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. 

the miss list

As 2015 clambers through its final days, I tried thinking about the things I had achieved, the notable experiences and such that had marked my 32nd year on this planet.  It turns out I wasn't able to produce much of a list - so, in the absence of the groundbreaking, heart-shattering, mood altering list I had hoped to yield, I instead have a list of things not yet achieved.

1.
As a 32 year old female, attempting to adult her life, I shamefully admit that I have not been able to master the fine, and delightful art of the 'winged eye-liner' (à la exhibit 1A). The style, so beautifully worn by the likes of Angelina, Adele and Dita, still eludes me.  If I die before I successfully recreate this look, someone please ask the mortician to grant me a set of kick-ass wings for all of eternity. Maybe I should put this in my will.  Hmmm, I don't have a will. Should I? Fucking hell.

Exhibit 1A

2.  

Considered writing a will. Fuck you, item number 1.

3.

Fallen in love - or been fallen in love with. Frida Kahlo said that one should, "take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic". That's what I want, I want that (see exhibit 3A).

Exhibit 3A - I feel like this image sufficiently conveys aforementioned look of magic. *swoon* 

4.

Successfully mastered my body and mind. (This one might take a while).

5.

Maintained regular writing activities, and/or blog entries. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

6.

Become a musical genius.

2016 - look out!

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.

A Year in Review

So, it's been while.  So long in fact, I had wondered if I would even remember how to do this.  Good news though, it would seem I haven't slipped into premature senility just yet.

So, a fair bit has happened since we last met. I finally got out of that horrid workplace. So, I'm now in a totally new job, which has brought along with it more than a few challenges.  Not sure that I've found my niche, but for the moment, as I find my feet, I am grateful to be in a workplace that values me.

My body and I continue to be at odds. Some days we stand eye-to-eye 'till one of us cracks, but then other days I'm waving the white flag from the floor.  So, it's still a bit of a juggling act, and lot of mind-fuckery.

It's almost a year since I joined the world of online dating, and... well... the thing is - nothing has happened. Which makes this little fun fact, a little disconcerting...

Every. Day? In The World vs. StrangeBird, the score  is 1 to nil. Or is that 3 000 000 to 1. That's a lot of fucking zero's. The Supremes said "you can't hurry love", but Jesu - must I wait until I'm a pensioner?

Other news that has adversely affected me:

Joe Manganiello got engaged dammit. And...

Joseph Gordon-Levitt got married!  I would've taken a hyphenated name for you Joseph?! 

And I found out these two pieces of news in the same week.  It's been rough.

Still, we gotta keep moving. Until next time, "take a card, take a seat"...

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.

secret sickness

They say that you're only as sick as your secrets.  I have a few in my closet - but there is just one making me really unwell right now.

And it is this:

I've never been anybody's girlfriend.

30 years on this Earth, and romantically, on my own that whole time.

I have literally been waiting my whole life to find someone to break through.

Try to imagine how much shame I feel just admitting that, and know I only do this, because here I am StrangeBird. And here I'm free to admit that I'm a mess, that I'm insecure and completely mortified. I get to leave this computer and this persona behind, but I always carry this secret with me - down the street, at work, around the dinner table, as I lay in the dark trying to get to sleep, and nobody knows how much it's stripping me, of self worth, hope, humor. It's a bit of a joke, except there's no punchline.

And this, this is why online dating is so completely mind-fucking to me. It was such a big decision to sign up - to think about chatting with people, talking about myself, 'selling' me, meeting up with someone in real life? Not liking them? Or worse, liking them? I have had to confront almost every fear about myself that I possess with this ridiculous ritual.

Some days, I can approach it with curiosity, and sometimes with humor.  But lately it just leaves me with an overwhelming sense of shit-ness.

I must be the problem... The almost-meet-up guy is now ignoring me, even after I wrote a vulnerable explanation and apology for being confusing.  At first it made me sad and bitter, but now it just kind of shits me off.  That even behind the protection of a computer screen, he hasn't got the balls to say the real reason why he lied about being "busy", or the guts to simply say "I don't want to talk to you anymore".

Seriously dude - WHAT. THE. FUCK?

Of course, he would have no idea that I angst-ed over troubling him for almost an entire weekend.  That I kicked myself for thinking too much, for panicking and knee-jerking.

Depending upon my level of confidence and ignited-wog-passion - I bounce from feeling violently rejected, angry, all the way to sunny indifference.  His loss, right?

