Charlotte Hiller

Charlotte Hiller

Living in the body of a 90 year old at the age of 32. Creative, sarcastic and slightly nutty. Over recent years my body has become something I don’t recognise. Chronic illnesses and disability has taken over - I write to process my unbelievable life.

I Feel…

I am brimming with the feelings associated with an 8 week break in the tropics. Lazing on sun loungers, cocktail in hand and the sound of waves gently lapping on the feet of my partner and I. Birthdays filled with balloons as bright and colourful as all of the sprinkles caressing my tongue. Glitter shining like precious gems, emitting a magical aura that my inner seven year old can not ignore. Spring time picnics full of carefully planned goodies packed by a date who is so thoughtful it makes my heart swell. I am secure in the arms of my soulmate, finally understanding that this is where i belong - safe, loved and cared for. A bright snowy day with leaves wearing their white glistening coats, as if they can’t wait to share the surprise the outside now holds. Snowmen a plenty, snow ducks - forever my favourite, lined up with cheeky grins just waiting to come to life in the night. Piles of leaves in Autumn inviting endless jumps, roles, leaf angels and throws just waiting to fall gently back down, sweetly caressing the hair of anyone who is brave enough to join their game. The first buds of spring time shattering the bleak and cold landscape reminding you there is always a time for change, and the inevitability of survival out of a seemingly impossible situation. Bright coloured flower emitting scents so heavenly they draw you to pause, and in that moment you breath that heady beautiful scent as if it is the gift of life itself. Music drawing in my body like a drug, freeing my mind and overtaking all thoughts as it creates beautiful movements, twists, twirls and graceful steps lighting up the world as if sunlight is permeating from every body, house and country for all to see. Unabashedly singing in the shower, water gently accompanying your tender sweet voice in those wonderful acoustics only the bathroom can own. I feel all of this, and a million other delicious morsels, I am so happy I could burst!

9 Years Of Winter

It was a cold dark night when i lost the love of all loves. Frozen fingers clutching a feeble attempt of a present for a dying woman. What do you buy for someone who will not survive the night? Tears frozen on eyelashes, and streaming like hot springs on a winters morning. The frosty air biting into my lungs with each breath; The last winter we would have together.

That year was frozen in time. Never ending misery as i watched you decline. Cancer’s cruel grip on a young woman’s life Leaving no room for dancing, it stabbed like a knife.

The cold that i felt from February; the day I heard your voice shake and the words you would say. It felt like a nightmare because i could tell That you were not ready to fight through this hell.

As the months kept on turning we forced out our smiles. Our jokes and our humour in sarcastic styles. Attempting to force warmth into cold hospital rooms Where you were now living on chemo fumes.

That summer, though hot, i felt chilled to the bone. I listened as you told me you wouldn’t die at home. I sat stoically as you told me you couldn’t fight on. Words not acceptable where sunlight shone.

Your family in desperate whimpering please. Begging for miracles down on their knees. But in cold dark corners we both knew the truth; You were ready to die and your marbles weren’t loose.

I travelled to France in stifling heat But still couldn’t warm the cold in my seat. Watching you suffer for so very long. Euthanasia understood - your suffering was wrong.

Heading to autumn it got colder still. No fires or hot drinks could take from that chill. Your body decaying in front of my eyes. With nothing but pleasantries and good willed lies.

I knew in the winter as the nights drew in fast That you were just waiting for deaths grip to last. The cancer now spreading like the fires around. It would not be long til you joined the ground.

And on New Year’s Eve; that freezing cold night. That i went to the hospice to hug you so tight. I left with a feeling that you would soon go. And at 4am, a phone call would show

I was right. You, my shining star had departed the living world. All of us in limbo in winters sweet grip - mourning for the woman we knew. I couldn’t feel warmth as your cremation was done, Or in the years following. No heatwave ever permeated my heart without you by my side. My heart had shattered with icy like shards and you my sweet one were not there to tell me it would be ok. I have spent eight years exiled on a grief stricken land. Alone, depressed and frozen in time. I can never forget the pain and the love - but finally i began to feel warmth - slowly at first; Until Finally The chill stopped

Assessment

In the room we sit: therapist and nut job, the knowledge and the one who lacks it. The traumatised and the healed. Silence seemingly unending as your eyes fix on me; my eyes downwards to the hole I wish could swallow me whole like the whale hidden in the stories of old. Stories of miracles and trials so unbelievable they could mirror the issues that brought me before you today.

