lost myself, again

Look at me I’m such a basket case
Delivered to you wrapped in cellophane
Waiting on your doorstep, every day
Delivery, a basket filled with pain...
- Sia

Something snapped in me a couple of weeks ago. In the lead-up I'd been dealing with quite a bit of work stress, I'd been chatted to by my supervisor, about my 'overworrying' so I was trying so very hard, to not try so very hard - or at least make it appear that way... I understood what I was being told, but I was trying to prepare myself for any foreseeable outcome, I was trying to arm myself with every weapon in my arsenal, but I simply couldn't carry the weight. I was trying to be perfect, flawless. I was told it was unrealistic, it was unnecessary. I knew what they were saying, but I was trying to prove myself. I've been trying to prove myself my whole life.

Work has been a mixture of strange feelings for the past weeks. I'd been thrown back into a role I hadn't done in a long while, back with people I didn't necessarily mesh well with, relying on their assistance and my own skewed sense of competency. I'd also been sitting across from the source of my malignant workplace crush: Manchild. Working with him made getting out of bed in the morning easier, work more bearable and weekends became excruciatingly long. This 'crush' has also come to make a dire mess of me.

It was a Thursday, my last day in this challenging work rotation and it was set to be a long day. I was strangely well-composed, even 'chilled' on the exterior. My last hoorah - come what may! In the late afternoon, I hit a speed bump - I was overtired and frustrated. Manchild had been away for work, was due to return this afternoon, it had been three days since seeing him. As I was reaching speed on my decline, he walked in... he shouldn't have been there. My heart leapt and I was overwhelmed with the sudden desire to cry my eyes out. It was as if my very own knight in shining armor had knocked at my castle door. People talk about being unable to wipe a smile of their face - I now understood this kind of smile.

Unbeknownst to me he stayed. He stayed until I finished. He stayed for me? Then as I was collecting my things he told me he had decided to pursue a longstanding passion that would almost certainly take him out of our shared workplace, and out of our hometown. Tears were welling in my eyes.

It was like John all over again. A lesson not yet learned, manifesting in some new cruel way. I had to flee immediately. I feigned part exhaustion, but I fear even a blind soul could sense my upset, my tears freely leaking.

I had to rush to the safety of my car. Sobbing part way there - begging the Gods that I not bump into anyone I know. I got to my car and I sobbed heartily the whole way home. I'm quite surprised I actually made it home without incident. My parents could not understand why I was in the state, and neither could I really. I continued to sob in the shower, as I pleaded with God, the Angels, or whoever dared listen: please, not again.

I went to work the next day. On the drive home at the end of the day, I became a similar teary mess.

Monday rolled around, back to my old menial role...ripped from the company of Manchild, I slipped further into an ugly black hole. I started crying, in front of a coworker. I couldn't collect myself - I had to hide away in a dark room - more than once. I could hear other coworkers, including Manchild having a jolly old time in another part of the office. It seemed an added cruelty on my already frayed emotional state. Much of that day was spent fighting the urge to cry. Each evening going home, feeling ill with this darkness. Tuesday, Wednesday...fighting tears. Evidently I had lost the footing I had so solemly maintained after John, after changing jobs, after the death of my beloved pet, after so many knocks. I'd finally succumbed to the black dog again, and he had me in his jaws.

This week just passed, went by in usual fashion. I thought I had begun to make some headway - but another work incident knocked me on Wednesday, and I went down again.

I have whimpered and howled in bathroom stalls, showers and in the dark silence of 'bed-time'. I have hidden sneaky tears at customer service counters, and inhaled and exhaled the muted upset to just make it to another day. To make it to another day in which Manchild would finally declare his feelings.

"I can't do this again" is what I cried to the Divine. Wrong. I won't do this again.

Again, I have lost sight of who I am, near-drowned myself in the shadow version of me that I thought he'd like. That I thought, the 'cool-girls' would like. I've been trying to be ok with eroding myself. I'm so messed up with these muddy thoughts that I don't even remember what I'm doing from one moment to the next. I cannot believe I sabotaged myself again. I cannot believe I fooled myself again.

It's late, and right now I should be sleeping, but I needed to get this out. I had hoped to spill everything; for as sure as I know I put myself here, with my thoughts, I know also that the situation does not belong solely to me.

