I feel terrible. At the same time, I feel like there’s no reason and there are all the reasons in the world. I don’t want to feel this way anymore, so I’m going to type things out until I feel better or at least different.

Today wasn’t all bad. I left the house as the trash was being collected, and I gave the driver a little salute. He smiled back. That was nice.

I was running ahead of time for once, so I got a coffee from a relatively new cafe around the corner from work. Despite being a bit awkward, I had a chat with the owner of the place, and we talked about New Zealand. He asked me if I’ve ever been married, and I forgot about that until now, but I’m sure I can ignore it some more. The coffee wasn’t bad. I may go there again, I may not. It was OK.

Despite only being here for roughly three-and-a-half months, I gave someone directions to the nearest station today. They were an older couple, with who I assumed to be their grandson in a stroller. I felt quite good about being able to do that, and being approachable enough to be asked. I later questioned this, as I realised that they’d have to deal with some stairs on their way, and I felt like a bit of an idiot.

My heart keeps sinking. I keep thinking about sad things. I keep trying to remind myself that I’m a nice person who means well, but I’m really not very sure about that. I’m all over the place, and it’s tiring. I don’t really live for anything anymore. I have no real drive or passion. Anything positive or constructive I do feels as if I’ve done it by accident or coincidence, and never feels like it has any lasting effect.

I’m just going through the motions again. I repeat this shitty little routine I’ve made for myself in an attempt to feel like I’m working towards something. Honestly, though? I’m not. I don’t know what I’m doing. I keep alternating between feeling a little bit hopeful, and wishing I was never born. I remember a time when I used to be spitefully angry at anyone who had hurt me in the past, but now I lack the will to hold it against them. Maybe it’s a form of forgiveness, but I’m pretty sure it’s just resignation. They can’t hurt me even half as much I hurt myself.

I don’t know what that any of this means, nor do I have the will to figure it out. A while ago, that was my main mission; I wanted to get to know myself and figure out why I’m like this, but I find it hard to care now. I can’t pinpoint why I’m so sad, I just want it to stop. I don’t know where all of the sadness comes from, and I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. This shitty attempt at self-discovery was just an excuse to retreat from the world at large, and it’s gone on for a bit too long now, and it’s going to leave me unable to rejoin society in any meaningful way.

I wanted to belong somewhere and have a purpose. I wanted to learn how to get out of my own way so I could have a good life and help other people, but I’ve lost touch. I’ve gone so far away that I’m not sure how to come back. I’m giving up on my dreams one by one and there’s no relief in it. There’s no point in anything I do, and no logical conclusion apart from failure. It’s all for nothing.

It’s getting harder and harder to pretend this isn’t the case. There are only so many ways I can distract myself. I am far more deeply broken than I ever could have imagined, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

I’ll be fine, I think. Maybe I’m just tired. Either way, I feel different to when I started typing. Goodbye now.

Advertisements

I, Object.

If I can, I’d like to start this off with a long, weary sigh. The kind that leaves me like a soft and crumpled ice cream cone; soggy and warped, a sort of casual, accidental disappointment. Hopefully the birds or bugs will eat it. I’m on another disorganised rant and I’ve dropped my ice cream and broken my own heart, again.

I’ve caught myself wondering how I’ve allowed myself to be objectified in ways I can’t handle. This has gone on for a long time; probably longer than I’m consciously aware of, and I need it to stop for the sake of my (residual) sanity and safety.

Before I complain too much, I must say that I have objectified myself a lot in my life so far, but I feel justified in that. It should always be my decision, and I can admit that it’s intentional a lot of the time, and I have pragmatic reasons for doing so.

That said, most of the time, I am not an object, but a person. A multi-faceted being with a varied past and uncertain future, with a complex mind and a kind heart. I need to nurture this, because it keeps me anchored in tough times, and stops me from feeling empty and out of control. As bitter and sad as I can sometimes be, I still love myself deep down. I get annoyed when my personality is ignored in those moments. This happens daily.

