post 40 : i'm a mess

I am profoundly discontented. Oh, we could spend time analysing the reasons, and I do. But in the end, what do they matter? The reason is people, and they won’t quit. I struggle to find happiness, though I seek relentlessly. I am a mess of hate and anger.

Perhaps I need to start again. Go to a place where I know no one; where I can watch beautiful people and pretend that it is beauty that matters. A place where I focus on their surface, so as not to be disappointed when the layers only go so deep. A place where I can be blissfully naïve, and cultivate solitude in a crowd.

post 39 : she didn't care for sugar coating

It’s not that she wasn’t a nice girl; it’s more she didn’t make it a priority.  She revealed about herself what others were afraid to admit they felt; it was a rare occasion where her behaviour did not mirror her thoughts. She did not shelter others from the horrors in her mind and for this she was intensely admired, and equally thought of as quite despicable.

She was always searching for more; looking with a fierce want but realistic resignation. She was self-aware and at times profoundly content. A non-conformist, though not as an act of rebellion; she was eternally ruthless. She balanced her time evenly between analysing herself and analysing others.

She cultivated solitude and was overdosed on confidence.  She was constantly told she’d change her mind, but never changing it. Constantly told how to be, but not being it. She thought of self-sacrifice not as an honourable thing, but weak.  She was not one to settle and chose a life of little comfort, and sacrifice for the sake of satisfaction. She didn’t much care for sugar coating. She was genuine and true, at times revelling in the calmness that came from brutal honesty.

She wanted nothing more than to be challenged and excited; stirring up controversy and drawing out differences, pursuing others who said what they meant without fear of repercussion. Longing, and frequently frustrated with a lingering feeling of dissatisfaction.

She had a fierce craving but for what, she was not sure. There was not a moment that passed where she was not particularly confused about what she wanted, yet perfectly certain about what she did not. She was free; passionately pressing forward in a world that attempted to contain and confine her, to repress and to silence her. She pushed people away, one opinion at a time. 

post 38 : rum and regret

“Jesus, what do you want from me?” He almost yelled. “I can’t make you understand if you won’t try.” 

“Nothing” I told him, sincere. “I want nothing from you. I don’t want your pathetic excuses or your justifications. I don’t want your company or your affection. I don’t want you to tell me I smell good or be jealous that I have moved on in the years that you have been absent. I don’t want you. I don’t want anything to do with you” He was staring at me, blank and not quite shocked.

I walked away, fast. I was on the street, waiting for the lights to turn green when I felt a hand grab my arm. I spun around involuntarily.

“What?!” It was my turn to yell. “I'm done here.”

He grabbed hold of my face and kissed me. He tasted like rum and regret. I kissed him back, interested to see if it’d changed in all of those years. It had. What used to be sweet innocence and nervousness had turned into a fierce wanting filled with words he couldn’t speak out loud. It wasn’t the same, and I didn’t like it. 

I’d liked him when he was young. I’d liked him when he shook because he was scared to be close to me. I’d liked him when he listened to what I was saying as if it were important. I’d liked him. I didn’t like him anymore. I pushed him away. 

post 37 : ambiguous

It was not intentional; I didn't set out to cause harm. It was rather an inadvertent, careless, lack of attention paying misstep. An error of judgement. It should not be confused with malice, though maybe I should have paid more attention. 

post 36 : truth is

It’s lucky I have a strong mind to semi-make-up for this pathetically weak, clumsy excuse for a body.

I’m tired. I’ve been tired for 10 years and I’m growing resentful of the people that tell me they are exhausted, as if they have any comprehension of what that is.

Their shoulders hurt. Oh no. Let me push down hard on your purple bruise, hold my finger there and make the pain cover your entire body. Let it throb for weeks at a time; unrelenting. Let me drive a hammer into your knee and watch you not curl up in agony. My fingers hurt typing this. I have heat packs covering my body and my medication has grown ineffective, as if I should have appreciated those 6 months of blissful numbness that I was given. As if I should not have expected more. I struggle not to cry all of the time.

I am scared. I’m terrified at the prospect of growing old. And it’s not for the narcissistic reasons like those conceited others, either. Give me a wrinkly body still full of life. Give me thinning grey hair and a slight inability to stand straight and proud. Give me a body that looks as old as it feels.

More than the prospect of my body growing old, my greatest fear is that my mind will at a greater pace. As if I don’t already have something that could be described as chronic forgetfulness, at times oblivion. The words “I forgot” are becoming all too familiar and the response “You’re hopeless” makes me want to throw punches, if I had the energy to throw punches. Do you not think I already know? Do you not think I would help it if I could? Do you not think it frustrates me beyond comprehension that this 26 year old mind cannot remember that she was going downstairs for a reason, that she must have been in the supermarket for some sort of food stuff, but what it was has escaped her?

The look on my face as I struggle to remember the conversation we had last week is not one of feigning for attention, but rather an “Honestly Tali, search your mind a little harder, it’s got to be there” and an internal eye roll at oneself. It is frustration.

Determination. That’s all I have left in me, and it surprises me constantly that I even have that. 

post 35 : happy ending

So surely by now we’ve come to realise that life is no fairy tale. We’re not guaranteed the Hollywood happy ending. And it’s not for a lack of available Prince Charming guys, either. It’s not them who are at fault. It’s not that they won’t fly across the world to sweep a girl off her feet, or chase her through an airport; beg her not to go. Because they will. I’ve seen them do it.

