Starting Over.

Edit: I wrote this about two weeks ago, the day I decided to go to the doctor to speak about my mental health and wellbeing. Since this time, I’ve still had some ups and downs, but I know I am getting better day by day. 

 

I’m feeling cautiously optimistic. As though I’m ready to turn a corner, and once again have faith in the future, and myself. It’s time for me to put away how I’ve been feeling so down lately, and get myself better again. Time to start over. It’s been a harrowing day. A harrowing few months, and a year, if I’m being honest.

 

Today I went to my Doctor, who incidentally may be the best and most understanding doctor I’ve had yet, and told him that I think I need to get myself back on medication, and start therapy up again.

 

A part of me is still berating myself.

 

History, [my own history in this case], is once again repeating itself. For the second time in my life, I have had to open up and ask for help, from a medical professional, as well as my husband. I still feel bad for my husband. I forget who, but someone I met once remarked that living with someone with depression is akin to living with an extra person. Someone else unseen, but still present. I really don’t know how he’s done it. He’s a trooper for putting up with me.

 

Some three years ago, back home in Australia, I had a breakdown. I came to the realization that maybe it was time to get myself well. To work on myself, and seek help. And now, here I am, doing the same thing all over.

 

Cycling today over to the hospital near Japan Town, the sun was out; it’s been an uncharacteristically warm day. All I could think was what I would say to the doctor. How I should say it. Do I say straight up I need meds and therapy? Will I sound needy and desperado coming out like that? Do I need to give reasons why I think I need to go back on the meds? Do I downplay everything [which is how I tend to act with regards to everything, maybe its an Australian thing], and then how would the doctor act? I felt like I was wasting this guy’s time. This is a person who worked directly with the pharma company that created Prep to get Prep out there, and has done extensive research in HIV/AIDS treatment.

 

I felt like a schmuck going in there and having a whinge about how crap I’ve been feeling.

 

Its funny, how different I’m finding Americans to Australians. General mentality, mannerisms, how people speak. Deeper, there is something vastly different about these two cultures, despite sharing a language. I seem to find that many Australians, myself included, tend to downplay everything as mentioned above, as well as making things less important than they should be, or allowing ourselves any ‘carry-on’, as it were. We don’t allow ourselves what we naturally deserve, I feel.

 

The concept of ‘carrying-on’ is something some of you may not be aware of. It’s very British and Australian. When one is ‘carrying-on’ it denotes whingeing, complaining or over thinking, in short. Australians don’t seem to have much time for this kind of behaviour. We’re brought up to simply stop with the carry-on and get on with it. We can be a cynical, no-nonsense people who have high expectations of how we’re meant to act.

 

So, with this, the first thing I told my poor doc is that I felt like I was surely wasting his time. My silly mental problems shouldn’t really have much bearing upon this talented person’s workday, I felt a bit ridiculous saying to him that I’m not doing great and that in fact I’ve relapsed in behaviour, but his reaction was what made my day and made me feel much better. Americans can be so lovely and sweet and accommodating and hospitable. It puts me to shame at times, how unforgiving, dry, sarcastic and cynical I can at times be.

 

Feeling unworthy of needing help and asking for it has just exacerbated this further. As did my self-flagellation on deciding to not continue with my medication to start with.

 

Today marks another ‘Day One’ moment. A moment where I have to try again. At my age of 34, I see that we all have these moments of repetition, where we think; ‘Haven’t I been here before?’

 

The fact that I’ve made it this far makes me somewhat happy and proud of myself. I saw that the same old patterns were beginning to arise yet again, and decided to act on it, as oppose to letting it fester again and having meltdown after meltdown.

 

So there you have it. History inevitably repeats. But, this time, I know I’ll make a better show of it than I had previously.

Influences; Haruki Murakami

The one, major thing I want to accomplish before I die is to write a book. I want to sit down each day, write at least 2,000 words, and write something. Anything. It doesn’t have to be Lord Of The Rings. I just want to tell a story and create something that is more than I am. Larger than I am. Something that has meaning, something that might inform or give understanding.

I’m not sure exactly what the story would be. Or what genre. I often toy with the idea of writing a fantasy novel, or a sci fi novel.

On the other side, I’d love to write something like what Haruki Murakami writes about: stories about the human condition, stories about relationships, loss, thoughts, sadness and joy. Murakami is one of my all time favourite authors. His stories feel so vivid, real and so relatable. His characters feel familiar, as though I know them. His writing is at the same time simple yet so complex and imaginative. He’ll write about a meal that the main character is cooking, and it will be such a well-described, beautiful piece of writing.

 

He’s become an influence on my life, as well as how I view the world.

 

Haruki Murakami’s writing is spell-binding. I can’t explain what it is. Anytime I read something new of his that I haven’t read yet, I get a bit excited. Whether it’s a short story, or a massive 500 page tome like IQ84. He’s one of he few authors whom I like to buy the physical copy of their work as opposed to an ebook, which is my standard choice. Not sure why. Maybe because his work feels special and magical. The covers are always intriguing as well. They are without a fault almost always minimal and simple and abstract.

 

There’s something special about his books. He may write in a setting that is very mundane, perhaps a regular, run of the mill inner city suburb in Tokyo, and his main character may be the most nondescript person you may meet, yet something odd or strange might occur. Sometimes his work touches on science fiction, but not in a typically star trek kinda way. Someone might get out of a car on a highway, walk down some stairs and find themselves in an alternate reality version of the world, where only one thing has changed. He might write a story conversely on the most simple themes; love, coming of age, loss.

 

There seems to be this certain theme that runs across his work; one of flux, loss or change, change that can happen abruptly, and often without reason. One of his books, for instance, has a character that simply disappears from the plot for no reason at all. She literally shuts shop and fades away like the wind. Leaving the poor protagonist in the lurch. In another book, the main character’s long time girlfriend similarly leaves him without any reason. It just happens. Another character also suffers a full-blown social out-casting by his friends whom all in sync, stop speaking to the main character, who then goes on in life with no reason given as to why this happened.

