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.

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.

 

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.

6 months later…

It’s been six months since we moved here to the US, and this past week I’ve felt really up and down. I guess as we’ve reached that six month mark I can;t help but reflect, and as humans we tend to frame our lives through measurements of time.

I’ve felt up as the weather is becoming great; the sky is clearer, the sun is out and little by little there seems to be a bit of warmth in the air. Not much as yes, this is San Francisco, and as I continually get educated by the locals, there is no Summer here. Again and again I seem to be told this.

However, Spring slowly seems to be encroaching upon us, little feelers slowly creep in. A flower blooms in the park, a leaf grows on a tree outside our flat in the drab back alley.

The seasons are changing, and its a good thing to see. We came to San Francisco right in the middle of a blustery and grey Winter. It really did seem to colour our time here initially. I can see that in hindsight. We can learn so much from looking back, and looking back to our first couple months here, I see that we really did struggle.

I sometimes wonder what it would have been like, had we moved here at this time of the year, or perhaps in the middle of Summer, when everything is at its heightened best, and more things are happening. Perhaps we would’ve dealt with the change of moving countries much better than we did, perhaps not. All I know is that we moved at a particularly tough time, and now that the seasons are changing, my mood is perceptibly far loftier.

On the other side of things, I’ve felt a bit down as I still feel a bit purposeless here, having been waiting for my EAD which is a document which allows me to work here in the US to come through which took months.

However, that brings me to another stumbling block: I’m unsure of what I should do here, what job I should go after, and what it’ll be like to work here. I’ve now been out of work for almost six months so its going to be tough to readjust. I’m genuinely quite anxious about this. But, I will deal with it when I get to this.

The other big thing is I’ve also started as a volunteer extra in the opera. Which is fucking mental to be honest. I never thought I would be an on-stage extra in a professional production. I’m literally acting and running and even tumbling around on stage with professional opera singers, decked out in costumes. Crazy. As is the giant blue bruise featured on my right butt cheek from all the tumbling.

Doing something like going to an audition on a whim and getting it, and being a part of an opera is something so unlike me to do. I have never acted in my life. I’ve really tried my best to say yes more the last few months. I do this in order to grow and to experience as much in this town as I can. I’ve tried my hardest to get out and experience more and not hole myself in my flat too much. Although I still have days where I do just that.

I’m really glad I took a chance and applied to audition for the opera. It is something so unlike me that the Sydney version of me would never have done. I’m happy I didn’t just pike out and not turn up like the voice in my head was telling me to do on the day of the audition.

And that’s the thing really. This whole endeavor of moving here to the US has taught me that I need to consciously rally against that negative persona that sometimes comes to the fore in my mind. I have to willingly and purposefully fight against it, tell it to quiet down, and do the opposite of what it says. Otherwise I won’t get to do anything fun, and I’ll just be forever more in my comfort zone and miss out on so much.

The last six months have been so full of ups and downs. I’ve missed my home and family and loved ones; I’ve grappled with coming to a new country and city as well as the tasks of building a new home, a new life here.

Looking back, I start to see that I’ve done a great job of it. It has been a monumental task, but I can truly say I’ve made the most of it.

I sometimes feel like it’s almost like a strategy game that I’m playing. Like Civilization. I start with a small town, and after a while it grows and expands. Our little home here is like that. It’s a bit small now but it’ll grow month after month.

Our life here is like that. Right now it may be on the smaller side, but I know with each month as we become more established, it’ll grow more and more.

Decision Making

What’s the biggest decision you’ve ever had to make? How did you make it? Was it the right choice?

 

The biggest decision I’ve ever had to make was to decide whether to go with my partner of 8 years to San Francisco, possibly for an indefinite time, or stay home in Sydney Australia. It’s really been the biggest, monumental and life-changing decision I have ever had to make. We’ve had to make. It was tough. It was draining.

 

It was also exciting and something to look forward.

 

It’s been just about six months since we moved. I still can’t believe that we’ve done this. I still can’t believe that I’m here. That we’ve made this seismic shift, this gigantic earth-shaking change that has indelibly transformed our lives. It’s not been easy. There have been second thoughts, concerns, arguments and fights.

Moving with a partner to another country is a very challenging thing, especially when you move so far from your home. Home for us isn’t a short plane trip away. So far from the familiar, from the known and from what is comfortable. You only have each other for support and guidance, and that can be quite a lot for just two people.

There are times when I miss my family, my home city and friends and logical family too. I’ll see a post on instagram and my heart breaks a little. Blue skies, beaches, Victorian terraces, pubs filled with people and queer parties where everyone looks so happy and bright.

