Tag: relationships

If May can have more than one Moon

I haven’t been around here. Life has been so busy. I’ve focused (as much as I can) on developing a routine for things that require one. And simultaneously weaving the layers of life around and through those routines has been an ever-evolving challenge. As is the season of my life, it’s been all-consuming of this fickle and finite thing we’ve named time.

I don’t have any serious complaints about what’s most important. Life is what we make of the pieces we find and create, the energies we choose to connect and make new colours with. And those that leave a story on departing.

I haven’t been writing to publish, that’s why some of us are here, right? I’m sorry for that. It gnaws at my brain.

I’ve not committed to deadlines or accepted opportunities because I knew I’d unlikely be able to fulfil any promises, so I haven’t made what I’d break. A pause has been accepted for a time. I may not be completely on board —I sometimes think, ‘I’ll have time here!’, but it’s never so. The decision has been out of my hands. I’ve taken a while to accept that, actually—that I won’t be writing a new novella this week. But I will another day, the wheel is always turning.

You’ve heard my complaints of AI being used too deeply as writing tools, and with the movement there, how anyone can fire a line into a bot and publish what (surface level) appears to be a fairly decent constructed piece of ‘work’ via an article, poem, story, review, book by doing sweet fuck all is disheartening to say the very least. It kills a piece of my soul. A huge piece. This place is full of cheats, liars, manipulators—lazy, talentless, attention-grabbing fools masquerading as mentors, creators, artists—with their borrowed paragraphs kidding themselves that they could or would have created the piece—if they had the time or some other shit they tell themselves. Void of skill, void of an original fucking thought of their own, they’ll sign off a lie with pride, stamping their name to it. I’m not buying it. I never have. Perhaps that’s another reason why I’ve not found the energy to pour into the craft I love, nor had the drive to share—they’d steal your face if they could, as well as the real stories. Change a word here and there, and grin with a face full of stolen cream, declaring ‘mine’. Fuck off. I may be in a ranty place… it’s a human place though. You can trust that.

So, shall we have a sort of old-school bloggy lifey update? Yes, fuck it, let’s draw back the curtain for a peek.

I’ll start with this—since the close of my monogamous relationship, I’ve had the freedom to be myself more than I have in quite some time. Elements that had been neglected for a long time rose to the surface, needing nurturing and satiation, and those core needs have taken time and energy from other things—like writing, where my focus was already struggling. I recently shared some insight elsewhere into my life as far as my sexuality and relationship style(s) go, as these elements seem to spark curiosity, and have at points throughout my life, been used to pitch attacks. Growing up fairly openly pansexual (though bisexual was the term in my younger days) wasn’t all sunshine and groovy rainbows—have I shared the story here of when my parents realised that I wasn’t straight? That’s a belter. They were terrified I’d corrupt my younger sibling with my perverted ways—there were bible quotes and all sorts of hypocritical hilarity, and of course, what will people think of them to have spawned a queer daughter! The horror! And in those teen years, I was essentially made out to be ‘greedy’, and even ‘dirty’ for my sexuality. One of the people I trusted most at that time shuddered at the idea of dating someone who wasn’t ’straight’ or ‘gay’—‘pick one!’—because it’s a ‘choice’, right?

Sharing much in the way of specifics of friendships and romantic partnerships is something I’ve been reminded to be guarded with. People have a way of giving insights with a rusty blade straight to the gut (again, from my experience). Like they forget I feel anything at all. I’m not entitled to that—apparently. If I tell them it hurts, it’s twisted all about, (they may even raise an army by flashing a delusional doodle), and they say it’s me holding the knife—it’s bigger and hurts more. I’m (was) the doormat to drag their shitty boots on, who should remain mute for the privilege—perhaps that’s just family—mine at least. The fact that I have an abundance of self-acceptance and confidence in those aspects of my character has very much held steadfast against the grain of early criticism, judgment, and emotional attacks from ‘home’ outwards. How we process peace internally is of far greater value to one’s wellbeing and how we then engage with others than outside judgment and influences (even blood). Maybe that’s around about way of saying—fuck what anyone else thinks; it’s how you make peace and accept yourself, and how you treat others that really matters. Don’t be defined by how they treat you. 