I don't know what's so wrong with me?  I know I'm not perfect.  I'm not terribly pretty, I have curves in the wrong places, a mind-field of internal dialogue and edges.  Rough, obtrusive bumps on the exterior of my complicated package.  But I know, I know, inside there are parts that are pure gold. But nobody seems to want to scratch beneath the surface to see that.

Is it just a waiting game?  Is it timing? Do I just need for the right species of butterfly to flap its wings in the town of Shitsville, at a certain point of planetary alignment? Can I really be such an unusual case, that my time, place, person have to match up just so?

I don't know.  I prayed not to be lonely forever, and the next morning on the music lottery of my iPod, Bon Jovi told me it was my life, that it was now or never and then Shania Twain immediately followed by telling me that the thing about love is that there ain't no particular way. (Yes, I have these songs on my iPod... seems to be the post for hideous secrets).

You can listen to a song dozens of times, and never really 'hear' it. Maybe people are the same that way.

not OK

I did it.  I haven't heard anything.  I might have blown my chance, but I've done the best I can without looking like (more of) a complete nut.

But I have been struggling.  As I so often do, I have taken this non-contact rather personally, a hint that there are any number of things 'wrong' with me. And then all those old thoughts, that I'll be alone, forever. Forever, forever....

It's only in the mistake that I have learnt I need to let go.  Let go of my expectations, let go of my fears and put them away.  Otherwise, things (opportunities, people) bust through my secure door and leave rather promptly out the nearest window. But it's hard, it is so hard after being closed up for so very long - I think I'm rusted in this defensive position.

"Sometimes your only available transportation is a leap of faith" - Margaret Shepard

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.

that funny old feeling..

It's back, that anticipating scratch without an itch, the thick fog of thoughts and fears, maybes and should haves.  It's time... to go back to work.

Silly really, at the start of the two weeks everything looks so bright and shiny, waiting to be smudged with your fingerprint - and the best news is that you can, you can do anything, be anything, because you have the time.  Time has almost run out, and the mood overcoming me now is definitely the least optimistic of the two.

It's hard to put my finger on it really, but it's the ultimate 'out of body experience' - my body is here, my arms, my legs within my control - oh look! I'm driving... how did I get here again.. but my mind, boy, I don't know where that is. I can't reign it in, can't even hook a single thought, it's all blur and shit.

I found a couple of potential jobs for applying, but discounted one just this night - on the basis of a Facebook stalk... well, partly.  Yes, I do believe I am crazy.

I just want out.  I want out, out, OUT!

"Close some doors - not because of pride, incapacity or arrogance but simply because they no longer lead somewhere."  Paolo Coehlo

I want to slam that door closed, screw it shut, hang out the front for a while and tell everyone who passes by not to go through it.  Then I'll climb out the nearest window.  I'm just so fucking miserable at this job.

I've been reading a little more than usual lately.  Don Miguel Ruiz's "The Four Agreements", gives me four 'rules' to live by:
1) Be impeccable with your word.
2) Don't take anything personally.
3) Don't make assumptions.
4) Always do your best.
They certainly make sense, and I have been trying to keep them in mind.  But I know come next week, a few of them are going to be challenging.  At my current job, I have lost the desire to do my best, to try hard, because I just can't see the point.  I hate that I feel this way. I abhor the reality that I'm not performing 100%.

I also started reading a blogger, turned published author's book on her anxious existence. Turns out it's actually less funny, more anxiety-inducing/alarming for me.  *shrugs ironically*

I had a dream last night, I had an amazing idea for a blog post, I even had a clever name for the post, and anecdote to deliver it - I got the pad and pen beside my bed and wrote it down.  I was rather perturbed later this morning, when I realised I'd woken up and written this great idea down while still dreaming.

Perhaps this idea was driven by my guilt of not having written in a while, my insecurities about having nothing to say, being unable to find the right words.  Or, it might also be to do with seeing this in a local shop earlier this week:

I want the mug, but know I'd also kind of feel like a fraud using it. A potential pen cup perhaps?

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 good, the bad, the downright ugly

The good.
Seeing Mr Matt Damon pop up on your TV screen is always good.  As far as I'm concerned this guy can do no wrong.  He's my imaginary husband. Well... one of them.

The bad.

