the reap

You reap what you sow, that's what those wise folk tell us, and for me at the moment - it's harvesting season.

I've had a lot of trouble at my work this year. Between shuffling roles, and the displacement that has caused; a delusional office 'romance' that never left the ground and shall we say - personality clashes, I've had a bit of a rough time.  Nonetheless, it's a roller coaster that I've been doing my best to ride with grace. Every time I think I can't take anymore, I survive another week and battle on for that looming long-service-leave that keeps me hanging onto the nastiest of cliff-faces.

The inner turmoil has had it's ever flowing affect on my home life, my health and my self esteem. Everything with Manchild and the feelings that accompanied this massive failure in discernment had me doubting myself.  Allowing myself to shrink, and feel this need to be wanted, was nothing short of disturbing. How could I be so willing to hand my power to someone else? At the time, I'd heard about the transformative power of one simple thought; that is: "I am enough". I clung to this like a lifeboat; if I saw it enough, if I thought it enough, if I repeated it enough - perhaps like magic, it would help put together these broken parts of myself. I purchased myself a mantra bracelet, and etched into it three words: You. Are. Enough.

I took that bracelet off yesterday. Prematurely perhaps? The bracelet caught a few peoples eye over the time I wore it - some would comment on it. And I began to think to myself - am I giving my secret away? Am I handing strangers and familiar alike the keys to my destruction? This girl has no self esteem... She thinks she's rubbish... She has no confidence... How can I exploit this? How can I convince her she's not enough? It started to feel like it could be a target. A sign saying - hey - here's my glass jaw! Come hit me! Despite the inner-voice-implied subtext, I persisted wearing it, until yesterday - when I decided that I was strong enough to do without.

It's Tuesday, and it's already been a tough work week.  I have been on the receiving end of some cool behavior, which has honestly shocked me. Manchild has been all but ignoring me - avoiding my vicinity, my eye line and anything I say. That started most intensely yesterday - and I called him out on it today, to which he denied. He was lying.

Some may say I deserve this. I've been cool with my coworkers for some time now, in the name of self-preservation I stepped back, I did not engage with people. I've been unhappy, and perhaps at times I have outwardly wallowed in this frustration. I am also a human. But, I recognise blocking these coworkers on Instagram might be seen as some kind of call to arms. I say I don't want people I work with seeing my inner most thoughts and observations, and feeling censored for it.  And if any of them should ask I'll tell them the same thing. I'm not going to apologise for wanting 'space'. If they want to stalk me, they can put in some effort and do it the old fashioned way.

But still, I thought I had remained steady with Manchild. Even after things cooled off and he lost any interest he had in me and found a real live girlfriend. Not only is he freezing me out, but he's being actively nasty and hurtful, and it's not pretty. It's not a side to him that I have seen before, and I think that has been the most shocking. It's ever so disappointing when those rose-coloured glasses come off unexpectedly, and the things you thought you knew about someone are suddenly exposed in a new light. He is nasty and angry and untrustworthy to boot. And might I add, a gutless pussy.

Perhaps I have hurt him, or perhaps this has been him all along? It's an awful thing to feel dismissed by people, and his behaviour feels as if it's rubbing off on others too. I think I'm paranoid... it's complicated. It's not helping those grasping hands on the sharp cliff-edge. Evidently I'm reaping the 'rewards' of my misery, but boy I hope it lets up soon. I refuse to let this break me.

always me

Love is a dwelling known from a place of dreaming, and at its heart, a room.  A room filled with mirrors, trinkets and things.  

Not loving oneself is like a hand grasping out at those glistening treasures, but not believing there is a right to reach for such delights. It is a gesture, a hesitation that screams I don't deserve this. And so, all those 'things' remain in some sad, stateless place, gathering dust and shit. Hidden from view.

Until of course I decide I am worthy, and realise that those treasures are mine to do with them, whatever I will.

I hope to dwell here awhile.

Illustration by Lisa Falzon

shadow self

I am so profoundly broken.

Death, life, grief, pain, time and life have pummeled me. I don't remember who I used to be, all I know is that I am not that person anymore. She is gone.

I feel as if, in her place, is this shadow version of me. This half-life me. She's ugly; bitter, angry, tired. I can't conceal her anymore.  She is the person I have become when all my other masks fail me. I have no energy and I have no means to keep her hidden. I don't know what to do.

