Emotions Past

Im in the process of packing up to move house again. Given that this will be my fourth address in two years or my sixth in three, I'm a bit peeved by it all. I'm attempting to rationalize my belongings, to be ruthless in throwing things away. How successful I am depends on my mood and how much I look at things before I toss them. I was going through a box of things the other day and came across some of my old writings, things I did while I was still at school and for one reason or another was sentimental enough to keep. It was a mix of essays, stories, the occasional half hearted attempt at a novel, a diary and notes and letters to and from girl friends. It's funny, though, because although I recognize the handwriting - even though it has changed dramatically since then - I barely recognize the writer as me. I do not know this person from fifteen, twenty years ago. The certainty in her fiction, and mad raging anger of her notes, the snide snarky - well no, that part I do recognize. I can't imagine being so passionately angry about something that I would need to not only capitalise it when I wrote it, but I would underline the words so hard and so many times I would go throug the page. I do not remember being like that. I remember writing, constantly, always, with torch at night under the covers, in darkness when I had written so long that my batteries died. When I should have been doing homework. When I had finished an exam early but wasn't allowed to leave. I have vague recollects of writing myself out when I was feeling hard done by, but I can't imagine myself back to the person who could be so incandescent in her anger. These days I can muster a bit of a squiff, an occasional huff, perhaps a bit of a tantrum if you squat your eyes the wrong way. The only things that really get me up are my grandmother, work, and L. But the emotions I feel now don't generate nearly as much heat as that girl could. She fairly scorched the page. What happened to her? Where did that passion go? Where is the flame burning to write, to create worlds, to express fiery emotions that will not find any other outlet? How did that get replaced by quietly mocking, by sarcasm and by quips? Somewhere within, that other girl must still be there. I wonder if I can ever find her again, or if it's just my mood, a combination of nostalgia and perhaps a mild depression, bringing me to this point. Traditionally tortured artists are the ones who create the best works. Perhaps I should make use of this. If only I could over throw my apathy, I might. That's what I've grown into, though. The would-have, the should-have. That girl way back then, she was all about the could. A couple of little consonants, they change the shape of the world entirely.

Withholding

The person I've been closest to for the best part of my life happens to be my cousin. We've gone through varying degrees of closeness since we we up and right now we seem to be inching our way back towards something like it was when we were still at uni and in constant contact with each other. It's a funny relationship in many ways, though. The politics of the family mean that there are some things we just don't talk about. Largely our own fault, of course. The best way to deflect quests about your own life is to volunteer information about the life of someone else, and who else's life did we know so intimately growing up? The number of times the family grape vine worked against the pair of us and our tattling ways is beyond counting. The upshot is that while we are close and consider each other almost as sisters, there are enormous gaping holes in our knowledge of each other now. I've been trying to bridge this lately, feeling the need of a confidant who knows the whole back story, who I can use short hand to fill in. Someone that I know will be a sympathetic ear for all that we are hugely different people. But I'm stuck with the knowledge that there's a good chance anything I tell her will go to her mother, our grandmother, and then my mother, by which stage it will have been garbled and blown out of all proportn. But I need to talk to someone, some girl friend, and right now L is caught up in her own world of longing so she's off the list, and I don't have that many others who can offer the same support. The penalty for letting go of all of my university friends almost as soon as I left uni, I guess, having already jettisoned all bar one of my school friends. But I want to talk to someone about my life, and where it is headed. About hopes, dreams, longings, and unfulfilled planning. I want to vent the frustrations of being stubbornly single, to have a shoulder to lean on, someone who has seen me emotional, and someone who brings a different perspective to the table. As a married mother, Cuz certainly does that. We are very different, the pair of us, but there is a strong bond there all the same. We seem to have switched roles over the years. Where once I was the loud, confident one, she now plays that part while I'm the quieter of the two. We can stil make each other cry with laughter, though, can raise a giggle with just a look, and have a long list of short hand jokes, triggered by anything from a nod, to a phrase, to a raised eyebrow. I admit I let the friendship drift when she got married and had a baby. I was insanely jealous of her for having the things that I always wanted, always felt entitled to. Ad I want to talk to her now at I'm starting to consider the idea that I might have neither in my future. It's a selfish need, I know, but I also know that she needs adult company, stuck at home all day with a baby not yet one and a husband who works all hours and comes home exhausted. Right now, we need each other as much as ever. If only we knew that we could trust the silence of the other...

