Today I visited my GP for a review of my General Practice Mental Health Treatment Plan. This is not new to me, having been formally reviewed under this process on a 6 monthly average for the past 6 years. The questions are always the same and in the exact same order; the only thing that changes are my responses. On account of having a very stable but also good few months, I was happy when I was able to answer each question in a very different light to any pervious occasion.
I know how I feel, whereas others don't know unless I tell them. My GP has often been on the receiving end of many of my low moments and bordering on grim correspondence from both psychologist and psychiatrist.
Today, as most days over the past few months, I felt good. Today's answers reflected that. At the end of the exam my GP pushed her chair back from the desk and took a deep breath. She said in a quiet voice, "I think we just need to take a minute to appreciate this moment".
I smiled, quietly proud as she turned to me with a very faint glint of tears in her eyes and said, "We finally did it".
Yes we did. It only took 6 years. I just hope it will last.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Polar Opposite
I don't believe that I have ever experienced mania in the true sense of the word. All that I can describe is how it has seemingly presented to me. Aside from the soul crushing/chest explosion/gut wrenching anxiety, it really is quite wonderful. And as far as I'm concerned, Diazepam was invented for a reason.
Whilst being in this hyperactive and buzzy mindset, I managed to achieve more than I would have expected of myself in a month, in just 3 days. No task seemed too big or intimidating, I would take on as many projects that presented themselves, often never completing the previous simply because the desire had faded and my memory let the entire event disappear from existence in my mind.
I constantly felt as though I was on the verge of having 5 brilliant ideas all at the same time. Many never came to fruition, but the excitable energy of inspiration was enough to keep me charged. Some of my brilliant ideas where not actually brilliant at all, but no-one could have possibly convinced me otherwise in that moment - I Facetimed my mum at 11pm to show her how amazing my new shower caddy was. I couldn't understand when she wasn't as excited as me?
Sleep was a burden, in that I couldn't. I tried to maintain good 'sleep hygiene' but would often lay in bed wide awake with a hive of thoughts buzzing in my head. I would have an overwhelming desire to clean the bathroom ceiling at 2am, with the only thing stopping me being the idea of playing right into being crazy. Eating a full meal only slowed me down. I explained to my best friend Yass one day that I didn't need to eat, because I was feeding on pure awesomeness. I honestly believed it at the time.
I rediscovered my love for musical theatre and played Broadway soundtracks back-to-back. I would sing the carefully rehearsed lines at the top of my lungs, anywhere and everywhere - in the car, shower, whilst putting on makeup. I performed the entire Wicked score to my cat wearing only my underwear. 'I'm defying gravity, and you can't pull me down'.
Oh, but didn't they try? It seemed every health professional that I saw was worried about a problem that I couldn't see as existing. In my mind, I have been deeply and darkly depressed for so long, how could a switch in mood such as the one I had experienced be so unwelcome? Sure, some of my social interactions needed some filtering on my behalf, but the person I had become was surely a much better rounded and excitable individual than the melancholy and suicidal version of myself? Apparently I have a 'reputation to maintain', and my safety is imperative. Look, I get it. I just don't understand how safety is more of an issue when I am more elated compared to when I'm legitimately suicidal to start with?
There seems to be a fine line, and wherever it is, I have again crossed it. Getting out of bed requires copious amounts of energy, I find myself listening to any playing music with no desire to sing along despite knowing the words back-to-front. I am in tears all day, sometimes because a house is going to auction on the news and sometimes for no reason at all. I have an eerie awareness of all the weaknesses and voids in my life and a returning little voice in my head that is convincing me that those things will never change. For the first time, I am aware of all the hanging points in my house. What does that mean? It means just that - I am aware.
Charlotte Dawson died a week ago today. In the words of Alex Perry she was 'a beautiful, bright shining girl' who also suffered terrible depression. She took her own life last week, and aside from the devastation of a beautiful life lost, there is the confronting fact that if 'big, tough Charlotte' can lose her battle, then what hope do the rest of us have? RIP darling.
Whilst being in this hyperactive and buzzy mindset, I managed to achieve more than I would have expected of myself in a month, in just 3 days. No task seemed too big or intimidating, I would take on as many projects that presented themselves, often never completing the previous simply because the desire had faded and my memory let the entire event disappear from existence in my mind.
I constantly felt as though I was on the verge of having 5 brilliant ideas all at the same time. Many never came to fruition, but the excitable energy of inspiration was enough to keep me charged. Some of my brilliant ideas where not actually brilliant at all, but no-one could have possibly convinced me otherwise in that moment - I Facetimed my mum at 11pm to show her how amazing my new shower caddy was. I couldn't understand when she wasn't as excited as me?
Sleep was a burden, in that I couldn't. I tried to maintain good 'sleep hygiene' but would often lay in bed wide awake with a hive of thoughts buzzing in my head. I would have an overwhelming desire to clean the bathroom ceiling at 2am, with the only thing stopping me being the idea of playing right into being crazy. Eating a full meal only slowed me down. I explained to my best friend Yass one day that I didn't need to eat, because I was feeding on pure awesomeness. I honestly believed it at the time.
I rediscovered my love for musical theatre and played Broadway soundtracks back-to-back. I would sing the carefully rehearsed lines at the top of my lungs, anywhere and everywhere - in the car, shower, whilst putting on makeup. I performed the entire Wicked score to my cat wearing only my underwear. 'I'm defying gravity, and you can't pull me down'.
Oh, but didn't they try? It seemed every health professional that I saw was worried about a problem that I couldn't see as existing. In my mind, I have been deeply and darkly depressed for so long, how could a switch in mood such as the one I had experienced be so unwelcome? Sure, some of my social interactions needed some filtering on my behalf, but the person I had become was surely a much better rounded and excitable individual than the melancholy and suicidal version of myself? Apparently I have a 'reputation to maintain', and my safety is imperative. Look, I get it. I just don't understand how safety is more of an issue when I am more elated compared to when I'm legitimately suicidal to start with?
There seems to be a fine line, and wherever it is, I have again crossed it. Getting out of bed requires copious amounts of energy, I find myself listening to any playing music with no desire to sing along despite knowing the words back-to-front. I am in tears all day, sometimes because a house is going to auction on the news and sometimes for no reason at all. I have an eerie awareness of all the weaknesses and voids in my life and a returning little voice in my head that is convincing me that those things will never change. For the first time, I am aware of all the hanging points in my house. What does that mean? It means just that - I am aware.
Charlotte Dawson died a week ago today. In the words of Alex Perry she was 'a beautiful, bright shining girl' who also suffered terrible depression. She took her own life last week, and aside from the devastation of a beautiful life lost, there is the confronting fact that if 'big, tough Charlotte' can lose her battle, then what hope do the rest of us have? RIP darling.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Relapse
Tonight feels like the perfect night for me to make a post. Unfortunately, I have no idea what to say. I could tell you that I have been crying all afternoon and well into the evening - mainly provoked by various forms of visual entertainment - but when I sat down to do the homework set by the therapist I replaced potential words with tears. My cat is wondering what is wrong with me. I am wondering the same thing.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
I have nothing else.
I chastised a co-worker for spoiling us with such lavish morning teas only to get the response,
"You are all that I have. I have nothing else."
I instantly felt a sorry for her, until I really started to think about myself. If I stopped going to work everyday, what would I have?
"I have nothing else."
"You are all that I have. I have nothing else."
I instantly felt a sorry for her, until I really started to think about myself. If I stopped going to work everyday, what would I have?
"I have nothing else."
The silence depressed me. It wasn't the silence of silence. It was my own silence.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Bubble Girl
I feel invisible. Invisible to everyone but myself. People keep on talking, walking; whatever it is that they were doing when I arrived. My calls ring out, and my phone lays silent. My house is stagnant with the memories of last week when I made the mess that I must sit amongst.
Yet it is now that I am more aware of myself than ever before. Perhaps because there are no distractions or moments of peace that I can escape from this sinking feeling in. I feel as though I am living in a bubble. I struggle to push it through life whilst trying to co-ordinate my feet in time with its rotations. All the while the passers by side-step this cumbersome object slowing them down, and don't bother to acknowledge the dying soul inside. That's not just how I feel; that's just what I am.
Yet it is now that I am more aware of myself than ever before. Perhaps because there are no distractions or moments of peace that I can escape from this sinking feeling in. I feel as though I am living in a bubble. I struggle to push it through life whilst trying to co-ordinate my feet in time with its rotations. All the while the passers by side-step this cumbersome object slowing them down, and don't bother to acknowledge the dying soul inside. That's not just how I feel; that's just what I am.
Friday, August 31, 2012
Sunday, December 04, 2011
What's Going On...
This YouTube video appeared in my Facebook News Feed this evening. Although I'm not feeling strong within myself right now, I wanted nothing more than to throw my arms around him and take away his pain and sadness, even if it meant sacrificing myself.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Tuesday, November 01, 2011
Starlight, Star Bright.
The night sky is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole.
I have decided that I miss the stars. It is true that the city never sleeps; at any one point there are people loving, laughing, living, so the lights never dim enough to let the stars through.
Back home, I could sit in our backyard with my face craning upward to take in the scattered twinkles, moving satellites and the milky way. If I lay on the beach after dark, the crashing waves provided a contrasting soundtrack that my thoughts could swim in. I suppose the enormity of the night sky reminded me how small I was in contrast to the galaxy overhead.
On a night like tonight, I would love to have the stars company. Apart from distracting my awareness from the parasitic feeling inside my chest, they would allow me to feel connected to others; whether on this planet or another.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Halloween
It wasn't until I was on my late afternoon walk that I remembered it was Halloween. The usually quiet streets of suburbia was crawling with Trick-or-Treaters dressed as witches and ghouls, some wearing the traditional 'Scream' mask and one seemingly out of place Australian yobbo.
Seeing them carrying their plastic Jack-o-lantern pails full of their winnings reminded me of how my brother and I spent Halloween when we were young. We were the only children in our street so in the early years we took our neighbours by surprise. Not having chocolate or lollies in their pantries, they instead gave us gold coins to spent on ourselves at the corner store.
Most years that followed however, they planned our Halloween ritual into their grocery shop. The 90 year old lady across the street once told my mother to be sure we kids stopped by her house so she could give us each a block of chocolate she had waiting by the door.
We were never without a costume either. One year my brother wanted to go as a ghost, and the only sheet we could find not made into a bed was brown. Mum wouldn't let us cut eye holes in it so we stuck some on with sticky tape and I had to lead M by the arm as he couldn't see where he was going. When our cattle dog wanted to come along, I renamed him 'Sirius Black' from Harry Potter in an attempt to win him some candy.
So this evening as I was arriving home from my walk, I found a gaggle of dressed up children in my street. Knowing that my roommate The Bear had bought mini chocolate bars in case, I invited them up the path to our house. They chorused 'Trick-or-Treat' as we came though the gate and the door was opened by a glowing smile and a bowl full of chocolate. LV, the cat, attempted a prison break before I caught him and added another element of excitement to the four kids standing on my door mat. At that moment I realised the picture I had laughed at this morning was in fact, a reality:
Seeing them carrying their plastic Jack-o-lantern pails full of their winnings reminded me of how my brother and I spent Halloween when we were young. We were the only children in our street so in the early years we took our neighbours by surprise. Not having chocolate or lollies in their pantries, they instead gave us gold coins to spent on ourselves at the corner store.
