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

lost myself, again

Look at me I’m such a basket case
Delivered to you wrapped in cellophane
Waiting on your doorstep, every day
Delivery, a basket filled with pain...
- Sia

Something snapped in me a couple of weeks ago. In the lead-up I'd been dealing with quite a bit of work stress, I'd been chatted to by my supervisor, about my 'overworrying' so I was trying so very hard, to not try so very hard - or at least make it appear that way... I understood what I was being told, but I was trying to prepare myself for any foreseeable outcome, I was trying to arm myself with every weapon in my arsenal, but I simply couldn't carry the weight. I was trying to be perfect, flawless. I was told it was unrealistic, it was unnecessary. I knew what they were saying, but I was trying to prove myself. I've been trying to prove myself my whole life.

Work has been a mixture of strange feelings for the past weeks. I'd been thrown back into a role I hadn't done in a long while, back with people I didn't necessarily mesh well with, relying on their assistance and my own skewed sense of competency. I'd also been sitting across from the source of my malignant workplace crush: Manchild. Working with him made getting out of bed in the morning easier, work more bearable and weekends became excruciatingly long. This 'crush' has also come to make a dire mess of me.

It was a Thursday, my last day in this challenging work rotation and it was set to be a long day. I was strangely well-composed, even 'chilled' on the exterior. My last hoorah - come what may! In the late afternoon, I hit a speed bump - I was overtired and frustrated. Manchild had been away for work, was due to return this afternoon, it had been three days since seeing him. As I was reaching speed on my decline, he walked in... he shouldn't have been there. My heart leapt and I was overwhelmed with the sudden desire to cry my eyes out. It was as if my very own knight in shining armor had knocked at my castle door. People talk about being unable to wipe a smile of their face - I now understood this kind of smile.

Unbeknownst to me he stayed. He stayed until I finished. He stayed for me? Then as I was collecting my things he told me he had decided to pursue a longstanding passion that would almost certainly take him out of our shared workplace, and out of our hometown. Tears were welling in my eyes.

It was like John all over again. A lesson not yet learned, manifesting in some new cruel way. I had to flee immediately. I feigned part exhaustion, but I fear even a blind soul could sense my upset, my tears freely leaking.

I had to rush to the safety of my car. Sobbing part way there - begging the Gods that I not bump into anyone I know. I got to my car and I sobbed heartily the whole way home. I'm quite surprised I actually made it home without incident. My parents could not understand why I was in the state, and neither could I really. I continued to sob in the shower, as I pleaded with God, the Angels, or whoever dared listen: please, not again.

I went to work the next day. On the drive home at the end of the day, I became a similar teary mess.

Monday rolled around, back to my old menial role...ripped from the company of Manchild, I slipped further into an ugly black hole. I started crying, in front of a coworker. I couldn't collect myself - I had to hide away in a dark room - more than once. I could hear other coworkers, including Manchild having a jolly old time in another part of the office. It seemed an added cruelty on my already frayed emotional state. Much of that day was spent fighting the urge to cry. Each evening going home, feeling ill with this darkness. Tuesday, Wednesday...fighting tears. Evidently I had lost the footing I had so solemly maintained after John, after changing jobs, after the death of my beloved pet, after so many knocks. I'd finally succumbed to the black dog again, and he had me in his jaws.

This week just passed, went by in usual fashion. I thought I had begun to make some headway - but another work incident knocked me on Wednesday, and I went down again.

I have whimpered and howled in bathroom stalls, showers and in the dark silence of 'bed-time'. I have hidden sneaky tears at customer service counters, and inhaled and exhaled the muted upset to just make it to another day. To make it to another day in which Manchild would finally declare his feelings.

"I can't do this again" is what I cried to the Divine. Wrong. I won't do this again.

Again, I have lost sight of who I am, near-drowned myself in the shadow version of me that I thought he'd like. That I thought, the 'cool-girls' would like. I've been trying to be ok with eroding myself. I'm so messed up with these muddy thoughts that I don't even remember what I'm doing from one moment to the next. I cannot believe I sabotaged myself again. I cannot believe I fooled myself again.

