday, September 14, 2023

R U OK? Sometimes, we’re not OK. But we don’t know how to say it. We don’t know who to entrust our most private self with.

The earlier part of my life, from my teen years to early adulthood, was marred by intense emotions and mood fluctuations from which I thought I’d never emerge.

Some of my lows were very, very low. Anxiety. Depression. Body dysmorphia. Agoraphobia. Suicidal thoughts. And, yet, one day, in my twenties, I did emerge. Life felt easier. Hard still happened, but didn’t hold me as much. Like it used to.

Counselling. Meditation. Plenty of self-work. But most significantly, my own version of spirituality and creativity transformed my everyday life.

If you want to know more about my healing from personal and intergenerational grief, read my book Where The Light Lives. In the meantime, I’d like to share some of my writing with you from those times when I felt very much in the dark.

Desperate. Despaired. Alone. If you are feeling this way, you are not alone with it. I’m here. And know that there are others who feel like you.

If you want to share how you feel with someone in your life (friend, family, Dr., or counsellor) but don’t have the words, you can use my words. Share a link to this post with them, with the words…this is how I feel…and press send.

I have more writings like this, and I’m going to start sharing them. *Watch this space*


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Rest the canvas in the window.

It is weary from standing all day and night.

Put the brushes in a bottle and leave the bottle by the door

If you please

Watch that you do not step on the colours and mark

the polished floor.

The oils are over there

                                         in squeeze

on a scrap of waxed cardboard.

Ah yes, so it be

that the turpentine has spilt upon the floor.

Dab it with a page of crumpled paper.

From yesterday’s news.

It makes your nose burn, does it?

But I tell you that I have certainly come

to like the smell.

It doesn’t bother me anymore.

To breathe. I no longer heave.

As I once did.

I’m used to it I suppose.

A person can get used to anything.


So it is that I’m an amateur artist with a heavy head.

It has never been any other way.

A heavy heart.

And a heavy breath.

Heavy with thoughts of how this world

could be such a better place.

That I may hold my head up high

Though now in doubt

And out. Again.

By the side of the room.

Stooped lowly.

In a silent corner.

I mutter unto myself.



Where may my fellow artists be?

Are they in grief like me?

Frustrated. Impoverished.

Alone in their rooms.

Removed from society.

Sitting on their knees.

As I who sits on a satin pillow that is stained

Pivoting on my bony bum

                                              with legs that rub.


Yet slightly ajar.


That sacred vows may run as dogs on heat

In thought

Jumping up and down

on sticks

as wicks

on fire.

Erupting from one’s deepest desire.

To stick out an accusing finger at the stars.

To ask why?

And again, why?

Can you hear the absent talk that perspires

in pain?

Burnt fingers against the glass pane.

Tap the flame.


I can see a picture of me.

And eyes are filled with whispers.



What to do? I do not know.

What to do at night

when the house is still

                                        and quiet

and I’m without company?

What to think and who to tell it to?

Have I a spontaneous friend in you?

Can I tell you what I feel,

what it is that I hide inside

from the world

that spirals in a chill? In a pain.

In my sad eyes that see into the troubled night.

Drained of every delight.

I’m dying. Again.

And the wind blows in a flustered flight.


Ah yes, my eyes they shine

but my tears are dry

and too sad to cry.



As rivers run dry

in memory of last summer’s heat,

endless motions are felt.

T r i c k l e.

If you extend a hand over the land

you will know where it goes.

P r i c k l e.

Follow it down your spine

Leave your load behind

I cannot act another lie

Nor will I carry you on my b r i t t l e


Too tired I am.



Dried out like a desert flower

thirsting for the drinking hour.

Soon to turn into a rock.

Tomorrow will come woman and man with a chisel

to seek out a flower

with their naked hands.

There shall be those who marvel

Those who don’t believe.

Of he, nor of she.

Then history will speak of they

who sculpted a rock so hard.

He and she who brought forth a flower from rock.

But before I die

allow me to dispense my final breath

                                                                    upon this life.

The flower was always before the rock

and not in the hands of woman and man.


Having believed in tomorrow and not today.

Having stretched my mind around the world


I have dreamt of loving every soul.

I have talked to myself about the all.

Life and death and something more.

To say that it has come to this again.

I am dying. Again. As before.

Having been everywhere inside my head.


There’s nothing more to be said.


When Eve Walked poems Out Now!

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If you’re having suicidal thoughts, please seek assistance by contacting your trusted healthcare professional or calling Lifeline on 13 11 14.

If you’re concerned for your safety or the safety of others, seek immediate assistance by calling Triple Zero (000).



R U OK? is calling on all Australians to let the people they care about know they’re here, to really hear them. 

Tips to help support neurodivergent people.


Linda Cull


NEXT  Learn more at ruok.org.au >

Linda Cull is an artist, author, poet, and blogger at Spirit my way® covering spirituality, inspired creativity, and transformative experiences. Keep up-to-date with her latest posts and offerings plus receive your FREEBIES > Join Email List!