How did I get here again? How did I heal only to be shredded so soon after leaving the walls of this building for the last time just years ago. Weight lifting from my shoulders after eighteen months sat in these rooms full of stories with a group of more trauma then anyone could imagine. I had healed. I was well. I survived and grew taller then jacks bean-stork. Stronger then hurricanes and braver then lions. I lived for the first time in memory; actually living and not just surviving.

I was able to feel without breaking and no longer on self destruction I got my degree and tried to fly.

Fly.

Fly away as determined as young birds leaving the nest for the first time, and just like them I

Could. Not. Fly.

It began to fail just when I believed I could finally be well.

My body became a vessel as delicate as glass. Pain overriding, joints ever shifting and fatigue that made me feel like life in quicksand would have been easier, more attainable, then mine. A small crack and before I knew it this body of mine, frail from years of abuse and mistreatment began to break. Shattering. Shattered. Splintered. Decayed.

How did I will myself to survive you asked. How did I fight for help? Why did I fight to live when everyone, EVERYONE, was against me doing so. Why did I stick to my guns in a war I could never win; against doctors and family. Against reason and gaslighting and sexism. Against everyone I knew and every reasonable view that the situation was too big for me to survive.

I cannot answer your question. I do not know.

I know too much to pretend that it was worth the fight to live. I know how heavy the guilt is when strangers paid to allow me to live. How much guilt can be carried when my body was fixed but my mind has been broken again to the point of despair.

It is too late to undo my surviving. It is too late to let my body die It is too late.

So you and me have no choice but to fix these broken thoughts once more; So that I am no longer numb; So that I Am Alive.

Living

I survived it all. Each kick, each punch, each hit. I survived.

The word rolls in my mouth as cold and solid as marbles. Survivor.

I don’t feel light; My body is heavy; full to bursting with pain and sorrow so undeniably overwhelming that it has fallen into disrepair. My body is a million houses left to rot; each room disintegrating with pictures of memories in tatters on the floor. Flashes from broken lightbulbs, illuminating fragments of broken glass jabbing up through dilapidated floorboards. The reflections each a story of what it really means to survive.

It is not simply the act of continuing to live, breathe or talk. It’s not a person healed and shining with happiness.

It is a lifetime of flashbacks raging like thunderstorms nestled in the power of hurricanes. It is a continuous ache that masks such strong emotions that no words could ever express them. It is a body riddled with holes, falling apart whilst I pretend to be strong for the people around me when all I want to do is stop It is the deepest of hatered for the weakness of myself mixed carefully in with great dollops of loathing from you. Insomnia that’s unending grasp cannot give me a full nights sleep ticking years by into a haze of confusion and immobility.

Survival is a term used to honour the strength of anyone, everyone but me. For how can I say I have survived when my body, mind and spirit are still jailed by your grasp. I don’t want to survive; I want to live.

Over the hill

I am on my side, and you are on yours. I thought we were together but now I’m unsure. A rift built between us, a mound standing tall. I cannot move on whilst I hear what you call

An uncomfortable moment when stories I share Of childhood and trauma and all that is there. You say that it hurts you, these stories of mine; Yet they’re of my trauma, not yours, and I’m fine.

The hill that you built in mere minutes is steep. So I dissociated and then I did weep. I felt silly and nasty for causing your pain, But now that I think of it I must reframe.

You want a girlfriend with no trauma in past; A person I can’t be, it never will last. I can swallow down grief, I can choke on my thoughts But I refuse to be living on your shoulds and your aughts.

You placed so many flags on that hill in one night That I’m seriously worried, it’s been quite a fright. Are you an abuser just like those before Who will slowly destroy me and watch as I fall?

Should I be worried and should I be scared Of the woman I see who I really thought cared. I now know that my memories are formed into knives; No longer just mine, I am ruining two lives.

Yet somewhere within is a voice in protest. My trauma is mine and not yours to arrest. Why should I close off when I’m learning to live; I have power in speech and the names that I give

To all that went unspoken and all that hurt me. So much pain was caused but no one could see. I refuse to shut up while I’m building my self. Living true to my past and my future with help.

I don’t feel supported, but do feel ashamed. Your words and your hill have taken what I named. You claim that you care but I don’t think that you do. For if you cared really you would follow things through.