Most years that followed however, they planned our Halloween ritual into their grocery shop. The 90 year old lady across the street once told my mother to be sure we kids stopped by her house so she could give us each a block of chocolate she had waiting by the door.
We were never without a costume either. One year my brother wanted to go as a ghost, and the only sheet we could find not made into a bed was brown. Mum wouldn't let us cut eye holes in it so we stuck some on with sticky tape and I had to lead M by the arm as he couldn't see where he was going. When our cattle dog wanted to come along, I renamed him 'Sirius Black' from Harry Potter in an attempt to win him some candy.
So this evening as I was arriving home from my walk, I found a gaggle of dressed up children in my street. Knowing that my roommate The Bear had bought mini chocolate bars in case, I invited them up the path to our house. They chorused 'Trick-or-Treat' as we came though the gate and the door was opened by a glowing smile and a bowl full of chocolate. LV, the cat, attempted a prison break before I caught him and added another element of excitement to the four kids standing on my door mat. At that moment I realised the picture I had laughed at this morning was in fact, a reality:
Monday, October 24, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Girl, Interrupted
Whilst 'holidaying' at Hotel Northside, my room mates and I created a lot of mayhem. We broke into the dining room most Friday nights to steal chocolate ice cream; we unknowingly withheld particular medications we were opposed to; we ganged up on other patients and hid their prized objects just for kicks and kept a score of how many times others had cried in group therapy sessions, as if our scores of zero had somehow made us more sane than the rest.
I forged friendships with these girls that will last for life. When we see each other nowadays we reflect on our time spent on the inside with humour and laughter. Hearing fragments of our tales, an outsider once commented that it was very much like the movie Girl, Interrupted. I tried to make sense of this and assumed that the adventures we shared equated with the characters in the film drugging their nurse to break out of the ward to play ten pin bowling, and trading medications with each other depending on what each girl felt she required.
Overall, my time at Northside was not a positive experience. I can see how it may appear so to others, as I have done my best to paint a picture of contentment and only share the good stuff; mainly because it makes others feel less awkward to talk about psychiatry with a normal spin, but also because it is denying myself the fact to indulge in the myriad of bad memories that I have.
I have realised that this is my defence mechanism. By creating this picture of light heartedness and laughter I am hopeful that I may be able to lose the pain I still carry from within those walls, and replace it with a deviation from the truth to last me for years to come. I'm willing to give it a go.
I forged friendships with these girls that will last for life. When we see each other nowadays we reflect on our time spent on the inside with humour and laughter. Hearing fragments of our tales, an outsider once commented that it was very much like the movie Girl, Interrupted. I tried to make sense of this and assumed that the adventures we shared equated with the characters in the film drugging their nurse to break out of the ward to play ten pin bowling, and trading medications with each other depending on what each girl felt she required.
Overall, my time at Northside was not a positive experience. I can see how it may appear so to others, as I have done my best to paint a picture of contentment and only share the good stuff; mainly because it makes others feel less awkward to talk about psychiatry with a normal spin, but also because it is denying myself the fact to indulge in the myriad of bad memories that I have.
I have realised that this is my defence mechanism. By creating this picture of light heartedness and laughter I am hopeful that I may be able to lose the pain I still carry from within those walls, and replace it with a deviation from the truth to last me for years to come. I'm willing to give it a go.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Breakdown
Yesterday feeling stressed, Mrs Boss exasperated how she wanted "to go and have a nervous breakdown". I told her that I didn't recommend it, and was reminded of a Postsecret I saw a few years ago. I think it sums up most people's perception of a mental health crisis, as if indulging in this act is like going on a holiday. The only way to truly cure this idea is something I wouldn't wish on anyone.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
A Million Little Hates
Despite my exhaustion in every way possible, I was unable to sleep last night. I picked up A Million Little Pieces, the book I am reading (when able) by James Frey and felt these words jump out at me:
I don't want to be alone. I have never wanted to be alone. I fucking hate it. I hate that I have no one to talk to, I hate that I have no one to call, I hate that I have no one to hold my hand, hug me, tell me everything is going to be all right. I hate that I have no one to share my hopes and my dreams with, I hate that I longer have any hopes or dreams, I hate that I have no one to tell me to hold on, that I can find them again. I hate that when I scream, and I scream bloody murder, that I am screaming into emptiness. I hate that there is no one to hear my scream and that there is no one to help me learn to stop screaming... I hate that what I have turned to in my loneliness is killing me, has already killed me, or will kill me soon. I hate that I will die alone. I will die alone in my horror.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Dr A. asked me yesterday if I received messages from inanimate objects; like as if the newspaper could speak specifically to me as an individual beyond the news content.
No.
I think perhaps I have changed my mind after reading today's Sunday Secrets. It's as if my subconscious has mailed in this secret warning me of what's to come:
No.
I think perhaps I have changed my mind after reading today's Sunday Secrets. It's as if my subconscious has mailed in this secret warning me of what's to come:
Saturday, September 10, 2011
A Bug in my Dinner.
Tonight over dinner V. made a shock reference to my holiday at Hotel Northside.
"At least when you went funny last year you did something about it."
I couldn't bring myself to tell her I had no choice. That as I stared down the barrel of the gun depression was holding to my head, it was not me who intercepted the blow, but the law; and in this there was not so much as a smirk, let alone anything funny about it.
She then adopted a technique that my mother tries on me; in telling me what she wants to hear in the hopes that my subconscious will replace my previous views with the one that she is presenting.
"Your life is going well at the moment."
It was a statement, and not a question; making it harder and more dramatic to correct her.
Instead of answering, I finished my drink.
"At least when you went funny last year you did something about it."
I couldn't bring myself to tell her I had no choice. That as I stared down the barrel of the gun depression was holding to my head, it was not me who intercepted the blow, but the law; and in this there was not so much as a smirk, let alone anything funny about it.
She then adopted a technique that my mother tries on me; in telling me what she wants to hear in the hopes that my subconscious will replace my previous views with the one that she is presenting.
"Your life is going well at the moment."
It was a statement, and not a question; making it harder and more dramatic to correct her.
Instead of answering, I finished my drink.
Friday, September 09, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
A New Me
I have always had trouble talking about my feelings, and I now believe that it was this characteristic that contributed to the deep depression I am only just finding my way out of. It was a combination of not having anyone close enough to listen, and me not feeling able to trust those around me; not because these individuals had proven themselves unworthy, but because I had been burnt too many times before to ever allow it to happen again.
It has only been since the magnitude of my illness hit its peak, that I realised my behaviours and defense mechanisms really weren't doing my soul any justice. As I have tried to re-shape every aspect of my being into a functional and polished new me, teaching myself to trust people that I am not paying has been something I have slowly been chipping away at. Mostly, it has surprisingly been a positive experience. Mrs Boss is one such individual who has become privy to particulars that I would have previously categorized as 'non-disclosure'.
The evolution of our relationship was surprisingly easy. Mrs Boss was perhaps better acquainted with my personal flaws than others, and despite this, she had never expressed any judgement towards me. This made me feel safe to reveal pieces of myself that have previously been hidden carefully behind a mask I created. I was proud of myself for letting these fragments peek through, but in doing so am a little surprised I didn't try it sooner. Not only did I not cause anyone to put a cow bell around my neck and send me for the hills, but the advice Mrs Boss gave me about the everyday concerns I voiced was actually really helpful and reassuring. Many of my thoughts and feeling were normalized, and also I was given helpful suggestions in how I could manage them better. I was so pleased with how positive my experience was, that I felt like I had a new outlook on the world and how I saw myself in it. I had been trying to remind myself of this positive experience since then, and tried to apply this characteristic to every day that followed.
After seeing Dr A. yesterday to investigate particular changes I had noticed relating to an existing medical condition, I found myself feeling rather flat as a result of her provisional diagnosis. It bothered me so much that it followed me home, and when I couldn't shake the familiar depressed state I found myself in, I gave Mrs Boss a friendly phone call in the hopes that she would ground me as she had unknowingly done the previous week. We chatted as we do, before Mrs Boss asked me a question that she had never previously been able to, as I would never previously have answered it. Are you okay? I told her about my day, and how it had played on my mind until that moment, and was thankful for the rational yet sympathetic response she gave me. Mrs Boss was able to normalize my feelings, but also challenge my thoughts in what I felt was a very CBT-like approach. I was thankful for this, but also for being able to get it out of my head and my chest, enough for me to live out the rest of the evening without eventuating to what would have become previously dark thoughts of self-harm or suicidal ideation.
A degree of my negative thought hangover followed me to work today, but I wasn't fully aware of it until one of my colleagues told me that I looked worried. I denied it, but that of course prompted me to start the swirl negative feelings pumping from my heart. I came home to my hungover room mate who was in the mood for a chat, so I let my habitual guard down and just mentioned that there was a possibility that I could have a degree of insulin resistance. The response that I got was "Oh, really?" before she launched herself into some story from the drunken night before involving a friend of a friend, and a guy I had never met.
I'm not sure how to pin point the exact feeling I had at this point. If you combined rejected, minimized and deflected, threw in a swift kick to the chest and vomited insignificance over the top, it may start to resemble how I felt. I started to get annoyed for allowing myself to be put in such an emotionally vulnerable situation, before my new defense mechanism by the name of 'CBT' kicked in, and I rationalized that my room mate's response to my concerns was not a reflection on my self worth or the degree of my personal issues, rather a reflection of her own self absorption and selfishness.
My feelings of rejection have been lessened by reminding myself of my theories on my room mate's psychology, but I still have a degree of regret about not being able to predict this response from her before getting myself in this emotional situation. Now instead of just dealing with the initial worry of my potential health complication, I now also have the feeling of emotional sabotage and violation to accompany it. My CBT defense is having a bit more of a problem trying to diffuse that one.
It has only been since the magnitude of my illness hit its peak, that I realised my behaviours and defense mechanisms really weren't doing my soul any justice. As I have tried to re-shape every aspect of my being into a functional and polished new me, teaching myself to trust people that I am not paying has been something I have slowly been chipping away at. Mostly, it has surprisingly been a positive experience. Mrs Boss is one such individual who has become privy to particulars that I would have previously categorized as 'non-disclosure'.
The evolution of our relationship was surprisingly easy. Mrs Boss was perhaps better acquainted with my personal flaws than others, and despite this, she had never expressed any judgement towards me. This made me feel safe to reveal pieces of myself that have previously been hidden carefully behind a mask I created. I was proud of myself for letting these fragments peek through, but in doing so am a little surprised I didn't try it sooner. Not only did I not cause anyone to put a cow bell around my neck and send me for the hills, but the advice Mrs Boss gave me about the everyday concerns I voiced was actually really helpful and reassuring. Many of my thoughts and feeling were normalized, and also I was given helpful suggestions in how I could manage them better. I was so pleased with how positive my experience was, that I felt like I had a new outlook on the world and how I saw myself in it. I had been trying to remind myself of this positive experience since then, and tried to apply this characteristic to every day that followed.
After seeing Dr A. yesterday to investigate particular changes I had noticed relating to an existing medical condition, I found myself feeling rather flat as a result of her provisional diagnosis. It bothered me so much that it followed me home, and when I couldn't shake the familiar depressed state I found myself in, I gave Mrs Boss a friendly phone call in the hopes that she would ground me as she had unknowingly done the previous week. We chatted as we do, before Mrs Boss asked me a question that she had never previously been able to, as I would never previously have answered it. Are you okay? I told her about my day, and how it had played on my mind until that moment, and was thankful for the rational yet sympathetic response she gave me. Mrs Boss was able to normalize my feelings, but also challenge my thoughts in what I felt was a very CBT-like approach. I was thankful for this, but also for being able to get it out of my head and my chest, enough for me to live out the rest of the evening without eventuating to what would have become previously dark thoughts of self-harm or suicidal ideation.
