breaking up with Facebook

Dear Facebook,

We've been dancing around this issue for a while, but I finally have the courage to say.... it's over between us.  I just don't like you anymore.  Truth be told, I'm not sure I ever really did.

Yes, to start with you made me feel more included, more connected - you used to be fun.  Pictures of people I hadn't seen in years were enlightening, inspiring even. Travels could be tracked, virtual catch-ups were heartwarming, and even the stalking came in handy... once in a while.

But then, it became about numbers.. how many 'friends' did I have, who requested me, who didn't?
Who dumped me as their 'friend'?
Who wished me happy birthday this year?
Who 'liked' my photo?
Who commented? What did they say? What did they really mean?
Who is that?!
Who cares?

With so many 'whos' I've been asking myself why. All you do is bring self doubt and frustration to my fingertips.  For every legitimate good thing you've given me, I've scrolled through dozens, and dozens of bullshit posts, adverts and 'selfies' oh, how I hate the selfies.

And then there's the way you crept into my conversations.  Something innocent I had learnt on Facebook, would escape my consciousness and in answer to "where did you hear that?" I had to confess: I saw it on Facebook. Urrrgh I feel dirty.

You kept gnawing at my time; anytime I sat idle for long enough to reach for my phone, all I had to do was tap that little blue icon - for that 'just in case' look.  I couldn't help it, I'd become dependent on knowing everything, anything.  It has become a sickness, the desire to know things that I don't really need to know - I'd become torn between acceptance and freedom.

For I'm sure that all the 'good' reasons Facebook started, have now long since faded away.  Now we're all right back where we never wanted to be - high school.  All the cool kids who still don't want to be your 'friend', watching assholes continue to be assholes via their pictures, bullies with endless rants, and the bad spelling - so much bad spelling.

You are an enabler Facebook - you have allowed every wank-fest, whinge-fest, aren't I so funny/clever/ironic/hot/sad/happy-fest to go on, and on, and on.  And I won't take any more of it. You are a terrible 'friend' Facebook. And don't think I don't know you're using my likes and preferences as a way to shove more marketing and rubbish down my throat!

Now you see, I just don't care. I've always had one foot out of the 'normal' world anyway, the way I see it I may as well step through and get comfortable where I'm standing.

As 2013 rapidly draws to a close, a year which has been choc-full of rubbish - I'm finally cleaning up.  I'm simplifying my existence.  Who knows how long it will last?  When that first pang of guilt or fear hits, will I be tempted to rejoin the masses?  Whatever happens, just know Facebook - that in this dysfunctional relationship, it's not me, it is most definitely you.

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.

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.

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. 

in the red

I just lodged my tax return, and boy - what a bundle of non-fun that was. Oh, and what do I get for living an honest financial year? A $99 bill from the Australian Taxation Office. I suppose, how else might Julia fund her next set of shoulder pads?

My Dad laughed in the face of my horror, telling me this is actually a good thing "What's a $100 here or there... it means you've been paying just about the right about of tax!" Well, whoopdi-fucking-do! It doesn't make me want to smack him in the face any less right now.

Dear ATO, Julia and quintessential Taxman - you suck, and this is for you...

violently declaim Friday

Thing that pains me deep inside:
When I read (yet another) Facebook status from that annoying 'friend' in which she likes to be vague about a situation or individual, or some deeply personal event that only really important people are privy to.  Tonight some blah, blah... "Thank you to that special person who just knows how to fix everything.  You are so special to me, you know who you are."  Hey, hows about you fuck off and tell the person you are actually talking about, that you appreciate them, and spare the rest of us from having to experience your visual spew! Blurgh!

Some people are just so, underwhelming, and stupid.

Rant end.

reflections of a thought

Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I don't recognise the person staring back at me. It only happens occasionally, usually during quiet times, when there is no purpose to seeking out my reflection - no makeup to remove, or blemish to inspect - just an innocent glance that leads to a locking of eyes. Me out the outside, and her in the reflection, or is it the other way around?

It's as if in those moments, it is the artist looking to converse with their creation; consoling, justifying. The strokes and lines starting to build a person, a face for the world to see. I'm confused at any given time, about the face that I'm presenting to the world.

