Just an average day.


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You know when you have friends over, and you’ve cooked dinner, and you’ve all had a great meal. You’ve had desert & you’re sitting around the table, or around the lounges, and your completely stuffed full of good food.

Your loved ones leave & you come back inside and sit down and relax. And you look at the table full of unwashed dishes. You’re a few glasses of wine in, it’s late, you’re tired. You can’t even deal with the idea of washing those dishes. You go to bed & think, they’ll be there tomorrow. And they are.

You know that feeling. You just cannot rally enough to do those dishes. You know you should, but bed is calling. And bed is calling loud. The only thing on your mind is sleep, bed, dreamland.

Now imagine you haven’t had people¬†over.

You haven’t cooked dinner.

There are no dishes.

Instead of that pleasant feeling of a full belly and the end of an enjoyable night, your stomach is in knots and you feel completely empty, lifeless, numb.

And you know you should be doing something, but the loudest voice in your head is screaming ‘BED!!!!! It’s late, you can’t do this right now’

But it’s 7am and you’re trying to gather the strength to shower so you can go to work.

Most days, you push through. You break it down into stages so it’s not so overwhelming. You’ll focus on the shower, then on getting dressed. Literally focussing on just putting one foot in front of the other.

But sometimes… You can’t convince yourself. You can’t rally. You can’t fight it.

You can’t get out of bed. You can’t imagine a day that you ever will again.

Welcome to the average day of someone living with depression.

Day two. Well, I guess day three.


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Let’s recap on day one.

Day one. I woke up in the morning, had a shower, just like normal. I was a bit off kilter, but I have dark days like that occasionally. I get through by just putting one foot in front of the other, and moving through my day. So I had a shower, put on my underwear, my stockings, my earrings. I did my hair and was about to put on my dress & makeup and head into work.

I don’t even remember making a conscious decision, but suddenly I was in bed, half dressed, emailing my boss that I couldn’t come in. I didn’t want to think about the consequences. I tried to sleep, and kept half drifting off in this terrifying state of sleep paralysis. I pulled myself up around lunchtime, and realised I needed a medical certificate. I made an appointment, and I went to the dr.

I sat in the waiting room and thought about what I would say. I wanted another day off, and I knew I was really stressed so I thought I would just be honest, and say I was overly
stressed and needed some time. I walked in and the dr asked me what was wrong. I looked around the room, muttered something about not knowing what to say, and that work had been hard lately. I looked at the dr and she had a look of such concern on her face. I started to stammer, I couldn’t breathe. I started to cry. The last time I cried was at a child’s funeral. She handed me a tissue and told me to talk. I told her in very vague tones about the stress, the alcohol, the Valium, the inability to sleep, the loss of control.

She says I have adjustment disorder. It is basically a type of short term depression, a reaction to certain stressors or circumstances. After the last year – the funerals, the break ups, the house moves, job changes, break ups, losing pets, cancer scares, and moving away from my support network….I shouldn’t be too surprised that I’m no bouncing back like I always do. It’s just been too much.

She prescribed me a lower dose sleeping tablet, a week off work and referred me to a psychologist.

I finished day one by going home and smoking weed until I forgot why I was upset. My housemate came home and found me in bed, and I laughed about how the dr not only gave me a week off work, but a prescription for more meds. He looked at me with sadness in his eyes and said something meaningful, which of course I don’t remember because a- I didn’t want to hear it, and b- I was completely stoned.

Day two. I made dinner, applied for some less stressful jobs, and called my mum. My mum cried down the phone with me when I told her the truth. I felt so weak, so pathetic. Then mum told me she had just been prescribed Prozac to handle her depression, which I never knew she had. I felt a little less alone.

That night I gave my drugs to my housemate. I kept the low dose sleeping pills because I can’t give it all away yet, and I drank half a carton of beer while I struggled to tell them what was going on.

I slept that night with no weed and no Valium for the first time in months.

Day three. Today. I couldn’t get out of bed. It took all my self talk to put myself in the shower, and then I ended up back in bed. I took a deep breath and made an appointment with the psychologist. Now I am lying in bed, three beers deep, no pills, no drugs, blogging until I think I can sleep. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how committed I am to being sober, I don’t know what came first – the depression or the addiction.

I’m waiting for my head to clear. I’m waiting to feel like myself. I’m waiting to wake up and not want to get hit by a bus on the way to work. I’m waiting to laugh.

Catch you on day four.

It’s not me. It’s you.


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I miss something about you.

But it’s not the person you are. Its the person you almost could have become. The person I thought you were for so long.

I miss the older sister with the matching bowl fringe cut. I miss the Saturday mornings, making pancakes with you, watching Rage. I miss those early teenage years, when we would religiously do our sit ups while watching Dawsons Creek. I miss mulberry picking with you, and sharing secrets about the boys we liked.