You would listen without making these stories about you; And care unconditionally thinking of me too. I can’t understand how you’ve taken offence With a life from the past you have claimed self defence.

So we keep sitting on opposite sides; You in your castle and me where I hide. Frozen in terror and buried away. No longer will I see the brightness of day.

I cannot trust you and I cannot trust me. I have nothing left but defences you see. I cannot be broken, I will not be bent. Perhaps life alone will be better spent.

Losing You

Sometimes it's easy to lose things. I lose things every day. I lose my favourite teddy bear in many different ways!

Sometimes I misplace him Out in the garden grass. But always I will find him wherever I left him last.

He hides in all the cupboards And hides in all the rooms. My teddy has adventures but he always turns up soon.

Sometimes when I lose things, They can’t be found again. It makes me sad to think about like clouds who lose their rain.

I try to search around the house, I search until I sleep; But still I cannot find them, yet I dare not make a peep.

And when the morning comes again I search another day. I snoop and sneak around the house remembering my way.

When we lose a loved one It feels worse than teddy bears. The smallest things remind us of the memories we shared.

A smell is such a simple thing Yet when someone has died; It reminds us of the fun we had and makes us want to cry.

Sometimes it's a picture Of them smiling back at us; And our heart can feel so heavy that it wants to make a fuss.

Often it's a sound we hear And sometimes it can spark. A desperate want to hear their voice instead of morning’s lark.

Losing someone close to us Is harder than it seems. Sometimes it won't feel real and it feels like a bad dream.

Its ok to feel sad, And it’s ok to cry. It’s ok to be angry when someone you love dies.

But you are not alone with this And so many people care. No matter how you’re feeling it is always good to share.

Make memories of memories And hold on to your dreams. Share how you are feeling and seek love when feelings seem

To overwhelm your day time And your evenings and your nights. You are not wrong for missing them and wishing it was light.

Change can feel like monsters Hiding underneath your bed. So tell people around you if you have them in your head.

Together you can keep living, In spite of all the tears. In times to come you will adjust, and work through all your fears.

You carry them within yourself; You carry them around. So whenever you feel lonely just listen for their sound.

The voice inside that loves you Is the voice they shared with you. To remind you that they are not gone and that you can be loved too.

For you are just as special As the loved one you have lost. So know that they are with you keeping all their fingers crossed.

That soon you will feel happy, And soon you will feel loved. Whilst they live on in your memories and watch you from above.

In Loving memory of Riya

“These Will Be The Best Days Of Your Life”

“These will be the best days of your life” they said;

A time to be carefree; responsibilities a distant dream as you snake through the sandglass of youth. Days spent in endless wonder. Imagination and creativity exploding so forcefully from tiny small heads as if volcanic eruptions were spurting out rainbows and unicorns in a perpetual torrent of laughter and smiles.

A time to play without thinking, explore each and every molecule with childlike wonder and unlimited answers to the whys and the hows. Afternoons playing with friends stretching long into evenings as if by magic; a never ending, never questioning time to be yourself;

These are meant to be the best days of your life… unless they’re not.

I remember a childhood bursting with worries. Tears never ending as if I could solve the worlds water shortages by just living one more day. A time of the deepest darkness enveloping my childlike sense of security; monsters under the bed, giants hands stretching into my window to steal me away and no words to explain why I could never sleep. Arguments surrounding me; each angry shout cutting through me like knives, each hit or hair pull as scary as the world that lay beyond my home.

Frowning faces of family disappointed by my inability to be perfect leading to my heart shattering into so many shards not even a god could have glued them together again. I remember running after mums car following arguments that caused her to throw a bag into the boot and shout “ I’m leaving” before dramatically exiting stage left; this small six year old child calling everyone possible, crying and paralysed with fear unsure of if (or when) she may return.

I remember my sister running away barefoot; weeks spent in unknown places until finally a parent could hunt her down and force her back into the battlefield of our unpredictable family. I remember being seven and genuinely wondering how I could hang myself on my wardrobe rail… It would have been more tolerable that way.

At school I was the outsider; the one child nobody could stand. The girl with more names given by bullies then hairs on her head who would later learn how bitter it is to be ignored by those that should have protected her. She tried as hard as the worlds strongest man to lift up her head, yet thirteen years of torture leave marks no eraser could remove.

Alone Unworthy Unlovable Jewish pig Fat: A disgrace.

I am so very relieved to report that my youth has never been close to the best days of my life.