I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at my work. I am supposed to be a therapy aide - I'm supposed to be helping people - physically hands on. At the moment, and for a long time now, it has been all hands on the phone - I'm a glorified receptionist. People treat me like a receptionist, and I fucking hate it. Most people don't even see this as a problem, which is where it really annoys me. Because if I were doing it simply because I had time to fill, or I was asked to help out during a time of short staffing - that would be ok; it is the assumption, the implication that my first and foremost position is at that stupid desk.

The problem would not be being a receptionist, it's just that I'm meant to be more than that. The problem with me is that I will always want to be more than I am. I expect it of myself.

Today an overpaid specialist doctor held a small clinic from our offices and at the end of his day (which consequently was 30 minutes after the time I was supposed to finish work) he came to me to ask about bookings for his next clinic. "Who are you? What do you do?" he asked me, so I told him; "well surely then you should be doing my bookings" he said, at which point I wanted to thump him in the forehead. I wanted to scream I AM NOT HERE FOR YOU, I AM NOT HERE FOR THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF MY FUCKING TELEPHONE SKILLS, FOR YOU, OR ANYONE ELSE... I am not here... the real me, is not here. If this were a diary, this would be the point where I'd be writing dear diary, I hate my life.

Thinking about how I answered his question, my heart quickened with anxiety at the thought, what if I'm never more than I appear to be? What if I'm only ever going to be the front desk girl, when all I want to be is the brains in the back office. What if the seven people who follow this blog are the only seven people in the whole world to hear my thoughts? To know me for me? What if I'm never more than I am right now? That is a positively torturous notion and it scares the hell out of me.

SB

white flag rising

Well, it didn't take much longer than 17 seconds for me to want to slam my forehead into my workstation, upon arriving at work today.

I know that out there, somewhere, many someones are wishing for jobs, and I know that I don't really have too much cause to bitch and complain - but right now, I really, really hate my job.

It is a familiar sense that swallows me now - one part resignation, one part apathy and two parts frustration. It is a beast I can no longer outrun, and the motivation to battle onwards eludes me now. Today I felt a shift as I realised all that I wanted to do was run away and be gone from this environment - and more than being a momentary glitch, it was instead a notion that settled into my bones and made itself a home.  I haven't felt this way for a really long time, and I recognise it as the beginning of the end.

Where to from here?

SB

when the mood becomes the face

It's been a big day for a Monday.  At work, we are currently shifting the department into a new building - a building which is a manifestation of the word: suboptimal.

I want to talk about all the things that annoy me, and all the ways in which this happens - but I realise this stuff consumes me too much.  Maybe I take things too seriously, maybe I just care too much.  I don't know how to reconcile self preservation with self worth - because I want to care about my job, I want to enjoy where I am and what I'm doing, but I also don't want it to be the thing that makes a poor mold of me.

At the moment, I fear I am beginning to manifest this face:

When really, I want to be: happy driving my car...

happy washing my face...

happy...eating fruit..(?)

happy on the phone...

happy brushing my teeth.

Happy, all the time! Except maybe not when washing my face - it just doesn't seem right.

Hmmm... I don't think it's a coincidence that all these "happy" photos are stock photos that require payment for use.  Plenty of free grumpy ones though.

SB xx

Just another bad day

My top lip has a permanent red scar from the mean cold-sore of 2007. I'd like to thank my dear sister for this, as it was her bridezilla tendencies who created a very stressful three days for me during a bridesmaid dress expedition. Today, I awoke to find a very angry red scar... and very quickly a bubble... then the pain... and the itch.  Good fucking morning, bitches!

I don't even know how I got this asshole of a virus anyway.  I only wish it was through kissing some hot bad-boy in a darkened pub corner. I suspect that it may have come from a poorly washed cup, utilised by my bastard pig of an ex-boss, during my part time job, about seven years ago.  Either that, or being the born worrier that I am, the virus sidled up next to me and just decided my body was where it wanted to be. I feel that both of these hypotheses are equally possible. (Hypothesis - now there's a word I know I haven't used since 2009).

So, I woke up with a cold sore today, and bad hair... and just a plain old bad attitude.  I always feel more vulnerable to general worldly shittiness when I feel ugly - like there's a chink in my armour, and thanks to the cold sore - everyone could see the chink. This provides almost perfect proof that attitude and outlook determine so much.  See, it's interesting how I know this, but yet I am still unable to shake the pissy, frustrated attitude I find myself wearing more frequently these days.

