I don’t want to wake up on a Tuesday in 5 years time and have it be “Meatloaf Night”.

This, my friends, is the conclusion of a good few weeks of some serious contemplation.

Let me explain.

My entrance to this world was quite the dramatic one (seriously, are y’all surprised by that?). For reasons that are not my story to tell, I’ll keep it simple. For the first few weeks, months of my life, my “mum”, was whichever nurse was on rotation at the time. I didn’t have the opportunity to have the maternal connection that some would say a newborn should have. Maybe that’s where my independence comes from. Maybe that’s also where my issue of abandonment comes from. It is what it is and it was what it was. But I do acknowledge that it surely plays some part.

My life, has always been in a constant state of “when”. “When” I get to this, I will be happy. “When” I have that, I’ll be content. It is the constant striving of the unattainable, that has really lead me to one of the most potent realisations.

We, are afraid. Period. We’re afraid this isn’t the right relationship, and we’re afraid that it is. We’re afraid that they won’t like us or we’re afraid that they will. We’re afraid of failure or we’re afraid of success. We’re afraid of dying young or we’re afraid of growing old. We are, I, am more afraid of life than I am of death.

When I was young, I liked to believe in the fantasy that was Disney. The princess; always found her king, and as we all know it, they lived happily ever after.

I was lucky, I found my king early. Well truth be told, we hated each other at times. He teased me, I dobbed on him, you know, the usual. We grew up together. Born on the same day. He was always the naughty kid. But I got him. His cheek, was forever endearing. I remember when we were teenagers, I had those rad as fuck glow in the dark galaxy stickers on every inch of my bedroom ceiling. I’m telling you now I was the envy of everyone (well I thought so). We lay staring at those stars all night taking about things that teenagers shouldn’t be advanced enough to talk about. He was the most misunderstood kid I knew. He was also my favourite human. One that I did a lot of firsts with over the years, cigarettes, weed, breaking and entering (kidding)…

In an ideal world, it was him and I. Getting older, battling it out until the end with the same spirit we had as kids, just with the freedom of being adults. Unfortunately though, as I learnt, life is not a fairytale. And sometimes you get a phone call, you would never wish on anyone.

I didn’t go to his funeral. Something I will probably regret for the rest of my life. The one day that is supposed to honour his life, and I choose to not be there. I know at the time it was because I was not ready to believe that for the rest of my life, I was never going to see him again. He wasn’t going to bust out in a rap of the Fugees Killing Me Softly in the car. He wasn’t going to give me that look of cheek that no one will every be able to replace.

To this day, I don’t think I’ll ever miss anyone be as much as I miss him. And I’ll never think that life is some fairytale. I have seen the destruction that his departure has left of those that loved him, and that can never be underestimated.

To be honest, I think I searched for him in everyone from that point forward. Some little trace, some little reminder. It was never going to work.

Fast forward, in the here and now, I’ve transitioned to the opposite. I purposely seek out those which are unattainable, because they provide comfort. I know, from the bottom of my heart, I do not need to get invested. And not getting invested, is where I am most content.

Every now and then though, on the very rare occasion, someone will sneak in, and it takes me by surprise when it does. It’s most certainly not what I plan for, but, I’m only human and it happens, like recently. Of course when it does, as the queen of self sabotage, I’ll freak out and find the first opportunity to make them run, or at the very least briskly walk. I know I’m doing it at the time, even when there’s a part of me that doesn’t want too. I regret it, but they’ll never understand the why, so best to blame it on something else, alienate them, and move on to the next meaningless arrangement in the name of convenience you’ve somehow managed to obtain in the meantime. Whilst simultaneously getting cut because you know the one you may give a shit about is looking elsewhere. It’s not often you find someone you want to spend a little time with. To be honest, you weren’t even sure if anything beyond fun would have worked, but now you’re pissed because you slammed it before you even had the chance to find out yourself. Sometimes you wish it was different, even if you don’t like labels, or cliche.

This balls up, really made me think. Paired with a lot of quiet time, a lot of distracted time, and a shitload of yoga, helped me find my explanation. The answer I’ve been searching for and can say with the upmost conviction. And it is this…

It’s not that I’m afraid to be happy, it’s that I’m afraid that when I am, it won’t be what I’ve been searching for this whole time. It won’t be something outside of myself. I don’t want to wake up on a Tuesday in a white picket fence home and think, fuck, best buy some mince from Coles today because it’s meatloaf night. That’s not who I am, and it’s not what I’m searching for in this life. I guess, at the end of the day, I may not know what I want, but I finally know what it is that I don’t want, and that’s good enough for now…

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. 2019 was, and continues to be, my Math Teacher. You know, the one that holds the information that you aren’t necessarily fond of or want to learn, but you cannot deny that the lessons and their equations, whilst complicated, will eventually navigate you to the answers you are seeking.