It's late, and right now I should be sleeping, but I needed to get this out. I had hoped to spill everything; for as sure as I know I put myself here, with my thoughts, I know also that the situation does not belong solely to me.

But most of all, with this anger-tinged clarity, I needed to write down, for the 'me' that will undoubtedly weaken momentarily again... I need to tell her - that this guy, these people, this bullshit morphing of myself is utter fucking crap. That none of it - that none of our late night imaginings, warm affections and sassy office repartee are anything other than slight of hand, smoke screen distractions from our self. I - we - started a journey of self discovery, we knew that the path to love was going to start with loving our own self - even the dark parts. I got lost. I got transported to another dimension, but I will get back to myself.

Manchild is not the answer you seek. Nor is an attentive boss, a flattering friend, an approving parent, a complimentary stranger. These archetypes are not the missing piece of the puzzle, they are not going to make everything better - the power you are assigning to these faceless figures does not exist. I know it doesn't feel like it, but this is something we must believe - we must know, that all the power we will ever need, all the love we are seeking to find is already there, inside ourselves. Believe it. Don't be distracted by anything else, because this is the only love that matters, and it is the only thing that is going to fix you. 

settle

"Settle" by Vera Blue. Exquisite.

standing on this wire
makes me realise
I am alive
and I won't settle...

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?

truth seeker, secret keeper

Someone asked me a while back what I was passionate about.  I struggled to find an answer, I couldn't pin-point one thing that I thought: yes this makes my heart beat faster when I think about it! I found that profoundly disturbing.  Today, I think I have the beginnings of an answer.

It's weird to admit, because I consider myself a sort of misanthropist - but I think maybe people are my passion. But hold-up, not all people; 'authentic' people - this is where it begins and ends for me. I am awed by people who are open, honest, vulnerable - the kind of people who say "I don't give a fuck" and really mean it. Maybe these people excite me, because they represent who I want to be? Or perhaps it's because I've had my heart trampled on a few times, or maybe because in this world we're living, I simply see an opening - nay - a positive need for every day brave hearts. I simply love the people who trust me with their truths.

I'm not a talker, I never really have been. I find small talk excruciating, because I'm simply not much good at it, but I am always thrilled when someone reveals pieces of themselves to me. I mine those truths like the precious gemstone they are.

Sometimes I'll meet someone, catch their eye and know they are someone I would like to know more about. I'd like to think the appearance of a wicked set of sleeve tattoos and a manly, yet well groomed beard don't steer me too obviously to this conclusion - but hey, I'm only human. Sometimes the intuition and attraction lines gets a little blurry, I admit.

Anyway....

Sometimes upon meeting someone I just want to get right to it, I want their story, I want their heartache, I want to know what makes them tick.

If I could meet each and every one of you, I would ask you what you day-dream about? What you really want out of life? Where's your joy at? I'd ask you to tell me about your scars. And it's not voyeurism that drives me, I'm not a gossip, I'm not trying to tap you for ideas.  I see it as a gift - the act of listening, of receiving. When you ask someone about themselves, when you engage their heart, there is a palpable soul exchange - you leave marks on one another, like fingerprints. And if you believe in the idea that everyone you meet in your life serves a purpose, regardless of how long they stay, I think these are the exchanges that matter the most.

I hope this doesn't sound like a whole lot of wank. I've fallen out of practice of writing, and it is a vulnerability of my own to declare this, and put it out into the world.

"I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now.  Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."  (Rainer Maria Rilke)

I'm also passionate about the idea of finding contentment.  My whole adult life, I have been plagued by the idea of finding answers - because surely life must be logical, and I have so many questions and doubts, that there simply must be answers.  I think soul-mining the people I encounter is my way of making peace with these questions, and also serves to remind me that perhaps the answers aren't so important?

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.

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 me

In the dark of night, as the rain lightly sprinkles on the tin roof above, I want to talk to him.  But he's stopped listening.  I told him it was my favourite sound, and now it's spoiled.  Each pit-pat, pit-pat thuds my sodden hopes and reminds me of the void.  I hate boys.