Then, add a family drama.  Today my sister had to take my five-month old niece to see a paediatric therapist (who belongs to my department at work), for follow up on a fairly benign issue.  I hear that at this appointment the stupid, old, bitter therapist tells my sister some horrific things about the state of my nieces head - introducing words like 'brain surgery' and 'never in all my years'.  At first I was a mixture of concern and anger - and then selfish thoughts, like why me... I can't take any more today. Then I got upset because I knew this 'news' had sent my sister into an episode of tears and poorly informed google-ing. So, I was trying to calmly talk it out with a co worker who I trust, but then of course, my voice starts to shake and I get teary - because in my heart I'm fearing for my niece, but in my head I'm wondering how someone with half a centuries experience can be so fucking insensitive with a new mother.

I just get so scared when I think about anything being wrong with my nephew or niece.  Like a parent, I want to protect them from bad things.  I don't want to see them disadvantaged, hurt or sick. I am genuinely scared, and they aren't even my kids. I also can't help but feel a little responsible; because of where I work, I encouraged my sister to seek out assistance with the initial problem... and now she's just in a state of utter panic, because of what my co-worker said to her.

There are just some days where I wish I could melt into the walls unseen - remove myself from waking life and just be deleted for a little while.  I wish I could have done this today, and taken my lovely niece with me.

I am so worried about all of this; I hope that it all turns out to be nothing - but that giant neon 'WHAT IF' hangs above my head.  I guess all I can do is hope, and pray and love the shit out of the people I care about, while I can - because the scariest truth of them all is that I can't control anything.

SB xx

got gumption?

I had a timely encounter with the Shit-Face who inspired these spewings today.

I had the great misfortune of arriving at work the same time as she did - and the greater pity of her 'seeing' me. Jesus! Happy Tuesday to me! But, as they say... when life gives you lemons... "Hello" I said (I couldn't completely ignore her - I'm not advocating complete rudeness here!)

Why she bothered waiting behind for me, I do not know.  Now don't think I didn't try to straggle - play the whole whoops - did I leave my car unlocked?...handbrake disengaged?...fuel tank on fire? thing. No avail.

Resume: I said "Hello Shit-Face - howyagarn?.." (you know, the obligatory 'how are you going' you say, when you're trying to appear polite). That's. It.

We walked the further 500 metres from the car park, to my department and I didn't instigate a single word of time wasting, awkward avoiding, chit-chat.  It was hard for me, I generally make it my business to avoid awkward silences. But, NO, I thought.  Lets just play here, and see if she actually says anything - asks me anything.  She didn't. She retains said title - Shit-Face.

This might be fun.

So, when life gives you lemons...make lemonade; on the proviso that you drink it all your fucking self!

SB xx

C.B.A

I have decided, that there are just some people in this world who need not be bothered with. This particular breed of human are selfish, self involved, rude, arrogant bastards - the kind of people who if, say, during an evacuation, they didn't make it to the muster point, you probably wouldn't be too concerned about risking life and limb by going back. I'm pretty sure these people aren't even liked by their mothers - that is if they have them, and they weren't spawned from the bottom of a stagnant pool of water.

People like this make me really, really mad - because I do not understand their drive to be this way. I don't think it's hard to be courteous. Most of all, I hate the way these bastards push other people down.

There's a particular character at work, who is just like this.  I have tried - whenever our paths collide, to be friendly, show an interest - but this has never, ever been returned. In fact, if this person ever asked me how I was, I'd probably lapse into a deepened state of shock. Her asshole-ness was further deepened when she was promoted to a senior position at work, so now she thinks she actually has proof that she is better than everyone else... and I'm pretty sure somewhere on her imaginary business card, she would have "shit don't stink" following her name.  I don't say this lightly, so when I say it, I mean it - she's a fucking bitch.

Why do people like this bother me so? I suppose it's because meek and mild people like myself are expected to feel bad about themselves around these characters; and because for small slices of my life, I allow these people to make me genuinely doubt my worthiness as a person. I. Hate. That.

So, power to me!  I declare that this woman is not worthy of my nice.  I will no longer make any effort with her. I know that this probably won't bother her in the slightest, but it'll sure as shit make me feel better.  It takes a lot to drive me to this amount of madness and cold strategy, so you can be assured this woman is a worthy recipient... or non-recipient as it happens.

