Oopsy La La

New Home

2008-05-12T17:46:00.003+01:00

I've made the move to here...so much pretttier and proffessional looking, and so many more options.

Peaked Too Soon

2008-05-12T11:10:00.002+01:00

"Hey Shana,

Sounds like you're slowly getting back on track. I must say it's been a weird experience for me so far. If I had a job/routine to go back to then I'd be more adjusted. I'm not feeling unhappy, far from it, but just kind of hanging and waiting for something but not quite sure what. Trips away and catching up with friends feel like punctuation marks, if you get what I mean. I've had a similar feeling before. No, actually I've probably had this feeling on and off for most of my adult life. It's definitely searching but not knowing what it is you're looking for. Something's missing (and it's NOT a baby). Oh God! I think this is the precursor to another existential crisis!

I got a little distracted by the nothingness that was going on around me. Now I'm settled, sitting in the lounge room with the afternoon sun filtering through the windows, a slight breeze, an icy cold beer and Sigur Ros playing in the background. I thought I might as well make this a social get together even if it's just virtual you and I alone.

Where was I up to? Pre-existential crisis. I often get the feeling that the best days of my life are already over. I think it comes from being an overachiever, having travelled quite extensively and doing some amazing things, all from an earlier age. It's like my life was (has been) compressed in time and things that people do over decades I've already done during my 20s. In the past 7 years, there hasn't really been anything going on in my life or that I've done that actually feels meaningful, an achievement or anywhere near exhilarating. It's almost like my life stopped at 27 (the age I often mistakenly mentally quote when asked how old I am). I have Thabo - he's the only really amazing thing that's happened in the recent years. But you can't live on another person alone.

I've just reread what I've written and it sounds rather depressing and hopeless...it is, in that I-wouldn't-necessarily-miss-my-life-if-I-died-tomorrow, kind of way. Oh shit! That sounds even worse. It isn't a feeling of depression, but more, resignation and until I'm able to find my passion/s, I think I might be stuck for a little while just drifting through life and wondering where I'm supposed to be. Killing time. What would ease my mind, is for some reassurance or confirmation that this will happen, and that my existence right at this moment, isn't all there is. Music makes me happy. Sorry, it's my mind drifting again as I listen to Sigur Ros.

I feel like a spoilt little shit that I'm not appreciating what I have. How many people are given as many opportunities as we are, good education, travel, nice places in which to stay, fantastic food...etc etc etc. You know what, Shana, Europe really isn't for me. {I digress from the above topic now...this is why I avoid long e-mails of free-form thought because I become schizophrenic and tangential}. I initially found travelling around Europe exciting because I'd not seen it before but I've sadly lost interest in it. The places I've most enjoyed because they impacted on me in some way are all in Africa or SE Asia. They make me feel grateful to be alive partly by allowing me to witness life in at it's simplest, human suffering and people's will and desire to live despite the adversity, and maintaining a certain dignity and pride. I feel touched and moved by the people. That's not something I've felt since moving to London and travelling around Europe..."

Tangerine Snot

2008-01-08T02:11:00.000Z

For the past three days I've been blowing bright yellow-orange snot associated with an allergic rhinitis like sneezing and congestion but only with my right nostril. I thought it might have been an allergic/infective sinisitis/rhinitis although the symptoms were slightly different to my usual. I have now put two and two together. I did a line of coke (with my right nostril) a couple of days prior to the stream of snot. Strange that this is the first time I've had this reaction. Probably tainted coke.

Oopsy La La - 'Tis the End of Big Phil's Reg Grundies

2007-12-21T13:28:00.000Z

I'd made a prediction at an early point in the conception of my blog that some day the name would come to an end. That day is today. I just got weary of Big Phil's Reg Grundies and have found a name more suitable to my needs. It's rather self-explanatory. Kind of sums up my life and who I am...but in a good way...I think. The greatest dilemma was if it should be "Oopsy" or "Oopsie."

The actual phrase was one that my gay friends and I would use back in the day when I was a fag-hag, to described anything/person/situation that was not quite right, confused, off centre, but could also be used in a complimentary manner by emphasising the "La La" in a soft seductive tone. It'll do for now.

Smells of Home

2007-12-09T15:10:00.001Z

Rain on a hot bitumen road

Frangipani

Freshly mowed lawn

Reef oil

Ocean

Playing the Race Card

2007-12-09T15:09:00.000Z

God, how Moteesha shits me! I think I'm going to have to delete and block her on Facebook. I have never in my life met someone as racist as her, despite her proud Cameroonian nationality. She is quick to play the race card whenever herself or another person of colour is pulled up on. She has never explored that it could very well actually have been because of the person's laziness, incompetence, wrong-doing or fault that they were reprimanded, singled out, not promoted etc. and whatever issue was involved, involved everything but race.

I say that she is the most racist person because she hides behind her own black skin and shouts, "Racist!" at every white or non-ethnic-minority person because "if you're white then you must be racist". How easy, cheap and ignorant a thing to do! She will never learn and better herself by doing that. Those for whom she defends are quite clearly deserving of reprimand or not deserving of praise. Clear to everyone except her because she can't see past skin colour. Part of me would love to shove her race card right up her arse and tell her as it is. On the other hand, I have so many reasons why I will not:

1) I couldn't care less about her.

2) She would think I was being racist against her anyway.

3) She probably believes that ethnic minorities can't be racist.

4) She is too stupid to understand the irony of her accusations.

The Drugs Do Work

2007-09-17T22:30:00.000+01:00

"I only write when I'm feeling depressed." It's been 4 months since my last post. Obviously the drugs are working. However, right now, I'm having a post-holidays back to work and an I hate London moment. Just spent a week with good friends in Spain and France - I'd forgotten how pleasant people can be until then. Coming back to London was like a smack in the face - no more pleasant and warm people, terrible weather, shit work and a relapse of the cough and wheeze that I've had for months. Really makes me feel that I'm allergic to this city. Unfortunately drugs aren't going to control it.

I've Been Conned

2007-05-29T21:02:00.000+01:00

Despite multiple attempts at buying grown up work shoes, I always end up wearing sneaker type shoes for comfort. Not very professional but, hey, at least OH&S should be pleased. For the past 3 years, my leather Chuck Taylors have had a serious work out. Loose threads, open heels and wafer-thin soles...they have officially been retired.

Now introducing, Chuck Taylor Wool...

And Chuck Taylor Floral... My feet are happy.

Ciao Bella

2007-05-10T21:07:00.000+01:00

Bought two Kim Hargreaves kits before leaving for Oz - Bella and Rebecca. Here's the story of Bella (in Bohemian)...

Tables Turned

2007-03-22T20:12:00.000Z

"I don't want to be here."

"I don't want to be here, either," Thabo responded.

The mood was low the day after we arrived back in London and it hasn't quite lifted since. (Like being injected with a dose of 'depression.') These few days I've been experiencing a growing anxiety and fear that I'm about to go on a downward spiral again. I know that I'm probably just going through the normal experience of post-holiday blues. It doesn't help that it's cold and grey. But how do I know that it's not my medications failing me? As a result, I've done the very bad and frowned-upon patient thing. I've self-medicated by increasing my dose of citalopram. I'll see how it pans out and luckily for me, I have a few GP friends and a pyschiatrist friend with whom I'm meeting up in a week. And I'll do the very annoying request for personal advice "because you're a doctor". Interesting to have the tables turned.

Or having the shoe on the other foot.

Fish Out Of Water

2007-03-06T01:27:00.000Z

Stepping out into the hot balmy air is like being wrapped in familiarity. The sensations of past experiences come flooding back (the ochre Aussie accent, the laid back friendliness, tanned exercised bodies, the singing cicadas) just snapshots in a collective time creating livestreams of relived memories. In short, nostalgia. That was me at the airport. Even the coffee from the little airport cafe tasted better than any of the shit they call "coffee" in London.

I've been in Brissie for 4 days now and have settled except for the ongoing jet lag. At 3pm sharp daily begins the battle to stay awake. I've succeeded once so far and going by past trips home, will take a week to resolve, which is fortuitous since we have a wedding to attend at the end of the week.

We celebrated my birthday having drinks at an old friend's home (Mitch, and his boyfriend, Ryan, who would put any one else's Vogue Living featured house to shame) with a handful my the dearest friends and their partners. This was followed by a flash dinner which Thabo insisted on paying for in its entirety. He has yet to realized that although the pound goes far in Australia, it doesn't make one obscenely rich. It was a fantastic night with everyone having a good time.

