hairyfrankfurt

True love

2025-04-17T15:16:00.000-07:00

An ex once said to me after we had broken up "You love doing nice stuff and expressing love and I saw that it made you happy and I basically just want you to have that with someone who loves you back and puts you in the centre of their world".

At the time, I was so wounded over our breakup(s) that I was still pining for that to be with him.

It's been years since they sent that, long enough ago that I had forgotten much of what was said in our last conversation, and in that time I've honestly transformed my entire life.

For years of the relationship I'd had with him, he would dump me in some of the cruelest and most aggressive and hurtful ways, demand that I "move on" and get over him, and then somehow find his way back into my life with an apology and an explosive amount of love. (There's a word for that, isn't there?)

I spent what could have been months being defiant and clinging to us getting back together out of fear of the repercussions if he did happen to return and discover I had tried to move on similar to that one time, months of wallowing in self pity, months of trying to throw my affections at someone else, months of hurting myself in some sick and twisted revenge, and then, as if by magic, I can't remember when it stopped hurting.

As if I was in some kind of fugue state, somewhere in those years, I've forgotten how much this all stung. How much I let him treat me like garbage.

And the funniest part of it all, it doesn't really matter. I'm typing this in a home I've created with my partner, with a gorgeous ring on my finger he gave me, and I finally have exactly what he wanted for me.

I have a partner that I shower with love and affection, I make him snacks and cook for him, I give him massages and we do cute shit together. We hang out and have inside jokes together. We connect on almost a spiritual level where we don't have to force, we don't have to try, we just connect. He's so soft and gentle with me, he understands me, and he works fucking hard for us.

He wants the best for me, he helps push me in a direction of self improvement and wants to see me go on to Masters and become a qualified psychologist, he's willing to sacrifice so I can do that. Or to chase any other dream I have for live. He wants to do anything so I can achieve my wildest dreams.

We work as a team, we talk about our goals and our plans and work around each other. We reciprocate and balance each other. We ask for what we need and we give so the other can have.

It's never a point of showmanship when we go out, he's not showing me off because I'm some hot commodity but rather because I'm his life partner, and him mine. He's not trying to woo me or make theatric displays of devotion because he doesn't have to. We show and share our love for each other exactly how we like and want to receive it. We're a team. We match each other.

Every day I spend with him, every day I get to be in his presence, every moment I have feeling his touch, is time I am grateful for.

I will forever love my Smurf. I will always cherish his little grins and gentle embrace. I can't help but feel grateful, not only to have found him, but for having found exactly what wasn't right for me. I can now know, truly, that this is right and this is what is meant for me.

And fuck it feels good <3

I'm finally getting tested

2024-03-29T15:18:00.000-07:00

It's been at least 10 years since my dad was formally diagnosed with ADHD in his adulthood and we all saw an incredible improvement in his functioning and overall wellbeing as a result of medication. It wasn't, however, immediately obvious to any others in the family that perhaps this could be a reason to all review our behaviours and experiences.

It's also been several years from my Developmental Psychology course, where I was assessed on my knowledge of teratogens, such as tobacco smoking; linked with ADHD in the child. Again, no sudden revelation of all the instances of my mother swearing black and blue that the stress of cessation is more harmful to the unborn child than the benefit of not smoking during pregnancy, including hers with me, being a potential red flag.

I cannot impress upon you the amount of times I have felt wildly productive for having started multiple projects only to immediately abandon them for some newer, shinier project that has caught my attention. Even something as simple as having breakfast, by the time I've eaten the food I've forgotten to complete the task by cleaning up after myself because "Oh wait, did I clean my ears?".

Friends have verbalised that they can tell I have "a lot of open boxes in my warehouse." Within weeks they could recognise the rapid beginning and immediate abandonment of thoughts and tasks that plagues my existence.

Hell, even this blog, my 3 YouTube channels, my Twitch channel and any social media platform I've ever created. It's all or nothing because I get the urge, I tornado into it for a while and as quickly as it began the flavour is gone from the cheap gum of my dopamine production.

It wasn't until these last 2 years where I've had multiple friends, with whom I share several common experiences, who've taken the plunge bravely and come back as having ADHD that I've committed to doing it myself.

While I'm yet to have my assessment done, I can't help but look back at the years Little Kate struggled, being told she was "disruptive" in class for talking to other students, where term after term the parent teacher interview would involve an average report card and the summary that "Kate would do better if she actually applied herself", and feel a deep weight of very sincere remorse for her.

For the 2 years I spent at university studying a degree I would not complete and coasting through on the same approach, only to discover that for me to actually take in information I needed to study something I was interested in and apply a radical approach to note taking and study that involved filling multiple notebooks with slides written word for word and spending lectures alone in the second-to-front row, right in the middle.

Hell, I even have to read aloud just to make sure I remember where I'm at and don't get lost and just start drifting off into the exploratory abyss of my mind.

I do everything at high velocity, nearly barrelling over strangers in the street too dumbfounded to move out of my way in time. I fidget so aggressively my water bottle is covered in dents from where I've thrown it and not caught it properly. I forget what I was going to do with my phone by the time I lift it to my face. I could spend an entire day walking over the bridge from South Bank to the city and back just because I forgot something I was meant to or wanting to do in one spot and remembering when I'm in the other. I lose everything, including time. (Seriously, can anyone please explain how time works?)

Again, I know this is the first stages. I have confirmation that my experience aligns with that of diagnosed ADHD adults in my family and friend group. My doctor has validated my concerns and suggested I have verbalised the experience of many diagnosed ADHD patients of hers. The referral has been read and accepted by the psychiatrist and the appointment is made.

But here I am, still burning to know what happens next. What could happen if Kate applied herself? What might happen if Kate can track when assignments are due without thinking she has months and doing them all the night before? How many meltdowns could Kate avoid if she could plan, forward think, and execute plans sequentially? If this is Kate working with a handicap, then... What is Kate actually capable of?

Or, am I just a dirty neurotypical with internet addiction brain rot?

I'm Moving

2024-02-10T15:28:00.000-08:00

This is not a drill. I am, in fact, moving.

It is an incredible and momentous event. Not only is moving hard enough on its own, it is tremendously more difficult when the original move was so important.

Moving into this apartment marked the beginning of my psychology degree. The night I moved in here, I purged for the last time. The entire time I've been here, my ex has known where I've lived. He's spoken about checking in on me and how he's wanted to come visit. He even has on a few occasions.

This was the first apartment where I've purchased new furniture for myself. I decorated my apartment to reflect a comforting, homely space that I could feel safe and appreciate myself. I allowed myself to try new things and explore my aesthetic.

In this apartment I have relapsed and recovered and relapsed and recovered repeatedly. I've memorised walks and worked my butt off here. I built routines of self discipline that have helped and ones that have hindered. I designed daily structures and formulated walls to protect myself from the outside world.

I tried living without food rules. I failed, but I tried that here.

Living here, I shut down, shut in, and shut off. I hibernated long and hard. Eventually, I also re-emerged. Rested, anew. Slowly allowing people into my inner circle. I leave here with a beautiful group of people I consider my family.

I've been here almost 5 years. I'm leaving this lease a different person than the one who signed it.

I saw floods, storms, heatwaves, lockdowns.

I saw the local shopping centre drown.

I worked my way through a catastrophic customer service job, got myself through a degree, managed to achieve a distinction on my honours thesis, had my mother become disabled and then took on the role of being her carer at my own expense both emotionally and financially. In the same vein, I let my dad live here with me when he was made homeless. I was here when my childhood dog died.

I have seen so much life in the time that I've lived here. None of it I regret.

Yes, I am crying as I write this. It really is the end of an era.

I don't have to be little miss independent anymore. I can open up and let people in. I can ask for help.

I've invited a beautiful soul into my world and I am welcoming the next era; the era of us.

dear friend

2023-11-28T04:38:00.000-08:00

I’d like to pre-empt this by saying I honestly went to great lengths to write this blog post. So much so that on a few occasions, and perhaps with the help of it being 11:30, I had forgotten what I was doing it for and considered dropping it entirely. But the reason I’m making it a blog post and not an Instagram story or, as my first idea had been, a message to someone who had suggested they were there to talk, is entirely the reason for the blog post.

