The Great Perhaps

Adventures can start with a spontaneous bang, or with a tiny kernel of quiet resolve, like ice in your heart.
Embarking on something new is always terrifying. If you’re not terrified, you’ve not grasped the situation properly. People have told me I’m brave for trying new things, but I’m not. I’m terrified. I’m always afraid of the unknown. I’m afraid that as soon as I try something new that I’ll fail at it, and everyone will know and strangers will point at me and whisper as I walk down the street and say behind their hands “That’s her… That’s the girl that couldn’t.”
But as I sit here at my desk, working at the same company I’ve worked at for close to 6 years, I’m feeling a new kind of fear; the fear of stagnating. It’s like heavy cold water sitting in my stomach and spreading through my veins. I see people leaving and going on to other, presumably better things, but I’m still here. Why? Why am I still here? Because I’m afraid. Here, I know everything. I know all the processes and all the products and all the people. Out there, I know nothing. There’s a common saying in my office amongst the people who have been here a while: “There’s got to be more to life than this.” And you know what? There has to be. What the fuck am I still doing here? Why aren’t I out there in the great perhaps?  I know what I want to do. I know it in my heart, but it’s just so hard to take that first step, to trust in yourself enough to do something. Anything! It doesn’t have to be a big step. Just a tiny shuffle in the right direction is enough. Almost anything in life is repairable. You can get a new job, you can grow your hair back, you can take out the nose ring that once made you look so tough, but now is just a youthful booger collector in a too old face. The only thing that’s stopping you, me, everybody, is fear.  I feel myself getting closer and closer to this unknown, to this point where I must jump. Whether I fly or fall remains to be seen, but I know that I can’t stand here forever wondering. I have to take the chance and see. And it’s coming. My time is coming and I will be out there in the new shiny terrifying world trying things.

If my calculations are correct, when this baby hits 88 miles per hour... you're gonna see some serious shit.

I jumped into my DeLorean on Friday night and commenced my epic drive to Sydney.

About 6 hours in, I realised that I’m too old for this shit. 26 is too old to be working all day, and then driving all night. I used to be able to get by on no sleep at all. Work all day, go out til 5 in the morning, and then be back at work at 9. I don’t know how I did it.

Husband, Small Boy Dog, Small Girl Dog and I arrived in Sydney at 4:45am. Family’s Large Round Girl Dog was startled but seemed quite happy to share her bed with two energetic sneezing creatures at dick fuck o’clock.

We had a wedding last weekend to attend in the Hunter Valley and another one to attend next weekend in Avalon, and I’m staying with my family for a week, and working out of my companies Sydney office. Husband has flown home to Melbourne for the week, but will be back up next weekend to be best man.

The thing that I always notice first when I go back home, is how low down the light switches are. I can’t find them in the dark, because I’m searching the wall 3 inches above where they’re actually located. I know this is because I’ve gotten taller from when I lived there, but it’s like everything in the house has subtly shrunk. I’m sleeping in my old room again which has the brightness of a thousand suns from 5:30 in the morning til about 5:30 at night. It’s a very strange feeling, it’s like I’ve actually gone back in time. I lie in bed in my teenage bedroom and text husband and read books. I get lunch packed for me, and dinner is ready when I get home. There are biscuits in the pantry and white bread in the freezer. There’s real butter and sweet sandwich pickles and the barbeque sauce lives in the cupboard. There’s pork roasts on Sundays and jelly fluff for dessert. My Grandfather comes with me in the mornings to the train station so I don’t have to leave my car there and I can get driving practice in, then I ring him when my train goes past Lidcombe and he drives my car to the station, so I can drive home.

I feel like I’m 19 again and the last 7 years of my life never happened. I’m getting up at the same time that I used to, going to the same train station, catching the same train, fighting for the same seats, getting my hand wedged in (probably) the same sweaty man’s armpit because he thinks it’s appropriate to lean against the pole that other people use to hold on, and when the train lurches around corners he catches himself with his armpits instead of his hands. I’m walking to the same office, stopping at the same coffee shop and drinking the same (terrible) coffee. I’m having lunch with the same people and complaining about the same things. I’m not seeing Husband during the week, just like I used to, back when he was Boyfriend instead of Husband. I’m being fussed over and allowed to go to bed early without anyone making fun of me. I get to hide in my room and read all the trashy sci-fi books I want. I’m going to a BBQ on Friday night with the same friends that I used to spend every weekend with from when I was 11 til I moved to Melbourne at 22.