Thabo and I went back with Mitch and Ryan for a few more drinks. Part of the evening went like this:

Ryan: "Where's the fish?" Their Siamese Fighting Fish was not in the fish tank on the kitchen diner.

Me: "Has he jumped out again?" This would be it's third time since they've owned him - he was once found on the floor and another, in the kitchen sink - both times he was able to be resuscitated by placing him back in the tank.

Mitch: "Is he on the floor?" And so we all look towards the ground. By our feet was most of the fish. The rest of him was smeared across the floor.

Me: "Did someone step on him?" Quite clearly someone had but I felt the need to state the obvious.

Thabo: "Well, it wasn't me." At this point, we all looked down at the soles of our shoes. There was no fish seen but on the sole of Thabo's shoe was a wet stain. Amphibious fish; Can survive on land but is no match for Thabo's foot.

I really miss hanging out with old friends.

Back to the Motherland

2007-02-26T00:54:00.000Z

3 days until we board the Heathrow Express and on our way to Home. It's always a mixture of excitement and apprehension with these trips across the world. Will I be welcomed home? Will it still be the same Australia that I love? Am I going to get homesick with the thought of having to leave again so soon?

We'll be making a short stop in Sydney for a wedding. It seems like (and is) years since we left. I feel a certain sadness at returning because so many of my friends have since moved away. I only have a handful of people I need to catch up with. And there's a sadness about having moved from such a beautiful city. I remember the feeling, quite well, of exhilaration every morning I walked over Pyrmont Bridge, across the harbour and through the city bathed in morning sunlight. And the intense blue skies. I felt that amazement everyday; Being overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding me. I haven't felt that since leaving.

And Brisbane, my childhood hometown. I love her more each time I return. Watching her grow and slowly come of age. My family and friends close by. I'd love to resettle in Brisbane. Of course, it's not quite a possibility with Thabo's work. And I do feel guilty that I can't be closer to my parents. Dread comes over me if I dwell on it too long. It must be a sensation familiar to every 30-something year old - ageing parents and the sick feeling that time is running out to get to know them more, to continue to share your life with them. It's hard to do living across the world from them. I hope that there is plenty of time ahead.

Nerd Family and Metamorphosis in Rhumba

2007-02-21T19:04:00.000Z

Ta-da! I frogged the sleeves of my Jilly cardi and now have a poncho and a vest in Rhumba.

I've been shopping at various sites trying to get a hold of Ribbon Twist in Rabble (out of stock and no longer in production, I was informed by one shop) and am awaiting Racy to make myself yet another poncho. Here's Ava in Rabble that I prepared earlier. I'm waiting in delicious anticipation for my two Kim Hargreaves kits. The Hargreaves have been very sweet over the phone sorting out my order.

Our lounge room resembles a hobby and craft store at the moment . I've been into knitting and Thabo, in an effort to relax and relieve the stress of work, has been building model aircrafts. We're like two children playing with our toys. Or as he fondly refers to it, "We're the Nerd family."

Knitty Narwee, A Hater of Cats

2007-02-13T20:42:00.000Z

I've started knitting again. The last time was about 2 years ago when the nurses and I got into a scarf knitting frenzy. I started again just before Christmas, as a way of calming myself. Meditation, if you will. But this time, I'm actually knitting real things. Here's my list so far: 2 scarves, 7 beanies, 2 ponchos and a cardigan. I'm in love with Rowan Ribbon Twist yarn (I'm about 3 years behind everyone else) and Kim Hargreaves' patterns. I've ordered 2 from her website.

These are some of my beanies knitted from Rowan Country. Not enough heads, so I've given them to friends and family.

This Jilly cardigan is from the Ribbon Twist Collection. It looked great in the book in red. I'm not too impressed by it. In the colour Rhumba it looks like a granny's cardigan. I thought about giving it to my mum initially but have decided to take it apart and make another poncho instead.

The Ava poncho is so graceful. I fell in love with it immediately. Here it is in Regency. I've made myself one in Rabble and am awaiting more wool in other colours. So mum, my Aunty and my friend in the States (who is experiencing a Homer obesity moment as a result of excessive doses of carbimazole for her hyperactive thyroid) will be receiving wooly gifts made with love.

In any case, I've become a real knitting geek. I've been searching knitting blogs to check out other people's works...and I'm bloody posting photos of my own knits! Thabo calls me his Knitty Narwee. But at least I don't have a cat. God, how I hate cats and it seems like every other knitter out there has a cat. Knitters and cats. Single women and cats. Lesbians and cats. What is it with cats? But I love dogs and get more excited about being able to own a dog one day than I do about babies. Then I'll start knitting dog clothes. Yep, gonna be one of those sad people who treats their pup like a real baby.

28 Days Later

2007-01-27T21:01:00.000Z

28 days later and I feel human again. My motivation is back and I'm able to carry on with normal activities of daily living. I have been grocery shopping without fear and am back on track with cooking from scratch with real ingredients. I haven't wished for my own demise for over 3 weeks and at work I'm generally cheerful. I've started laughing again. What a welcome thing to be to do! And my favourite; I've gone back to actively procrastinating. I can choose to procrasinate. It's not just a never-ending dark tunnel in which I walk now.

My legs drown in sweat every night but that's the only down side of being on my Happy Pills.

Sometimes this feeling of "I'm alive" sits like a bubble in my chest ready to burst into uncontrollable laughter. I don't have the sensation of elation but I'm really looking forward to when it eventually comes.

Feeling Better But Sweaty

2007-01-19T17:47:00.001Z

Last week was day 7. Whether it was a placebo effect or the medication starting to kick in, I don’t know. But I do know, I feel a little lighter. For the first time in months, I didn’t tear up walking to and from work. I no longer wish I was dead. I feel like, although things aren’t great now, I have things to look forward to in the future.

Saturday, I almost felt normal. I didn’t get the shits. I didn’t feel like killing people who bumped into me on Oxford street. And I managed to stay this way the entire day and night. Even Thabo noticed a difference, saying that I seemed positive and much livelier.

I had a set back yesterday getting upset over a tiny issue. It cumulated in me feeling the same inescapable universal woe. “I wish I had a different life.” I hate the life I have and there’s no escape from it.

Other than that, I'm hopeful that things are starting to look up for me. I have the strange side-effect of waking up drenched in sweat, like I've gone to bed in wet clothes, but it only happens with my legs.

Belated Christmas Present

2007-01-04T17:53:00.000Z

I finally received the Christmas present I wished for. Now, day 2 of citalopram. No major effects yet except insomnia, anxiety about anxiety being a side-effect, feeling spaced out and a pervasive sense of dread and apprehension (always apprehensive about things I might need to do - I can't even enjoy quiet moments because I'm in a constant state of dread about what might- and it's for non-issues. I can't go to the corner store without feeling anxious or preparing myself mentally). Actually, that was all there before the medication.

I know it takes 2-4 weeks for effect. I'd like to know what happens after that. A slow rise of me becoming me again? What if before-now-me isn't all that she was cracked up to be? Right now I see me as a failure as a person who had been given every opportunity in life - good home, education, friends, partner - and I've dumped all over it.

I want to throw my career out the door because I'm so afraid that my cover will be blown, that I don't know my way around. Still. My self-confidence is zero, I'm always second guessing myself, and I can't commit to what I think I know is right. I had a shit day at work because I wasn't sure of myself and couldn't give anyone a straight answer. I wanted to run and hide. I say to myself that I don't care about having this career. I don't know if I say this to make me feel better, or if I'd be better off without it.

I don't know if I have certain thoughts because I'm depressed or if the essential me really believes them. Thabo tells me, "You're wonderful. Everyone sees that except for you." I don't like me very much.

A Country Run By Shaved Monkeys

2006-12-22T14:57:00.000Z

This country truly is run by shaved monkeys. Administrative staff, payroll, government office workers, telephone operators of banks, gas, electricity boards…the list is endless and I’m excluding Indian call centre operators.

I still receive letters from telephone/gas companies where I have cancelled the account. What part of “No” do they not understand? In a few instances, I’ve cancelled twice. Did I inadvertently cancel my cancellation?

Pay Office were informed weeks in advance that I would have an earlier start date than the usual hospital term. I again reminded them just prior to my start. Being paranoid and distrustful, I contacted them to ensure that I was being paid for my work. No, I was not.