I don’t want to get angry about it, but I do. I wish I could help it, but I can’t even say how sick of it I am. There are no proper words for the sickening and familiar feeling it stokes within me, but I know it burns slowly and sinks like hot coals through a bed of delicate tissue. My viscera now has a cellar, and it’s full of stinking bile and imbued with dread. I’m pissed as shit.

I have no friends. Of course I know people who are friendly to me whenever they see me, but I’m not sure if I can call them friends. Maybe I need to re-appraise my idea of friendship, but I digress. Part of this is my fault, as I can get too stuck in my own head, having convinced myself that I can’t navigate most social encounters properly, so I tend to avoid people and most social gatherings.

When I do decide to hang out with people and play my part in less solitary pursuits, I am very uptight, despite putting in a lot of effort to be more open. It’s pretty up and down, but I know I drink too much. It’s not like it’s my undoing, but I’m too used to watching doctors wince as I give them ballpark numbers and vague definitions of standard units to pretend that it’s not a problem. As for other drugs, the problem is too complex for me to want to get into right now. Point is, at baseline, I can’t relax around people.

It’s hard to figure out why, because there are so many reasons, but I’m gradually breaking it down for myself and making a start on understanding what’s behind this.

Another soggy-cone sigh.

Part of this is because I get objectified by the wrong people, at the wrong times. I present myself as a person and get seen and treated as an object instead, and it leaves me feeling like a naïve piece of meat. In my mind, I’m just strolling on in like a confident child who’s ready to share their toys in the sandpit, for the sake of playing a decent game for once, because playing alone limits the fun. In their minds, I’m wearing fishnets and giving them the fuck-me eyes as I sink a finger into their hole of choice, with my ankles crossed behind my head, and I am the toy.

I want to assert myself as a person, but I find it difficult to distract myself from the shock of being a toy in someone’s head. Often, I am made to feel terrible for not being a thing, a prop, like I have no business talking about the things I’m passionate about because my mouth belongs on someone’s dick, according to them. They think my hobbies & interests are trivial at best. God damn it, why? Then people remark on how sad I am, as if it’s easy to keep my head held high amidst all this ignorance of the spirit of who I truly am. I’m angry and sad, standing here at the margin of validity, feeling myself disappearing. It’s… uh… not good.

I want to be able to healthily assert my humanity. I want to say things like, “hey, I’m not about that and I’m starting to get uncomfortable”. I want to be nice about it, despite knowing that I don’t owe anyone my niceness in those moments. As justified as it would be to shock them out of their expectations, I’m not sure if I’d like myself afterwards if I just end up screaming at people and getting escorted out of places I like.

At the end of the day, I just want people to treat me like I don’t owe them anything due to my appearance. I like to make myself look nice, and I want to be able to do that without having to defend myself against the unfair expectations of others. I want my interactions to be taken at face value, without this pungent undertone of anyone wanting to be alone with me for less wholesome reasons.

I want to be able to trust people again, and I need to be able to grow. I hope with everything I’ve got that I will find a way.

I pity them.

I’m currently at the point where I can wake up very upset, basically in tears, and I wear that feeling like a veil all day. Writing this down might not work, but I want to get out from under that feeling, because I don’t want to feel this way anymore. It needs to come out.

While living with other relatives, I didn’t talk to any of my immediate family for over a year, apart from one phone call. It was quite the conversation. I don’t remember a lot, but it was over an hour of talking. I started off very nervous and I didn’t know what I was going to mention. In the end, I was a hysterical mess and hung up the phone after saying something like, “I just needed to tell you all that, and I hope you listened.”

I spent a lot of time wondering if I should have said the things I said, and if any of it made anyone feel better or brought a sense of understanding into anyone’s life. In a couple of months, it will be two years since that conversation, and I’m still trying to justify it. How could I say those things to that poor old man and his crazy wife? They are my parents. Am I a fucking monster? Severely traumatised? Or both?