We came to this decision after months and months of unending talks and discussions. Almost a year of back and forward in fact. We went over everything. Every possible outcome, scenario, issue and challenge. Pros and cons. At one point the entire thing was cancelled out as we thought it wasn’t going to happen.

We spoke and spoke and disassembled, had little tussles about it, and tried to be as honest to each other as we could. Even once it was all confirmed, we had months and months to go till we moved, as the move date kept getting pushed back. So yet more time to think and deliberate. Originally we were to move in April. Then May. Then September. And then finally November came around, and our ticket was bought. We had so much to do and take care of.

I remember the printed calendar I made and all the tasks we needed done for each day on little post-its.

No wonder we both felt so frayed and worn once we finally arrived here in SF. And in the middle of winter to add. We really don’t give ourselves enough credit.

 

Yes, at times, we have both questioned what we have done, and the choice we have made. The first few months here especially so. It felt as though we were thrown into a washing machine, spun around, rinsed repeat spun, then thrown out into this new and strange place.

We fought, we got on each others nerves, emotions became frayed as we tried our hardest, our best, to keep ourselves and our lives together. We tried hard to stay upbeat and positive, to get out more and meet people. It wasn’t easy at all. Again, really this move has been the hardest thing I personally have ever done, considerably so as I’m quite the reflective person. It is in my nature to think upon life, choices made and those encountered upon the way.

 

But, do I think this was the right choice we made, to come halfway across the world, and leave all those we love and all that we know?

 

Yes. In a heartbeat.

 

Sometimes I imagine what life would have been like if we stayed in Sydney, and the opportunity to move to America never came up. Life would be sublime. Comfortable. Bucolic. Fun. Always full of laughs and light and sun. That rhymed. I actually didn’t mean for it to.

 

But, nothing would have changed. I know this. I would have stayed in this comfort zone for such a long time. I feel as though my growth would have been stunted, and we would be in static. As much as I miss the place and the loved ones there [really I do], moving to another country and town has been the best thing for me. You need change in life in order to evolve and experience. Sometimes we need to be picked up and shook about.

 

My regret would be if we didn’t do this. The regret would be impossible for me to live with. I would hate myself for not giving it a go. I picture myself in this alternate world where we never moved, and I imagine myself living in San Francisco, and I can feel the envy.

I’m in the right place. I can feel this with every part of me, and I don’t regret our decision for a second.

 

What’s the biggest decision you’ve ever had to make?

Faith In The Future.

Do you ever get asked where you would see yourself in five years?

I’m not in a great place to think about my future at the moment. I also tend to dislike the ‘where would you be in 5 years from now’ question that seems to be a constant feature of job interviews. It’s so overly used that it has become such a cliched and cringeworthy dull question that is unimaginative and determines to leave nothing up to fate.

The truth is, sometimes I don’t know where I will be in 5 years. Sometimes I don’t think I want to even be anywhere or to exist at all. I fear that all I will amount to is what I am currently, and that all I can offer is what little I can today.

I’m afraid of being a static creature, incapable of growth and change, and most importantly, the ability to say ‘yes’ and experience every part of life possible. I wish I could succeed and accomplish. I wish I could break through this glass barrier above me and not have the constant thoughts of failure running in the back of my mind. Thoughts which unfortunately have chased me for years and are difficult of the highest degree to silence or even just mute, even for a short time.

I fear that my future will be banal and mundane, and more of the same, and that my life will amount to very little. I’m afraid that I will be forevermore an aimless creature. A Waste Man. Someone of little regard that simply lives day to day, week to week and is abjectly content with their lot in life and the universe. I am afraid of slowly turning into this hopeless creature of a plain and simple existence without fire and life and passion. I don’t want to be someone who simply exists and inhabits a space. I need more than what I currently have out of life. I want to live more, travel more and experience more.

I want my friends to always be there and to be the warm giving people I know. I know they will. I want for my husband to continue being the most supportive person I know. Sometimes I wonder what he sees in me. Sometimes I struggle to put myself in his shoes and imagine what I’m like to live with.

I know I can be a difficult person, and that many of my thoughts tend to run to the dark, and that it can be a task for me to see the light in most situation. I hope however, that I’m a good person and that I make him and my friends happy.

I want people to see me as a person of skill and talent, I want to be respected and recognised for something. What exactly, I really don’t know. I just want, from today to 5 years into the future, to not regret. To not regret anything at all. I don’t want to coast anymore. I don’t want to have blissful contentment with how things are for me at the moment. Comfortable and unchallenged. I sometimes feel pangs of regret. I hate that feeling. I hate feeling as though I have consistently taken the wrong turn, stepped through the wrong door, and not made the right choices.