A degree of my negative thought hangover followed me to work today, but I wasn't fully aware of it until one of my colleagues told me that I looked worried. I denied it, but that of course prompted me to start the swirl negative feelings pumping from my heart. I came home to my hungover room mate who was in the mood for a chat, so I let my habitual guard down and just mentioned that there was a possibility that I could have a degree of insulin resistance. The response that I got was "Oh, really?" before she launched herself into some story from the drunken night before involving a friend of a friend, and a guy I had never met.
I'm not sure how to pin point the exact feeling I had at this point. If you combined rejected, minimized and deflected, threw in a swift kick to the chest and vomited insignificance over the top, it may start to resemble how I felt. I started to get annoyed for allowing myself to be put in such an emotionally vulnerable situation, before my new defense mechanism by the name of 'CBT' kicked in, and I rationalized that my room mate's response to my concerns was not a reflection on my self worth or the degree of my personal issues, rather a reflection of her own self absorption and selfishness.
My feelings of rejection have been lessened by reminding myself of my theories on my room mate's psychology, but I still have a degree of regret about not being able to predict this response from her before getting myself in this emotional situation. Now instead of just dealing with the initial worry of my potential health complication, I now also have the feeling of emotional sabotage and violation to accompany it. My CBT defense is having a bit more of a problem trying to diffuse that one.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Monday, April 04, 2011
Friday, March 04, 2011
I have so much noise in my head, churning away trying to break out, yet I have no idea what or how to say it. One would think that as time goes by, practice would have made prefect in 'acknowledging these thoughts and feelings, labelling them and pushing them aside' and getting on with whatever it is that I am supposed to be doing. Today proved that is not the case.
I knew that I was off my game. I knew that everyone else had noticed. I knew that my mood was corrosive to those surrounding me but I felt that I was no longer in control of my state of mind. When asked at morning tea how my morning was going, I replied honestly "I will implode by the end of the day."
Silence followed. Maybe it's because people aren't used to my honesty. Maybe they weren't really listening, or worse still; maybe they didn't care.
I struggled on. There was one point where I buried my head on the front desk and used all of my will power to not crawl beneath it and cower like my spirit was doing on the inside. People gave me a wide berth and I eventually gave up trying to tie the loose ends I had left for the next shift and just walked out.
I made it to the car before I started to cry. Apart from being so confused as to why I felt like I did; what had caused it, what it meant and what it could eventually contribute to, but I also had a feeling of overwhelming isolation. I felt at that moment that I had travelled down a long, windy, treacherous road and had finally made it to the end only to read 'No Through Road'. It was dark, I had run out of petrol and had no mobile coverage.
No one could possibly understand the feeling, nor could they change it even if they did. No amount of listening or hand holding or kind words could evaporate the helplessness or pull me back from the brink of suicide, but at least with the warmth of another's shadow the chilling isolation is lessened.
I don't expect anyone else to fix me. I don't expect anyone else to even get me. All I ask, is that someone acknowledge me.
I knew that I was off my game. I knew that everyone else had noticed. I knew that my mood was corrosive to those surrounding me but I felt that I was no longer in control of my state of mind. When asked at morning tea how my morning was going, I replied honestly "I will implode by the end of the day."
Silence followed. Maybe it's because people aren't used to my honesty. Maybe they weren't really listening, or worse still; maybe they didn't care.
I struggled on. There was one point where I buried my head on the front desk and used all of my will power to not crawl beneath it and cower like my spirit was doing on the inside. People gave me a wide berth and I eventually gave up trying to tie the loose ends I had left for the next shift and just walked out.
I made it to the car before I started to cry. Apart from being so confused as to why I felt like I did; what had caused it, what it meant and what it could eventually contribute to, but I also had a feeling of overwhelming isolation. I felt at that moment that I had travelled down a long, windy, treacherous road and had finally made it to the end only to read 'No Through Road'. It was dark, I had run out of petrol and had no mobile coverage.
No one could possibly understand the feeling, nor could they change it even if they did. No amount of listening or hand holding or kind words could evaporate the helplessness or pull me back from the brink of suicide, but at least with the warmth of another's shadow the chilling isolation is lessened.
I don't expect anyone else to fix me. I don't expect anyone else to even get me. All I ask, is that someone acknowledge me.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Who Am I?
Oddly enough, I've never really ever felt my age. At 14 I felt that time was moving too quickly, at 18 I never once felt 18, and now at 23 I am finding it hard to put all of the little parts of me together. My exterior apparently screams underage, my logic seemingly that of a 40 year old woman, and my emotional intelligence is still waiting for the jury to return the verdict on that one. When I put all of these pieces together I feel like such a mismatched freckle on the nose of my life's complexion.
I could just put it down as a unique mark of my own individuality, if I didn't feel that I needed to rotate the various pieces of me to suit the personality of whoever faces me at that particular moment.
Just when I think I can safely pack myself into a box labelled with some form of stereotype, the field to the left of my brain throws something into the game to prove me wrong. The thirty-something feminist in me is looking at real estate and applying for a mortgage, discussing strata fees and square metres whilst hanging out by the lockers at work. The single twenty-something year old will sit in a Kings Cross club with old school friends drinking cocktails poured from a teapot whilst wearing Chanel. The various characters in me can be clearly contradicted at a swift glance through my wardrobe; dresses with full tulle skirts, Spanish leather pumps, stockings and cardigans, blue sequined Converse sneakers and seasonal Sportsgirl jackets - and that's all before you get to the designer labels. Many of these items contradict one another, yet surprisingly they all play an integral part of finishing one of my soul-defining outfits. But even as I decode each one, it somehow manages to confuse me of the make up of my identity even further. I wonder if it will ever somehow make sense to me, and if not perhaps someone else who can rearrange the 'pick the face' enough for me to recognise enough of my own features to finally see it as an acceptable 'me'.
I could just put it down as a unique mark of my own individuality, if I didn't feel that I needed to rotate the various pieces of me to suit the personality of whoever faces me at that particular moment.
Just when I think I can safely pack myself into a box labelled with some form of stereotype, the field to the left of my brain throws something into the game to prove me wrong. The thirty-something feminist in me is looking at real estate and applying for a mortgage, discussing strata fees and square metres whilst hanging out by the lockers at work. The single twenty-something year old will sit in a Kings Cross club with old school friends drinking cocktails poured from a teapot whilst wearing Chanel. The various characters in me can be clearly contradicted at a swift glance through my wardrobe; dresses with full tulle skirts, Spanish leather pumps, stockings and cardigans, blue sequined Converse sneakers and seasonal Sportsgirl jackets - and that's all before you get to the designer labels. Many of these items contradict one another, yet surprisingly they all play an integral part of finishing one of my soul-defining outfits. But even as I decode each one, it somehow manages to confuse me of the make up of my identity even further. I wonder if it will ever somehow make sense to me, and if not perhaps someone else who can rearrange the 'pick the face' enough for me to recognise enough of my own features to finally see it as an acceptable 'me'.
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Happy 2011?
Apart from spending the turn of the millennium on Sydney Harbour, the only NYE worthy of noting was seeing out 2007. I spent the evening with a random assortment of friends from school and embraced 2 midnight count downs by drinking in a club right on the NSW/Qld border and monopolising the time difference. We had all stumbled back to a friends house who lived walking distance but up a massive hill, and I had managed to avoid sleeping on bare tiles by stealing a damp mattress one of the other boys had brought and passed out on it before he could argue me off it.
I had to open the store that I worked at the next morning and due to the magnitude of the previous night, I responsibly left my car and walked. My friend, Yass, walked with me. She claimed it was because she wanted to cure her hangover with a dose of Subway, but I think she was just being a loyal companion.
The road was wet as we walked. Neither of us could remember it raining but I put it down to the magic of the first day of the new year. It was too early for the heat of the day to have picked up, but I could feel a hangover headache niggling away. Despite this, I remember the morning feeling fresh, like the new beginning that it was.
Today is again the first day of yet another new year. I can't say however, that I felt the same magic that I did back in that first day of 2008. Aside from the unbearable heat despite climate control air-conditioning, the absence of work commitments and the over-stimulation of hosting a party the previous night, the first day of 2011 is officially my first depressed day of the year - 100% non-success rate so far. Ha.
Some would say that I'm being melodramatic. I've had my fair share of depressed days and still trying to recover from an emotional crisis, so why should one day be such a concern, simply because it falls on a notable public holiday? Perhaps because after so long, so much hard work and all the emotional energy invested, a day feeling as rock bottom as I am, I have grounds to be concerned.
I felt that I really had come leaps and bounds from where I found myself just a few months ago. The demons that I had then fought against for so long had finally brainwashed me into believing them, and because I was stupid enough to share this, I was forced into some 'asylum time'. So I suppose I'm not unfounded in saying that the return of these thoughts lingering in the shadows of my mind is grounds for concern. I've dealt with them before so I should be able to deal with them again, right? Not when I feel so cornered that the biggest evil of them all seems the most comforting in comparison. So, what to do? Check myself back in to Hotel Northside? Be the real drama queen that my mother has always teased me to be? One day isn't grounds for anything. All I have to do is cling onto the tomorrow in my future and hope that it is a little brighter than today, and hopefully bring enough brightness to burn a hole in my new year statistic.
I had to open the store that I worked at the next morning and due to the magnitude of the previous night, I responsibly left my car and walked. My friend, Yass, walked with me. She claimed it was because she wanted to cure her hangover with a dose of Subway, but I think she was just being a loyal companion.
The road was wet as we walked. Neither of us could remember it raining but I put it down to the magic of the first day of the new year. It was too early for the heat of the day to have picked up, but I could feel a hangover headache niggling away. Despite this, I remember the morning feeling fresh, like the new beginning that it was.
Today is again the first day of yet another new year. I can't say however, that I felt the same magic that I did back in that first day of 2008. Aside from the unbearable heat despite climate control air-conditioning, the absence of work commitments and the over-stimulation of hosting a party the previous night, the first day of 2011 is officially my first depressed day of the year - 100% non-success rate so far. Ha.
Some would say that I'm being melodramatic. I've had my fair share of depressed days and still trying to recover from an emotional crisis, so why should one day be such a concern, simply because it falls on a notable public holiday? Perhaps because after so long, so much hard work and all the emotional energy invested, a day feeling as rock bottom as I am, I have grounds to be concerned.
I felt that I really had come leaps and bounds from where I found myself just a few months ago. The demons that I had then fought against for so long had finally brainwashed me into believing them, and because I was stupid enough to share this, I was forced into some 'asylum time'. So I suppose I'm not unfounded in saying that the return of these thoughts lingering in the shadows of my mind is grounds for concern. I've dealt with them before so I should be able to deal with them again, right? Not when I feel so cornered that the biggest evil of them all seems the most comforting in comparison. So, what to do? Check myself back in to Hotel Northside? Be the real drama queen that my mother has always teased me to be? One day isn't grounds for anything. All I have to do is cling onto the tomorrow in my future and hope that it is a little brighter than today, and hopefully bring enough brightness to burn a hole in my new year statistic.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Final Hurrah
Perhaps I have finally lost the plot completely? All of my power is being diffused to the law and my head hurts from too many thoughts flying around at once and obviously colliding with each other. The silence surrounding me which should instead be filled with friends and chatter is as loud as ever; I can hear by heart pounding in my chest and my pulse krumping in my throat.