Tales from the perfect storm.

Firstly, why through words? I think it’s important to note that I never feel more like me, than when I write. It’s what I do and it’s who I am. It’s how I communicate best, even if only to myself. When I stop doing life and sit with a pen and paper, time both simultaneously stands still and passes by in a moment. It is my one and only outlet. 

I’m not even sure where to start. Do I start from the beginning, or just the mid way point where I want to say it all imploded, but where I believe it to have all just begun. This year, 2019. One that will forever be etched into my memory due to its immense impact on my life. The year that I got to where I had always wanted to be, only in turn to discover it wasn’t the answer. Not only was it not the answer, I very acutely came to the realisation it was only just the beginning of my questions….

Let me start by disclaiming that up until this point, I have been an exceptionally closed off soul. Until very recent times, my best friend of 18 years had yet to ever witness me shed a tear. Through deaths, despair and achievement, my greatest form of expression was wit and sarcasm. Looking outside in – I was a machine. By my own choosing, I had a very calculated public persona. It was the opposite of all that I was – tough, cold, desensitised, detached. I equated public displays of emotion or expression from myself as traits of weakness. Oh how the mighty have fallen. I’ve fallen, I’ve cracked open, and it’s become apparent that the only way to survive and thrive is to become everything I’ve never been. For learning to have the confidence to say, “this is who I am”. Confidence is not saying “will they like me”, confidence is saying. “I’ll be fine if they don’t”.

So with that being said, it’s important to note how confronting this is for me. And liberating. It’s completely terrifying, but also calming – duality in is finest. It’s lessons, and it’s life.

The purpose of this all is an immersion of sorts. For me first and foremost, exactly as it should be. It’s the challenge of getting to introduce me to myself, possibly for the first time, and the unfamiliar concept of not being afraid to have people witness the ride. For fractions, or for larger parts of journey. For being unapologetically authentic, despite how much I may fight it. For being truthful, even when far from poetic. For being bold and brave, even when slightly broken. For being honest about who I am and the journey that I’ve been through, even when it’s uncomfortable. The tales of what made me, and the things from this point that shape me.

This is about aligning with people who are meant to be part of my tribe. To solidifying those that may teach (whether conscious or unconsciously), and those that just support. I have no doubt that many will fall to the wayside and connections will be lost, and that’s okay also. This kind of thing isn’t for everyone, nor does it have to be. I respect that. And I respect me for choosing to forge ahead regardless. 

But to move forward, we must first have to go backwards. To where it all started…

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear. 2019 was, and continues to be, my Maths Teacher. You know, the one that holds the information that you aren’t necessarily fond of or want to learn, but you cannot deny the lessons and their equations, whilst complicated, will eventually navigate you to the answers you are seeking. 

To me, this year represents challenge. Such a simple yet profound statement. It can be summed up as is, or delved into in layers. I choose to delve. 

I won’t sugar coat it – this year has been a soul challenging year. Possibly my toughest yet, in the most ironic of ways. One that I didn’t expect, and one that I certainly wasn’t prepared for. 

I love the sense of energy in the air when a new year rings in. To me, it signifies change. In a single moment, you have the power to set whatever intentions have been lingering in your head or your heart – or both. You have conviction to carry out anything you wish. It’s powerful. And empowering. You’re finally getting the hang of life and this year you’re going to nail it! I was well on track to achieving something that until this point, I had only ever dreamed of. It was the pinnacle of everything I truly thought I ever wanted, a personal pipe goal if I may. It was such a big concept in my life. It’s also the driving force for this whole thing in the first place. 

Twenty nineteen was going to be my year. I felt it in the core of my being. Cue life. 

Life. That big momentous occasion that when you really stop to analyse it, is just a collection of smaller moments all pieced together. There are the seemingly insignificant experiences that go mostly unnoticed, and then, there are the moments that take your breath away. It’s the moments when you have to remind yourself to breathe that I value the most. You suddenly forget everything else around you, and your whole focus is on those vital things that are keeping you alive. You have to breathe, and you need to have life force.  

I was about to learn that sometimes, you have to fight for both. 

My physical health. Something I had always been fairly blessed with. 

It may come as no surprise to learn that I have a severe dislike to being put under General Anaesthetic. When you are under a GA, you suddenly have no option but to place your trust in a machine and a team of medical professionals. You rely on the knowledge and actions of those outside of yourself. That doesn’t necessarily go down well with someone who had always had a firm grip of control.