It all feels slightly off though. A bit like I’m a round peg in an oval hole. I still fit, but it’s not seamless like it used to be. I’ve changed a lot in the last 7 years. I’m more independent, less able to factor in the needs of a lot of people; I’m not as good at being in a fast paced environment or being around crowds. As much as I have bemoaned being a grown up and paying rent and bills and doing grocery shopping, you can’t go back in time. You can’t be a teenager again, even if you do everything the same way you used to. Life changes you, and if you do try to go back, sometimes you realise what you have now isn’t so bad. 

I hate you, don't leave me.

I was diagnosed with bipolar affective disorder and borderline personality disorder when I was a teenager. I must have been about 16 or so when it all happened. I have always understood that it is an illness and it's not something that I caused or was really my fault. I've read about a lot of people who take all the blame for it on themselves but thankfully I never had that layer. Maybe Im selfish. Who knows? It's not something I really like to talk about though. I don't say to people " Hi! I'm Kit. Nice weather we're having and by the way, I'm a manic depressive with a weak sense of identity and a fear of abandonment. Do you like gelato?" I don't feel that it defines me as a person any more than having eczema would. It's something that I have and there are steps that I take to manage it. When I was first diagnosed my family were fantastic. My GP diagnosed me with depression and gave me a referral to see a psychiatrist. I was put on medication to treat the symptoms while I went regularly to counseling sessions to try to understand why I was feeling this way and to learn what trigger events were setting off my episodes of depression and mania and my unfounded fear of rejection.

My Mum bought a book to read to try to help herself and me understand what was happening a bit better. It was called I hate you, don't leave me. I never read it, but the title was always something that stuck with me, even now almost 10 years later. It's hard when your feelings are such a complete mess that even thinking about it makes you exhausted. I hate you, don't leave me is how I felt about most people in my life around that time. I hated them, everything they did and said annoyed me and I was 90% sure they were only put on earth to piss me off. I couldn't be without them though. I would actively seek people out and want to spend time with them and talk to them only to become enraged minutes into the conversation. It wasn't their fault and in most ways it wasn't my fault either. I was so new to these feelings that I didn't know how to express them and understand them. It was hard for me because I couldn't articulate what I was going through and it was hard for my family because they didn't understand. I kept a lot of the really bad stuff from them too. At the time, and even now it's not stuff that I talk about.

I went to counselers and psychologists, psychiatrists and psychopharmacologists and was prescribed antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilisers and was told I might have to spend some time in hospital if I didn't improve. I hated it. The medications made me physically sick and a lot of the time I was unable to get out of bed. I was trying to study for my HSC but couldn't focus on anything. I had a boyfriend and we treated each other appallingly because neither of us understood. I took myself off all the meds, which isn't a safe thing to do, and spiraled out of control.

Eventually I learned something called Cognitive Behaviour Therapy. I don't think they do that anymore, but it was the only thing that has ever helped me. I've had 2 really bad episodes in the last 6 years which is incredible because I used to have 2 really bad episodes a week. I think it has to do with growing up and my brain maturing but also a lot to do with recognising the onset of it and distracting myself from it. I've always written and that helps a lot. I bake now when I'm frustrated and angry. It calms me. I play with my dogs or I read a book. I'm not cured. As far as I know, there isn't a cure. But that's ok. I'm not ashamed of my illness and having it has made me who I am and I'm stronger for it. My brain doesn't work quite the same way as other peoples do but if it did I wouldn't be someone who bakes and blogs and always says exactly what she thinks. I apologise if sometimes it seems like I hate you, please though... Don't leave me. 

As Triple J says: Watch out! Bad words! Now!

“Swearing, they say, is a human universal. Every language, dialect or patois ever studied, living or dead, spoken by millions or by a small tribe has a certain group of words that are considered swearing.”

Swearing is like all language – fluid. It is never static or stagnant. Language has a wonderful quality of movement that changes and adapts to the world as the world itself changes.

Swearing is by no means a recent thing, some researchers have suggested that humans could swear before they could walk upright as anyone that’s tried to wake up someone with a hangover can attest. Modern day swearing evolved from cursing and profanity and while those are still synonyms for swearing, they once had a different meaning.

Profanity came about by taking holy things and using them in unholy circumstances. God damn it, hells bells… that kind of thing. Things that most of us don’t bat an eyelid over now or even really consider swearing.