I wish I could run. Home doesn't feel safe anymore. I am judged here, by people, the past, the mirrors. I want to run to a place where I can scream and cry and not be condemned for what may escape my mouth.

I am at the end of my tether.

artist unknown

the making of things

So, it's been quite a while.  I have thought about you quite a lot, I wanted to drop by and say hi, (so many times) but so much time had passed that I didn't really know how...

I came across this video a while ago, and stashed it away for a later date.  Today seems as good a day as any other to share it.

In my own way, I'm striving to make something beautiful.  Something important, and authentic, and resounding. My own tattoo on time. But not one of those dodgy ones that people get in the heat of the moment, and then three years down the track they are having it burnt off their flesh with laser therapy.  That's why I'm taking my time.

I suppose I always imagined that being truthful would be easy, turns out it's not.  It's risky to live, to love, to be any version of yourself, but especially the 'real' one. 

I'm learning things about myself all the time.

For instance: I like Milo just fine without added sugar (you just need to up the Milo to liquid ratio), I am quite fearful of plunging to my death in a sinkhole, Chris Pratt is hot (both versions) and life, even in its complete ordinariness, hurts.

Jesus Pratt - enough with the sexy eyes already

are you there yet?

I was assisting in a group therapy program recently, when a lady known to us, but not part of our patient group tried to insert herself into the activity.

Even to the untrained eye, all it takes is one look to know there's a lot of darkness, loneliness, sadness behind that lady's eyes. Her stare vacant yet intense, her words rambling and desperate - maybe because she's constantly searching for someone to listen?

One of our group participants knows this lady.  He takes me aside later and tells me how "lovely" she is and how much she likes to talk.  "Some of us call her 'The Budgie'.... 'cause she never shuts up!" he tells me with a laugh.

I couldn't shake this from my mind. I wondered what had happened to her in life, to make her so jarring. She held an unnerving disharmony, that you know couldn't be shaken out. Not for all the therapy or pills in the world.

I feared becoming the "strange lady" myself someday.

And then I thought.  Are we, each of us, just one bad experience away from tipping the scales of our life-shit into this realm of broken? Just one sharp blow in the right spot from being cracked beyond repair?

I never want to get to that place where I can't go back.

"sometimes when I get lonely I think of you"

For today, my (ir)rational fear that the world will one day run out of great music is loitering in a dark corner somewhere far far from here, like the seedy character that it is. 

If I was making a mix tape for you, this would be song number one. It is seriously stunning. Check. It. Out. Now.

Now.

return to sender

Dear God,

I'd like to make a return please.  Your conditions clearly stipulate that one is only given as much as they can handle.  I don't know what the others have been saying, but I am not doing OK with this load you've given me.  I think there's been some kind of mistake?

If you need me to fill out some kind of form, I'd be happy to oblige - but you have gotta take some of this crap off my hands. I don't know who you might be able to "redistribute" these things to - I'm hoping you might be able to recycle, or better yet, liquidate things altogether.

The incessant neck pain,
                the never ending fucking headache, 
     the earache, the plantar fasciitis, 
              the fat pad atrophy (great sense of irony there bud; real nice of you to shrink the single most important piece of fat in my fat-rich body!)  
                 the bad hair, 
      the big ugly feet, 
   that fingernail on my right hand middle finger that Just. Keeps. Breaking
                         the asshole boss, 
                                         the crooked nose, 
          the instinctive pull to eat my feelings, 
                                        the poor sleep, 
                   the fear, the angst and all the sadness,
                                        the complete and distinct void of purpose in my life 
                                                                        and that glorious innate reflex to run,                                                                                 anytime something seems remotely                                                                                  hard or uncomfortable or scary.  
And you know what? To me, pretty much everything is scary.

Enough already.  I'm waving the white flag.  I just can't juggle this many things at once, truth be known I'm a terrible juggler - two things - tops!

For the love of all things good in the world, will you please give a girl a break and ease up?  And, if you won't take anything back, will you at least send someone down here to help me out?