 

This narrative of loss and lack of reason is really something that I have taken to heart and found tantalizing. And one of the reasons I love Murakami. He will make you fall in love with someone, and simply snatch them out of thin air, and that person will simply no longer be there. You’ll get upset about it, then feel resigned. This is life, and you don’t know what fate will bring. The main character will reminisce, or may even undertake a quest to find reason, as well as the person who disappeared. The idea that people can be props,  as though we are each simply extras in someone else’s life, is what consistently pulls me to his work, and why I consider him as an author, an influence. Through him I learn that humans feel the full range of emotion, thoughts.

 

Returning to his books feels like coming home, or putting on a new layer of skin. Like wearing someone else’s form. I feel their emotions, their pain and joy. It’s hard to explain.

 

I met someone the other day who was reading Norwegian Wood, probably his most well known book to date. Which was also the first thing of his I read. I’ll never forget it. I was given it by a good friend of mine on my 21st birthday. A friend I still have and love. It still sits on my bookshelf. A little more tattered and worn than it once was, all the way back to 2004. That book represents so much to me. It marks a turning point in my life. It was the first book I read which I fell completely in love with. It was the first book that told me that it’s ok to not have to feel ok all the time, and that other people out there feel the same. I loved the world this person created, how he managed to paint this setting so vividly and made the characters seem right next to me in real life.

 

 

Murakami has become a touchstone for me. A kind of guide who has lead by example. The fact that he started writing later on in life than is conventional, [in his thirties], gives me some solace when that voice in my head tells me that I’m far too old to be entertaining dreams of being a published author. It’s one of those thoughts that you put right back in the recesses of your mind.

 

 

To write something like a fiction story would be my great, major accomplishment in my life.

Relapse.

Writing about my mental state seems to take up the majority of my content here on my blog these days. I know that it’s not the most exciting or uplifting subject, but journaling in my blog about how my mental health is going has been such an integral part of my recovery in the past. Sometimes I toy with the idea of writing more content that isn’t so interior and heavy in nature, and perhaps write more about what I see around me, but for the moment, I’m getting far more out of speaking out on my mental health, and mental health in general than other topics.

 

The last couple months I have been relapsing. Badly. It reminds me of how I was, back before I started planning and working on getting better both inside and out. Years ago. My moods have gotten darker. My outlook on life has also darkened, and become much more pessimistic. My general attitude, behaviour and demeanour have all become rather dour. It takes some effort to do tasks that once were easy and simple for me. Have a shower. Make my bed. Go to the gym. Write a blog post. Hunt for jobs. Brush my teeth, do the ironing. Get out of the house.

 

Even smiling has become something far more difficult than it was. I feel the muscles in my face changing and warping. My face is just in a state of constant frowning. The concern and anxiety tighten my face, causing it to furrow and knit. I feel my brows arching. My lips pursing. I sigh, I breath quicker. I smoke cigarettes, I drink a little more and chew and bite my fingernails till they bleed. My husband, somehow, conversely is usually chipper and able to grin. He’ll wake up smiling, and I ask him, ‘Just how are you able to wake up so happy?’ I can’t recall the last time I haven’t woken up feeling anxious and nervous. ‘I don’t know, I just do. It’s a brand new day, yesterday is done and today is here.’ I miss that excitement for the day that I once had.

 

I’m really feeling at a low point. It’s harder for me to bounce back than it has been in the past when this has happened. This episode has lasted some two weeks now. Perhaps more. Those thoughts of negativity and nihilism have truly come to the fore. Well, we have a unintended rhyme, people. The dark thoughts don’t need to stick to the shadows anymore.

 

Like Voldemort no longer needing to hide, these negative thoughts are free to roam about in the open and fly in black smoke and ruin the day. Or Emperor Palpatine.  I mean, at the end of Star Wars Revenge of The Sith, he’s overthrown and cast out the Jedi and proclaimed a dark and malevolent Empire. Yes. Nerdy allegories work for me.

 

I feel so bad for my poor husband for having to deal with yet more of this. To my perspective, it’s tiring and unyielding; It’s like living with another person, a bit of a Jeckyll/Hyde paradigm, as cliché as that is. I hate it myself. Some days I really wonder how he puts up with it.

 

I was at my best last year in 2017. I really think so. I was doing so great. It was peak Alex. From my standpoint, we had a fantastic year. A tough and challenging one for sure, but also one filled with love and friendship and warmth and sun and light. We did so much. We went to Italy and had the best trip and saw so much. We hung out with friends. We went out and had fun. We worked hard for this move to San Francisco. We were sad to leave idyllic Sydney, but also cautiously excited for the future. We met some special people who brought much joy to our lives. It felt like a great time.

 

In contrast, 2018 has become a year of stalling, hurdles and some hardship on my part. It’s felt like a year of miss-steps, mistakes and misfires and jolts, lurching from one meltdown to another. I can’t be too critical, as we have met some amazing people here who have been so lovely and warm and friendly and have really helped us feel at home and who are so great to be around. I’ll always be grateful to them. They really have been what has made this move worth it, and had we not, we would never have met them at all.

 

I hope that doing things like writing up this blog and exercising and going back on medication, I can turn the last few months left of this year around and make the best of it, not just for me but for the husband, friends and family and everyone around me.

 

I need to stop reminiscing and comparing the past to the present. Things have changed, and clearly I’ve not coped well with relocating as I thought I could. I know much of this relapse is due to my mistake of deciding to go it alone sans medication, and now I have to get through all of that again in order to start getting better.