I think sometimes that there’s an alternate universe out there, where I can smile with ease; I’m making a difference, and have a purpose to my life. I work hard, and am recognised for it. I rarely get down, and even if I do I bounce back and go back to my enthusiastic self. It feels counter productive, having this stream of thought. But I’ve always believed in the idea of alternate realities. It’s an alluring and deceptive concept, to think that out there are other worlds, where the figurative alchemical makeup is just a touch different.

What would make me happiest in life in the future would be to have an aim, a purpose and direction. I don’t know how or what, and these are the tough questions that I need to ask myself continually. I know that things will all work out fine for me in the end. I also know that it is intrinsic in my age to have these constant worries for the future. I couldn’t imagine being a woman and having the added stress of worrying about having a child and/or career. I know I should be grateful.

We’re always told to be grateful and to take stock in what we have. But what we have sometimes isn’t as fulfilling as it should be. Sometimes we hunger for what’s out there unseen with our physical eyes, and thirst to gain more. More knowledge, love, experience or whatever is desired. But we are creatures of flux and evolution, always moving, changing. Sometimes fickle and cantankerous, yet we [hopefully] always think ahead and ponder what could be. I hope my future, like my present, is filled with people who fill my life with positivity and fun, and that I continue to grow and learn, and most importantly, take chances.

Defining Success.

‘What is success?’

 

The daily writing page I’m signed up on which I try to write daily for, asked.

Plain and simple. No messing about here. Just what is success. This is something that I think constantly on.

 

Is success having a fantastic career that provides money, a home, a car, those things which we are all indoctrinated to believe we want?

Is it something more esoteric like validation and acclaim from your peers and contemporaries?

What is this thing that some of us have, yet others [including myself] never seem to manifest?

In my life, I feel as though the concept of ‘success’ is something that is forever slipping through my fingers, unobtainable and elusive. Something so close yet so difficult to grasp.

I have always viewed success as being something linked with prosperity. As though they naturally go hand in hand. A relationship that is symbiotic and dependent upon one another. Success begets prosperity, as well as the other way round. Or does it? Can one prosper without success? Without money?

These days, it’s difficult for me to feel that I have success in my life. To convince myself. Here I am, jobless and in a new country. Away from friends, family, all those whom I love and miss. Not to mention that everything is done differently. I have to adapt and relearn life as it were. Finding and making new friends and connections, which is usually a challenge in itself for me has become even more so the case. Readjusting and thriving has been my top priority. And its been a turbulent fucker, let me tell you.

I know that many others out there may classify the concept and terminology of ‘success’ in a different subset of ideals; swap out monetary gain and career advancement for headspace self-helpy concepts of wellness, mental health and relationships.

Is it healthy, to re-categorise the idea of success as being not necessarily prosperity and attainment of status and wealth, but to a place of your immediate and close life: how well you manage a relationship, how well your life is with your loved ones, friends, coworker etc?

A part of me feels that this is somewhat naive.

Perhaps I’ve become more jaded in life. Is it because I’ve never experienced what my ideal of success is, being money/career/prosperity?

The tenets of this rather new-agey paradigm of success to me right now unfortunately has the smack of anathema to me. As though this line of thought is simply a salve to sooth a troubled mind like mine who constantly thinks on this very subject. Is it a cop-out to think this, or is it somewhat constructive and good for the soul?

 

I’m of two minds about this.

 

One the one side, success shouldn’t be so simply aligned and synonymously linked with the idea of prosperity and monetary gain and status. It should feel more well-rounded. A mother or father who stays home raising a child who would grow to become a good, kind-hearted person should be regarded as a ‘success.’ Being a stay at home parent is not an easy task. I can only imagine the challenges and difficulty that lay with this work.

Working and improving your mental health is also something that I see as a measure of ‘success.’ This has become such an important part of many of our lives. My own included. With the onrush and rise of the whole idea of wellness culture especially so in the last few years.

At times when I think of this, I recall Kate Winslet’s character in Titanic [don’t hate on me for referencing Titanic please], after she survives the ship and moves on with her life. The camera pans across frames of her doing all sort of stuff. Why she thought to bring them on a research vessel not withstanding, it showed her getting up to all sorts of rad stuff: horseriding, posing with a cool plane, at a beach with friends and looking hot in an old timey Hollywood portrait.

Clearly it was all a device to display how full her life was, and how her not choosing to go with the rich arsehole, she built this life that was clearly fulfilling on her own.

What would those pictures have looked like had she choose to go with Mr Punchable Face’s character, who may have given her a life of luxury and ease, yet detested and belittled her?

