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I’m a bit stuck. I’m a bit messed up. I’m a bit unsure of what the point is. I’m a bit confused about what I’m meant to do. I’m a bit lost. I’m a bit frustrated. I’m a bit invisible. I’m a bit fed up.

I am hollowing out. I am nothing of substance anymore because everything is about getting through the day. And then the next one. And then the next. I can’t write anymore, I don’t have anything I’m passionate about, I don’t have strong opinions, I don’t feel anything real apart from this all consuming storm. I have no goals or dreams.

I found this bird by the side of the road. Dead. Decomposing. Forgotten. The traffic continued on its way past while the ants came and ate their fill, and as the grass grew around it. The rain fell last night and the bird’s broken little body was there, but it was gone. And where do birds go after they die? Is there a fruit-filled tree in the sky? It will be nothing soon. Just dirt and bones. One day soon I’ll be the same. Soon as in, in the grand scheme of things. I’m counting down the days, and I often find myself trying to find ways to speed up the process. But all that thinking about an end takes me away from the now. And life is passing me by and I have nothing because I’m so consumed by wishing it was gone already. Sometimes the thinking about an end distracts me from the now, which to be honest, is kinda shit. Kinda shit? It is shit. Catch 22 and all that.

But I have to do it less. I have to live in the moment more and be all mindful and shit. Easier said than done. How about this, how about you put me in an induced coma, rearrange some wires in my noggin and wake me up when it’s done? I’m over it.



Slow down. I wish I could. The last few days my head has been jumping all the over the place. I despise myself. Everything I say and do is wrong. I feel the hate in me like an electric current buzzing beneath the skin. I can’t be this. How am I this? I want to claw myself to pieces. I can’t stand this flesh I can’t stand this being. I can’t explain it. The panic. I know I’m a broken record but I need someone to get it. But that’s impossible – I can’t put this into words.

Around people I’ve been a rambling idiot. I don’t shut up when I should and I say ridiculous things. I can’t stand it. I am sarcastic and awful. I make stupid jokes. I am not me. I’m angry and edgy and weird. I feel like I don’t have any control.

When I’m not that I’m this. Sad. So sad. It absorbs me. I want to die. But I’m too weak. And, well, family.

Tomorrow I see my psychiatrist and I’m already super anxious about it. I can’t talk I can’t explain. I am trapped in myself. I am driving myself crazy.

Searching for my words

You know when you’re looking for something but you can’t find it anywhere and you get kinda crazy and panicky and everything’s too much?

I was like that before. Because at the weekend I thought of a poem I wrote once and I had to find it. I HAD to. I only remembered two lines: “Now a stranger, You once knew my everywhere…” I knew what it was about and I knew it meant a lot and I knew that the words said more than the words even said. If that makes sense. I knew it was important I found it.

I don’t know what made me think of it. It came out of nowhere. Blindsided me.

I wrote it years ago, when I was at uni and ever since I wrote it I’ve barely been able to look at it. I wrote it on a t-shirt once and pegged it to a clothesline in a town park, anonymously, during a light the night event raising awareness about child abuse.

Now I know the words are true but they aren’t all of the truth, just the beginning. But I needed to feel this. I needed to see the words again. (Now I’m not really sure what to do with it though. It being this feeling. These thoughts)

I should warn any readers on the other end of thousands of pixels that form a computer screen that it’s not a nice poem. It’s not well written. It’s nothing special. It could also bring up unhappy memories for you. It’s a distasteful topic. Sexual abuse. There, I said it… or wrote it. I typed it. Sexual abuse. And I typed that again, just now… just now it started to rain. The sky started to cry. I can’t cry.

I’ll stop rambling. I don’t even know what I’m typing. It’s a bunch of words, thrown together haphazardly. And I don’t know why I choose to type them here. Why I press publish. Why I think these words could possibly be of value. Sometimes I think they are risky, too. I fear being found. So I should stop right? I should turn back to written pages and journals hidden under the bed where no one can ever possibly pry. But maybe some of me wants my words read, wants them to mean something to someone else. Is it worth the risk?

The poem is hidden below. And I can’t explain how panicked and anxious I am now at the thought of someone else reading it. Which is stupid. It doesn’t even say much at all. But it also says too much.

In that cupboard
A game of show and tell.
Now a stranger,
You once knew my everywhere
And I yours.
I counted my age on fingertips
That explored the world;
Puddled in mud,
And held father’s hand.
You used fingers
And cold hard objects
To explore my world,
My difference…
For your curiosity,
For your pleasure -
Not mine.

The bitter sting of memory,
Of realisation
Locks me in that cupboard

Light the way


I had a really difficult weekend. I don’t even know what to say. The sickness is filling my head.

But I bought some lights for the garden – little stars. I’m looking out the back door to them now. They give me a bit of comfort. Which is completely superficial and stupid – they’re just $20 solar lights from Bunnings – but I’ll take whatever I can get right now because I’m sad and mad and bad and everything’s a little too much.

Anxious agony

Last night after work I drove to the beach. I rolled up my jeans, kicked my shoes off, pulled my hair out of its pony tail and went down to the water. The glow of the resorts and cafes a few kilometres down the coast lit my way to the surf – the white water glowed. I was expecting the water to be cold. I expected to automatically take a few steps backwards as it lapped over my skin. But it was just cool, not cold. It was refreshing. So I stood there sometime after 9pm, alone, feeling so much. Feeling everything. But the ocean gave me a gift – it helped me breathe. The cycle of waves helped me find a rhythm and when even that failed, at least I could gulp down big lungfuls of salty sea air.