Outside the ‘joys’ of the blood, I’ve always been questioned about my sexuality—some can’t read me—the gaydar might be screaming then I show up with a guy and my friends are like “oh, I forgot you like that too”. And alongside that, more recently, as I’m (happily) poly saturated, I get asked about my relationships too. I don’t hide who I am, but for the most part, I share what’s relevant to the conversation, and I’m mostly private about the one-to-ones. With that being said, I’m openly pansexual and polyamorous—closets are for shame, and I’m not ashamed of those parts of me. And yes, my children know too. As a parent, it’s important to demonstrate confident self-awareness, acceptance and diversity across the spectrums of sexuality and relationships, so I’d be a hypocrite if I ever concealed these aspects of me from the people I’m raising. I’ve never even considered that as optional. Why would I? I’m confident it enriches the dialogue and connection we share—they know they can come to me with anything, and of that I’m fairly certain. I only hope it sticks and helps them accept themselves as they experience their own path of getting to know themselves with confidence and acceptance. We cannot escape ourselves—inner peace and respect have to be priority (armour) against the outside noise.

My sexuality and attraction to another person are predominantly energy-centric. The evolution of my natural relationship style(s) is much the same. I’m very much of the mind that we should move in ways that enrich and enhance one another, lift each other, support, accept, love honestly—if that’s not the core energies, if any of that is opposite, then it’s not going anywhere but out of my life. Movement needs to flow mutually, respectfully and with communication that is clear in the particular connection—this, of course, has a natural variation of style. I’m also much a do as you say type; I trust action above words. I remind myself of this, as I’ve at times questioned my gut instinct when presented with lies from a mouth I believed I should trust, which creates a conflict between what we want to believe and the truth. Always go with truth, even when it hurts. My instinct is rarely wrong; I remind myself of this when something feels off. So many of us (sometimes with the best intentions) lie to ourselves—what we do and how we carry ourselves when we think no one is looking is the truth of the story. To quote a recent read from Bessel van der Kolk, “The greatest source of our suffering is the lies we tell ourselves”. I’m not keen on being in the fallout from such things. Though it happens with this human condition we’re afflicted with. I’m grateful to have communicative partners—even when we’ve faced some challenges (and will do again)—the developments have been enriching, as I’m sure they will continue to be. I’m grateful for each of them. 

I do not subscribe hierarchy in my relationships. It’s simply not in my nature. Each relationship deserves its own autonomy and room to breathe, move and develop its own rhythm. And I include my relationship with myself in those I consider—I now recognise, understand and respect my personal needs, specifically my need for physical space, alone time, and quiet. My energy needs time to reset and rest between just about every interaction—the amazing, the terrible and even the mundane. I am perhaps the textbook example of solo-polyamorous. When I use the term, it is in respect of my need for complete solo-autonomy; my relationship with myself is as important as those I have with my others. And with my current paramours and matamoros, I’m of a Kitchen Table Poly style overall. That fills my hippy heart with a massive hit of happy. I love and crave my partners’ happiness and fulfilment in their lives and other relationships. And it’s a privilege to know and experience the care they share with their others through their eyes—even when just a little.

We have different capacities when it comes to relationships. We have different capacities for time, for holding love, for being present. If we set aside the romantic and/or sexual for a moment and consider friendships. Some folks thrive and maintain many friendships, while others prefer a smaller circle—one that may or may not be connected. I prefer small circles. 

With my need to respect the autonomy of myself and other relationships, it is interesting the differences I’ve connected with—there are differing values across the board, which may or may not work out long-term—of that I am aware and accepting of. My style differs to each of my paramours (apart from one who shares a strikingly similar mindset and approach), with those that differ—one is open but of a romantically monogamous mind (for me, I’m very aware that at some point they could decide being with a pansexual polyamorous person is not within their capacity, and that monogamy or being with others who work with hierarchical values may be their natural default). And another is hierarchical with the primary relationship holding (the often controversial) veto power over others (again, I’m aware that’s another axe hanging over my head). With both of those differing items, I guess there’s a certain uncertainty—does that make sense to you? What I’m trying to say, is that there’s a comfort in knowing what it’ll be if one of those axes falls, and in either case it’s outside of my control—it’s  ‘not me’, and most definitely a them thing. Though we could argue getting involved in the first place was in part well within mine—they are things I’ve chosen to accept as I’ve gotten more emotionally involved. What I’m trying to get across is that in romantic relationships, just as it is holding space for multiple meaningful friendships, we can have differing approaches and values, but in those connections, we carve out our own design that can be profoundly fulfilling. 

