takirus journey; healing through writing.

Welcome to my life book!

DESCRIPTION: This is my life book. The book which is my life. How I managed to heal from severe trauma and how I will continue after my unfortunate and dark past. I'm writing to heal. This is my journey, this is my adventures. An on-going ebook, you may call it. A never-ending one.

HOW TO READ: This page is written with the posts in chronological order, the first post is this one and the latest entry is the one at the bottom. The latest entry is always the one at the bottom. To find them, I write date and time in each so it's easier. This is because I want the feel of reading a book. This is my book. And one day, this might be a printed book...

WHAT ARE THE TOPICS HERE? Well, here I think it's appropriate to write a Trigger Warning; because I will talk about (sexual) abuse and the violence which was my every day life. I will also talk about mental hospitals, mental illness, physical illness, bullying, child abuse, sexual abuse, mistreatment and so on. I won't give massive descriptions of more than what's necessary, but however, I will mention such stuff so read if you feel that you can.

FORMAT. Some entries are full chapters, however, I'm publishing poetry, memoirs, thoughts, in long and short format.

WHO AM I? Well, on the internet I go by the name Takiru, but you'll notice I write about a Trixiebelle Moore in some of the chapters here. Trixiebelle Moore is my pen name when I write, while Takiru is my nickname online. None of them are my real name. My real name is not a secret really, but for now I don't feel it's a necessity to write it here. And who am I? I'm a visual artist/comic artist, musician, coder and writer. I just needed this space to write. I'm 28 years old and live in a small town near Gothenburg in Sweden. English is not my native language, so any mistakes is relatively certain. They will be there. The mistakes I mean.

TAKIRU'S OTHER SOCIALS Vero: http://vero.co/takiru VSCO: http://vsco.co/takirusjourney

URL to this page: http://write.as/takiru

And so it begins...

January 17, 2021. 00:08


Sometimes I was the one I wanted to be, and that felt awesome. I was creative and smart, happy and joyful, beautiful with dark brown hair and smiley eyes. Sometimes I had a big heart, a wonderful self-esteem and talents other dreamt about having. I was the little sunshine. Sometimes.

I was Trix, for short, the bright child who was polite and eager to do what's right. But I was also Trix, a child with a dark secret. An unnamed condition, a horrible mistake and she was not yet aware of her even darker future.

I was sitting alone a few steps from the playground. Watching the other children carefully. Took a hand ful of some dry leafs and threw them at the ground in an angry manner. I was angry. A girl looked at me from the playground and she was standing up on the swings right in front of me. She grinned, but not in a friendly way. I looked down at the ground and I heard the other children laughing about something. I wasn't able to talk to them, even if I wanted to.

“Look, it's that girl who can't even speak”, I heard one of the boys saying and pointed his finger towards me. I threw some more leafs and rocks at the ground, sitting in my pants with braces to hold them up, because they were too big. I was a short little thing. I reached out my tongue and moved my whole body to the opposite direction from them.

“What did you say, you little freak? Oh, did you say something?”, the awful boy yelled at me, loud enough for the teachers to notice, but they didn't do a damn thing.

In fact, I, Trixiebelle Moore, was actually able to talk physically. I just didn't do it in any other place than in my own home. I refused to speak at school or in the schools arranged activities afterwards, which I was forced to go to, because my parents felt I had to “socialize” with other children. I just psychologically couldn't. I wanted to, sometimes, but I just couldn't. I was terrified every time my teachers was making attempts to get to me, to force me to speak in front of them or my class mates. Speaking was a terrible fear of mine.

But I was quite a good learner and I learned to write and read books. Writing was easier, because then I could do it at my own pace. I could think for a long time before the message was read by anyone. Writing was my passion.

I lived in a small village in southern Sweden. Everyone talked about everyone and was gossiping about everything. Well, yes, everyone except me, of course. Actually I kinda was the target of all the gossiping. But I didn't care too much. My self-esteem was like most other children. They couldn't reach it by participate in gossip about a nine-year-old whom chose not to speak. It was a small village, and I guess a child like me was pretty rare. A different child. I guess that was why I was an interesting topic of gossip. Even the adults was talking, yes, the children was just small copies of the bigger picture.

“Trixiebelle! Are you listening?” I jumped up from the chair and looked up at my teacher. “I expect an answer, young lady!” She said with a harsh pitch in her voice, and her glasses were very ugly from this angle, I noticed. An answer? From Trixiebelle? She could just dream about that.

“Well, I choose to ignore this behavior... because, well, we have a new student in class” she continued and I looked up. In front of the black board, a small, blonde, green-eyed girl with round glasses, stood and looked deeply miserable. I smiled, because I could see she was another freak. I smiled for the first time in school that day.


More about this page is coming soon.


This page is under construction.

January 17, 2021. 1:22 PM

The Inner Feeling

The inner feeling In which they are hidden There’s no power of healing The things that are forbidden.

A little, tiny, very small Peeking through the wall Short, not very tall The most whimsical of us all.

Power we cannot see The ghastly things are up for a walk The prisoners are we Suddenly we’re not able to talk.

A dried fiend, A false end, At least it can make us understand.

All the faces we won’t see All the places in which we cannot be For all, we can’t make ourselves free.

© Takiru.

January 17, 2021.

Fragments from my journal: Non-fiction Tales

Originally written in June 2019.

I felt so incredibly sad. I was thinking about old memories, old non-fiction tales which was floating in my mind. Not even tales, it was more like fragments of an ancient event, and it wasn't even that long time ago. But it felt like it was coming from another period of time.

The grip around my neck was sudden, just like the punch in my face. He had convinced me to make love with him, and I agreed even though I felt a bit awkward. Maybe he noticed I felt uncomfortable, I don't know, but the harsh grip and the sudden punch made my body completely frozen and I couldn't even move any longer. I stopped to move out of fear.

When my body reacted in that way he seemed to be even more mad. Several more punches in my face and when my tears started to flow, his moves just became more aggressive. I just tried to hold back my tears and was taking whatever he made me do.

A year later he tried to contact me again. I had been struggling to sleep at night, had terrible flashbacks and was reacting like a wild animal on certain moves that was similar to the incident a year ago.

I pushed the “block user”-button and decided to move on. Although, he did apologize, but it would never cure my fears.

Tonight was one of those nights again, and I got up to tell one fragment of my story. And I hope I won't regret it.

This was only one fragment of what kind of life I was living at the time.