Except Chet Faker.  I love Chet Faker.

the meltdown

Last week I was diagnosed with a chronic pain condition, known as Fibromyalgia.  When my Physiotherapist suggested to me in December that this was a possible explanation for my lengthy complaint of muscular pain, migraines and other non-wonderful things - after the initial freak out, I thought, ok, good - maybe I'll have a name for what's wrong with me. I thought, if this is the absolute worst that life hands to me - I think I can handle it.

I researched it, and it made sense.  The way it was described sounded broad, but awfully familiar.  I got myself a referral to a Rheumatologist, I gathered my scans and my sad pain history and away I went. Whatever happens it won't change me, I won't let it define me, I told myself.

As I sat in the Rheumatologists office that day, detailing the journey that had led me to this exact point, I felt a sense of release, and relief.  How far I'd come, and maybe now, had found someone to understand, to shine a torch upon the mystery.  She poked and pushed at the pain and truth.  A small part of me wonders if I wanted to feel the pain, to be vindicated, to have a word for the collection of shit that I had carried for almost two years.

She finished her examination, and she sat, her lean legs delicately crossed, her perfect chestnut hair brushing her shoulders, and her mouth moved and contorted as if smothering a smirk, or chewing on some sharp words like a boiled lolly uncomfortable to place in ones mouth.  And then she said: "all of these things, you have been describing and experiencing could be explain by a condition called Fibromyalgia."

"It is a diagnosis of exclusion...." It sounded like a big fat 'maybe' to me.

Still, I accept that it's a difficult condition to diagnose, understand and treat.  As soon as I applied that label to myself, I felt the weight push down on me, as in my head I tried explaining this invisible curse to friends, family, myself... as I imagined conversations with coworkers, doctors and various doubters.  This hidden hurt would never justify being unable to lift a heavy box, or explain why I had so many sick days.

Since returning to 'normal' existence, with this new information - I have scoured and devoured countless websites, books, forums - for answers and understanding.  I screwed my head so much with all the information I was trying to take in - trying to be my own solution - I was wearing the hats of the scientist and the sufferer and it all became too much.

I sunk into a pit of doubt and fear, frustration and desperation and I sobbed my heart out, I cried so hard it took my breath away - hit by grief, all I could see were roadblocks and all I could feel was judgement.  My parents were around to calm me down, to plug the out pour.  I think at that moment, I was saying goodbye to my 'before Fibromyalgia'.

I still don't know where I'll go from here, or how I'll feel from one day to the next.  To some extent I've lost control of my brain and my body, for now at least - but I am not prepared to give in.  Piece by piece I hope to unravel my experience, and learn and cope as best I can - because it is mine alone, and another cruel part of life that I must accept.

...shoot me down, but I won't fall...

ruby tuesday

source

I find myself sunk by a wave of sadness.  It feels like everyday lately has been a test of my willpower and resolve.  Forced to say goodbye to light parts of myself and this darkness feels heavier than normal.

Leaving myself open to ridicule, I admit that saying goodbye to my pet rabbit Ruby on Tuesday has been the proverbial straw.  I've just had enough.

It's funny how that 'enough' line keeps moving.

I feel like my empathy is being eroded, my patience withered - as I become more bitter and twisted in a job I loathe, surrounded by narcissistic assholes that I just can't stand.  Worst of all? The reality that I let it happen.  That somewhere along the line I relinquished the control. I hate myself for becoming this hateful person.

I'm not sure how to describe this place I find myself in. I know where I am, and I know that I should be scared, that I should want to be around people and talk and laugh - but I don't. I just don't.  I can see the sun shining through the canopy of crap, but I want to be alone for a while.

I want to sit in this place and gather strength, so that I may go backwards to find the pieces of bundle I dropped from my basket, to find those parts of me that need to be revived, buffed, shined and re-installed.

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

bitch be raging

Things have become so outrageously out of hand in these recent times.  In my external environment, at work, it's like a topsy-turvy world where nobody makes sense.  I feel like I'm the only one stumbling around, scratching my head asking what the fuck is going on? Has everyone been body snatched? Where have all the good people gone?