The Unexplained

There are some mysteries in life that I will never understand. Why some women have perfect hair. Why Collingwood Football team is universally hated by all other clubs. Why exactly chocolate tastes so good - although that's one I'm happy to just accept at face value. My six months or so away from blogging has thrown up some of these questions, so I thought I'd explore them here as a way of getting back into the swing of things after so long away. So here it is. My top five things that I will never be able to adequately explain. 1. Why I attract fickle men. And then I don't. Sounds straight forward, yes? I'm quite capable of getting the attention of a certain type of man, it seems. And then I lose it. Abruptly. For instance, I've been messaging a seemingly nice guy for most of this month. He's a teacher, seems to have his head screwed on the right way and gave all the indications of being almost uncomfortably keen, given that we have never been on a date. We had things all locked in for last Saturday. Friday morning, afternoon and evening texts were being exchanged. He'd caught a cold and wasn't sure he was going to be able to make it for Saturday but said he'd let me know. And he did, Cancelling our date with a very cutesy text. And he hasn't been heard from since. So either it's a terrible case of man flu that he's suffering with - not impossible, I guess - or something else is going on. It's sounding eerily familiar. One of the first guys I dated, Army Boy, suggested that we organize a holiday, and hinted that he'd like it if I took the initiative a little more in our long distance relationship (we met in Melbourne when he was on leave, then he had to go back to Townesville) and call him myself more often. And then we never spoke again. In fact, even his mother and grand mother, who both knew my mother well, took a long time get back in touch. All ties severed, and I still have no idea why. Then in London there was the talker. All systems go, him very keen, then he went out for work drinks on a Friday night. It wasn't quite as abrupt here, because we spent a very awkward Saturday together, mostly with him either lugging my stuff - I was moving house - or sleeping off his hang over. The first warning was that he no longer wanted to hold hands. Then he changed the planned Thursday night dinner to drinks and dumped me. I have ideas about what went wrong there, a certain colleague of his perhaps being involved, but no confirmation. And all the warning I had was a reluctance to hold hands. What is about me that can inspire almost stalkerish attention one minute, then have men running away the next? Anyone with clues, please, feel free to enlighten me. 2. There is apparently something about writing a blog that is great for my mental health. I've noticed it myself, and there have been other comments from various people who don't know that I blog, that the past six months have seen a definite slide in my attitude to various things. I've noticed myself that my temper, always a doubtful property when I'm in the comfort of my own home, has been much more easily triggered. That's part of the motivation for getting back here. But it's a chicken or the egg scenario, as I'm not sure if the mood is caused by a lack of blogging, or if the lack of blogging causes the mood. I'm guessing this little experiment will test the theory. All I know for sure is that I've spent parts of the past six months in a fairly dark place. Here's hoping for a little more sunshine. 3. Why is the grass always greener? Of late I've been thinking back pretty fondly on my time in London. I know that the rose tinted glasses are firmly in place, but I'm missing mucky old England. Much the same way that I missed Oz when I was over in London. I seem to have created a conundrum for myself, where both are home, and at the same time neither one is. I don't think I could move away from my family again, but I miss the lifestyle over there. Even as I realize that it wouldn't be the same if I went back again. People have moved on, the mood has shifted, and things are not as they were. But then again, they're not ideal here either. And I can't work out if it's genuinely a yen for the Old Dart or if I'm just having an anywhere-but-here/now thing due to the dark place I mentioned in point 2. And it's not just locatnal. Whatever work I'm doing, I wish I was doing something else, as well. Right now, I'm daydreaming about heading over to the UK to study. Nothing that could be generally useful in life, but rather something that I think would fascinate me, at least on some levels. Something that I may actually be passionate about (yes, that reared its ugly head again today, when I was told in my performance review at work that I was lacking passion. Instant flashback to uni tutor telling me he'd never seen anyone less passionate than me...) sure, the literary thing fired the mental synapses. I still love it, but can't see myself in a career. Can't see myself in this other career either. But I still find the idea fascinating. I want to study the history of clothing, and perhaps even tie it in with museum and curatorial studies. I'm realist enough to know its not going to happen, but it's the daydream of choice at the moment. When I'm not figuring out how on earth to get my fledging company a little higher off the ground. 4. Nope, that's it. Why is it that as soon as you say you're going to be using a particular number of things, you fall short of the stated figure? I could always go back and adjust the original number, of cours...but no. Much more fun tis way!