Cursing was literally putting a curse on someone. My family is Irish and the Irish have some top notch curses. They are the sinister, ominous counterpoints to the blessings that we hear in every wedding toast. They are sometimes comical, sometimes profane but always clear in intent. “May the cat eat you and the Devil eat the cat.”
Swear words however are words that have become detached from their exact meaning and just sort of float about to add intensity to other more innocent words. What we consider swear words now, in the past weren’t. They were just the literal description of things. Cocksucker, arsehole… etcetera ad nauseam. The Bible uses words that we now consider swearing. Men who “eat their own dung, and drink their own piss” 2 Kings 18:27. For the secular enthusiast Shakespeare is awash with swearing, though most of it is not recognised as such anymore. The oldest traces of human writing include swear words. But, as I said, swearing has grown and changed. It wasn’t really until the turn of the 20^th century that one of the most common phrases in the swearers arsenal (fuck you) was recorded and it took about 20 years for “go fuck yourself” to show up. Using “fucking” to emphasise a point was around from the 1890’s and hasn’t really gone out of fashion since. Around the same time the word “motherfucker” was thought up.

So, why this foray into etymology on a chilly afternoon? It’s simple really… I like to swear. I don’t see swearing as inherently bad. I don’t think it’s bad language.

My Mum doesn’t swear. She was into her 40s before she said the word “fart.” She considers it bad language. Sometimes if she’s really quite angry, she’ll say “bugger.” I used to get into trouble for saying “bum.” As I’ve grown up and my vocabulary has increased beyond that of a toddler, I will sometimes swear just for fun. Sometimes it’s to articulate a point, or to emphasise a particular fact but a lot of the time, it’s just because it makes me happy. I swear for the sheer joy of swearing. I attack it with reckless abandon. Swearing is to language what vintage cheddar is to cheese. Stinky and uncompromising, strong and evocative and unapologetic. It’s powerful to be able to stand up and say “Actually, fuck you.” Swearing is an outlet for my creativity. I like radio stations that leave swearing in their songs, I like TV channels that leave swearing in their shows. The conversations in my workplace would be reduced by half if all the swearing was taken out. Swearing is often the only thing that can drag me out of a bad mood. It’s a bonding tool in my world. The more I swear at you, the more I like you. And so, with the best of intentions… Fuck off and leave me alone.

"It's not a car Kit. It's a 2 tonne killing machine, and you're driving it, so help us all."

I've never really been one for self transportation. I never learned to ride a push bike, a scooter, a skate board or a motor bike and I consistently fell over on my roller-blades, so I gave up. It took me until I was older than should be spoken of to get my learners permit for a car too.
Husband has bravely volunteered to teach me to drive. Lesser things have ruined marriages. We both feel that we can get through it though.
When I first got my L's, I was taken to a big gravel car park on Beach Road in Sandringham. I wasn't allowed to accelerate. Not even a little bit. Apparently the car idled high enough that it would move itself and I could just steer. Which was awesome, until the hoon spirit over came me and I had a burning desire to travel at more than 2 kilometers an hour.
I was allowed to then drive in circles, accelerating up to 20 kilometers an hour. It was impressive, I tell you. I was overtaking all the parked cars in the car park. Once, I even overtook an old man with a walking stick. It was exhilarating.
After that I got to drive in an estate. You know those ones where all the houses are the same? Kids are supposed to play outside and people jog and smile near the fake water features? Anyway, I was allowed to drive there, doubling my speed yet again to 40. I was a rally car driver! I drove in between a parked car and a parked bus. I felt like I was driving on the death road in South America.
When I graduated to driving on a more road-y road we went to the Docklands and drove around there. There aren't that many cars and it's a feature rich kind of road. Like a fruit and nut chocolate bar versus a plain one. There are traffic lights and speed bumps and pedestrians who are too fucking stupid to realise that they probably shouldn't jump out of a hunk of metal and plastic moving at 50ks an hour piloted by an out of control red head with a sadistic gleam in her eye.
One such night I was driving around the Docklands in a special route that took me around corners and other drivery type things. I had made an executive decision that I was bored with my special learning route, and wanted to deviate. Husband agreed. I missed the turn I had intended to take and ended up driving on a real road. Or, as I call it, The Scary Road. For some reason that night there were an abundance of police cars around and at all times, one was following me. This made me understandably nervous. So, I got lost on The Scary Road, and ended up driving into the city. I almost ended up on Spencer Street, which would have been a disaster. I had to do a U-Turn and I ended up stuck on some tram tracks when I mistook the brake for the accelerator. Then, I got beeped at by an angry man.
Husband was reassuring through all of this. He really is a very patient man.
I'm driving fine now, and no longer hear Husbands dismayed gasps as he says "BIT TO THE RIGHT!" as I'm going along beside parked cars. I do still make jokes that if Husband was ever to form a band, he should call it "Grasping At Doors" after his habit of grabbing the Jesus Handle or the Oh Shit Handle when he thinks I'm not braking fast enough or he thinks I haven't seen something in the road ahead.
When I ask him for advice sometimes on how to execute a particular move, he will feel confident to answer my question of "Ok. So, how do I get to there from here?" with a curt "Left!" and an eye roll, rather than an instruction of how to turn the wheel and when to brake and accelerate.
As I said, Husband is a patient man. He's also a nice man. For example, he wouldn't let me drive over a cyclist that yelled at me on the weekend. I know that I'm a new driver, but I know that I am of the same opinion as a million other drivers on the road. For the majority, cyclists are huge self entitled jerks. Apparently, he thought I didn't see him. Like I could miss his spandex covered sweaty fluro arse. He was so far in my lane instead of over in his ow little bike riding section and apparently a foot of space between my wing mirror and his over inflated ego isn't enough.
I thought you got extra points if you hit the ones with wheels? I could be wrong though. I am only new.