 

I just sometimes wish I could explain or show what having anxiety and depression is like, to people who don’t experience it. The best way to describe it in my case is imagining 20 people standing behind you whispering terrible things about you, things that cut through to your core and trash your well-being. And, those 20 people being the people you dislike most in your life. That overbearing and mean-spirited manager. A critical family member. Someone you once had grief with, etc. Imagine it from the moment you wake up to when you fall asleep, and then back again in the morning. Saying really horrible things that you can’t help but think, yeh you’re right, I am a failure of a person and won’t amount to much.

 

Imagine your breathing quickening at the slightest thing. A bit of bad news. Costly needed dental procedures. Someone on social media bragging. Looking for jobs.  Having to attend interviews. Heck, even friends or family succeeding in life and wanting to let the world know [rightly so], will trigger a panic attack. Resulting in yet again feelings of inadequacy and inferiority.

 

It’s become harder and harder for me to mute these thoughts in my head. I exercise almost daily. I try to get myself out of the house, and keep myself busy. But the truth is, lately I’ve felt incapable of much other than inhabiting our flat and looking out the window, so to speak. I don’t want to let the new friends we’ve made here fall by the wayside, and to them I apologize if that’s the case. I don’t want to push people away, but even so, that’s clearly emblematic of this depression.

 

I know that things will get better for me, however. I was doing great up to the start of this year, so I at the very least have something to work towards. As the other half said, today is a new day.

 

Off my meds.

Edit: Some time ago, I wrote the below. I decided to come clean about my medication to the world, and to write about it. I never published it on my blog, for whatever reason. Months later, and my feelings are somewhat different. This post is more about the ‘journey’, [blegh I really do hate that phrase but in this context, it’s entirely applicable], that I’ve been on for the last few years: the decades worth of breakdowns, the ups and downs and emotions, the final realization that I do indeed need help, the development and recovery of my mental state, and at the latest stage, my decision at the time to decide to come off my medication, and the ramifications thereof. 

 

Today, I’ve indeed decided to go back on my meds. I’ve decided to seek professional help and get myself to being a healthier person on the inside. I’ve noticed a relapse in my behaviour, how I see the world, my mental state and my general outlook on life, as well as the decrease in the ability to simply get on with my life and bounce back from when I have my down periods. Those ‘dark clouds’ seem to hang about far longer these days and are far darker, hearkening back to how I was years before I started to look after myself. 

 

Its taken me this long to get here, but like someone told me recently, there’s no failure, only the next step towards your betterment. Thanks for reading. 

 

 

‘I’m coming off my meds,’ I told a new[ish] friend that I made here in San Francisco. My heart quickened as I said it, as in my mind, a world of thoughts populated themselves within my neurons.

Recently, I came to the decision to stop my medication. I’m not sure who knows if I’ve been on anti-depressants for almost three years, and at this point it doesn’t really bother me too much. I don’t feel any shame in divulging this, as mental health is something that should be spoken about in a frank, honest, congenial and even humourous manner, if we’re ok with it of course.

There’s no point hiding, as hiding things like this just exacerbates the problem. Its something difficult to speak about, but being transparent and honest is a concept that we all have to take on board in life.

I remember my husband once saying that we all have multiple ‘coming outs’ in our lives; we may come out as gay for instance. We might more than one of these instances in our lives, where we may have to open up and tell all something. For me, having depression was one such ‘coming out.’

Much of the reason I started this humble little blog was for me to process and to have an outlet; to speak about my mental health and issues and experiences pertaining to it. For years now, I’ve kept a series of cute small Moleskine A5 journals on me, which I would scribble down any thoughts and problems I was encountering. I decided to carry on this with something a bit larger and more open. It was time for me to open up and come out as it were.

 

So, why have I decided to come off my meds?

 

My medication has done so much for me, there is no denying that. It has helped me become a better person. I still recall the day I just broke down in front of my boyfriend.

 

I get chills thinking about it.

 

It would have been about 2.5 plus years ago. We were living in our homely little flat in Erskineville, and had been there for a few months at this point. We had a social life that was flowering and blooming; our friendship circles were expanding, our relationship was getting stronger. So, in hindsight, I can’t explain why I was so down. Not just with regards to mood, but my general countenance, my demeanor, how I acted. The entire thing.

 

Perhaps a large part of it was my at the time workplace. A place that, looking back, was highly unsuitable for me to work in. A place that exacted so much from me, expected so much, yet gave me nothing in return, and never made me feel like I should be there, was worthy enough or a valuable part of the team. I used to dread going there every day. My heart would sink as I would walk to work, weary of what may come each day. It started off so bright and fun. Yet a number of things occurred, and I wasn’t in a position to leave.

 

This environment in hindsight was the powder keg for everything to blow up. From the stand point of the future, everything in our past can seem logical and clockwork in its action/reactions.

 

I’ll never forget the day I had the meltdown which caused me to start my quest to get myself better. Years of not being able to come to terms with my depression, due to how I was brought up in a household where things like stress and depression and mental illnesses were simply fables and excuses were compounded the fact that I was living a lie as a kid. On some level I always knew I was different yet was unable to vocalize this. A strict Catholic all-boys school coupled with my authoritarian father will do this.

 

Suffice to say by my mid twenties, I can see now I was like an old bridge that couldn’t shoulder its burdens anymore. I remember echoes of advice and help one of my old flatmates would tell me. She was the first to say, and I can hear it in her voice still to this day:

 

‘Mate, you have depression. You really need to speak to someone and get better.’

 

She was the first to get me on this road to being better. I feel like I owe her so much, and if you read this, thank you.

 

By that fateful day however, it really felt like life was crashing down upon me. Everything felt so dire, so drawn out with complete and total fear and horror. Unless you’ve experienced this yourself, there is no easy way to explain it. Like the worst day you’ve had but multiplied by an order of ten. And the days like this continue, and it feels like it’ll never stop.