The road more travelled

It's been hard to avoid a sense of being left behind lately. Everyone seems to be sorted out, whether it's in relation to their careers, their finances, their relationships, or their families. Everyone, that is, except me, stuck in a place where I feel that I've never completely grown up.

Of course, there are advantages to not growing up. You can get away with star fishing in a massive bed, because you're not sharing it with anyone. You can spend your time however you want to; if there's a TV show you want to watch, the only thing that might stop you is another equally appealing show being on at the same time. Your sleep is undisturbed, and you never have to fight for the bathroom. You owe nothing to anybody, unless of course you've borrowed it first. If you want to take off to the other side of the world, the only thing stopping you is your bank balance. Yes, there are definite good points.

But the bad seems to be out weighing the good recently. In my family, I still feel like the little kid. I'm the only one left who is not partnered up, one of the only two without children and a marriage. Even my younger cousins are now all married. My younger sister-in-law is due to pop out her second child sometime in the next couple of weeks; the cousin a year younger than me is not far behind her with her first. My boss earns twice the cash that I do, owns two houses and has a partner that she is planning a family with; she's three years older than me. My closest friends either own homes or are looking to buy. They are in jobs that they enjoy, and they're well paid. Many of them are also in relationships.

And then there's me.

I'm single, with no prospects on the horizon. I am extremely badly paid in a job that, on a good day, I tolerate but never love. I have no idea what to do with my life, and have been drifting along without hope of improvement for years now, dabbling around the edges of the problems but too chicken to actually do something that will decide one way or another for me. I tried living on my own, and found that I could barely keep my nose above the financial waters, so had to go back to sharing a house. Although I am older than at least half of my female relatives, I do not have a family of my own; wanting does not bring anything into effect in that area, and my existence is too precarious to risk a solo effort. While everybody else seems to have progressed in at least one area of their life, I have comprehensively wallowed.

It's tough being alone in this world, too. Everything is geared towards couples, from travel to restaurants, to advertising, to radio competitions. Couples and families. The assumption was always that I would have been married and settled by now, a couple of kids in tow. It hasn't happened - not just for me, but for many women I know. Failing that, I was going to have dazzled literary circles with my writing, designed award winning houses, done something to have an impact on the world, rather than becoming the person who holds up people's dream homes because their design is 10cm too close to a boundary. I was supposed to at least make enough cash that I would be able to afford my own place, somewhere to hide my miserable self. It seems that I have failed comprehensively.

I usually try not to get down about things beyond my control; if I did, I'd be in a permanent state of misery. But today, for some reason, I have succumbed to the temptations of chocolate and junk food, to misery, fear, and loneliness. Tonight, it seems too hard to keep up the smiling face of the fat person, the cliche of crying within is ringing a little too true. Tonight, I feel that everybody else is moving forwards, and I'm going backwards. About the only signs of increasing maturity are the soft laughter lines around my eyes, and what I'm starting to believe are silver, rather than golden, strands that occasionally reveal themselves in the thick mass of my hair. I'm tired of pretending that I don't care, that it doesn't hurt to see someone with the life I pictured for myself.