Kind Regards,
Me xx

the other f word

Fibromyalgia is a pain disorder associated with an increased sensitivity in the pain related-nervous system, causing otherwise mild sensations to be felt as pain.  It is characterised by the primary symptoms of chronic widespread pain, sleep disturbance and fatigue together with multiple other symptoms.

Recently I attended a Fibromyalgia management workshop, because I live with this word now. I sat in a room filled with people just like me; damaged, worn and guarded - just like me.  It was nice not to feel like the only freak in the room.

I'm only beginning to understand what this all means.  Some days I think I'll be ok - that it's just another label - like 'brown' or 'shy'. But, unfortunately it's not so benign, nor is it as easily accepted as the colour of ones eyes, or their personality traits. There's no cure, no known reason and not much understanding.

While at the workshop, I began to feel empowered - the room was like a safety bubble for us Fibro-people. We couldn't hurt ourselves in there, we could say almost anything and not be judged, a 'well' existence, mental physical and spiritual balance felt like it was just outside the door, waiting to be asked inside.

But now away from that room, away from my comrades I feel fear biting at my ankles. I don't know if I know how to make room for the space in my life that this can demand.  Today I might be ok, tomorrow, I don't know.

Part of our job from the workshop was to go forth and educate at least one person on Fibromyalgia.  So, to you, my special nine - may at least one of you pass by, have a read and carry the knowledge forward into the world with you.  And perhaps, when you next meet a person who has Fibromyalgia, you'll know a little of what that means to them.

a cautionary tale

I still live at home with my parents (I know, I know!) and as such, am able to observe them in rather close quarters.  When 2014 knocked at our collective door, we hesitantly answered its call and since then so much has happened within the family, that it's been difficult to come out unscathed.

Unbeknownst to them, my parents have been teaching me invaluable lessons.  Lessons in how not to conduct your life.

My Father is a conventional man.  If ever there was a person that contemplated their own navel into political-geographical-socioeconomic significance - it would be him.  He's a classic overthinker, stubborn and fixed in the logical realm. He can't buy anything without researching its intricacies. He doesn't believe in anything you can't prove, see or test and he doesn't like anything made in China. Conversation. End. In fact, anything shit that ever broke - it's China's fault.  He is the Godfather of preparedness, consideration, hand-on-chin, forehead rubbing, deep problem thinking. He'll think and wait, until his dreams are invaded by the metaphors of his inaction.  From my Father, I learn: don't think so fucking much.

All this, and he's the last one to see that people can be devious and self serving.  He is loyal to an absolute fault, and lives his life thinking people are generally nice, and logical - like him.  He'd have to be stabbed in the front by someone, before believing anything really ill about them. He's booksmart, but incredibly naive. Because his world is full of good people - good things happen, patience is rewarded and loyalty is highly regarded, which is why he's also so shocked when things don't work out that way.  From my Father, I learn: don't be so fucking stupid. The things you want are not going to tap you on the shoulder politely and announce excitedly "weee...here I am" - they are more likely to run over your foot and cause you injury as they speed past you in their red sports car, on their way to somewhere else.

My Mother is a basket of contradictions.  Fist-wielding impatient and stubborn she will sometimes scream for change, excitement and opportunity and then cower in the corner beneath a blanket when it threatens to visit.  She is completely immobilised by change. She is suspicious of everything. She can kill good intention with the power of her mind and converts ideas to apathy effortlessly.   In stark contrast to my Dad, she is reactive, negative and completely unpredictable. From my Mother, I learn: evolve or erupt.

My Mum is also completely unaware of her internal environment.  I fear she is so out of touch with who she is, or what she wants, that the things she grabs for, she only does so because they are there. There's no 'inside' voice; she doesn't give any real thought to forming her own opinion on most things - she exists to serve her family, and she doesn't seem to want an identity removed from that.  I wish I could go back in time, and know my Mum, before she was 'Mum'.  From my Mother, I learn: know yourself; and to thine own self, be true.

I've been learning these lessons for a long time, but cruelly, it was only today, when they all came crashing down to consciousness.  And, when I put them altogether, I think about the sadness of lives led in the shadow of these non-rules.  The remnants of hopes, desires and dreams that are trimmed and discarded out of fear and the unknown. I hate today, I just hate it.