This began because I was having a little meltdown thinking about how much I’ve eaten over the weekend, and how heavy and sluggish I feel, and how I still can’t for the life of me seem to get a grip on eating any differently. I have a partner now, and they’re fantastic. They cook, they enjoy food, and they are absolutely astounded by how 1) awful my chicken is, 2) it’s the only thing I eat, and 3) my lack of variety and enjoyment of food. I’ve tried foolishly to explain my anxieties around food, just saying I don’t like wet food and saying I’m scared of things, but only really came to the honest truth of my genuine panic around weight gain for the first time today on a FaceTime call. He has an honesty above all else policy, and a very boyish mentality of just “not eating” when he thinks he’s gained too much weight. He’s also mentioned that my obsession with protein is a problem and that he wishes I was softer, claiming that I have no fat.

Now I could sit here and debate the reasons I prioritise protein or the amount of fat I want to loose or try justify my reasonings - and for a time in the call I did - but it’s just sad. I’ve had a few days of eating with him, and I’m just scared. I’ve gained weight, I feel uncomfortable, I have no control around enjoyable food, and it’s shameful. I can do the behaviours of eating (not in a recovered way, but it’s better than some), but I can’t bring myself to relinquish control. I can’t allow myself flexibility on a daily basis. I can’t enjoy food. I have to get the tasty thing and finish it then and there so it doesn’t tempt me tomorrow. Then I have to return to my diet as quickly as possible, coddle myself into believing it’s okay that I had a weekend of indulgence, validate and justify my decisions, and then calculate how bad it might be.

I am so ashamed of myself for having these problems with food. I don’t know how I’m supposed to solve this problem. I can’t ask my new boyfriend to just never eat with me, that’s entirely illogical. I can’t control myself to only eat a smaller portion of the off-plan food so I can enjoy without over-indulging, I’m just not there yet. And I can’t just do what any sane person would and enjoy the food every day so the novelty wears off because I will genuinely become fat as a fool.

It doesn’t help that I skipped a training session to spend time with him. Yes, I am fully aware that you can’t out-train a bad diet, but it softens the blow of over-eating.

And now I return to why this rant was a blog post. Someone in my life has, on a few occasions, mentioned I can reach out to them to talk about this stuff. I don’t tend to believe people when they say that, because I think it’s normally for optics and if not, it’s for ammunition. I can’t trust people with this. It’s also just absolutely horrible to be dealing with. I gained 15kg in 6 months. They watched it happen. So in my sick brain, I’m just here thinking they probably think I’m fat and aren’t scared of me having an issue, that I looked better before, that me saying anything would be admitting weakness.

And what can they truthfully do? I don’t want to recover. I want to be thin. I want to be light. I don’t want to gain weight. But I also don’t want to be unhealthy and I don’t want to fuck my health up. I want to be able to enjoy meals with my partner and feed my body enough to be well enough for a family one day.

I even tried using mushrooms and doing a personal healing trip. I managed to have a profound experience seeing my flesh suit and being shown all the damage done to it. I was so touched by the fact that my heart, the muscle that gets the least amount of care or affection from me, has been beating in my chest since I was a kid being abused. That heart just kept going. Kept keeping me alive. Even now, I have a deep remorse and sorrow for what I’ve done to my heart. I know there’s no real damage done and I’m probably fine, but I also know that my heart rate drops to 35bpm if I restrict or go a few hours too many without food. I also know I get arrhythmias and palpitations that I don’t remember from beforehand. I also know my hands go numb and cold sometimes. And I’m no entirely unaware of the way it races at random with the slightest input on days where I restrict. Or in response to large meals.

But again, I say I’m fine.

Anyway. I wanted to message this person and say I’m sick of being able to do the behaviours of recovery when I still get all the panic. And truthfully it’s only partly true. There’s nothing recovered about eating a 400g bag of trail mix, 5 cookies and a protein bar in one sitting. There’s nothing recovered at all about needing to finish the pods from yesterday just because they’re open and you don’t want them to taunt you tomorrow. There’s nothing recovered at all about only eating chicken and vegetables and being scared that the chicken is too pale or wet, or too big and not being small pieces enough to make <150g per serving. There’s nothing recovered at all about wanting to restrict or have a tooth extracted just to avoid eating and drop weight.

But I really do, at least some times, think I wish I had that recovery. I can see, almost a little, the benefit of that.

I just worry what the people in my life would say if they saw me gaining again. I can’t think of anything else interesting about me except that I’m petite. If I got fat, I wouldn’t be as good at a lot of things. If I weigh any more than I do currently, my clothes won’t look as good, my legs will touch and be uncomfortable, some of my clothes won’t even fit, and people will notice that I’ve failed. I don’t want people to see me gaining weight anymore.

I also know that people ignore and avoid me like the plague when I’m losing weight because it’s the only thing I can talk about.

This is the argument I’m in with myself and after all the junk I’ve just pushed into my abdomen, another argument is brewing: to lax or not to lax.

It’s midnight. I have work tomorrow.

And I never know how to end these.

feeling like a terrible person

2023-08-05T05:42:00.003-07:00

I'm pretty well known for finding it terribly difficult to put a sock in it, and today I was painfully reminded of that.

I have a problem with feeling invisible, so I say outlandish or cryptic things to scare and alarm people in a horrible bid for attention. Lately it's been my blasé approach to health complications as a result of my relapse.

I've been dropping very obvious clues to my demise and hoping someone will give a fuck about me enough to ask what's going on.

Today I think I discovered that one of the people I've been doing it to is in recovery.
And I feel like a horrible human being for not giving a fuck to think that I could be effecting people's own experience.

And now I don't know what to do. I want people to know why I might be a little off, but I can't share that without the context of outing myself, and I can't talk about it without giving people the opportunity to opt out of the conversation with full understanding of what I'm talking about for fear of impacting their mental health.

Relapse is weird

2023-06-16T18:59:00.002-07:00

Milk might have been exactly the catalyst to push me over the edge, and here we are.

Obviously I could have seen the warning signs for what they are. My obsession with ensuring protein intake and meal timing was probably a red flag, and the desire to time exactly the right amount of calories at each meal to prevent catching up at night wasn't exactly normal. Hell, even the need to catch up on calories and devour large meals in a single sitting was perhaps a little disordered.

Admittedly, it's been months - perhaps more - of eating to a regimented plan. Protein oats, chicken breast & vegetables, chicken breast & vegetables in a rice bowl with some kewpie mayonnaise and salad, protein shake or protein yoghurt for a snack. But it has rice and mayonnaise included. And I had cheat days sometimes. And I wasn't hungry.

But it included none of the tenets of recovery.

I was deluded to think that rice and mayonnaise once a day would have saved me. I was ambitious to think an attempt at milk would have helped, milk that is still in my fridge now by the way. It was naive to think that I could disorderedly get myself through recovery. What's that saying? Insanity is trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result? Yeah, that one.

So I gave up on the milk. I went back to my water made oats after 2 days of crying about milk in the morning and panicking about how much it weighs and how to track it. "It's just so much smoother" I told myself and anyone who dared to listen. "It doesn't upset my stomach". Hell, to people I trust I even explained that I was just plain defeated by the milk. It was too scary.

I consulted with that psychologist I see every so often. I initiated the appointment by explaining I was going to share something vulnerable and asked that she focus more on reflecting and exploring the experience than providing an answer. She immediately jumped into telling me everyone has the same issues and to not worry about whether I relapse or not because I have no control. She told me it was silly, that I look fine and that it wasn't an issue. That sounds like permission enough to relapse if you ask me, just so long as I wasn't stressing about relapsing I could do it.

Well that's a relief, now I can relapse in peace.

[Rice and mayonnaise exit stage left.]

Trying to keep my cool at work, getting a new job, ambiguous interactions with people at the gym and failing on exercises I used to find easy. Sleep at a beautiful 5hr average.

[Peanut butter runs off stage right.]

I awake to thoughts of whether I'm hungry or not, I sleep to fears of how much I ate, I move throughout the day with the hopes of undoing food.

Scales need new batteries and I body checked so hard I nearly walked straight into someone.

Body checking by proxy through the coaches and they're starting to get annoyed.

My brain has this beautiful skill to fall into the following conundrum: nobody will like me if I'm this big, and my eating disorder can solve that, but nobody deserves to be in a relationship with me while I'm in my eating disorder.