Without too much detail, I've been trodden on one too many times, so it is now a desperate hunt for a new job.  I've been at my current job for almost six years, and these past months have been some of the most hurtful and upsetting thus far.  Every time something new happens, I shake my head and wonder why. Do I ask for these things?  Is there something in me that attracts rubbish people?

I'm such an easy mark too - not a great deal of confidence, not really assertive - I'd probably roll over if you asked nicely, and even if you didn't....

But for sobbing out loud (and I have been) isn't there any loyalty anymore? Respect? Decency?

Perhaps I expect too much from people? I do expect some shred of fairness from the world.  I do expect my everything to count for some thing.  But lately the world has shown me, no, no they fucking don't.  I can see it now, the universe wagging her index finger, tut-tut-tutting at me...

Why do I have such a 'warped' sense of the world? Because I'm a fundamentally good person - in spite of my frequent profanity use.

For too long I've let it slide - but now I realise I am actually worth more than the sum total of the collective assholes who think it's ok to shit on people, just because they can.  And I've decided - I'm not putting up with it anymore. I'm just not.  I'll move on.  And if the next bunch of people turn out to be turds, I'll move on again.  And I'll keep moving on and on, and on, and even if I don't stop moving until I find myself adopted into a pack of wolves, that's ok. Because I just don't want to be around people that make me feel bad anymore.  Life is too short.

I can't change the world, or the people in it - but I sure can control where I'm standing.

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.

ding dong the witch is... gone

These last couple of months at work have been quite difficult for me.  My 'boss' returned to her former position as supervisor/maker/tyrant of my work-world, and I have struggled with this.  We had a falling out of sorts, maybe 2 years ago - and I've never been able to go back.  I haven't been able to forget what happened, or how it made me feel.

The difficulty with this of course, is that when you can't stand your boss - every decision they make feels like a personal attack, every thing they do, every thing they don't do - grates on the metal link of the weakening chain that is supposed to hold everything together.

I don't hide my frustration very well either, which makes things awkward.  I suppose I'm like a simmering pot of water, once I reach that level - boiling point, it is an ugly shitting mess and impossible to go back.  When I say that I haven't been able to forget, what I really mean is that I will not let myself forget.  There's that bullshit song "forgiven, not forgotten" - I can't forgive, I can't really forget. Maybe I'm a bad person; certainly I must be a poor Catholic. I know God must be shaking his head at me in disgust sometimes.

I know I turn into a bad person, my heart turns ugly for a time, and I hate myself for being this way.  I acknowledge that my expectations of people, of life, are far higher than they have any right to be.  I know I can be self righteous and judgemental, my version of "right" is always better than anyone elses. I can say she does this to me, but really, I let her get to me.  Like those wise ones say, we can't control the world, but we can control how we react to it. Well, me and the world have a volatile relationship - guess who's going to win.... (hint: it's probably not going to be me) Does this change the battle?... Not. One. Iota.

Today my boss served her final day as my boss, which should excite me - should make me feel proud for surviving it all - but really, I look down at my dirtied hands and rub tired eyes, and I know I am not a winner here. Our paths clashed furiously, and my road will be permanently kinked because of it.

She won't be gone completely, she will still have close links to my place of work.  I may not have to see her everyday, but her name lingers on the lips of those around me; her shadow threatens to cast in cold corners.  Worst of all, from the outside, she is perfectly charming, her humour is disarming, and by the look of her, you cannot tell she's rotting underneath.  The washed out Italian blood that runs through my veins quickens in fury at the thought of 'her', and it may be responsible for these dramatic descriptions. 

At times I have been utterly graceless and conniving, and of this I am not proud. But, she is gone - and for that I am thankful.

I'll try to grasp the lesson with both hands.

the state of the hermitage

I haven't been writing a lot lately, sometimes because I've been exhausted, a little because I haven't had much to say, and sometimes because I don't know how to say what it is that I'm feeling.