The Postal Redirection have not been able to enter our correct name and address details on each occasion that we have used their service. For God’s sake! I’ve written down the details exactly as they should be – all one has to do is to copy them. I just can’t understand where the difficulty is. What part of the task is causing a problem?

Hello, Council Tax department. We’ve moved. These are the names of the people ie. Thabo and I, who will be residing at this address. Our first council tax demand – “Dear Dunce and Thumbo…”

Hi, Council Tax. It should be T-H-A-B-O and I on the account. "Well, Dunce needs to call us." But Council Tax, Dunce doesn’t live at this address, nor will he, or has ever. What is the point of me letting you know the details of the changes if you’re not going to act on them? "Okay, I’ll changed it to yours and Thabo’s name. Anything else I can help you with today, Ma’am?" Yeah, how about, get a brain?

Hello, Thames Water. We’ve moved. Thabo and I will be residing at this address. Our first Thames Water bill – “Dear Dunce…”

Every day, there is some kind of, even if minor, battle. What concerns me greatly is that professionals aren’t immune to lack of common sense or intelligence. My lawyer exhibits no discernible work pride or is it competence? I paid through the arse to have a professional sort out my HSMP application. I needn’t have. I’ve had to mark up every form that she completed and sent to me for signing. Scarily, she even got my visa category incorrect. Here’s just a list of other things that made me question her abilities:

Commenting on how policy changes through Home Office into chaos. WTF?? Did she mean “threw” Home Office into chaos?

Incorrectly writing my address on separate occasions. You can’t just put the flat number and postcode without the street number; Is she not aware that many flats can occupy the same street?

Printing incorrectly my e-mail address on documents despite corresponding with me via e-mail.

Me having to clarify what she means in each of her e-mails…Thabo, who is a master drafter of contracts had difficulties understanding her. Eg. “You will be invoiced when we have received the completed application.” What? You mean you haven’t received the application I sent you three weeks ago? (She meant, yes, they have received my completed application. They are waiting for HO processing). I still haven’t received my visa-stamped passport but I have been invoiced. So, I’m left wondering if her initial statement was just wind, or if they’ve returned my passport but obviously to the wrong address.

(Arrgh! I irritate myself with all this nit-picking.)

She asked, “What were we going to charge you for our service?” Umm, did she actually mean how much I think she should charge for her service (disservice)?

Unfortunately, she came recommended by a friend. I could see that her purposeful manner and manly booming voice could give the impression of straight-shooting no-nonsense let’s-do-this~ness. The lesbian haircut helped too. I wonder if she could have done a better job if she was a lesbian, ‘cos you know, she’s a woman, I’m a woman. Sisters doin’ it for themselves. Who am I kidding?

You're Depressed

2006-12-21T14:04:00.000Z

And so it drags on. Attended my counselling session which allowed me to blubber and voice, for an hour, how I've been feeling. She was very nice, picked up on verbal and non-verbal cues, paraphrased well and empathized.

She concluded with, "I think you're depressed. You should give anti-depressants some serious consideration." Well, no fucking shit!

"Have you spoken to Dr Mahmoud about it?" How many other ways can I tell him? The first thing I said to him was, "I'd like to talk to you about starting anti-depressants." He must want me to make my first suicide attempt before committing to a diagnosis. I feel even more helpless because he hadn't made any follow-up so I'm stuck in purgatory until the New Year. How can getting a prescription be such a protracted difficult process? How I hate him.

Coming Down

2006-12-17T00:42:00.000Z

Drank myself silly and danced the night away to bad music. I recall dancing with the he-must-be-gay-but-seems-to-be-trying-to-get-it-on-with-all-the-girls waiter. One of the nurses drove us back to our neighbourhood and I thanked her by vomiting over her car, just the outside, but it's still vomit that needs to be cleaned up. And like a tired old story, I had to be walked home, then passed out in the lounge room leaving Thabo to put me to bed.

I was so acutely aware of my intention to drink excessively. All night I felt prickly and socially awkward- unhappiness trying to push its way through. I woke up this morning still drunk. As the alcohol wore off, feeling down in the dumps came on. It felt worse than any other drug-induced come down I've had. The same shit ten times worse along with guilt, shame and hopelessness on top of the hangover.

I couldn't go to a friend's birthday bash tonight because I was so fearful of breaking down in public, in front of others and humiliating myself more. Or humiliating Thabo. He made sure that I knew that he was sticking by me through all of this. He sent me this message on his way out:

"You are the most beautiful person in the world. We will get better. I will make sure of it."

I'm in a bit of trouble. I hope my counselling session goes okay. I'm scared of it turning out the way it did with the GP. He was my last hope and it felt like he destroyed it.

No, I Don't Need My Cervix Or Medication

2006-12-14T10:50:00.000Z

I had the most painful Pap smear ever this morning. Besides trying to create a whole new vagina for me, the nurse scraped at my cervix with such vigour that I think she may have removed it completely.

I also saw the GP. Not MY GP but some assistant GP, "Dr Mahmoud". As I attempted to (words through a clenched jaw holding back tears) provide reasons why I felt depressed, why I thought I was depressed and why I wanted to be on anti-depressants, he informed me that feeling depressed is a normal reaction to bad things that happen in life and he is reluctant to give me the diagnosis because it means labelling me as having depression. I am to see a counsellor next week for professional assessment. Maybe medicine works differently in England; I thought a GP was in the perfect position to make an assessment. He asked me what started it.

I don't think he really listened. I could hear myself repeating the same things over and over again and I know he understands English because he was more than keen to inform me of his previous training, interests, and his own difficulties with registration and bureaucracy when he first moved to the UK 20 years ago.

Why can't he understand that I didn't decide on a whim that I am depressed and that I suddenly want medical intervention? Doesn't he realize that I've thought about the whole stigma of depression before? Does he not realize that I wouldn't be here unless I really needed to be? Normal reaction?! That I want to be dead or wish mortal harm upon everyone who crosses me, everyday for months on end? I actually have insight and understanding, something which my medical experience has prepared me for. Why do I feel like this is a debate on whether or not I am depressed or just feeling low? Why must I make up an argument to convince him?

The whole consultation could have gone one of two ways. And it went the way I dreaded and the way which made up one of reasons I'd held off on seeing someone for such a long time. I've asked for help and now I feel so much worse.

'Tis The Season To Be Jolly

2006-12-11T14:00:00.000Z

I have to fight back tears everyday when I walk to and from work.

I find myself swearing a lot about patients and their demands; the more trivial the more I swear. People have noticed but I have yet to be reprimanded. Work used to be an escape from the outside bleakness. Now it consumes me also.

My thoughts are blunted, my concentration is diminished and my memory poor. Sometimes, I feel like I'm slipping out of reality. I don't hear voices or see things; I don't have delusions of grandeur or persecution; I'm not psychotic.

I don't drink to mute my pain but when I go out with colleagues or friends, I'm cheerful and fun and I drink too much because it feels good. For one brief moment the heaviness lifts and I forget how shit I am feeling.

The coming Christmas social events terrify me. I don't feel confident in my ability to uphold my current fascade and "just be me". It hasn't always worked in recent times. What if I say something hateful? What if I cry?

Everyday, I mechanically go through the motions of living. But I'm starting to falter and find it more and more difficult to uphold my duties and perform tasks.

I'm scared to look people in the eyes because they might see the truth that I am really dead inside.

I told two friends and they held my hand and told me that they loved me.

'Tis the season to be jolly. I hope Santa comes early to bring me the best Christmas present ever. Gift wrapped by my GP.

Happy Again

2006-12-08T21:13:00.000Z

I'm sick with a cold, unwell in the head (unless normal people fall asleep dreaming they'll sleep forever and always awake feeling disappointed) and we're stealing broadband until our own gets installed. The weight and heaviness just doesn't shift and I am feeling so fatigued, and all the time.

Much like this congestion and runny nose that hasn't budged even a tiny bit with, "Sudafed." British Sudafed's "active" ingredient is phenylephrine, a less effective alternative to what I'm used to when taking Sudafed from elsewhere. Give me pseudoephedrine, PLEASE. I want to be able to breath through my nose again. I want stop the nasal drip. I want to be able to sleep through the night.

But more than anything, I want to feel like I want to live. I want to feel alive. I want to stop wishing for a different life because I feel so trapped and helpless to do anything about the current one in which I find myself. I want to remember what it feels like to be happy again.