I remember the first time I accidentally swore in front of you. I could see the thoughts fly across your face – On one hand the bossy older sister who wanted to dob me in. Then you laughed. And said ‘fuck’. And I smiled, thinking my bossy older sister was now my friend.

I miss when we used to share clothes, and a room. I miss thinking about our futures, the jobs we would have, the men we would marry. I remember when I first started to notice. When I moved away, and came back home – suddenly so much of what you said to me was belittling, borderline offensive. I knew when I was meant to laugh, when I was meant to agree, when I was meant to calmly change the subject. But I didn’t want to anymore. I couldn’t understand if I suddenly had thinner skin, or if you had turned into someone I didn’t recognise. Someone who enjoyed hurting other people. 

I slowly realised you were always that way, and it wasn’t until I was away from you that I knew that.

Then I started to remember. You kicking me out of your sleepovers. You walking ahead of me on the way to school. You making fun of me with your friends. The stories that you tell at family gatherings that make everyone else at the table look stupid. The lies- the million different jobs you’ve had. The million different boyfriends. The lack of any friends. The imaginary illnesses, the desperate cries for attention. And all along, the disdainful way you look at me. The vicious barbs, the insults, occasionally broken with a beautiful smile and a warm hug – just enough for me to think you are still in there somewhere. 

So, I pulled further away. I took a step back, and another, and another. And the more I pulled back, the more vicious you became. The more you felt the distance I was creating, the more poisonous you became. You got away with it for so long. But this, this is the final straw. This is the end of the road. This latest lie is beyond reason, beyond excuse. You are the ultimate narcissist. You are the most evil, selfish, shallow, manipulative  person I have ever met.

Call it a very fucking misguided sense of loyalty though, because in the moments where I am not hating you, I feel sorry for you. I hope you can pull yourself out of this before it claims even more of your relationships. You have no one left. You are all on your own, standing proud on top of the carcasses of people stupid enough to love you. 

I miss the person I thought you were. I miss the sister I wanted to have. But I do not miss you. 

My favourite part. 


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This is my favourite part. You are so new. You haven’t seen the worst of me yet, and you still believe that I might be good. And I still look forward to seeing you.

This is the best bit. You look at me and you see what you want to see, what I let you see. You think I am slightly broken and you you believe you can help. You actually want to help. You look at me, and run your fingers down my face, and you look at me like you can’t believe your luck. You sleep with your arms around me, and even when my tossing and turning forces you to roll over, you manage to keep your hands on me as you sleep.
I try to mimic what you do so maybe you might feel something, maybe you might feel what I know I am supposed to feel. I’m trying really hard to be that girl you see, the girl you probably deserve… A girl that believes in love and rainbows and happy ever afters. A girl who believes in marriage and wants to be a mother. 
It’s my favourite part, because here in this moment I still believe maybe I can actually be her. And in this moment, the idea of being that girl doesn’t seem so bad. But, this is fleeting. I’ve been here before. I’ve felt the rush, the spark, the flicker and the hope, and  I know what comes next. There are two options. Maybe you see through me. You realise that I am not the girl to meet your parents, you realise my smiles are slipping and I’m always distracted. You start to notice that I self medicate. I have no off switch. You grow jealous of my all consuming career, my male best friends, of everything else I prioritise over you. And you walk away with what self respect you have left. 
Or, maybe I grow tired of you. Maybe your particular style of dance begins to bore me. Maybe I meet another dangerous, reckless soul who will give me the self destruction I always crave. Or maybe you begin to suffocate me. I begin to feel your weight around my neck, your desire to see me and take up my time, your emotional hold as I start to pull back. And then I start to despise you, and stop returning your calls.
Either way, we both end up a little more broken, a little harder, more cynical. 
But before that happens, we have now. We have this fleeting moment when I still like your arms holding me to your chest, and you still picture Sunday morning brunches with me and weekends at ikea. Let’s enjoy this while it lasts…. Cheers to that.

The cost of ‘living’

This is the price I pay.

A plane ride, a familiar face in the waiting bay. The surprise guest at a family dinner. My mothers tears, my fathers inability to speak. 15 minutes of surrealness gives way to normality. Laughs around the table. Light hearted banter. A night in my room at my parents house – the bed constantly made for me even though I have taken my life so far away from theirs.
Breakfast overlooking the bay my dad taught me how to fish in. Laughing so hard my cheeks hurt. Lunch in a nice little pub that my high school boyfriend used to sneak me in to. Dinner down the road from my old apartment, following the drunken footsteps of the ghosts from all those Saturday nights, my favourite booth at my favourite bar. All too soon, a plane ride. An unfamiliar face behind the wheel in the taxi rank. 
I settle into my rented armchair & pour myself a scotch. Revelling in, and hating, the sudden solitude in equal measures. My life has wheels. Only when I am moving am I alive. 