I want desperately to have a partner and a family, and I think my eating disorder will help me get that, but by engaging in my eating disorder I'm pulling myself away from social interactions and destroying the health that is necessary to have a family.

My eating disorder makes it difficult for me to engage in meaningful relationships and is the only skill I know to make someone find me attractive.

I don't find myself to hold any inherent worth or value without having some neat party trick like not eating for 72hrs.

My eating disorder is still the coolest thing about me.

And relapse kinda fucked that all up, because I don't really have any of the cool brag worthy behaviours that my eating disorder provides, and I certainly don't have any of the resulting physical manifestations of engaging in those behaviours either. So instead of resenting my brain for telling me the eating disorder is cool, I resent the recovery behaviours I've engaged in from pulling me away from the best thing about me.

Anyway, I'll get batteries for my scales and check how much weight I've lost so far and in a week or 2 I'll be down a little bit. It's wild how quickly this escalated to full blown eating disorder.

I will say, having friends tell me I need help and they don't want to be in my life anymore also kinda stung.

That's okay, I have my eating disorder to keep me safe and happy. I can keep myself company. I can go for walks and try new sugar free foods and eat cucumbers and drink water and black coffee.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Recovery is really hard

2023-06-04T20:16:00.004-07:00

This statement brought me to tears this morning.
Then again, so did milk.

So. You know. Maybe not that deep.

I keep going back and forth on whether I'm actually in recovery or if it's just pseudo recovery. Like, sure, I only eat a handful of safe foods on a daily basis, but I have no problems eating cheat foods or meals. I can eat out, I can indulge, I can binge on desserts.

Okay, so that's not the most recovered thing to do, you got me there.

But it felt like a liveable state. It felt like I was doing okay enough to say I didn't have an eating disorder.

Then I noticed that by going to work I was finding it really hard to get my meals in. And if I eat meals in portions that I think are acceptable, I'm wildly behind on my daily calorie allowance when I finish CrossFit after work, meaning I have to eat two thirds of my daily food in one sitting and then try to go to sleep.

So after much panicked contemplation I decided that replacing water with milk in my morning porridge would be a good way to boost my calories to allow for a more sustained intake and a less ravenous and deprived self when I finish the day.

I thought it would be as easy as changing the 200ml of water I normally use and just using the same amount of milk instead. However, milk is more viscous and dense than water. Meaning it provides a different yield depending on how it's measured.

I didn't want to use my watering jug because it's another dish I'd need to clean up and I use that to water my plant, Bud. So instead I had the bright idea of weighing the amount of milk by switching my scales to mls.

While I was pouring the milk, however, there seemed to be a wild discrepancy between the amount of milk:oats I had, and the weight as measured by my scales. Then as I took the bowl off and switched it back to grams, I noticed there's another setting; mls MILK.

This lead me to inevitably catastrophise, because how much moo-juice do I actually have in my bowl right now and how do I actually track that? Furthermore, how long do I have to microwave it oh my god it won't cook properly and now it looks like I've frothed it and it smells like cheese.

So the first day was, needless to say, a certified failure. But alas, I made some TikToks about it (nobody understood what I meant), and decided I'll try check with a measuring jug.

So I measured the 200mls of water in my watering jug, poured it into a food safe jug and saw that it came to ~210mls there. Then I disposed of the water and poured milk into the second jug, just at the 200ml line.

Then, because I wanted to check convergent validity, I placed the bowl of 50g oats onto my scales, zeroed them out and switched them over to mls MILK.

"173 mls".

Okay now I'm really panicking, it looks like the right amount, but that maths isn't making sense.

And again, I'm unsure how long to microwave it for because it keeps getting so damn thick.

All that to say I've tried to use milk in my porridge two days in a row and I've become enraged, disheartened, disgusted and appalled. I've also tracked it as 250mls of milk on MyFitnessPal on both days, too, even though I honestly couldn't tell you if it was 200 or 500 mls of milk.

It's terrifying trying to increase calories.

I'm scared of milk.

I couldn't possibly add milk and peanut butter, something I used to do with ease.

I don't know what I'm going to do with this stupid milk.

I really thought I'd be able to do this, I really thought milk was just a simple fix to a problem I thought I wanted to resolve, instead I'm closer to relapsing than ever before and I can't figure out how milk works.

So what am I supposed to do now? Go back to using water? Throw the milk away? Keep persevering with this recovery challenge until I've consumed it all and see how I feel then?

I'm also really tempted to just go back to my low calorie version of breakfast, stick to my low calorie lunch, and then instead of trying to catch up on calories for dinner, just cutting the calories there.
Oh right, that's called relapsing. I'm tempted to relapse. Duh.

This was probably the most poorly written post I've made in a while, but I needed to get it out of my head. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't know why something as trivial as milk was enough to set me over the edge so bad. And genuinely, I just feel sick and nauseas from trying.

Anyway, stay tuned for more I guess?

Thirty

2023-05-15T06:27:00.002-07:00

It is my birthday for another 55mins as of writing this right now.

To be honest, I expected it to be worse. There was a sense of a looming deadline as the birthday approached, as if I was sure to expire or feel some catastrophic change as a result of simply no longer being in my twenties.

Alas, it was uneventful when I awoke this morning. Genuinely nothing felt different. Perhaps it was the residual vodka from last night's drinking stream (thank you to everyone who helped make that successful), but honestly it was honestly anticlimactic.

However, as the day wore on, I couldn't help but feel like there is something wrong with me. Not for turning thirty, I know I can't change that, but for the fact that I've accomplished so little by this point.

For example, I have no partner, I'm bad at dating, I'm not very lean, I'm not very strong, I don't have a career, I haven't finished enough study to actually be able to use the degree I have, I don't know how to drive so I can't get a job in my field of study, and I'm broke.

I finished a workout where I failed on squats and just left feeling less than. For obvious reasons I was hungry afterwards and might have unleashed some hanger at my friend, and then when the tiredness hit and I felt like crying, I immediately jumped into consuming content to numb out and ended up staying up later than I had anticipated. Then I climbed into bed and couldn't sleep because my heart was keeping me up, which resulted in more anxious interpretations of the thoughts I was having, and by the time I realised I was clenching my jaw (along with probably every other muscle in my body) it had been 30mins since I first tried to attempt sleep.

I might just need to go back on my antidepressants. I might not have anything wrong with me at all. This might just be the birthday blues. Perhaps it's the would-be hangover, or the introvert drain, or some combination of any number of factors.

Whatever the cause, I feel pathetic. I get jealous of other people for all sorts of things, be it their body, their confidence, them talking to my crush, them being better at the gym, whatever. I'm stubborn for the most stupid reasons, refusing to do things that would potentially resolve my concerns, simply because I'm stuck in some form of self-sabotage fuelled indignance. I'm convinced the people I care about simply tolerate me and are just keeping me around for a joke.

I really wish I could make an effort to disprove myself, to find evidence for the contrary, to give myself a pep talk, self soothing and personal nurturing.

At the very least, I can almost convince myself that perhaps this isn't just because I'm thirty now.

Trigger warning

2023-04-30T18:32:00.001-07:00

Being an eating disorder sufferer, I know more than most that some imagery and topics of discussion can be trigger. However, it is because of this personal connection that I know offering a trigger warning is entirely pointless.

In a previous post, you may remember me mentioning that people of any size and shape simply existing can cause eating disorder thoughts to occur. Additionally, eating disorder behaviours can be triggered by images of food, eating something tasty, or meals and cuisines that are less than appetising and watching people eat. Should we make it illegal to be fat or ban underweight people from leaving their homes and posting selfies on the internet? Maybe we could prohibit processed foods, so as to not accidentally trigger a binge. Obviously mukbangs would be immediately banned and deleted from existence, as would food challenges and reviews.

Alternatively, and perhaps more logically, I can manage my own triggers because they're my responsibility.

I can't live in a world free of triggers. An alcoholic can't live in a year round dry July or request all their local pubs and bottle-shops to close their businesses. Suffering with anxiety doesn't make you exempt from deadlines and calendars.

In fact, by avoiding triggers, you're reinforcing the learned response and increasing the likelihood of requiring further avoidance in the future. Graded exposure works, because if we avoid stimulus we are lowering our tolerance for it and therefore decreasing the amount of exposure necessary for the triggered response to activate.