For a chronic foot issue that I have been nursing for most of the year, I have been sentenced to six weeks in a 'moon-boot' in a last ditch effort to avoid surgery.  On the plus side, it's probably the closest I'll ever get to wearing knee high boots - however it's only on one leg, and the look is completely cheapened by the velcro. *insert quiet sob*

The ugly.

While in the hairdressers yesterday I witnessed a conversation in which the grey-haired, middle aged man next to me asked for a mullet hair cut.  He actually asked for it y'all.  I can't believe people actually deem that a legitimate hair-style choice.  Surely mullets are the stuff of accidents and dares?  Surely, surely no one 'chooses' to look like a bogan?

the sign

There's 'temporary' sign at my work that I keep having to re-make because a variety of someones are a) too cheap to pay for a proper one and b) don't care to make it their problem.  It is made from paper, lamination, sticky tape and time, and it is strung to a fence with twine, double knots and sticky-back velcro. The sign is placed in a vulnerable spot - weathered by whatever the four seasons can deliver, so it doesn't tend to last beyond a few months.

The last time I made one of these signs, I declared inwardly that this would be the final sign I would make.  That I would let this new sign wither and die without care, and that before its final passing I would be gone, and this sign would no longer be my problem.  Every day I pass this sign, I watch the paper soak with rain, the sticky-tape begin to yellow (and I curse myself for using that new type of tape); the knots begin to lose their tightness and the velcro slips its hold. Today the sign looks particularly beaten. That sign is me. Some days, that sign knows more about me than anyone else in the whole world.

Let me tell you, it is possible to hate inanimate objects.

Some days I want to rip that sign off and tear it into a dozen pieces, I want to kick down the splintered wooden fence that it clings to, and then I want to scream - Tarzan style.  I want to do all of these things because no one cares that I have to spend a lot of my time making the fucking thing, because everyone just expects the sign to always be there, just like they expect me to always be there making it.  What I really want is for my boss to have to make it.  I want her to print out the eight sheets of A4 paper, stand idly by waiting for the laminator to heat up, align the paper into the laminating pouches 'just so' and then put them into the machine.  Then I'd like to see her trim the paper just right, line up the letters, and the arrows, creating two lines and sticking them together with long lengths of sticky tape. Then she'd have to brace the whole sign with strapping tape - but not let it overlap the edge of the sign so it looks messy.  Then she'll turn it over and find that despite her best intentions, some of the sheets won't have perfectly matched up, and dejected, she'll think it looks a bit shit and wish she wouldn't have to 'make do' with paper and tape. She'd punch holes in the corners, prepare the twine and cut lengths upon lengths of double sided velcro - just long enough to fit the fence pickets and no more.  Then she'd go out on her own, pull down the old sign and using every limb extended, would attempt to hold up the heavy new sign as she secures it with small bits of velcro. She'll get the splinters and scratches from the old wooden fence - she'll have to juggle the scissors and rubbish and trim the ties, and then she will step back, thinking it's not too bad but wishing we could just get a 'real sign' and hoping she'd never need to make another one ever again. Wondering, if she was gone, would anyone care to make a new one when this one finally decays?

The time is coming when a new sign will be needed, and I'm. Still. Here. 

Fuck.

nobodies baby, everybody's girl

I sort of fell in love last night.... but he doesn't know it.

I happened upon him at a social outing; he was singing sad, bluesy songs with his sexy, gravelly voice. He had warm, youthful brown eyes and I had seriously considered paying him to say my name over and over and over again. His generous beard had ginger undertones, but I did not care. 

By his second song I was preparing the "Mum I'm going to marry a ginger" speech in my head - even at the risk of being disowned.  By 11pm we were meeting each others parents (and I was charming the fucking pants off his folks, let me tell you!) and at the nights end, we had fictional babies and a permanent address.

See, this is what happens when I go out in public; I find people I can't have. I fall in lust way-too-quickly.

But, I make a terrible groupie - so I was never going to make a very good impression.  When I went to buy his E.P's, he gave me back the wrong change and when I figured it out I didn't want to say anything (although he did realise and called me back) but I did make myself look like a total dumb-ass.  I'm not stupid, really...

not today Louise L. Hay

A few weeks ago, I purchased myself a Louise L. Hay book, in an effort to pull myself out of this funk I find myself in. Frustrated with work, life and myself; frightened by uncertainties and general stuck-ness - I thought she might have some wisdom for me.  I'm sure she's very clever, and positive, I don't imagine she even has cause to swear or raise her voice - but today Louise L. Hay - you just can't help me.  Today I'd like to smack Louise L. Hay over the head with her own book.