I may pop back in, since this became more singularly focused than I first thought it would. And my waffling isn’t entirely finished but I have other things pulling my attention now.

Later!

Lessons from my Addicts

I’ve had two relationships with addicts—alcoholics to be specific. Addiction is a characteristic ingrained in a personality that can cross its attention from where it derives its fix. Addicts can be addicted to anything from substance abuse to behavioural stimuli.

Addicts live by excuses. They rely on those to drain as much life as they can from a connection until it’s beyond done. Addicts lie. They lie to themselves, so it’s no surprise that they lie to you too—with so much conviction that you question yourself. You question the facts you know. You question your gut. You question the words they used. You question if the bottle was already empty. What you know and what they tell you never lines up. You question your sanity. You question your worth. And in that, you inadvertently facilitate the addiction and behaviours that come along with it.

Liars (like Narcissistic character types—I’m intimate with those too) will make you believe you are the problem. They will twist up a story so you’re the villain. And when you come out of being buried by a relationship like that (romantic or otherwise) and begin working through the debris alone, and recognise all the ways you were used, manipulated, and abused, there’s a clarity that comes with reconfiguring and regaining trust in yourself. That kind of healing (when embraced and worked) roots deep. When you start to trust yourself again without the games of wonky mirrors—the half-truths that were all lies. Boundaries form—both healthy and guarded.

These relationships had a significant impact on me. And why I put more stock (as we all should) into what people do over what they say (but I listen too—always). And when the confidence is shaken, even just a little, it makes my insides shudder. Lessons have been learned from those connections, and still I’ll sometimes let things slide, offering the benefit of doubt (maybe once), considering a background, trauma, other links but when I feel I’m betraying myself (again), when that realisation kicks in and the alarm starts roaring, I need to be done. I’ll betray myself so someone else feels safe—a trait I’m still working hard on breaking—and I cannot be doing that anymore, not for anyone.

She’s Hysterical

Emotional immaturity, lack of self-awareness and lack of accountability. When he calls her crazy, wheels out his stories of psychos and other such variants — ask of his actions that instigated her reactions. He’ll not be able to answer, at least not truthfully, because that would mean being honest with himself. The ego prefers those lights off. Instead, believe that he is so desirable; simply existing drives any woman crazy. If asked, though, he may anger at the audacity of being questioned. He’s even the victim in his mind, and he’ll tell himself another story — how dare she, another fucking psycho.

Years later, he’ll return, peering around corners, lurking behind a screen, fingering old pictures, wondering where she went. He’s alone in his asylum of echos.

Of course, he/she is interchangeable, but it dominates, as noted. Just consider even recent 19th-century history, with a pandemic of sorts and a surge of women being diagnosed with Hysteria and other so-called ‘mental disorders’ for not meeting man’s mark of what is considered reasonable, sane, and well-behaved.

But back to the top, flip the narrative and consider each in equal measure. The truth is often somewhere between — hanging in tatters of opposing communication styles, the shredded ribbons of whys, and paragraphs wedged between the lines. 

Suppose we scrape back a little and admit the chemical truth; that although of the same species, the sexes are inherently wired differently. It’s not just physiological; it’s chemical (hormonal) and psychological. We’re not the same. We are not equal. Understanding and empathy can go a long way, but tired, pre-conditioned, defensive, and damaging routes are sadly still more frequently trodden. Footprints smash and merge on that sad muddy path. Nothing grows there.

Popular culture, including methods of control wheeled out by religious and governments, have fed into the tropes that categorise the ill-expressed emotionless and logical male as somehow strong and superior and the overly emotional, sensitive female as unreasonable and, yes, psychotic. And within our sexes, we even betray ourselves. Yes, the external gaslighting happens within the borders too. It’s a fucked up mess to untangle and rework. Neither perpetrator likes to be called out, but that does not mean they shouldn’t.

Unless one is willing to open their eyes and look through a few other lenses, what’s the point? There’s no use in rinsing if one is doomed to repeat.

