return to sender

Dear God,

I'd like to make a return please.  Your conditions clearly stipulate that one is only given as much as they can handle.  I don't know what the others have been saying, but I am not doing OK with this load you've given me.  I think there's been some kind of mistake?

If you need me to fill out some kind of form, I'd be happy to oblige - but you have gotta take some of this crap off my hands. I don't know who you might be able to "redistribute" these things to - I'm hoping you might be able to recycle, or better yet, liquidate things altogether.

The incessant neck pain,
                the never ending fucking headache, 
     the earache, the plantar fasciitis, 
              the fat pad atrophy (great sense of irony there bud; real nice of you to shrink the single most important piece of fat in my fat-rich body!)  
                 the bad hair, 
      the big ugly feet, 
   that fingernail on my right hand middle finger that Just. Keeps. Breaking
                         the asshole boss, 
                                         the crooked nose, 
          the instinctive pull to eat my feelings, 
                                        the poor sleep, 
                   the fear, the angst and all the sadness,
                                        the complete and distinct void of purpose in my life 
                                                                        and that glorious innate reflex to run,                                                                                 anytime something seems remotely                                                                                  hard or uncomfortable or scary.  
And you know what? To me, pretty much everything is scary.

Enough already.  I'm waving the white flag.  I just can't juggle this many things at once, truth be known I'm a terrible juggler - two things - tops!

For the love of all things good in the world, will you please give a girl a break and ease up?  And, if you won't take anything back, will you at least send someone down here to help me out?

Kind Regards,
Me xx

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.

woman of letters: to my greatest fear

Dear Fear,

You are a long time enemy of mine, one that is so deeply entrenched in the dark cavernous mess that is my mind, that it is difficult to ever imagine myself - minus you. For defining me, without you, seems somehow unnatural. Whether I like it or not, you are the beast that often drives me, in that you stall my forward motion.

There are so many forms of you, that clog my moving parts. Sometimes I fear, fear, that it is only the 150mg of venlafaxine that oils my mind machine, that helps me flick you aside, or drown you out, so that I may keep moving - even if that movement is laborious and difficult to measure.

There are so many facets to your dark mass - you are a whispered thought just as I surrender to sleep; the ill-advised judgement - spoken at a weak moment; a dark passenger, creeping in the hallways of my mind, only to shout at me through muted, messy thoughts, something unhelpful and perhaps untrue? But who's to really know? The truth is, fear - you may be right, or you may be wrong, but there will never be any knowing for certain and it is the constant threat of the 'maybe' that makes you so fucking dangerous.

Let us be specific now; let us delve deeper to discover what is at your black heart...

I am afraid of ending up alone - of never loving, or being loved in the way that gives ones life meaning. Afraid of only ever being a daughter, a sister, an aunty, a friend and never a lover, a partner, a mother, a wife. The problem of you being such a part of me, is that you can use actual truths to twist and hurt me deeply. You know, for instance, that in my 28 years, I've never had a real, hearts on the line, adult relationship...and it is you that tells me this is perfect evidence to suggest my fear of being alone is plausible and highly likely. I fear, fear, you might be right.

When I was a confused 17 year old girl, trying to make decisions about my future - would I go to university? what would I study? what would I do? who did I want to be when I grew up and got adult? It was the fear, fear, of never becoming anyone or doing anything of consequence that scared me then, and even now, leaves me in a fit of cold sweats. In science class, it was discussed that all organisms have their niche - a place they were made for, and meant to be. I fear, fear, that I will never find mine. Perhaps because it doesn't exist.

Of course, I have the everyday fears, the ones that regular people like to override with their coffee, cigarettes or casual sex. I worry about the state of my world, the lone dog on the street with its tail down, it seems lost and I worry what its fate will be - seeing this dog, reminds me of my own dog, and then I worry about her, about how she might die and I worry for how I will overcome the grief when this does eventually happen. I hear about sick children, and begin to worry about my niece and nephew; I hear about violence in schools and new drugs on the streets, and I worry about the ways in which I cannot protect the children in my life. I hear sirens in the distance, and worry that they rush to meet somebody dear to me, I make a silent outline of a cross on the palm of my hand, like I was taught to do when I was a child hearing sirens - an invisible well-wish for the people those sirens are actually for...and I worry, will anybody ever need to make a sign of the cross for me?

I worry that I'll be miserable, no matter what my employ - for the entire length of my working life - I worry I might never discover where my talents really lie - that I might never be anyone special, that I might never amount to much of anything - except a lonely cat lady.