I just can't be arsed with people like this, and refuse to be treated like a piece of crap, over and over again. I'm not a mean person - not really; I just figure that people like this eventually cop what's coming to them - one way or another.



SB xx

some people are real problems

Going by today's experiences - I say with complete confidence, that upon waking this morning, approximately 30% of the worlds people decided they were going to be assholes today.

Lets see - there was the nurse who tore strips off me for interrupting her break to provide her with some handover, for, lets see - HER PATIENT. I accept you might be overworked lady, but you know what? I'm not the one you need to get angry at. And I accept I probably don't factor very highly on your 'people that matter' mental list - but how about some decency for a fellow human, who by all accounts has always been, at the very least, courteous to you?

Then there was the guy on the phone who not so eloquently expressed his desire not to be seen at my workplace anymore.  I'm sorry jerk-face, did our messages concerning YOUR HEALTH throw you into a state of agitation?  You know what agitates me? When I have to waste ridiculous amounts of time and resources chasing wankers like yourself around, all because you can't be assed responding to voice message number one.

You know what else shitty people - it's Monday for me too.  I didn't sleep that well the last couple of nights, I'm fighting an internal battle with sputum and I generally don't want to be at work most days. But I still conduct myself with some manner of professionalism - I smile when I answer the phone, I'm helpful and polite even when given cause not to be - this is all actually part of being an adult. A semi-functioning, adult human being.

On days like these, it pays to remember that some people have real problems.

SB xx

that's what you get

Things are crazy at work right now - we are in the process of moving into a different location - so I've been doing a lot of packing and lifting all week. We have been trying to achieve things, but are being held up by incompetent or absent tradies - it's so frustrating. I do believe the art of organisation has been lost by most.

I am also mega angry with management and process.  I applied and sat for an interview for a position in my current department - I did this back in March.  I STILL don't have an answer.  Forget that while the position sits unfilled, I have to try and do the work of two people; forget that, as an adult, I need to plan things - so factors like whether or not I have a 75 hour or a 50 hour fortnight, kinda matter. Forget that if I were a doctor, surgeon or token project officer of fuck knows what, I would not be left waiting 29 weeks for a resolution.  It is bullshit.  And what's worse, whenever the subject is raised, my absolutely useless mangers manager, tells me these ridiculous vague lies which are just insulting to all involved.  I'm supposed to believe that the regional director just has so much fucking paperwork on her over sized desk that she can't get to the bottom of the pile in what, 20 weeks? Someone is telling me porkies, and I dislike this immensely.  Every time I see that stupid woman in a newspaper photograph, or quoted in a newspaper article, or her name at the bottom of a global email - I want to tell her to get her overpaid, over sized ass to her desk and sign my god-damned paperwork.  Is that so much to ask?!

Why I even went for this job, I don't know.  The pay is no better and there's just as many menial jobs as before - but I cared about people, so I wanted to do it full time.  These management people make me hate it, they make me want to leave - they make me want to hurt them the way they hurt the little people like me.  I imagine seeing my paperwork enclosed in a dull beige file, squashed at the bottom of a paperwork pile - where the regional director looks upon it, sees my nobody name, and nobody title and decides she'll leave it until next week.

What all of this says to me is that 'they' don't care, that 'they' can't be trusted and that 'they' do not appreciate me, or people like me.

Oh boy, I feel a naughty letter brewing inside of me - so they best hope I don't find a wealthy man to sweep me off my feet and marry me - because if I do, I will be telling them where they can stick that paperwork, along with that job!

SB xx

about face

Facebook shits me to tears! Sometimes I wonder why I am even on there - and then I remember the power of the Facebook stalk, and it keeps me hooked. BUT, my utilisation of this electronic popularity contest is beside the point.  My point is, Facebook enables stupid people - and while I'm all for equal rights - however, stupidity, the kind that you see on Facebook is highly offensive!

I've come up with some simple rules and guidelines, that I wish the world would take note of.

1) There shall be no abbreviations - ever. No LOL, OMG, OMFG, TGIF, CU.  I abhor these, and will have none of it. If it is a thought worth declaring publicly, then write it out in full form.

2) Thou shall learn the difference between there/their/they're and use these accordingly.  It's really not that difficult.

3) Learn to spell - for God's sake.  It frightens me that everyone under the age of say 22, are seemingly illiterate.  These people will be in charge of important shit someday.