Tonight, of not on other nights, the walls can come down a little, and I can say, with complete honesty, that family functions are a bitter pill to swallow. I may gripe about them a little at other times, but the reason never really comes out. The truth is, that when my outspoken, bitter and twisted grandmother comes out with her barbed comments about weight, about the idea that I have ruined my life by travelling instead of settling down, there are times when I almost believe that she's right. There are times when I look at the life of my cousin, my oldest and probably closest friend, and, whatever I think of her husband, I wonder why that never comes to me. When I look around the table of coupled up people, and find myself seated opposite Nana, as the only other single around the table, and I wonder if this is what life will be like for always, the sense that everybody else is happy, and I alone am not. And you have to wonder, where did it all go wrong? Was it in wanting things that were never meant for me? Or was it in trying too hard to do everything, to be everything? Perhaps it was in wanting it all, and not narrowing my focus. Or maybe it was just never the right thing for me and I'm pining for things that would never make me any happier than I am right now.

Or maybe it was in disappearing down a worm hole of 'What if?'

White nights

I've got insomnia at the moment. Even though I'm ridiculously tired, my brain refuses to shut down for the night. The off switch is broken, even though the gears are moving slower. Or they're moving slower until I put my head on the pillow, at any rate. So what better way to while away the wee-sma's than blogging about it, and thereby sharing the pain with the blogosphere?

Have you ever noticed that you can't complain about being tired without someone in the room assuring you that it's nothing, compared to how exhausted they are/have been/were five years ago? Or is it just because of the people I work with that I'm thinking that? There's the middle aged Greek woman, who manages to complain about being happy, and the middle aged plastic surgery fan who is the stereotypical sales woman, right down to being in the process of trading her sports car for a four wheel drive that is unlikely to ever venture off road. She says it's to drive her dad and his friend around now that they can't do it for themselves. Anyone who has seen the elderly attempt to climb stairs will realise just how bad an idea is it to have a car they have to climb into. But I digress...

Not surprising, really. Lack of sleep does that to me. I should be happy and content at the moment. I've finally received the results of my thesis, and I passed. I weighed myself today, and have actually managed to lose a little weight - I could put it in percentage of my goal, but I won't, because that's a little depressing. I have had an almost moron free day at work, and have money in the bank (it was pay day on Tuesday). But it was also Valentine's Day on Monday, and the few morons who came in were spectacular (yes, I'm talking to you, Mr there-are-no-white-lines-on-my-street-why-are-we-so-left-out). While I should be thrilled with my thesis mark - it's a distinction, for anyone who cares, something I would have been thrilled to get in my architecture studies - I was a little disappointed; I have no right to be, when I submitted it knowing there were huge holes in both my arguments and my research, but there you have it. I think I know what I want to be when I grow up, and it involves more study, and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. But I've applied anyway, and now I'm trying to work out the logistics of maintaining a job while I study, getting through the study in as short a time as possible, and figuring out how the hell you can keep a full time job AND fit in the practical experience component of a teacher training course. Because that's where I want to get to. Teacher training. Only I'm not there. Nowhere near. And I haven't heard any confirmation about my application. And it's freaking me out. In fact, pretty much everything is freaking me out right now.

I spent some time looking into how much money I would need to buy my own property, and how much the banks are likely to loan me. And it turns out that I would actually need to have more money saved than I plan on borrowing from the bank if I'm to get my hands on anything halfway to what I want.

Out of curiosity - I was bored, the thought popped into my head, and my laptop was both there and on - I looked into going back to the UK. I find myself missing the crispness of a cold morning. I blame the humidity. Except that it turns out that they have put a stop to the visa that I had before, so I'd need sponsorship. And the only industry I'm trained for has gone down the toilet, so even if I did decide that I wanted to, I couldn't go back. And it peeves me no end. Except I wonder if I could...because I do have a letter...but then again, my visa expired, and...it's all so complicated and its so late, and...

It's the middle of the night and I'm lying in bed blogging. It seems the sky is falling in tonight. Except it's not. Oh, and I just found out on Sunday that not only is my sister-in-law pregnant, but so is another person I know. I'm not supposed to tell because she's only 7 weeks gone. But there you have it. That's another thing I have no idea how to get to.

I really shouldn't blog when the weight of the world is bringing me down. The sky isn't really falling. It's just another Melbourne thunderstorm in a summer that has already seen more natural disasters befall the world than I can ever remember coming so close together. Perhaps it's time to try and sleep again. I'm sure the world will look better tomorrow. It has to - it would be hard to look worse, right now.