I Traveled A Road

I may have left this entirely too late, but, I have just started my assignments for Uni which are due next Tuesday. Well done Jade. Well I know I can do it, I am quite the prodigy when it comes to bullshitting my way through impossible essays. I even get quite good marks, which although could be by the grace of my beautiful prose, could just be that I absorb far more in my classes than I realise. Obfuscating savant? Or lazy shit? You decide.

Either way.

I’m not sleeping for the next three days or until these assignments are DONE.

Then the real fun can begin. Looking for a second job is turning out to be far more complicated than I anticipated. It always is. I’m either over-qualified, under-experienced or don’t have the time availability they require. Makes me almost miss the old days of being held down by only one variable, now I have 3.

I may have prematurely shot myself in the foot buying two bottles of red. Let it never be said that I took the easy path doing anything.

True greatness comes from great adversity. Or maybe just from late night caffeine binges and early morning rage rants.

Take A Photo, It’ll Last Longer

Everything feels weighty.

My stomach heavy with water drunk too fast and a pounding headache, which try as modern medicine might, cannot cure me of. I don’t know why I feel like this today of all days, I don’t feel good at all. I woke up this morning in a flight of terror, panic coursing through my veins as yet again I overslept for work. I lied to my boyfriend about it, and my next paycheck will most definitely be light, but I cant help feeling it’s better this way. With the lying I mean. I already feel so inadequate against him. Held up underneath the same harsh fluorescent lighting I know I would fade first. He’s so strong in himself, even in his indecision, because at least he knows what he is indecisive about. Me? I just feel it. Maybe somebody else in the world is doing something without a care, and I just feel their share instead. Maybe I’m just unlucky in the cosmic balancing of feelings. Maybe this is the punishment I get for never crying at funerals. I don’t know. I’ve just seemed to find peace with those things long before they happen. My great-grandmother, my grandfather, I cried before they left, and may have shed a few tears when they passed. I do not wallow in grief at funerals. Maybe I should.

Maybe this is the universes way of telling me to feel things when they happen, not to put it off or pre-emptively cry before the inevitable. Maybe it’s telling me to live in the moment. Somehow I don’t believe the solution to all my problems is that easy. That balancing out some strange cosmic karma will help re-string my soul. A guitar with broken strings, that was never played properly to begin with.

I find myself so lost in relationships. My therapist says this is because I have never known a truly healthy relationship in my life. I never had anything to base mine off, so why should I know how to form my own? I choose to believe that though the relationships I saw as a child and throughout my pre-teen to teen years may have been flawed, at least they were real. You cannot hate someone until you love them. Truly, madly, deeply, as Savage Garden taught us. Life isn’t perfect, and nothing lasts forever so why do we expect love and relationships to? I saw real beauty and love, and hate, and arguments, and joy in my life. I took what made people happy in and now apply it to my own relationship, and I avoid what I saw made them crumble.

Am I not in a better position to create a long lasting relationship then the people with happy homes? Am I not better suited to adversity and perseverance in the face of change? Why must I be prejudged because my parents divorced unhappily, or my mum was kicked out of church,or that my dad was away for the majority of my youth? You know what I learnt from this? Do not stick around if you are unhappy, communicate with those you love, do not trust those with concrete rules because there are so many exceptions to them, working hard to provide for the ones you love holds no true shame. That’s what I learnt from my life.

I blame no one.

Because no one is to blame.

I am not a product of my broken home, because at the end of the day my mum and dad love me more than I can comprehend. The relationships they have are real, touchable, with problems of their own that they work through every day. I may be a child from a broken home, but that does not mean I am broken by it.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

You do not have a sick mind, you have a juvenile one.

A sick mind does not relate professional athletes and ‘ball handling skills’ with testicles, a sick mind looks at your hands while you speak. Wonders what the inside looks like, and what tool in that particular room would serve their purpose best. It wonders if when you separate the skin from the flesh underneath if it has a sound, like the shlick of wet vinyl from the top of a pool or is it more like the rip of velcro.

You are not sick, you are a childish, immature and easily amused.

——

It aggravates me when people use mental illness in everyday speech.

Just because you drank too much last night and danced on a table it doesn’t make you ‘crazy’. Just because you turned down the hot girl/boy at the bar doesn’t make you ‘insane’. You are not ‘OCD’ because you like sorting your nailpolish collection in descending color order, or your books alphabetically. Just because they were justifiably angry does not make them a ‘psycho’. You are not depressed because you missed out on the job you applied for. You are not bipolar because you switch emotions quickly when excited.