Micromanaging the external world to regulate an internal response is nonsensical, time consuming, and in the end results in poor outcomes. Furthermore, despite our best efforts and the energetic requirement required to make adjustments to factors outside of our control, we are unlikely to see results. No matter how much I scream and shout that eating disorders are deadly and certain content is triggering, I have no control over the uploads of other people. The entire world could repeat in unison, however triggers are inherently personal, unlikely to be shared universally by individuals even with the same lived experience or diagnosis, and as such are impossible to prescribe remedies to in a world-wide fashion. If we were to respond to each and every trigger than any person on the planet had, there would be more things banned than permitted. Misophonia is a condition characterised by an emotional response to the sound of other people eating. How on earth would we ensure we don't potentially trigger a person living with that?

I appreciate this growing desire to increase awareness and make more conscious decisions about our actions. I am grateful that people are trying. However the people who are mindful of this are not the people who were ever doing it intentionally, and having these demands for trigger warnings won't change their behaviour either.

The world's increasing sensitivity is, in my opinion, not accidental. I fear, if we are to continue hedging our language, sheltering people from hard truths, tiptoeing around blatant facts, and bubble wrapping each other by adding trigger warnings and telling people what they can and can't say, we'll only get worse collectively.

So, to conclude, no. I will not be adding trigger warnings. Yes, I will discuss the stark reality of my lived experience. No, it is not designed to offend you. Yes, if you are upset you are welcome to ignore my content or do whatever you believe necessary for your own self care and personal trigger management.

An Uncomfortable Predicament

2023-04-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

I know I talk about my eating disorder a lot here, and I'm adding that preface to this post because I don't feel like I deserve to even claim I have an eating disorder now that I'm weight restored. If anything, I'm getting fat.

So for the person reading this, I can imagine the contrast between the amount of emotional and psychological turmoil caused and my physical presentation is stark, however this should serve as a reminder that eating disorders are mental illnesses.

So, to confess, I've been bingeing a lot lately. I was discussing one of the health consequences of these binges with a friend who lovingly suggested I see a doctor. This is the correct response, however it only further highlights the main difficulty I am presented with.

I could, and arguably should, go to a doctor, because it is a health matter and that is the only source for medical and health information. However, when I know the cause of the health concern is my bingeing, there is little they can actually offer.

They might offer a prescription for symptom relief, however the symptoms will only persist if I don't address the reason they're presenting, so they're unlikely to given potential side effects and long term impacts from the medication.

With the issue being the result of my eating disorder and not an underlying actual medical concern, they're likely to suggest referrals to dietetics and psychology. These are both great ideas, they're the correct solution, however it then falls on me to engage with the services, to seek out the clinics, to attend the appointments (at my cost), and to actually implement the interventions. This will be a slow process likely based on urge surfing, meal timing, craving tolerance and mood regulation. However if I binge while engaging in the process, I still can and probably will. They can't stop me.

It is up to me- and me along, to stop shovelling junk into my face.

I only have myself to blame for these consequences, and I only have myself to depend on to get out of this cycle.

It is my responsibility to recognise what triggers the binges and avoid the triggers.

I have to know what foods are too highly palatable and to avoid them.

I need to go for a walk when the urge hits.

I need to plan meals and meal times that will keep me full throughout the day.

I have to remember to drink water when I think I need sweets.

It's up to me to have fruit and vegetables available for snacking.

It's nobody else's responsibility to stop me from buying protein bars.

I need to decide whether eating junk in the moment matters more to me than the very serious and potentially lifelong repercussions.

It doesn't matter what trauma is causing my behaviour. It doesn't matter why I'm doing it. My heart and the rest of my body don't give a fuck who is to blame for me being disordered.

Knowing when my disorder started or why I keep going back to it won't unlock some hidden secret to stop it.

Maybe it is genetic, maybe it is permanent. Maybe it's not even an eating disorder. Maybe it's some terminal uniqueness I suffer with.

Doesn't matter.

I might never be blessed with the body I want. I might never be able to see the work I've put in during training. I might never look any better.

Doesn't mean I can't try, and doesn't mean I shouldn't be mindful of my food choices.

The Disgusting Monster Laying Dormant

2023-04-28T12:24:00.002-07:00

It is believed that shame is an inherent trait designed to keep individuals in line with the pack. You don't share things that bring you a feeling of shame so as to not bring yourself into disrepute with those that could keep you alive.

Thankfully now I don't need to avoid sharing shameful things because we don't have to worry about clan wars or sharing food as a tribe, so here goes.

I get so jealous of people thinner than me - even if they're kids - and I'm repulsed by overweight people. I still hold onto body checking behaviours for myself, and I also body check random people in public.

Do they have abs, do they have a muffin top, do they jiggle when they walk, how prominent are their collar bones and ribs? Am I bigger than then? Do I melt over the seat more than them?

I'm not justifying my actions when I say that this is simply me trying to place myself on a spectrum with them, that's just what I'm trying to do. Me checking their bodies is me checking where my body is in comparison to theirs and how much work I need to do. Sometimes it's light congratulations; because sure I'm fat but I'm not that fat. Other times it's disappointment, heart break and dejection because someone else has the body I will never have.

Additionally, despite me wishing it weren't the case, there is an archetypal judgment call based on how I assume they are as people. If they're thinner than me, I assume them to be arrogant, self-righteous, conceited. If they're bigger than me, I attribute traits of laziness, apathy, complacency. If they're more muscular than I am, surely they're aggressive, confident, hard working.

Now before you say this is draconian and barbaric, because how dare I make sweeping generalisations without meeting people, could you really say you don't have a judgment call when you see a group of teenagers dripping in Nautica and Adidas roam the streets? Does the shouting drawl of "oi lad" and "nah cunt" not raise anxiety levels, or do you manage to remain equanimous?

Partially, I must admit, I'm merely trying to demystify my physical appearance by way of measuring up to objective stimuli when I conduct these checks. Are your legs touching? Are mine? What's your body doing? What does it look like when I stand next to you? What factors might be contributing to this?

Worst of all, at least for me, is that my behaviour doesn't align. So, instead of me being neck deep in a restrictive eating disorder, I'm probably just an average build girl who binges more than she'd care to admit and is body checking and fat shaming complete strangers. As if, somehow, I think me being underweight or actively restricting would justify my judgment. These are the bizarre and nefarious things that eating disorders tell people, which makes them so difficult.

I think also, we unfortunately live in a world where people are afraid to talk about these things, and when hard topics come up they're often shut down and silenced. I'm not allowed body image issues because I'm already in a body that some people would admire and desire for themselves. I'm not allowed to be "fatphobic" because that's cruel and hurtful, despite the fact that it is an actual symptom of a mental illness that I suffer with and I don't act on my thoughts.

Alternatively, maybe I am in the wrong, who knows.

Divine Feminine & Masculine

2023-04-18T23:53:00.000-07:00

Today I'd like to take a change of pace to discuss something far less analytical and thought focussed, because, as you'll soon learn, I'm far too often stuck in that internal environment. That environment is the product of what I'll refer to here as masculine energy.

We all know masculine energy; it's going, doing, rushing, smashing, conquering, goal attainment, to-do lists, hustling. It's your type A personality. It's your trackers and your rise and grind mentality.

There is a very apparent need for masculine energy; without it we wouldn't get anything done. We'd be adrift in a space of sensuality without an ounce of urgency. However, both feminine and masculine energy are dose dependent poisons.

Spending all your time in thinking, analysing, output and productivity sucks the fun out of life. There's a frantic hastiness to living in this energy where no matter how fast you pedal through life you'll always be chasing your tail.

Embracing feminine energy is realising that life isn't meant to be a race. That this moment, right where you are, is beautiful as it is. That despite your trying, there is. It is smiling at the sky, breathing in the colours of life, dancing in your apartment on your own, taking time to really taste your food. It is the space between the thoughts. It is the acceptance of reality as opposed to the working for something different.

This is not to suggest embracing mediocrity and becoming complacent with life, it is simply admiring, appreciating, and giving thanks for what you already have and where you have come thus far.

It is the journey of life.

You don't need an extravagent self care routine or a tantric sex ritual. It doesn't take free bleeding or joining a coven and converting to wicca.

It can be as simple as walking a little slower.

It can be pausing a utilitarian walk to take a photo of something beautiful you see.