Dirty Little Secret

2006-12-02T10:56:00.000Z

I have a dirty little secret...

I voted on, "I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!"

Monster Within

2006-11-27T20:32:00.000Z

Poor Thabo. We were having a great weekend. He made a little remark and I turned it into a monster. I turned into a monster. Something said that wouldn't even normally have registered as being remotely offensive and I cracked the shits (could barely uphold the pretence that everything was okay, in front of our friends).

Things which don't normally piss me off, have over the past months grated on my nerves, and my irritability and general lack of tolerance spilt over on Saturday night. I hate the way I do this to him. There is no warning. I just explode with such vitriol that I hate myself even more. Quite clearly, trying to act like I'm on top of what I'm going through isn't working. It just builds up until I feel out of control. I'm concerned because it's occuring with rapidly increasing frequency. I'm scared because what if he stops understanding or gets sick of me or stops loving me?

I had a particularly difficult day at work because of this bubbling anger within. I'm fucked off with the world, with my life, with everything. The one good thing in my life, I'm trying to fuck up as well.

Friday Afternoon Shit Fan

2006-11-24T18:34:00.000Z

Nightmare. Absolute nightmare of an afternoon at work. At 4.30pm, all other staff members had pissed off leaving just myself and one of the nurses, Mirabelle, to continue a full clinic. One of the them (let's call her Kimberley) wasn't even professional enough to hand over a patient who required further management - just left without letting anyone know. After closing time, the patient was still sitting at reception wondering whether or not we were going to provide a service which the clinic proportedly provides. Besides creating an absolute cock-up for the patient, I felt even more furious at Kimberley. Her turfing of every other patient my way was one of the reasons why the clinic was running behind; I helped with every one she sent across and I expected the same courtesy of her. Obviously, that expectation was too great.

Poor Mirabelle. Ordinarily timid and quiet, her feathers were ruffled at the inconsideration and disrespect shown to her by her nursing colleagues (unfortunately, she sometimes bears the brunt of my wrath when shit is hitting the fan, as well). I've not seen her voice an opinion so emotionally and so forcefully. No one offers to remain and help at the end of the week. Management are aware and have apparently resolved the situation. She's the only one who stays behind to close clinic well after other staff members have left because someone has to and no one else will.

I said, "Mirabelle, you have to say something about this."

Her response, "We're all adults. We're professionals. I shouldn't have to say anything. They should know that when it's busy they should help. But they just think, 'It's just Mirabelle, she's so quiet, she won't say anything.'"

And she's right. Instead of hiding in the lab avoiding work or killing time as some so, or racing off after the last of their own patient has been seen, it should be a matter of teamwork. A couple of people extra can make a world's difference compared to one person doing the job of three.

I think I'm going to have to champion her cause and be her voice. And try to not offend anyone in the process. It could easily turn into a case of "because of her, we all have to stay back." Well, too fucking right! We're all paid to work the same hours, not some of us work late and the rest piss off at 3pm.

Things I Wished Didn't Happen This Weekend

2006-11-19T19:30:00.000Z

While leaning over the couch to plug in the telephone cord, I hit my head on the corner of the heater. Fuck, it hurt. Now, I have a massive lump marked with a red (blood) line on my forehead.
Watched the Wallabies game on TV. Can't say I'm a fan of experimental positioning. However, if it means that a decent team can be created for the lead up to the World Cup, then bring it on. Right now, we are embarrassing.
Got drunk which resulted in miscommunication and a whole lot of fury. And me sleeping on the couch in our former home.
I told them all the appliances were working. I knew that their TV wasn't but said that we had only ever used our own and wouldn't know if theirs was okay or not. I don't know why I lied. I feel so guilty about it because they were such wonderful landlords.

Red Red Wine

2006-11-18T14:20:00.000Z

Pity I don't enjoy white wine. Spills are much less conspicuous. After wine was accidentally spilt over my shirt, I knocked over my own glass onto someone else. Three girls, all drunk, and all wearing white shirts. When we left, our clothes were accessorized by splatters of red wine. The sleeve of my shirt was also caked with chocolate.

Vanish, you are a saviour. White shirt now gleaming and stain-free. If only there was an instant fix-it for my hangover. I've just devoured a steak sandwich for lunch and no doubt will eat another steak for dinner. It's the right thing to do, marrying red wine with red meat. Things could have turned out much worse - I could be vegetarian.

Moving

2006-11-06T18:19:00.000Z

We're supposed to be moving this weekend. Thabo is in Austria for work. His humourless vulgar fat cat clients are giving his group the run around, so now he has to stay for the weekend. Of course, I'm annoyed, left to sort out the whole move myself (nothing is packed yet). But I'm more fearful of a future where he's consumed by work and I'm the "single" partner. Actually, the present is often like that already. No, I'm fearful that there is going to be no let up and this is how it's always going to be. In which case I wonder, what is the point? I hate London. The whole reason I'm here is for "us." And all too often there is no "us." What does that leave me?

Baby Brother

2006-11-05T19:25:00.000Z

I don't know why I'm surprised by my state. It's not as if there wasn't a history of depression, in myself anyway. Certainly, not in our family. But we're not really a family that verbalizes emotions.

My baby brother probably went through a depressive phase in his high school years. He was always angry, getting into trouble at school, fighting, engaging in petty criminal behaviour (there was one time...another story), hanging around "the wrong crowd." The alternative explanation is that he had a mild form ADD. He got bored too easily and was never able to be still. Sitting at a table or desk was a serious challenge met with him doing something which inevitabley got him into trouble.

Despite all the above, he's deeply spiritual. He'll enjoy the beauty of a scene for all that nature has to offer. Only until recently, he believed that he was doomed and bad karma was all he had to look forward to as punishment for his past wrong-doings. But he learnt (through an abridged and illustrated book on the teachings of Buddha) that he could change that and his fate was not set in stone. His ideals regarding parenthood and friendship reveal a depth and maturity beyond his years.

He made a peculiar remark a few years later when he came to visit me to explain his behaviour. "Something happened to me..." That's all he said. And I felt the immensity of his statement. He didn't give details nor do I have reason to believe or be concerned that he was abused. I still don't know what happened.

He's on the straight and narrow having a great time and a full life in Tokyo now. The 24hour sensory overload calms him, I think. He has a real job that he loves and pays extremely well, a girlfriend who wants to marry him, regular weekends away to fulfil his snowboarding passion and all the boy's toys that one would desire . He still enjoys time back in Australia and stocks up on the things he loves - eats three times his weight in meat pies, steaks, seafood and mum's cooking, gets a daily dose of sun and surf and just chills (well, goes fishing, driving, just doin' shit) with his mates.

I love him to bits but I don't know if he knows that. I think he does.

Oh, I've exhausted myself. I was meant to be writing about my own history of being depressed. Another time.

Please Don't Ask Me...

2006-11-03T19:34:00.001Z

What's set it off?

When I have a break down, yes, some minor thing might have precipitated it. But it's only because I'm depressed that I'm unable to cope and I cry in despair because how I'm really feeling is unmasked. "It" is always there.

What needs to happen to make you feel better?

As much as it would be great for us both that I could take a magic pill or some thing happens to make everything good again, unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. I've been feeling like this for such a long time, that my brain chemical circuit has been rewired such that good things happening in my life won't make a difference. Take for example, granting of my full registration and my HSMP. The lead up to both caused such dread and anxiety that even with their resolution to a good outcome, I still have the same dread and anxiety. In fact, they've been compounded precisely because I haven't experienced the weight of the world lift off my shoulders. Hence, I answer your question of will moving back to Sydney make things better, with, "No."

Why don't you come our for a beer with -anyone- and I?

Because it's getting harder for me to pretend, to act 'normal.' I don't want the world to see me this way. I'm finding it difficult to be amiable because the current me keeps threatening to blow my cover. It's the same reason why I rarely answer phone calls from friends, or find going out a chore. I don't want those dearest to me or those who don't know me (lest they think that I'm a depressing person and don't want anything to do with me....or they see a drunken party princess always up for a good time - that's just me overcompensating), to see the failure of a being I've become. I don't want to feel the shame of that.

Most people don't really understand what it means to be depressed. It' s not a generic term for having a bad day, or feeling crappy, or feeling a bit emotional and moody. I know well enough some of the people around me to know that that is what they'd think. And trivialize. And I'd be more hateful of their ignorance and condescending sympathy.