When I learnt some disappointing news this afternoon, I had to leave the confines of the house, for fear of combusting.  I went outside to our 'spare room', the place in our home where Christmas decorations, and exercise equipment goes to die.  After some hysterical laugh/crying, I tried to calm myself down with some basic yoga breathing. Afterwards I lay on the mat, listening to Tuesday afternoon tracks of tweeting birds, barking dogs and cooling breeze, I look upon my view which was completely encased in corrugated iron, aside from one small square of blue sky.  I looked at that tiny square, and I was thankful for it, but I couldn't help feeling like everyday that square gets smaller and smaller. I'm shrinking into this horrible existence, when what I want to do is burn the roof down.

somebody stop me

I have this terrible itch.  This itch to contact non-date dude again.  To try and talk myself out of seeming crazy.  Is that a bad idea?  I can't tell anymore. I wonder what the general success rate of that argument is.

I can't help but think, if I'd just shut up - if I'd just not made a big deal of what was essentially, two adults meeting at the same table for a hot beverage - then perhaps I wouldn't have spent the bulk of the weekend feeling like a stupid shit.  Seriously, it wasn't a marriage proposal?! Perspective StangeBird!!

I can't help but think.
That's it - I think way too much. And then, when I act on the thinking - it's catastrophic.

I've written up a mock of what I might message him with.  But, I'm being a good girl - I'm letting it settle and seeing if it's a good idea in the morning. I'm convinced it's a good idea.

I'm also already convinced I'll send it.

Sometimes the thinking only works one-way.

the big dump

This is my 'Sliding Doors' moment; with my freshly reinstated full front fringe, I am blond Gwyneth Paltrow. In an alternative universe, I would, at this moment, have been fifteen minutes into my first 'date', with someone I met through this online dating business.  Except, and in the fashion that only I seem to be able to achieve, I managed to talk myself out of a coffee date, and remove myself from a potential suitors sea of female fish friends. Fuuuuucck.

I don't know what happened...

That's not true - it was me, all me.  I over-thought things, and then tried to make them 'better' - but what I ended up doing was making things confusing.

We'd been chatting via email for a week or so, when he asked if I'd like to grab a coffee.  I put it off for that week, and so, when the chatting recommenced, as the previous decliner, I thought it was my duty to do the asking this time.  It was affirmative, it was set - he had no idea what I look like, but that was a minor detail. Until it wasn't.

Maybe I was testing... does it bother you to not know what I look like? It was neither 'yay' or 'nay', but it was suggested we might exchange pictures, so - we swapped numbers.  He said he would text... and he didn't.  And I waited.  The sun set and rose once again, and I still hadn't heard from him. And with all this extra thinking time I had, I thought about the way I had presented myself.  I thought about the expectations a dude might come to have of me - and I freaked.  So, I went and altered my profile - to reflect more of the truth - that I didn't know what I want, that anything started would have to be in the view of friendship initially. And then, I broke the bitter silence and sent him a text.  I explained that I couldn't promise anything, that I needed to start with friends - and that if he still wanted to meet, then great - but if he didn't, then ok.

Seemingly, there is nothing less attractive to a man than a woman who:
a) doesn't know what she wants, and
b) possibly will make you wait a very long time before you get to sleep with her.
Well done me, for meeting both sets of criteria with one ugly action.

Suddenly the dude's status had changed from "looking to date, but nothing serious" to "looking for someone special".  And they say women are confusing. Now that I had made my intentions clearer, his life had quickly become void of any time for himself, and our 'date' was 'on hold'.

I don't harbor any bad feelings.  Actually I feel a bit shit about the whole thing.  I don't know whether I made myself seem like too much hard work, or maybe he Facebook stalked me, and decided I was too fat/ugly/old to liaise with any longer.  All I know is that I just have this horrible taste of disappointment in my mouth, rounded off by the gritty sensation of self sabotage.

Perhaps I'll come to laugh about the whole saga very soon.  But, right now all I want to do is sob loudly, while watching the following:

After the mornings dumping, my ipod delivered another well timed, musical message.  And I realised that if Sarah Blasko felt like this too, then maybe it's ok for me.  This is exactly how I feel.

single, seeking cat

I feel that there is a special level of humiliation one unlocks when they embark on the world of online dating. I have been there people, and it is not pretty.