 

I just couldn’t see the good in anything. I wanted to not be present; I felt like I wanted to be in a state of non-existence. I wasn’t suicidal, it was more the sentiment that I simply wanted to never have existed in the first place. So emo, in hindsight. Thinking back to this day, I still get pangs of sadness and fear. I can still sense how heavily I was breathing, how the tears just fell out and how I was a howling mess. I never give enough credit to my now husband for being there for me. Honestly without him I really don’t know where I’d be.

 

A week later I went to the doctor to finally get some help and resolution, and more importantly, I began a mental health plan and started on medication.

 

The change was gradual, yet even just 6 months in, differences were being noticed. It wasn’t as though I was changing as a person, it was more the attitudes I had, the ability to not let the downs be so debilitating, and the highs lasting longer were becoming more pronounced and nuanced. Personally I didn’t think much was happening. It was more that others were noticing; my boyfriend, our friends.

Whereas earlier before the meds, getting me to do anything productive would have taken a very inordinate amount of effort, I became more motivated and resolute and able to simply do more with more ease, less stress and worry, and with more compunction. I became more jovial, I became more social and more willing to say yes and be a part of life. I started going to the gym regularly. I could smile easily and without feeling forced. I became a funnier person, and more likeable as a whole.

The downs and blue periods of darkness and self hate have lessened. I still get them, yet with less regularity. Right now, being jobless, these moods sometimes touch my mind. Yet, in my personal experience, I began to learn how to deal with these periods. I learned how to change my thought patterns, how to stop those self sabotaging thoughts and put them to rest. I make sure I still exercise regularly, as I have found that going to the gym has become more beneficial than relying on my meds.

 

And that, in the end, is the reason why I have decided to stop my meds. I’m now about two months down since coming off. I’ve noticed a bit of a change, but not as bad as I thought. I’m still the person I have been on the meds.

 

Breaking The Rules.

I’ve never been the type to break the rules flagrantly like some who have that marvelous capacity to. Perhaps bent a little, but never shattered. I don’t know, guess I’ve never been that at the core rebel type of guy.

As a kid, I rarely broke the rules and got into trouble. Think I only ever had a single detention, and it was for something minor. I slipped through the cracks as it were. I was hardly ever singled out, I tended to make myself squirm into the shadows, or hide in plain sight. All part of being a nervous and anxious soul who was very unsure of himself and for the lack of any better terminology, clearly a latent homosexual who could’t come to this fact and face it. I was only a kid after all. One who was clearly petrified of any attention, and anybody holding him under suspicion for any reason.

This is why I never went the route of the rule-breaking rebel at school. I opted out of pursuing that class of character. I preferred to be a slinking unseen Rogue than a boisterous Bard or Fighter. Those costumes never really fit me. In hindsight, perhaps it would have done me well to be a more maverick archetype.

I still find it amazing how some teenagers are so very self aware at such a young age. I was never this. Some in their adolescence opted to be rule-breakers as a means to hid their vulnerability, some have this confidence from years of being that popular kid at school; a selection of whom carry this bravado/machismo all through their lives.

That handsome school kid who was popular and great at sports graduates, broke some rules as he was a decent, larrikin type the teachers all loved and adored who then goes on to uni or some form of further study, is popular with the girls, marries, has a kid, and still retains that singular sense of bravado and braggadocio that he had from such a young age.

 

Thank you Facebook for allowing me to facestalk former fellow school pupils.

 

 

This kind of person was at the core of what my schooling was about, and lauded over, actually. Some broke the rules but as they were lovable rogue Han Solo types, they simply got the fuck away with it. He was everyones golden boy, was almost always Captain of a Cricket or Rugby team, possibly the School Captain himself or at the very least a Prefect. He was the kid every parent wants.

Meanwhile, someone like me saw that they had to tow the line, make as little attention or fuss as possible and yet retain my independence at an early age. I mean I just really didn’t want to be there, I was such an ungainly slither of a person.

Well. Wait. Actually, I’m wrong. As I type, I guess the biggest rule I ever broke comes from all of this, actually.In hindsight, as a kid I never broke the rules per se, but when I did, boy it was a catastrophe.

I went to a quite strict Catholic all boys school [believe me it wasn’t hot like some people today think it would’ve been], whose ethos espoused terms like ‘mateship’ and ‘brotherhood.’ We wore fancy uniforms including long socks and ‘slouch’ cricket hats in primary school, [which in hindsight was cute and adorable] and particularly snappy dark coloured blazers with a gold trim in Senior school, all in an effort to indoctrinate a sense of privilege into us. There was an internal society within the school, with a system of ethics and hierarchy at its core. We were told again and again that we were lucky and priveleged to be in such an esteemed institution. Deviance was not allowed. Uniform, appearence, hair, everything was regulated. A big part of this system of ethics they instilled in us was the co-curricular program; every single student had to play a sport. It was compulsory for us to either play Rugby or Soccer. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening practice would be on, and Saturdays were for matches in the inter school competitions. We would have to wake up really early and rope one of the parents to take us to schools miles from home. Yuck, I had no time for this at all, I was far too busy eating Chilli Kettle chips and reading Star Wars novels.

Going back, I really wasn’t an ok kid. I was living on fear and doubt and on nerves. So, I was always too scared and fearful to go to tryouts for the aforementioned sports. I managed to slip my way past the tryouts my first year when I was 9 years old, and so I did the same the year after. I kept this all the way up to Year 10, when I was about 15 or 16.

I don’t know how I did it, to be honest, but I somehow kept up the pretense that I was playing a sport or co-curricular activity like Debating, [which I thought was all very stupid really, I’d rather have been at home reading] for about five years of my life. Everyone thought I was playing something, but I just never delineated upon it. I gave vague answers and would artfully change the subject when needed.

 

I really, really would have made quite a fantastic and cunning Slytherin student at Hogwarts. Honestly I would’ve ruled the place.