Sick Day

2006-11-03T11:43:00.000Z

Converstion 1:
"Hi. I'm calling to let you know I'm sick and won't be coming in to work today."
"Okay. Hope you feel better soon."

Conversation 2:
"Hi. I'm calling to let you know I'm sick and won't be coming in to work today."
"What's wrong?"
"You don't want to know."

Conversation 3:
"Hi. I'm calling to let you know I'm sick and won't be coming in to work today."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm unwell in that 'I want to kill myself' kind of way."
"Oh..."

Conversation 4:
"Hi. I'm calling to let you know I'm sick and won't be coming in to work today."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm unwell in that 'I want to kill myself' kind of way."
"Okay. Hope you feel better soon."

I'm going to make an appointment with my doctor. I can't keep hoping or pretending that this will pass. I hope he understands and is kind.

This Is My Life

2006-11-01T13:38:00.000Z

I woke up this morning feeling angry with the world, highly irritable and anxious. Walking to work, like every other day, I pass bleak, old, London pollution covered buildings and crumbly walls. But today, all I can think is, "This is it. This is my life. This is what my life looks like." A familiar heaviness descends upon me again. And I'm not sure how to face the world with effervescence and friendliness. I don't. I'm snappy, curt and border on being rude. The tunnel vision created by the feelings I have makes me oblivious to those around me. I hate this shit. I'm so tired of it. I feel paralyzed.

I read a blog in its entirety. The topic was, "How do you know if you're depressed?" Why are there so many of you out there? And why am I one of you? Just going through the motions of life but not really living. Why did I stumble across you and why did I read you knowing full well that it would only dredge up what I've managed to suppress so well in the past few weeks?

Depression has become my security blanket, keeping me insulated. It's also my noose, strangling me and holding me down. All I need to do is see my GP for advice but I'm too fucking apathetic and pessimistic. I don't recall anyone ever paying complements to the sensitivity and competence of their GP in London...AND I would need to wait 2-3 weeks for the appointment. It wouldn't matter anyway. My inertia would prevent me from filling the prescription in a timely manner if it came to that. So instead, I sit here bitching and moaning about how shit my life is and doing absolutely nothing to change it. I am pathetic.

Modern Day Contraception

2006-10-31T20:11:00.000Z

Me: "When did you last have sex?"
She: "Three days ago."
"And before that?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Did you use condoms?"
"No."
"Are you on any form of contraception?"
"No."
"So you're trying to fall pregnant?"
"Oh, no!"
"Does he come inside of you?"
"Yes."
"Uh, so you have sex without condoms, you're not on the Pill, he comes inside but you're not trying to get pregnant?"
"Huh?"
"Does he want you to be pregnant?"
"God, no! He'd be terrified!"

One month later...

She: "I'd like a pregnancy test; My periods are two weeks late."
Me: "When did you last have sex?"

A Q&A session proceeds along the same lines as above.

The pregnancy test comes back positive.

"You're pregnant."
"I'm pregnant?" in disbelief. Now crying, "How can I be pregnant?"

Auf Wiedersehen

2006-10-27T21:15:00.000+01:00

So, so pissed! Am getting ready to go out after a farewell and would like nothing more than to strip off and get into bed. Will have to carry my pen (as self-defence weapon 'cos they say you shouldn't carry anything that obviously can be used against you) on the way home...in a black cab if one would be kind enough to stop for me.

Shit! It's only 9.20pm and I am maggot!

I Remember When

2006-10-23T14:32:00.000+01:00

Thabo and I went to a farewell for a former work colleague who is moving to Australia. A bar in Soho. Music was cool, venue was cool, drinks were cool. It was loud in the way that you couldn't carry forth a smooth conversation or be spontaneous. How do you be spontaneous when every little quip or witty remark has to be repeated? Talking was such an effort to the point where you'd only say something after some thought was put into it, so as not to waste words and breath. It was also one of the few times that I've ventured into a bar stone-cold sober. Nothing like sobriety to emphasise how uncool I felt. And in an instant, I felt 40 years old.

For years, I've been stuck at 27 (I still look it), but suddenly I feel aged (and not in a good wine and cheese kind of way).
"The music is too loud."
"It's too crowded."
"I'm tired."
"I've had four beers and I'm still sober and I still can't hear what you're saying, and this is eating into my sleeping time."
"Look at all those kids swivelling lollypops (ooh, it's so obvious you're off your titties - such an unclassy drug-pig look)" - something that I myself used to try with great effort to hide. No lollypops, just lollies, gum or incessant and furious application of lip balm, and occassional break-through lip-smacking.

When did I suddenly get so old? So weary and scared to venture from my daily routines? I used to love big nights out, getting wasted or consuming anything I could, orally or intranasally (never ever intravenously, vaginally or rectally - my friend took an E once rectally - he said the effect was very smooth and long. He's also gay. But he has settled down with a "husband" and their surrogate twins, now.) Even more telling is that I insist on letting people know that I'm too old for -insert activity-. I don't even try to convince people that I used to be a party princess once. In fact, I could get away with being a 60 year old nanny nodding wistfully, "Yes, I remember back in my day..." Except, I'd say, "Remember last month?"

Potato and Rice - It's All Starch To Me

2006-10-20T19:37:00.001+01:00

What a hoot! The All Men Are Liars blog in recently featured two topics which I found to be breathtakingly amusing and poignant (?). Yes, because it was as if all these strangers had stolen my recollections of various stages of my life. How is it possible that we have the same memories and experiences? My ultimate dream is to write a memoir/novel in the style of Nick Hornby's medical recollection, on what life was and is like. Probably, only Asian-extractions, their relatives and partners would be interested...but that makes a lot of us.

Particularly funny from, "Why Don't Aussie Girls Date Asian Men?":

There are two types of Oriental Asians: FOBS (Fresh off the Boats) and ABCs (Australian Born Chinese). FOBS are most likely to drive skylines or integras filled with stuffed toys and Honky/Korean pop music. These guys have a clear preference for Asian girls (preferably the Louis Vuitton totting toting

The ABC's on the otherhand are the Asian yobbos of the world. They will approach any girl of any race if she has the right attitude and looks good. I'm dating one at the moment (6 Ft 3 who can easily intimidate in a dark alley). Perhaps white girls are more accustomed to associating Asian guys with FOBS and therefore ruling out all the eligible ABC's? Could be good fodder to feed a man drought!
Posted by: Chop Suey at October 17, 2006 03:31 PM

From, "How Do You Say 'Yobbo' in Vietnamese?":

... You can't change human nature - a lot of people get freaked out by individuals and customs that are different to what they've grown up with. I don't know why. A thousand years ago it was the people from the next valley who wigged us out, now it's people from across the other side of the world. The thing is, as 'newcomers' blend in with 'us', we can't help take their pigment into the cultural mixture. In twenty years, a white kid will pull a rice paper roll out of their lunchbox, sitting next to an Asian kid chowing on pita and a Lebanese girl picking the cheese off her pizza pie. This is good. This is very good. Maybe we're not as tolerant and accepting as we should be, but evolution will force it upon us. My uncle always tells me that in 200-300 years, Australia will be the first true Eurasian race. We'll be identifiable around the world because of our beautiful caramel skin, almond eyes and thick bloody accents. Wish I was going to be here to see it - Sam

Look no further than Kylie Kwong for your quintessential Asian Aussie chick... perfect blend of her parents culture and her own...love it.
Posted by: ramona at August 17, 2006 10:07 AM

Kylie Kwong is not the quintessential Asian Aussie chick - she is a typical Surry Hills lesbian. Posted by: Lerker at August 17, 2006 10:46 AM

I am a big fan of asian migration - the more of them in Australia the comparatively larger my penis seems.
Posted by: Paul C at August 17, 2006 01:01 PM

All well and good, but that effect is being cancelled out by the number of Sudanese migrants recently.
Posted by: Andrew at August 17, 2006 01:18 PM

So true about FOB (Fresh Off Boat) and ABC (Aust Born Chinese) these are acronyms used by ABCs; I prefer to just use BHs - (Born Heres) instead of ABC as they ain't all "Chinese"- The differences are extreme (apart from the cool Aussie accent on BHs) totally two separate human species. Clothes and style is another obvious one, but attitude is also a huge denominator. FOBs are off another planet whilst BHs are rockin' it right in the pocket with you and right back atcha! Awesome! Gorgeous gregarious and groovy 2nd-gen Asian chix are the best thing about immigration, big whoop about the so-called culinary benefits; noodles not very solid grub. Opposite is kind of true for mid-east immigrants IMHO - I don't mind the odd kebab, although I prefer the Israeli kebabs - how mad is that!?.
Posted by: marcusbondi at August 18, 2006 05:02 PM

Big Phil's Reg Grundies

2006-10-18T18:52:00.000+01:00

This is the 3rd name change for my blog. Big Phil's Reg Grundies. Random, nonsensical and incongruous with the floral girliness with which I've elected to garnish my blog. I don't even know a Phil. I knew a Phillip. He had dark hair and brown eyes. He could run very fast and I was in love with him. We were in grade 1 and 2 together.