Weeks ago, a friend suggested we try putting up profiles on an online dating site - her, to declare to the world and her ex (who keeps sniffing around) that she is officially moving on... and me, well, to imply I'm at least in the general 'moving' direction.

When I nodded enthusiastically and verbally agreed all those weeks ago - the reality seemed so very far away. But, I have been unable to put it off any longer - she declared it must happen NOW, and after a large gulp, I said "OK".

We met at a cafe after work - not sure why... it sort of felt like we were doing something naughty, and we worked on her profile first.  Debating how to answer certain questions, writing her spiel and picking a photo.  Ninety minutes passed, one chocolate muffin was hastily consumed [read: slaughtered and/or harmed] and I finally said - I'll write mine at home and email it to you.

So, I did. I wrote some God-awful thing about how great I am - using terrible puns and mixed metaphors about fruit and other airy shite.  Talking about oneself is not very easy, selling myself seemed unnatural.  In fact, the whole process felt, I don't know - against Gods plan.  That idea I had in my head, of randomly bumping into someone lovely, reaching for the same library book, peeking at handsome strangers through extravagant fish tanks, a' la Luhrmann's 1996 "Romeo & Juliet" was dying - it was on life support.

oh Leo, I love you

I had some conditions.  No real names.  Absolutely no photo.  In my head, I had made a bargain that if anyone contacted me, and got to the next stage of approval, then they might receive a photo.

My friend is a student and an eternal tightass from way back - so she was only interested in using this dodgy free site.  You know the kind, the sort of site you might expect to contract some unidentified form of hepatitis if you touched the keyboard too much.

When I did my pre-sign up checks (oh yeah, I've savvy like that. I ain't no fool!) I searched through the talent and wasn't terribly impressed.  Bad spellers, illiterates, guys proclaiming to have giant 'wangs' or "looking for a good time"... I felt ill.

But, I kept my promise, and up my profile went.  That was of course, after I completed a series of ridiculous questions that were supposed to indicate my personality and traits, and therefore assist the site in finding me my perfect match.  Most of the questions were relatively normal, the intent transparent.. but then came a bunch of questions about the internet:

• My friends think I spend too much time on the internet.
• I'm a different person on the internet.
• When I'm not on the internet, I'm thinking about being on the internet.
• I love the internet, I want to have weird sex with my modem and have wireless babies.

I. Shit. You. Not.  Ok, well, the last one I paraphrased - but the rest are completely legit!  Honestly, would a true weirdo read these questions and seriously select 'Strongly Agree'.  They may as well have had a tick-box to indicate freakish tendencies and left it at that.

As I looked over some of the profiles, my mind raced.  Statistically some of these men could be murderers, I thought! Most of them look like creeps, posers, some look like my Dad (!!), some look 'ok' but how would I really know!?  I calmed myself with the knowledge that I would take the process slowly, that I would choose to get to know any potential dates via email's, well before any face-to-face action. I grieved silently for my dignity before switching off the computer for the night.

The next morning, I'd been awake for approximately four minutes when my anxieties began to simmer over my cereal bowl. I clung desperately to my metal spoon as I realised: I might have to actually meet these men someday! Oh, the horror!  I was ready to give up, log-in and delete my profile.  Just go and buy the cat now and forget about this online rubbish I thought to myself.  I'm not sure what it was, but I managed to calm down - perhaps it was my strict morning schedule before work that snapped me from this heightened state of shitting myself.

Jokes aside, I'm still uneasy.  Sometimes in my head, I'll plan to drive myself to any dates, tell myself to choose public, well trafficked locations and never, ever let him buy the drinks - and then, I take a breath and try to remind myself that I have reasonable intuition and should be able to sniff out a creep.  I have had to say goodbye to all of my preconceived ideas about how girls are meant to meet boys.  And I can't help but feel a little sad for that.

fear & loathing

Life has been 'interesting' lately. After my aforementioned meltdown I gathered some distance from things, and from Google. At this point in the monologue, it might be worthwhile saying that the long weekend helped too.

The journey of this condition is so varied, so complicated.  It's as if all the sufferers are snowflakes in a giant blizzard - or perhaps plastic pieces locked in a tacky snow-globe together, but each in the path of their own fall. Alone.

Hmmm... coincidence my Santorini snow-globe fell and smashed the other day? I think not. Alas, I digress.

