I’m afraid to blog these days because it seems my health gets worse as each post is published! This time, it’s my right arm that’s fucked.

Crashing at Greg’s with Charli, he was at work and I was feeding Charli her lunch when I started having stabbing pains in my right arm. The pain varied from aches to stabbies to tinglies as about a half-hour passed, when Greg came home for lunch. The pain was persistent and constant, so we decided to go to the hospital to get it checked out.

Most people hate waiting in the Accident & Emergency part of a hospital. Those people are stupid! When you are rushed through because the Triage Nurse (that whore!) says as she passes front-desk reception to the gossipy menopausal hag that you are a CAT X (Category X – I don’t remember what I was), I don’t think about those life-enriching sit-downs that remind me I am alive and healthy — I think, “Z0MG, I’m going to die!!!1”

Long story short, I was tested for: hypoglycaemia, pregnancy (LOL), long-term neck trauma. I was prodded, squeezed, wore the stupid gown, was poked and told to urinate, but I still found the process quite fun.

Fortunately, I am not hypoglycaemic or pregnant. Oh yeah, E-high-five!

Unfortunately, the x-ray of the neck showed no bones out of alignment, so I’ll have to get me one of those fandangled CT scans. It’ll be a cinch, though I do get claustrophobic a fair bit worse when I am alone.

The doctor believes that I have nerve-damage and possibly muscular neuralgia caused by long-term neck trauma… wouldn’t be surprised if I was dropped on my head repeatedly when I was born, to be honest. That’d explain a lot.

SO! I’m hopped up on narcotic painkiller Endone (Oxycodone – Opioid – OH E-HIGH-FIVE!). I’m on anti-epileptic but proven aide for muscular neuralgia, Tegretol (Carbamazepine). I’m on Zoloft (Anti-depressant). I’m on The Pill. I’ve been told to rub anti-inflammatory gel on my arm, so I smell like manky Vietnamese fish-shop as well. Ehhhhh. I feel heavily medicated and buzzed on life. It feels like I’m running in tight little circles, surrounded by nothing but cuddles. That’s right – cuddles.

Can you tell I’ve just topped up on the Endone and Tegretol? KE. KE.

What else has happened since I last blogged? Hmm.

Well, the Zoloft’s really working a treat; I’m handwriting a lot of journal entries again, thus the recent abscence. I’m finding this fire re-igniting the creativity in me. I’ve missed scrawling (KEKE) furiously on receipts and pamphlets for fear of the memory disappearing as quickly as it came… that was my perception of passion, and it’s good to have that back… even if I do look like a lunatic when I’m being all passion-y. Damn that passion. Did you ever see the soapie Passions? That sucked scrote.

Greg had his movie premiere a couple weeks ago. Tristan Pemberton produced Single White Farmer, and stars Barry Otto as the Single White Farmer, and Greg as the real estate agent. I have to say, it was a spectacular short film, and Greg got the real estate agent look down pat… revolting, tacky and skeezy. Not to mention creepy, since I was sitting right next to him. Ech. ANYWAY: To see and speak (albeit briefly!) with and of a legend of Australian film in the same room as me, Barry was incredibly open to chat about most anything — seeing him, my boyfriend, and all the hard work that went into getting this short film made, it sort of saddened me in how little help Australian film people actually get from other Australians. It was a bit pathetic, but yes — overall, a wonderfully awesome premiere. It should be on SBS in the next few months, for anyone interested.

Greg’s other short film, Dak Dak, was shown at Art On The Rocks last month. A couple technical glitches throughout the 12 short films, some really awesome and really horrible short films, and Greg’s was final. It was produced and directed by Adam Webb. That was the weekend I was lost my mind, so I wasn’t really feeling the arty-vibe, but I was incredibly proud of Greg and his film, nonetheless.

To be continued… I feel like I’ve just been shot in the arse with bear tranquiliser. Ehh.

Every so often, you take stock of your life. Every so often, you learn something new about yourself that you don't particularly like. Lately for me, it's been about romantic relationships; I sabotage great relationships whenever I sense a rough patch. I thought life was about learning from a mistake and not doing it again, but this seems to keep happening, and it's completely from my end.

I don't like being hurt, though I don't think anybody really does. My reaction to feeling threatened, it seems, is to offer my partner the easy way out and to be passively aggressive in conversation. I hate passive-aggressive behaviour in people! So why the hell do I do it?! I overthink, over-react over completely irrational thoughts that don't make sense. When I'm not doing that on my lonesome, I drink. Eh.

