When I talk to people, I speak freely. I open my mouth, and words come – thoroughly rehearsed, to a point. Every time I tell my mirror about my life, it’s a slightly different rendition of the same song. This is how it goes.
In high school, I was a swot. I went to a posh school, I was a high achiever, I was a musician. I didn’t even think to be rebellious until my last year, and my rebellion was not of the extreme variety. Most of my free periods were taken up with scholarship classes, but swot that I was (am, at heart) I had far too many, and three sessions overlapped.
So on occasion, I would tell art history I was going to French, French I was going to Spanish, and Spanish I was going to art history, and spend the fifty minutes feeling guilty while scribbling rambling poems in my binder instead. I got a second piercing in one lobe. That was my acting out. Continue reading “The Crohn’s Saga (to date)”
On operations and depression and musical talent wasted. Sorry, more angst before I get back into reviewing. It happens. There is a Banksy poster on my wall – The Girl With The Balloon’. There is always hope. I bought it in a lighter time. Now, even though it is opposite it my bed, I rarely notice that it is there. Unconsciously ignoring the message? Overworked and overwrought; life is catching up on me. Study and work and never saying no to requests for extra hours; trying to create my own things on the side. And on top of all of … Continue reading The dark and the difficulty
Pain. Drowning crinkle-cut curled-up flesh in whitest milk. Obligation lifts the cup, pours it in. No foil-wrapped magic tricks want to have anything to do with it; the capsule sinks below the surface before it can ignite. Flickers as a match might, but with the untiring power of the glowing ember. No end in sight. The worst days were better, because hope was still cradled that the broken parts could be cut away and mended, dead branches and grafts. But the poison is in the tree and eventually there will be nothing left but dried parts broken on the forest floor. All … Continue reading curled-up flesh
Arriving home in tears, clutching an absurdly large pizza box (full), after sitting on the bus (full) next to various Wellingtonians who all would have appreciated more elbow space than my pizza permitted. Some foodstuffs just aren’t destined for public transport. It was dark (of course, June, poorly laid plans) and the buying of this ridiculously large pizza seemed like a kind of self-flagellating binge – go buy this giant pizza, and then cry about the fact that you have to eat it buy yourself, because there is nobody to share it with. The judgement and raised eyebrow of another person … Continue reading twenty-four and maybe falling
It is May 19th – at least in New Zealand, it is. On this day, the following things have happened throughout history Anne Boleyn was beheaded (1536) Nellie Melba, the soprano and namesake of a delicious dessert, was born (1861) Oscar Wilde was released from prison (1897) Pol Pot, leader of the Khmer Rouge and totalitarian dictator of Cambodia, was born (1925) André René Roussimoff, AKA André the Giant, was born (1946) Marilyn Monroe sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to JFK (1962) Tu’i Malila , the world’s oldest known tortoise died at 188 years old (1965) Jodi Picoult, Queen of Depressive Chick Lit, … Continue reading world IBD day
Tumblr has become my confession box; this place remains slightly more honed. But my most recent ‘yes, this deserves a frenzied Tumblr post’ moment seems to have grown and spread, an idea or a virus. The end result is what will tell the difference, I suppose, but ultimately it is this – what are the fears that are creeping on my mind, and will writing them out, sending them into the internet (so the world and the ether all at once, audience depending) change anything? Will admitting them in this space lighten the load, or simply provide more ammunition for … Continue reading fears
So drained. So overwhelmed. All I can think about right now is how I don’t have any pictures of Olive and me together. And now there will start to be pictures of Olive and The New and Horrible One. And that really, really depresses me. There is something both hilarious and terrible about being in tears for most of the evening while a movie called ‘LOL’ plays in the background (the French original, not the Miley Cyrus remake, for the record). Here’s hoping my face isn’t too puffy for interactions with Camilla Lackberg tomorrow. Because apparently my current tactic in … Continue reading drained