After several unsuccessful attempts at napping away the afternoon I lay in front of the television, unaware of what was on. I could feel my thoughts racing and was happy to be unaware of what they were. I believed that if I were to tune in they would only compound my unhappiness and challenge me to break a promise I had made earlier in the day.
At 7pm I trekked downstairs for dinner. Sitting at the table I felt like such a fraud as Gma checked my roster and rhetorically asked if I started night duty tomorrow. I couldn't lie - it was right there in black and white. I grunted something and went back to my dinner. It was at that point that the magnitude of the bomb I was going to have to drop on them hit me. Perhaps not the initial shock, but the aftermath is not something that I want to know about.
I potentially have one night left to be in control, yet I am seemingly unphased by the enormity that I know tomorrow will bring. Instead of clawing my face off or planning my runaway, I have been bizarrely methodical and organised. I wrapped baby presents for my boss, sewed a button onto my pants purely for fashion purposes, made lists of things as if I am going on school camp and spent God knows how long in front of the mirror examining my hair - the colour, style, brushing it obsessively and snipping away individual stands that have now split.
Now, as my exhaustion catches up with me I am considering going to bed. It is this proposition that reminds me of being a little girl on Christmas Eve and trying desperately to go to sleep so the darkened hours would fly by allowing Christmas morning to come faster. Tomorrow is far from Christmas, it's not something that I want but deep down know that I need, but I don't want to allow it to come before I'm ready. That is, if I ever will be?
After several unsuccessful attempts at napping away the afternoon I lay in front of the television, unaware of what was on. I could feel my thoughts racing and was happy to be unaware of what they were. I believed that if I were to tune in they would only compound my unhappiness and challenge me to break a promise I had made earlier in the day.
At 7pm I trekked downstairs for dinner. Sitting at the table I felt like such a fraud as Gma checked my roster and rhetorically asked if I started night duty tomorrow. I couldn't lie - it was right there in black and white. I grunted something and went back to my dinner. It was at that point that the magnitude of the bomb I was going to have to drop on them hit me. Perhaps not the initial shock, but the aftermath is not something that I want to know about.
I potentially have one night left to be in control, yet I am seemingly unphased by the enormity that I know tomorrow will bring. Instead of clawing my face off or planning my runaway, I have been bizarrely methodical and organised. I wrapped baby presents for my boss, sewed a button onto my pants purely for fashion purposes, made lists of things as if I am going on school camp and spent God knows how long in front of the mirror examining my hair - the colour, style, brushing it obsessively and snipping away individual stands that have now split.
Now, as my exhaustion catches up with me I am considering going to bed. It is this proposition that reminds me of being a little girl on Christmas Eve and trying desperately to go to sleep so the darkened hours would fly by allowing Christmas morning to come faster. Tomorrow is far from Christmas, it's not something that I want but deep down know that I need, but I don't want to allow it to come before I'm ready. That is, if I ever will be?
Monday, October 25, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
I am trying desperately to stay afloat in what has become an ocean of hopelessness. In doing so I am becoming increasingly sure that my only life buoy in sight is one made of lead; designed to pull me under quicker than my energy takes to fade. I can see it in my future, and am now swimming towards it with my eyes on the prize; calm and feeling ironically, in control.
Soul Secrets
This may very well be my favourite Postsecret video by far. There were so many secrets that made my heart scream "MINE!" You can watch it here.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Under My Bed.
When I was little I spent a lot, perhaps a little too much time under my bed. I felt safe under there, as if it was as far away from reality as I could get and a place where no one could ever find me and drag me out again. I'm sure my parents knew where I was but they never pulled me out, but waited for me to appear on my own accord. It was a good place to hide, and only this evening I reminded myself of this.
Trying to win a now lost case, I burst into tears as soon as I was out of the line of sight of others and shut myself in my room preparing for the flood of tears that followed. I had forgotten what crying felt like; how the frames of my glasses filled with a mixture of tears and mascara, make-up dripped off my face like milk from dirty cereal bowls and my lungs forgot how to breathe leaving me gasping for breath.
Finally, it all subsided and I was left with burning eyes, a dripping nose and the taste of salty water in the back of my throat. I turned off the lights leaving only the fairy lights of my Eiffel Tower aglow and sprawled across the carpet in near darkness. After another series of tears and deciding the carpet smelt like the vacuum cleaner, I instinctively crawled into the space under my bed. There wasn't as much room as I remembered and the company of dolls houses had been replaced with a well-travelled suitcase, but it felt exactly how it used to; safe. I felt that if the world came crashing down or if the noise in my head got all too much, I had found my refuge. I will make a note of that.
Trying to win a now lost case, I burst into tears as soon as I was out of the line of sight of others and shut myself in my room preparing for the flood of tears that followed. I had forgotten what crying felt like; how the frames of my glasses filled with a mixture of tears and mascara, make-up dripped off my face like milk from dirty cereal bowls and my lungs forgot how to breathe leaving me gasping for breath.
Finally, it all subsided and I was left with burning eyes, a dripping nose and the taste of salty water in the back of my throat. I turned off the lights leaving only the fairy lights of my Eiffel Tower aglow and sprawled across the carpet in near darkness. After another series of tears and deciding the carpet smelt like the vacuum cleaner, I instinctively crawled into the space under my bed. There wasn't as much room as I remembered and the company of dolls houses had been replaced with a well-travelled suitcase, but it felt exactly how it used to; safe. I felt that if the world came crashing down or if the noise in my head got all too much, I had found my refuge. I will make a note of that.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
I am possessed by a thought. Perhaps not even a thought; rather an awareness. It started as a spark as the light bulb inside my head flicked on one unidentifiable dark day. It couldn't be extinguished. The darker the days grew, the stronger it glowed so that now it has over powered anything else I have ever experienced and sits within my core, reminding me of its existence with every beat of my heart.
At first it terrified me, but with time was downgraded to a bother. I'm not sure when or where, but at some point I accepted and found peace with this new found awareness. I'm not happy about it, and never will be because it's a demon I would be better off without, but at least by accepting it it's one less thing to fight against.
At first it terrified me, but with time was downgraded to a bother. I'm not sure when or where, but at some point I accepted and found peace with this new found awareness. I'm not happy about it, and never will be because it's a demon I would be better off without, but at least by accepting it it's one less thing to fight against.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
Inception
Eventually, she tells me the truth that she was possessed by an idea, just one simple idea that changed everything, that our world wasn't real and in order to get back to the reality, we'll have to kill ourselves.
It starts with a thought, and if it lingers a second longer becomes an idea. It is this idea that burrows itself into the subconscious so that the light bulb remains on, even when the sparks from every other thought process disguises it. With perseverance, this idea can become an obsession, and obsessions always win.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Facebook Validation.
My Facebook Feed informed me today that one of my friends 'liked' the group "Depression is not a sign of weakness, it is just a sign that we have been strong for too long." Not only do I think that it is the biggest load of bullshit but it doesn't even make any sense. Thank you Facebook for your failed attempt at validating my existence (sarcasm noted?).
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Review
After hours spent bearing the depths of my soul, thousands of dollars changing hands and what has become a lifetime of evaporated thoughts, I still don't think anyone really knows me. What frustrates me more is that I don't either.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
We have been trying to find one another for months a lifetime. Now we're finally getting close; I can feel it.
Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
In a rabbit-fear I may hurl myself under the wheels of the car because the lights terrify me, and under the dark blind death of wheels I will be safe. I am very tired, very banal, very confused. I do not know who I am tonight. I wanted to walk until I dropped and not complete the inevitable circle of coming home.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Le sigh...
I have known in my own mind for months that things were bad, but it's only now when my exterior is failing that others are starting to believe it too. It is frightening when you have no control over your own being; the things that you think, say and do, the way you react to others and how much your eyes can give away during periods of particular vulnerability.
I don't believe I am losing hope, rather that I have already lost it. I am coming to terms with the idea that I will be young forever in the eyes of all who know me and am almost relieved that by letting myself lose I really will win in the end.
I technically haven't given up. I have kept my appointments, taken my meds despite my dissatisfaction and have asked for help when the only way out I could see was black.
I went to see A. as soon as she returned from overseas. Having been so ill while she was away and not feeling completely confident about my state of affairs, I thought perhaps the visit would ease my anxiety as she has an uncanny ability to make light of flaws within myself without making me feel dismissed.
Perhaps it only reiterated my worst fears. She noticed the things that no-one else had; the weight loss, my tired eyes and now noticeable hand tremor. I admitted my hatred for my medication and its menagerie of uncontrollable side-effects, my inability to focus and struggle to maintain a minimum standard at work and my almost overwhelming desire to give up completely. If I had been able I would have cried, but my tears have been stolen by my heart which is turning itself a more melancholy shade of blue with every howl of sorrow that only I can hear. She placed a call to Dr Slime who was unsurprisingly unavailable so promised to call before I started work at 1pm.
I received a call from Dr S's secretary asking me if I could come at 3pm.
"No, sorry I have to work."
"Ok, we'll see you at the end of the week then as planned."
Confused, I called A. She was furious. I let her rant for a minute before she relayed the initial conversation she had with Dr S. She was reluctant to mention the possibility of hospital as I demonstrated the exact reaction she had expected. Promising to get him to call me, the conversation ended. I was stunned, before feeling worried, and anxious and ultimately terrified. I was just about to lose my last ounce of control.
I went to work. I can't say that I actually did any work, but I was physically there. My tea break was greeted with a voicemail from Dr S. Amongst a whole message of superficial concern and generalised assumptions he suggested to reduce my medication if I "feel safe". I almost laughed. I found it amusing that someone with an occupation requiring such a high level of knowledge and responsibility could still come across like the next dumb ass. By reducing the dose it left me susceptible to not having a drug concentration in my blood to stop me (fingers crossed!) from dying, but on the other hand, the current therapeutic levels weren't stopping me from wanting to anyway - go work that one out wise guy.
So I thought, whatever? That morning I had run out of capsules and in my haze had forgotten to stop for more. After getting that voicemail I decided I didn't need to worry. I was sick of spending time and money and hope and belief in everything that had previously let me down.
I pushed everything from that day out of my head and focused on being the presentable and hospitable host at my birthday cocktail party. The benefit of hosting such an event is that you are excused from conforming to acceptable party behaviour with the excuse of preparing food and drinks, welcoming guests and controlling the sound and aesthetic environment. The added benefit of a birthday is that there is no such thing as too much to drink.
Knowing full well that my imminent hangover would not appreciate the continuous mixed drinks, I keep drinking anyway. Even when the party moved from venue to venue and my standards slipped enough for me for be unfazed by the cranberry juice streaked down my white skirt, I disregarded the proposition that anything was a bad idea. The possibility of taking risks was almost thrilling, because I had convinced myself that I had nothing left within me to lose. At 3am I decided the idea of walking home from the city was much more appealing than the convenience of a cab and would have done so despite my heels if it hadn't been for a friend pulling me into a taxi and letting it speed off before letting me go.
This morning I woke up still drunk and spent the day ignoring my hangover. It wasn't until dinnertime that I wondered how much of my current state was alcohol induced or withdrawl? Not that I cared really, because when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.