Until the Last Breath

Another Annoyingly Introspective Personal Post

I was never soothed or comforted – born into a ‘let her cry it out’ parenting style, with the technique of — if a child is that upset, threaten to give them ‘something to really cry about!’. I know that it is not entirely untypical of the 80s and 90s. I can’t deny the impact, though; a significant part of my nature of dealing with everything myself to the point of extremely unhealthy hyper-independence was very much a result of the lack of nurture. I isolate. I squirrel my emotions away so no one else is inconvenienced by them. I process and work through little and big hells in solitude. And that hyper-independence has been taken advantage of in poor relationships.

I’ve never felt loved, only tolerated. And that has carried through all my relationships, including the romantic. I’ve never been loved – tolerated, settled for, or convenient, but never that. Even when those empty words were uttered, I knew that they loved what I did for them, how I made them feel. I was never the subject to be adorned with that robe. That word was never mine. Folks have given me the minimal and I’ve been grateful because I shouldn’t exist. Being born was a mistake, I should be grateful for the crumbs.

I know I’m worth more than how I was conditioned to believe. I know I’m not just an instrument for others. I know I’m more than tolerable.

Still, accepting the minimal is a hard piece of conditioning to break when it was so deeply embedded from the moment I let out my first cry. The world told me to be quiet. Be seen, never heard. And if one could avoid being seen, all the better. I’m trying to fix it. And I’m awful at creating massive swathes of room for the broken parts of others because I want them to feel all the acceptance and love that I’ve never had. And I’ve offered it in abundance to my own detriment. I never want anyone to feel as awful as I have – it’s dark in here, always cold. There’s work to be in done in this messy hollow. I’ll weave the spindly roots into knots, so you don’t fall into the dark when you walk over me. I’ll turn back clocks and drop all time to make someone I care about feel loved, heard, accepted. I struggle to give that time and space to myself.

Every day I’m trying. Changing. Attempting to remake so many broken pieces or accept them with that word. The one that wasn’t mine when it fell from liars’ lips.

I think prioritising being loyal to myself is becoming one of the hardest lessons to learn in this lifetime. The perpetual work in progress until the last gargled breath. Still, the geese. At least none of this is forever….

Mono No

The problem with monogamy is everything.

As with monotheism, the narrow, single-track pathway does not stimulate growth, enlightenment, wisdom, and fulfilment. I line those things up side-by-side because love and sex are profoundly spiritual and primal. Minimising and restricting the human experiences of those things is developmentally devastating to the brief human experience. It dumbs us down, numbs us. The nuances of our needs in love and sexual desires are too complex to be satisfied and advanced in a mono union (confinement).

When openness and confident communication are embraced, there’s no room for liars, mistrust, or cheats; there’s just love and true evolving connection. 

I need to run in the woods—to feel the earth caress and cut my feet, the bark scratch his claws down my pale back, the rain pat at my face and tangle my hair, and the air lash my body with a thousand desperate kisses.

Crumbs

Into the sea of a billion similar blog posts on the state of ‘dating’, here’s my crumb to be dissolved in the salt. I’m sore, so I’m hitting the innie hard, which usually means I go out of direct contact except for a teeny few for a bit. 

I’ve spent most of my teen and adult life in a relationship thus my experience with being single is limited. There have only been a few small windows. It seems that there are many of us in my generation (middle-aged, single), and I don’t believe it’s because people lack anything from previous generations for LTRs to stick. I think it’s more that we’re developing more self-respect for personal needs than being sacrificed to unhappy, uncommunicative, sometimes abusive, neglectful, and unfulfilling institutions, of which there seem to be many. My last relationship spanned 16 years, of which I was monogamous, so it had been a fair while since I dipped my toes into the pool!

I had a brief flurry on a particular app — chatted to a few folks; some seemed decent, but others were a fucking shambles. I’m not sure when it became acceptable to ask if a woman wants to eat your ass in a greeting, but there seems to be more of those clods than decent folks on the apps. The way they speak over text would never happen in real life. It’s fucking nuts. And there are the time wasters who are bored, probably married (and not open), and want to chat but never meet. (I understand why pages like ‘Are we dating the same guy/girl exist?’. Sadly, they have to and probably create as many problems as they highlight.) And, of course, there’s the torrential onslaught of egomania DPs and selfies—men being more visual, this seemed more a male thing. Women connect differently. Many seem slow to learn that—that’s one to teach our sons.