I fear I am forgettable.

Words like 'never' 'won't' 'should' 'can't' - these belong to you, fear, and you dangle them in front of me every single day.

But my greatest fear of all, fear, is that I will always be afraid - that I will never outrun or overcome the doom radio transmission. I fear, fear, that you will always define me - as you define the things I don't do - you are the negative space that draws the outline of who I am.

I fear, fear, we must learn to get along, in spite of each other - because just as you are me, I am also the centre of you. Without me, you are nothing. Well, perhaps you are actually nothing much at all. In this case, I fear, fear, that I will have given credence to something unworthy and imagined my entire life? My entire life?

I fear I will forget these revelations.

Fearfully yours,
SB

woman of letters: to the man who (will) change(d) my life

One of my favourite letters in the "Women of Letters" book is from Eddie Perfect, who writes a letter to the woman who changed his life - his partner. Some of the quotes that I just can't forget:

"I may have a melancholy, sentimental streak wider than the widest bits of the Murray, but I find writing love songs the hardest. There's no sting and no hurt. There's no river of tears to dip the bucket into. Love songs go in by the front door, and I've always scrambled in through the laundry window.."

"I don't know what a family is, how to define it, other than as a collection of people who bind themselves together and get weirder and weirder... I read there's evidence that the moon was created when a giant asteroid shaved a chunk off the earth. That's a family. A broken bit of rock that gets its own name and develops its own gravitational pull."

"you have to kick the can down the street - always kicking it forward no matter the can and no matter the street, just keep kicking it on down. Deadshits don't kick the can anywhere and stomp on your can and never push anything forward."

I'm not sure I've encountered the man who has changed my life, so, instead, I write the imaginary man who hopefully will.

To the man who will change my life,
First of all, where the fuck are you and why have you kept me waiting for so long? (Sorry, that was a little forward, wasn't it? I suppose you're going to have to get used to that.)

I'm not sure who you are, or how we'll meet - but I think I have a pretty good idea about the kind of man you are. For one, you'll be special - you would have to be to make a dent in my existence; plus, you'd have to be a certain kind of 'special' to put up with my irregular brand of shit. (Wow, I'm really selling myself here, aren't I?)

I think you'll be the quiet man in the corner - the one surveying the lay of the land. A people watcher, like me. Perhaps I'll catch your eye, on one occasion, because I'm not like the rest of the girls in the room - perhaps I'll hold your eye for the same reason.

My quirks will make you like me even more.  You will recognise that I am hard work (sorry, I am) - but you will be persistent, because you are the kind of man who understands that tenacity is rewarded.

You will lighten my heart like I have never known; you will believe in me; always, but especially during the times I don't recognise myself. Oh yes, you will be special indeed.

And for all your special-ness, I will confuse you, and challenge you - and maybe make you want to run away... but you never will.

You will make me laugh; you'll be the yin to my yang - the up to my down.

And, for all of this, I will give you my heart - because that is all I want to do. All I have ever wanted to do was find you - perfect you - and give you my time, my laughter, my love notes. I know you'll be perfect, because you'll be for me.

I really wish you'd hurry your ass up - you'll come to know that I am impatient. Find me soon, ok?

SB xx

woman of letters: 'R' for reply

I've been inspired lately, to be more proactive about putting pen to paper - about pushing the letter writing thing, expressing my feelings and kind of reaching out. So, I did some unusual things.

Like, when I finished reading Marieke Hardy's book I decided to write her a letter, telling her how much I enjoyed her book.

Then, after my Gotye experience - I thought it might be nice to write to the man himself and tell him just how wonderful I thought he was. This time, I had to resort to email, as he had no physical address.

So I did both of these things.

Yesterday an unassuming postcard sat on my bed. Perhaps another from the damn dentist? Wait, it's handwritten - wait, what is this person talking about?! Hold-the-fucking-phone... it's signed 'Marieke Hardy'. Holy shit - I was ecstatic. I felt so privileged to be holding a non-imaginary postcard in my actual hands from 'The Marieke Hardy'.  Even now, it feels weird, but incredibly exciting - that someone like that would take the time to write to me.  I'm so appreciative of that fact.

My Gotye email, which I sent two days ago.. not really sure if it would actually reach the intended destination, received a reply TODAY! It was brief, but kind and signed off... 'Wally'?!

These events have exceeded my weekly excitement threshold - and it's freakin' Christmas in a few days! Where to go from here?