I’d been turning it over and over and over in my head as I started leading a different life, and was considering contacting them again to see how they are and to see if they had any questions stemming from what I said so long ago.

Before I managed to do this, the poor old man turned up at my cousin’s workplace, without an appointment of course. My cousin told me about it and tried to make it sound better than it really was, bless her, but sadly, I was disappointed again. All he really achieved with that unsolicited visit is reinforce that he will never trust me to be the person he wants me to be. He didn’t want to see me; he wanted to bitch about me to my cousin and tell her private things about my childhood and blame me for things that he and his crazy wife did.

I knew once my cousin told me these things, that I was still very angry at them. After all my crying and pleading to be loved and respected by them, I’m still headbutting a brick wall. I was so wound up. God damn, they are so blind. As much as I don’t want to be one of those people who blames their parents for everything, I have to admit that their lack of accountability has been holding me back.

They fucked me up until I got out from under them, and then I took over the fuck-ups all on my own, so there’s no way they’re responsible for all of it, but it still hurts that they can’t acknowledge any of it. They can’t link their own childhoods to their attempt at parenting, and can’t connect their parenting to my childhood. I’m left to connect those things on my own, to try and gain a bigger perspective, and it’s been hard on me.

That time though, I had to wonder – since when was it the child’s duty to save everyone’s souls? Especially if they aren’t a child anymore and have their own life to lead now? God damn it, why was it always up to me? Because I was the one who wanted the nice family that loves each other and doesn’t say mean things. They all wanted it too, to some degree, but I know I wanted it most. I watched those TV families and did those things at home, hoping that we’d all come to the table and talk about our day.

I decided to pretend that we all loved each other, and it was unconditional. I told myself that the violence was normal, and that children aren’t allowed to be children – they are supposed to be tiny adults.

Of course it wasn’t an accident if I broke something – no way – I was being a manipulative little cunt who simply must destroy Mother’s favourite things. Of course those discount store boots weren’t badly made – no way – I intentionally trashed footwear that I begged for, so I could prove a point about how my childhood is so much more luxurious than that of Mother’s and Father’s. Of course, what an evil little child. Beat the devil out of that little slut cunt with the eyes of a liar. Pull her hair until she screams and starts clawing at her own skin. Punch those lying eyes shut. Beat her with a broom, because she really is just dirt, messing up your perfect house. Humiliate her with cuts and bruises to take to school, and we’ll all see how much of a manipulative little liar she really is.

Even if I could get past all of this, I’ve decided that I don’t want to. I will do my best to swallow the anger I feel when I think of my childhood, and turn it into things that make me feel better and are good for me and the world at large. I will use it to turn myself into the type of person I wish my parents were. I will learn what love is, and how to give it. Relationships are not zero-sum games, because love is not a finite resource. I may have grown up with a shortage of it, but now I see there is plenty for me, and I must start with giving it to myself.

It is worth putting on a nice outfit today, because it makes me feel good.

It is OK to make mistakes, as so many things in this world are unintentional. No agenda.

I can do those things for myself that I wasn’t allowed or encouraged to do, and I can do them even better than my parents ever could, because unlike them, I have gotten to know myself. Turns out I’m not so bad, and I can get better if I keep making the effort. I can’t make them see that, but I can get out of the way of their baggage.

It’s unfortunate that I can imagine them on their death beds, feeling so sorry for themselves and wondering why their abused daughter is “too full of herself” to hold their hands as they slip away. Part of me wants to think that they know why I can’t face them, but the rest of me so desperately just wants to stop caring and stop carrying this shit around.

Another part of me that I wish didn’t exist, wants to pull the plug as I hiss something really fucking cruel in their faces, so that means I’ve got a long way to go.

That said, I’ll be OK, but because of me, not them. It’s time to get past this, seriously. Now to figure out how.