It doesn't make sense to me that relationships are where you're supposed to feel the most comfortable with yourself, where you feel so safe and alive… but the moment I get into one, I freak the fuck out over stupid things. I'm an asshole. Sometimes it makes sense to me as to why some single mothers stay single; there's so much baggage, and in contention with other women of my age, I tend to lose. I know I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to relationships, and I hate feeling so insecure. It must be exhausting to have to reassure someone constantly about how much you care about them. Ah, balls.

I just want to be happy and be a part of something beautiful where both people are completely satisfied.

I feel like complete and utter shit. This particular episode began approximately this time last night, probably PMT-related. It's hard to explain to people what you're down about when you're not quite sure, yourself. What's harder is not only the fact that the people asking are spectacular friends who are genuinely concerned about me, but also explaining to said people that you need to feel these feelings in order to move forward. It's not like I enjoy feeling like the only remedy to my current state would be to kick people's faces off.



Whether it's my shorter-than-me attention-span or whether I actively set a time limit in my mind, I'll get over it and life will go on.

Spent Monday and Tuesday at Greg's, and he whipped up an awesome dinner of the biggest prawns I have ever seen in my life, Balmain Bugs, sandcrab, eggplant, and yam. The eggplant and yam were baked separately and the seafood was pretty much just plainly cooked and served cold… I've been raving about the wonders of yams lately, and he was kind enough to indulge my little yamphase.

Anyway, on Tuesday morning, I decided to take Charlotte window shopping down Darling Street… or what I planned to be window shopping. I spent way too much money on vintage dresses (circa early 1960s – late 1970s – OMG, best ever dresses, EVER) cocktail and dinner dresses, op-shopping, mini aubergines, yams, and second-hand books. I've read most of them already, but that was years ago, and now I'm actively expanding my library.

My book purchases this week were:

The Diary Of A Young Girl – Anne Frank
The Power Of One – Bryce Courtenay
The Bonfire Of The Vanities – Tom Wolfe
The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald
One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest – Ken Kesey
Stanley Kubrick: A Biography – John Baxter
Lolita – Vladimir Nabokov
Lady Chatterley's Lover – D.H. Lawrence
Memoirs Of A Dutiful Daughter – Simone de Beauvoir
The Life And Work Of Sigmund Freud – Ernest Jones
Quartet – Marquis de Sade

Don't read too much into that list… the shop attendant looked at me like I was a fiend. The books were there to be bought, dammit. Actually, I'm really ecstatic that I've got a de Sade book in my library, as I've never seen any of his work available in bookstores. Jeez, I wonder why?

Argh, QLD beat NSW in the State Of Origin. For those foreign readers, that's football (rugby league).

Now. I'm off to drink, wallow, and suffer in my buyer's remorse.

Well. I'm still on the Zoloft, and it's working to my satisfaction. Although there's the usual day-by-day schedule to deal with, I'm generally a lot less on-edge about things. I've been thinking about life lately… more positive thoughts. Reading a lot more books, too. Not just fluffy crime-fiction (I heart crime-fiction!), but some classics. You can blame a binge on Nietzsche and Thoreau, but I've been thinking a lot about my life — who I was, who I am, who I will be. Actually, that seems to be the general running theme of all my posts, haha. I was thinking about the 21yo life I wanted when I was 15yo, compared to the 21yo life I'm actually living. Does that make sense? In the last two weeks, the people and situations I've found myself in have hammered in how choices, people, experience, and time can change your life path. It's been surreal. Anyway, I'll get to that later.

Something that could knock me off my Zoloft-laced cloud could be the fact that my once nervous/hungry-only shakes have become a lot more obvious and full-time. The moment my hands are idle, my hands start shaking uncontrollably. And they're always clammy now, but that's more awkward than debilitating. The shakes aren't debilitating at all, but it's really fucking annoying and I wonder if it's maybe neurological and just accented by the Zoloft. Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I'll get it checked out next time I need to fill my prescription.

Our housewarming was on Friday week ago, and oh! what a housewarming it was. Truthfully, it was a quiet affair with close friends, but it didn't really start out so quietly. Misha and I had resolved to spend all day Friday cleaning, with a sojourn to the shops for party supplies. Unfortunately, it pissed down rain all day, so Misha and I cleaned in spurts between watching VH1's 100 Best Rock Clips Of All Time, Crime Channel, and Maury Povich.