What I’ve come to realise, is that once these grand gestures have been made, once he’s arrived at her door, catching her off guard, once she’s felt that grab of her hand as she gets spun around to face a bent over, out of breath guy who’s managed to just catch her before she boarded the plane, is that we won’t yield. We have grown stubborn and expectant, as though this is what he should have done, and only now, after doing so, is he afforded the opportunity to prove his worth. We have grown self-righteous. Do we honestly think we deserve more than this?

It is not that guys don’t want to be chivalrous, gallant and brave. It’s not that they don’t know how. They’d slay the dragon to get to you; kiss you to stir you from eternal slumber if they thought it possible you wouldn’t wake to look for something more. It’s not that they’re not willing to. The problem is that we won’t let them.

post 34 : i wait

When I allow myself time to daydream, I can’t decide who, between the two of you to let consume my thoughts. And so I stop the ridiculous concept of make believe perfect life scenarios and return to the reality that leaves me without either of you. And I wonder why we search for perfection in other people instead of improving ourselves to the point of contentment without the need for more. And then I stop that thought, too, because as much as I may fight it I know that no one wants to be alone. And I'm not one to settle for the sake of a little comfort. And so I wait. Without hope or agenda, I wait. 

post 33 : click

Sarah was opposite us at the table, clicking away with her camera. When she faced it towards us, effortlessly we moved our heads to lean against each other's and smiled at her; a photo I was sure to stare at for hours, in the months to come. 

post 32 : oblivious

My latest theory: Everyone is capable of being a jerk. Albeit we don’t show this side to everyone, though it does exist, and it’ll come out in you when you’re least expecting it.  

We’ve got to have different sides of ourselves to us to function in society. We have to be a daughter, friend, colleague, sister, girlfriend and most confusing of all, sometimes we just want to be none of these people. We want to forget all social responsibility and moral boundaries and just be someone’s play thing. Just play. This is why celebrities fail at life. They are expected to be consistent. What a certain way to be driven mad.

But I digress; let’s talk about friends with benefits, about being said play thing.

This is an excitable, commitment free and quite delightful spontaneous situation to be in. And it might work, for a time. But inevitably, the stage of “I want to push you against the wall and fuck the shit out of you, then leave in the morning without kissing you goodbye” is temporary and the question remains: When you play with a friend, how do you revert back?

I have come to realise, in my very little experience, that guys are capable of just stopping. Simple. Girls, on the other hand, crave the conversation. And don’t get me wrong, it’s not the one that leads to questions such as “Where is this going?” and statements of “I can see us together” and other associated nonsence. A simple “Are we done here?” “Yep” would suffice.

This is what girls need; the non lingering, black and white, moving right along finalisation. Guys don’t want to talk about it. It’s the classic men are from mars, women are from venus scenario. We don’t understand each other. And what’s worse, we don’t know that we don’t understand each other. If we did, perhaps we wouldn’t put ourselves in these situations. Okay that part is a lie, of course we would.

Truth is, we probably don’t even understand ourselves. Even those of us who are unwavering against insult or critique, those of us who expect nothing and are accordingly never disappointed, can sometimes even be left with a feeling of, let’s call it .. wanting. It’s not a wanting for the person, but for the end. It’s a craving for the knowledge that the too long glances with fuck me eyes and the soft, discreet hand brushes across her lower back in public are going to stop. To no longer hear the whisper against her ear “Stay at my place tonight”. A craving for a friendship; for before.

Perhaps it isn’t intentional, I’m certain most guys are too unaware to even attempt be malicious. It comes out in the form of obliviousness and disconnection. Of course, this is perceived as jerky obliviousness and disconnection.

The solution? Dude, don’t be a oblivious, and you won’t be a jerk. Have the conversation, and watch her breathe a sigh of sweet fucking relief. Then revert back. And perhaps don’t play with your friends any more kids, that shit is messy.

post 31 : lost on the way to tent city

I get lost on the way back to tent city. It takes me an hour but eventually I see our blue roof and wander towards it. I sit on the rim of my tent like I always do, facing out towards the group of people that don’t notice I’ve come back, or if they do they don’t acknowledge it. I squint and look up as a figure comes to stand over me.

“Sit down” I tell Jake, patting the spot next to me. “How’s your morning been?”

“Unusual” he tells me. “I’ve spent most of it next door.” By next door he means the cluster of tents that make up a slightly smaller tent city and belong to about five guys, two of whom I’ve met. Their names are Jake and Trent and if I could describe them in two words, they would be; happy, drugs. Because there are now one too many Jakes, to keep track of them I’ve started to call the new guy New Jake and our Jake, Old Jake.

“Did you know that Jake from next door is an underwater mechanic?”

“Jake. How on earth could I have possibly known that?” He ignores me and continues.

“They fix things, like holes in big boats and drill things. Shit’s intense; they have to live down there for a few months at a time.”

“Serious?” How it is possible that I’d never heard of an underwater mechanic is beyond me, so I ask the question.

“I’d never heard of it either.” He tells me. “They are loaded, too. You can make some serious money living under the water.”

“Yes, but you’d miss me if you went to live under the water.” I lie back and land on some seemingly strategically placed pillows. “How’s your back?”

“It hurts.” He admits, because he knows I won’t tell anyone. “I’ve been taking all the painkillers but it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

“It’s been a big few days.” I say; I don’t know how to help. I know that all the alcohol wouldn’t be doing him any favours, but I’m not going to be the one to suggest he spends the last night here sober. “Rest a while” I suggest instead “We have a couple of hours before anything interesting happens.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Here, take my bed, it’s comfy.” I move so that he can lie at the back of the tent and sit beside him, making sure the door is open enough for people to see in. I hate myself a little for this. I lie down beside him.

