20.02.21

Fuck I wish it would rain.

I’m out of sorts, man. I’m just so fucking sick of everything. I took a tally of how many times I’ve thought about dying this week, and so far we’re at 17. Wait. Now it’s 18.

When it’s not the void, it’s the misery, and if not that, then it’s the rage.

So what do you do with all that anger? Masturbation is a good way to vent it out, sure. But an orgasm or two doesn’t keep the emptiness at bay. Sooner or later (usually the former) it comes back, and then you’re right back where you started.

What do you do when you realise that your life just isn’t gonna be anything other than mundane? How do you get up every day, knowing that today is going to be just the same as yesterday? Running away is a good idea in theory, but it’s a temporary solution at best. Clean slate? Never. You always bring some baggage with you, that’s the inevitability of existence.

I’m just so goddamn tired of being alive.

Small seemingly insignificant things hurt far more than they reasonably should. It’s like having your heart gouged out with a wooden spoon. Splinters are the worst, right? I wish I could just scrub the memory from my brain, but it’s there like a neon light in the darkness. Stupid light.

There’s so much I wish I could say. Not that it would make a difference even if I could speak the words aloud. But the things left unsaid are sometimes the heaviest burdens to carry. So we stay silent. I guess this is just the way things are.

Fuck I wish it would rain.

Escape

Lately I’ve been feeling overcome by the overwhelming urge to escape. I am in urgent need of some time alone, away somewhere far outside the reach of people or communication.

I feel like I’m drowning a little, if I’m being honest. My two jobs are draining all the energy out of me and even the people I love are becoming hard to spend time with or talk to. I am in this constant state of physical and mental exhaustion, and desperate for just a few quiet days on my own.

I want to shed all responsibility for a couple of days. Not have anything demanded or expected of me. No one asking me to give them my time or my energy or my focus. I want to be somewhere surrounded by trees, or somewhere near the ocean perhaps. Just anywhere that doesn’t involve people. I need to ground myself, and reconnect with the Amy that isn’t a weary ball of tension and stress. I like that Amy. She’s much more content than me.

The state of things here aren’t helping any either. We’re still forced to wear masks and now our government has sent us into another lockdown. It’s tiring and frustrating and I’m sure I’m not the only one who has, frankly, has enough.

I just need a break. A step away from my current reality. A well deserved escape. Hey, you never know; with just four weeks until my redundancy takes effect (woo!) maybe going away somewhere can be my celebration.

A Thousand Deaths

The thing they never tell you about life, is that it’s agonizing. The very weight of being is painful in a way that cannot be defined by words alone.

I hurt. I ache. I feel everything and nothing. And it’s endless.

We exist in these finite bodies, each passing day bringing us ever closer to our slow, inevitable descent into decay.

I endure. A thousand times over, and a thousand times again.

This great, glorified existence. No one ever told me that it will kill me long before I die.

On Being Chubby, and Trying to Not Hate It

Loving yourself is not always easy. Forever torn between wanting to accept myself in the body I have, and wanting to change my body/get back to my slender self, self contentedness is like a unicorn; hard to find, and harder still to hold on to.

You could say I have a love hate relationship with my body. There are days when I get dressed and I look in the mirror and think to myself “hell yeah, girl. You look the bomb”. And then there are other days when I avoid mirrors altogether because the sight of my own soft, round body makes me feel disgusting. Especially when I am confronted by photos of myself from a few years ago, when I was smaller and probably far more comfortable in tight fitting clothing! The thing is, where once I would have been described as svelte, these days I fall somewhere in the curvy category. Or, more accurately, I think I am actually smack bang in “chubby” territory. Which is fine…until it isn’t. And the truth is, most of the time lately, it definitely isn’t.

A lot of my close female friends are all about that female empowerment, self love, and not subscribing to mainstream ideas about beauty. They inspire me, constantly. But when I am home, stripped down naked in front of the mirror, there is a big part of me that can’t help the barrage of negative thoughts that flood my brain. I prod my soft little tummy with a finger, I grab at my wobbly inner thighs, my face scrunched in subconscious disdain. Clothes don’t fit comfortably, and I am forever conscious of the way I look, terrified that someone is going to point out that I am extra chubby lately.