I have been forced to take one day at a time, because that is all I can manage. I'm learning not to fear the aches, but to respond to them as they come knocking. The most difficult, embarrassing component is what some call 'fibro fog' - which seems to be a blanket term for general mental fuzziness, used to explain poor concentration, memory loss (particularly short term) and word finding difficulties.  Word finding is the bane of my existence, particularly on days when I am short on restful sleep - to feel this word, this word I know, dodging and weaving my grasp, so that I am left wordless, open mouthed, mortified... is hideous.  I'm not one for talking too much, so I like to think when I do open my mouth my brain might have the courtesy to back me up a little.

I'm trying to keep things under my hat - but in the long run, I'm not sure it's going to work for me.  Trying to maintain a full time job, act 'together' when I just really want to fall in a heap on the ground.  Still answering the "how are you"'s with not bad thanks when I really want to scream, fucking awful actually.  Part of me still has something to prove. That maybe I'm ok, that maybe I'll be different... that maybe I won't have to reveal my dirty little secret to co-workers, so I can avoid 'those' looks, 'those' judgements.

I want to become informed, become strong, be smart and confident enough to say "ok, that's enough for today". But it's hard.  My parents know, but I still don't think they fully understand.  I'm operating in the shadows, and sneaking rest where I can - but it's not enough.  It's not enough, and I don't know how to say it without disappointing others - without disappointing myself.

"Fear is the cheapest room in the house - I would like to see you living in better conditions."  - Hafiz

the meltdown

Last week I was diagnosed with a chronic pain condition, known as Fibromyalgia.  When my Physiotherapist suggested to me in December that this was a possible explanation for my lengthy complaint of muscular pain, migraines and other non-wonderful things - after the initial freak out, I thought, ok, good - maybe I'll have a name for what's wrong with me. I thought, if this is the absolute worst that life hands to me - I think I can handle it.

I researched it, and it made sense.  The way it was described sounded broad, but awfully familiar.  I got myself a referral to a Rheumatologist, I gathered my scans and my sad pain history and away I went. Whatever happens it won't change me, I won't let it define me, I told myself.

As I sat in the Rheumatologists office that day, detailing the journey that had led me to this exact point, I felt a sense of release, and relief.  How far I'd come, and maybe now, had found someone to understand, to shine a torch upon the mystery.  She poked and pushed at the pain and truth.  A small part of me wonders if I wanted to feel the pain, to be vindicated, to have a word for the collection of shit that I had carried for almost two years.

She finished her examination, and she sat, her lean legs delicately crossed, her perfect chestnut hair brushing her shoulders, and her mouth moved and contorted as if smothering a smirk, or chewing on some sharp words like a boiled lolly uncomfortable to place in ones mouth.  And then she said: "all of these things, you have been describing and experiencing could be explain by a condition called Fibromyalgia."

"It is a diagnosis of exclusion...." It sounded like a big fat 'maybe' to me.

Still, I accept that it's a difficult condition to diagnose, understand and treat.  As soon as I applied that label to myself, I felt the weight push down on me, as in my head I tried explaining this invisible curse to friends, family, myself... as I imagined conversations with coworkers, doctors and various doubters.  This hidden hurt would never justify being unable to lift a heavy box, or explain why I had so many sick days.

Since returning to 'normal' existence, with this new information - I have scoured and devoured countless websites, books, forums - for answers and understanding.  I screwed my head so much with all the information I was trying to take in - trying to be my own solution - I was wearing the hats of the scientist and the sufferer and it all became too much.

I sunk into a pit of doubt and fear, frustration and desperation and I sobbed my heart out, I cried so hard it took my breath away - hit by grief, all I could see were roadblocks and all I could feel was judgement.  My parents were around to calm me down, to plug the out pour.  I think at that moment, I was saying goodbye to my 'before Fibromyalgia'.

I still don't know where I'll go from here, or how I'll feel from one day to the next.  To some extent I've lost control of my brain and my body, for now at least - but I am not prepared to give in.  Piece by piece I hope to unravel my experience, and learn and cope as best I can - because it is mine alone, and another cruel part of life that I must accept.

...shoot me down, but I won't fall...