Maybe I need to go to the beach now to teach my lungs a lesson. To find some reprieve. Because I can’t breathe. Not really. Obviously I can – I’m alive and functioning, but it’s stuck in my chest and my heart is trying to beat its way out. I’m so anxious I feel sick and I even considered picking up the phone and calling my parents to ask them to come. I DO NOT ASK FOR HELP EVER, so I must be losing my mind. I’ve been lying in bed thinking of what I can do. On Monday I could ring my psychiatrist and see if I can get an earlier appointment, but what would that achieve? I’m already a waste of her time.I could… I have no idea.

It’s not only the anxiety, though that is what tips me over the edge. It’s what makes this too much. It piles on top of the sad – the all-consuming sad – and I don’t know what to do. I am miserable.

I am meant to go to dinner and a play with a woman from work. I am freaking out about it. I have already cancelled on someone else I was to have coffee with this afternoon. And now I’m a bad person for letting someone down. I don’t feel well but I feel I can’t say no again. And she’s bought the tickets. It’s too much – too much. Tomorrow I am to go to coffee in the morning with three others. Why do people want to do things with me lately? I’m normally alone. Always alone. I can’t handle the pressure of being social. I don’t know what to say or do and I’m acutely aware when the catch-ups are over that I am wrong and I hate myself. And it’s so hard to concentrate when you feel everything. It’s hard to be present and pretend. It’s really hard to avoid all topics of conversation that are no-go areas. How are you? You look well. How’s work? Why are you such a pathetic waste of space? Okay, they don’t ask that. But that’s what I say. I’m boring. It doesn’t matter. I can’t answer. There aren’t words for this and even if there were I wouldn’t burden you with them.

Two hours until I am to go out. I’m in jeans, a t-shirt and thongs. I have no idea what to wear. I can’t be bothered getting dressed or putting makeup on. I just want to wrap myself in a bedsheet cocoon and hide.

There’s a feeling in the air and it scares me. My heart beats extra fast when I feel it. I feel like something’s coming.

Rugby scrums and clown scarves


You know what gets me? This relentless onslaught of days. One after the other, again and again. You make it through one and you breathe a sigh of relief, and then BAM there’s another one, and BAM another one. They tumble on top of you from a great height and the weight of them knocks you down. And sometimes when you’re down they just keep coming faster and faster. Piling on top of everything else – like a rugby scrum – the players keep running in to be part of the action. They jump on top and you’re just a pair of legs sticking out of the bottom, and an arm, reaching.

I’m sad today. I’m sad for what I am, for what I’m not, for where I am, for where I’m not. I’m sad because everything is too big for me. I’m sad there is a weeping wound that I’ve put a bandaid on for so long and ignored, but it’s festered and it’s got into my bloodstream and it’s now everything. It is me. I am it.

Someone hurt me and it wasn’t right, but instead of facing that, I’ve spent the last 20 years of my life hurting myself and now I don’t know how to stop and I don’t know how to heal and I don’t know how to stop hating myself. I don’t know how to look in the mirror and not feel sad and bad and mad. I don’t know how to sit in this bag of flesh and not be compelled to make it bleed, to make it hurt. I don’t know how to exist without pain.

It’s all too big and I don’t know how to stuff it down into a corner and then open it all back up again, and then stuff it down and then open it back up again. Jack in a box. Maniacal jack in the box. I don’t know how to be okay. I am all over the place. I can’t feel because it’s too much and then I have to feel because it’s all pulled out of me like clown pulling out a neverending colourful scarf. Only I haven’t even started. Most of it is still stuffed in there tight. Pushed down by all the years. So only one scarf has been pulled out, really. And I don’t think I can wait for the rest. Or survive the rest being extracted.

I’m not making sense. I know. This doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t matter either. I don’t matter. That’s what I’ve told myself for a long time. Someone would say that it’s what I learnt, that I wasn’t born with that belief.

I’m alone. I am alone with this. No one else can get in my head. No one else can truly understand because I can’t explain it. I don’t even know how. I don’t know how to explain how badly I NEED to stab myself through the chest right now. I won’t, it’s okay. But know there’s a storm in there and it’s churning and it feels awful. It feels like surely I can’t keep existing with it there. Surely I can’t exist like this. Surely it’s too much for a body to take. I really wish I could let it out.

And on top of all the above – the swirling mess of my mind… on top of that will pile another day in a few hours. And then another and it all just gets bigger and takes more of me.

Break the cycle

Oh sweet, sweet internet, I don’t know what to do. My morning started off okay but then I went to see the GP and now I’m riding the downward spiral. But I can’t keep riding – I have to suck it up, forget I’m a fat, repulsive human being and go to work in 45 minutes. And then when I get home I have to clean up my unit, and make sure this place looks like the home of a sane person, so no eyebrows will be raised when my folks come tomorrow for the weekend. I also need to maintain composure at a family gathering on Saturday in front of so many questioning, judging eyes.

I know to do all the above I can’t be thinking the things I am thinking. But knowing this does not help stop it.

I’m screwing my life up and I don’t know how to stop.