4) We all know that the Facebook 'friend' is a term that is used very loosely - however don't be one of these people that request or accept someone, only to dump them months down the road. It's rude, plus it kind of sucks balls for the person who is being dumped. So, 'accept' wisely y'all.

I just need to believe that there is some intelligence and good taste left in the world.

SB xx

quietly devastated

I sent a very brief email to John today - not expecting much. I just wanted to say goodbye really. Deep down, I wanted him to answer, but I didn't know he would. He did, and I got the heartbreak I expected. He tried to be lovely about it, but he wanted to be honest. He said I am "a good friend" and that's how he "wants it to stay". I guess I knew this would be the response I'd get - but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some small attachment of hope that it would go the other way. Because he addressed all this via email - I had to read this in public, at work...and somehow keep myself together enough to continue functioning - or at least pretending. It was one of the hardest moments I can recall.

So, electronic heartbreak - its speed is deceptive - you forget that such a mighty blow can be delivered from such an unassuming act of clicking 'send'. Wow. It was so hard to read; but it was never going to be easy was it? I am torn, and saddened beyond imagination. When I think about it too much, a feeling of nausea washes over me - a heavy stone lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as I recall the dream sequences, that will forever more be confined to my imagination. Ouch. That's a lot of images to re-write.

As the day wore on, thoughts of his email cropped up less and less; until home time, when I knew I'd be free of distraction, free to feel it. Except I stifle it still. If I were alone, or in the company of someone who knew what I had done, I would been a mess. But there is no one to share this pain with. Besides, I created it, I should be the one to carry it to it's grave, on my own.

I don't want to give up - on life and love and possibility. I really, really thought he was 'it' and it's just really hard right now to think about finding someone real to fill that void. If I thought he was real, but he wasn't - how hard is it going to be to find the actual real thing?

I'm so scared my destiny is to become a weird cat lady. Do you suppose this is how cat ladies are made? With stories such as these? I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be second, third best - I want to be somebodys first. Where am I going to find them?

I've been warned a couple of times about the amorous nature of the Italian and Greek men - it's not something I would normally seek, and I have my doubts about my ability to be on the receiving end of such affections, however, at this moment I think I could really use the ego boost. Just a little one.

On the inside I am a little girl crying in a heap on the floor, and all I want is for somebody to collect me into their arms, wipe my tears, dust me off, set me on my feet and tell me someday this will be ok, and this feeling will go away.

I wish I had the ability to split myself in two, scoop my sadder half into my arms and tell her it's all going to be ok, eventually. That this will pass. Except I can't do this, and I don't know if I can see 'ok' right now. It all hurts so much.

We've all got stories haven't we, of the ones that got away? I guess it's whether we let the story define and shape us. Right now, the wave of the emotion is sweeping me away.

I look forward to a time, when going to bed, does not mean crying until my eyes burn - when I can hear his name and not flinch; when I can look upon this and say it's actually ok.

SB xx

blossom every broken part

I'm at tethers end - ready for the world to stop spinning, or at least for me to sub-out for a while; sit on the bench and watch the rest of the team play.  I have so much going on in my head - it's a minefield.

Work is really nightmarish right now.  I've been waiting months to hear about a position I applied for, in the place I already work.  I think they drag it out, because they can - because they don't actually care.  It's an environment at the moment, where everyone is just at cracking point - how long can people expect to sustain that?  You can't rely on 'fight' forever - at some point, you have to take the 'flight' option - right? We aren't designed to fight continually.

I've been sticking it out for the longest time.  Hoping things would get better.  Staying in part, because of laziness - because I didn't want to have to meet new people; because I am comfortable where I am.  I also stay because I like my unique job and I won't find another like it. I don't know what I am going to do, but I don't know if I can put up with much more.

I have one week of work left, before I set off overseas.  Most recently, I had been consumed with nervousness about travelling and packing, and all the other stuff that comes with facing new experiences. But now, I wonder how I'll manage the next week of work.  The distance between here and there seems so vast.  I just want to be gone.

I hope that exploring new places and cultures will help me to figure out what I want - from life; from myself.  I hope that it will lend me a drive to get more out of myself, than just to be standing at the end of each day.

I haven't heard a thing from John - which could mean nothing, or it could indicate everything. But, there is nothing I can do about it.  I express posted my heart on Monday - it may come back to me marked "return to sender"... I guess it's the chance I take.