 

So came the day when the inevitable happened, and my shirking the rules came to light.

I was exposed.

I got called to the Sports Master’s office during afternoon Homeroom. I still recall how pale my complexion looked in a glass door as I walked to the Sports Master’s office to face my judgement. It was an expellable offence. I knew this as I had the biggest talking to of my life. I cried. It was that bad. I had my friend with me who also was quite pale at the verbal tirade I underwent. I quite honestly had the wits scared out of me. A figurative shitting of the pants as it were.

Not a month later I found myself in a school Soccer team, in the worst team the school had to offer, no less. Really, we were. The top team were the A’s, and we were D’s. Yes. D’s, all of us. I’m pretty sure we got called the D Dicks as we were so bad.

I was oddly proud of how I ended up in the worst team in the school, coached by a very enigmatic Drama teacher who clearly was out of her depth but hey good on her she was trying and so was I truth be told.

So because of my breaking the rules, I learned to feign interest in things I didn’t really want to do. An admirable trait, really.

 

Some will say its a good thing, breaking the rules. You learn more by being a rebel. You test the limits, you develop character and charm and wits, all necessary to form a rounded individual.

 

I have to say, this is also a very Australian characteristic. We tend to honour those who we regard as larrikin-rebel-maverick-underdog types. For example, Prime Minister Bob Hawke was this archetype. He loved nothing more than drinking schooners of beer with his mates in pubs and getting sloshed even while he was on duty as PM.

 

Others might say following the rules is imperative, that rules are the for a reason. For me, following the rules meant less attention cast on me, less questioning and less criticism. I reveled in being left alone and unseen.

 

Were you a rule breaker? Did you follow the rules, or did you live in that grey area between?

A Week Of Firsts.

This week will be a good week if I get through all the things happening that are new and frightening for me.

 

They say that you should do something that scares you every day.

This week it seems like every day will bring an experience that will scare me slightly. Things that I’ve not done for a long while, or things that may change my future here for better or worse.

 

I have an interview on. Today. Well, perhaps this will be in the past already when you may read this. Perhaps you’re reading this months from when I write this, and I either have the job [and are no doubt complaining about it] or don’t. It’s been some 8 months since I had an actual job, so the chance of snagging one for myself is highly exciting and not to mention pretty nerve-wracking. I don’t know how I’ll go. I have confidence in myself and my abilities, this is a job I really know I can do. It’s just the fact that I’ve been out of work for so long that compounds all of this jitteriness. The anticipation makes it all worse. Do you ever have this?

 

I know that it’ll all be fine, and after the job interview I’ll be fine. I’ll be on a high with renewed energy and life. It’s that half-life of the pre-event that always gets me and is my challenge.

Like the weekend that just past. It was Dore Alley. A somewhat staple on the Gay calendar in this town here in San Francisco. It has a somewhat risque reputation, as it is commemorating and celebrating leather culture after all. For the week leading up to this I was trying my best to mentally rally and not get too much in my own head about it; doing my best not to let all those negative thoughts and internal monologues play out in my head over and over again. Yet on the day, despite feeling a bit out of sorts, I managed to get myself out and ended up having a great time.

 

Tomorrow I start volunteering at the GLBT Museum, something again that is brand new to me. This weekend, I’ll be working as a waitperson at a wedding. Finally, I’ll be doing some paid work. It’s the unknown, the undiscovered, the path that hasn’t been walked down that is what I fear most. Fear of what may pass, I guess. It’s always the case that after any of this I’ll be fine. I’ll feel on top of the world. That pre-event jitters is what gets to me, and what causes me to not get anything done.

 

This week is shaping up to be a week of firsts. It comes back to my point of doing something that makes you a little bit scared each day. Well, that’s how I am feeling at this moment. Some seem to be able to thrive on this, and are able to build up confidence from their willingness to try new things and to expect only the best and most positive for themselves. Meanwhile, the last three nights have seen me awake at 4am, struggling not only to get back to sleep but to stop those debilitating negative thoughts that can so easily and mercilessly shoot down one’s confidence.

 

Sometimes, in order to work through this, I try to think of myself in the future; after the interview, after the week is done. It’s Sunday. I might be relaxing at home, or with friends up at Guernville maybe, sitting by a pool in the sun. I try to project myself into this time. I try hard to really imagine myself there. The sights, the smells, the tactile sensations, the conversations and chat and smiles. It helps somewhat to calm my nerves.

 

Right now, at this moment, I’m sitting by that pool, book in hand, enjoying the sun.

 

EDIT: I just came back home from the job interview, and it went really well. As I thought it would. Even if I don’t get the job, it was a great experience for me. I still dislike the fact that I seem to overthink things far too much, and that when I do, the post-event is always fine and I feel better.

Procrastination.

The one habit I am trying hard to break in my life is procrastination. I am such a terrible procrastinator. It has meant that I struggle so hard with things that shouldn’t be as difficult as they are. It’s something that I am always battling with. And have for as long as I recall. I don’t want to be this person who is always putting things off that need attending to today.

 

My dad who would always say ‘domani,’ [tomorrow in Italian] when mum would ask him to do something which required his attention.They would have such massive fights about it. Dad would rather be in the back garden working on some crazy project [he once built a 20ft boat. A fully workable, marine-certified boat which he used to try to force me to go on with out in the local inlet. But he built it all. On his own. With his hands] rather than dealing with pressing issues or tasks that needed doing, which almost always snowballed and went critical due to inaction.

 

Heck, he once had a giant row with mum as he wanted her to go to the optometrist for him to get glasses as he didn’t want to, without understanding that no, someone else can’t get their eyes tested for you.

 

What could have been nipped in the bud easily and with a minimum of effort would turn into a high-drama of Ancient Greek tragedies proportion. Aeschylus couldn’t have written better prose or as heated arguments.