Under my skin.


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I woke up with you under my skin.

I woke up to my life, which until yesterday has seemed so complete. I woke up to a void, curled into a ball on the left side of my bed and not in the middle. I woke up to the pounding of a hangover, the vague sense of bad decisions, and the smell of you on my skin. 
I woke to the memory of walking away from you, you’re obvious lack of understanding on how I could roll around naked with you for hours but be so incapable of spending the night. And I can’t speak the words that I write, so now all I can do is roll into the void you created and then left, and hope that you see me through all of this smoke & mirrors.

“Write drunk, edit sober”


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1 am. 

And I don’t  feel like myself.
Life is a never ending journey of guess who. We are all pretenders. 
You with your four bedroom, two bathroom monstrosity. Your pedigree, adoption certified family dog in the backyard…. Do you feel like a success?  Have you made it? Do you feel like an adult? 
When your thirteen year old step daughter asks you about the future and you try to fill her with hope, do you believe it yourself?
Do you ever look around? Social media is the poison of our generation. We worship our numerical friends list and the numbers in our bank statements and ignore the few branches of human contact that reach out to us. If it isn’t on our smartphone it isn’t real. 
Behind the mask we are all afraid. Afraid of who we are, afraid of where we are heading, but too fucking self absorbed to get off the ride.
Shorter of breath. One day closer to death.



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I finally met you today.

We were at a mutual friends birthday party. I looked up through the crowded pub and I saw you. Walking over, blue jeans. White shirt, easy smile, friendly eyes. When you stopped at our table and started talking to the birthday boy, I wasnt surprised. I realised I had been waiting for you to arrive the whole afternoon.
So when our conversations circled towards each other, and you found yourself sitting in the chair next to me, it was as though you were an old friend. Within minutes we were talking about our careers, our lives, our ambitions. I felt exposed, out of control of the situation, impressed, nervous, confident – I never wanted the conversation to end. A few hours later the party moved back to my place with the birthday boy & a few other friends. We stayed up for hours talking about everything, music, playing indoor golf, laughing, drinking, falling around. 
Then you mentioned your girlfriend, with a very heavy note of regret in your voice. And I ran.
That’s the shit thing about perfection -it’s only ever an illusion. 

THE breakup, a few years later.


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I want to remember, when I know that I can’t go back.

Memories of what you were to me are fading. I know we did a lot of things but I don’t know exactly what. I know we had plans and shared dreams but I’ve forgotten the details. I’m sure I was happy once, but I’ve forgotten when. Memories of reaching for you in my sleep are illicit & forbidden. To the point where the image of you in my sheets, once so familiar it was burned into my retinas, are fading to an out of focus greyness. 
I can’t remember the texture of your skin or the exact blue of your eyes. What was that feeling of my head buried deep in your chest? Did it make me feel safe? I don’t recall if we laughed together, I remember our tears. Every golden moment is smeared with the harshness of our reality.
 I remember vividly the sense of my world falling away from me as you drove away. I can still feel void in my chest, the hollow that I’ve lived with since I realised that the blue of your eyes had always looked past, and never at, me. “I don’t remember the precious things. I remember the ways you showed your worth”
 And now I can’t comprehend what’s the hardest part. Living in darkness after losing the brightest light in the sky, or forgetting what it was ever like to see in the first place. 

Running away from home.


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Distance is harsher when it rolls by slowly.

Jumping on to a plane and having a bit of a nap in the air, a meal or two and then waking up in a new city makes the world feel so small. It makes your loved ones feel like they are just down the street, and that nothing major has occurred.
Driving on the other hand, brings home the reality of just how long distance can be. Watching the kilometres roll by in the rear view mirror, counting the rest stops, driving past your furthest relative, past the furthest place you’ve ever driven before. Falling asleep in a roadside motel, somewhere in the middle of two places. Driving means you can’t nap, can’t sneak a Valium, can’t drift off with a movie and a Bloody Mary. Driving means you are aware. Hyper aware. And you are thinking. You are remembering how many times you have said goodbyes to the people you love more than anything else, and wondering how many more goodbyes you have left. Wondering if it will ever get easier, if your heart will ever get so hard that you don’t sob as you turn your back and walk away. Wondering for the millionth time if you have made the right decision. How can anything that makes your mother cry so much be the right choice? Truck stops, road rage, missed turns, unfamiliar streets, unfriendly faces. 
The sweetness and comfortableness of home has never seemed so appealing as the few days after you run away.