In the past, I have shocked some people with the insight into my thoughts - perhaps for a few reasons.  Maybe they didn't expect it; they didn't understand; or because they thought that my thoughts were rubbish.  The last statement I agree with, because yes, sometimes my thoughts can be utter waste.  But, I think when I try to censor my outpourings, I run into problems - because when I'm not truthful, it means I'm obscuring things - and this gives the hidden parts a chance to chatter in dark corners. They have been chattering, and I have been listening in, and it has been ugly.

I have been told, by what I would call a reliable source (a Psychologist) that we all have an internal monologue - that is, without sounding 'crazy' - a voice, in your head, kind of commentating or observing.  I think some of us are more in-tune to it than others; I hear mine a lot and it is not a particularly nice monologue, because mine is paranoid, frustrated and mean. Perhaps my sensitivity is a consequence of spending too much time on my own - there hasn't been anything to drown out my doom radio.

Today was quite a rough day.  There weren't the usual amount of distractions available - some members were missing from the workplace, and there was ample quiet time.  My work struggles, and people struggles are well documented here; I always feel that I am ill-fitting; I don't belong; I'm not wanted.

Despite whether these thoughts or 'observations' are real or truthful is beside the point - because I hear them so often that I believe them. My doom radio is like an investigator, or a bad P.I. at the very least - because any behaviour, or occurrence that might support these notions, just becomes further "proof" that I am lonely, that I am not wanted - that I am all the things it tells me I am.

People that know what I speak of will nod their heads in agreement, others that haven't experienced such things - I suspect I lost somewhere around the "we all have an internal monologue". But it is all very hard to explain, because it is not in the real - rather, it is the imagined space that sits atop our shoulders - dense and isolating.

I am Brad Pitt and Edward Norton, "Fight Club" style - it is 'feeling' me and 'doom radio' me, punching it out.  It's all harmless play fighting... until it's not. Until the bruises hurt, and the bones break.  I feel like I'm breaking today.

Today I am alone, I am not good enough, I am easy to forget, I am a thorn, a raincloud, a fifth wheel, I am invisible and an eye-sore, all at once.  In my head, all of this is plausible - because the lunch room goes quiet when I'm there; because I'm told about after work drinks after everyone else is invited; because everyone has tickets to an Anzac day event that I didn't know about; because there is cosy laughter in the room until I enter; because it's all take, take, take and hardly ever any give. Nothing feels genuine and everything feels wrong. Round pegs. Square hole.

I think about wanting to come off the depression/anxiety medication - because I think I'd rather go it alone.  But if I feel this now, on the meds - what will it be like amplified - without armour?

I cry, because I want the hurt to stop; because I'm not ok inside, and I'm tired of smiling on the outside. I think it's unfair that I have to live, feeling the way I do, while everyone else gets to switch off their voices.

There is my doom radio voice, and then there is me - and we inhabit the same body, and sometimes I don't know that I can win.

SB

the way it ends

I found out some things today that ripped open the healing wounds of my heart.  There doesn't seem to be a point in going over it all.  In a way, I sorted it out while laying on a treatment table, counting holes in the ceiling - my mind went still and I felt it kind of slip away, or maybe I let it all go.

I think "running out of fools" has been quite prophetic, for different reasons. I'm not going to be anybodies fool, ever again. Character building... building character.



Today, I said my final good bye to John.  Facebook, for once, served me well. I will be so bold as to declare, that never before has the 'unfriend' button seen such a weighted, but triumphant result.  That bastard will never get another piece of me.  I'm ok if he never even notices I'm gone - just knowing, in the very depths of my mind, that I am not his anymore - electronic, or otherwise.

I will dig and hunt, collecting back the pieces of me, slowly. I will put them in a velvet lined box, keep them warm and safe - and give them to someone who deserves them. It will not be easy, my box is battered, but I know someday, someone will look upon it as treasure.

SB

sticks & stones

Am I ok with not being like everybody else?
Most days? Yes.
Today? Not so much.