Sorry Louise L. Hay.. it's not you, really, it's just the whole sad sight of self-help books swallowing my shelves and desk.  And.. maybe a little you... mostly because I'm suspicious of eternally positive people.

I'm annoyed - 3-year-old style annoyed; stomp my feet, fall to the floor, pound my fists on the ground - frustrated. I DON'T WANT to do anything I don't want to do - I don't want to go to work, I don't want to be at home, I don't want to be alone but I don't want to be around people either. I don't want to feel grateful for a job I am growing to hate... mostly I don't want to feel like this any more.

I know adults can't behave this way. I know all of the above is silly, self-absorbed and petty.  I know once all is said and done, I can't bury my head in my hands and cry for my mother because:
a) that would be weird, and
b) it would get me nowhere.
As an adult, we have to come to the realisation that there is no one to blame for our situations; we can yell and scream and sulk all we want, but there's no one to hear us.  Somehow we have to pick ourselves up.

I don't have the answer on how to successfully do this without the drama. But I know we each just have to figure it out as best we can.  We have to be courageous to walk towards the things we don't want to face - work, a doctors appointment, an uncomfortable conversation, a foe, a decision...

I'm not perfect, I spent much of the day groaning and biting at my family if they dared approach, and I frequently revert to my depressive/anxiety driven habits - but I do know that the time we want to run away, is precisely the time we have to roll out of bed and face the new day - come what may.

write, right, rite, riot

I can't write.

I think I'm scared or confused or bored but also freakin' frustrated - I just can't commit to anything.  All my thoughts seem silly, ugly.  There's some thing like pressure that comes from inside of myself, and it blocks me from trying.

Writers circle submission is due by the end of the month.  I have four days. In four days time I may have nothing except a pissy semi-retired writing enthusiast named 'Patricia' on my ass sending me hate emails.

Insert sad face.

too much time spent in medical facilities

I work at a hospital. 

I'm averaging a doctors appointment every fortnight.  That's how often I get paid.

The other day I had series of rather expensive pictures taken of my head. $480 dollars worth. At that price, you'd think they'd print it on a canvas for me so I could mount it on my bedroom wall. It was a strange experience. I was locked inside a white tunnel by a friendly lady with wild curly black hair and a wide smile. I had ear muffs and an antenna (I. Shit. You. Not) strapped around my head while I laid, stuck stiff in what I imagined a coffin must feel like - a really clean, noisy coffin. Every now and then, the technicians voice would bounce in my ears, sort of like if God were a chick: "hold still... this one goes for 2 minutes.. you're doing well... are you ok?" I closed my eyes as I counted out each estimate she gave me, I couldn't bear to be reminded that I was trapped.  The noise and vibrations produced by the machine were so violent at times that my ear muffs moved all on their own. The sounds began to remind me of the dance music you see glow-stick wielding bogans bopping to - the kind of music I hate. Finally it was over, I was being moved out of the machine.  To my surprise, it wasn't the calm-voiced, overweight, female technician I was expecting; instead, I was greeted by a very attractive 'dude'.  This guy looked like one of Raphael's Sistine Cherubs had escaped from the chapel and grown into a Ralph Lauren model - he had piercing blue eyes, and a perfectly chiselled face - and I felt perfectly inadequate when I rolled on outta that machine freaked and frazzled.

Over the weekend I had to pay a visit to the Emergency Department - the most un-favourite of places for sensible people the world over. I had been suffering quite a bad headache that day, and coupled with neck pain, my nerve endings decided they would play funny buggers and start giving me pins and needles in my face and fingers. I thought I could be having a stroke. The E.D nurse who really should have 'the guy who knows everything' typed on his I.D badge told me I could stop crying now, I wasn't having a stroke, that it was a 'classic migraine'. Fucktard. Although pleased I'm not dead due to stroke, aneurysm or the like, you could say I was unappreciative of his particular brand of 'reassurance'.

Some days are dry, some days are leaky

Some days come clean, other days are sneaky

Some days take less, but most days take more

Some slip through your fingers and onto the floor

Some days you're quick, but most days you're speedy

Some days you use more force than is necessary

Some days just drop in on us

Some days are better than others

Some days it all adds up

And what you got is not enough

Some days are better than others...