I love Maury.

Matt came home early in the afternoon to drop Charli off at the ex-MIL's, so Misha and I started to prepare for the party itself. Preparation was screaming in terror at every car that stopped in front of our house (we are in a cul-de-sac), then muttering obscenities whilst downing shots of vodka to steady the nerves.

The party was cool, I made a cool spinach dip that I forced everybody to try (which Burger snuck into and ruined), we had a raging fire in my bedroom, and while nearly everybody at the end of the night got thoroughly trashed on a concoction of normal human booze and European firewater, only one person puked. The only regretful incident was the introduction of whole breadrolls which were pegged directly at my head, for some reason.

I also got a driver very drunk when he realised via text message that he was no longer required to drive anywhere. When he asked for a scotch on the rocks, I was happy to fix it up for him… except there was no ice. So I, in my great wisdom after a few solid hours of drinking, decided to replace ice space with Jack Daniels. I'm a moron.

In other news, Chuck and I attended the funeral and wake of Greg's paternal grandmother, Enid. The funeral was very dignified, and the church was full, with guests flying in from as far out as Western Australia and the USA. It was a genuine shame that the second-ever time Greg's family had to meet us under such tragic circumstances, but there's not much you can do about that.

The wake was a little bit surreal. Luckily, I haven't had to attend too many funerals in my time yet, but it was a lot more social than I thought it was going to be. Charlotte was incredibly well-behaved during the funeral, so a lot of guests glided over in calculated intervals to introduce themselves and fawn over Chuck. The situation called for Greg to re-acquaint himself with most of the guests, so Charli and I milled around without much direction for a lot of the time, and had a few memorable conversations with several friends and family members.

A little old lady in her 90's, Dottie, decided to spend most of the day shuffling around us. For the first half of the wake, she sort of hovered without saying anything, just a tight smile and a mumbled comment about how beautiful my little boy was. My daughter was wearing pink and purple with butterfly and flower motifs, so I suspected that Dottie — while a complete delight — wasn't quite as on the ball as her dashing funeral attire suggested.

At last, she stopped to have a proper conversation with me, and it became apparent after a short time that Dottie was a victim of severe dementia. I'd dealt with quite a few dementia patients through work but didn't really realise until my polite in-laws voice to my polite-but-slightly-work voice. She wasted no time in her investigation to see whether or not I was okay, and the interrogation seemed to last a lot longer because she asked each question no less than five times over, resetting her memory bank every time she glanced away. Her questions, in no particular order:
"How much do you weigh? 7 stone?"

"Is this your first child? He's beautiful. How old is he?"

"Are you with Gregory? When are you going to start a family?"

"How many children do you think you can bear?"

"How many children do you want?" This was to be appended occasionally with "…with Gregory?", as if I were some harlot whose ovaries and sex-drive needed some gentle moral steering.

To be truthful with you, when it wasn't incredibly hilarious, I wanted to grip her skull to face me (and shake her slightly) so I only had to deal with each question once, but she was so freakin' sweet that I couldn't bear to even be terse with her — even if she would've forgotten ten seconds later.

Either way, I'm going to remember her very fondly, although our exchange was relatively brief. She got me thinking about my own mortality; the blatant ignorance in which I treat my own body, and how hard that can come and bite me in the arse when I will (hopefully) be reaping the benefits of decades of hard work. I know we all do things to our body that knock a few years off, but I fear I'm damaging an already-fragile system. Whatever, however, I'm pretty sure I'd rather die than lose my memory. It makes me so sad to imagine an existence where I couldn't piece together a coherent conversation, where everything I'd ever worked hard for disappeared at every turn. Even more terrifying would be to realise the onset of dementia; the thought of all the beautiful people, places and things in my life slipping out of my reach.

There was another gent I met there was Greg's uncle, Ian. A wonderfully affable man of roughly 55yrs old, we sat together at the funeral and he was tentative with conversation until he ducked out for a smoke with me at the wake. He flew from Western Australia, and felt a deep regret at not seeing Enid before her death… he was genuinely disgusted (albeit momentarily) at how high he held the value of money (and saving it) and the devastating repercussions (obviously fond of Enid or other relatives long gone from that generation) of being so materialistic. He spoke fondly of his three adult sons, and we discussed the woes and wonders of marriage. We discussed my relationship with Greg, and where it was headed, too. My answers must've been right (I even copped the usually mother-in-law-ish "Do you love him?"), because I was met with a massive man-hug with a chest-clearing pat on the back. I actually avoided him for a few minutes because the hugs and pats were so huge (he seemed to tower over me, but hey — who doesn't?!)!