Maybe if one thought laterally enough, one would come to the conclusion that you might found similar contents here to what one might find if they looked in the undies of an individual known as "Big Phil,"- shit-smears, piss-stains, sweat, blood, and the odd fart-trail. And genitalia and an anus. Too many pizzas, white bread and steaks washed down with beer. Alternating contipation and diarrhoea aggravating the haemorrhoid caused by excessive straining and the pressure of carrying too much weight in fat.

Yes, far more visual, if not appealing, than previous titles:

A Day in the Life of...(every man and his dog)
An Indulgent Self ("Get fucked!" Way too much self-love.)

I dare say there will be variations of the current title being created over the coming weeks. I'm afraid that if I ever let my blog air in the public cyberspace, and if others actually read my postings, they'd be sorely disappointed and realize that I am quite literally just full of shit. There are some wonderfully funny and insightful blogs out there and I feel rather embarrassed by my own.

Five-Day Forecast

2006-10-15T16:34:00.000+01:00

I have yet to awaken from my apathy, my life inertia. The dreadful tasks of house-hunting, job-searching (yep, that time of the bloody year again) and applying for the HSMP visa, are threatening to destabilise my soft cosy emotional cocoon. Being an optimistic pessimist, at least I can say that I no longer wish for my own extinction. It's amazing how rapidly that cloud has lifted without the aid of medication (for a moment I wondered if it were possible to ever feel normal again) but I can't reassure myself that the forecast is going to be fine and sunny. There's always an undercurrent of fear that any minor crisis is going to send me back there, and on the horizon, there are many things about to happen that have the potential to turn pear-shaped. I'm just waiting and seeing and living my life through a computer screen in the meantime.

Thank God for this parallel virtual universe and the millions of people with whom I share it. I'm not alone in my experiences and not the only geek who reads and writes about life more than living it. In the safety and distance of anonymity I actually feel more intimately involved with the outside world and far more honest with myself.

Brazilian Tax

2006-10-05T20:36:00.000+01:00

What is it with Brazilians I meet and their need to be petulant and arrogant? Are they inherent traits of the people? Even a friend's Brazilian girlfriend, who initially seemed sweet as pie and so un-Brazilian in her lack of self-importance and indignation at all things non-Latin, soon couldn't contain herself any longer. Imagine my surprise (and equal parts delight and embarrassment) during a recent trip to France when she:

Threw a tantrum when her requested meal was not available for dinner.
Was challenged by a proud French waiter at lunch, who quite clearly knew how to wait and provide his service, and didn't need a spoilt princess barking at him.

My views are somewhat skewed by my occupational exposure to Brazilians, the majority whom are in London "studying" on student visas and earning tax-free pocket money in the oldest occupation. And are demanding and ever ungrateful. And I'm the one getting taxed. Surely it should be the other way around. Humility is not a sin. Saying, "Thank you," once in a while is not a sin. And give up with the poor developing nation shit - I don't regard a Louis Vuitton handbag to be a basic necessity, or the lack of, human deprivation.

Although my line of work exposes me to the sensitivities and wonderful complexities of human nature, I'm also exposed to the worst elements. I, by second nature, profile people now despite my desire to be open-minded. Walking stereotypes confront me daily (and I can't even describe them here anonymously for it means that I have to face up to the possibility that I might actually be racist) reinforcing my pre- and mis- conceptions. I laugh and jest but secretly I'm not joking sometimes. That is my secret shame.

Man Ray

2006-09-23T23:48:00.000+01:00

While eating breakfast this morning, I cried. I woke up inexplicably sad, or more accurately, emotionally labile (it was not PMT). It came from nowhere and hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried at sad things, I cried at funny things, I cried at the MTV-flux best music video clips, and the British Red Cross appeal ads. Every other band is a derivative of Radiohead. Just that idea seemed so momentous that I felt choked up. And why is Ben Stiller in P. Diddy's video clip? This made me cry. It was as if every hint of emotion was amplified a million times and manifested itself as my tears.

I'm so thirsty now.

Marriage On The Rocks

2006-09-19T15:29:00.000+01:00

Dan and Bobby have separated. She's moved out. I suspected as much given the relative peace over the past 2 months. And the preceeding fights they had, in the house and in public. We passed them once on the street - her staring icily ahead, him at the ground, and the invisible wall between them shouting to the world that love don't live here anymore. They didn't say a word, didn't have to - it was a big fight.

I found it strange that he was always so desperately friendly. I thought it was because he knew that Bobby was an Ice-Queen and felt the need to compensate for her lack of warmth.

I don't care. I felt happy when I heard the news; it felt right that they should have parted.

A Very Bad Person

2006-09-16T16:21:00.000+01:00

I must preface this with, “I definitely do not think that I am perfect or without my annoying habits and personality defects, but...”

This is the second installation to “The Habits of a Pig.” I cannot tolerate Dunce. We’re a little over a month until our tenancy agreement expires, finally. We really should have agreed to the original 12 month contract instead of extending it a further 6 months. It’s quite difficult for me to verbalize exactly why I despise him so much. In particular instances I don’t mind him (usually when I’m drunk – this became clear to me when I stopped drinking excessively in the first three months of my arrival). Those are few.

What just happened 2 minutes ago, serves to drive a nail in the coffin. Hearing my unhygienic acne-covered flatmate’s orgasm in the next wafer-thin walled room has just put me off sex for life. Not because I’m put off by sex, but because any association of sex with him induces such an intense nauseousness that I’m surprised that I haven’t indeed thrown up on myself. Since Thabo has been away, Muppet, it appears, has moved in. Shouldn’t Dunce show a little respect and keep the ‘good’ vibe of the household? Thabo suggests we move into the Dorchester until our lease is up.

It began with Dunce's excessive drinking, then the denial, the need to bring alcohol into every occasion, and not in a social manner, but to get trolleyed with the slightest excuse of a reason. What better way to ruin a dinner, than to have him scull glasses of wine that deserve to be appreciated and savoured, bottle after bottle. And, we carry the cost of it.

For someone who devours as many novels as he drinks bottles, one would think that his repertoire of adjectives would include more than just, “really,” and, “nice.”

“How was dinner?”
“Yeah, it was really, really nice,” as if the extra ‘really’ will convey the passion of his statement and the breadth of his gustatory experience. “We went to the -insert venue-, you know, on -insert street name- by the corner of -insert street name-, near -insert street name-. You should go, it’s really nice.” Thank you for the very comprehensive review. Your directions, as detailed as they are, perhaps don’t do the quality of the food or service justice, nor do I know any more about your night than before you started talking. I also wish to remind you that we’ve had the exact conversation on five separate occasions in the last month.

Korsakoff's Syndrome: Decreased ability to acquire new memories due to thiamine deficiency (eg. in alcoholics). He will confabulate to fill in the gaps in his memory.

“How was your weekend away in -insert city-?”
“It was really, really nice. We had a really, really nice time.” Read here, that really, really nice in the context of time means “the case was strong” or “huge” – both references to his need of alcohol consumption, or the amount consumed.

The drunkeness brings out his inane booming laughter at anybody’s half-attempt at a joke. His stories are repeatedly, and frankly, after two years, drivel and shit-filled with nothing but waste and of no interesting value. I have to go to my room, because the boredom from listening to him makes me want to scream, “Why don’t you just fucking shut up?” And I would ask it really, really nicely.

I thought Dunce was having me on. During dinner preparations one night he asked, “Why do you and Thabo season your steak?” What on Earth does he expect the answer to be? And he’ll ask equally stupid questions at random moments. How is it possible for a professional who earns a living by giving advice be so thicky, thick, thick? I live in crazy wonder at his inability to grasp simple concepts pertaining to life.