 

Always ‘domani.’ Tomorrow becomes some far-off utopia of a land where everything is perfect and green and sunny. Domani becomes a proverbial light on the hill where you have achieved and become the best you can be, and you are smiling down upon all your successes and prosperity and live filled with love and light.

 

Tomorrow is a fallacy, and one that has been transferred to myself by my dad. The strong allure and desire of ‘Domaniland’ as I call it entices me to this day. As I sit here at home on a Wednesday without a job at 9.20 am, it’s hard of me to not think of myself as a grand master-level procrastinator. The no job no money-coming-in thing is really getting at me. Yet I feel as though I am never doing enough to remedy this. I’m not proactive enough, I am not productive enough. I know I’m just going through a bit of a tough time at the moment, a proverbial valley that cuts deep. I know that one day soon I will get the hallowed job that I know is out there, and that I need simply to reach out and grab blindly in the dark for it. I know I do work hard at life, and try to be as productive as possible. Hence this blog. Also, hence why I exercise daily, spend a minimum of an hour and a half in my apartment block’s common area job hunting, as well as trying my hand at cooking dinners.

 

Daily. It’s a battle. Every single day. I have to constantly push at it, work at it, come at it from different angles of attack, figure out wily ways around it, constantly change battle tactics and strategy. Almost like playing one of my strategy video games. Like Command and Conquer, Warcraft or Civilization. In order to win, you need to adapt, take the initiative, sometimes attack, sometimes defend, but always moving and evolving and getting stronger and fortifying your position.

 

I’m reminded to this very day of my Year 11 English teacher, a hard, shrewd and highly intelligent and respectable woman, someone whom I still look up to. Mrs Rawle clearly has had an impact upon me. It was coming up to study time, and she was instructing us on proper usage of our time; things like keeping study timetables, how to write notes, that kind of thing. She spoke on the pitfalls of leaving things to the last minute, and warned us that once we started doing this at such a young age, it would stick with us forever, and be interminably difficult to shrug off and overcome.

 

She was right. My whole academic career was plagued from an early age, to my degree ten years ago with last minute efforts, cramming and late submissions. All this could have been avoided had I the smarts and wherewithal to simply have gotten my shit done sooner rather than later.

 

‘If not now then when,’ the famous saying goes. Perhaps I feared the ignominy and embarrassment of failure. Perhaps I feared my own potential. Maybe both things. Who knows. Fact is, I struggled to get my work done, and when I did, more often than not it was half-baked, poorly executed and usually just passable. The old adage of ‘he would do well if he applied himself’ was certainly appropriate to me.

 

Procrastination is like an elusive drug that promises you eternity. Putting your success and future on lay-by, rain-checking it for another time and place. However, this time and place exists solely in some fantasy world or plane of existence where dragons and unicorns roam. Why do it now and be uncomfortable when you can watch Netflix, play video games or hit that refresh button for the thousandth time on Facebook?

 

Procrastination lets us have the comfort we as humans instinctively seek today and set aside the pains, worries, anxieties and stress that should be thought upon today. It really is my one major vice in life. It makes a fool of me.

 

Much of why I feel as though I am in a rut is due to this. This blockage of progress, this denial of success and means of inhibiting my own personal growth has meant I feel stymied and at a loss for much of the time. Which leads to inaction, which leads to me spiralling out of control.

 

I think to myself, I have so much going for me, why is it that I am feeling so lost and so uninspired, so unaccomplished, so washed out and empty? I feel as though all my potential washes down the drain indelibly, and that procrastination has so much to blame for. Yet, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Baby steps, I tell myself. The fact that I write daily now is a testament to me trying my hardest to break this habit. The fact that I am still pushing with this blog, years after I started it, is testament as well.

 

Do you procrastinate? What are some of your strategies to manage it, lessen it or abolish it entirely?

Life’s Conflicts.

The biggest conflict in my life today is my job situation, or currently lack thereof. In more of an expanded sense, I have a conflict of identity and purpose.

 

I simply don’t know what I want to do with my life.

 

I don’t know what I am talented at. I don’t know what I enjoy doing which could bring me some prosperity in my life.

 

I look on to those who have had a clear sense of purpose in regards to their career and what they want to do with their life, and I feel an acute sense of envy. And that sucks. Envy is such a debilitating thing. I try my best to let it wash over me like a wave, or if I see the wave of envy coming toward me, I’ll dive under it, pass through, let it go over me, and I’ll rise back up, unaffected.

 

I wish I was that person who studied hard from an early age and knew they wanted to study law or medicine for instance. They may have had this in their mind from perhaps age ten upwards, and kept this goal, studied hard and maybe forewent all the things that make adolescence a little bit fun [sex drugs rock n roll and all that], and instead kept their heads down and made it, and became what they worked hard at doing.

 

I also wish I was that person who wasn’t academically inclined, always struggled at school from a young age, graduated and fell into a trade, and now have burgeoning and successful businesses which means they get to enjoy their lives and not worry about things like money and rent.

 

Right now, I just don’t know what I have to offer to anyone. I really don’t.

 

And it’s been something that has plagued me for over a decade and a half since I graduated school.

 

I used to think I wanted to be a photographer. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed the creativity of it, the fact that I was world-building. Fusing a story and narrative and weaving them into something marvellous. Creating something from my mind’s eye into reality was the core of what I absolutely loved about photography.

 

It was this act of creation that pulled me towards this art, and what made me fell in love.

 

Somewhere along the way, however, I lost this passion. I lost the love. It slowly faded and died, turning into a dry husk of what was once vibrant and alive. I turned my back on this art form, bitter and let down, both by my own failures at it, and the fact that it just wasn’t appearing to work out for me.

 

Each new shoot became less fun. Each time haggling with clients over pay became less fun. Receiving less and less money from clients became less fun, as was the expectations in terms of ever-increasing workload. Exposure for the work we did slowly became the industry standard, and I hated it.

