One evening last November, in my silence whilst walking, I heard an owl. I live in a rural area: owls are not uncommon. That wild note broke the silence but it also made a tiny gap in me and found its way in to some part of me which was below my grasp. Something which was wild in me felt that call, something which I had not been able to feel before. And in being able to feel, I stopped being alone.
Despite being married with children, my solitary life has developed out of feeling isolated. When I started therapy for the 7th or 8th time (I had lost count by then)-I felt the edges of it. It was unformed. I couldn’t name it: it was just an odd feeling. I could only wave my hands vaguely in the air and sketch it to my counsellor Lucy whilst still feeling distanced from her, too. (She and I have reduced that gap but it has been no small thing to allow her into the space which my fear occupies).
Lucy was the only person to whom I talked about anything in my past. Abuse, neglect and familial estrangement are not the stuff of the coffee table. Perhaps they should be, at the right coffee table somewhere. There were times outside of my therapy sessions when I just wanted to make contact which was meaningful and about what I needed: to rage- that right here, right now, life is awful. I did not want to have to look after other people after I had spoken my thoughts. I did not want to have to feel their discomfort and tidy it up.
I resorted to getting text help and often that was my limit of what I could manage. I found that texting did not lead to dissociation. One of its drawbacks was that I would say that I felt alone. I would be asked what the background to my situation was. I would explain. I might be told that I had a good understanding of things. However, being good with words is not the same as gaining relief because I used them.
Slowly and painfully, I understood that I was isolated from myself. My attempts to reach people would fail because in the presence of others, whether face to face or on-line, I would crumble away from myself. I would be left looking at where I had been whilst simultaneously trying to perform myself. Dissociating in this way is painful but if you are used to being numb there is only confusion to be felt.
The owl call was the beginning of the end of all these things. I still find being with people a struggle. It’s hard to stay present and it becomes exhausting. It’s then that I bring that sound back to mind and feel it in my bones. If I can sense that owl within, I have an anchor to myself. From that, I am finding energy. It's a sound-thread, fetching up my marrow.
© Jacqueline Darby 2026. A member of our writers’ community, a survivor based in Cornwall and mental health nurse, Jacqueline is bringing up her voice to safety.
Photo by Geronimo Giqueaux on Unsplash
Despite being married with children, my solitary life has developed out of feeling isolated. When I started therapy for the 7th or 8th time (I had lost count by then)-I felt the edges of it. It was unformed. I couldn’t name it: it was just an odd feeling. I could only wave my hands vaguely in the air and sketch it to my counsellor Lucy whilst still feeling distanced from her, too. (She and I have reduced that gap but it has been no small thing to allow her into the space which my fear occupies).
Lucy was the only person to whom I talked about anything in my past. Abuse, neglect and familial estrangement are not the stuff of the coffee table. Perhaps they should be, at the right coffee table somewhere. There were times outside of my therapy sessions when I just wanted to make contact which was meaningful and about what I needed: to rage- that right here, right now, life is awful. I did not want to have to look after other people after I had spoken my thoughts. I did not want to have to feel their discomfort and tidy it up.
I resorted to getting text help and often that was my limit of what I could manage. I found that texting did not lead to dissociation. One of its drawbacks was that I would say that I felt alone. I would be asked what the background to my situation was. I would explain. I might be told that I had a good understanding of things. However, being good with words is not the same as gaining relief because I used them.
Slowly and painfully, I understood that I was isolated from myself. My attempts to reach people would fail because in the presence of others, whether face to face or on-line, I would crumble away from myself. I would be left looking at where I had been whilst simultaneously trying to perform myself. Dissociating in this way is painful but if you are used to being numb there is only confusion to be felt.
The owl call was the beginning of the end of all these things. I still find being with people a struggle. It’s hard to stay present and it becomes exhausting. It’s then that I bring that sound back to mind and feel it in my bones. If I can sense that owl within, I have an anchor to myself. From that, I am finding energy. It's a sound-thread, fetching up my marrow.
© Jacqueline Darby 2026. A member of our writers’ community, a survivor based in Cornwall and mental health nurse, Jacqueline is bringing up her voice to safety.
Photo by Geronimo Giqueaux on Unsplash
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