I don’t trust any of Dunce’s reviews:
Food – see above. Additionally, he is someone who adds about 1 tablespoon of salt/plate. God must have transposed his anus for his mouth.
Wine – see above. Every drop is a nice drop according to Dunce’s pickled tongue. He would think that vinegar served from a wine bottle was an excellent choice.
Movies, books, music – Why doesn’t he just come out and admit that he’s a 50 year old fat chic, gay man? I shouldn’t make judgements on someone else’s tastes. We don’t share any interests.

In conversation, there is always shows an initial interest, followed by a rapid turning of the conversation back to him. He doesn’t really show genuine interest, only makes the right noises (I hate that; saying what he perceives to be the right thing or what he should say. I want to slam him for that, catch him out and it’s such an issue for me now, that I’ve stopped listening to him) for a moment before redirecting the topic of conversation back to his own limited experience.

I hate that he’ll express an opinion and as soon as it is opposed, he’ll change his own to conform. I don’t care that one should have an alternative view but to be so lacking in strength of character and value in oneself, to be so soft-cocked and spineless…to sell yourself out like that…I despise that more than anything else.

Everyone sees him as a harmless, funny, can’t do anything wrong, not a bad bone in his body kind of guy. Which leaves me with the only possible conclusion, that I'm a very bad person. The truth, however, is that if we didn't live together I wouldn't know these other things about him and I'd think exactly the same as everyone else, and I wouldn't have written all these nasty things. If it weren't for the current circumstances, I'd actually enjoy his company. Going our separate ways will be a good change for the friendship.

We All Die Alone

2006-09-10T21:02:00.000+01:00

Night two alone. London is strange without my Thabo. He is my rock, my soul, my everything.

Steve Irwin died on the 4th. It deeply affected and saddened me, as it has many. The grief I feel now is the same and is in fact, more profound, than that which I experienced with the passing of my grandparents.

And I wonder, did he know, at that moment?

It also scares me. How does one go on living without their reason to be? When they are the perfect compliment in your life; how do you fill the void that is left behind? I don’t have a Bindi and Bob. I don’t know that I could.

Hindered By My Perfectionist Traits

2006-09-09T23:14:00.000+01:00

It's taken me some time to get here. The need to create the perfect profile that says, "Me," to find a template of colours and spaces with which I feel an affinity....all that delusional self-defining fluff. The purpose is to allow myself to verbalize and articulate my thoughts in a structured manner - I have a tendency to wallow and drown in my own introspection otherwise. Now, I just need to figure out how to post restrospectively.

Afraid Of Commitment

2006-09-03T23:56:00.000+01:00

Just having registered with a GP has made me feel better. Like the first step to recovery.

I didn’t speak to Thabo for an entire day after he came home late from drinks. Then I cried and told him about my depression and my plans to attend a GP to put me on medication. He had no idea about the depth of my despair. I hope he understands that it was nothing he did or can do. Even moving back home would probably make little difference because this feeling has been with me for so long a time. It was cathartic, somewhat.

I feel better now, comparatively. Thabo leaves for Australia in two days for a couple of weeks. These last few days have been good spending quality time together. I don’t know if it will last (the feeling of well-being, that is). I’m unsure now about SSRIs – it feels like a decision of commitment and it will be for at least six months. Tomorrow is a work day. Nothing like St Muff's to jolt me back to the cesspool of shit.

The Music Of Broken Records

2006-08-23T20:37:00.000+01:00

If you have time to have work drinks, then you have time to cook your own dinner. The only good thing in my life is a piece of shit. Selfish, inconsiderate, unreliable, repeatedly letting me down. Broken record relationship. Same fight over and over.

I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself. I want to kill myself. These words visually spiral around in my mind (semi-transparent white Monotype Corsiva). I won't. I want to. If I say them enough times, maybe I'll exhaust the supply from which they came. And I will feel better again.

Germans Have The Most Accurately Descriptive Words

2006-08-18T23:16:00.000+01:00

Terrorists decided that it wasn't our time to pay homage to The Little Mermaid. Instead, Heathrow Airport was our new holiday destination. All the more to add to my general malaise. I have a new word, stolen from Frankie's blog – "Weltschmerz," which describes so perfectly the current state of my mind.

I wish I was more articulate.

Wrapped In Plastic

2006-08-07T20:49:00.000+01:00

I only write when I’m depressed. I was prolific at diary entries during my teens. I was depressed. At 32, I’m still depressed. I was fine for many years. I can retrospectively map my decline: at 3 months I was starting to plan a date at which I’d likely have to commence SSRIs, at 1 year I thought I’d be OK, at 18 months I’m facing the reality that this low grade erosion of my self isn’t eroding so much as eroded. The worst, besides the other worst of low days when the emotional pain is so great I need to double over and squeeze my eyes shut tight (this is when I will myself to vanish), is the background drone of my lack of feeling, the paucity of deep felt happiness or even contentment. It’s a London greyness that colours my days interjected by the occasional searing streak of red and black. This emotional fatigue weighs down my ability to be interested or interesting. I can’t even cook a meal and eat with gusto – I’ve cooked maybe 4 times in the past 3 weeks. I loved to cook. I loved food. Now I cook with the microwave and eat plastic wrapped excrement.

Sadly, the one thought that gives me a little pleasure is the anticipation of starting fluoxetine. I’m still reluctant but I think I need to. My fears:

Mental dulling affecting my work.

Alcohol interactions (although I pride myself in not “turning to the bottle,” I do like wine with dinner and nights out).

I have to tell – even I stigmatize patients on anti-depressants or cite depression under medical history; I don’t want it on my Occupational Health record.

I have to tell – I’m worried, and I know Thabo will blame himself; he’ll see it as a failing on his part rather than a health issue that I’m experiencing.

The circumstances under which I’ve arrived at this juncture aren’t modifiable. My emotions? Maybe. Medication is the plastic wrapping, Laura Palmer style.

Ctrl-Alt-Del

2006-08-03T23:59:00.000+01:00

Wish I could will myself out of existence. Recycle bin contents: helplessness, hopelessness, pessimism, guilt, anhedonia and sadness. My depression won't allow me to permanently delete the contents. Can one feel dead and unhappy in the same instant? Besides being tearful, nothing much else was achieved today, unless you call sifting through a mountain of administration, work. And it isn't my fault that registration hasn't gone through. If I wasn't bent over regarding the job, I might not be in such a state.

Some days, this feeling overwhelms me. Like my being is going to cave in on itself with the weight of having to live through this hell any longer.

Thabo and I had a fight last night. He only cares for me and wanted me to go out with him to meet new and interesting people. He doesn't understand that I have nothing to offer, nothing interesting, nothing but venom, hatred and emptiness to share. And the shame of being me. I don't want the world to see me.

Homegrown Buttons

2006-07-06T15:28:00.000+01:00

I don't pretend to know the reasons. Maybe visceral hatred plays a role and enables them to press the button, and it doesn’t matter that they’re homegrown.

The past 18 months in London have gradually eroded my soul and spirit. Following each barricade I break down, another one forms. Along the way, my self-confidence in my professional ability is ebbing away as is my self-belief. The National Highfalutin Society has a way of doing that – it’s archaic policies undermine my evidence-based knowledge, protocols in place that are based on history and not science or even common sense. Any attempt to deviate from the Victorian era is met with scorn and derision.

For what I’ve become since living here, some days I too wish I could press the button.

Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad

2006-07-05T22:42:00.000+01:00

England, land of opportunities….my fucking arse it is. As a member of the European Economic Union, preferably English-speaking white or of rare, exotic, highly-sought after ethnicity (oh so impressive on the equal opportunities tick list) or a raping, murdering, paedophile refugee who incidentally has something to offer society then, welcome aboard.

I’m an Australian born and bred professional, who happens to be proficient in the English language (as attested by the IELTS exam) (because it’s common knowledge what the Australian national language is, innit?) and I’m about to become a British unemployment figure. The Department of Health, since April 2006, has deemed it unnecessary/undesirable for the NHS to employ International Medical Graduates (“IMG,” as it is otherwise fondly referred) to protect the jobs of local doctors (fair point, considering the scarcity of jobs available to the Latvian medic) I have over four years of experience within my chosen field of medicine, have been employed and overqualified for a job in London for the past 9 months (God bless this rare break), pay taxes (including monthly council tax to fund the 2012 Olympics for which I won’t even be here) but because my current visa expires in six months, I don’t gain enough points on the “points based system by which we choose successful candidates.” Surely, six months would allow me sufficient time to procure the HSMP status, and perhaps, my extensive work experience would account for something, amongst a room full of inexperienced candidates.