Actually, no.

I can’t do the family thing.

My last post was full of good intentions, but none of them are actually realistic.

The false hope of an even slightly functional family is almost like poison to me at this point – it must be avoided or it’ll start to kill me again. Wishful thinking has never helped me in the past, and that’s not about to change.

Not to say that it’s not worth hoping and wishing for things, just that it’s bad to see the hopes and dreams as anything other than what they truly are.

I remember the good times that we had together, because it’s comforting, but I will no longer be using those good memories to excuse the fact that they’re a bunch of toxic cunts who are addicted to their own fucking baggage.

IF THEY CAN’T BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR ACTIONS, THEN WHY AM I RESPONSIBLE FOR HOW THEY FEEL? HUH? WHAT THE FUCK?

Whoa, OK. I’m still very angry.

And that, everybody, is why I simply… I just… can’t deal with them anymore.


Goodbye, Lumsden clan.

Nofo a, Famili Fakahau.

I ain’t killing myself for you anymore. I’m gonna be living for me.

F is for Family (and Frustration)

I have no idea how to tell you this, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to, not to your faces.

Despite our history, I’m done being angry and sad about it.

I did my best, and so did you.

I’m sorry that it didn’t work out, but I’ve run out of things I can do, and I’m not sure I could help things improve, despite my intentions.

This is going to sound really stupid, but I left you because I love you. I used to think that if I stayed around and talked things out, that we’d reach more of an understanding and we’d be able to get along, but for better or worse, I can’t make it work. Everything I do seems to just hurt everyone, and we end up with even more questions instead of the few answers we really need from each other.

I don’t know why, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop feeling guilty about it, but there’s no unconditional love between us. I had to look outside our family to learn what love is, and that’s not my fault or yours, as you’re struggling like me, just in a different way.

But is it really that different?

Yes, I’ll always be the one who asks questions until everyone’s blue in the face. I know that. Still, I don’t want to be the one who makes everyone uncomfortable with those questions. I feel like I killed us with all of my neediness, but holy shit, I needed you guys. I went the wrong way about it. I’m really sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this. I’m so sorry.

I don’t want to make you feel bad. I just want to understand, but due to how annoying and repetitive I’ve been, I don’t have it in me anymore to pursue the family relationships I always wanted. If you hug anyone too hard, they will want to run away, despite your intentions.

It is time for me to be the one who gives me the love I need. I can’t make anyone else love me or themselves, but I can learn what love is for myself, and it’s about time, too.

Then you can bet your asses that I’ll be back for you, to give you the love you never received.

I just… I need some time. One day, I’ll love you properly, and I just hope that by then, it won’t be too late.

I promise. I’m trying, but I won’t try too hard, like in the past.

Like A Flock of Seagulls…

…I ran. I ran so far away.

And here’s why.

– warning: serious themes (mortality & mental illness), potentially kind of upsetting. –

I can compare living in Dunedin to being in an abusive relationship.
I would blame myself for things not working.
I would change myself in painful ways because I thought it was expected of me.
At times, I was both the abuser and the abused.
At once, I was vulnerable, defensive and aggressive.
I lost my sense of self, and my mind almost completely.
I would frantically and violently oscillate between feeling like I deserved to be hurt, and believing that I was sent here to hurt others, and that both those possibilities were simultaneously fully justified and completely ridiculous.
It was too much; all the contradictions and dissonance was extinguishing the light inside me.
I was feeling feelings I hadn’t felt since I was a child, but this time, with all the strength and pain of experience, and the weight of accountability.
Self pity, self blame, rinse, repeat.

Oh, yes, and my life was becoming smaller at an alarming rate, inversely proportional to my drug tolerance. Granted, there are still a few substances out there that I haven’t and will never try, it… really… wasn’t… good. I was a swirling mass of desperate wants and neglected needs, and I fell into some patterns that I can’t believe I considered normal, or even feasible in the first place.