 

I sometimes wonder how many people out there who have the money, the careers and status might look at someone like me who has none of this, yet wish for a relationship like mine, for instance.

On the other side, I feel that it can be naive to think on success in such a simplistic manner. I feel as though this thread above is what I’ve been told by others, that career and money is not the end point of what we traditionally regard as success.

The unfortunate thing is, alas, we don’t live in a society that seems to view ones’ life worth in terms of success as how well a relationship goes, how good a parent one is, or how well one is doing with their mental health.

Capitalism sure does have its fucked up features.

I could be the perennial Red leftie that I was and start a spiel on how an economic system ie Capitalism destroys people’s very lives and wellbeing, and places ones worth solely on their monetary intake, but I’m not going to do that today.

The days of my university demonstrations, ardent leftie essays espousing the virtues of Socialism in the modern world and the need for it, are long gone. Not to say I have given up. I still dearly believe in left-wing politics. More the acknowledgement that the system we live and work and breathe in is not going to go away, at least not for a very long time.

This side of me thinks that it is rather simplistic and unworldly to believe that success can be more than money and status. Unfortunately, it is something that those of us that do not have, tell ourselves in order to feel better about our lives.

I sincerely do want the career, the recognition, and yes, the money. Not as a means in itself but rather so I can have a great life with my husband and not worry.

And that’s my issue with success. The pain, the worrying, the pressure that maybe I put on myself far too much. The expectations of my parents as a kid and adolescent, and their subsequent disappointment in me not reaching my potential. Am I exerting this pressure on myself? Is this more in my head than out there in society?

We are truly a generation weaned on the belief that we could do anything we wanted. Yet the hard truth is, indelibly, we cannot. Success is something that yes is attainable, but not perhaps, for each and every one of us.

What then, is success for you?

My Writing Process.

My writing process is quite simple. I try to set aside some time, preferable each day, and preferably somewhere light and airy. My work space will typically be quite organised, clutter free and minimal in what needs to be there. The less ‘stuff’, the better.

I find that I write best and most effectively when I have a clean and clutter-free space. To me, this is paramount. My mind works best when everything is organised. I tend to concentrate more, gain inspiration and let those streams of thought enter into the room. I guess I’m a creature of order.

Some prefer a degree of chaos and a ‘organised mess’ as it were, in order to get inspired and to really get those creative juices flowing. To me, a chaotic mess means an unorganised mind, and an inability to analyze or complete tasks.

And that’s my biggest fear, as well as a massive motivator for having such a precise and agreeable workspace. It seems that without this, I can’t get a thing done.

Having only just recently moved countries, all the way to San Francisco from Sydney, finding a place to sit, work and process has proved to be challenging. For the last 6 weeks we were staying in a temporary flat, and to be honest, as lovely a building and place as it was, it felt uninspiring, dull and not amenable to me feeling comfortable or uplifted enough to write. It had an air of being generic. Knowing that its sole purpose as a temporary abode felt disheartening to me.

This space proved its worth as a short-term home, but even so, trying to get off my backside to write was incredibly difficult in this time.

I really did drop the ball. As part of my day, I wanted to write for even at least a half hour. I would bring my husband’s unused laptop downstairs to the luxuriously appointed common lounge, which looked like a ski lodge, replete with fireplace and comfy oversized chairs.

I’d set the laptop up on the communal table, get myself a glass of water, and try my hardest to put words to screen as it were. Yet I found myself more often than not simply staring at a blank screen, somehow unable to get thoughts into the laptop. I was at a roadblock.

And as it stands, in that whole time, I only ever managed to get two posts out.

In some six weeks.

Funnily enough, I ended up using my old back-up of a small Moleskine notebook and started writing thoughts in it every couple of days. It’s proved to be invaluable, having that small innocuous notebook around. I make sure to carry it about wherever I am.

I always remember my old photography teacher would say you must carry a camera everywhere you go in order to consider yourself a true photographer. Well, to be honest, I’m not going to lug an insanely cumbersome [not to mention expensive] piece of equipment about in my semi-sketchy neighbourhood.

Rather, I’m happy to carry about my small and highly portable notebook, which in a way is far more valuable than any camera.

We just finally found and moved into our new place, and have finished unpacking and setting it up. We’ve taken everything from home and brought it here, including my trusty desk and now ancient, ten-year old iMac which I’m using to write this post. Which to its credit, just keeps on truckin’ along.