Do not verbally dilute the seriousness of these illnesses. It cheapens the experience of the sufferers and misleads the public into thinking that these illnesses are made up and unworthy of their time. Why would you do this? Why would you purposefully or ignorantly destroy people like this?

Some people may not care, even I am not personally angry about these words, I don’t think they’re slurs unless were talking feminism and the word ‘crazy’ or ‘psycho’ but it undermines an entire unseen part of society. It’s made fun of on TV, it’s turned into a game and something to be teased about. Suicide’s the punchline of too many badly thought out jokes and I don’t think you really see what’s happening here. This is not funny. This is a systematic fear-mongering miseducation of the world by sadly ignorant leaders. It’s easy to ignore people who aren’t covered in sores, or bleeding from their mouths. Its easy to ignore people when a symptom is the patient saying’ I’m fine,’. It’s easy for you to walk away from someone because they just can’t get over themselves and you’re tired. I get it, supporting someone like me is exhausting. It’s hard. Like a relapsing alcoholic we promise every time we’ll get better. We’ll promise you anything if you’ll stay. Mentally ill people will say anything because they’re not okay. There’s hardly a sense of self our internal self-preservation systems have shut down so much. So don’t you dare say you understand unless you do. Don’t compare your dog dying to their soul dying. Don’t compare your broken heart to their anger. Don’t compare you banality to their constant emptiness. You don’t know the half of it.

And I hope you never do.

Easy Peasy Lemon Squeazy

What do I have to be thankful for? Oh lord, let my count the ways. My hair is now longer than my shoulders so I must tie it up when I shower, I have a pumice stone and my feet are smooth, the weather is getting warmer, I have an active social life. Such small things make me happy. Nothing that matters. That’s me in a nutshell though, always looking at the big picture, so busy with two moves ahead I haven’t planned for the first step. Forever re-evaluating pathways and plans because I couldn’t stop long enough to start.

I am thankful for my body. My small feet, thin ankles and calves, bony knees and thighs mottled with water colour bruising. I am thankful for my boxy hips and jutting bone, public mound and flat stomach. I am thankful for my breasts, armpits, and freckled arms. I am thankful they hold no definition, I am thankful there is no strength in them. I am thankful for my long neck and oval face, my small jutting ears. I am thankful for my mind, for what my body cannot carry in weight my brain can carry a thousand times over with imagination and strength.

I lie.

I have started to become constantly curious again about how others are going. I measure myself by their yardstick when I compare my life to theirs. I fall short every time. I know I am being unfair to myself, still my hands shake in the morning and late at night with one too many cigarettes, and too much caffeine as I remember their promotions and businesses, their families and loved ones. I need to remember that they come from money, they are older than me, they have degrees and their health. I almost chipped my tooth this morning on my coffee mug because it shook too hard in my grip. I couldn’t finish it. I’m drinking cold green tea now.

I promised myself that I would do some heavy writing this Uni break and I haven’t. I was too caught up in my life to do anything, not that I was doing much. I wallowed in procrastination and soap opera binges, I made lists and saw friends. All of these things are healthy and acceptable, but I don’t feel as though I have accomplished much. I set a goal that I could, but did not reach. I made a conscious decision to break that promise.

I have my next psych appointment on Monday.

I don’t know how to make myself happy anymore. The drugs aren’t working as well as I hoped they would, and perhaps this is just the placebo effect wearing off. I need a plan, and for people to stop telling me how to make them. Being told a million times that things will get better, and that I just need to focus on the present, shows me they care but does nothing to stop me from resenting those words. If it was that easy I would not be in this position. If it was that easy I wouldn’t be trying to drown myself in words and paper and pretend worlds on my phone and computer screen. If it were that easy. If it were only that easy.

Ape to Apex. The Evolution Of Venus

What is humanity?

I question this often. We have so many different points of view, so many paths we have taken. What makes us who we are, what gives us the right. Why do we need to question everything? The evolution that lead us to self-actualisation, to be a singularly definable race by the fact we understand our own mortality.

We know we shall die, we know that we are finite in the infinite. Or finite within our inability to understand that our universe will also die, eventually. We live in a multiverse society of different perceived realities. Layers upon layers of each of us understanding our own little miracles and lives in different ways. We are unable to comprehend the magnitude of our insignificance. Yet every single day we attempt to make sense of what we see, hear and feel, we are children cradled in the arms of an uncaring world who will survive long after we kill ourselves. We may terraform this planet to be uninhabitable but it will continue to spin without us. We are selfish thinking that we can kill something that has no life of its own to begin with. We cannot kill a rock the same way we cannot kill this universe, we mean nothing in the end. We are but a speck of mutated genes and careful evolutionary selective breeding.