I don't believe I am losing hope, rather that I have already lost it. I am coming to terms with the idea that I will be young forever in the eyes of all who know me and am almost relieved that by letting myself lose I really will win in the end.
I technically haven't given up. I have kept my appointments, taken my meds despite my dissatisfaction and have asked for help when the only way out I could see was black.
I went to see A. as soon as she returned from overseas. Having been so ill while she was away and not feeling completely confident about my state of affairs, I thought perhaps the visit would ease my anxiety as she has an uncanny ability to make light of flaws within myself without making me feel dismissed.
Perhaps it only reiterated my worst fears. She noticed the things that no-one else had; the weight loss, my tired eyes and now noticeable hand tremor. I admitted my hatred for my medication and its menagerie of uncontrollable side-effects, my inability to focus and struggle to maintain a minimum standard at work and my almost overwhelming desire to give up completely. If I had been able I would have cried, but my tears have been stolen by my heart which is turning itself a more melancholy shade of blue with every howl of sorrow that only I can hear. She placed a call to Dr Slime who was unsurprisingly unavailable so promised to call before I started work at 1pm.
I received a call from Dr S's secretary asking me if I could come at 3pm.
"No, sorry I have to work."
"Ok, we'll see you at the end of the week then as planned."
Confused, I called A. She was furious. I let her rant for a minute before she relayed the initial conversation she had with Dr S. She was reluctant to mention the possibility of hospital as I demonstrated the exact reaction she had expected. Promising to get him to call me, the conversation ended. I was stunned, before feeling worried, and anxious and ultimately terrified. I was just about to lose my last ounce of control.
I went to work. I can't say that I actually did any work, but I was physically there. My tea break was greeted with a voicemail from Dr S. Amongst a whole message of superficial concern and generalised assumptions he suggested to reduce my medication if I "feel safe". I almost laughed. I found it amusing that someone with an occupation requiring such a high level of knowledge and responsibility could still come across like the next dumb ass. By reducing the dose it left me susceptible to not having a drug concentration in my blood to stop me (fingers crossed!) from dying, but on the other hand, the current therapeutic levels weren't stopping me from wanting to anyway - go work that one out wise guy.
So I thought, whatever? That morning I had run out of capsules and in my haze had forgotten to stop for more. After getting that voicemail I decided I didn't need to worry. I was sick of spending time and money and hope and belief in everything that had previously let me down.
I pushed everything from that day out of my head and focused on being the presentable and hospitable host at my birthday cocktail party. The benefit of hosting such an event is that you are excused from conforming to acceptable party behaviour with the excuse of preparing food and drinks, welcoming guests and controlling the sound and aesthetic environment. The added benefit of a birthday is that there is no such thing as too much to drink.
Knowing full well that my imminent hangover would not appreciate the continuous mixed drinks, I keep drinking anyway. Even when the party moved from venue to venue and my standards slipped enough for me for be unfazed by the cranberry juice streaked down my white skirt, I disregarded the proposition that anything was a bad idea. The possibility of taking risks was almost thrilling, because I had convinced myself that I had nothing left within me to lose. At 3am I decided the idea of walking home from the city was much more appealing than the convenience of a cab and would have done so despite my heels if it hadn't been for a friend pulling me into a taxi and letting it speed off before letting me go.
This morning I woke up still drunk and spent the day ignoring my hangover. It wasn't until dinnertime that I wondered how much of my current state was alcohol induced or withdrawl? Not that I cared really, because when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Am I intolerable? Am I the person that everyone avoids until caught out and pleasantries take over that I, foolishly, mistake for genuine acceptance? Ironically, people are ignorant when they think that I don't notice when I am ignored. My mind is over-analytical; I know when you don't call me back or reply to messages. I see when you change direction in the hall or walk away when you see me coming. Should I be surprised? I'm not that unintelligent - surely I should be able to pre-warn myself that people are fake, misleading and give me false hope that perhaps I mean something to someone; anyone really.
Perhaps with the added year today brings I have made a revelation; I have a constant uphill battle with myself and have already lost to the world. Maybe now is the time to forfeit.
Perhaps with the added year today brings I have made a revelation; I have a constant uphill battle with myself and have already lost to the world. Maybe now is the time to forfeit.
Happy Birthday to Me
A Birthday Present
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed -- I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine --
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?
I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking
'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?
Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.
Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'
But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.
I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.
I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,
The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!
It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.
Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed -- I do not mind if it is small.
Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,
The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.
I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified
The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine --
Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,
Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.
It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center
Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.
Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
It has come to my attention that I have a tendency to surround myself with people who aren't emotionally available. Is this a subconscious choice I have made when deciding who I like and don't like? I reject the idea that it is my choice. Everything that I think and feel becomes so amplified in my own head so that I often find it impossible to escape. I crave being able to sit alongside someone and be distracted with things from their mind and the world around us and feel able to say I'm sad, I'm scared or simply I need to be held; to remind myself that this isolated place that I live in really is a part of something bigger and that as hard as it is for me to see sometimes, I still mean enough to someone for them to sit beside me in the first place. Now I just need to find that person.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Florence + The Machine
Don't ask me why, but this is my favourite song at the moment. I think there's something in it that brings me as close to happy as I have ever felt.
Thursday, August 05, 2010
Tuesday, August 03, 2010
Hug me.
My last hug was a Friday morning, three and a half weeks ago. It came out of no where but was exactly what I needed without my even realising it. Since then I have left the country and returned, had a general anaesthetic, been a patient in 2 different hospitals, completed 2 courses of antibiotics, seen numerous doctors and am up to 7 sick days. So no, I haven't hugged someone today, but gosh it would be appreciated. Any takers?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
ill.
Sometimes, no matter how much we will things to happen (or not happen), fate takes over and steers us towards wherever it is that we're going. After being the socially unacceptable form of ill for over 6 months now, I believed that perhaps I couldn't dive any deeper. Oddly enough, my immune system followed suit and recruited every system in my body to go down with it.
While sitting in the Emergency Department in dire need of some attention - from anyone really - the bright eyed intern taking my now extensive history in the too-public-for-my-liking area of the department was surprised when I kept remembering new things to add. A previously fit and well (physically) 22 year old had somehow managed to combine every kind of illness (minus Goat Flu) in the past 2 weeks and create a network of symptoms so diverse that there is no clue as to why and where each one is occurring from.
After some IV Holy Water, a series of tests and hiding from work colleagues I was released into the care of an angel in the form of Mrs Boss, results pending. Straight to bed in 2 day old clothes, followed by a night of well overdue but broken sleep, stomach cramps and crazy dreams.
Today was spent quietly. Feeling much better after being able to pee for the first time in 3 days, I sat around agonising on what to do next should my results come back how the young intern had predicted. At 1600 I called work and asked the In-Charge to check my pathology, to which she said she would when she had time and call me back. Over 6 hours later I'm still agonising and waiting for a phone call.
I have spent so much of my life as an independent. Perhaps even a loner in my thoughts and opinions and view of the world through my sensitive eyes. I have refused help when theoretically I needed it and done things I wouldn't ever have to just to prove to myself that I could. I have refused to open myself up to people in fear of alienation or rejection, and for these same reasons, prevented myself from getting too close even when deep down I wanted, or needed to. It is these choices that only give me myself to blame for stumbling through my life with closed doors and missing out on hugs and inside jokes and wanting to feel like I belong to someone; wanting to feel loved.
I can now safely say that tonight's not my night for my results; she must have forgotten. In my head, I can't understand how that happened because clearly it's something that I can't get off my mind. The reality is that it's not important to anyone else but me. I'm the only one who has to deal with the outcome - good or bad - so I'm essentially the only one affected. I can't shrug it off and say that I don't care, because if I don't care, there's no-one else who will.
While sitting in the Emergency Department in dire need of some attention - from anyone really - the bright eyed intern taking my now extensive history in the too-public-for-my-liking area of the department was surprised when I kept remembering new things to add. A previously fit and well (physically) 22 year old had somehow managed to combine every kind of illness (minus Goat Flu) in the past 2 weeks and create a network of symptoms so diverse that there is no clue as to why and where each one is occurring from.
After some IV Holy Water, a series of tests and hiding from work colleagues I was released into the care of an angel in the form of Mrs Boss, results pending. Straight to bed in 2 day old clothes, followed by a night of well overdue but broken sleep, stomach cramps and crazy dreams.
Today was spent quietly. Feeling much better after being able to pee for the first time in 3 days, I sat around agonising on what to do next should my results come back how the young intern had predicted. At 1600 I called work and asked the In-Charge to check my pathology, to which she said she would when she had time and call me back. Over 6 hours later I'm still agonising and waiting for a phone call.
I have spent so much of my life as an independent. Perhaps even a loner in my thoughts and opinions and view of the world through my sensitive eyes. I have refused help when theoretically I needed it and done things I wouldn't ever have to just to prove to myself that I could. I have refused to open myself up to people in fear of alienation or rejection, and for these same reasons, prevented myself from getting too close even when deep down I wanted, or needed to. It is these choices that only give me myself to blame for stumbling through my life with closed doors and missing out on hugs and inside jokes and wanting to feel like I belong to someone; wanting to feel loved.
I can now safely say that tonight's not my night for my results; she must have forgotten. In my head, I can't understand how that happened because clearly it's something that I can't get off my mind. The reality is that it's not important to anyone else but me. I'm the only one who has to deal with the outcome - good or bad - so I'm essentially the only one affected. I can't shrug it off and say that I don't care, because if I don't care, there's no-one else who will.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Election 2010
All the money in the world won't stop people from wanting to kill themselves. Not too many people get it.
http://news.ninemsn.com.au/national/election2010/7935525/277m-for-suicide-prevention-gillard
http://news.ninemsn.com.au/national/election2010/7935525/277m-for-suicide-prevention-gillard
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Sick Sunday
Just when it all seems too much, it is followed by a weekend of bed-rest, stomach cramps and not having eaten since Friday. Tomorrow's not looking much better.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Provisional Diagnosis
When you're already deemed as one kind of crazy, what's to stop you adding to it?
Provisional Diagnosis. What does that even mean? Provisional... serving for the time being only. Subject to change.
What's to stop you telling me one theory before changing your mind entirely? That's such a cop-out. No-one else can get away with it so why should they?
Yes I'll have cracked pepper on my salad. Oh hang on, I don't like pepper. Take it back please.
Everything is one big contradiction: it's chemical, it's biological, it's a defence mechanism, it's a learnt response. They say it's not my fault, it's something that just happens. Then why do I have to change everything to make it go away? Not just my outfit or hobbies or favourite food, but things from deep within myself that I didn't even know where there. How can I change something that I'm still not convinced exists?
Someone always manages to say it will get better, and then something somehow manages to make it all worse.
Provisional Diagnosis. What does that even mean? Provisional... serving for the time being only. Subject to change.
What's to stop you telling me one theory before changing your mind entirely? That's such a cop-out. No-one else can get away with it so why should they?
Yes I'll have cracked pepper on my salad. Oh hang on, I don't like pepper. Take it back please.
Everything is one big contradiction: it's chemical, it's biological, it's a defence mechanism, it's a learnt response. They say it's not my fault, it's something that just happens. Then why do I have to change everything to make it go away? Not just my outfit or hobbies or favourite food, but things from deep within myself that I didn't even know where there. How can I change something that I'm still not convinced exists?
Someone always manages to say it will get better, and then something somehow manages to make it all worse.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
General Anaesthetic
After months of toiling over the perfect ending, I seemingly stumbled upon it in a small operating theatre with a cast of only 3. The gas smelt like illegal chemicals and I could feel my brain cells being shut down one by one. A few breaths later my memory died.