Before a particular operation last year, I read a pamphlet that quoted “General Anaesthetic. It takes you to the edge of death, and keeps you there”. At the time, I seriously considered writing to their people to suggest that someone needed to work on the marketing material! 

This time was different. I had just checked into the hospital. I had a 7 hour surgery in front of me. I was alone. By choice. In reality I should have been anxious, but I was anything but. I was exceptionally calm.

After handing over my suitcase and signing all the required consent forms, I remember sitting in the room, flicking through the menu, and deciding on meal options for the duration of my stay. “I get wine, and beer, AND cheese” I excitedly replied to my two best friends who were checking in with me via text every 2 minutes without fail. I guess it was at this point it dawned on me that something was not quite right. Here I was, the queen of control, about to put my life in strangers hands for a substantial amount of time, and instead of my usual freak out, I was more concerned with my selection of post op indulgences. 

“Why aren’t you worried?” I thought to yours truly. My answer to myself, although it may surprise some, didn’t really all that surprise me – “Because if by some small chance you fail to wake up, you’re okay with that scenario.” 

It was in that exact moment that I came to the full realisation that I was exhausted. I was energetically depleted, and in the months prior, it became evident that I had really sucked at taking care of myself. I take responsibility in saying that I had no one to blame but myself. The reasons why, will come later. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a nurse calling my name. It was time to scrub up. This was it, ladies and gentlemen, it was show time. 

I came to in the recovery ward at about 10pm. The first thing I could comprehend was the nurse telling me “you did so well, you did so well”. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. But I remember thinking that what I wanted to tell her was that I actually hadn’t done anything all, apart from lying on an operating table soaking up the happy juices while the professionals did their thing. But I also remember thinking how kind she was. It takes a special kind of someone to be kind. 

Those feel good thoughts diminished rather quickly. “Fuck”, I thought. I was in a world of pain. As best as I could, I took a quick glance around. I couldn’t see much, apart from two drains resting on my stomach. Why did my arms feel damp? Oh, I realised. The compression bandages were soaked in blood. “I need morphine” was the only thing I could manage to whisper before I drifted off again. 

Finally, I was in my room. Again alone, again by choice. I specifically requested no visitors. My family respectfully adhered to. If there is one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that people need and want different things at different times. I wanted to be alone. I don’t like people fussing over me, and I also wanted the freedom to be able to feel and look like death without the concerns of my nearest and dearest sitting next to me. 

What I needed, was to be in a pain relief induced sleep. What I didn’t need, were nurses giving me needles every 25 minutes. I also needed earplugs. The kind that block out the noise of the compression machines contracting on my legs every 34 seconds. And god damn it, I missed out on the wine service!

The next few days were a blur. Every time I wanted to instinctively move I had to remind myself that I had approximately 300 sutures holding me all together. Easy does it kiddo. You’re fragile, but guess what, it’s done! You’re now free to leave the past in the past. Or so I thought at the time. 

I finally got my sleep. A few weeks worth to be exact. Endone induced, but regardless, it was glorious. Sleep for me has always been about rejuvenation. An overactive mind gets the rest that it so desperately seeks. 

Recovery was going really well. I’m not going to lie, this was way easier than I anticipated. I was bed bound, but I was secretly smug that I was ahead of my class and the surgeon was overly complementary of my physical progress. 

I woke up one morning to some pain in my arm. I looked down and my entire upper leg was bruised and swollen. What was going on? 

My recovery was about to head south. That’s what was going on. 

Apparently when a surgeon removes a few lymph nodes, your lymphatic system can throw a bit of a tantrum. Exactly as mine was in the process of doing. I was beyond frustrated. My body wasn’t doing as I wanted. Every day felt like I was moving backwards. I had a new and not so inconspicuous drain inserted into my arm, half of my body was in bandages, and I had just generally had enough. 

For two months, my life had been centred around my health. I was either driving to or from the hospital, sitting in a specialist room, or confined to my house. Our summer house, which we had gotten for the specific purpose of facilitating ‘the year of fun’. Wasn’t really working out that way thus far. 

Being inside is not good for my general mental health. I need to be active, I need to be out, and ironically, I need to feel the sun on my skin. All three things I was unable to do. Hell, I could barely even tie my own hair up at this point. 