It can be sitting instead of standing.

It can be intentionally mono-tasking. (Side note, this is actually harder than it sounds).

Even just taking yourself out for a meal somewhere on your own and enjoying your own company. Taking in the atmosphere and knowing you're worth that bliss.

Embracing feminine energy is making space for the beauty of life to come through.

If the though of giving yourself to do whatever you want gives you major anxiety, it may be an indication that this is exactly what you need.

Give yourself the freedom to be, the space to play, the time to explore. Give yourself grace and compassion. Nurture your soul.

Release the deadline. Paint without the goal of becoming an artist. Do something, anything, just for the fun of it.

Let there be silence.

Give yourself kindness, softness, a gentle touch.

Utilising feminine energy is realising life isn't a competition and there's enough for everyone. It's laughing with your whole body, not worried about what someone will think. Leisure for leisure's sake.

Nobody would spoil the fun of a playground by telling a child it's exercise, would they?

So why do we sour the sweet essence of life just because we're adults?

Paradoxically, focussing too heavily on the masculine will lead to a dead stop in all productivity.

You set a million goals and make yourself a schedule down to 5 minute increments. You're determined, you're fired up, you're furious, and by 9am you're a couch potato with no awareness of what went wrong.

My struggle has been exactly this. A Sunday roles around and I'm fed up with failed attempts, wasted potential and stagnant self improvement. I commit myself to a week of lofty goals and scream at myself that this has to be the last straw. I set goals, make contingency plans, even go so far as to make consequences and rewards for failure or success.

I wish I could say I even keep up momentum for long enough to get burnt out, however that would be a gross misrepresentation of the truth.

I don't even try.

I never begin.

Unfortunately, I'm just hitting a wall of jadedness and dejection. Too apathetic to do a thing.

Why?
Because there's no pleasure in life.

I've lost the thrill of achievement.

I need to reinvigorate my soul.

When one of my workplaces decided they would no longer offer work on Saturdays, a dearly loved shift for it's alluring penalty rates and tantalising lack of supervision, I originally took the news with a heavy heart and figured I'd simply work a different job then instead.

Except instead of being inspired by the potential for improvement, being motivated by the thought of a nice change, I just felt downtrodden and defeated.

Do I really need to keep sacrificing weekends?

I guess I'd never considered that perhaps there was a small (or even large and growing larger) part of me that resented that I didn't get the day off.

It wasn't easy, but I decided that this would be my opportunity to experiment with a new approach. I was surprised that it wasn't an automatic and obvious decision to work Saturdays somewhere else, so I took this liberty to offer a gentler alternative.

I would take Saturdays off from working and commit myself to bringing a more feminine balance to my life.

And so begins my series of self-dates as documented in the vlogs.

This has been a new and challenging adventure, which I will continue to document, but so far has been enjoyable.

Perspective

2023-04-17T05:15:00.002-07:00

It should come as no surprise after my last post that lately I've been struggling with body image issues and food fears.

Something hard to explain that comes as a result of these stressors is the body dysmorphia.

I've verbalised it to friends as looking at my body and seeing 3+ different body types spliced together like those matching toys you'd get in happy meals as a kid where you twist the line up the legs, mid and head of a particular character.

I can't understand my body.

Sometimes I see a specific feature and feel some kind of softness or appreciation for it, normally my collarbones or the part where my ribs become my abdomen, but then it just looks like that body part has been added to something weird, (just below my my collarbones are pecs, and below them hang my two misshapen breasts that look like the early stages of puberty, whereas the cute almost abs of my upper stomach/ribs sits just above my bloated lower belly, made all the worst by my fat flanks that leave my entire midsection looking boxy).

I could sit here and debate whether it's an inability to see the whole for all the parts, that I'm trying to inspect with my brain as opposed to appreciate with my heart, or I could spend time trying to analyse which mechanism/s contribute to the experience, but at the end of the day, that's what I see and how it looks to me.

So I remind myself: this is only how I see it. It's just my disorder. It's just me being my worst critic. Nobody else sees it the same.

Sometimes I'll get compliments for my muscle mass, or a comment about me being small. Some people even try to suggest I'm lean, which is just factually incorrect. I know that each person has their own preference and standards. Sometimes I can tell they don't mean malice, but I battle internally trying to know whether they mean well. Despite whether knowing full well this is a compliment, I'm still left feeling confused.

What do they see?

I would honestly love to see myself from the perspective of someone else. Just for a day, to hop in and out of the minds of NPCs in the real world. To view myself with fresh eyes. What would I see differently? What would I think?

Would I even notice the cellulite? Would I be as disgusted as I normally am that my legs jiggle when I walk? Would my eyes bulge when I see my biceps? Would I still be telling myself I need to be strict on a diet, to increase my cardio, to body check in every reflective surface just to see what I look like in that moment? How would I feel if I saw myself sit down, as opposed to pace at the train station? What would my assumptions be if I saw me from a different perspective?

Obviously this thought experiment extends to more than just physical appearance, unfortunately that's just what preoccupies my mind most. Occasionally my line of questioning rolls into more broad topics, so it becomes...

If I told my life story to someone else, would they see me as a failure, or would they be amazed that I've survived? How would I react if someone else told me they were in my particular circumstance? Why can't I do that for me? If I were an outsider just meeting me for the first time now, would I be as harsh as I am to myself? Or would I be pleasantly surprised at my resilience, my sense of humour, my light-hearted approach to life?

Nobody sees me the way I do.

The same goes for you, too, my dear reader.

Nobody cares about that freckle, that blemish, the fact that you burnt your toast or can't make your bills. Nobody will be disappointed in you for not getting straight A's or asking for help. Nobody is going to wake you up in the middle of the night to remind you of that cringe thing you did back in primary school the way you do. Nobody is going to call you a failure for a relationship not working or the fact that you've been single for longer than you want. Nobody is going to scream at you for not knowing how to dress, or berate you for forgetting to finish your laundry. Nobody will laugh at you because your eyeliner is uneven or your hair is a mess.

I know that knowing this doesn't really kill the inner critic. I know that voice still plays like a broken tape recorder in the background, probably 24hrs a day. I know it's near impossible to shut it up or rewrite that script.

So just start with softness; I might not be as bad as I think. I might not have failed my entire life completely. Perhaps there is a possibility that this isn't the worst thing in the entire universe.

There's also nothing wrong with theoretically swapping perspectives and trying to see yourself from someone else's view.

It's also super main character of you to assume that anyone passing by will notice you, let alone remember you even 20mins from now.

Realistically you could fuck up a conversation to catastrophic proportions and still not take up any space in their mind, and you're not even getting to that point.

So it's really not that bad.

"Recovery"*

2023-04-15T01:38:00.002-07:00

I'm stuck, once again, in the weird limbo of pseudo recovery.

I'll eat something tasty and "off plan" because I want it and the recovery mindset suggests I can and probably should, but that will create the insatiable urge to devour more decadent treats, triggering a binge. Whether or not I binge on those specific craving items or just whatever I have and can get my hands on is hardly relevant, but the unfortunate fact is I find myself chowing down beyond the little allowable treat.

So with this in mind, I have 2 possible solutions:

1) I just stay on track, don't indulge in off-plan foods, and eat the same small handful of allowable foods for the rest of eternity.

Or,

2) I just eat nothing but enjoyable, non-nutritive, indulgent, fattening craving foods until the craving dies, triggering binge after binge in the hopes that my binges are simply fuelled by the mental restriction ("I can't have X") and not some other unknown factor.

The question really becomes: which of these, if any, is actually recovery focussed? And beyond that point, is recovery really what I want?

Am I the weird one for eating based on logic, thought, fore-planning and macro counting, or is the rest of the population just woefully ignorant and misinformed with their emotional decision making around food choices?

Do either of these dichotomised options - eat to a plan vs eat like a chid - actually make sense? Do we look to evolutionary theory for answers? If so, surely our hunter-gatherer ancestors would have eaten what they could get their hands on, regardless of if they were "feeling something sweet". Would this translate to "eat what you should" in our modern era?

Furthermore, where do each of my solutions lead? In deciding to eat predetermined meals, I'm essentially locking myself into a lifetime of making conscious, frontal brain decisions on food, with the alternative suggesting a more intuitive eating, follow your feeling approach.