But most of all, with this anger-tinged clarity, I needed to write down, for the 'me' that will undoubtedly weaken momentarily again... I need to tell her - that this guy, these people, this bullshit morphing of myself is utter fucking crap. That none of it - that none of our late night imaginings, warm affections and sassy office repartee are anything other than slight of hand, smoke screen distractions from our self. I - we - started a journey of self discovery, we knew that the path to love was going to start with loving our own self - even the dark parts. I got lost. I got transported to another dimension, but I will get back to myself.

Manchild is not the answer you seek. Nor is an attentive boss, a flattering friend, an approving parent, a complimentary stranger. These archetypes are not the missing piece of the puzzle, they are not going to make everything better - the power you are assigning to these faceless figures does not exist. I know it doesn't feel like it, but this is something we must believe - we must know, that all the power we will ever need, all the love we are seeking to find is already there, inside ourselves. Believe it. Don't be distracted by anything else, because this is the only love that matters, and it is the only thing that is going to fix you. 

giving words wings

I do declare that someday I shall make a grand bonfire by setting alight the vast number of 'self-help' books in my possession (save for perhaps a dozen or so 'favourites').  The rising smoke shall be the chicken-soup-for-the-heavens-soul.  And I will dance around those flames with ridiculous abandon - mostly because of the space I would have created on my bookshelves, but also partly because it will signal a time when I don't feel the need to fix myself anymore.

I decided a little while ago that 2016 should be the year of big internal shifts. In order to have my life change in all the positive ways I want it to, things have to alter.  It's a multi-pronged goal, that quickly summarised would look a little like this: 

1. Discover who I am;
2. Be OK - nay - happy with who I am;
3. Be confident enough to take my place in the world, as this authentic me, and
4. Make no apologies once I get there.

That 'place' is proving a little elusive, and its distance varies from day to day.  Some days I think I'm going ok, but most days what I really want is for someone to side-step into my world, and flip that fucking switch for me.  And the truth at the heart of everything I've been trying to say, since I started forming words, is that all I really want is to be loved like I've never been loved before, and I want to feel, be and emit the glow of that glorious love like no one before me.

supreme source

Everyone deserves that, right? Isn't that why we're here?

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

the cookie incident

There are a certain number of truths I carry around with me in life to help me maintain my sense of equilibrium in this crazy world - the kind of comforts I can lay my head on at night.  Things like 'the Kardashians are mostly made of plastic', 'chocolate is good', 'baby pink does not suit my colouring' and 'you can never have too many pairs of earrings', so on and so forth.

FACT: I can cook a kick-ass choc-chip and pecan nut cookie. Anyone who tries aforementioned cookie, loves it, and me - by way of the heart route via stomach phenomenon.  I could hang my hat on that certainty.

I recently had my first year anniversary at my not-so-new job. Baking seemed appropriate, it seemed like the kind of thing Jesus might do if he had earned his one year badge with an employer. I went to the recipe - I carefully, perhaps even lovingly sifted, chopped, weighed, measured, mixed, spooned, baked and packed, to perfection, said kick-ass choc-chip and pecan nut cookies. This morning I took them in; I even hand wrote a kooky-yet-charming sign inviting my co-workers to partake in the cookie eating.  I didn't expect a fanfare, I just wanted to say, you know "thanks" (read: "thanks, for not being complete assholes all of the time") and perhaps hope they would enjoy them as much as every other human who has ever encountered them before.

Tasting got off to a VERY slow start.  None of this pre-10am business.  "Pussies" I thought. Pfft - I had one at 7.25am. My boss finally tried one, and seemingly loved it, reaction was baseline kick-ass cookie - grateful and kind. Someone else tried one, after I suggested it a couple of times, said nothing - may as well have been eating dirt I guess. Someone else tried one, told me I did "well" (like - what the fuck?) and kept moving on. Someone else gave them a go on her lunch-break and also indicated her enjoyment, even went back for a second in quick succession. By the end of the day, there was one lonely cookie left. As I walked out the door, picking up my box with it's single lonely kick-ass cookie, I asked my old supervisor, knowing she hadn't tried one yet, if she wanted it, "No thanks" she said. Then, I turned to the only dude that works in my department and asked if he would have the last one. "No thanks, I already had one". "Fuck you" I said (in my head). I'm not a pretty face, by no means can I sway and seduce with any form of charm or charisma - but no man - no man has ever declined my fucking cookie before.  It hurt. It hurt real bad.