I hate public pools

As part of my foot 'rehab' my only form of exercise at the moment is almost entirely limited to that which can be executed in a large body of water. I don't have a pool at home, or have access to an ocean, so I am forced to slum it at the local sports centre.

As if it's not bad enough I have to wear a ridiculous bright blue foam belt that makes me look like a giant she-child while "water-jogging" [read: doggie paddle and/or furiously thrash limbs in deep water]. Nope, nothing remotely dignified about it.  In fact, I could arrange my hair into a delightful french roll (no, that's not true, I can't actually do that, but I could pay someone to) while parading a string of pearls atop my rashie, and the only thing that could make that scene more graceful would be me submerging my entire body under the water, and never resurfacing again.

I didn't realise the intensity of my hatred for public swimming pools until just recently.  Of course, every time I walk through the doors, the heavy air hits my skin and that unmistakable scent of chlorine violates my nose. All those old anxieties and fears born of being a poor swimmer, turns me to my former eight year old self and I actually have to stop and think "no, it's ok, you're an adult now".  But even as an adult, pool-etiquette is fraught with potential anxiety.  There's the fight for space and small shreds of privacy, and then the fact that without lane ropes, people become savages.  Straight lines people - what have you got against swimming/walking/ogling in straight fucking lines?

really? what's the point here?

Poise is not easily achieved at 7am on a Sunday morning, especially after learning all the lanes are occupied, or empty but signposted "Closed to Public" and therefore off-limits.  Today I had to share the small heated pool with 'extremely hairy man', and his sidekick (who can only be distinguished from his 'friend' purely by the lack of excessive back hair).  I had applied my "fuck-off" face, because, I don't know, I just don't want to 'chat' when I'm trying to exercise; I don't feel like smiling politely that early in the morning, I don't even want to acknowledge that I'm really here, because in my mind, I am trying very hard to be far, far away.

For the second weekend in a row, I had a lifeguard do his best to casually approach me, before cutting straight to the hard hitting question...
lifeguard: excuse me - is that a-
me: NO, it's a rashie!
lifeguard: oh yeah.... cool
You can't get eye contact from them any other time.  No, God-forbid someone was actually drowning, they'd be too busy stalking someone they suspect is wearing street clothes in the pool. Dumb-asses.

Sure, they'll let hairy, sweaty, inconsiderate people in - but they'll shit their pants if you're found to be wearing 'street clothes'.  I tell you, they could do with letting some people wear ordinary shirts into the pool - I'm probably one of them, but 'extremely hairy man' is definitely a strong candidate.  I am thinking about getting some paint, or bleach and etching into the back of my rashie "yes, this is a rashie". Dumb-asses.

Mostly, on days like these, I hate public pools because it is so glaringly obvious that I have submerged my [clean] body into a large cocktail comprised of water, probably snot, definitely at least a little pee, almost certainly shit, without a doubt sweat, hair, dirt, chemicals and a band-aide - there is always one band-aide.

death to smiley faces

I used to throw one in every now and then.  I once felt it appropriately symbolised my feeling at the time. But now, my boss has killed it for me.  In mass emails, notes, on the sign in board for sobbing out loud.  It's too much. Just. Too. Much.  I'm finding now it's having a reverse smiley effect on me - now when I see one, I want to vomit, and when faced with a situation where I might've ordinarily used one, I quietly shudder.

I feel that smiley face over-use is definitely a punishable offence. Jail time even.

*spew*

the song that saved the day

I don't know if I've ever mentioned my irrational fear that one day the world will run out of exceptional music. I heard this song today, so for now, I guess we are safe. 

It's magnificent, in fact the whole album is. Check. It. Out.

being Pat Benatar

I had a weird dream the other night. I dreamed I was staying in a weird house with my ex-hairdresser (odd fact #1) and her brother. There was a dinner party, and then afterwards the floor turned to sludge (odd fact #2). I was there, but I didn't look like me (as a side note, isn't it interesting when we have dreams where it feels like our point of view, but we look like an entirely different person - I wonder if it's past-life-esque? Anyway...).

Anyway... after the sludge, I put on a performance for all the guests, in the hope it would impress ex-hairdressers brother.  Said performance was an unplugged version of Pat Benatar's "hit me with your best shot" (odd fact #3 - odd because I. Don't. Sing.) with special thrusting and vigorous gestures for the apple of my eye.  Yes, that's right, I was willing ex-hairdressers brother to hit me with his [metaphorical] best shot of love! And he did. And my, it was lovely.