It’s a horrible thing, to not feel comfortable in your own skin. And its exhausting trying to be positive about it all the time. Yes, my body is a wonderful and powerful thing, and yes I know that I should focus on the good bits, but sometimes I just feel a bit shit about it. I mean, right now is a particularly bad time, because it’s that time, which means my tummy is rounder, and achy, and I just generally feel a bit awful about everything. I am fairly certain I can be forgiven for not being all self love about things right now, and I am trying not to feel guilty about not loving myself as much as I should. It’s a process, what can I say?

In a society where we, as women, are still inundated with images of impossible standards of beauty, loving yourself can sometimes feel like an exercise in futility. But I’m trying. And hopefully I can learn to fully love myself the way I am, chubby body and all.

Still Here

30,000+ Free River & Landscape Images - Pixabay

Lately, being an adult has kind of sucked. In between having less money (thanks, COVID-19), not being able to leave my house for the solo adventures that keep me sane, or have a few drinks with my friends (thanks, COVID-19), struggling to find motivation to do even the things I love, and just generally dealing with a whirlwind of emotions that are frankly giving me whiplash, it has kind of made me wish I was a kid again. Y’know, when existential crisis wasn’t in the forefront of my mind, and my life was generally more stable.

The thing is, I feel like some time in the last few months, I lost myself, and I’m not sure how to find myself again. I’ve cried a lot lately, mostly at night, when I’m in bed and not sure if I want to live or die. It sounds dramatic, I know. But I feel hopeless, and lost and so very exhausted with the weight of being, and living. I feel like I am stuck in this same monotonous rut, walking blind, with no light at the end of the tunnel. I have reached this point where even the idea of taking another step makes me want to just stop altogether, and check out for good.

It is a peculiar thing, this apathy for life. How can I even begin to talk to the people I know about this? I’ll either be labelled a drama queen, or lay down a whole lot of worry on the people I love and then feel guilty about that too. I don’t want to feel this way, and I wish there was some cure all pill to make it all go away. I want to be ok, I want to feel normal again. And I feel guilty because I’m not.

I try to find joy in small things, and sometimes I do. But I feel like I’m forcing myself to feel happy, and it doesn’t really work all that well. I tell myself that if I had this, or did that, then everything would be better. But I know that’s not the case, and besides which, I am tired of running away. I seem to always be doing that; running away from the reality of everything. I pretend to be really tough and carefree, but the truth is that I’m just scared that I’ll never be really, truly happy.

I don’t want to do this anymore. But I will. Because if nothing else, I’m stubborn. And there’s so much yet to see and do, even if I don’t want to see or do it right now. I have to believe that something better is coming just around the bend. It’s the only thing I can cling on to, the notion that this part of the river might be rocky and bumpy, and I might be holding on for dear life right now. But sooner or later, the rage will slow, and I will once again find myself in calmer waters.

It’s Been a While…

I haven’t written much lately. The truth is, I haven’t felt up to it, and I haven’t had the words to explain how I’m feeling. In a way, my blog is like a diary; a way to vent out the things I wouldn’t dare say out loud to the people I know. You, my readers, you guys are different because for the most part, you don’t actually know me. I’m a stranger on the internet. Sometimes, it’s easier to talk to strangers. And besides, if you know all my secrets, then it doesn’t matter that no one else does, because I can then maintain this tough girl facade.

I can’t talk to the people I know about how lonely I am. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. How do you tell them that sometimes you literally cry yourself to sleep because there is a physical ache in your chest? I mean, crying is for weaklings, right? How do you explain that the sight of couples in the street, or on television, or in photos on the internet, makes you feel a little bit empty, because you’re always the odd one out? How do you tell your closest friends that sometimes, you just need someone to hug you, and kiss your forehead, and tell you that you are, in fact, enough?

It’s partly my fault, I guess. I’ve worked so hard to present myself as this tough, independent, solitary person, that maybe the people I know actually believe me. And maybe that’s why it’s so hard to talk to them about this stuff. Not that I’ve ever really been that good at talking about my feelings in person anyway, but it’s particularly difficult when the words I want to say sound weak and childish to my own ears. No, best to just keep up the facade I think.