Maybe I expected too much. My previous bunch of coworkers loved the absolute shit out of these cookies.  I'd get baking requests, recipe sharing requests.  The damn container was always empty at the end of the day, and if there happened to be one morsel left out of politeness, I wouldn't have to ask more than once before a taker or two quickly appeared.

Had I lost my baking prowess?

Had my faithful recipe betrayed me?

Had I asked too much of the great cookie Gods?

I've been trying really hard not to hate the people I work with. (It's really challenging some days). I've had some frustrating setbacks, and experiences this past year and I've just been wanting to accept, and carry on like the good soldier I can be. Sometimes there are tears, sometimes there is sniping and there is always swearing - but Jesus, I try! And I made these people my prize fucking cookies!

I smoldered on the drive home. What is wrong with these people? What did I do to deserve this? How DARE they? I just couldn't reconcile the days cookie intake, or reaction. By the end of my short drive, I concluded that they simply must be queer.  It also occurred to me after some venting, that it had been quite important, that they like my offering. This result did not meet my expectations, and I must own my part in wanting that acceptance to transfer to me. The person, not the kick-ass cookie.

It shits me to tears, but it is an undeniable truth that, right or no, all I ever want of people is for them to like me, accept me, appreciate me. Learning that this isn't always possible, is a lesson hard-won.

But seriously, who in their right mind says "no" to food offered by a half-blood Sicilian? It's unheard of. Work dude better watch out. He's going to have to work seriously hard for my throwaway laughs now. Fucker. And just as I was starting to like him too.

Vale Bonnie

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die... Eccles. 3.1

I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday. She'd been in my life for 11 years.  

Life was kind of shitty when we first met.  I was going through college, carrying out someone else's idea of my life.  I'm not too sure how my sister and I finally swung it - but the parentals had finally agreed to let us have a pet dog.

Mum and I rushed to the pet store this Friday afternoon.  I could even tell you what I was wearing, as if that mattered.  There were a couple of different kinds of puppies for sale. In one enclosure sat a white, fluffy, delicate little thing, and next to that there was a shy, fuzzy, brown bundle we deemed most likely to be loved by Dad.

She was so small, you could comfortably hold her in one hand - soft and lively, delicate in her own kind of way. I wish I could tell you about the ride home with our new puppy.  I wish I had been smart enough to soak those minutes in so that I could recall them in full-colour-high-definition now.  I suppose I was just too excited to be going home with our special little bundle.

We thought about names overnight, made lists, but nothing stuck. I remember 'Tess' was on the list (as I recall, "Mcleods Daughters" was popular with us girls at the time) along with many other possibilities.

Saturday morning came, and I had to go to my crappy part time job, a place where you weren't allowed to call the boss by his first name. He was a naughty boy stuck in a bearded mans body. 

I finished work, slipped off my wretched shoes and found she had a name: "Bonnie".

Bonnie was so small, she got lost in vastness of our backyard.  As a young pup, she took pleasure in bathing herself in her giant water bowl, and rubbing herself all over the green lawn.  As she grew, she loved to play - she got big enough to enjoy the toys we'd brought her, when really revved up, she would run in circles, huffing in excitement with her tail tucked under as if conforming herself to a more aerodynamic shape.

But, she had little frailty's too. She became nippy, and at times short tempered, especially after we had her spayed. We'd wondered if abuse was in her past.  She wasn't great with new people, tall people, or people with booming voices - she would crawl with her tail sideways, and urinate if they reached out to pat her. Poor Bonnie, she was a bit damaged, like me - and that somehow made her even more special.

She'd bark when the roller door opened, and when the doorbell rang . She'd chase nearby doves like a warrior when someone caught her by surprise, and took pleasure in keeping cats out of her territory. If she were inside when you got home from work, she'd be first at the door, greeting you with her shy little shuffle.  It wouldn't matter what had happened that day, she was a reason to crack a smile.

Like me, she loved her food, and I was always happy to share my peas with her.  She loved spaghetti, and roast chicken and had an uncanny ability to hear the peeling of a carrot, or the opening of the biscuit barrel.

Most nights I'd have a cup of tea, she'd wake and share some biscuit with me. It was our routine, our tradition.

Life is made up of increments of time, pieces of things put together to make a whole day. Bonnie was so ingrained in almost every part of my life, I'm utterly devastated by her absence now.  Now there are wide, gaping holes in the days - the silence is crushing, time has slowed to snails pace these past two days - I feel sick when I remember for certain she's gone.