He must notice me staring at the roof, eyes blurred and deep in thought. “I don’t like seeing you like this Alice.” He tells me.

“I don’t like being like this.” I admit.

“I’m not going to try and convince you he is bad for you.” He starts and I look at him with a face that suggests that is a wise move on his part. “Just for tonight” he manages “Please, tonight will you try and forget him and come have fun with me. Just come and have some fun with me.”

“Now that” I smile at him “Is something I can manage.”

*******

I wake to a strangers face peering into my tent half whispering “Jake, Jake.” We must have fallen asleep for at least an hour because when I sit up to look outside the sun is no longer in my eyes.

“Shh he’s sleeping. Who are you?”

“Billy. I’m a friend of Jake’s. He told me to meet him here around this time.”

“Okay well give me a minute I’ll wake him up.” Billy backs out of my tent and I wonder how loosely he has used the term ‘friend’. I shake Jake carefully; actually afraid I might break him further.

“Billy wants you.” I tell him and to my surprise the name brings out a familiarity in his face. “Jake?”

“Mm?” He is still half asleep.

“Who the fuck is Billy? He looks like a male model.”

“He is a male model.”

“You’re friends with a male model?”

“I’ve known Billy for years.”

“What’s he doing here? He seems too...” I struggle to find the right word. “Delicate” I decide.

“Oh it’s his scene. He grew up in a circus.”

“What now?”

“As in, he literally did”.

“And how exactly does one grow up in a circus?”

“His parents were performers and he kind of just ended up in the industry.”

“The circus modelling industry, you mean?” He smiles and shoves me so I topple over.

“You know what I mean; he was a child actor and then became a model. Top guy.”

“I’m sure.” We crawl out of the tent to find Billy the male model talking to Trent and New Jake from next door. Trent is dressed like a geisha, in what looks like a dressing gown he picked up at Chinatown. New Jake is slightly more respectable in a Pilot uniform. I wonder at what point people decide they are going to dress like this. Billy hugs Jake as though it has been a while although I suspect they would have seen each other yesterday at least, or else how would he have known where to find him? Trent is looking around as though desperate to find something and when he sees me, the only girl around, he comes over, almost frantic.

“Can you make my face white and my cheeks pink and my lips red?” He asks, as though this were a normal request.

“I may struggle to make your face white…” I start to explain when Claire arrives with white face paint from God knows where, and I realise that this isn’t the first time he’s made the request. “Never mind, Claire evidently has the white under control.”

“It wasn’t easy.”

“I’ll go get the pink and red.” I tell her and she seems relieved to have the help. Five minutes later I am holding Trent’s face as she paints. He is swinging his arms around and turning his head to talk to people and I think I realise how those clown face painters feel. I should ask Billy the male model to help, if he’s so familiar with the circus. Once the white is done we swap; Claire holds his head and I paint pink circles on his cheeks. His lips take at least ten minutes but in the end he looks every bit the perfect geisha. I mean, perfect if you pay no attention to the three day growth that pushes its way through the face paint. Impressed with our effort, Claire and I step back to admire, and see a small crowd of people who must have gathered to watch. They start clapping and we revel in our glory, curtsey and wave as they take our picture.

I see Jake at the back of the group and he mouths the words “well done” and ignores Billy the male model as he tries to get his attention. Jake doesn’t take his eyes off me as I walk over to him. “What a mission.” I tell him, and flop down into a chair. “I think I deserve a drink.” He holds out a cup of ice and pours cider into it.

“What, here’s one you prepared earlier?” I joke and thank him. “So evidently” I point to Trent, who is lapping up the attention that his façade is providing “I am quite the face painting artist. Would you care to be transformed this evening, friend of mine? Perhaps into a maid, I have an apron. Or maybe” I continue and tap his brace “a robot.” He has been serious since I returned but at this he cracks a smile.

“No, no. I think this gets me enough attention already.”

 

post 30 : shut up and dial

I dial his number because Ebony has forced me into it. We want to have ciders. She wants Flynn there. Flynn wants Owen there.

“He gave you his number for a reason” she insisted, pushing the phone into my hand. He won’t mind you calling.

“He might not mind” I agreed. “But he’s busy, Eb. It’s exam week soon and study week before that. He’ll say no, and I’ll look like an awkward dickhead.” I say, pre-empting and justifying his response in advance.

“Or” she said “He’ll say yes.”

I shut up and dialled.

“He said yes.” I tell her when I hang up, and my heart slowly returns to its normal speed.

“And his study?”

“Can wait, apparently.”

“This is not the Owen I used to know.” Ebony is surprised. “He used to lock himself away and only come out when he knew everything he was supposed to know.”

“That’s why he’s the best.” Flynn chimes in, coming out of the shower in nothing but a towel. Ebony pushes him into her room.

“Go put some clothes on.” When he’s inside and the door is closed she tells me “Sometimes I just like to have him to myself” in a voice that is half cross, half spoilt child and she smiles. I understand that. Other girls do see him naked a little more often than perhaps necessary. He’s a fan of nude.

Flynn’s head peaks back out the door before Ebony has a chance to push it in. “So Owen’s coming?”