Maybe I’m mistaken about my right to work on my current visa, the lowly Working Holiday Maker, or maybe the DH is aware of a pending change to the processing time required for HSMP visas. By the way, my intention is not to stay in London forever taking up a precious job that belongs to a European by birthright. A chance to widen my medical knowledge through the wealth of variety and experience in London is all I wish for and to be able to take that home with me when I leave. The jobs I apply for aren't even valued training positions.

Quite clearly equal opportunities are only applied opportunistically. Some animals are more equal than others. I guess I just don’t fulfil the criteria for being a pig. Unless I'm just a fucking useless candidate in which case, why shortlist me in the first place? Fucking arseclowns!

Polished Sadness

2006-06-26T18:37:00.000+01:00

I don't even really know her. A girl from work with a doll-face and Bambi eyes, seemingly vulnerable and wild at the same time. But for some reason (maybe it was my nosiness and annoying pestering) she shared with me, the details of her personal webpage. Her name is Frankie.

Poor sweet Frankie,

I cried over, “a friend indeed." Not out of sympathy for you but with complete empathy and a selfish joy knowing that I was not alone in my isolation and misery. You should not mistaken the banalities of daily work conversation to be reflective of the individual (well, perhaps some…maybe, many). Our work environment is not conducive to more than gossip and small talk, and with the overabundance of self-importance, it’s hardly surprising that there is little reciprocity in meaningful conversation. It’s taken six months for my self-perceived obtrusiveness to resolve and I still don’t give of myself readily. You may be familiar with feeling that you have much to offer but that which is special about you won’t be or isn’t valued. For me, it’s like having a secret that is precious and fragile; I don’t wish to give it away and have it laughed at or worse still find that what I thought was so precious isn’t even worthy of acknowledgement by others.

Maybe we’re all too consumed by the grudge of our daily lives, too self-absorbed, too introspective to reach out or realize we’re all united by our collective misery.

You are intelligent, talented, beautiful, interesting and interested.

Anderes.

Friends by Unknown Author

2006-06-19T22:30:00.000+01:00

One day, when I was a freshman in high school, I saw a kid from my class was walking home from school. His name was Kyle. It looked like he was carrying all of his books. I thought to myself, "Why would anyone bring home all his books on a Friday? He must really be a nerd." I had quite a weekend planned (parties and a football game with my friend tomorrow afternoon), so I shrugged my shoulders and went on.As I was walking, I saw a bunch of kids running toward him. They ran at him, knocking all his books out of his arms and tripping him so he landed in the dirt. His glasses went flying, and I saw them land in the grass about ten feet from him. He looked up and I saw this terrible sadness in his eyes. My heart went out to him. So, I jogged over to him and as he crawled around looking for his glasses, and I saw a tear in his eye.As I handed him his glasses, I said, "Those guys are jerks. They really should get lives." He looked at me and said, "Hey thanks!" There was a big smile on his face. It was one of those smiles that showed real gratitude.

I helped him pick up his books, and asked him where he lived. As it turned out, he lived near me, so I asked him why I had never seen him before. He said he had gone to private school before now. I would have never hung out with a private school kid before. We talked all the way home, and I carried his books. He turned out to be a pretty cool kid. I asked him if he wanted to play football on Saturday with me and my friends. He said yes. We hung all weekend and the more I got to know Kyle, the more I liked him. And my friends thought the same of him.Monday morning came, and there was Kyle with the huge stack of books again. I stopped him and said, "Damn boy, you are gonna really build some serious muscles with this pile of books everyday!" He just laughed and handed me half the books.

Over the next four years, Kyle and I became best friends. When we were seniors, we began to think about college. Kyle decided on Georgetown, and I was going to Duke. I knew that we would always be friends, that the miles would never be a problem. He was going to be a doctor, and I was going for business on a football scholarship. Kyle was valedictorian of our class. I teased him all the time about being a nerd. He had to prepare a speech for graduation. I was so glad it wasn't me having to get up there and speak.Graduation day, I saw Kyle. He looked great. He was one of those guys that really found himself during high school. He filled out and actually looked good in glasses. He had more dates than me and all the girls loved him! Boy, sometimes I was jealous.

Today was one of those days. I could see that he was nervous about his speech. So, I smacked him on the back and said, "Hey, big guy, you'll be great!" He looked at me with one of those looks (the really grateful one) and smiled. "Thanks," he said. As he started his speech, he cleared his throat, and began."Graduation is a time to thank those who helped you make it through those tough years. Your parents, your teachers, your siblings, maybe a coach... but mostly your friends. I am here to tell all of you that being a friend to someone is the best gift you can give them. I am going to tell you a story." I just looked at my friend with disbelief as he told the story of the first day we met. He had planned to kill himself over the weekend. He talked of how he had cleaned out his locker so his Mom wouldn't have to do it later and was carrying his stuff home. He looked hard at me and gave me a little smile. "Thankfully, I was saved. My friend saved me from doing the unspeakable."

I heard the gasp go through the crowd as this handsome, popular boy told us all about his weakest moment. I saw his Mom and dad looking at me and smiling that same grateful smile. Not until that moment did I realize it's depth. Never underestimate the power of your actions.With one small gesture you can change a person's life.

Current Top 5

2006-06-07T20:20:00.000+01:00

SONGS (a fluid top 5)

Soul to Squeeze - RHCP
Hurt - Nine Inch Nails
Where I End and You Begin - Radiohead
I've Been High - REM
Where Could I Go? - Ben Harper and the Blind Boys of Alabama
With or Without You - U2
Unchained Melody - U2
Down Under - Men At Work
In My Place - Coldplay

MOVIES

Donnie Darko
Zoolander
The Gladiator
Ma Vie En Rose
The Deer Hunter

BOOKS

To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
Different Seasons - Stephen King
Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera

PLACES

Sydney
Berlin
Amsterdam
Paris
Venice

Neighbours

2006-04-02T13:06:00.000+01:00

Dear Dan what are you doing with a cow like her and Bobby you stupid bitch,

Please don't take offence with this letter. You probably don't realize because you're too up your own stinking arse (and we should have said much earlier) that the ceiling/floor boards between us conduct noise so well that we can hear every fucking step you take like a herd of elephant bulls in musk and even when you drop your shoes to the floor. What do you guys do?! Throw bowling balls and ten pins up in the air and to the ground in celebration of your supremacy? It has become an annoyance having our sleep disturbed repeatedly by the beat of your doof-doof middle-age crisis trying to recapture youth and hip trance music each morning and occasional every night. Will you please be mindful of the above during week days and in fact everyday?

Thank you so much for your consideration for once. We don't mean to be party-poopers but decent sleep is so precious and we would like a few fucking beat free nights!

Kind regards shove it up your arse,
Anderes, Thabo and Dunce.

The Habits Of A Pig

2005-06-06T15:04:00.000+01:00

“Washed” glasses – still filthy!
Never wiping down bench or stove top.
“Cleaned” spoons still caked with instant coffee.
Thinking that bins empty themselves.
Throwing out recycling into general refuse.
Leaving old/off milk/food in the fridge.
Leaving food stains on doors and handles.
Leaving food on stove/floor.
Ashing out on the balcony/window.
Leaving table top filthy.
Never sweeps/cleans floor.
Rarely vacuums common area.
Leaves lights/radio on.
Turn on empty dishwasher.
Bangs doors.
No fucking clue when the house around him breaks down….unless it directly affects him.
Hasn’t cleaned spilt red wine in room.
How difficult is it to turn on vent when cooking? Especially during Dunce's Stinkout Special.
Never replaces household items.
Never pays bills on time/leaves them then forgets.
Excessive: alcohol, cigarettes, fat, salt --> belief it’s all compensated for by a bowl of raw vegetables doused in oil and seasoned with a bucket of salt, washed down with a lager and bottle of red wine, and smoko afterwards for the effort.

Lack of hygiene No common sense Doesn’t listen Pathetic
Little general knowledge Insincere In denial

Is it possible to have such a lack of respect for someone?? He repulses me and he has no balls.