It would have been perfect if it could have been left at just that, but of course something pulled me back. The return of my memory taunted me with what a beautiful ending it could have been, if those people with the drugs and the gas would have just let me be.
It would have been perfect if it could have been left at just that, but of course something pulled me back. The return of my memory taunted me with what a beautiful ending it could have been, if those people with the drugs and the gas would have just let me be.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
IPS
For some completely unknown reason my boss decided today that I was just the right person to special a scheduled patient after an attempted suicide who remains in an almost catatonic form of depression. Seriously?
When she started to cry I asked the stupidest question, and as soon as I said it I wished I hadn't.
"What's wrong?"
What's wrong? What the fuck? What do you think is wrong? She is so unhappy that there's no way out? She's fought for too long and finally wanted to be beaten? We're preventing her from finding peace. And I asked what was wrong? Anyone would think I was too naive to understand. Oh I understand, I just want to pretend that I don't because maybe if I tell myself that for long enough I might start believing it.
She broke my heart. She asked me, rather, pleaded, for me to help her. She wanted me to end it. "Give me a big needle that will make it all go away."
I told her I couldn't. That I wouldn't.
"I want to die, and I even failed at that."
That is my fear.
After all the hell you go through, in your head, your heart and your soul, when you finally pluck the courage from a place inside you that you never thought you'd find, and you do the thing that is to be your final action... and fail.
It's not something you can practice. It's not even something that you can study up on or gather others opinions over a mid-week lunch. It's something you work through in the silent darkened hours of the morning when you're trying to fall asleep as bakers and garbage trucks begin their day. You grind over each possibility until it's smooth and flawless and almost praise yourself for being so ingenious. There is just one thing missing. The courage to jump.
And so she tells me again, with tears in her eyes and quivers in her voice, that she just wants to go. I couldn't say what I was thinking. What else was I to do? Under the eyes of a student nurse, a physio and an unknown doctor, I lied through my teeth and told her that it could only get better. She called me wise for someone so young. I called myself a liar because I didn't believe it and don't feel that I ever could. When people say that to me I get angry. Fury bubbles up inside me because how can anyone know? I have heard it too many times only to prove them wrong. Now I've become one of them.
Deep down I know the system will heal her; heal her to a satisfactory level to get the stamp on that bit of paper. I can almost see her future though. She will slip through the cracks in that same system by setting herself free and becoming just another medical record to file under 'deceased'. I know she won't be at peace with herself until she finally wins.
When she started to cry I asked the stupidest question, and as soon as I said it I wished I hadn't.
"What's wrong?"
What's wrong? What the fuck? What do you think is wrong? She is so unhappy that there's no way out? She's fought for too long and finally wanted to be beaten? We're preventing her from finding peace. And I asked what was wrong? Anyone would think I was too naive to understand. Oh I understand, I just want to pretend that I don't because maybe if I tell myself that for long enough I might start believing it.
She broke my heart. She asked me, rather, pleaded, for me to help her. She wanted me to end it. "Give me a big needle that will make it all go away."
I told her I couldn't. That I wouldn't.
"I want to die, and I even failed at that."
That is my fear.
After all the hell you go through, in your head, your heart and your soul, when you finally pluck the courage from a place inside you that you never thought you'd find, and you do the thing that is to be your final action... and fail.
It's not something you can practice. It's not even something that you can study up on or gather others opinions over a mid-week lunch. It's something you work through in the silent darkened hours of the morning when you're trying to fall asleep as bakers and garbage trucks begin their day. You grind over each possibility until it's smooth and flawless and almost praise yourself for being so ingenious. There is just one thing missing. The courage to jump.
And so she tells me again, with tears in her eyes and quivers in her voice, that she just wants to go. I couldn't say what I was thinking. What else was I to do? Under the eyes of a student nurse, a physio and an unknown doctor, I lied through my teeth and told her that it could only get better. She called me wise for someone so young. I called myself a liar because I didn't believe it and don't feel that I ever could. When people say that to me I get angry. Fury bubbles up inside me because how can anyone know? I have heard it too many times only to prove them wrong. Now I've become one of them.
Deep down I know the system will heal her; heal her to a satisfactory level to get the stamp on that bit of paper. I can almost see her future though. She will slip through the cracks in that same system by setting herself free and becoming just another medical record to file under 'deceased'. I know she won't be at peace with herself until she finally wins.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Elevator Conversations
Me:
That is so gay.
Mum:
Don't use that word.
Me:
I've been using that word since before any closets were opened.
Brother:
It's derogatory against my people.
Me:
Well what about my people?
Brother:
Evidently Mum and I are still trying to work out who your people are.
That is so gay.
Mum:
Don't use that word.
Me:
I've been using that word since before any closets were opened.
Brother:
It's derogatory against my people.
Me:
Well what about my people?
Brother:
Evidently Mum and I are still trying to work out who your people are.
Monday, June 21, 2010
What makes someone worthwhile? What qualities form the basis of not necessarily likability, but a level of tolerance?
One would assume that sharing a gene pool would help, but it appears not. If I were to model myself into the smallest form of acceptability where would I start? Shorten my hem, lighten my hair and lower my standards?
Perhaps my level of acceptability is higher than others? Maybe that's why I feel so isolated. Why I find it hard to really fit in. Why boys don't ask me out and why there's always an extra inch of space between my friends and I that I can't work out how to fill?
My mother always said that if you have no expectations, then you won't get disappointed. Then why do I feel so disappointed not having the things that I don't even know that I want yet?
Maybe the feeling isn't really disappointment. Maybe it's worthlessness or anger or guilt or anxiety? But for now, it just feels sad.
One would assume that sharing a gene pool would help, but it appears not. If I were to model myself into the smallest form of acceptability where would I start? Shorten my hem, lighten my hair and lower my standards?
Perhaps my level of acceptability is higher than others? Maybe that's why I feel so isolated. Why I find it hard to really fit in. Why boys don't ask me out and why there's always an extra inch of space between my friends and I that I can't work out how to fill?
My mother always said that if you have no expectations, then you won't get disappointed. Then why do I feel so disappointed not having the things that I don't even know that I want yet?
Maybe the feeling isn't really disappointment. Maybe it's worthlessness or anger or guilt or anxiety? But for now, it just feels sad.
Should I find it odd that I experience things that no one else talks about? How I can see things change colours or can watch something move when really it is sitting still? I smell things that no one else admits to, and see people that weren't really there in the first place. I feel things touch me; the weight and texture and sensations one would expect, but actually, there's nothing there. The only people who claim to have experienced these things are labelled. Some as Schizophrenic and others just plain insane. I wonder how long these things have been happening? Perhaps for years and I haven't noticed until now, when I'm feeling particularly vulnerable and looking for people and things to blame.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Sometimes I wonder how much of what I think I am is real? The things that I think and believe, see and experience.
While cruising the Atlantic I embraced in using my sea legs because it justified the vertigo that sometimes occurs when I'm on solid ground.
When in foreign ports my eyes tried to convince my brain that I have seen people I know. I have to look twice, sometimes even three times to prove to myself that they're just another stranger.
I have been trying to drag up moments and memories from my childhood; perhaps to explain why I am who I am? I recall one from being two or three in the butchers shop and looking at the red cheerios through the glass - but I can see my miniature figure too. I can see me as if I am a fly on the wall or a skeleton in the closet. The little girl is standing on tip-toes with her hands on the cabinet with a face so close that the glass is fogging up. I know it's me because my mother reminds me of going to the shop every week and the butcher giving me a cheerio if I'd been good that day. I have vague recollections of this, but as a third party and so disconnected that it could be just a dream instead.
While cruising the Atlantic I embraced in using my sea legs because it justified the vertigo that sometimes occurs when I'm on solid ground.
When in foreign ports my eyes tried to convince my brain that I have seen people I know. I have to look twice, sometimes even three times to prove to myself that they're just another stranger.
I have been trying to drag up moments and memories from my childhood; perhaps to explain why I am who I am? I recall one from being two or three in the butchers shop and looking at the red cheerios through the glass - but I can see my miniature figure too. I can see me as if I am a fly on the wall or a skeleton in the closet. The little girl is standing on tip-toes with her hands on the cabinet with a face so close that the glass is fogging up. I know it's me because my mother reminds me of going to the shop every week and the butcher giving me a cheerio if I'd been good that day. I have vague recollections of this, but as a third party and so disconnected that it could be just a dream instead.
There are times when I don't feel quite like myself. Granted, I don't really know myself yet. I tell myself I do. I paint out my dreams and aspirations, my fears and favourite colours and musicals and actors. Sometimes I wonder if it's all just a trick? As if these things that I think are pieces of me are really just a cover created by my soul to hide the truth of what I think I want to see but really don't have the courage or strength or maturity or maybe even the sanity to accept.
Perhaps I'm only aware of this when I have moments like now; when I don't feel like myself. As if I'm to know how I should feel anyway?
Perhaps I'm only aware of this when I have moments like now; when I don't feel like myself. As if I'm to know how I should feel anyway?
Friday, June 18, 2010
Opera Queensland
When I was in Year 10 I did a week long opera workshop. I loved it. It encompassed everything that I loved about the theatre and more. After our presentation performance on the last day I felt empty, almost like I had lost something or someone.
I went home and typed an email to Opera Queensland. I explained my satisfaction with the programme and documented my personal thoughts of each tutor. I'm not sure what I expected to come of doing this. Truthfully, I figured it would be read by a computer system and then appropriately discarded. Instead it was printed in the company's newsletter and sent to hundreds of theatres, schools, companys and prospective students.
They sent me some copies to show to my family and friends. I put them in a box in my room and never showed a soul.
I went home and typed an email to Opera Queensland. I explained my satisfaction with the programme and documented my personal thoughts of each tutor. I'm not sure what I expected to come of doing this. Truthfully, I figured it would be read by a computer system and then appropriately discarded. Instead it was printed in the company's newsletter and sent to hundreds of theatres, schools, companys and prospective students.
They sent me some copies to show to my family and friends. I put them in a box in my room and never showed a soul.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Yet Another
No matter who's video I watch, I still see fragments of me within the pieces of the rest of the world.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
I have become socially unacceptable; I have built a wall between the world and myself. I can't knock it down, even for my closest friends, and every exchange stabs me a little more, because I don't want to be so far away. Every smile I don't return, and every time I turn my back makes me scream inside my head - but the parasitoid controls me. As much as I want to keep them close, they drift further and further away until I fear there will be no-one left willing to fight for me.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Sunset
It's raining. I knew it would hours ago as the sunset peeked through a canopy of black clouds. I couldn't help but notice how sad they looked, and instantly thought them to resemble my heart. Now the sky is crying, and I'm envious. I can't look away as the tears shower the city and blur everything beyond my window. I wish I knew how to join in.
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
After talking to Mrs Boss last week perhaps she convinced me that I am a little better than I was, even though I didn't really believe it. She must be right though; I have been going out more, haven't given in to myself in weeks and although I still think about dying, perhaps not in quite as longing a way as I have previously?
No. Today I feel like I've hit a wall. I couldn't get out of bed. I only showered because I felt suffocated in my own skin and hoped the running water would let it breathe again. Memories of my thoughts, desires and failures have plagued my mind and I have been re-visiting possibilities I have previously dismissed. The more I think, the clearer it all becomes. It is my truth, it is for me, and for once I don't care how it will affect anyone else. It's my life, not yours.