It was at this point that I had a lot of time to think. Actually no, thinking is not an appropriate term, dwelling is. I had a lot of time to dwell. About the present, but mostly, about the recent past. A combination of people and events that ultimately contributed towards leading me to this very moment. Reflecting on these now has since shed light on lessons which I was unable and unwilling to admit at the time. They were painful, and I was in pain. They are each poignant and deserved to be honoured with their own respective entries.

It’s at this point that I’d like to point out what real writers do. Real writers have a concept. They have a start, a beginning, and an end. They have structure and they have discipline. Except, I’m not a real writer. I don’t have structure, and I don’t have a plan. I write when I feel the need to write. I start without any inclination as to where it will end. And with that being said, let’s temporarily skip ahead a few steps. Let’s talk about scars.

“Scars show a person has lived. A person has fallen. Skin has been ripped, pulled and shredded. A visual story branded on living tissue. A knife cut flesh willingly or unwillingly, by accident or necessity. Scars tell a story, even if we don’t want to. They are a marker that something happened and it’s left a lasting sign, a tattoo on my body.

Each of us has them. Some of us lucky to only have a few small ones, and some of us have bigger ones, billboards from car accidents or battles with disease that required skin to be sacrificed.

Scars are the outer branding that a story must be told to truly know a person.

We worry what people will think of our scars, the visible ones must be discussed. They are always questioned. “What happened?” and the choice is to tell the truth or invent some grand misfortune. The explanation depends on the day, doesn’t it, and the person asking. Skin scars do eventually heal, some fading into white lines that are hardly noticeable. Other wounds have rough edges shouting exclamation points of trauma. The scar determined by the intensity and treatment of the injury.

It’s the scars that lie within that fascinate me. The ones that aren’t visible, yet they are. Inside scars are just harder to see. Inside scars manifest in the actions or inaction of people. They come from experiences that leave a lasting impression on a heart, mind and soul. The events that happen that have changed me as a human being. One day I was this, and after I’ve lived through an experience now I’m someone else. Scars change you. Heart scars make some people tough, so they may avoid being hurt again, or fearful of intentions and motives, always on guard against an attack. And sometimes heart scars make you tender, more aware that feeling is all that is important. Love is all that matters.

Invisible heart scars are intriguing. A piece of who I am has been scooped out, leaving my heart to mend. These are the scars I try to hide, but they guide my very existence:

It’s amazing the events we survive and endure, thinking emotionally we have surely died, and yet we rise. It’s in the aftermath that we decide how to process what’s happened. How will the trauma affect us? The invisible scars are the ones that make us who we are. Will the world be bitter and cruel? Will the world be full of light and love? Where do your scars lead you? Will I choose love or fear to guide me? It’s my choice which to use as the compass.

My scars are the map of my journey to health, if you will.I refuse to be ashamed of the scars that were left behind during a difficult period in my life. I will remind myself that a scar represents the end of pain. It proves that I endured and I am healed. I healed myself.

My scars will forever tell the story that I overcame life’s challenges and I survived. I was stronger than whatever tried to hurt me.

Scars show us where we’ve been, not where we’re going.”

I resonate with the words, and the words resonate with my scars. My scars. To which I have. To which I’m not overly fond of. To which contribute to a little case of a lack of self love. But, they are a part of my story, and my story is real. So let’s get a little real, shall we?

So those that have read from my first entry to now, have probably cottoned onto the fact that 2019 has been my least favourite year to date. 

People are always so quick to jump on social and proclaim their life is amazing. They showcase the highlight reel. Well kids, in case you haven’t yet picked up on it – this is most certainly not my highlight reel, it’s just my “real”.

This next statement, is both brutally honest, and a realisation of my biggest battle and challenge…

I’ve never questioned my worth as a human being more than I have in the entirety of this year. Yesterday. Today. Most probably tomorrow. Apparently 2019 isn’t quite done with kicking my arse. 

Why? Because life keeps throwing and showing me situations in which on the surface appear to scream “You, my dear, are simply not quite good enough!”. Pair that with a constant daily reminder in the mirror of a past in which you wish to leave behind, and you have yourself quite the little predicament. 

Now I’d like to think I’m pretty resilient. I can handle one or two events in the cause of soul evolution, but there comes a point where it stops being evolution, and starts being soul destroying. And that, that is where shit get real. What the eff am I doing wrong?

I’m at that point. Shit is real. I have questions, but no answers. Everyone has their battles, just to varying degrees. No answers, paired with a lack of faith and uncertainty, I’ve come to believe, is what screws us up most in life.

I still question myself as to why I am willingly choosing to express myself when I have fought my whole life to remain unknown and therefore untouchable with regards to vulnerability and judgement. 