Oh! Dottie, while her memory might be shot to shit, displayed and enthralled all around us with her sniper-level eyesight. I took great pains to hide my tattoo from Greg's parents with a cardigan only to have her zip all the way across the room to yank down the cardigan from the nape of my neck. Right in front of Greg's dad. Oh well… now he knows!

So. Two totally different social engagements in two weeks. The latter was definitely sobering, and has me feeling extremely thankful for the wonderful people in my life, and the life I'm living… even if it isn't glamorous or exciting. Whatever my future would've been if I made different choices five years ago, I know I wouldn't feel half as fulfilled, loved, in love, useful, or happy.

I'm back on the Zoloft again, and it isn't very pretty.

Yesterday, I had a little breakdown. Nobody in particular to blame other than myself, but I'm feeling pinched from all sides. Parenting, money, divorce, work, Scrawled, friendships, relationships, plus a billion other things… I can't prioritise, I can't think straight. I've become irritable, paranoid, and extremely stressed out.

The doctor said that I had severe anxiety, depression, and stress, despite things going fairly well for me lately. He gave me a prescription for 100mg Zoloft, and wished me luck. I popped the first one at around 8.30pm last night. By 10.30pm, I was stumbling around like a tranquilised bear, slurring and not seeing much of anything in front of me. Fifteen minutes later, I was puking my guts out.

I didn't sleep well, either. Between feeling like I was either boiling or freezing in my bed, I couldn't sleep any more than an hour and a half at a time. I overthought ridiculous things. I cried. I tried to write and type, but my hands were shaking uncontrollably. At 3am, I vomited again. I can honestly say that I have NEVER been more terrified of a drug in my body than I was last night. My heart was palpitating, my teeth were chattering and gnashing, I wanted to scream and crawl out of my skin. It was like I was experiencing withdrawals to the worst extreme. I'm supposed to take my second one sometime this morning. I don't want to go through those same effects this morning with Charlotte around, so I might wait until she's gone to bed for the night before I take it again.

Despite the horrendous night, I can't help feeling disappointed in myself. I'm a proud person, and the first time I took Zoloft, it was pretty much forced down my throat.  I hated it, it numbed me; I was unenthusiastic, vulnerable, malleable. I didn't care about anything, and I couldn't cope with that.  The alternative was to quit cold turkey and deal or resort to other means. I did fine with that up until now, so I'm not understanding why I'm feeling so overwhelmed. My life is good, but I feel like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders when it comes to making life choices for myself and Charlotte. It's fear, and it's crippling. I want to care, but not so much that I'm freaking out over trivial things.  Self-help books don't help, at least not this time.  I hate feeling disappointed in myself, that I've had to swallow my pride and ask for help. I shouldn't have to feel like that, and I don't know why I do, but I feel like I've let myself and Charlotte down.

I'm scared of becoming numb like I did in highschool, though I didn't have these side-effects back then — I must've only been on the 50mg ones. I'm scared that I'll turn into somebody I don't want to be, but right now I can't handle being everything to everyone, I can almost feel my brain liquefying.  Misha asked what she could do to help me out, and there really is nothing anybody can do for me — I just want some clarity and some breathing room, so I can step back, prioritise, then make my next move.

Is that too much to ask?

I believe that my body is flagging and I'm coming down with the common cold or flu.

Working in pathology and having to read out sick people's results all the time doesn't really help with the "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows Everywhere" mentality that you try to keep when your own body is ailing. A study should be performed on people who deal with disease all the time and the rapid decline of the rational psyche when one is growing ill. I'm sure the results would be interesting, if interesting equals going absolutely batshit insane!!!


Studying my blinking whilst on heavy cold & flu tablets: Slowly but surely — with or without caffiene — my eyelids slow right down and blink about a half-second apart from each other. It's like seeing the time+space continuum warp right before your very eyes. It's really sad and sort of reminds me of a maimed lizard.