No. Today I feel like I've hit a wall. I couldn't get out of bed. I only showered because I felt suffocated in my own skin and hoped the running water would let it breathe again. Memories of my thoughts, desires and failures have plagued my mind and I have been re-visiting possibilities I have previously dismissed. The more I think, the clearer it all becomes. It is my truth, it is for me, and for once I don't care how it will affect anyone else. It's my life, not yours.
Friday, April 02, 2010
Good Friday
After today's Stations of the Cross, I went to confession.
He welcomed me back and listened to my sins, then told me to talk to my mum about my problems. It would have been cute if it weren't such an unrealisitic suggestion?
The only pennace he gave me was one Hail Mary. One? I got ten of them when I was mean to my brother when I was 7. Perhaps I'm not as bad a person as I used to be.
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been 2 years since my last confession.
He welcomed me back and listened to my sins, then told me to talk to my mum about my problems. It would have been cute if it weren't such an unrealisitic suggestion?
The only pennace he gave me was one Hail Mary. One? I got ten of them when I was mean to my brother when I was 7. Perhaps I'm not as bad a person as I used to be.
Thursday, April 01, 2010
Happy Easter
I came home to an Easter egg on my bed with a note that read:
Thanks for the thought. And reminding me.
Happy Easter.
Sorry you are on your own.
Love you
Gma
Thanks for the thought. And reminding me.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Vent
I feel as if my insides have been painted blue, and the more time that passes the more the paint dries.
Revelation? Not really, but it's ironic that Mrs Boss healed me more than the therapy I paid for.
Monday, March 22, 2010
To Me, From My Heart
Today I wrote a letter to no-one that started with:
Even after writing seven pages, I still don't think it made anything make sense or make any kind of point. Waste of time?
If I could write a letter bearing what is encrypted in my heart, I wonder what it would say?
Even after writing seven pages, I still don't think it made anything make sense or make any kind of point. Waste of time?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Postsecret Ponderings
We have already established my Postsecret addiction, so here is a one-liner from the archives:
If only I knew.
The moment you feel like giving up, just remember why you held on for so long.
If only I knew.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Vogue
My past 48 hours have primarily been spent shopping. As the new winter collections have just been released into the stores, I was able to peruse and ponder this season's looks. Perhaps not such a good idea the day after payday.
So after 2 days, numerous blisters and hundreds of shops (and dollars - shh!), these are my observations of the must-haves this winter:
So after 2 days, numerous blisters and hundreds of shops (and dollars - shh!), these are my observations of the must-haves this winter:
- Cropped jackets
- Long cardigans/knitwear
- Animal print
- Leggings
- The colour purple
- Fingerless biker gloves
- Studs
- Silk scarves
- Hounds tooth print (I am a little excited by this actually)
So I wait for the colder weather to set in so I can trial my new outfits on everyone else's judgemental eyes. Until then, I will admire the beauty of Yves Saint Laurent's new wallet. It is so Parisienne Chic:
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Miracle
Even on a day like today, when I think I feel as bad as one can, I can still see the beauty in this secret. It makes my heart a little less heavy, even if only for a second.www.postsecret.com
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Diversion
There are things that people say they can't like without; perfume, movies, their dog or cat, coffee. And there are people that they couldn't live a life without too; their husband, girlfriend, mother or best friend.
It makes me wonder what it is that keeps me alive? There used to be token things that made me smile and lift my heart. When I had a bad day and Mr T would leave Ferrero Rochers in my locker, it somehow made all the shit worth it. When Miss Priss and I could relieve the weight of the world by singing loudly and out of tune in the car. When performing the words of Sylvia Plath won me gold medals and made my heart proud with truth.
So what is it now; namely today, that keeps my heart beating? Gone are my days of drama eisteddfods and best friends and chocolate. With years our lives morph into only fragments of our past, but I'm not sure what I have become.
I mask myself to everyone, creating a false me for all to see. But I think I've done it for so long that I've forgotten what's really inside, because it has been buried deep within the layers of years of lies and it's too deep to ever be found.
Is that why I can't find what makes me happy? Why people tolerate my existence but never chase me for company on the weekends? Why I distract myself in any way possible to avoid the loneliness and pain in my heart and boredom that I feel when I just stop? Why I can't stop thinking about dying and letting go of all that is pinning me down, and no matter what I try it seems the only rational escape?
So I ask again; what is it that I cannot live without? Distractions? Noise? The diversions I create for myself to put off any more bloodshed? There is no-one that I couldn't live without. Not because I don't love or care for anyone, but because I won't let myself become dependent on anyone; no matter how close a friend they may become. If I did, and were to lose them I would always blame myself. And I couldn't bear to love someone more than they could ever love me.
And just because it is relevant, here is a Postsecret post-script from www.postsecret.com :
It makes me wonder what it is that keeps me alive? There used to be token things that made me smile and lift my heart. When I had a bad day and Mr T would leave Ferrero Rochers in my locker, it somehow made all the shit worth it. When Miss Priss and I could relieve the weight of the world by singing loudly and out of tune in the car. When performing the words of Sylvia Plath won me gold medals and made my heart proud with truth.
So what is it now; namely today, that keeps my heart beating? Gone are my days of drama eisteddfods and best friends and chocolate. With years our lives morph into only fragments of our past, but I'm not sure what I have become.
I mask myself to everyone, creating a false me for all to see. But I think I've done it for so long that I've forgotten what's really inside, because it has been buried deep within the layers of years of lies and it's too deep to ever be found.
Is that why I can't find what makes me happy? Why people tolerate my existence but never chase me for company on the weekends? Why I distract myself in any way possible to avoid the loneliness and pain in my heart and boredom that I feel when I just stop? Why I can't stop thinking about dying and letting go of all that is pinning me down, and no matter what I try it seems the only rational escape?
So I ask again; what is it that I cannot live without? Distractions? Noise? The diversions I create for myself to put off any more bloodshed? There is no-one that I couldn't live without. Not because I don't love or care for anyone, but because I won't let myself become dependent on anyone; no matter how close a friend they may become. If I did, and were to lose them I would always blame myself. And I couldn't bear to love someone more than they could ever love me.
And just because it is relevant, here is a Postsecret post-script from www.postsecret.com :
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Psychosis
I'm not sure that even I know how I am still sitting here. Last evening I became so removed from reality that I didn't think I'd survive the night. I couldn't feel anger or sorrow or frustration, or my own hands on my skin. Everything was numb.
I had to test myself. That, I felt. Perhaps the most alive I had felt in weeks. I had to keep proving to myself that I was real, but somehow managed to stop before resembling a Virginia Ham.
It really does frighten me. I am frightened that so many decisions have to be my own and that there's no-one who can help me make them. I'm frightened that despite my best efforts, my days are getting shorter, colder and darker than ever before. I'm terrified that my nights are black.
I had to test myself. That, I felt. Perhaps the most alive I had felt in weeks. I had to keep proving to myself that I was real, but somehow managed to stop before resembling a Virginia Ham.
It really does frighten me. I am frightened that so many decisions have to be my own and that there's no-one who can help me make them. I'm frightened that despite my best efforts, my days are getting shorter, colder and darker than ever before. I'm terrified that my nights are black.
I wrestle alone in the dark, in the deep dark, and that only I can know, only I can understand my own condition. You live with the threat, you tell me. You live with the threat of my extinction... I live with it too.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Today
I have run out of distractions. I forced myself out of bed at lunchtime, after watching the boats on the harbour for an hour and a half. I took my time showering, painting, moisturising, brushing and straightening and told myself that I could not put off tidying the apartment anymore. I did the washing, put away everything that was out of place and cleaned the already clean kitchen despite it not being used since Tuesday when the last meal was prepared, and the fact that the cleaner comes tomorrow at 9am to re-clean it anyway. I tidied my room, removed all hazards from the floor, folded my clean washing and took extra care to pack my Chanel 2.55 Chain Bag away as recommended by the company.
Now that everything is just as it should be, I don't know what to do next. I keep moving from room to room hoping to find a purpose. I sat in the Living Room analysing the weather, partly angry that Sydney is mocking me with what may be the last summer day when I had no energy or purpose to share in it. I sat on the floor of the Library hoping to find sudden inspiration from the spines staring down at me. I took out the rubbish, avoided the reem of photocopied textbook pages the Happy Lady had mailed me, lay on my bedroom floor then wrote a shopping list for when I can force myself to the supermarket (toothpaste, red pen, moisturiser).
What am I waiting for? I have done everything my apartment has expected of me. I am dressed with shoes ready to go out. But I have no appointments in my diary, no phone calls inviting me out, no spontaneous activities that my heart is begging me to do. The clock in the foyer reminds me in 15 minute intervals of the time I am wasting.
I have another 8 days until my family return home. If I wanted I could throw a party carrying on for days and nights to come. I could invite the middle-aged Porsche driving creeps from the elevator to dinner and drink too much and do Karaoke. I could lie dead for days with no-one noticing.
But none of these are things that I want to do. I still want my cup of tea. If I were on the Gold Coast I would arrive uninvited and drink tea and talk with M. for hours and distract her from her dying mother and let her distract me from myself. I would feel partly human again. Instead I have my clean apartment to keep me company.
Now that everything is just as it should be, I don't know what to do next. I keep moving from room to room hoping to find a purpose. I sat in the Living Room analysing the weather, partly angry that Sydney is mocking me with what may be the last summer day when I had no energy or purpose to share in it. I sat on the floor of the Library hoping to find sudden inspiration from the spines staring down at me. I took out the rubbish, avoided the reem of photocopied textbook pages the Happy Lady had mailed me, lay on my bedroom floor then wrote a shopping list for when I can force myself to the supermarket (toothpaste, red pen, moisturiser).
What am I waiting for? I have done everything my apartment has expected of me. I am dressed with shoes ready to go out. But I have no appointments in my diary, no phone calls inviting me out, no spontaneous activities that my heart is begging me to do. The clock in the foyer reminds me in 15 minute intervals of the time I am wasting.
I have another 8 days until my family return home. If I wanted I could throw a party carrying on for days and nights to come. I could invite the middle-aged Porsche driving creeps from the elevator to dinner and drink too much and do Karaoke. I could lie dead for days with no-one noticing.
But none of these are things that I want to do. I still want my cup of tea. If I were on the Gold Coast I would arrive uninvited and drink tea and talk with M. for hours and distract her from her dying mother and let her distract me from myself. I would feel partly human again. Instead I have my clean apartment to keep me company.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
I am so sick of listening to the inside of my own head. I am warping reality with my dreams, so that I don't know what really happened and what didn't. I stop for charity workers on the street just so they can ask me how my day is with feigned interest, and I can lie about how great it has been. I am sick of my own four walls. I opened a window despite the air-conditioning just to hear the traffic on the bridge; to remind myself that I am not alone and there are lives to be lived.
I need some company. I want to sit alongside someone and talk and think and feel and analyse and gossip and imagine, just for an afternoon, to break the chill and hollowness that has eaten my soul. But I'm not sure if there's anyone who would want to.
I need some company. I want to sit alongside someone and talk and think and feel and analyse and gossip and imagine, just for an afternoon, to break the chill and hollowness that has eaten my soul. But I'm not sure if there's anyone who would want to.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Tick, Tick, Tick
I am exhausted. Every inch of me aches as though I have run for a lifetime. I find it hard to do the mundane, everyday tasks; brush my hair, clean my teeth, go to work. Everything is an effort. Everyone intimidates me. Every second I want to cry.