I could go on and on about her, but I won't.  I know some people don't understand how animals can be grieved so fiercely. And to me, those people aren't such great 'people'.  My Bonnie - for all her faults and flying jumps was beautiful. She wasn't conventional, or easy to understand, but she was my friend and the best kind of 'person' I might ever know.  Up until yesterday I don't think I've ever felt so alone.  My 'almost Tess', my friend under the table, my hello at the door, I will miss you forever.  And forever feels like a very long time right now.



Rest in peace my little Biscuit.

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

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.

to me

In the dark of night, as the rain lightly sprinkles on the tin roof above, I want to talk to him.  But he's stopped listening.  I told him it was my favourite sound, and now it's spoiled.  Each pit-pat, pit-pat thuds my sodden hopes and reminds me of the void.  I hate boys.

Except Chet Faker.  I love Chet Faker.

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.

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...

ruby tuesday

source

I find myself sunk by a wave of sadness.  It feels like everyday lately has been a test of my willpower and resolve.  Forced to say goodbye to light parts of myself and this darkness feels heavier than normal.

Leaving myself open to ridicule, I admit that saying goodbye to my pet rabbit Ruby on Tuesday has been the proverbial straw.  I've just had enough.

It's funny how that 'enough' line keeps moving.

I feel like my empathy is being eroded, my patience withered - as I become more bitter and twisted in a job I loathe, surrounded by narcissistic assholes that I just can't stand.  Worst of all? The reality that I let it happen.  That somewhere along the line I relinquished the control. I hate myself for becoming this hateful person.

I'm not sure how to describe this place I find myself in. I know where I am, and I know that I should be scared, that I should want to be around people and talk and laugh - but I don't. I just don't.  I can see the sun shining through the canopy of crap, but I want to be alone for a while.

I want to sit in this place and gather strength, so that I may go backwards to find the pieces of bundle I dropped from my basket, to find those parts of me that need to be revived, buffed, shined and re-installed.

the lead balloon

I had 'the talk' yesterday. I spoke to my immediate work team members and told them of my plans to leave my current role. It had been coming a long time, and lately the realisation that there was no going back flew at me light-speed.  It wasn't an easy conversation to have, because I've been at my current job for over five years - I've put my heart, sweat and tears into it, so to raise the white flag - to actually say it aloud was scary and confronting.

What followed my declaration has been varied.  From the people that matter, it has been kindness.  From others, it has been somewhat disappointing.  Now more than ever I feel like I'm walking on eggshells - acutely aware I'm not going anywhere until I find another job.. they know that and I know that.  Perhaps my honesty wasn't appreciated.  I think the decision I made for myself is now being used against me.  It's not all giggles at the moment.

I'm tired of fighting an un-win-able fight, of trying to make my passion matter to anyone other than me. And I'm so utterly gutted that you can give yourself to an organisation for half a decade, and be disappeared into the shadows in the blink of an eye.

Humans keep disappointing me. So I wonder, do I expect too much from life, or am I just hanging around the wrong kind of people?

prayers

Hearing about what happened in Newtown Connecticut has made me feel angry, confused, but mostly deeply, deeply sad. I don't know what kind of people perform such horrendous acts and I don't like living in a world where things like this just happen.  Who is accountable? God? It's moments like these I start to entertain the idea that maybe it wouldn't be so bad if the world did implode.  We've done a pretty good job of fucking up the environment, and each other. If we all just evaporated into the particles of dust we came from - we'd be free to float in the galaxy - free from these kinds of nightmares.

My heart skips a beat when I think about the children in this tragedy - which leads me to think about the children in my life.  How I love them so incredibly much and how destroyed I'd be if anything ever happened to them.  Then I remember I can't protect the people I love from this life, and the fear is momentarily crippling.

I can't do anything but try to be a good person, and pray.  I pray for the families of the ones lost, for the people confronted by this horror, for those whose lives have been cut short and for humankind. 

sobering sunday

It's an odd feeling that washes over you, when you realise things aren't always going to be this way.  When you recall that the clock continues to tick, the world keeps turning and God is marking off the calender days with his thick red marker.  No rest for the wicked? No rest for anyone, not really.

Are we all just biding our time, trying to live out our borrowed moments while cowering beneath man-made shelters, hiding in the shade - all to obscure us from the overseer's sight?