Truthfully, and it should come as no surprise, I find there to be nothing intuitive about eating. Sure, eat when you're hungry and stop when you're full makes sense on paper, but where do we learn what hunger feels like and what does a person do if those hunger/fullness cues don't work or aren't understood? I also find it recklessly naive to assume that our bodies will crave and ask for what is best for them when we have choices like cheeseburgers and chocolates available. Let us not forget that food is a for-profit industry. Major corporations spend millions on research and development to ensure their offerings are not only moreish, but so moreish you go with their shiny object and not their competitor's.

That's certainly something our ancestors didn't have to worry about when the meals on offer were the chicken you can't catch or the bull that is fast asleep.

With food production as it is, we've found ourselves in the gleeful predicament of choice beyond our wildest dreams. Could you imagine a meek villager or lone nomad suggesting he didn't feel like the ox that was leftover from the hunt? Imagine a tribe chieftain going to the effort of providing a bounty, and someone decides they don't want to try innards.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not going full Liver King and suggesting anything for the ancestral lifestyle, but there is something to be said for our selfishness and greed, we take a lot for granted in this fashion.

There is, undeniably, a part of me that fears losing my current physique and the opportunity to improve it. I'm not even where I want to be right now, what would it do to my mental health should I go further from a place where I'm comfortable in my meat suit? What is my identity if not a person who eats with utility in mind? But also, how bad could it really be if I do happen to get "fat"? Sure, I'd be settling for mediocrity and be part of the majority population, what's wrong with that?

That being said, let's not forget that food has a real and sincere impact on the way our body functions. I know that after a binge I'm left feeling hungover and lethargic, with awful consequences on my gut, further throwing my appetite out of whack and perpetuating cravings for similar junk foods. Do I want to live like that? Do I want to struggle in the gym from the after effects of a sudden influx of a specially curated and propriety cocktail of sugars and chemicals?

All this is to suggest that there is a right way to eat. Some blanket way that all humans should sustain their existence. Almost sounds a little... black and white, wouldn't you say? Almost like the cognitive tools I'm using to tackle the question of recovery are, in and of themselves, part of the disorder I'm suggesting to be in recovery from.

I must remind myself that this flesh bag, my meat suit, this suit of armour for my living bits- that's all it is. People don't care what it looks like. If they do? Fuck 'em. My body has changed a million times already. I didn't complain about growing 300% in the first 3 years of life, why would I complain about growing 2% now? Deciding on how to eat isn't actually a permanent thing. I can eat like a child tomorrow and return to veganism (heaven forbid) the next. Hell, maybe there'll come a time where I do carnivore for a month again. With such a robust and varied history of different ways of eating, surely I recognise by now that it's really not about making a final choice and never changing ever again.

Anyway. This is what "recovery"* looks like.

The Heavy Sigh of Death

2023-04-11T05:21:00.010-07:00

A short story I wrote while live for 24hrs, just to keep me awake at 3am.

As the gravity of what I had just experienced began to wash over me, I was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that this had been merely intended as a holiday.

When Neri and I had first taken off in her Toyota Celica earlier that morning, there was a crispness to the air that only a clear autumn day could provide. It was as if the sweet sound of birds chirping travelled effortlessly, our palpable excitement growing in chorus. The image of her vibrant smile and rambunctious spirit still burnt on my retinas; how stark in contrast that joyous moment is from now.

Our fierce preoccupation with frantically sharing stories about boys just as we have for years managed to keep us distracted for much of the journey. To be fair, nothing was amiss for the first quarter. Just her and I, bubbling away with carelessness, throwing caution to the wind for our first camping trip since we graduated 9 years ago.

It wasn't until our first pit stop that I noticed it. The further inland we drove, a shift began. There's something rather unassuming about a 7-11, so I almost missed it. The store radio was playing Avril Lavigne "Sk8r Boi", which, had it not been for the other patrons, I know Neri and I would have sung along to.

Good thing we didn't.

It was the second verse, as if time itself had been stretched, the word "home" came through the speakers in a low and guttural raw. Half expecting the staff to react, I whipped my head toward the brightly adorned counter to find not even the slightest response. In fact, not a single person seemed to notice. Disregarding the experience as simply a brief malfunction, be it in the audio system or my own ears, we resumed our journey with myself as driver and my dear companion as lord of the aux.

It didn't even occur to me to ask her if she noticed it, I simply let the conversation rattle on as it did.

Her storytelling captivated me as it always did. One of the reasons we've built the friendship we have is that her spontaneous nature almost perfectly mirrored mine. If anyone were to see us in that car they'd be forgiven for mistaking us for 2 parrots, just squawking nonsensical babble at each other. Aimlessly jumping from boys to work, to random happenstance experiences we've both been waiting to tell each other, and inevitably back to boys.

We made it to our second travel intermission.

This time a quaint rest stop hidden conveniently in a national park. After using the facilities, we decided to take advantage of the opportunity to stretch our legs and enjoy lunch with a view.

I couldn't tell you what I was eating. The conversation not only unimportant, but entirely forgotten.

The wind began softly from the east, and as I watched the branches rustle I noticed it. The hair on my neck stood up as I noticed a possum staring me directly in the eye with a knowingness I can't describe. As if the eyes belonged to that of another creature, human or otherwise.

Time stretched impossibly for what was only a few seconds. Neri sat lightly to my right making complimentary noises about whatever she had been eating while I was blissfully unaware of her existence. It wasn't until the sound returned that I realised it had left. As if someone had turned the volume up without the speaker on and suddenly the crushing sound of all existence was switched on violently.

Momentarily winded, I grabbed for the table as if to stop myself from falling flat on my face. Only to look up at my blissfully unaware best friend, entirely oblivious to the whole ordeal.

It could have taken me seconds, maybe minutes, simply to regain composure. Not even a quizzical look.

Trying my best to match her poker face, failing desperately to shake that from my mind, I decide I'm done with my food and anxiously wait for her to finish her meal and take over driving for the next leg of our trip.

With most of the high level information now shared, some 4hrs in to travelling together, we find ourselves quietly enjoying the view together. As if in silent parallel play, just as we had as kids.

Further and further from civilization, the distance between towns on road signs steadily increasing. Not much to comment on, and fatigue of the day hitting us both.

As I stare aimlessly out the passenger window, eyes not settling on much of anything, the world flew by as a blur. Intentionally. What I would have given to not see what I did.

It soon dawned on me that there was a discrepancy in our speed and the amount of motion blur I saw.

Shit, I thought. It's happening again.

I take a sharp inhale and brace myself, knowing what comes next.

The world now frozen in motion. As if a fierce wind has whipped through at exactly the point of a photo being taken.

The deep, frosty chill I know too well creeps sadistically from my toes up to my ankles and my breath is stolen from me.

By the time it reaches my knees the scene is growing dim.

Further and further the bitter cold ascends my body, grabbing with desperation.

Now gray, the world fades before my mind can stop racing.

The evil cold clawing at my bones, slowly encompassing my trunk now.

A devilish state of micropsia, drowning in nothingness.

I'm swallowed whole now, images a distant memory.

Memories, an odd concept. Why repeat the past?

Eternity is a heavy burden.

Online Dating

2023-03-04T14:22:00.000-08:00

I've uninstalled Tinder.

I was not expecting to have it for as long as I did, but I managed to use it for a little over 2 months. I even managed to match with a few people, going on roughly 8 first dates (I'm using the term "date" here very loosely), spending hours messaging, and enduring days of self doubt. Whether you're envious or surprised by my success, or lack thereof, in terms of romantic outcomes, I'm trying to maintain appreciation for the lessons.

So, what have I learnt?

There is an evident danger in accessing people's validation of your appearance when you suffer with body dysmorphia and low self esteem. Could I have predicted that? Absolutely, and I did. However there is a wilful ignorance when the allure of finding your forever person is promised. Perhaps that's not what most people hope for when the game is literally to swipe one way or another on a mobile phone app where you're given selfies and basic descriptions of a person, but as a hopeless romantic I couldn't help but get idealistic.