“Yes Flynn, Owen’s coming” she sighs, rolling her eyes, a grin spreading across her cheeks. He flings open the door, still half naked and does the happiest of dances, hips swinging to the left and the right, occasionally pausing for effect, fists pumping up and down. I laugh and Ebony stares at him until he calms himself and pushes the door half closed in front of him, sticking his head through and telling us to leave him alone; he’s got to get dressed. 

post 29 : all i want to do

All I want to do is build blanket forts and swig champagne from the bottle and jump on beds and have butterflies in my belly and read books and write books and be captivating and listen to music and wear lingerie around the house and ride a bicycle and collect hair bows and have you miss me and play in the mud and travel the world and kiss you and kiss everyone and play twister and watch movies and sleep under the stars and get tattoos and put soap in fountains and pierce my lip and go camping and float in the sea and paint my nails and drink coffee and make cupcakes and dream and learn languages and climb trees and carve our initials into trees and play with words and fall in love and laugh at you and laugh at me and draw badly and cut my hair and get given forehead kisses and play with your hair and smell your neck and look at you for a little bit too long and drink cidey and hug an elephant and make fearless eye contact with cute strangers and sing loudly and draw on cement with chalk and jump from a plane and be free. 

post 28 : what i know

I’ll tell you what I know:

I like waking up in the morning with messy hair and knowing it’s because you played with it while I was sleeping.

That is one thing, and that’s all I know.  

post 27 : book shop

I was browsing the animated section of the old book shop we’d loved, with increasing regret of the decision to go there and feeling a little nostalgic.

I heard a couple come into the otherwise empty shop, they were giggling, whispering and obviously in love. The fresh new kind that made your heart miss beats when your phone rang and gave your body tingles just to be near them. I kept my head down, tried to avoid looking at them, tried to preserve the idea that I’d recently adopted, that love couldn’t exist as strongly as it appeared to be with them, that you couldn’t possibly be so happy. It had been four months since I’d seen him. He’d told me it was really nice to see me, that he’d see me soon. He would call me when he got back into town after his rural rotation. He hadn’t called, and according to my calculations he’d been back for at least two months now.

The couple was discussing which isle to find the original version of The Little Mermaid, by Hans Christian Andersen. I’d once told him about that version, where Ariel, actually named Marina, turned into sea foam instead of human, her dead body floating to the surface of the ocean after she couldn’t make the prince fall in love with her. She also couldn’t manage to stab him in the heart, the only thing that would have broken the sea witches spell and turned her back into a mermaid. It was actually kind of gross and not at all suitable for children.

I tried to stop myself from flashing back to when we in that tiny little book shop with the books overflowing on the shelves and piled alphabetically covering most of the floor. The book shop with the small isles that made us brush against each other if we stood side by side, causing butterflies. The book shop that was as tiny as the amount of time we’d spent together.

I couldn’t stop. I sat down on the floor and let the memories flood me, my hair draped over my face and my eyes closed so that all I could see was him. I thought of the time he’d kissed me in the children’s section. We were next to the teddy bear in a shoe box behind cardboard bars; the stores cute way of telling us that we’d be going to jail if we stole their books. I thought of the time he’d wanted me to appreciate his favourite book so badly that we’d sat in the isle while he read it out loud to me. We’d stated until I was curled in a ball on the ground, eyes closed and head on his lap. We stayed and he played with my hair and read to me until the store owner asked us to leave. And then we went back to his house, and he read to me some more.

I smelt him first and felt a hand touch my hair. Dread followed, and then the sinking realisation that it was him, the one giggling with the girl. How did I not recognise his laugh? I cringed at the thought of any part of him escaping me. I looked up, feigning strength. It didn’t last long, tears slowly escaped and trickled down my face as the reality of the situation punched me hard in the stomach.

“You have a girlfriend?” I stuttered, not wanting to speak the words out loud. The girl looked around the corner at us, assessing the situation. I stared at her until she left. She went back to pretending to browse the isle beside where we were, but was probably mostly trying her hardest to hear our conversation. I closed my eyes. She was perfect. She had long blonde hair that fell softly around her face. Her skin was tanned and smooth. She wore a short skirt and singlet top without the excess skin looking cheap or tacky. She was flawless.            

“I’ll just be a minute love” he spoke softly to her and at the words I shuddered.

Then he was silent. I would have thought he looked guilty, if he was capable of such an emotion. “This is our place. You brought her to our place”. Gutted. He remained silent, starting at me with those big blue lying eyes. All of a sudden a rage overwhelmed me. What the fuck had happened to “When I’m ready for a girlfriend, I want it to be you.” What happened to the promises, the hope, the date he’d asked me on, for fucks sake. I was so angry. He was such a raging jerk.

He knelt down in front of me but said nothing. “What?” I screamed “What do you want?!” Causing the teenage girl behind the counter to look at us, and not know what else to do.

He started to say my name, moving his hand to my face and ran his fingers over my cheeks to dry my tears.

“Don’t touch me!”

He moved his hand away quickly and sat in front of me, looking at the ground. He tried again. “I was going to tell you, I would have called…”

“Don’t. Don’t you even dare.” I whispered. I don’t want to hear about how you intended on being a good person after the fact. I don’t want to know that you’re sorry or about how bad you feel. You don’t get to justify yourself, you don’t deserve the privilege. I don’t give a fuck about how you feel, do you understand me?” He nodded.

“What about how I feel? What about calling when you said you would, what about me waiting for what has seemed a whole lifetime, did you forget about that? What about how time and time again you broke me, and about how I forgave you each time because you were broken, too. It appears you aren’t so broken anymore, are you? I stopped. I had gone from a whisper to yelling and I was ready to hurt him, or me, I couldn’t tell.