My inability to speak/move properly: From various momentous events in my life, I've developed a very mild stutter when I'm on my way to being overwhelmed. When I'm overwhelmed, I'm a gobbling turkey — it happens most when I'm out without my glasses and have to read to people, like ordering from a menu. When I'm ill, I do the weird turkey thing, I tend to forget EVERYTHING about 5 seconds after I hear it (that's pretty good, since all I hear normally when most people talk is "Wharp-wharp-whaaaaarp-wharrrrrp"), and eventually stumble into walls and doors like a marionette being held by someone with Parkinson's Disease. In slow-motion.

Coffee starts tasting bad. So do cigarettes: I know it's bad when I go off my two main vices. I should probably take heed, since I'm an overuser of both stimulants, but I'm a moron so I keep going.

Lethargic and crabby: Fuck off, I can't be arsed explaining this one.

Actually, I've been teetering on the edge of sickness for the last two weeks, so maybe it's just a prolonged bout of a piss-weak strain of something. I'll get better, I always do. I'm still alive, so chillax.

Okay, this is going to be a bit confusing at first (part 1 of a #? series):

When I first left home, the first place I stayed at was a shoddy 3rd-level apartment with a friend, Will, and his housemate, Owen. Will's house was also occupied by his visiting cousin, Aaron, who needed a break from his crazy girlfriend down in Melbourne, X… by coming up to sojourn in Brisbane with his girlfriend's best friend, Dani.

Stay with me here, it gets easier.

Will's place wasn't my first choice to visit. Actually, I hadn't really planned running away all that well; I left with a few articles of (totally impractical) clothing, one pair of shoes and socks, and the rest of my backpack was still filled with the previous week's schoolbooks and other schoolgirl paraphernalia. Fortunately, Will answered his phone and welcomed me into his home until I "got on my feet." Which really meant, "for however long it takes for you to chicken out and go back home."

On the drive to Will's place that first night, I had outlandish visions of the "Secret Life Of Us" sort of atmosphere; a house filled with tealight candles, origami, massive ethnic bowls bought from The Tree Of Life, vintage furniture, guitars everywhere, and op-shop/market knick-knacks. I imagined housemates staying up cradling their coffees all night, talking about all sorts of grown-up things like existentialism and economics.

I prepared to bullshit my way through whatever they could dish up, as I was only 16 and these people were in their early 20s. Leaving home was no easy task, and I had to keep the momentum going… if that meant acting like I knew what the hell I was doing, then cool.

Walking through the door, I was greeted by the stone-cold reality of the struggling-artist lifestyle. Two sofas that looked (and smelled) like they'd once belonged to hobo junkies, a huge curling poster of The Beatles, a sink full of mouldy crockery, and an odd smell emanating from… well, everything. I'm taking a stab in the dark here, but the smell was not unlike what I'd imagine dickhole to smell like. Clean, unclean, mangled, neat, whatever – dickhole.

His housemate Owen came out, and he wasn't as scrubbed up as when I'd first met him a few months before; 4-day growth, linted boxers, no shirt, and that odd smell. He shook my hand vigorously and with a cheeky grin, plopped his 6'1" frame into one of the overworked sofas and stared at the TV. Owen said he was a freelance photographer, and was trying really hard to get a spot working for National Geographic. His photos were alright, but I'm easily pleased and definitely not knowledgable in photographic mastery; I'm sure he's not the only one to take pictures of sunsets and palm trees, and photos of manky pigeons mid-flight are so overdone they'd disintegrate with the next gust.

Even better than his photography, however, was his tendency to spin massive tales about places he's been to and places he's been. His claim to fame was that he "briefly dated" supermodel and superMILF Heidi Klum.

Now before you raise that cynical brow, let me assure you that I've seen the photos of them together. Oh yes, nothing says "we're a couple" like pictures of Heidi, some industry person, another industry person, some famous person, then almost off-shot, Owen. There's also another shot of her with him; he's talking, and she's pivoting to move elsewhere.

Lest we forget that he "briefly dated" Heidi Klum.

Sometime later, in my two week stay, I was to find out (via Dani, who started sleeping with him) that Owen only has one testicle; he was on a plane and apparently, one of his testicles crept right on up and disappeared, never to be seen again. A panicked visit to the doctors didn't really assuage him; a thorough check, a sympathetic pat on the back, then a disheartening, "It'll come down when it's ready."

I still think that's a riot.

The best thing about Owen? Well, he introduced me to artichoke hearts. That's pretty cool. He wasn't all that funny. He was too Euro to deal with for any prolonged amount of time. Hmmm… he introduced me to artichoke hearts.

I wonder what Owen's doing these days, and if his testicle ever came back.