SB xx

99 problems

This past week has felt like an eternity (well, almost). After Monday, I was ready for it to be Thursday.

I am pleased to announce I did not sprout a second head, or any parasitic organisms, after using the lucky-dip cream on my face.  I guess you'd say that's a win.

My job interview went well (I think)... although I went through my answers way too quick.  Days after the interview, I started to question whether I even wanted the job anymore. I found some old documents shelved away - snapshots of a time when my position was different, and when it was morphing into the mess it is now.  Do I really want to sign on for that?  Am I strong enough to try and change it?  There are some days, when I think the answer to both questions is 'yes'.. but then, there are other days - when I just want to tell the lot of them to get fucked.  Today was one of those days.

It's difficult working in a place, where I am so stunted.  Most of us non-university educated, self identified plebs accept our place in the world, we get that we don't make as much money, we've made different choices, we are simply less important.  However, just like the I can poke fun of my family but you can't universal rule - it doesn't make it ok for outsiders to share these opinions; to infer these beliefs about me. On my drive home, I started to think about the changing attitudes around me.. about the hollow words that come out of my bosses mouth from time to time, token gifts about how amazing us support staff are - like I'm supposed to be grateful for that.  It made me sick - when will people learn: actions speak louder than words.  Actions scream.  Give me the quiet, gentle, behind-the-scenes creature over the showy shithead who achieves nothing - any day. Any. Day.

During the week, my highly expensive, almost brand new apple item died - this was a tense point in the week. I about cried myself to sleep the night it happened, purely because it was another thing added to my list of 'things I had to figure out'.

Some of the old patients I encountered at work this week were asking after John - they missed him.  I flitted between missing him and loathing him much of the week.  Still disappointed about the non-ending; torn between wanting to be reminded of him and wishing to forget he existed - everywhere I looked, were more tokens of John; everyone wanted to reminisce - I just wanted to erase.  Seeing his updates on facebook served as more reminders.  Like watching the part of a horror movie you know is going to damage you, but yet not wanting to look away for fear of missing something life-altering... I can't help but read the things I know will only upset me.

And, to top it off - possibly most devastating of all - it looks like I'm losing my hairdresser!  What a week.

SB xx

screams and whispers

I have to plan his farewell.  It's quite the cruel twist - seeing as I'm probably going to be the only person sitting at that function, willing him to stay.  Two weeks - 14 total days - 9 actual contact days until I see him for the last time.  I tried very hard not to be like this, not to take on the 'woe is me' persona.  Logically, I know the score.  My head now just wants to protect my heart - I just need him gone, so that I don't have to hear him talk anymore about his next adventures.  Part of me is happy that he is happy, but an overwhelming part of me just wants to crawl into a dark quiet corner to try and forget about the way my world used to be when he was in it.  I wonder how long it will take, before I forget the way his clicking joints sound as he walks the halls, before I forget the sound of his voice, the colour of his eyes... those lovely eyes.

I know there are two options here.  One, tell him - just spill it all - every detail, every awkwardness, out in the air, to be carried away by the birds.  But I can't do that.  Two, suck it up - deal with it for 9 more days and piece myself together afterwards.

I know, life could be so much worse, in so many numerous ways. I am grateful for the good I have - but I am also resentful of this beautiful green-eyed thing that is not mine.

Reality is, planning this function means thinking about him more than I should, and more than my mental health can take.

Sucking it up, as we speak.

SB xx

LoveSICK

This kind of sickness I am afflicted with, is worse than any other passing illness. No, I'm not the good love sick - I am the bad, kill me now - sick of lovey dovey, kissy kissy, love game, love sick.

Look, maybe I've got my bitter suit on - or maybe I've just had it up to my eyeballs with the bullshit dramas of the people around me. What must be realised, is that when my co-workers go through their "he loves me, he love me not" moments/hours/days/weeks - they take me with them too. AND I don't even get a break when they are off again, because then there's another miserable prevailing mood - one of ice and hate.

Yeah, there's probably some jealously, I'll be the first to admit - I wanted him for a whole year. Most of the time I think I'm over it - but it's days like today that make it really hard.

Kids, please - don't subject me to anymore beating around the proverbial love bush. I just gotta say shit, or get off the pot!

SB xx