I took a deep breath, controlled myself and sighed. “Why did you give me hope, why? Fuck. If you didn’t want me around, that’s all you had to say. But you didn’t say that. You didn’t even hint that that’s what you wanted. Why couldn’t you have just said that?”

I stood up and looked to my right. I pulled out a book from the shelf and threw it onto his lap. It was the original Little Mermaid. “It’s all yours.” And so am I.

I turned around and walked away. 

post 26 : well that was awkward

We had managed to lose most of our group and all who were left were Owen, Tom, and me. We wandered back slowly to our campsite with conversation flowing easily. It had rained the week before, soaking the ground that the trucks delivering portable showers and toilets had later driven on, causing deep crevices that became tiny footpaths for us to balance in; a difficult feat when riddled with alcohol.

“I’m stuck in a rut.” Tom announced, coming to the end of the crevice without the logic to just step up and onto flat ground. We giggled; witty boy.

We must have taken at least an hour on what would have soberly been a 20 minute walk. We arrived back expecting to be greeted by everyone who’d gotten there quicker on more direct routes, but instead found our little tent city abandoned. Gathering alcohol from inside tents and cars we sat at the tiny table Owen’s parents had lent him and let our night continue.

“So, Jake tried to kiss you hey?” Owen started, a little too loud and I looked around to make sure Jake wasn’t there. I didn’t really want everyone to know what had gone on the night before, although it was slipping out a little too often and now that Owen knew, everyone else was bound to find out too. Discretion was not his strong point. Nor, evidently, was it mine.

“Oh, it was so awkward. He was in his back brace and everything. I had to grab his face before he reached me.” I was saying too much, Jake was going to find out I’d told people I could feel it, and yet, I couldn’t stop myself.

“I can just imagine it” Owen continued, laughing at a volume that was probably waking all of our neighbour campers from their precious little sleep. I checked my phone for the time. It was 2:30am. Jake would have been with New Jake from the tents next door. Far enough away to not see how bad of a friend I was being. “Oh I shouldn’t be so mean” Owen continued, changing his tone. “The poor guy broke his back and now this. He’s not having a good week.”

“Oh he’s fine.” I told them, brushing it off and noticing Tom engrossed in our conversation but not alert enough to be actively involved. “He’ll be over me by tomorrow and he’ll have a great time here, he’s practically a celebrity.” He was the local Splendour celebrity. A guy known as The Doctor off radio station Triple J had found and interviewed him, and every second person wanted to stop for photos.

“Still, it’d be nice to not have him hanging all over you.” Owen prompted. He was right. Jake had been lingering for the past two days and while it had been nice to have him as my friend again, he had an agenda that didn’t match mine.

“That would be nice.” I agreed softly, wondering if it would also be nice for Owen to not have me ‘hanging all over’ him. I was trying to give him space but my want for being with him sometimes overpowered the part of me that said to just leave him alone.

Lost in thought I glanced to my left when I heard a rustle of what might have been plastic. My stomach back flipped and dread filled me when I saw Jake inside a sleeping bag. He had been sleeping, or not sleeping to the side of my tent on the ground outside. He rolled over and I wasn’t sure if it was to tell us that he was there and awake or if he was just restless in his brace and couldn’t sleep. He could quite possibly have just heard our entire conversation. Heard everything I’d said. He’d mentioned after last night that he didn’t want to make me uncomfortable so he would sleep elsewhere. Evidently ‘elsewhere’ was still too close.  

“Oh shit.” Owen spurted out. “Well that’s awkward.” He laughed out loud the way he did, the way ‘ha ha’ sounds when written down.

“Oh shit.” I repeated, a softer version of Owen’s.

“Ahhh” Owen sighed, leaning back on his chair, hands behind his head completely satisfied at what life had just dealt him. “This is what movies are made of. This is the good quality stuff.”

“Shut up Owen.” I growled at him. “Just shut up.”

Feeling exposed and vulnerable I quickly ducked inside my tent before I died of embarrassment. I rocked on my ankles and pressed my head against the cold plastic on the ground. “No no no no no.” I whispered to myself. “Please don’t let this be happening.” I could still hear Owen from outside still laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

*******

Through the semi-consciousness that came the next morning upon waking, my thoughts flickered back to the night before. “Oh, God” I mumbled, considering staying in my tent for the remainder of the festival and deciding instead to brave it early and venture outside. I must have slept in because everybody was up and enjoying the breakfast that Owen and Lola were cooking them. Bacon and sausages, so many eggs. The smell calmed me and so did Owen, smiling at me, a knowing smile when I peaked my head out of my tent to check if Jake was around. I couldn’t see him. I went straight to my car, grabbed a handful of clothes and went to shower.

I felt better when I came back, fresh and tried to start the day the same way. I folded up the door of my tent and sat just inside facing out so that the top of it blocked the sun from my eyes and provided me with a little shelter; a little comfort. I was inspecting the skin of an apple intently before eating it and jumped when Jake came to sit beside me.

“What time did you guys get back last night?” The question surprised me.

“Err.” I struggled “I think it might have been about 2am or a little after. What about you?” Attempting to have a normal conversation at the same time as pleading internally that he hadn’t heard what I’d said about him last night was turning out to be exactly as difficult as I’d predicted. I tried to remember my exact words and justify them, arguing with him in preparation for the real thing that was about to come. In my head, he won.

“I had an early night. I was back by about 10pm. You guys must have been quiet when you came back. I didn’t hear you at all.”

