the reap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shadow self

I am so profoundly broken.

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

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

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

I am at the end of my tether.

artist unknown

Elastic Heart

I've had the need for an elastic heart of late.  It is currently in a kind of misshapen heap, sort of what happens when a pair of undies gets too old, and when they finally succumb to the scrap heap, the released elastic is bubbled, tired and breaking in parts.

I wonder if my heart will be the same again?

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.

I hate public pools

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

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

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

really? what's the point here?

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

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

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

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

shit happens to everybody?

Last week, on the day I found out I would have to stay confined to a 'moon-boot' for the next six weeks I was feeling more than a little sorry for myself.  Thinking about how I had arrived in this shitty spot almost one year ago, and how I was still trying to dig myself out, one handful of dirt at a time.  Wondering if I would ever see an end to pain, medical bills, heat packs, muscle rubs or hydrotherapy pools 7am on a Sunday. If I'd ever get asked the question "and how have you been this week?" without having to pay the person afterwards.

On this day I took a work call, from a guy wanting to change his appointment. He was a friendly guy, it was an easy request and I was happy and able to oblige.  And out of nowhere he expresses to me how happy he is that he is getting better.  That there was a period in the past where he thought he never would, how he wished, now looking back, that he had written down just how awful and hopeless he had felt, because now he could say "look, it turned out ok".

I didn't know this guy, he didn't know me - but he delivered a message that I needed to hear.

So, it's a journey. I suppose for now I console myself with the idea that not every ones journey is the same road, or the same distance. It just is what it is.

"Do not chase people. Be you and do your own thing and work hard. The right people who belong in your life will come to you, and stay." - Wu Tang Clan

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?

these days just go on and on

I've had some truly shitty moments this weekend.  Like the time my bank card got swallowed by that fucker ATM - not through any fault of my own, but because my card's edge didn't quite align with the plastic liner surrounding the card slot. Because I had to show up at just that precise moment, use the ATM on the left, instead of the right (when in doubt 'to the left to left' thanks again Beyonce)... because the man before me and the lady after me had no problemo at all - I have to deduce that the issue here was me.

Or then at 5.30 this morning, as the birds started greeting the new day with their chirpy chirps, and the cool leaves were being warmed by touches of the sun, while sleepily attempting that tricky manoeuvre from my left side lying position, to my back, I somehow managed to crack my neck and spend the next hour sobbing into my sheets, and the remainder of my day almost exclusively attached to my home made wheat bag. Say it with me now... mother fucker.

Yet, I will not crumble, I will not succumb, because it is an absolute necessity for me to believe that these things are happening to me for a specific reason that I cannot yet identify. 

violent tendencies

Recently I had admitted to my psychologist that I was becoming increasingly frustrated with my boss, and that I was beginning to struggle with hiding those feelings.  I thought that perhaps these feelings were 'seeping' out of me, and being picked up those around me and making for a more tense atmosphere. Therefore creating a big ol' dirty circle of angst.

In order to diffuse these feelings, she suggested that whenever I was around the aforementioned boss, I should try to think of something funny to lighten my mood, similar to the imaginings of J.D in the TV series 'Scrubs'.

I saw this movie "Identity Thief" recently, and while it was not a terribly great movie, it did contain the inspiration for my 'mood-lightening' thought.  See 0:36 below for the golden moment.

The only problem is that this didn't work for very long, and my 'mood-lightening' thought has now taken a violent turn.  When my boss is hovering over my shoulder, or ignoring my transferred calls, or being dismissive, I now like to imagine that the sandwich-maker is being hurled at her head - by me.  As she's walking past my work station.... as she's exiting the door... even a surprise blow as she's sitting at her desk with her back to me - I imagine smacking her square in the melon with that platinum silver sandwich press. That's bad, right?

I don't think this is quite what the psychologist had in mind.

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.

the yellow flag

Today was ok, until I went to my physical therapy session.  The therapist who I have been seeing for months is about to leave for a four week holiday, and as she spoke about not knowing where to go with my treatment, handing me over to someone new - I could see her lips moving, she was smiling gently and trying to be respectful, but all I could hear was "you're broken and I don't know how to fix you." I cried.  This would be what 'they' call a 'yellow flag'... I'm a yellow flag-er and that is an identity I can never outrun.  I hate it.

People on the outside usually only see things in black and white, but there is so much grey in between.  I live in the grey.

I know, I know, I've been stuck in this hole for a long time.  I've forgotten how to write, some days I can't remember how to see the funny things, the quirky things that separate the good days from the bad.