The crux of it is, I think I am going to be on my own for a very long time. Maybe even my whole life. And I know that sounds melodramatic, and probably typical of a lot of single people. But I don’t mean it in an angsty, teenage, My Chemical Romance kind of way. I mean it in the heart achingly lonely way of someone who feels a whole lot of nothing a whole lot of the time.

I hope you don’t mind me spilling my secrets out to you like this. I just needed to get some things off my chest, and if you want to judge me, that’s actually ok, since I don’t know you. It’s easier than talking to the people that I actually do know, at any rate. So long as they’re in the dark, then I can go on pretending that I’m doing ok, without having to have the awkward conversation about my feelings or…y’know…whatever.

Empty

I lost myself some time ago,
and could not get me back.
I mourn in silent agony,
for the things that I now lack.

The passion that once drove me,
has vanished into air.
And the things that I once loved to do,
it's like they were never there.

Monotony and endless days,
are bland and dull and dreary.
The life that I've now settled to,
drains, and leaves me weary.

I don't recognise my face these days,
the light has left my eyes.
And even though I say I'm fine,
I don't believe those lies.

I miss the me that I once was,
And long for her return.
To reignite the fire,
and watch this empty shell burn.

Never Enough

Image result for pixabay rain

When the black dog rears its ugly head, there is one thing that always comes with it. One single thought, endlessly repeating in my brain. And my brain, being the wily, cunning thing that it is, gives me evidence to support this thought. It is a simple phrase, but one that seems to carry with it an incredibly heavy weight.

you are not enough

It reverberates around my head constantly. It is accompanied by a feeling of worthlessness and a strange kind of loneliness. Depression has a way of isolating those that suffer from it, and there is nothing worse than feeling like nothing, and having to try and maintain a normal facade despite it. You worry that you can’t mention how you’re feeling, because people will get sick of you. You can practically feel the eye rolls and hear the sighs, and so you pretend that everything is ok, even when all you want to do is cry.

I don’t cry in front of people. I wait until it’s dark, and no one can see me. And it never makes me feel better, but what else is there to do? Being constantly beaten down by your own brain chemistry and intrusive thoughts is draining, man.

I don’t know how to teach my brain not to tell me such unkind things, and I don’t know how to make myself believe that those things are not true. There is no physical enemy I can confront here, no one I can yell at, nothing I can physically push away. I am trapped inside my own negative thinking, and I can’t get out of my own head.

I need a break from everything, I just want to sleep for a year and wake up and just be ok.

Being is Hard

It is not an easy thing, to be alive. You’ve got to worry about breathing, and speaking, and managing the ins and outs of living every day. You have to deal with your emotions, and make sure you’re expressing the right ones at the right times. You have to find a job, and pay your bills, and remember to eat, and watch your weight, and try to carve out some semblance of a life within your existence. I mean, it’s an exhausting thing, being.

Maybe it’s just me. After 55 days without a proper day off (but who’s counting?), I think exhaustion is my new normal. My permanent state of being, I guess you might say. It’s hard to imagine a life where things aren’t complicated and just a little bit shit. But there is light at the end of the tunnel; I have a weekend off. I have plans already, because I don’t know how to have a day off without filling it with things, but the point is that there will be two consecutive days where I don’t have to go to work, or think about work, or deal with anything work related. As you can imagine, I am thrilled.

I’ve been having a bit of a bad time of it lately. Staving off impending blackness by throwing myself into my endless days of monotonous work which, paradoxically only add to the negative swirl of emotions circling me like ravenous vultures. It’s a vicious cycle, y’all. What I would really like is to win the lottery, move to Tasmania and sleep for a year, uninterrupted. It’s a record breaking lottery this week so you never know, maybe I’ll get lucky. Then again, knowing my luck – not to mention the statistical improbability of actually winning the lottery – I’ll probably win nothing.