I know it’s something that I have to do, I just have yet to figure out the why behind it. Rest assured though, the vulnerability – I still hate it. For me, it is uncomfortable, it is unnatural, and it is scary. I guess it’s a case of that or the alternative, complete desensitisation to the world. Personally, the desensitisation would be a much easier option.

I used to think life was a game, and I played it pretty well. I strategised, I made moves, I made good fucking life choices. 

Now, hell I feel more like a pawn than a player. 

I’m struggling to grasp the meaning behind it all. What I desperately want, is someone to tell me with the upmost certainty that it will all work out in the end. That person used to be me. Now, now I’m not so sure. 

What I can be sure of though, is just when you think you’re starting to figure it all out, it turns out to be just the beginning. 

I’ve been really stuck on this post. 

Writing usually comes fairly natural to me. I sit down with a pen and paper, and it just flows. Effortlessly. I guess that’s why I’ve always enjoyed the process so much. 

Not this week though. This week has been tough. Each night this week I’ve tried, and each time I’ve been stagnant. I guess the reason being is that in order for me to write, I have to comprehend. I have to understand the thoughts, and the emotions behind them. But I forget sometimes that in the process of writing, I’m still trying to figure this all out. I’m still trying to figure me out. And sometimes, that doesn’t come so easily….

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment when it changed. I know it was more recently than I care to admit. And I also know I was both old enough and wise enough in which I should have known better. 

I love eyes. I love other people’s eyes. The way they can sparkle sometimes, the way they allude to the untapped parts of a person. The mischief they can convey, and the way they have the ability to express the emotions that one at times may try to dilute.

My eyes were always my favourite aspect of myself. I habitually wrote ‘were’ then – which is precisely my point. I went from someone who was capable of recognising something that I liked about myself, to someone who could suddenly focus on the same thing, but from a perspective of “they could be better”. “Well actually, they’re small in proportion to your face size, so they could be bigger. And while we’re here, they do turn grey at times, wouldn’t they be better if they were a brighter shade of blue”. 

Ridiculous really. Some people don’t even have sight to which allows them to see, and here I was, my daily routine of looking in the mirror and highlighting to myself all of the physical traits I so wish I could change. And sadly, the list kept growing. Daily. 

I don’t believe in luck. I never have, and I likely never will. I believe in synchronicity.

A term originally penned by one of my favourite teachers, Swiss psychologist and new thought leader – Carl Jung. He described synchronicity as this…

Synchronicity is the coming together of inner and outer events in a way that cannot be explained by cause and effect and that is meaningful to the observer.

I have no choice but to believe that every single circumstance or event that has happened in my life was the product of this philosophy. Each small and seemingly insignificant choice I have made, paired with every soul crushing moment experienced, has led me to this very point. Right here, right now. 

I believe that the things I have experienced have been for the purpose of my soul’s growth, and hopefully that entails growing into a better human being, with more compassion, and a little less protective of myself, my empathy, and my love of human connection. Ironic that I have identified human connection as one of my most treasured things, when I’ve fought my whole life to disengage from it. But, there is no denying that some of my favourite moments in this life, have been the impromptu heart to hearts talking about beliefs and our take on the world, with people who encourage you to think outside of yourself. To think in terms of energy, and frequency. To think in terms of kindness. 

Over the past 12 months in particular, I have had more than my fair share of situations that simply demonstrated “you my dear, are not good enough”. What I have now come to believe is that it was simply life playing out scenarios that reiterated my core beliefs. I attracted each and every one of them. Repeatedly. Why? Because that, my friends, is what my dominant thoughts were. 

Now to give you some background as to why I should have know better, I need to give you some history. My mother is a medium, and a healer. And she is magnificent at what she does. She is also an academic. My father, is an atheist, and probably both the smartest and kindest man I will ever have the pleasure of knowing. I grew up in an environment of polarity. Equal parts “embrace all that is” with “be careful who you express your beliefs with”. It was, at times, challenging. I didn’t always get the balance right. 

I know, more than most; the game of life and how to play it. I have had access to some of the most valuable teachings, authors, scriptures and experiences, but I didn’t take them on board. It was always my home base when times were tough, but I didn’t utilise it in every day life. And I suffered because of it. I went through a solid period of roughing things out, because hell – I was tough and I wanted to do it on my own. If there was ever a contradiction of arrogance and a lack of self conviction, I was the poster child for it. I took the hard road, always. Because I wanted to be able to say I made it on my own. 

But that was then. And this is now. And I’m aware that while only I can do the work, I’m no longer afraid nor ashamed to have a little divine help along the way. 

But I digress. Let’s get back on track.