Maybe I should 'be' the yellow flag, own it, surrender to it - walk the streets talking to myself, scaring little children. No - I might have a yellow flag, but I have loads of other colours in my arsenal too, and I refuse to be defined by shitty, non-committing yellow.

if you've nothing nice to say

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, maybe 'pain' is good.

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

she laughs at the days to come

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the fool

My Dad says to me the other night, "why don't you go and learn something - go and be an expert on something... I'm tired of hearing how unhappy you are at your job.." I suppose he was trying to be helpful, cheers Dad.

Truth is, I have been letting my bad days seed, and like a dandelion in a strong breeze those seeds have spread and settled on everything around me.  I didn't intend to involve other people, but I guess without realising it, I've been raining on their parades too.  I've just been trying to manage from day to day, and I think I've let my attitude slip in the process.

Whenever I take a peek outside my little box, all I seem to find are roadblocks.  I tried to meditate on fearlessness last night... it was challenging because I don't think I've ever felt that way before.

It's easy for me to just "put-up" with the way things are - to think maybe I'm not worthy to expect anything more out of life.  Maybe this is self-punishment, fear or shame?

Shame is being told that your inside 'stuff' is starting to seep out. Realising that it's no longer mine, but that it can be seen from the outside. Who's the fool?

Image by Ryan Learoyd

freedom on my mind

My boss has what she calls "intolerant days".  Days where seemingly anything and anyone can be the instigator of her intolerance - depending upon the way she feels about the animal/vegetable/mineral at any given time.

Every now and then, I get hit with a shard of her intolerance, and not only does it confuse and insult me - it also makes me feel a bit crap. It gets to me mostly because I'm forever trying to do my best to function and move and talk and engage when all I really want to do is none of those things. Most of the time, I don't feel like being the shit-kicker in the organisation, but I'll be sure to receive a swift reminder at those times I fail to remember my place.

I don't necessarily want to be the highest paid person in the building, the one with the biggest title, or the greatest sway - but what I would like is respect. Not to be second guessed, and not to be the target of someones frustration just because she's having a momentary lapse of tolerance.

bad blogger!

It's been so long since I visited - I feel a little like a neglectful parent who has been allowing her child to spend their waking hours fixed in front of a television watching 'Dora the (why is my child being exposed to Spanish) Explorer', all the while feeding it a poor diet of toasted cheese sandwiches and flavoured milk.

I haven't been looking after this place, but at the same time I haven't really been feeling nourished by life, so I felt I had nothing of value to share.  The saga that is my health continues, and although most of the medical appointments have slowed down, there is still a question mark which looms in the vicinity of me.  I am almost probably normal, and definitely a complete mystery.  Oh well, if you can't be pretty, be an enigma, right?

Work sucks. Sucks balls. Sucks everything.  I wake up each day with the urge to turn over and call in sick - most days I don't (call in sick)... but sometimes I think the unhappiness sits within me turning rotten, and every now and then I become septic.  I am aware that lacking enthusiasm to rise to the occasion of a new work day is probably unhealthy - I am looking and hoping for a sign, a chance, an opportunity.. a winning lotto ticket.

There has been loss around me lately.  Mine and others.  I lost a pet of mine one month ago - it quietly devastated me, as I didn't know how to reconcile that I might be a bad owner with the fact that I now had a soft furry hole blown in my heart.  My nephew started school a few weeks ago - I inwardly began to grieve for the challenges I know he'll come to face, while outwardly I try to stand tall and look the world direct in the eye (at least when he's around) trying to instil resilience, belief in him. I witnessed a lady today, frail, bandaged and broken, wearing no shoes and a cobalt blue hospital gown five sizes too big, break today - cry quietly as if ashamed, in the corridor of the ward because she'd just had enough of not being enough. I felt like hugging her because I know what that's like. Wading in a land of absence is really fucking depressing, and can make it hard to look on that bright side... or to even see the bright side.

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')

Bah! Humbug!

by Sour Taffy (source)

I just can't do it.  No matter what I do, the 'spirit' of Christmas eludes me.  The season has all but snuck up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder like a friend long time missed - but instead of embracing it, I feel a bit 'meh' about it all.

Perhaps the collective hours I have spent sitting in doctors waiting rooms lately has sucked the joy right outta me; or because my world's just not as exciting without eye make-up, or maybe it's because time seems to be moving so freakin' fast these days - Tuesdays turn to Thursdays, and Monday mornings pop up in a flash and all the while I feel like I'm moving nowhere.  Then there's that pesky Mayan calendar theory that might just blow my world to smithereens - which would personally be a giant piss-off, seeing as I spent hours yesterday wrapping presents - oh, and because I'd like to fall in love before I die. Call me a pessimist, but I don't think 6, or 19 days is going to be quite enough time for me to achieve that one.