 

I get saddened over the fact that I lost this great love I once had. I really don’t think I’ll get it back. I’ve had seven months worth of time here in San Francisco to start shooting portraits, yet inevitably I’m drawn away elsewhere. Why is this? Maybe it’s that venomous interior that I sense when I equate my photography past to present. Perhaps I just don’t enjoy it all.

 

So, here I am in the unenviable position of being 34, not qualified for much at all, and unsure as to what I should be doing. Or what I want to be doing. I’m extremely lucky to be able to live in a vibrant place such as San Francisco, and have the opportunity to move here from home [I remind myself of this daily], and I’m the first to say I’m privileged to be able to live in this country due to my nationality, and the hard work of my husband, who through his determination and sheer talent, has meant we are here.

The fact is however, I feel like a bit of a transparent ghost sometimes. Drifting in and out. Haunting spaces in an in-between dimension of purgatory, with no real purpose.

 

What do I do? Which direction is good for me, and something that will bring me some kind of career and prosperity? Do I try to seriously pursue my writing? Do I try to revive from the proverbial dead my photography?

Do I keep applying for those mediocre crappy jobs that I know I won’t enjoy and don’t get any response to anyway, yet would bring that much-needed money in?

 

I definitely sense that I’m in a rut. That I’m simply running on neutral, and spinning the wheel.

 

I hate that I’m always in this situation, and I know it concerns the other half. I get scared about it. I tend to worry a fair bit about it, and this overpowers my drive to search out new work or pin down what I should be doing here in this town, and with my life.

I don’t want to miss out on enjoying life here and seeing this great country and travelling. I don’t want to feel like a failure and disappointment to myself anymore.

 

This is the biggest conflict in my life today. Yet, I still know something great will be around the corner, and this faint light of hope and faith in the future, and myself, is what keeps me going.

 

 

What’s the biggest conflict in your life today?

The Dumbest Thing I’ve Ever Done.

The dumbest thing I’ve ever done is something that I regret, after almost twenty years.

Its nothing major, just one of those things in life that you do and that later on in life you question yourself. Why did I do this, why did I not listen to my conscience, and what would have happened had I not done this, made this decision and how would my life look now?

 

In all honesty, had I gone in the other direction in this choice, the chances are most likely that I would not be sitting here in San Francisco writing this. I would have never met my boyfriend turned husband, and my life may have looked very different.

I sometimes think on this, and wonder what kind of person I would be. Who would I hang out with, who would I date, where would I live, what would the relationships with my family and loved ones be like in this alternate world?

 

This choice, which since I made it at the young age of 17, is still something which haunts me, and rears its head at times. It wasn’t something that I thought much on at the time, but it is a choice that I consider after all these years to be particularly dumb, and one that took me out of where I could see I should have gone, and sidetracked me for years.

 

The dumbest thing I’ve ever done was listen to my father when he said he wouldn’t let me study the photography course at a great visual arts university back in Sydney in 2001 when I graduated high school.

 

It was my top pick in all the degrees I selected, and I recall being so excited and anxious about it as a possibility.

 

Being asked to make important decisions about life at the age of 17 is absolutely heinous in my opinion.

 

I know this may seem like something that is inconsequential and just a bit first world problems, and that I was never in any physical danger, but I consider my listening to my overbearing and strict father in this instance to be the dumbest thing I have ever done.

 

Because of it, I missed out on what could have been a great opportunity for me, especially as a wide-eyed kid from suburban Rhodes in the outskirts of Sydney’s Inner West. To be thrown into such an explosion of creativity could have done wonders for me at such a young age. I missed out on what potentially could have been a colourful and exciting time, a time for experimentation, evolution and growth. I honestly feel that I could have been excited about life, and not to mention had met some great people, and been a part of something.

 

I regret having listened to my dad for these reasons, and because of it I decided to take the 2nd choice, which was studying Communications at the same University as my sister, at the University of Western Sydney. A far cry from the buzzing with artistic energy inner-city campus of COFA in Surry Hills, the campus I went to was spread over acres of grassland and bush, and yes there were kangaroos sometimes. It felt a bit sparse. It was a far cry from the busy halls of COFA. I recall going to visit friends studying at the lush and busy University of Sydney and having pangs of envy.

 

Luckily, however, I met some new friends and became close to them. They were great people and I counted myself very fortunate to have made some friends there. There was, truthfully, at times a disconnect, however. Clearly I came from a super-Middle Class background, complete with a private education, something of which I recall my uni friends ribbing me about, and justifiably.

 

The truth was, however, that my heart wasn’t in it. What was a 3 year degree turned into a 4 and a half degree for me. I failed classes, I never showed up, preferring to stay home in bed till 2pm, I deferred for a half a year as I was simply bored of it all and would have rather worked more, paid my rent and sat around during the week.

 

Adding on to this the fact that my parents were going through a [verging on violent] divorce, me coming out as gay, working crap jobs in restaurants with touchy-feely relatives and not to mention a whole lot of undiagnosed depression, meant that academically, I was quite a lost soul. It’s a wonder I even managed to graduate.

 

I recall finally finishing this degree, and not even bothering to attend the graduation. I missed the cutoff to go.

 

I really didn’t give a shit at all, to be honest. By this point I had lost any and all interest in the degree and what I was studying and that university. I was back at my old family home now with only dad living there as mum had left. All my friends had graduated and moved on. It felt really lonely being there, at uni and being back home. It wasn’t a great time for me.

 

The thing is, however, had I not attended this course and listened to my dad, I would never have then gone on to study at the small arts college in North Sydney about a year or two from finishing my previous degree.

 

I finally got the chance to study what I wanted, and to be in a creative environment.

 

And, it’s also where I met my now husband, who I’ve been with for 9 years now.