Happy Valentine's Day - Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?

I know I’ve spoken about it before, and I don’t doubt that at some point I will speak about it again, but please, for the love of God, put down your fucking iPhone.

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and whether you’re on the “Snuggly-bear I wuvs you so much, you’re my honey boo-boo for evers!” lobby, or whether you’re riding shotgun throwing flaming bags of dog shit onto couples from the top of the “This is just an excuse for Hallmark to make money! What a bunch of commercialist claptrap, I can’t believe people would buy into this blarney! I am an independent person with very high self-esteem and don’t need a dying flower to cement my belief in myself!” bandwagon, I would like to think that we could possibly agree on one thing: If you are out on a date, leave your fucking smart phone in your fucking pocket.

Husband and I forgo presents and will go out to eat or participate in an activity for days that are special to us. Anniversaries, birthdays, things like that. For Valentine’s Day this year, we went to Gingerboy in Crossley St in Melbourne’s CBD. I’m going to make a little aside here, and say that if you go to Gingerboy and want a cocktail, get yourself a Lustful Revenge. It’s like Ribena and Turkish delight had a baby. An alcoholic baby and that baby is AWESOME. Anyway, there are a million reviews out there and everybody knows Gingerboy is amazing, so you don’t need me telling you how great it is. My point is that out of the completely full dining room, Husband and I win the most romantic couple award. We may win by default, but by God, that counts.

Everybody in the restaurant, apart from us, at some stage pulled out their phones. It was obvious by the bluish tinge on their faces as they furiously tapped at their crotchal region. The couple next to us spent the entire night on their iPhones. I think at some point they were even texting each other. The couple on the other side lasted most of the night until the girl pulled out her phone to tweet “OMG… Why is this so spicy? Why would curry be spicy? It’s inedible!” I know this because she said the same thing out loud, multiple times before sending her food back. Here’s a hint love, if something says chilli crusted, chances are it’s going to be hot.

I thought I had made a silent alliance with a couple sitting adjacent to us who were also sniggering at the texting couple until I glanced back sometime mid-Wagyu beef and they were tapping away at a suspiciously phone shaped object. Honestly, it breaks my heart. A guy in my company gave his girlfriend 12 long stemmed roses, a heart shaped box of chocolates, a fluffy dog toy and a Tiffany & Co ring this Valentine’s Day. My husband gave me the best present of all though, his attention and the gift of his conversation.  

Too lazy to finish a sente....