(U2 'Some days are better than others')

the things I didn't know

the amazing source

When I look at this picture I feel less alone. Maybe because it looks something like hope.

I had been doing fine in life. I had been getting along as best I could. Then I went and did something stupid like go wandering in the facebook woods alone, unprepared for what I would stumble upon.  I stalked John and found something surprising and confusing.

His profile had disappeared for a while - it's not like I did a weekly check or anything, but last time I did, he wasn't there.  Last night however - he was back.  He has a new relationship - which he actually declared on his page - she is a perfectly ordinary looking woman - with a baby.  There were photos of him and her (with the little him) plastered all over, and all I could think was that he looked happy - really, honestly happy.  It seems like finally he has the instant family he said he always wanted. I'm not sure why it shook me so much - but I was left reeling.  One moment I'm finishing a late night cup of tea, and the next I'm discovering things that required much more emotional intelligence than I was able to muster on a Sunday evening.  What the hell happened while I was drinking my cup of tea?

I'm not sure why I've reacted this way.  Perhaps I'm jealous, or disappointed that it wasn't me who put that joyful twinkle back in his eye. Or maybe it's just that I wish I had the pictures to prove I'd moved forward. Truthfully - she looks like the kind of girl I would get along with, be friends with even. Further truths be known, I'm almost relieved to find he's no longer with the other one - the bad apple.

Anyway, I guess these are just the kind of flips and dives that life takes, even when you think it's moving predictably straight. It's a reminder, not to be complacent.

sense and sensibilities

I haven't written freely for a while now, for many reasons - most of which boil down to fear. Sometimes I succumb to the fear that I've run out of useful or interesting things to say; sometimes the only thing in my heart is hurt and I fear that expressing this may upset, bore or frustrate anyone who comes to read it. Other times I simply have nothing to say; then there are days when I just can't seem to find the words - because I fear I'm not intelligent-experienced-important enough to put a title and a label on a paragraph that measly ol' me made up. On the extensive play list that is the jukebox of my internal monologue "who am I?" and "what am I doing?" are on frequent rotation, and I pretty much always come up blank. I suppose this means I'm at a point where I need to reexamine why I started in the first place. Like Anne Frank, I just wanted to get the inside stuff onto the outside, let it fall into a protected place where I might learn to examine it from a safe distance - to understand it, and maybe as a bonus along the way, be understood.

The longer I ponder on these things, the more I realise no one can really understand you better than yourself. I guess that's why all those people have written that airy-fairy crap about 'being your own best friend' and 'learning to love yourself'. It's sentimental and dripping with self-help ejaculations, but I suspect it's also kind of true. I'm not very good at this.

I thought recently about giving away the writers' group - I can't seem to connect to it the way I had hoped. I want to write about real stuff, or learn real things - but these people just want to write about smashed fucking vases, clowns in car parks and cats. But maybe that's just me, trying to arrive at the destination before even really starting the journey.

I admit it, completely and wholeheartedly, I'm about as lost as they come. I'm alone in the desert - I've broken down without any preparation, I abandoned my vehicle days ago and am now wandering aimlessly in circles, chasing mirages and my own footprints.

Spending all this time at home, feeling ugly and petty and removed from life has made me think more about the kind of things I wish for. Like an occupation that absorbs me, that takes all that I am but pushes me forward still to achieve something special - something completely and totally me. I'm not just talking about a paid gig - but a real life-long pursuit. I don't know what this could be; strangely seek.com are all out of jobs of the 'inspiring' variety. Sometimes I get so scared that I will never find anything that makes my heart soar - that I missed my chance somewhere along the way. I figure I was probably hiding my head beneath a cushion at the time my car drove past that sign post - either that, or I was too absorbed looking behind me, missing that fateful junction.

I suppose it doesn't help that I have seemingly adopted vampire habits. Sleep eludes me while the remainder of the world is resting and dreaming - instead during the day, as the sun climbs higher in the sky, my eyes grow heavy and I all but crash my body to the nearest soft spot.

I don't know what I'm going to do, but I hope to begin to figure it out really soon. If a time comes when I don't have the minutes, or inclination to write here anymore, I hope it will mean that I have moved on to a comfortable place where self-reflection and therapeutic rants are no longer necessary for the sustainability of my mental health. Until then, I'm here, maybe alone - perhaps delusional - documenting the journey. 

Peace. Out.