As everyone was packing up to leave work this afternoon, talk turned to work drinks tonight. I did receive a pity invite, I think because I was in the room at the time it was raised. I declined the generous offer. Then, a comment was made between two others about 'tomorrow night'. I wasn't thinking, I asked the wrong question "oh have you got a big night planned tomorrow night"...yes, yes they do have plans - no, I wasn't invited.

I know I can't talk about how shit some people are, and then expect invites to social gatherings from them. I know this is the price I pay for being socially awkward, for saying 'no' a lot of the time - and I know the fact I don't really drink, weirds people out. But it still hurts sometimes.

I'm not going to cry, because this is the lonely bed I made for myself. Maybe at my age, I've dispensed with the small talk, the fake and meaningless because I don't tolerate it very well, and figure perhaps that life is meant to be more?

God, how I wish I was "normal" - I wish I was chatty, perky and loved to get drunk. But I just wasn't made that way.

At least the dog likes me. She doesn't discriminate.

SB

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

as they say

no matter how bad things can become,
how they might go off the rails, you
just have to remind yourself that
worse things happen at sea...

I have just finished reading "Worse Things Happen at Sea" by William McInnes and Sarah Watt. It was a beautiful book - about the simple things in life... and some of the complicated things too. 

I don't know what it is that attracts me to autobiographies and memoirs - I think it's something to do with seeing how other people deal with the difficulties in their lives; usually it is those who attack their problems with humor, grace and a touch of fight, that I really enjoy and applaud. Perhaps this is because I hope to approach my 'rainy days' with similar tact.  I like reading about their experiences, because even when these people are obviously so far removed from my reality - the common threads of human experience are still identifiable within their stories.

In reading this story of love, family and heartache - at times, it was hard to imagine any truth in the title. Could worse things really happen? I was heartbroken when Sarah wrote about the baby they lost during childbirth; and again as William spoke of scattering the babys ashes in the sea. The passing of their pet dog, and Sarah's illness were also emotional. Filled to the brim with memories and truth, the stories of these two remarkable writers were challenging - as they examined the blessings and discomforts in their lives, so too, did I.

I think what made reading this book a finer, but more difficult experience, was knowing that since the book was finished, Sarah had lost her fight with cancer.  The greatest tragedy to me, seems to be that these two people are no longer together. But I do believe Sarah Watt made quite a dent in her life. I think, after all, her 'dam' overflowed with all the good things - love, inspiration, laughter and some tears.

"I began to count what I had. Not my blessings, just what I had: a car, a healthy child, a lovely man, enough money to pay the mortgage, not enough to cause worry, Australian citizenship, ten pairs of shoes.  A pathetic amount in some eyes, absurdly wasteful in others.... I had taught myself to do this.  I was trying to make myself a positive person.  I wanted the glass half-full, no matter how much unfairness in the world, how many starving people, global catastrophes or prophecies of doom.. I wanted to hear the voice of promise and hope and optimism. I wanted to not just know that birth and death are inevitable, but to believe it, to allow for it, to be at peace with it..." (Sarah)

"What can I say? Life is a smorgasbord, so many dishes to choose from and sometimes you just choose the wrong one, but you know nothings ever wasted.." (William)

"Life is indeed a smorgasbord with so much to offer.  We'll all have our time in the sun.  Fashions fade and so does a life, but friendship, between old friends and new, is a tacit agreement between us that we don't have to fade alone.." (William)

"How do you measure a 'fair share' of time? By quantity or quality? Mine has been of excellent quality.  I've had a great time.  I didn't spend twenty-five years in a job I hate, resenting it but needing it.  I've never been confined to a wheelchair.  I'm not deaf or blind...I'm not a tragedy.  I can't complain.  I've had it good.  The best thing I can do is balance the good luck with the bad and go with good grace or, in the current parlance of my children, suck it up and get on with what I have to do with what I've got.  And I have a lot...Like my dad's job and personality I seem to have been a dam builder.  I am full of all that I have collected, done, loved and regretted.  It is a large dam." (Sarah)

"Why do we search for and expect happiness all the time, like some dumb weekend magazine article? Or even contentment.  Sometimes rage is good.  There are things to be enraged about in this world.  There are tears that should fall." (Sarah)

SB