the damage

I lost a good friend of mine to cancer recently. For the past couple of years, it was a battle that defined her, and it finally ceased on 30 June 2016. I'd learned a few days before that she was in a bad way, so the bad news just kept rolling.

I've been finding it difficult to come to terms with what a loss like this means to me, and to the wider world.  You see, she was quite a wonderful creature. A fiercely loyal friend, passionate, caring, protective and unafraid. She was the first real friend I had that used "fuck" a lot, and it delighted me.

She was the kind of person, who really wanted to know how you were going when she asked; she didn't waste words; she didn't cower away from her differences to make her life easier. She was courageous - even before the cancer. The world positively needs more people like her in it, as do I.

My grief has been tinged with the sourness of guilt.  We lived several hundred kilometres away - and since her diagnoses she would decline my haphazard requests for a catch up. I recognised that she probably didn't want me to see her, and while I respect that, I also wished I had tried harder. To add insult to injury, I couldn't attend her funeral.

M was one of those special people, you meet and you know instantly that you have found a member of your tribe.  I think, selfishly, what upsets me the most is that I won't have this wonderful spirit in my corner anymore (not physically at least). In this war called life, I have lost one of the most valuable members of my army.  I don't have a lot of people in my tribe, and M's absence is a massive void.

In a frantic letter I wrote to her before she passed, I told her that I see reminders of her everywhere.  In encounters with strangers, in bold reds, Greek reminders, moments of compassion and sharp witted folk. God, how I will miss her.

Years ago, we went to see Gotye together - the show was held in some amphitheatre in the bush.  There were so many rules - we had to abandon pillows and blankets, and we had to deal with pushy hipsters and assholes too.  At the end of the concert, as the line of cars abandoning the empty stage stretched the horizon, we parked, turned up the music - opened all the doors to the car and danced in the dark field until the cars went away. That was a very M thing to do.

The last time we saw each other in the flesh - we'd spent quite a few hours together, had a meal and a good chat, she dropped me back at my hotel, and before she left, she hugged me so hard. I was crying my eyes out, she said "I love you" and I told her I loved her back.  We held each other for such a long time.   It wasn't long after that, that she texted me with the news of her cancer.  I'm sure she knew that last time we met, I think she spared me, I think maybe she knew that was the last time we were going to see each other. I wish I'd known.

I don't know what happens to people when they die, but I refuse to believe they stop 'being'.  I hope they go somewhere nice, where they don't have any bad thoughts anymore; a place where they don't have to worry about pain, fear or loss. Where their spirit is free to flit and meander wherever it so desires. Perhaps as we live we leave invisible star dust trails woven in the people and places we encounter. I keep M in my heart, and there she shall stay for as long as I am waking.

Good bye beautiful M.

..No one's ever lost forever
When they die they go away
But they will visit you occasionally
Do not be afraid
No one's ever lost forever
They are caught inside your heart
If you garden them and water them
They make you what you are
No one's ever lost forever
When they die they go away
But they will visit you occasionally
Do not be afraid
No one's ever lost forever
They are caught inside your heart
If you garden them and water them
They make you what you are.
~ Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra

thinking music

I'm having trouble putting words to thoughts, so here is an appropriate song in its place...
Montaigne is awesome. Enjoy.

giving words wings

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

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

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

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

supreme source

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

always me

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

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

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

I hope to dwell here awhile.

Illustration by Lisa Falzon

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

love after love after hate

artist unknown

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome

and say, sit here. Eat. 

You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you have ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

“Love After Love” by Derek Walcott

a Sunday kind of love

It's all getting very serious around my end of the woods. It seems I'm surrounded by folks who are making all sorts of mature commitments, like getting married and/or having babies. And while I'm terribly happy for these people, it also kindles that little loneliness candle I have tucked away.

While I'm day dreaming of a different life, or falling in immediate love with inappropriate, unattainable men (such as the lovely Italian stallion with the delicious melty-brown eyes who owns the restaurant I sometimes visit, 600kms away...) I've realised all I really want is a simple Sunday kind of love. 

unfortunate one

'Copper' by Adam Cullen (source)

I recently finished reading a book by Erik Jensen called "Acute Misfortune: the life and death of Adam Cullen". Before coming to this book, I didn't know anything about Adam Cullen.  Still, the story of this tortured artist, and the writing of Erik Jensen compelled me to finish the book in record time.

While I was reading the book, I would find myself overcome with an intense lack of hope, void of any positive thought at all.  It was only after a couple of successive nights reading, that I figured out it was the books contents which had me at these terrible lows. I'm not sure a book has ever had such an influence on me, that I could be coerced into such a mindset without realising it.