I try to work hard. If I can distract myself from the increasing heaviness within, perhaps I may just make it to the end. But it always finds a way to creep back. The few minutes of searching through the storeroom, the break of silence between morning tea chatter, the solitude of making fresh sheets into a bed. It never really goes away, and I'm frightened it never will. How can anyone live like this?
And if there's anything I hate as much as this feeling, it's the silence when I just stop. It reminds me how alone I have become. Perhaps more lonely than anything, and I wish I could break it with a hug, a cry and a cup of tea like I used to. But things are different now, the void is deeper and more mature than before. I want to fill it up with people and parties to cover the silence, but no amount of champagne or entertainment will ever be enough. I don't know what will?
I try to work hard. If I can distract myself from the increasing heaviness within, perhaps I may just make it to the end. But it always finds a way to creep back. The few minutes of searching through the storeroom, the break of silence between morning tea chatter, the solitude of making fresh sheets into a bed. It never really goes away, and I'm frightened it never will. How can anyone live like this?
And if there's anything I hate as much as this feeling, it's the silence when I just stop. It reminds me how alone I have become. Perhaps more lonely than anything, and I wish I could break it with a hug, a cry and a cup of tea like I used to. But things are different now, the void is deeper and more mature than before. I want to fill it up with people and parties to cover the silence, but no amount of champagne or entertainment will ever be enough. I don't know what will?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Out
I forced myself out of the apartment all weekend to break the cycle of monotony and frustration. I walked the city streets at midnight in the rain. I sat alone in a restaurant in the small hours of the morning hoping the NYC image would make me feel closer to the world. I stood in the rain on purpose. I got stuck in mud and didn't take my shoes off at the door. I showered with my shoes on. I ignored phone calls, didn't reply to messages and asked for apologies.
Does this sound like me? Not to anyone who really knows me, but I tried it on for size. I tried it on hoping, praying that I had discovered the answer to breaking free. Did it work? I didn't find an answer. If anything I discovered death within my shadow; creeping up on me as I run out of places to hide.
Does this sound like me? Not to anyone who really knows me, but I tried it on for size. I tried it on hoping, praying that I had discovered the answer to breaking free. Did it work? I didn't find an answer. If anything I discovered death within my shadow; creeping up on me as I run out of places to hide.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Today, I danced in the rain. Just that phrase sounds like freedom. Before today I would have said so. But having done just this, I don't feel any more liberated, or refreshed, or happy. The sadness imprinted within me can't be washed away. I can't dance the feeling out of me or scream it from my lungs. It sits in the bottom of my heart, poisoning my blood. To extinguish it would mean bleeding myself dry.
Friday, February 12, 2010
RIP
People die everyday. The hospital where I work is full of them. Some will go quietly, others in glorified religious ceremonies. Some unexpectedly, and others with scandal.
Celebrities endure the glamour of press releases and public memorials. The world tunes in and becomes an accessory to the final farewell, with every detail imprinted for years to follow. Last year it was Michael Jackson, Christmas; Brittany Murphy, today; Alexander McQueen. Who's life is on tomorrow's line?
Google is hot. Twitter is trending 'RIP'. I wonder if I'll even make the obituaries.
Celebrities endure the glamour of press releases and public memorials. The world tunes in and becomes an accessory to the final farewell, with every detail imprinted for years to follow. Last year it was Michael Jackson, Christmas; Brittany Murphy, today; Alexander McQueen. Who's life is on tomorrow's line?
Google is hot. Twitter is trending 'RIP'. I wonder if I'll even make the obituaries.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
No matter how much Chanel, layers of make-up or sleep I accumulate, I can't lose the intensity building inside. I may be real today, but perhaps not tomorrow? I can lose myself at any hour of the day, and am gambling against myself as to how soon it will win. If only I knew what 'it' was. Is it failure? A sentence of unhappiness to plague the rest of my life, however long or short it may be? Perhaps death?
I do not have answers. I'm not even sure I'm aware of the questions I am asking. All I know is that I cannot continue to deteriorate as I am, and there is nothing more that I can do to stop myself. I need a miracle.
If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, it's timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.
I do not have answers. I'm not even sure I'm aware of the questions I am asking. All I know is that I cannot continue to deteriorate as I am, and there is nothing more that I can do to stop myself. I need a miracle.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Fig Tree
I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Monday, February 08, 2010
Thursday Night
Having returned to my hometown for a single night, I have already returned to my since forgotten mentality. My room has remnants of the me I left behind splattered on my daffodil walls and now that it's confronting me, I am finding it hard to fight back.
I have already had my mother's expectations forced down my throat despite my diplomatic and rational protests. I have failed in maintaining my stance. I have gone to my room to hide from the troubles I can leave at the door. I still have the bags that I carry within. I can't wait to go home.
I have already had my mother's expectations forced down my throat despite my diplomatic and rational protests. I have failed in maintaining my stance. I have gone to my room to hide from the troubles I can leave at the door. I still have the bags that I carry within. I can't wait to go home.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
A Change in the Weather
If I asked myself a week ago, I never would have believed I would, but today I visited the Happy Lady. And I surprised myself. Nothing like others of her breed, I appreciated the overall visit. The antique plum walls, the suede couch, the tissue box on the coffee table as an unavoidable centrepiece, and of course the expected conversation. But for once nothing I said made me feel absurd. She understood my justification of living within society's conforms, she challenged me giving up what I believe in, and accepted my inability to explain what I felt because everything inside is a swirl.
By the end, I felt an honesty within me that I had forgotten I had. I had pushed it away for so long and created a mask dictated my social acceptance and the parameters set by society. I had denied myself any opportunity to survive, because I'm not sure I could go on living without finding my truth within. I'm not saying I've found it, I'm not even saying I'm close. But I know it is there, somewhere beneath the layers of cover-ups and floods of un-shead tears. I will get to it. I just need to do some spring-cleaning first.
Imagine torrents of thoughts confined in the tiny mind that you contain. Each one is presented through a sentence, some long and descriptive, others brief and pointless. Each sentence spirals, following the one before it, until they spin so fast it’s all a blur; but in an attempt of desperation you reach out, trying to grasp a hold of something with an answer, even if it’s simply a clue. But what is it that you receive? A word, and then another; random words from random thoughts, and in a frantic attempt for clarity you put them together - simply to get nothing more than what you started with, except now, you truly are mystified.
By the end, I felt an honesty within me that I had forgotten I had. I had pushed it away for so long and created a mask dictated my social acceptance and the parameters set by society. I had denied myself any opportunity to survive, because I'm not sure I could go on living without finding my truth within. I'm not saying I've found it, I'm not even saying I'm close. But I know it is there, somewhere beneath the layers of cover-ups and floods of un-shead tears. I will get to it. I just need to do some spring-cleaning first.
Monday, February 01, 2010
Hubble, Bubble. Toil and Trouble.
As I become increasingly aware of myself, I have become less in control. Having felt void of emotion for so long, I can now feel it within me. Once simmering, it has begun to boil and will soon take over unless I can find a way to stop it. I'm just not sure if I'm strong enough.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
I Miss...
I miss feeling real. Like a real person with real thoughts, opinions and interests.
I miss dreaming. Dreaming of things we know are impossible but still fantasise about them coming true.
I miss having something to look forward to. I love the feeling of excitement that I cling to throughout the days and nights. It is the one thing I have to hold onto.
I miss the weekends. Where there are endless combinations of events and the days disappear as quickly as they came.
I miss going out. The anticipation, the wardrobe malfunctions and make-up disasters that never really matter when you get there, because the chaos and music and alcohol wash it all away.
I miss talking to people. Having a regular conversation about regular things without feeling like you owe them something you can't give.
I miss being invited. I don't care where. I just wish someone would ask.
I miss having real friends. Like the one you tell everything to and never once think you're being judged.
I miss feeling in control. By thinking logically and analytically, so that everything has a possibility of making sense.
I miss feeling loved. By someone; anyone. Because sometimes I just need a hug.
I miss dreaming. Dreaming of things we know are impossible but still fantasise about them coming true.
I miss having something to look forward to. I love the feeling of excitement that I cling to throughout the days and nights. It is the one thing I have to hold onto.
I miss the weekends. Where there are endless combinations of events and the days disappear as quickly as they came.
I miss going out. The anticipation, the wardrobe malfunctions and make-up disasters that never really matter when you get there, because the chaos and music and alcohol wash it all away.
I miss talking to people. Having a regular conversation about regular things without feeling like you owe them something you can't give.
I miss being invited. I don't care where. I just wish someone would ask.
I miss having real friends. Like the one you tell everything to and never once think you're being judged.
I miss feeling in control. By thinking logically and analytically, so that everything has a possibility of making sense.
I miss feeling loved. By someone; anyone. Because sometimes I just need a hug.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Dreams
I have complained of being tired for weeks now. So many nights I lay watching the clock, counting down the hours until daybreak, until eventually I dropped off only to wake to a screaming alarm a few short hours later. Recently, with thanks to a pharmaceutical company I can now get to sleep without a second thought. Waking up is harder though, as my body struggles to function and my eyes rebel against the daylight.
It has to be a positive that I can sleep a full night away though? Then why can't I operate as efficiently as I did when I lay awake throughout the night? It is as if my increasing hours of sleep are directly proportional to my escalating exhaustion.
I go to bed tired, wake up tired, and am living every breath of my life tired. Last night I excitedly went to bed early, eagerly awaiting the Saturday morning sleep-in. Well, that I got. I slept for over 13 hours but couldn't bring myself to get up. Perhaps just one more hour?
So as I lay contemplating my options, I had a sudden flashback of my mid-sleep thoughts. The more I think about it now, the more I can remember from the nights over the past week and the dreams that have possessed me.
They are so vivid and intense that I think maybe they are the excuse for my weariness. Last night I was chased by friends possessed by the enemy. I have dreamt of the people around me turning into witches and deceiving me in the depths of the night. I have been held hostage in a haunted house despite my tearful pleads to be set free. I have re-lived events from the past with others filling in for the missing characters. I have run, flown, screamed and cried my way through the darkened hours and it makes me wonder if perhaps that is why I feel so haggard?
Perhaps things weren't as bad as I had thought they were? It is the nights that are worse.
It has to be a positive that I can sleep a full night away though? Then why can't I operate as efficiently as I did when I lay awake throughout the night? It is as if my increasing hours of sleep are directly proportional to my escalating exhaustion.
I go to bed tired, wake up tired, and am living every breath of my life tired. Last night I excitedly went to bed early, eagerly awaiting the Saturday morning sleep-in. Well, that I got. I slept for over 13 hours but couldn't bring myself to get up. Perhaps just one more hour?
So as I lay contemplating my options, I had a sudden flashback of my mid-sleep thoughts. The more I think about it now, the more I can remember from the nights over the past week and the dreams that have possessed me.
They are so vivid and intense that I think maybe they are the excuse for my weariness. Last night I was chased by friends possessed by the enemy. I have dreamt of the people around me turning into witches and deceiving me in the depths of the night. I have been held hostage in a haunted house despite my tearful pleads to be set free. I have re-lived events from the past with others filling in for the missing characters. I have run, flown, screamed and cried my way through the darkened hours and it makes me wonder if perhaps that is why I feel so haggard?
Perhaps things weren't as bad as I had thought they were? It is the nights that are worse.
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