I am startled from my stupor when I recognise a name inked within the borders of the newspaper death notices.  It happens a lot these days.  And the people, they don't seem so old anymore.  When someone my age loses a parent, it delivers a sharp blow that we are all getting older - their parents.. my parents.. me.

Within your own mind, you might suppose that you, your family will remain untouched.  That God will reward you for being who you are - for being wise to the game. Although I would like to rest my head on that sure, sound pillow tonight - it's not altogether true.

Nothing remedy's time.

I am frightened now, because I realise, I really understand that my Mum, my Dad - they won't be around forever.  For so long, our lives become about that sunny, bright picture we can see faraway in the distance - everyone is grown, grey-haired and happy; the picture is blurry, there is no time stamp on the image, no points of reference - but you get there, right? Right?

So much of my world is fear.  I worry for the children in my life - how will they know to be strong? Will their bodies let them grow well and happy? Where will they find the tools, the knowledge to understand the dangers and pitfalls of their world, but to move on ahead, regardless?  And the older ones, when their bodies betray them; cells degrade, lives recede - with their adult fury, worry and automobiles - so may things moving way too fast.

In my room, a white wooden "relax" sits atop my shelf.  I hate that fucking thing - I don't know what possessed my sister to buy it for me, but it mocks me now.  How can I possibly relax when so much can go wrong?

I feel like if my life ended tomorrow, I could be ok with that.  But to imagine myself having to go on without one of 'my people' - well, the thoughts hurts too much to bear.

I think I understand now, why it is that people drink.

big girl problems

Ahh, there's nothing quite so attractive as the sight of someone shoving Vicks Vaporub up their reddened nose with a cotton bud.  It's moments like these you really know you're alive...

I'm in the midst of some 'ugly days' at present.  I usually say I'm having an 'ugly day' when I just feel, regardless of effort or time, that I am intrinsically unattractive that day.  Be it a spot on my face, my hair misbehaving or simply the 'vibe'.  I wonder if everyone has these days?

For me, there's no more sobering a sight than seeing my own ugly rear reflected at me in a target change room. Is that really what people see when they are behind me? Wow I am ghastly. And I wasn't even the one trying anything on. Low blow.

I can't speak for all large/overweight/obese people out there - but for me - I know I'm big, but I never think I'm that big.  The photo is taken from a bad angle, the clothing item didn't suit my shape, sizes are changing, blah, blah, blah... It's only until you catch an unexpected glance in a reflective surface that you realise the scale of yourself - my upper arm really is that big? Is that how much surface of the chair my ass really takes up? It's like normally you look at yourself in bits - like through a peephole or those glasses they use for an eclipse - I'm not usually taking in the whole picture, because deep down, I know, it's not pretty.

This stuff is difficult for me to talk about, because it is so delicate a subject for me.  It is my achilles heel, my glass jaw, my vulnerable weak spot.

There's a joke I've seen that goes something like "I am in shape - round is a shape." That may be true, but hate is hate.

I know we should accept who we are, for what we are - but I cannot.  It's not like I eat healthy and exercise everyday and just happen to look like this because I have big bones.  No, I know that while genetics can bear a little of the blame here, I am ultimately my own keeper in this personal hell.  I hold the keys, I have the way out, but I seem incapable of initiating the escape. Why?

For one, it's not fucking easy - sometimes I naively think it'd be grand if I could make myself vomit.  I'm scared of failing, of falling 'off the wagon' like the million times before.  To an extent, I think I'm scared of being attractive - if men starting paying me attention, I don't know how I would deal with that. Or, maybe, food is one of the only things that makes me happy, and I'm not willing to give it up.  Perhaps it's as simple as that.  Perhaps I don't want another 'problem' that makes me different from everyone else, again.

But when I see myself, really see myself, chocolate is the furthest thing from my mind.

Right now, I think if I could make a deal to never eat chocolate again - and in return wake up to be thin and beautiful, I would do it. How I wish it were easy.  How I wish this self hate, the internal dialogue I have with myself every-single-day would at least contribute to massive calorie burning.  Maybe that would make the chatter worth it.

But, I guess if things were that easy, that if deals could really be made - then hell would likely be full of 'former fatties' and there would be no room for the truly horrible people.

I know I've said it before - ashamedly I say it most Sunday evenings - but I am going to make some changes.  I am going to start with little steps, and hope that with a little practise I can dance the whole routine of self acceptance someday.