At the moment things are all lemon juice and All Bran, as opposed to 'beer and skittles'.  If everyone else's life is a party, I'm the one stuck in a toilet cubicle.

in the eye of the beholder

I've pretty much been lounging around the interior of the house for five days, high on painkillers, wearing my pajama bottoms all day - yeah, you heard me, and sporting big black retro-shaped sunglasses like an alcoholic movie-star under house arrest. I'm that cool.

No, in truth I've been hiding in rooms with closed curtains and quiet lights because I had eye surgery.  The pajama bottoms are pure comfort and convenience - and the sunglasses, well, aside from helping with the sunlight situation, they also provide a slightly more glamorous feel, than my bright red swollen eye lends me.

In my mind, I like to think I look like this..

But when the glasses come off, I look a lot like this...

I have one more weeks reprieve, before I have to put on some actual pants and face the real world like a proper adult. It's not terribly easy looking at the world right now, especially when your brave face is not a particularly pretty one. It's times like these I wish I were the kind of person who didn't care what people thought of me.

an empty cage

This morning we found one of our family pet birds dead on the floor of his cage. He arrived one Christmas Eve, some fifteen years ago - another of my Mother's infamous 'bird phases' - she was going to teach this long-billed Corella to talk. He would be called Jake. Some time later we would come to question Jake's gender - as Jake never really got the hang of the whole talking business.

The sight of a lifeless animal, head crashed to the floor is not a nice one.  It's a vague idea that might cross your mind briefly, whenever you are reminded of the special animals in your life, when you remember they won't be here forever - but in those moments you quickly shake the picture from your mind, to think about another day - some distance in the future. We don't know what happened to Jake - but he was supposed to outlive us all, we had heard they could live for 100 years, and supposedly he was to be my inheritance one day, when my parents would no longer be around to look after him.

Jake was an odd creature - a little damaged like the rest of the members of my family.  A plump body, about the size of an AFL football, covered in brilliant white waxy feathers; beady black eyes, surrounded by a circle palette of old-lady-blue-rinse coloured crinkly skin, and a blush of coral on his 'cheeks'. And gracing the top of his head, a scaly intimidating crest that would rise whenever he was mad, or rain-happy, or scared - and when it rose, the slightest salmon pink shade could be detected beneath the feathers of his crown.

Jake could be an unadulterated pain in the ass.  He and I had a strained relationship at times.  With his fiercely hooked long beak, I could never understand why he would be spooked by gentle doves and cockatoos that got too close to the border of his world - his cage. His squawk would resound in the tiny depths of your cavernous ears - he was bloody loud, and shall we say, generous with his voice.  Whenever my little nephew would get scared by Jake's noise, I would simply tell him "it's ok, Jake's just singing".

He disliked small quick children, people wearing sunglasses and aggressive folk who tried to make him 'sing', along with the aforementioned doves/magpies/crows and any other animals that might get too close; he didn't seem to like my big camera much either. He loved sunflower seeds, apple and spreading his wings in the rain; he was also quite partial to a head rub (from the right person).  It was moments when the summer rain would trickle down the front of his cage, Jake would cling to the wire - wings outstretched, feathers flapped, crest high and proud - I think doing some pre-programed ancestral dance of the Corellas - it was these moments, I liked him best.

"JAKE! Shutup Jake! SHUUUUT UPP!" We all screamed many, many times throughout his life.  I feel a little bad now, for cursing him so much. I loved to watch him waddle on the bottom of his cage, like something from a prehistoric age - he was clumsy and cute in his quiet moments.

Before having to leave for work this morning, I had a little cry and I tried to comfort my Mum, who would without doubt be feeling the loss more than me.  I would see my Mum, red faced, watery eyed, briefly rise to look through the kitchen window to see the cage Jake used to occupy, only to remember it was empty now, and she would weep again, recalling the loss.  My Dad left for work, sombre and stone faced; I had the impression he would hold it together, until reaching the confines of his car, or office, where he would be free to shed his tears, it's what I would do, if I were him.

He was just a bird, a noisy, funny little bundle of feathers and beak, but he was a part of the family.  Sometimes I think the larger the animal, the more space it takes up in your heart, and the bigger the shattering shock to your gut when you see them fallen and unmoving.  It's easy to forget the small parts that make up the stage setting of your life - the things, people, creatures, trees - most unnamed, go unnoticed until the day they aren't there anymore. They bring colour and shape to our existence, and leave holes of various sizes when they cease to be.  It hurts when things like this happen, the endings always so much more vivid than the journey - but they enrich our lives in untold ways, and I suppose in these moments of upset, that's what we need to focus on.