I didn’t go more than ankle deep and quickly decided—fuck that, and shut it down. I don’t imagine ever returning to those avenues (I may get more chickens). In theory, it’s such a fun and efficient idea to meet folks looking for the same things, but it’s riddled with liars.

What the actual fuck?

Anyway, after that, there was an accident, not from the dating apps. We actually met in person, and I stupidly caught feelings and hurt myself. Is this a right of passage? Does it mean I’m now totally part of the 21st century and the death of human connection? Where heavy contact and mixed signals, then nothing are the norm?

I might have been a boredom breaker, like you’d give to a dog—chewed up, spat out, tossed to be forgotten under the sofa, now onto the next shiny toy to rip apart.

It’s depressing the state human connection and communication has gotten into with regards to romance, sex, and any new relationship (or situationship now?) that involves exploring and engaging with one or both of those things. 

It’s fucked, isn’t it? It’s not even a question. I know it is.

Personally, being of a HSP, empathic, introverted nature—it is hell, and we are screwed. Quick! Grab all the books and head to the woods! I either feel nothing or I feel it all intensely, and I read and soak in the emotional energy of others with whom I directly connect. With this, I am immensely lucky in the very close friendships I have. Unlucky in the other.

My nature has been weaponised against me in the past, particularly in relationships. I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve allowed emotional manipulation to steal years of my life. Time is life; it’s all we get. The quality and authenticity of the connections we make matter. When there are shifts in emotional energy, there’s a very direct impact. Those three personality traits interlink heavily with the physical. When HSPs are emotionally messed around, we feel it everywhere: we can’t sleep, how we feel is deafening and consuming, we get stuck in conversations in our heads (even ones that haven’t happened. The words unuttered become haunting ghosts), and we beat ourselves up.

Over recent years, I’ve been trying to manage these things better, and this year, I made a conscious effort to try to implement self-care and regulation so I can support better mental health. That self-work really is so important for all of us. The more sensitively, empathetic natured tend to sacrifice that naturally to support the energy of those we feel connected to. It’s not an easy trait to snap out of. Work is continuous.

It’s not about being ‘too sensitive’ or having to ‘harden up’ as I, and I know others of a similar cut, would have heard growing up. Honestly, I’m not 100% sure what the solution is because right now, I’m in ‘shut everything down!’, ‘raise the drawbridge!’, ‘flood the fucking moat!’, and ‘stay away from all people!’ mode. Defensive. But we shouldn’t have to live that way. And I know that mindset creates trouble when the fort is battened down too hard….

Fuck. I hate this feeling.

‘The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb’ —Rain, SleepToken

Hyper compartmentalising or hyper exposure?

I began writing about this some months back. It came to the forefront of my mind again recently, but from a personal angle, so I’m going to blend my tangent tangle; why the hell not? An attempt to de-compartmentalise the thoughts. Oh, the anarchy! My mind will not enjoy this. It’s a tangent—potentially incoherent at times. Just go with me on it.

Psychologically speaking, compartmentalising is a defence mechanism—an isolating process within the mind of thoughts and feelings that may conflict–this can have benefits, of course. It can help us focus on a task without being distracted. Given the nature of defence, I wonder if it’s beneficial that we are raised to compartmentalise how we are educated. As a home-educating parent, I’ve often considered this. In nature, for most, applying this to every aspect of life is stressful and unfulfilling and can make us appear inauthentic. I often worry about what parts to share, with whom and when. We naturally show different parts of ourselves to different audiences to suit boundaries and comfort levels. There’s a difference between natural compartmentalisation that protects us and the hyper compartmentalisation that seems so prevalent today. Have we all gone a little too far?

I think of the neurodivergent kid who masks all day while in a childcare or school environment and then has a meltdown at home, or the smiling and helpful cashier who spends his day helping and being patient with trying and rude customers but returns home exhausted, moody, and craving solitude from the hustle and bustle. 