SB

the state of the hermitage

I haven't been writing a lot lately, sometimes because I've been exhausted, a little because I haven't had much to say, and sometimes because I don't know how to say what it is that I'm feeling.

In the past, I have shocked some people with the insight into my thoughts - perhaps for a few reasons.  Maybe they didn't expect it; they didn't understand; or because they thought that my thoughts were rubbish.  The last statement I agree with, because yes, sometimes my thoughts can be utter waste.  But, I think when I try to censor my outpourings, I run into problems - because when I'm not truthful, it means I'm obscuring things - and this gives the hidden parts a chance to chatter in dark corners. They have been chattering, and I have been listening in, and it has been ugly.

I have been told, by what I would call a reliable source (a Psychologist) that we all have an internal monologue - that is, without sounding 'crazy' - a voice, in your head, kind of commentating or observing.  I think some of us are more in-tune to it than others; I hear mine a lot and it is not a particularly nice monologue, because mine is paranoid, frustrated and mean. Perhaps my sensitivity is a consequence of spending too much time on my own - there hasn't been anything to drown out my doom radio.

Today was quite a rough day.  There weren't the usual amount of distractions available - some members were missing from the workplace, and there was ample quiet time.  My work struggles, and people struggles are well documented here; I always feel that I am ill-fitting; I don't belong; I'm not wanted.

Despite whether these thoughts or 'observations' are real or truthful is beside the point - because I hear them so often that I believe them. My doom radio is like an investigator, or a bad P.I. at the very least - because any behaviour, or occurrence that might support these notions, just becomes further "proof" that I am lonely, that I am not wanted - that I am all the things it tells me I am.

People that know what I speak of will nod their heads in agreement, others that haven't experienced such things - I suspect I lost somewhere around the "we all have an internal monologue". But it is all very hard to explain, because it is not in the real - rather, it is the imagined space that sits atop our shoulders - dense and isolating.

I am Brad Pitt and Edward Norton, "Fight Club" style - it is 'feeling' me and 'doom radio' me, punching it out.  It's all harmless play fighting... until it's not. Until the bruises hurt, and the bones break.  I feel like I'm breaking today.

Today I am alone, I am not good enough, I am easy to forget, I am a thorn, a raincloud, a fifth wheel, I am invisible and an eye-sore, all at once.  In my head, all of this is plausible - because the lunch room goes quiet when I'm there; because I'm told about after work drinks after everyone else is invited; because everyone has tickets to an Anzac day event that I didn't know about; because there is cosy laughter in the room until I enter; because it's all take, take, take and hardly ever any give. Nothing feels genuine and everything feels wrong. Round pegs. Square hole.

I think about wanting to come off the depression/anxiety medication - because I think I'd rather go it alone.  But if I feel this now, on the meds - what will it be like amplified - without armour?

I cry, because I want the hurt to stop; because I'm not ok inside, and I'm tired of smiling on the outside. I think it's unfair that I have to live, feeling the way I do, while everyone else gets to switch off their voices.

There is my doom radio voice, and then there is me - and we inhabit the same body, and sometimes I don't know that I can win.

SB

kamikaze

how could that happen?
how could that happen again?
where the fuck was I looking
when all his horses came in?
and he built a whole army
of kamikaze
- PJ Harvey 'kamikaze'

I had a difficult time transitioning into high school when I entered year eight.  I had been split up from my primary school friends who were all scattered in different 'houses'. These 'houses' dictated the students who would be in my classes all the time, so I was spending the bulk of my day with them.  I didn't really have anyone; I didn't have anyone who would necessarily notice if I was absent from school.

Then, some familiar lines were found. A girl - K, she'd gone to a different primary school - but it turned out we had the same birthday! And our Mothers knew each other, and my extended family knew her family... it was all there.

Little did I know that K too had been struggling to fit in and make friends - this I discovered when my Mum told me she'd happened to bump into K's Mum, who divulged this information.  K's Mum suggested perhaps organising a 'play-date' so-to-speak (although, I think we were a little old for that).  Nevertheless, this time, the meddling was appreciated, because I thought maybe this could be the makings of a good friendship.

Then, I guess overnight, K became 'cool', and I became 'uncool' or at least unnecessary.  Either way, the 'date' never went ahead.

See, I felt a little cheated back then.  Like I was 'good enough' for a time, and then I expired.  This situation echos to this day; proof that you never really outrun your past.  Proof that maybe I am the eternal loser that I fear I am... unmemorable... unremarkable... forgettable.