To that end, I also confirmed my prediction that there is no way of knowing whether you'll have chemistry with a person until you meet them. What they say about themselves, how they pose in photos, what their MBTI is or what they share in music taste- none of that will make up for a lack of connection and safety in their physical presence. I can't really portray my personality in text. I can't photograph my sense of humour. My perspective can't be translated to binary. People create images and ideas of their Tinder matches based on, most likely, equal parts projection and hope, mixed with personal interpretations of what the bio means. Realistically, I could write anything I want on my Tinder bio, use it almost as a targeted marketing campaign for a specific demographic of responses, and the reality of who I am when I show up to meet a person doesn't have to match that. Perfection on paper is simply that.

None of this is to dismiss the invaluable amounts of self discovery I also experienced throughout this journey. Physical attraction to me is relatively arbitrary. There are many reasons I can find myself connecting with a person, and my preference in terms of appearance is wide and varied, if I have a preference at all. I don't have a prescriptive "must have X, can't have Y, want them to be Z tall". Typically I'll notice smile, physique, and affect in the photos. I'm screening for personality in the images, even though that's not really a sensible pursuit. I want someone I can be active and adventure with. Someone I can play with. I want a partner who is down to earth and humble. Someone who can laugh and make the most of the moment. None of these are visible, so why would it matter if they have blue eyes or brown?

Additionally, I learnt the skill of ending things with people when it wasn't working or there was no connection. Arguably, I'm terrible at this as I'm agreeable to a fault, but I did manage to practice on 3 occasions. I don't agree with ghosting people or letting communication fade. I am not a mind reader and I'll think I've done something wrong, read between the lines, try all the tactics to get you to respond or just blame myself for things I already hate about myself when a person goes quiet; so in order to avoid inflicting that emotional pain on someone else I use my big girl words. You know, the thing we learnt to do as toddlers? Ask nicely for what you want?

Throughout the process of asking for what I want and terminating things that weren't it, I learnt just how hard it is to do this without any self worth or personal sense of value. I will, unfortunately, accept less than people think I deserve. I don't just accept, but ask for the least. If you message me randomly, if you don't immediately just try to sleep with me, if you want to know more about me- simple things like this will leave me confused because it's so overtly kind and romantic in my mind, which is in stark contrast to the treatment I think I'm worth. However, I am acutely aware these are simply the bare minimum. I will absolutely accept less than these basic gestures despite me not wanting it.

Following on from this, dating is incredibly hard when your entire sense of self worth is tied, albeit for disordered reasons, to your body. When I've been experiencing less than ideal body satisfaction, I've almost needed to body check by proxy using the men on Tinder or in my personal messages. If I'm only as good as my body, and I don't like my body very much at the moment, why would anybody actually want to date me? Unsurprisingly, when you're wanting an actual relationship, it's not exactly a great strategy to go soliciting feedback on your body by way of images.

Overall, dating, at least in this fashion, has been an eye opening experience. I don't think I've made any connections with people that want to continue seeing me, nor do I think I've learnt how to do that, but I tried. It's easy to become disheartened at this stage, coming off the high of digital attention from strangers who claim to be interested in you, though it is likely that my current listlessness is more realistic. If I have a someone, if my future includes a partner, if it's meant to be, nothing I do now will stop it. I will note the very intentional use of "if" in that sentence, because my doubt is palpable.

Brief post on Britney

2023-01-18T20:21:00.001-08:00

Nobody's mental health or mental illness is our business. Everyone has the right to live however they want.

Whether or not she is mentally well is as much our business as anyone else's mental wellness.

Nobody owes us anything, but least of which their health. Nobody owes us their time. Everyone should be able to attend a restaurant, store, whatever location, and behave in any way they want shy of hurting themselves or others.

Further, how would it be reasonable to expect a calm and measured response from a person when they're being forced to perform in an expected way by individuals they've never met while simply trying to enjoy new found freedom they've had stolen from them?

There is something quite terrifying about the idea that a public person should need to uphold a certain level of approachability at all times, to maintain the persona, to be on display like a zoo animal, and be scrutinised for it too; no less by the people holding the camera.

Sure, it's cliche, but leave Britney alone.

That's good

2023-01-12T00:13:00.001-08:00

I have probably mentioned in passing that I don’t believe in “good” or “bad”. The words themselves really hold no meaning except to hopefully elicit an emotional response with a potentially similar valence as the person using them in the person hearing them, but they are for all intents and purposes arbitrary and meaningless.

And beyond that, if we know that different people have different parameters for what falls in what bucket, what’s to say we can’t just move things from one to another ourselves? For example, most people might agree that clear skies = good and rainy days = bad. For every 10 people we ask about this, however, there will of course be one twisted individual who lives for rain. So let’s take a moment to exercise our empathy, because mirror neurons allow us to and it’s a fun little experiment. The rain is good because it waters the plants, fills the dams, and adds ambiance. So if it has good qualities, why do we consider it "bad"? How much "bad" does a thing need to be, do we all agree on what is bad, and when do we define whether the components of a thing make it good or bad?

And herein lies the conundrum for our oversimplification of existence into such a duality. Cognitive and emotional flexibility, the ability to adjust our think, act and feel depending on the environment and context, are skills that without training or use fall by the wayside. By categorising in broad definitions like "good" or "bad", you're continuing to strengthen snap judgments and rigidity. The act of solidifying the dichotomy only makes it easier next time.

But good and bad feels safe. It's comfortable. Us verse them. Right and wrong. Heroes triumphing over evil. Our whole notion of entertainment and societal structures kinda crumbles if we don't live like this. Further, if we've built so much around this notion of this OR that, surely it's true, surely it's part of who we are, there's bound to be a reason for it being so prolific, right?

A quick glimpse at the amount of government spending on the war against drugs and the healthcare associated with drug related harms brings into question whether this "battle the enemy" approach is really doing us any good. Drugs are bad, right? Drug dealers and drug users are bad, so we penalise them for their misdoings. But sick people are good, and mental health is important, so addiction related harm (with addiction seen as a mental health crisis, mind you) should be on the side we care for, shouldn't it? Illegal drugs are bad, bit alcohol isn't illegal, so it's good right? The economic burden from alcohol harm and addiction is bad, but is that because alcohol is bad?

Perhaps it goes without mentioning that Buddhists have vowed against judgments like this for years and point to this act of holding an event/object without any decision as to it's "goodness" as part of their joy. Perhaps this is a cultural difference and can't be replicated in more meritocratic or individualist societies, but the fact alone should be enough to allow for suspension of belief that it is inherently human. Culturally, perhaps there are inherent differences, however Buddhism and Buddhist practices can be employed by people of any cultural, ethnic, or religious background, with varying levels of success. So perhaps it's doable for you?

Anything you see, anything you encounter, any and every thing that is, can be viewed from the lens of good or bad. The breeze coming through my balcony door right now, I could say it is bad because it's causing a tapping noise as it moves my fairy lights, or I could say it is good because it's cooling me down from the heat all day. That's a very rudimentary example, but you can see the point.

If I really wanted to, I could find fault in anything. As can you. The inverse? What things are you finding fault in currently that you don't have to?

Dating

2023-01-03T17:26:00.001-08:00

What can I say?

It sucks.

Single queens, rise up?

Check your privilege

2022-12-06T03:52:00.000-08:00

The word “privilege” is thrown around liberally these days. Almost like a modern get out of jail free card. It is to say "Yeah, sure, maybe I’m not doing much to improve my life but YOU need to check YOUR privilege." "You can read this so that means you’re more privileged than someone else." This is the 2022 trump card, an all encompassing “gotcha”, that renders any opponent weak in the knees, perilously close to abandoning hope.

Well in that vain, I think we do in fact check our privileges and remind ourselves that everything is, in itself, an incredible blessing (#blessed).

People might point to my wickedly charming smile, straight teeth and white skin to be my privilege. Perhaps the fact that I’ve never allowed myself to become ill by way of lifestyle factors, or even my having been born in Australia to intelligent and educated parents. Sure, these are instances of pleasant happenstance and I can’t change them any more than I can my terribly good wit, but these are not where I say my privilege lies.

My privilege is held in the moments of adversity I’ve overcome that others may never dream of experiencing. I am privileged to have the unwavering courage necessary to stand up to a doctor and tell them they would be discharging my mother prematurely, hence putting her directly at risk of further deterioration. I am privileged to have seen the inside of a drug and alcohol facility as a child visiting her mother, who had been mandated to stay. I mean, let’s be real, there’s no special trick to being born white. There is, however, a fine art to navigating the ever turbulent wants, needs, and emotions of an alcoholic narcissist when you’re simply a child. And, according to said narcissist, a bad child at that.