Maybe I’ll feel better after I cry. Maybe all this exhaustion is getting to me, and my poor little broken heart will be able to start healing herself after I’ve let go of the negative energy I seem to have been unconsciously holding on to. Maybe being won’t seem so hard afterwards. Who knows, I might even start to feel normal again afterwards. I’ll let you know.

Don’t. F*cking. Touch Me.

I was scrolling through Instagram this morning when I came across a post by one of the artists I follow. She was posting about how when she was out in town today, a man approached her directly and aggressively, so he could grab her arms and “look” at the tattoos there. As I read through the comments, almost every person that commented was a woman, talking about her own similar experiences. And naturally, I couldn’t help but think about mine.

The artist in question mentioned how she was disappointed in herself for “standing there like a lost lamb” instead of reacting, and I got angry. Not because she was disappointed with herself, but because some guy, some creepy random dude, had made her feel that way. The scary truth is that this shit happens every day. People get assaulted, accosted, inappropriately touched without their consent. And it happens each and every time, because someone has taken it upon themselves to intentionally invade another person’s space and push their boundaries.

I have had many experiences in my life where I have been touched by someone, stranger or friend, when I didn’t give my permission. One of the most notable of these had quite an impact on me. As a teenage girl, waiting at the local shopping centre for a friend of mine one day after school, I noticed an older man with long hair and a beard. I didn’t pay him too much attention, right until he came up to me from behind, stood close, buried his face in my hair and took a long, audible sniff. I nearly screamed, and ran. I was young, I was uncomfortable, I had been touched by a stranger in a weird and inappropriate way. To this day, I can’t stand to have people touch my hair.

I remember another night, a few years later, sitting at a bar with my best friend. I was wearing a dress that had a low back because it was cute, and it made me feel pretty, and it really went with my shoes. I was having a drink and a laugh; listening to the band and having a good time. Suddenly I felt a stranger’s fingers run from the top of my spine down to the back of my dress. I turned, realizing I had raised my hand. The man who had touched me tried to explain away his actions by saying “I just wanted to look at your tattoo”. Shaking, goosebumps covering my entire body, I told him to get away from me. When he again tried to tell me that he just liked my tattoo, I told him that his poor excuse didn’t give him any right to touch me. I saw him return to his friends and say something to them, after which they all turned to stare at me. I spent the rest of the night on edge. I didn’t wear that dress again.

But, don’t get me wrong here, it’s not just men I have experienced this behaviour with. A couple of years ago I was in line at JB Hi-Fi, waiting for some paperwork for the purchase of a tablet. Out of nowhere, I felt two hands grab my shoulders and physically spin me around. It was so unexpected, I nearly fell over, having to grab hold of a nearby display to keep myself upright. Seemingly oblivious to my near fall, was the woman who was grabbing handfuls of my dress and actually running her hands over my waist, my hips and my thighs. I yanked the fabric out of her hands and stepped away with what I imagine was a look of combined rage and shock. She then had the gall to get angry at me and said “I only wanted to look at your dress because it’s so nice. I was giving you a compliment.” I snapped. Long gone was the teenager who would run away from strangers. I told the woman to get away from me, and that if she touched me again I would hit her. I told her she had no right to touch me without my permission. I said it calmly, but I meant every word. She left, muttering obscenities under her breath, and I went back to me paperwork, acutely aware of the stares I was getting from the people around me.

The thing is, in all of these situations, the people who touched me didn’t seem to understand, or want to admit, that they were in the wrong. They each tried to justify their actions. Y’all, if you “only want to look” you don’t look at people with your hands. That’s now how looking works! I mean, I grew up being told “you can look, but don’t touch”. It was a mantra drummed into us as children, and where I once knew I wasn’t allowed to touch that Ballgown Barbie on the shelf, I know now that I’m not allowed to touch another person without their consent. So why is it such a foreign concept to some people? No one, and I do mean no one has the right to accost you. Not because of the way you are dressed. Not because of the tattoos that you have. Not because they like your hair, or your jewelry, or your fingernail polish, or your shoes. I’ll say it again for the people in the back; NO ONE HAS THE RIGHT TO TOUCH YOU. WITHOUT. YOUR. CONSENT.

No ifs, no buts, no excuses.