Since the walls came crashing down I've been trying with C - to be chatty, to be open - I have even tried to organise a cinema date, twice, to no avail. She too has been chatty, and somewhat open - but she's also been spending a lot of time, inside and outside of work with "the cool kids".

You never really leave high school - you know, there will always be a cool gang that I'll never be a part of; there'll always be the weirdo, the one that smells, that you want to avoid, and then there'll always be me - stuck somewhere in the middle. No wo-mans land.

I've been trying with C because I genuinely like her - she is sweet and kind (especially when drunk) and she's not so self-involved like all the others. But I feel her pulling away; I'm losing her. And instead of ripping the band aid off quickly, or neglecting it so it falls off on its own, she is hanging - pulling and tugging - making it so much worse for me, and probably her. She's too young to realise you can't make a home in-between two worlds. It works in movies, but not in real life. I'm the bird, and they are the fish - and whichever metaphor she turns out to be, she cannot inhabit the middle ground - nature is strict that way.

I think I give in - the fish can have her.  I cannot tell her these people are fake, that is something she must come to see on her own... if she's equipped with those goggles.

Sometimes I wish that I was one of the flock, in the crowd of cool kids - I'd have besties and we'd hang, and people would talk to me at lunchtime, and I'd know the inside jokes and oh, it would just be so la-di-da.  I'd have a dozen more phone numbers in my mobile - I'd just never have reason to be alone. But, I'm just not like that - maybe I should just stop pretending like I could be. I'm not a renovators delight - I'm fucking heritage listed - take me as I am 'cause I ain't changing.

I'm just beginning to feel like I'm a magnet for pity, or lonely people.  They see me, they latch on, like I'm a stepping stone between the land of the lonely and 'cool-town'. Once I've served my purpose, I am discarded and forgotten.  I wish they wouldn't bother.  If they can't stand this bird - get out of the fucking nest.

I want friends, I don't want to be lonely, I want my name to be at the front of the invite list, and not an afterthought at the end - but I don't want to compromise who I am to get that. I just, I don't know how to get that.

I'm with you PJ Harvey, how the fuck indeed.

SB

the way it ends

I found out some things today that ripped open the healing wounds of my heart.  There doesn't seem to be a point in going over it all.  In a way, I sorted it out while laying on a treatment table, counting holes in the ceiling - my mind went still and I felt it kind of slip away, or maybe I let it all go.

I think "running out of fools" has been quite prophetic, for different reasons. I'm not going to be anybodies fool, ever again. Character building... building character.



Today, I said my final good bye to John.  Facebook, for once, served me well. I will be so bold as to declare, that never before has the 'unfriend' button seen such a weighted, but triumphant result.  That bastard will never get another piece of me.  I'm ok if he never even notices I'm gone - just knowing, in the very depths of my mind, that I am not his anymore - electronic, or otherwise.

I will dig and hunt, collecting back the pieces of me, slowly. I will put them in a velvet lined box, keep them warm and safe - and give them to someone who deserves them. It will not be easy, my box is battered, but I know someday, someone will look upon it as treasure.

SB

The Lovefool

Yeah, yeah... so it's valentines day again tomorrow. I shall spend another year knowing the name on that little florist card is not going to be mine.

Blessings to all the loved-up folks out there; to the 'real' couples who fight the challenges of life in their ultimate warrior pairs. It is the enduring, quiet-spoken love that inspires me. Stolen looks and subtle smiles - the keeper of the button manual, but the presser of none. Modern day heroes; the lucky ones.



Dear God, please, don't let anyone ask me if I'm expecting any flowers tomorrow.

SB xx

I am having the thought...that I am falling apart

Tearful breakdowns at work in the past 2 days: 2. Uh oh.

I am not a public crier, this is not what I want to be doing.  My manager called me in for a chat this afternoon, and I was sure I was going to get into trouble for something.  I didn't. She wanted to know why I was looking so stressed - I didn't know what to tell her. I don't know what to tell myself. All I know is that every time she said the word 'stress' or 'pressure' - a tear formed in my eye, and then I couldn't hold the dam any longer. I dissolved.

I'm so embarrassed, for being so weak, for not being able to hold myself together.  There isn't any one thing that is stressing me out - I'm just tired - of work, of people, of being me, I think.  But how do I begin to fix this?

I think it's time to start paying attention to that doom radio playing in my head, again.

This can't be happening, again.

SB xx