Was he saying that to calm me because he had heard us? I couldn’t be sure. It did seem like something he would do; cop the negative that was said about him and pretend he didn’t hear in order to keep the peace, keep me feeling calm and not have to face me in a standoff, not have to be apart from me once the standoff was over.

“We were actually quite loud. I’m surprised we didn’t wake you. We noticed you sleeping outside after a while, but we’d been back for ages. We were a little worried we might have woken you.”

If he was going to have a chance to admit that he knew, now would be it.

“You didn’t. I was sound asleep.” He was lying.

post 25 : all of the self hate

She was at the petrol station filling up on her way home from her nine to five that she hated almost as much as she hated the one and a half hour drive to and from. She blurred her eyes until they were relaxed and stared at the highway to her right. She silently wished she could remove all the cars, clear the highway and use it to drive far, far away. She’d spent the good part of the past six years attempting to make her failing body function normally, and she was exhausted.

For as long as she could remember she’d struggled with sport. She was always the first one eliminated in beep tests at school, she got chosen last in physical education class teams by over-enthusiastic jocks with egos as large as they thought their footy careers might be. She ran out of breath quickly and it had escalated recently to a point of collapsing to the ground after walking up a flight of stairs, desperate for air. Her legs would give out, too. That part had started at 17; she’d woken up one morning to a pain she assumed was equivalent to a hammer crashing down hard against her knee. Crying out, she’d reached under the blankets to discover that it was twice the size it was when she’d fallen asleep, swollen with fluid. On attempting to get out of bed, she stood for the briefest of moments before falling to the floor. Previously flexible, she could no longer touch her knees.    

It had turned out to be Glandular Fever; something she thought would have been out of her system 3 years ago, mixed with the Ross River Fever that she’d evidently acquired on her recent family holiday to the beautiful but mosquito ridden Atherton Tablelands. Some of the pain was the temporary arthritis that came as a result. As if these conditions weren’t enough, she had constant strep throat and her tonsils were removed as a result. Her ear, nose and throat doctor hadn’t believe her when she’d called to say that she had a tonsil growing in the spot from where he’d just removed one. Apparently, in his 15 years in the profession, he’d not once seen a lingual tonsil, the one that sits under your tongue, grow up and out to replace the one that had just been removed. She thought of it more as a mildly-comical story to tell family members at barbeques, rather than the potential for her 4^th operation. The new tonsil, connected to the back of her tongue now prevented her from poking her tongue out very far at all. Just another thing, she thought.

Never having fully recovered from Glandular Fever and with the Ross River still in her system three years later, she’d developed a syndrome called Fibromyalgia, the result of a fucked up immune system. The day she found out she’d gone home and Googled it. Fibromyalgia Syndrome: a medical disorder characterised by chronic widespread pain and a heightened and painful response to pressure. Well, that explained things. She burst into tears.

The other two operations consisted of removing an appendix that was perfectly healthy, only to discover Endometriosis, which was later removed too. Her body had gone through some stuff, and it was weak; something she’d always preferred to a weak mind. Now, at 20, she had all the answers she’d spent six years seeking. Fibromyalgia was a highly debated and somewhat controversial condition as to whether it was permanent or “curable”. Naturopaths were of the opinion that, with enough herbs, vitamins and sugar-free, gluten-free, lactose-free, taste-free super foods, you could get better. Doctors didn’t bother to look into it, with only 2-4% of the population knowingly suffering from the condition that no medicine could help, it seemed to be beyond their level of expertise, or maybe they just couldn’t be bothered.

As a result, she was left basically to her own devices, opting to take the advice of the naturopaths and downing 20 or more tablets a day; Fish Oil for circulation, Zinc to stimulate to help maintain a healthy immune system, CO Q10 for energy, Vitamin C as an antioxidant and to protect against further immune system deficiencies, Vitamin D to maintain calcium balance and boost immunity, Vitamin B for energy production, Iron because she was anaemic, and also to help carry oxygen from the lungs to the muscles and other organs, Liver Tonic to reduce the damage months of antibiotics had caused, Green Tea, because she wanted the benefits without the taste, Magnesium for a calming effect as well as to keep muscle and nerve functioning normal.

She also blocked her nose, closed her eyes and downed 20ml of potent herbs two times every day. She hated it. She hated her body and how it was consuming her life. She hated having to sleep as soon as she got home because she was too exhausted to stand. She hated using the sick bed at her work each lunch to sneak in a quick half hour power nap that never really assisted in supplying energy, anyway. She hated alienating herself because she was too tired, and because no one understood. She hated resenting people because they didn’t understand. She hated putting her life on hold because she could not even remember to put her washing on the line, let alone complete a law degree.

She was so angry and lost in thought that she didn’t notice him come over and lean on her car. He looked at her carefully and with attention, taking her in. It had been 14 months since Ryan had seen her, and he missed her so much it actually hurt him.  

“You’ve lost weight” he told her, snapping her from her daydream and into a much happier reality than the one she’d left.

“Ryan!” She almost screamed, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing a little too tight. She pulled back and searched his face, making sure he was the same, that a year in London Town hadn’t changed him. She grabbed him again and held on. He had changed, although he smelt the same. A smell that would make her catch her breath and inhale deeply each time she passed someone wearing the same cologne when he was gone. He laughed and grabbed her arms, pulling her back to examine her face more closely. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he kissed her on the cheek.