 

I guess there’s a reason for everything. I’m not one for religious faith, but perhaps in this case it wasn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but perhaps maybe the best thing I’ve ever done.

Media Deprivation

This week, as part of my Artist’s Way book course, [which is a self-guided course in creative rejuvenation and recovery], I underwent what is termed as a ‘Media Deprivation’ week.

Media Deprivation could be thought of as the ‘Digital Detox’s’ cousin; similar in many respects, with similar aims and justifications for what they do, but with a slight difference in each.

So what is a Media Deprivation, you may ask?

It’s any stretch of time without any taking in of media of any sort. Kinda like a fast for your mind.

So, no reading. At all.

This is the big point that the author makes. She wants us all to stop taking in information and consuming, and start producing. Instead of reading a novel, she would have us write instead. Or paint, or jog or exercise, take up a class in language, etc. And no news means having to actually get your information from a person, not a newspaper, website or social media site, with the hopes of re-engaging with live people.

No tv, no films, no visual media at all.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. I was feeling quite apprehensive. To me, all of these things are so important to most, if not all of us. Many of us rely upon social media for their livelihood, not to mention keeping in touch with loved ones and family, and most of all, for entertainment.

Believe me, I love nothing more than spending hours on Youtube watching anything and everything or wasting time on Facebook and Twitter.

And, at this point of view after having completed this Media Deprivation week, I see that I personally waste so much time on these things, not getting up to much at all.

 

So, how was it?

 

I hated it. At least at the start. The first 2 or so days felt as though I had been crushed by an anvil and deflated of any sort of emotion besides panic and boredom. I didn’t know what to do with myself besides continue on with my job hunt, write and journal, or go out for walks about town and sit in parks with my trusty journal or camera.

I felt resentful. I felt downcast and frustrated as well as panicked in those first few days. I could sense my mood darkening as I struggled to make sense of what I was to do with myself to occupy my time, and more importantly, my mind.

But, after this initial period of confusion, I did begin to notice some change. As I grew to accept the fact that I couldn’t simply google something I didn’t know, I would jot it down on a piece of paper to ask my husband when he got home. We would sit and talk, and he would look things up or inform me of things going on.

I couldn’t sit around and waste time on Youtube, so I wrote instead. It became easier for me to sit down and just start writing or typing. Anything. It didn’t have to be of any magnitude. It didn’t have to be Shakespearean prose. I just had to get writing. I began to think, ‘well, if I can’t read, I may as well be writing something’.

I noticed that my conversations with people became slightly more enriched, as I wasn’t constantly reaching for my phone and being distracted by it and its constant notifications. I was able to look people in the eye with clarity and not look away in shyness.

I felt lighter and a touch better about myself as I wasn’t going on dating apps or on Insta, with its endless parade of gorgeous gay men to make my spirits deflate.

By Wednesday I felt almost giddy as I got dressed and went to perform at the opera that night. A lightness came over me, as though I could do anything, as I skateboarded up to the grand old SF Opera house.

In the dressing room, where I would usually be stuck on my phone waiting for the call to head up on stage to perform, I instead sat there and just took it all in. The way the room looked, the heat of it as it was underground and stuffy, the fantastic costumes sitting on their racks, the din of my fellow supernumerary extras chatting away. All minor details that I may have missed, and that soon enough I would as it was my second last performance. I thought that I may never be back here so be sure to take it all in now.

I spoke to one of my compatriots, who upon asking me how I was, I responded with my being on a media deprivation week and it being a challenge. His eyes lit up and he made note that my attention and spirits seemed far more present than usual, as he noticed that I tended to be on my phone quite a bit.

We chatted briefly upon the merits of media deprivation and digital detoxes as means for clearing out the mind and helping one be aware of their usage of social media, and the repercussions thereof. He too had done some similar work and found it to be challenging yet engaging and of worth.

The next night, I attended my very first Baseball game.

I felt exhilarated and most importantly at all, present. The lights somehow shined brighter, the colours appeared far more vivid and the noise of the crowds heightened.

 

By the weekend, [which was San Francisco Pride], I felt pretty great. I’d not been on Facebook or Twitter the whole week and felt no compunction to check back in, I kept my checking on emails to a minimum and I had logged out of the apps; I enjoyed a weekend of sipping beers in sunny, packed with people Dolores park with friends; attending the Trans march, and dancing the night away.

 

The lesson that I learned from this week was that we have killed collectively the idea of ‘boredom.’.

 

We are always stimulated, much of the time overly, if not terminally, so.

We are bombarded every day, every moment from when we wake to when we sleep with imagery, sounds, visuals and new fads and memes and celebrity gossip and bad news over and over in wave after wave.

 

It feels like some kind of dystopian sci-fi nightmare sometimes. I often wonder what someone from any point up to the early 1990’s would make and think of our world today, and how we are quite addicted to social media.

Just slightly jiggling out of this all for just even a week was like taking a great big breath of fresh mountain air.

It has made me aware of how I consume and use media, specifically social media. Of how much time I waste there, how much of my life is there, and how it has caused the death of boredom. Of how neglectful I can be of interpersonal relationships.

 

Believe me, I know I won’t get rid of social media for a very long time, if at all. It is all something we do really need, and it has made our lives all the better in many ways.

 

Perhaps I’ll make it a more prolonged experience in future.

 

Still, I recall as a kid mum always saying ‘only boring people are boring’. She was kind of right, as I would always go back to my mainstays of reading or playing with lego or going bike riding down the park back in those pre-internet days of the early 1990’s. The point was, I always managed to find something to occupy my time without just simply consuming passively.

 

This last week, I found boredom to be a good thing.

It got myself busy, it got me to be more productive, thoughtful and importantly, social with everyone I came in contact with.

 

It helped me to see life a little more clearer, and to be a bit mindful of how I use all of this technology, as we’re all people underneath this shroud of social media, and I feel we are easy to forget this.