In business, there’s little expectation for the heads of large organisations to share extracts of their personal selves and private lives with their customer base. I’ve never heard anyone ponder how interactive and personable James Daunt (Managing Director of Waterstones) or Roger White (CEO of AG Barr) are with his customers, for example. Few customers consider how these guys ‘made them feel’ or how personally engaged they are on social media before buying books from Waterstones or picking up a bottle of Irn Bru. It’s predominantly about the products and not the folks behind them. This doesn’t apply to independent businesses such as authors and artists like myself, who maintain complete creative and distribution control of their work. Yet, as an independent, I read and hear about this often. How folks must ‘buy in’ to the artist, and we must tirelessly engage—not too much or too little, just the right (arbitrary) amount to be ‘seen’ and be personable. In the online compartment, I’ve seen folks complain that authors only post about their work and their books, then, on the flip side, they share too much of their personal lives. There’s no pleasing everyone, even for people-pleasers, an epidemic primarily associated with women. Sadly, it is a piece of conditioning I am struggling to break free of, though I am trying! Even if not for myself, as an example to my younglings.

Again, this compartmentalisation, at its root, is a defensive process. One that can help separate and protect business from personal and facts from fiction. 

Personal compartmentalisation, on the other hand, isn’t as clear-cut either. In fact, for some of us, that’s even more of murky situation. When is it too much? When is it not enough? It’s now undeniable to me the more I’ve considered it that how I manage my personal relationships in this manner is a defensive and trauma response. I was raised to hide pieces of myself, from how I smiled to the questions I’d ask, so like the people pleaser, the hyper compartmentaliser was also created. Don’t let them see you, Natasha. Don’t let anyone see all of you because you’re a fucking mess. Your teeth are crooked, your accent isn’t right, your questions make everyone uncomfortable. Just stay quiet, and keep your mouth closed. But that’s not unique to me; I’m not special in any way, so many of us have this — our friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances only see us from certain angles. A version just for you and them. And with this, I’ve always kept my social relationships pretty separate. I don’t mix family and friends or different friend groups. The idea of such social mixing sends me into an anxiety-ridden shambles envisioning the horror. There’s experience to support the separations—I mixed groups a bit in my youth, and lessons were learned, so the defences were erected in full force, and I haven’t thought about allowing passages between rooms in a couple of decades.

In recent months, I began considering my history with social compartmentalism when one of my closest friends noted I had uncharacteristically opened a door between rooms. She has perhaps been exposed to more of me than anyone else in my life, so her observation hit hard. In creating this invitation, which was uncharacteristically not thought out, it was strangely natural in contrast to my defensive conditioning. I’m here today overthinking or just thinking about how I may have created a draft. Shut the door, Natasha! The open door, even if the invited never passes through, is akin to an open wound. Have I thoughtlessly regressed or is it a progressive change of self? A seasonal shift that has to happen for a growth I’m yet to understand? I don’t know. It’s getting cold in here. Maybe I should close the door.

Just Words

Their love
Demanded a price
Obedience
Blood
Sanity
Unspoken (at times)
Until she spoke up
Raising from a whisper
Unnoticed
Unheard
Unwelcome
Pitchforks 
Faux assurances
Platitudes
Lies
All of which she despised
A continuous cycle
Only she could break
The black sheep
The unwanted 
The failure
Witch bitch
Her death worth more than her life
The life begrudged
Cell division
Damning their youth
Sealing fates
She to blame
Because someone had to be
She tried
Talked
Filtered
Diluted herself
Until there was barely anything left
Shut up
Medicate
Put between some miles
Time
Distance not enough
Their disdain plain
As long as she exists
It’s all Futile 
The failed investment
It’s all too late
Consummation sealed fate
Abortion option too late
You are your faults
Your decisions
She is not your scapegoat
Anymore.

Work in Progress

A couple of writing and publishing projects are currently underway so I thought I would drop a brief update here.

The second ‘Concoction’ anthology is one which is scheduled for release December 2019. This time the prompts are most distinctly Scottish and will feature the same three writers as the first volume; G G Flavell, Natasha Sinclair and Andrew Taylor. As before it is open genre so we should expect a unique eclectic mix of stories. There is potential for a fourth writer to be added to the bill, will just have to see on that one. The initial story submissions have started coming in though and it’s looking pretty good! You can’t beat a good wee Ceilidh!

It is also very likely I will be releasing a mini collection of poetry and drabbles this year. These pieces have already been written, some have been published and some have never seen the light of day beyond the notebook. One again an eclectic little mix of material. Very organic in nature, as with my own style of writing. Themes running through those collected so far include; depression, relationships, politics, sex, freedom, nature and more.

Please look out for updates via here and on my Facebook page; https://www.facebook.com/NatashaSinclair/

Thank you, Natasha