So, this post isn't strictly a letter, but about letters. It makes me incredibly happy that two very talented people took time out of their days to respond to little old me.  Now, who said the written word couldn't change anything?

I think I'm beginning to like this letter writing stuff.

Best. Letters. Ever.

SB xx

woman of letters: to my twelve year old self

In homage to the brilliant movement that is Women of Letters and because I am thoroughly enjoying the newly released book, I decided that I too, would pen some letters of my own...


Hiya Little Bird,
If I know you, you're probably flipping out about this whole 'letter from the future' thing - but I'm going to need you to calm down, ok? You are not going make the world fold onto itself and disappear into a black hole by reading on. Trust me. Trust yourself - always, but especially now.

So, you're 12.  I know right now things are ticking along better than ever. You're head girl (YAY us!) at school, you scored the most awesome year seven teacher in Mr Jones - he's preparing you well for high school, so take it all in, and things are just generally pretty cool.  Anyone who's anyone is wearing a bra now, so there's no need to be all self conscious anymore.  Actually, you should know - that right now you are at your confidence prime. You-me - we will never feel so good about ourselves again - so hang onto that feeling, and preserve it for as long as you can - when you lose it, it really hurts.

I'm not going to tell you everything - but I do want to give you some tips that I think might help us both out... and perhaps save us from two years of counselling with our lovely, well meaning Psychologist Judy.

I know you are starting to freak out about high school.  I need to tell you, that it's actually going to be ok.  You shouldn't worry - that's a bad habit of ours Little Bird, and you need to cut it out - it gets us nowhere. Anyway, high school - in all the ways you think matter - will be fine.  You will have friends around you, you will not be given a 'royal flush' like cousin Jason says you will; as for the work - you handle it just fine. We're book smart, remember.

There is one little teeny thing that happens, that makes life hell for, well, I'm not going to lie - a long while. So, if you can try to avoid this little something - it would be most advantageous (look it up in the dictionary) for us both. 

Next year, one of the bullshit classes we have to endure is 'Outdoor Ed' - the 'teacher' is one of those horrid P.E. teachers (you know how we feel about them). Anyway, during the course of one of the classes, you will be out walking with the group, down by the dam near home - and you will be told to cross the dam by balancing on a pole that runs across the edge. DON'T DO IT Little Bird; fake an asthma attack - run off, whatever you have to do - just don't do it!  When I did it, I fell in - and then we spent the next year or so, dodging vicious taunting from that ADD asshole kid Lucas, and his followers. I suspect this one incident changes the course of our high school experience, and it gives us a real battering; so if you can avoid it - I think we'll turn out less damaged. Of course, every P.E. teacher is an asshole - so you'll always have to watch out for them.

Also - try not to attend school on Valentines Day in year eight.  Matty D gets an anonymous card that one shithead, mediocre handwriting analyst decides is written by you, and everyone gets stuck into you about it.

Hmm... when Danny one-nut (you'll hear the story when the time is right) approaches you on behalf of Blake to ask you out - don't have such a violent reaction, and maybe say yes... just a thought.

Oh, and maybe don't wear our new eight-hole cherry Dr Martens to Founders Day - they get totally scratched up.. it's heartbreaking really.  On second thoughts, it's possibly the cred from the Dr Martens that leads to Blake's (via Danny one-nut) proposition.  Your choice. If you do decide to wear them - Jesus Christ, wear two pairs of socks - those blisters hurt like you wouldn't believe.

Last of all - I just want to tell you not to worry so much about everything - it absolutely doesn't help. I promise you that the stress and the tears are not worth it.  Secondly, you don't always have to be perfect - remember that most of all. When you get to year 12, you let the looming TEE score rule you way too much - it is not the be-all and end-all that you think it's going to be.  On a side note, we get 89.85 - that's a pretty fucking good score. Which, we evidently don't make use of anyway (but that's a whole other letter... and a whole lot more counselling). Remember, remember, Mum and Dad just want to see you happy.  Be happy and the rest will follow.

Oh yeah, don't stop learning flute after year eight - we are actually pretty good at it.  Oh, better still, maybe when you pick your instrument - try to swing percussion instead - you know how much we want to play drums!

And... I'm not sure if this is a good idea or not, but when you and April end up at the train station after a Saturday morning shopping spree - maybe it wouldn't hurt to try a puff of her joint?

Be happy Little Bird, and be yourself.  Not much can go wrong that way.

Love me.

SB xx