One of the dangers of being a slovenly creature, like myself, is that when home alone one night and cooking dinner for yourself without witnesses you are liable to make mistakes. Take for instance, this evening. Husband is at dance and I am home by myself cooking stir fry and drinking diet rite Portello directly from the bottle. I put the delicious beverage (with 5% juice - it makes it healthy) down on the bench. When I pick it up and take a swig I notice it's rather thicker and more oystery than normal.
Yeah... That'll be the Oyster Sauce then. That's not even close to Portello.
I know that I could have avoided this entire situation by pouring the damn thing into a glass, but it's just so much effort.
It's the same crushing laziness that leads me to kick my shoes off in the general direction of the designated shoe area, and trip over them time and time again until I give up and finally kick them close enough to the wall that I won't trip on them in the middle of the night. I won't actually bend over, pick them up and move them, I'll just scoot them further with my foot so that they're not such an immediate trip hazard.
It's the same debilitating not botheredness that refuses to let me put things away when I'm done with them. I look at the things on the bench, the flour, the eggs, the sugar and this wave of instant lackadaisical apathy will come over me. It's why there's a soft toy ninja on top of my recipe books. He doesn't belong there, but it's just so much effort to move him.
There's a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle spread on the floor of my study. I haven't even finished the border, but I can't bring myself to sit down and actually do it, nor can I bring myself to pick it up.
My casual attitude to the general neatness of my environment has been a problem for those that live in my vicinity for as long as I've been alive. I maintain that I know where everything is and it's a sort of strata system.
I washed that dress and put it on the pile about 2 weeks ago, therefore it will be approximately 1 meter from the top of the pile, slightly to the left, because the clothes fall that way due to some trick of gravity or the slant of the chair I have placed them upon.
Husband is a neatness freak. Everything has a place. He may not necessarily know where he's put it, but damn it, he put it somewhere and that's where it lives.
My kitchen has a whole bunch of random hooks that things hang off. So does my bathroom. I have a fucking wok hanging from my kitchen window because that's it's spot. Husband has decreed that the wok lives on the right, and the fry pan on the left. I wanted to go for more traditional curtains, but hey, let the man have his fun.
My house, were I to live alone would possibly resemble that of one of those hoarders houses. Not because I have any attachment to the things, just because I can't quite bring myself to put down my sci-fi book, get off the couch and fold towels.
It's something that I know I'm going to have to work on... Just not now, I'm reading this book.

It's my hut. Get out.

I just ate an entire bay leaf. Without chewing it. I can feel it lodged in my throat. I didn’t do this on a dare or anything; I was just stuffing ross fil forn into my mouth at my desk on rapid speed and missed that it was in there. I’m a bit all over the place at the moment.
This is my first week back at work after the Christmas break so I still have holiday brain. I went on a cruise, like the 75 year old woman I am rapidly becoming and the boat was a hotbed of disease and subsequently, I came away with a cold that still hasn’t abated as well as an addiction to smoked salmon.
Also, it’s my moon time, so to speak. You know… Tom is here and Auntie Flo is visiting and they’ve taken over the house and gotten the painters in. The river is running red and I’m riding the cotton pony. I’m bleeding out of my lady bits for all those still a bit confused.
I know a lot of ladies have told a lot of stories about this, and I know a lot of guys have covered their ears and gone “LA LA LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I know also, that 90% of guys reading this have already ripped their computers off their desks and thrown them out a window, but for those still with me, thanks.
I know it’s not a commonly touted symptom of making Draculas teabag, but it makes me mushy brained. I have something called secondary dysmenorrhea. That’s a real thing by the way; you can look it up, probably not on Google images though. It makes me more tired and confused than normal. Yesterday, it made me try to dig out my uterus with a spoon. It makes me into the kind of person that eats whole bay leaves and cries at ads for potato chips. The pain it causes is only marginally diminished by the fast inhalation of heavy pain killers and chocolate covered pretzels. I tried to make a good decision today and eat something that wasn’t bad for me, but still tasted like cake. I had a Yoplait Formé. It’s fat free yoghurt. The label promised me it would taste like classic cheese cake. It fucking lies. It’s a little pot of lies and disappointment. Doesn’t it know that it can’t lie to me like that? Especially not when I’m so fragile!
A lot of feminists would get on my case if anyone other than my Mum read this blog, (Hi Mum.) but you know what I’d like to see a return of? Menstrual huts. Maybe not for all women, but for women like me? I would be all over that. I am a sad sorry excuse for a person at this time. I have been known to vomit from pain. I cry and I roll around and swear and kick my feet and blame everyone for everything. I work from home and write all emails on my phone from a bed on the floor that I have constructed from a futon mattress and multiple blankets. I want to go to a little hut and do all of this in peace without feeling bad about it. Put in a TV, a well-stocked fridge and every episode of How I Met Your Mother then leave me the fuck alone. Sorry, can’t go to work, I’m in my hut. Sorry, can’t cook dinner, I’m in my hut. Sorry, I can’t attend your gala dinner event celebrating the centenary of your grandmother inventing a new way to make black pudding; I’m in my fucking hut. It doesn’t even have to be a real hut, I’m not fussy. My house would do.
I’d knock myself out with drugs and nap with the dogs, using their tiny puppy bellies as a heat pack. I’d settle for people not asking me questions at this time at the very least. SO MANY QUESTIONS! How are you? How about this weather? How was your weekend? Leave me alone! I want to curl into a ball and whimper in peace while I eat uncooked ramen noodles in the dark and lament why Dylan Moran isn’t really drinking anymore.
You know what, I can’t blog. I’m going to my hut.