I was lost, and about to leave.

A short while ago, I was the closest I have ever come to leaving. By leaving, I mean… enacting a permanent solution to my temporary problems. I still find it hard to say and write outright, because I’m still reeling from the experience, and I hope that one day, it makes more sense to me. It will be painful, but I will finally understand.


At best, I can say this: during my weakest moment, I imagined myself looking into an endless void, a total absence of being. I felt strangely calm. I wanted the hell-mouth to eat me. I wanted the shadow-hands to grab me. I didn’t just want oblivion – I was oblivion. I longed for the static to fill my ears and lungs, and to become something else.

Mummy, Daddy, I want to grow up to be… nothing.

Through the static, I heard distant crying, a child, a female child.
Who cares, keep going.
But she’s there, weeping, kinda fucking up my nothingness. Boot it, kid, let me go. Either join the void, or go back to the others.
But, holy shit, is this kid persistent. She’s incredibly upset with me, but not angry. Wait… is this kid… she’s disappointed? In me? Yet she seems glad when I finally look at her. Still, she never stops weeping.

Motherfucker. It’s me. Course it is. Just like in pictures of me around six-years-old. Really, really hard for me to look at without feeling something, which is very much not nothing. Uh oh.

“Please, please. Don’t.”

The sea of static begins to part. She… me… I can’t ignore her. It’s not fair on her and I will not be responsible for that.


As I finished writing a sloppy, drunken Facebook farewell and lifted the mask up to my face, Lexie called me. She hadn’t even seen my post, she just felt the intense need to talk to me. I told her everything, and it would have been difficult (remember, drunken & sloppy…), but she listened to everything. She always does.

I came alive. I cried, laughed, cried, and laughed some more, and we just knew from that point… something has to change. And my life – some good things were happening, some bad, but all in all, it was almost like I was being ejected from Dunedin, by circumstance.

And that’s me when I’m in a bad relationship or any other type of rut – I dig my heels in and try my hardest, regardless of whether or not it’s actually a good thing, until I utterly and totally can’t do it anymore. That’s what I’d been doing for the last few years, and it became obvious that I was losing hope, fast.

Anyway, sometimes the best solutions are the most obvious.

I’m in Perth now, and I have felt nothing but alive ever since I planned to come. This was initially supposed to be temporary, but honestly, it’s permanent. Within days, I was on my way to being myself again, and even if things aren’t perfect and there may be some challenges, I finally feel that I have the strength and support necessary to tackle any of these issues.

And… fuck me if I’m glad I didn’t leave.
Here’s to you all, as you’ve all influenced my life in positive ways.
And here’s to Lexie, for cutting through the static with her rainbow.

I have hope again. I love you.

Well, shit…

I’m thirty-years-old now. Well, have been for like, four days. Thirty! Can you believe it? Well, dear friend and reader, I can’t really believe it myself. I thought I fucked my twenties up so badly that it’d kill me, but here I am, even fitting the same clothes.

Yeah, I dunno. What have I learned? Not to use mint & tea tree shower gel on sensitive areas unless I want to feel like I sat in Vapo-Rub all day? How to isolate myself so extensively that I’ll happily pay for delivery fees instead of leaving the house and walking two blocks? How to steam-clean pet smells out of any type of carpet?

What would my tombstone say if I died really soon? Here lies a really great recycler of paper, metals and glass. Fair to middling with the plastics. Dearly missed and probably annoyed about typos and queue jumping in another dimension. Another meatbag who tried to assign meaning to the chaos of life. Witness her desire to be remembered, and remember that not all types of plastic can be processed a second time, and forgive yourself for forgetting which ones.

Ugh, what the fuck. Is it midlife crisis time already? It’s good that I’m already kinda into prosecco and comfortable pants, then.

It’ll be fine.

*worries about property prices and finally remembers where the cat’s worming tablets are*