I don’t know who I am anymore. I used to know. I used to be able to feel the heat beneath my hands, pressed against the thin skin over my ribs and know that the beat I felt was mine. I’d walk to my own rhythm, and the world fell in time with my steps. I used to be unbreakable, I used to be invulnerable, I used to be God. I used to know where I ended and the world began.

Now I’m a jigsaw puzzle of shattered life experiences that simultaneously pull me backwards and forwards dependant on the situation. The human brain is very good at holding two contradictory points of view simultaneously. I can look at children simultaneously feeling unimaginable grief and maternal love. I watch the death of good men in both fascinated rapture and disgust. I can believe there is no god yet pray. The double lives of the disillusioned and despairing. Alliteration can only lighten the mood so much. I hate keeping secrets. There is never a good time to tell though. There are things I’ve done which I could never tell my mother or father, things I could never tell my sister nor boyfriend. There are things that if known, could and would kill me. I tell strangers only in the knowledge they will never remember nor know who I am. Not truly, not really. I don’t believe that you should never keep anything from your family, those are the people I care about the most, their opinion of me matters.

Screw the rest of the world. I couldn’t handle the pitying eyes of those closest to me.

 

Pity Party Favors

I grew up to the sound of rumbling. Thunder, car engines, growling in the backs of throats. I grew up in deserts and plains. Backyards filled with sand and patchy grass, scraped knees and dying trees, that when I look back at objectively now weren’t half as gnarled as I remember them being. They weren’t the fingers of withered fairy tale witches hands reaching to pull at hair and the edges of my clothes as I imagined.

A lot of people glorify their childhoods, remember things much nicer than they actually were. I tend to go in the opposite direction. Maybe its just always been my resting mentality to be slightly melancholic, maybe I’m just a pessimist delighting in being let down once again by myself. A pity party thats actually a party. Grayscale streamers and glass glitter parades of ‘I Was Right’.

Its comfortable though. I can’t deny that. I’ve become used to this non-stop disappointment that seems to be me.

I was prompted today by the writings of Montaigne to do a closer introspection on myself again. I haven’t done one in a while, well I have, but they’ve been more moments in time rather than a whole overview of who I perceive myself to be at 22.

If I count it out in pros and cons, like a panel of deeds, accomplishments, and possessions I come out okay. I have a place to sleep, University is going well, I have two Cert IV’s tucked beneath my belt and a solid work history, plus a reliable source of mediocre income. Internally I always feel lacking. I feel shame constantly.

It seems everything I do, every decision I make, every action I take or do not take, I find a reason for why I am not good enough. They are always good solid reasons. I am ashamed of what I do and who I am. Do you know how constantly exhausting it is to always trying to be better? To always be looking for a better way, to work smarter not harder, to be better and stronger and more beautiful than the day before. To just feel better? I spend hours at night contemplating everything I’ve done wrong and come up with scenarios that tomorrow, tomorrow I shall enact and receive a different outcome. They say that a symptom of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and thinking you will get a different outcome. I think the reason people fall into insanity is doing things different over and over again and still receiving the same outcome. Groundhog day as a perpetual state of emotional being. I want to scratch out the eyes of people who give suggestions and opinions. I’ve been there, done that, nothing you can and could ever do could even begin to encompass the paths I’ve attempted. But then again I’ve never been the most persistent of people. If I had to introduce myself as character I would say this:

She had medium length brown hair, noticeably lighter at the tips from a time too lazy to dye back from previous bleaching. Thin, bitten fingers dig sharply into a tobacco pouch feeling for the last bits at the end of a pay week, trembling slightly if you look close enough, feel fast enough, before she straightens out and laughs. It doesn’t reach her eyes. Her hands move when she talks, slight jerks and starts before gracefully falling into a rhythm that mesmerises you for a second, only a second. She talks like the world won’t catch up, like if she says the words fast enough they won’t mean anything. The feeling encompasses her whole being, hopefully she won’t mean anything, you won’t mean anything at the end of the day and she expects to be forgotten, she expects to be the last one standing and the last one remembered. Too loud and too brash to be entirely truthful, yet solemnly spoken as if these will be the last words she will ever speak. They might be.

This isn’t what I expected. I shall try again.