Adam Cullen was this completely unlikeable, manic and abrasive human being who seemed to seek out the things and feelings in life that send most people reeling.  He seemed to be driven by some childish narcissistic view of the world, pushing his friends, family and even the author to breaking point. It seemed that he did whatever he felt, when he felt that way.  He was un-apologetically himself - whatever he chose to be that moment.

Looking at his art, you can see these things about him.  Things are painted seemingly with raw abandon - messy strokes and drips and a crudeness I'm not artsy-clever enough to describe.

I'm not sure I learnt much about what made Adam Cullen tick, but I appreciated the insight into his world and mind, and I think highly of the author, Erik Jensen, who painted his own picture of Adam Cullen with disarming honesty and authenticity.

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?

Vale Bonnie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Rest in peace my little Biscuit.

the other f word

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

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

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

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

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

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

river flows in you

I usually feel completely lost; utterly frozen in some ordinary life, scattered with just enough crap to make me sometimes sad.  In flickering moments, dotted throughout the threaded line of my existence, I get a strange feeling, like this place in time was made just for me. I get a glimpse of the plan, like the Angels accidentally dropped their notes, and between blinks I get to see it, and know that maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I'm learning all the time. And then, sometimes I regress, I hate where I am, and my situation.  Like when my sore foot is being a bitch, or a migraine comes to visit, and stays awhile. But, I'm reading a lot about peoples versions of life, and pain, and peace - and I understand we all have our shit. I want to become a better, happier person, in spite of my shit, maybe even because of it. Wouldn't that be ironic?

And to you, The Boy Who Stopped, I realised that while meeting you was refreshing and scary, sort of like the rush of sensations you get when you slide into a really cold pool, I wasn't ready for anything more.  I thought I might've been, but I wasn't.  So it's sort of ok that you stopped talking. Because I don't know really who I am, and I don't like myself very much - and that's in the pile labelled 'shit I need to figure out' and I'll be forever locked out of the next stage of life until that job is complete.

So I'm a work in progress, and I suspect you are too. I do hope our paths will cross again, when the time is right.

to the other boy

I spoke to John yesterday - not on purpose of course.  He called work, and I was the only sucker around to answer the phone.

"Hello StrangeBird, my name is John - I used to work there, I'm not sure if you remember me..."
(yes, the conversation really started like this)
(what, like I send intense love letters to all my previous co-workers, and then forget who they are?!)
(fuckwit)
Blah-blah and pleasantries followed, and then when he met his quota of appropriate interest shown, he got down to business and revealed what he wanted.

Of all the days in a month, of all the minutes, seconds, hours contained within a single work day, he had to call at precisely that moment.  As I was talking to him, I was aware it was awkward, but it wasn't until a few minutes after I put down the phone, that unease rippled through my gut.

Of course, he doesn't have the power he once had over me.  And it's only now, with the benefit of distance and time that I can see the cracks in his presentation, and the massive voids of clarity that once impeded my view of the world with him in it.  But, he's still the first boy who ever really broke my heart. And that warrants a slight pause I suppose.

Hearing his voice, and the suggestion that I might have removed him from my memory, sort of made me wish that I had; that I could have.  It made me want to change - transform like caterpillar to butterfly, and fly away - forgetting what things were like, before I had my wings.

That night, I pondered the experience before pushing it to outskirts of my mind, where it belongs. And it made me think of the 'other' boy I'd met recently. The wonderful conversationalist, and part-time yogi who found me on the dating website those weeks ago. I still haven't heard from him.

I know I should forget him.  But, there's a small part of me who holds onto a speck of hope that he will contact again, when he is ready.  And, if we were talking, I might tell him about what happened yesterday. I might tell him I write these posts to him.

I want to hear from you RiverBoy, so incredibly much.  I don't know if you'll ever be in the mood to listen to me again, but maybe I'll keep the conversation going anyway. Just until you tell me to shut up.

Friday on my mind

It's cold outside, but I sit here snuggled and warm in my pastel pajamas. I lack the energy to think of anything remotely interesting to do on the weekend that lies before me - but the possibility alone keeps me high. I realise I give my heart secretly, but far too easily. I'll speak my truth if you dare to ask.  I am alone, but tonight that is ok.

I found this brilliance while educating myself on all things Chet Faker. I promise I'll move on from him eventually.

Do I wanna know?

Yes, I do.

a thought, a venture forgotten & found

Like a classical tune looping in your head; its name and origin unknown, but still it is ingrained in you like a habit, like the blinking of your eyes - it just is. This feeling, it just is. It is a melody I have neither practiced nor played but I know it as if I was its composer.

somebody stop me

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes the thinking only works one-way.

snap out of it

My mind had been rubbish since the pact was enacted - thinking so much about men, what they want, what they don't want, who I had to be to fit that badly constructed 'doll' I'd imagined in my mind.  And then, I realised, I just don't care.

And then I listened to this song, and the world made sense once again....

fear & loathing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?