He’d let his blonde hair grow out to the point of looking shaggy, and covering his jaw was a 5 day growth that she’d never seen him sport. She liked his new look, and liked even more that he looked happy; satisfied with life, perhaps. Formally skinny, he was now built. She scanned his arms, following the ripples in his skin to his chest. His shirt stretched over him like a glove, and the only thought she could conjure up was to get it off him, to explore the new him like she’d done the old.

“Hi.” She grinned at him and giggled.

*******

She found herself an hour later in her favourite coffee shop in the city; a quaint little place with not one matching seat and couches so big they almost swallowed you whole. He’d remembered her favourite coffee and ordered without asking her what she wanted. She smiled at the familiarity.

“You’re skinny”. He repeated his earlier thoughts.

“I’m getting better”, she assured him. He didn’t like it when she was skinny. Not only because he loved her curves, but also because he wanted her to be better almost as much as she did. The truth was that she had lost another 4kgs recently, and was not a lot better than when he’d left. She’d been told by her doctor not only to put on weight so she could get back into the healthy weight range for her height, but to eat more salt as her blood sugar was low. She thought it contradicted the dietary requirements the naturopath suggested, but agreed; not wanting to complain about a task that would probably not be asked of her again in a lifetime. As though reading her thoughts, Ryan ushered the waiter to their table and ordered them raspberry cheesecake to share; her favourite.

“So, tell me about London”. She told him, in a hope that it would distract from conversation about herself and also, because she was curious.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know how you survived 12 months with your sister, how your teaching job went, where you travelled, which country was your favourite, if you loved the snow as much as I think you might have, if you wish you were still there, if you preferred a white Christmas to one in your pool under the hot Australian summer sun.”

“Nothing could compare to that Christmas.” He told her, turning serious. “Nothing.” He meant it, and she knew it. It was the summer of 2004, and they had been inseparable. They had been together for five months, and it was still new and fresh; the honeymoon phase seemed intent on following them around. They’d spend days lounging by the pool. He’d loved the way her freckles came out in the sun. She’d loved him. Simply.  

Things were easy, then. He’d planned on going to London for a year to use the degree in teaching he’d just completed, to earn money and to travel Europe. She’d wanted to go, but hadn’t wanted to ask. He’d wanted her to go, but hadn’t wanted to ask. The year passed by quicker than expected and she found herself at the end of it unwillingly speaking the words “I think we need break up; you’re leaving in a month”. It was the best relationship she’d had, but she hadn’t missed him when he was gone. She hadn’t regretted the decision to break it off. She didn’t feel very much at all. She’d moved on quickly, of course. He didn’t have a girlfriend for the whole year he was away. He hadn’t even considered it. She caused more damage than she knew, and at that moment, in the little intimate cafe sitting across from her, he was silently hoping that she wouldn’t cause the same damage again. He was a fool for even thinking it; he knew he would let her, given the opportunity.

*******

They picked up exactly where they left off, as though they were never apart. The friends they had together he had kept over the year and two of the couples were now married, one had a baby on the way. They were growing up; the typical office job, married, babies, divorce to follow in an unhappy life that she dreaded having herself. She didn’t see it though, while she was in it, and continued to make plans with Ryan about where they would live; close to his job at the school, as well as close to potential schools for their future children, and close to both of their families and mutual friends. They made decisions about what furniture to buy, how much to spend on a washing machine and if it should be a top or front loader, how much they would pay off his car loan before attempting to get a house loan, right down to the cutlery and crockery they would use and if it was going to break when they had kids.

Ryan had money in a high interest savings account that he received as an inheritance when his grandfather passed away, and he planned on using it for the deposit on their house. In return, as it was all she could contribute, she helped him pay off his car with the money she would normally have been saving. She already owned her car outright, and offered to sell it in order to pay his off. Everything about them worked. It was easy. They sacrificed for each other. They loved each other. They would have made the perfect happy family.

*******

She woke up one not-so-special day and realised that she didn’t want it. She didn’t want any of it. She wanted to do a law degree and study for a year in London or New York. She wanted to travel to every continent and live in the countries she liked the most. She wanted to get tattoos and pierce her lip. She wanted to jump from planes and build a tree house. She wanted to be free.

Then there was the quite important point of her not wanting children. She wanted to be a lawyer. How could she possibly work 80 hour weeks and manage to have a family too? She hated those parents who neglected their children to the point of them turning into delinquents.

It was over; it had to be. She knew what she wanted, but more so what she didn’t. She didn’t want to play happy families when she wouldn’t have been happy at all. There was no way she could deny Ryan children; he had to be a father. He could do without her. Without a second thought, she called him and arranged to meet him at the coffee shop where they were brought back together only six months prior.

It was the worst thing she had ever done; building someone’s hopes up to the point of creating a future, a life together, and then taking it all away, and she felt terrible. She hate that she was hurting him again, she hate that she didn’t realise earlier what she wanted and for taking things so far before bailing. She hated herself. But better to hate yourself than fake it.

post 24 : this was me, trying to be kind

In the days following, Jake kept in frequent and enthusiastic contact and I was coming to the sinking realisation that getting rid of him was not going to be an easy task. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to get rid of him. After all, we had a lot of giggles, and he knew me. He knew me a little too well, actually. Yet, for reasons unknown to me, he still liked me. I was sure that this was his love-is-blind eyes telling him that I was good for him, that I would make him feel good. But I would see Owen in a couple of weeks, so any ties connecting to Jake had to be cut before that date, and Jake knew it. Yet, he persisted.