Aside from all the weird bits, when I awoke from this dream all I wanted to do was go back to sleep and dream some more.  Because it reminded me that I want someone to love me, I want to be the object of someones desires, and I would like to have sex again before my insides shrivel and wither to dust.

if you've nothing nice to say

There wasn't anything special about today, except that it was the day I realised that part of my heart is ugly.  And that made me want to start the day again.

Sometimes I get so boxed in my own head, I forget other people have their own box of hopes and disappointments inside their heads too.  Sometimes I'm so used to being on the outer, I think that no one else could possibly understand what it's like to be me.  Except, that's a load of crap - because everyone understands - not me personally, but themselves - they know what it's like to have a bad day, a depressive moment, frustration, anger... the list goes on. Maybe they feel it less often than me - but that's beside the point, isn't it? It's not my job to tally the scoreboard.

Some days I feel at odds with the world and other days I think I just expect to be. Maybe I've done such a good job telling myself no one cares, I don't matter, that I've just gone and talked myself completely out of the game.

Some days, like moments of today, I open my mouth to say something and even as the words hit my lips I know I've done something wrong; I wish immediately I could take them back.  The good part of my heart has a conscience.

Perhaps this is a side-effect of unhappiness?  You try to rush the words through your mouth in order to get through any given moment faster, and instead of being measured and mindful, your syllables are critical and biting.

While on the treadmill today, the little toe of my right foot became squished inside my shoe. It had never happened before, why should I expect it to happen today? Fifteen minutes, thirty minutes persisting - finally the shoe came off and intense pain shot through this little, insignificant toe.  Thinking about it, I remembered the role of pain.  Imagine if I'd gone an hour more, squashing and distorting - what then? If I didn't have that feedback, telling my body something isn't right here, I might've gone and chafed that toe right off.

So maybe three years too long in a job that's unrewarding has strangled my spirit, and that itching unhappiness I feel is my nerve endings begging me for a change. I guess if I didn't feel this way, I might just sleep-wake-eat-sleep my way through another thirty years, before someday snapping and driving a pair of scissors into someone's face.

So, maybe 'pain' is good.

I just wish I felt like a better person.  I wish I could be all the imaginative things I always hoped to be, and I wish I could make sure I was one of the good influences in this world, instead of the sometimes 'other'.

she laughs at the days to come

Three days ago I felt myself crumble again. Not sure about the trigger, perhaps a culmination of all things - of feeling time press up against me, of not having an escape route. So I created my own.

Once again, side-lying - unmoving with a blank, unfocused stare. Acutely aware of the absence of visual focus, but so totally locked on the imperceptible pain and numbness that had swallowed me whole. Like pins and needles of the mind.

I was a mess of tears and words that made no sense. Stunned and mute to the thoughts and feelings I couldn't recognise. I couldn't go to work.

It's Sunday evening now; normal life looms and I feel silly with fear. I don't know how I'll feel in the morning. If those same feelings will wash over me again? I hope not. When it happened I thought I was going bat-shit crazy (again). I doubted everything. I doubted myself.

But here I sit, I have waded through. Regrouped? Delusional? Who's to know? Time will tell I guess.

If we all have the tools to be our own solution, then maybe I just need to remember where I set mine down. I know I had an almost full kit once - granted, some items were borrowed, or fashioned from the things of others, but they worked well enough.

I found I had spent so much time distracting myself; neglecting myself; I hadn't given my bundle any option but for the ass to fall out of it. It's a lame and weary saying, but we do have to be our own best friends - no, actually scratch that, we have to be like a sister to ourselves - friends you choose, family you are stuck with. In a completely non-weird way, how can I possibly stand a chance if the only person consistently stuck by my side, from birth to death, is the first one to sabotage me?

So tonight I sit in a place of just being. Of accepting that life is balls sometimes, and that I should probably look after numero uno. Remembering that things rarely make sense, hurt when you don't expect them to and that the world feels small when you spend too much time looking outside. It's big and it's bad, and also fucking ridiculous, so one must remember to laugh.