My desk now resides in our bed room, a far cry from my little alcove back home. Our bedroom is a simple room with large windows that face the sun and let light great big dollops of light into the room. The room itself is simply appointed. Two bedside table flanking our bed, a mirror leaning against the wall and my desk next to that. All I have on my desk besides my computer is a desk lamp, an old camera as a reminder of the past, a hard drive, and a glass of water [on a coaster of course].

I feel some affinity with my favourite author, Haruki Murakami, whom also keeps a quite understated and a simple set-up desk. Everything he needs is there, as well as some decorative items of significance. There are no piles of books or paper, or anything that appears out of its place. I feel as though his desk is therefore a reflection of his manner of writing, which is everything I admire: simple yet effective, minimal and understated yet so subtle and with an intrinsic inspired genius who will make you spellbound in his prose.

I love his writing, as he makes the simple act of cooking a meal for one alone a grand affair.

My workspace, as you can see, is my writing process incarnate. If I’m somewhere attractive, relatively peaceful and homely, I am able to get myself writing and more importantly, posting for the world to see.

If you write, what is your process? Like me, do you need your own space, your own aerie, or do you prefer to be out in the world?

Motivated Me.

Motivation for me unfortunately comes from a place of fear. A place of failure. A place of fearing the mediocre, and honestly from the fact that my life may not amount to much.

I grew up in an era where we were all told that we could be anything we wanted, that all we had to do was try our best and it would happen.

Years later, I feel that this is not the case at all, and that this mentality is dangerous and in fact a detriment to the normal development of a human being as a fully-independent, functioning member of society.

Unfortunately, it seems that you can’t be anything you want. Yes, you have to work excruciatingly hard to get to where you may want to be, but the fact remains that not everyone is born equal or with the same opportunities, which in turn means that even in the best petri-dish of formation, with the ripest, most perfect of conditions, one still might not get what one feels they may, however rightly, deserve, through their hard work or determination.

The world these days feels worn. Humanity feels underappreciated, stomped down, oppressed and waxing lyrical about the almost impossibilities that are real which once were simple and taken for granted. A period of malaise.

I know, for example, that I most likely will never own a house, or flat, or even just a piece of land. This isn’t a necessarily a determinate factor in success at life, yet for many of us, owning something like a house or flat equals security and a future. This isn’t me simply giving up, rather it’s me being honest and real about life and how the world works. I know, it comes across that I’m becoming yet another jaded and bitter inconsolable 30-something, who feels as though their best is behind them, and only negativity lies ahead. Maybe I am a little bitter. Perhaps I see the truth of the matter in this case as opposed to a naive fallacy. The truth of the matter is that the universe really does not ‘owe’ you anything.

It comes back to my previous point. A generation expecting the most out of life including instant success, prosperity and not to mention sexual fulfillment, attraction and gratuity are on the onset of taking over the reins, as it were. We’re on the cusp of heading and being the group that runs the world. And this terrifies me. What exactly terrifies me is that we are a generation of idiosyncrasy and contradictions, and we will one day be holding the controls. Sometimes it feels as though the most successful in my generation aren’t the ones with the knowledge, skills, nous and intelligence, rather, the most successful are the ones who are attractive, great at knowing what they’re talking about even if they may not necessarily know what they’re talking about at all, and have umpteen thousand followers on Instagram. I really do get worried that the complete self-entitlement and self-indulgent are themata that will be marked on my generation indefinitely. We expect so much, yet are given so little. We can be self-serving, indolent, lazy and lack at times a moral compass and empathy, yet we do work very hard, in many cases for little or no gain at all. Similarly to the Baby Boomer generation, we are all about self-expression, self-discovery and fulfillment in life. Many of us aim to be the best version of us. Yet unlike previous generations, we don’t seem to be getting what we want out of life. There are so many of us [myself included] who really are struggling, and feel as though we are hitting our heads against the wall through trying to break through it. I know so many people of my age group who are systematically and constantly preoccupied with a lack of career, meaningful relationship, lack of direction an meaning in one’s life. So where does our motivation come from? Do many of us feel that motivation is something that is self-entitled, that is owed to us? That by going through the motions of working hard and pushing ourselves the universe will magically simply manifest whatever we desire and are working towards? Are we kidding ourselves with this idea that the universe simply provides whatever we ask and have need of it?

Motivation for me is something tricky and not constant. It rises and falls, ebbs and flows. Some weeks I am the most prolific I’ve ever been. I can write and write and go to the gym daily and clean and tidy and do laundry, and other times less so. Such as this instance. I haven’t posted on my blog in two months. I can’t say why. Laziness I guess. With a pinch of too much harsh self-criticism thrown in. But hey, at least I am aware of this, and knowingly accept it. Now the hard part, which is actually working on my motivation, and simply getting things done for myself.