I’d often wondered to myself; why, when I warn guys to steer clear of me, is it so difficult for them to just do that. Take my word for it that I actually will hurt them, and walk away. Must they all think that they are an exception to the rule? Evidently, yes. I decided that Jake was going to have to know, for sure, that he wasn’t the exception, Owen was.

A few days later, I called Jake and asked him for coffee. He wasn’t aware of my agenda. In fact, he was probably optimistic and encouraged by the engagement. He tended to have it all wrong.

“Hi”. I tried not to focus on his smile when he saw me walk in, too aware that I would be turning that upside down soon enough.

“Hey” I replied. “Do you want something to drink?” Buying him a coffee was the least I could do for him right now.

One grande cappuccino for him and one tall white chocolate mocha for me, and we sat at a table in an intimate corner that he picked out. I had gone over it in my head, the exact words leading up to my point that I would utilise. It would be articulate and smooth, and he would be blissfully unaware that I planned out the whole conversation ahead of time; something I generally had great success in achieving. I had a knack of pre-empting a persons’ response and strategically planning out two-way conversations so as to extract what I wanted from them. Some called it manipulation; I called it insightful. This situation, however, got the better of me, and I was left abandoned by words and blank.

“How you doing kid?” he asked, casual.

“I’m alright”. I wasn’t alright. Jake’s friendship had somehow managed, over a short couple of months, to be what I relied on for sanity and actuality. We spoke for hours every day and I knew I could count on him to be honest and straight with me. He would tell me when I was being a stubborn, selfish jerk, and I would tell him was being a rebellious, self-righteous and closed minded boy.

I knew that once I pushed hard enough, our friendship would never exist in the same capacity. And yet, I had to push him away in order to have the slightest chance with Owen.

“I wrote some lyrics” I decided to jump straight to the point. “They are from ages ago, but I just found them scribbled down on some paper when I was cleaning yesterday”.

“Can I read them?”

“Umm” I faltered. Did I really want him to read them? Ugh stop it Alice. This was the point, after all. “I guess you can read a little. They aren’t very good”.

He seemed pleased even so. I told him that I didn’t have them with me, and that I definitely wouldn’t be saying them out loud, so we compromised and decided that I would write them on napkins for him to read to himself.

He gathered some napkins and I stared at them, blank in front of me, before starting to write.

She grabs your phone and puts her number in under “it’s best if you avoid me”

She takes your hand, drags you along and says “come dance with me”

She tells you; “girls like me should come with a warning label”

You choose not to listen; now whose fault is that?

I saw his smile fade, but I continued. He had to believe that this was me, writing about him, for it to have any chance of success.

So let’s dance boy, come and dance with me

I like this and I know you like me

Can I take you home then let you off the hook by saying you’re not really what I’m looking for?

Keep you wanting more

Can I stay with you until light becomes night, then leave just cause I want a fight?

By this stage I’d gone through at least 5 napkins and I wondered if it was even worthwhile continuing. Surely he hadn’t missed my point. But he looked at me expectantly, so I grabbed another bunch of napkins and buried myself in them.

Well don’t say she didn’t warn you, remember that she did?

It’s always fun in the beginning but it’s really just a tease.

So let’s dance boy, come and dance with me

I like this and I know you like me

This time, I made the words “this” and “me” larger, for emphasis. Again, I looked at his face. It was crushed.  Evidently it had sunk in. He liked me; I liked the current situation of control and play I was lingering in with him. I kept writing, not ready to face him.

You’re stuck wishing you’d never met her

She leaves you thinking about her

Makes you dream about her

And you’ll hate her for being your distraction

Beg her for a reaction

I stopped, put my pen down. I had forgotten a few lines but I didn’t suppose that mattered.

“Fuck” he said. “Fuck”, and again.

I waited, knowing that this had told him everything and I needn’t say more. “You wrote that about me” he said, cut.

“No”. I lied. The truth was; I wrote it about every guy who I had been in this situation with. He was one of them. “I wrote it before I met you, a couple of years ago”.

“But it’s exactly our situation” he continued, seemingly baffled, which again reiterated my knack for insight and made me smile inside. I was going to make a good lawyer. I silently hated on myself for being so conceited as well as distracted whilst in the middle of breaking my friends’ heart. “Down to where it says she is the distraction. You’re constantly in my thoughts, distracting me all the time”.

“I’m sorry, Jake”. And I was. “It really wasn’t written about you. I just found it, honestly”.

“But that’s what I am to you, aren’t I?”

Oh, God. I hadn’t realised that in bringing it up in this way, I would have to answer some seriously hard questions. There wasn’t a lot I could do about that now, and I had to admit, a couple of difficult questions were the least I deserved. Jake, however, deserved answers.

“You’re not that” I tried to justify. “But you also aren’t what you want to be”.

“I see”. He didn’t. He had already told me that he couldn’t comprehend what made me feel genuine emotion towards Owen that couldn’t be directed at anyone else. He didn’t understand that no matter how much I liked him, I could never love him, or that no matter how frequently we talked or how much affection he showed me or how passionately he kissed me, he could never break my heart if he took it all away. I wanted something real. I wanted something that he couldn’t give me. I wanted Owen.

“Look, Jake” I tried again. “In a couple of weeks, I will see Owen. And when I am with Owen, nobody else matters. I can’t be with you then. You can’t touch me then or sit too close. You can’t hold my hand or look at me with suggestion. I won’t reciprocate. He will be there, and I will want him nothing more than him. You won’t be able to stand it.” I let out a sigh. “I think it’s best if we start speaking a little less frequently starting now, in preparation.”

This was me; trying to be kind.