But you wouldn’t know, because you haven’t had the privilege of that experience.

I maintain gratitude for having been presented with opportunities to interact with police officers to protect my mother when I was in primary school. I hold genuine appreciation for having seen a seizure when I was young. It is upon a great pedestal that I place the hardships and adversities I’ve experienced, such that even using those words to describe the, leaves an uncomfortable knot in the pit of my stomach and the sour taste of deceit in my mouth. How can I truly call it unfortunate to be born into exactly this life? In what world would someone sincerely look to these encounters, with the emergency services, with drunkards in pubs, and everything in between, without some level of sincerest thanks? Having been born sans-bubble wrap, never offered the motivational speeches of "you can be anything" and "try hard and you can achieve", these replaced simply with the bleak yet accurate "life sucks then you die".

So yes, I acknowledge I was born conventionally attractive. I’m thin, I’m rich, I’m smart and I’m independent. I’m educated, I’m active, I care for my self. These are things most people hold in high regard. I, on the other hand, see also my shadows as beautiful. The ruined Christmases, the countless heartbreaks caused by relapses, the drunk drives to school in an unregistered vehicle, being called out of class to speak with the school counsellor because someone gave them a tip off. I am indebted to the universe for giving me the opportunity to feel this. To see this. To learn this. To live this.

My life is a privilege.

And, to that end, all life is a privilege. Your life is not a guarantee. You’re not here by accident.

What might you learn to love if you had the chance?

Borderline What?

2022-12-04T03:50:00.001-08:00

As some of you may recall, if you’ve been paying any attention, I signed off my last blog post and ended abruptly saying that I think I’m borderline. I also used the terms “neurodivergent”, “perfectionist”, and “lazy” rather unceremoniously, all of which also remain unnoticed, but I digress.

I think it may be worth noting that my actual diagnoses are quite limited. Formally, I’ve really only been diagnosed with depression, and anxiety comorbidly. These are the only formal diagnoses that should appear on my medical records. That being said, I saw a psychologist who treated me for “trauma” (not a diagnostic term, sure, but she was also only a registered psychologist and hence shouldn’t be conducting any formal evaluations or diagnoses either), indicating a potential diagnosis of cPTSD (not yet formally recognised, so again, we've dodged another bad guy), and in a clinical trial I was advised that I scored highly for certain borderline characteristics while responding to evaluative measures for a non-diagnostic purpose (having characteristics doesn't = meeting criteria and they weren't a consistent treating professional, just someone on the phone so it super totally doesn't count I promise). Beyond that, I’ve cooked up the semi-professional opinion that I’m autistic or ADHD, which I say is supported by the fact that my father received an adult diagnosis of ADHD himself, however it would be remiss of me to not mention that neither of these conditions are super powers and it's mind boggling how trendy it seems to be to say you have them.

Alas, here we find ourselves in the crosshairs of multiple diagnostic criteria with many overlapping possible presentations. Something that is normally, and I’d argue to greater or lesser extent preferably, detangled with the assistance of a trained professional of which I am not, nor do I currently have access to. It’s another one of the items on my ever growing “to-do list” that gives me anxiety and as such is being deftly avoided.

Is it the hypersensitivity to rejection in ADHD that leads me to cling wildly to the first person to give me any attention at all, is it hypervigilance from cPTSD resulting in superhuman ability to recognise people pulling away, or perhaps it's the soul crushing experience of abandonment in BPD or just my cursed attachment style?

Am I wildly impulsive and reactive because of BPD, acting up and manipulating situations for my benefit, or is that just me modelling what I learned from my narcissist of a mother? Am I doing what you want because I want to, or because I'm trying on your identity to fill the void where my sense of self should be? Is this dramatic attention seeking behaviour, or just low self esteem?

Are my attention difficulties the result of actual ADHD, or just having worn my attention down over years of being overstimulated with mountains of content? Am I incapable of getting things done because the effort necessary to complete simple tasks is simply too high for me, or am I just way too addicted to watching YouTube videos?

Is it disastrous to think of a casual encounter not wanting me anymore because I became insanely entangled in a month, did that happen because I'm borderline, or am I just desperate and this is the first person I've liked and seen in years?

Is my small social circle, monotonous routine, and consistent isolation a signpost for volatility in social relationships, or simply low confidence to expand upon interpersonal connections? Is this something I could work on or do I need years of DBT?

There are lots of these questions. Maybe I'm pathologising nothing, and I'm perfectly fine the way I am. Maybe I'm healthy and these are expected presentations of totally normal human behaviour. Perhaps it's just depression and anxiety. Does having the answers really offer anything of worth when debating how I should live my life? Would good diagnosis precede good treatment in this case, where I don't really have the access to any treatment at all? Knowing what it is doesn't automatically mean it gets better, so what's the harm in saying I am fine, despite my quirks?

Anyway, it's bed time nerds. Some of this post might read well, the rest may have been written on a totally different day in a very different headspace. Whatever :P

Why can't I keep myself accountable?

2022-11-27T04:36:00.004-08:00

This will be a self roast/self deprecating rant/whatever.

Given the fact that I can't see this going kindly, I'll start with a compliment to myself, please don't take that as me being self congratulatory.

I am proud of myself for maintaining my effort in the gym and with exercise or physical activity. I kept going at university, I kept going at my academics after flopping my first degree, and then having a traumatic 2-4 years covering my second degree. I also kept going, fighting for the rights of my actual abuser, for years, after continuing to be triggered and re-traumatised by doing so. Putting myself second for someone who offers me no credit or kindness.

I am resilient. I am resourceful. But it feels selective.

I can't do the basics. For example, today I had to livestream me doing my chores so that I could both maintain my daily streaming and do my chores for the first time in who knows how many weeks (months?).

I've also had so many days of pep-talking myself perpetually and hoping I can start doing things - literally any things - to no avail.

Perhaps it's my lack of goals? But what goals do I want? I'm not depressed, but what am I working towards? Perhaps this is heightened as a result of my newfound freedom from study (side note, I got a distinction on my thesis tyvm), leaving me directionless and left floating aimlessly.

I don't keep myself accountable to the statements I make about what I want and what I say I do.

This comes back to the part about my personal pep-talks. The infinite times I've told myself I'm a daily streamer and upload YouTube videos and post Instagram photos daily, it looks idyllic when I picture it. I have a full routine and work like a well oiled machine, I know I can do it, so why don't I?

I make endless excuses for myself. This month? I wanted to upload Instagram photos and stream every day, but my brother came up to help with a legal matter that was emotionally taxing and left me on a psychological tailspin. Perhaps I can excuse me not being on the internet during that time, and arguably the content I would have made in amongst that emotional turmoil would have been sub-par even for me.

This may not have been too much to ask for if I hadn't then decided to take time off when I didn't have to while visiting the Gold Coast for a few days. I could have streamed from my phone, which I did once, but didn't maintain.

Additionally, I wanted to make TikToks on the coast, and made maybe 2? One is still in drafts because I can't seem to bring myself to finish it. I still could, sure, but why haven't I already?

I can't seem to commit myself to doing difficult things. I can't seem to hold myself accountable to "the grind"*.

*I am fully aware how obnoxious the term "grind" is, so please don't think I say this in all seriousness.

There are a lot of things I wish I could do. Like daily chores. Responding to emails as soon as I get them. Completing tasks in manageable ways, not in one bite at the deadline.

Is this a neurodivergent struggle? Does this change anything? Am I hoping to have a boogey man to blame for me being lazy? Am I self sabotaging? Am I afraid of success or failure? I can't seem to even try. Perfectionism? Does there need to be a reason for why I don't/can't do things? Or should I just be able to do them?

If I can sit here and write about how impossible it is for me to do something as simple as cleaning my kitchen counter after I cook or eat, why can I not just do the thing I'm writing about?

Oh and also, I think I have borderline.

Talk later, nerd.

I struggle with being a human

2022-11-03T21:27:00.002-07:00

I don't write often. Here, or in my journal. I think I should be ashamed of that, but I'm also ashamed of everything.

With that out of the way, here's what's giving me the sads at the moment.

It's taken me about 2 years to realise my last relationship, the 5 years of him flip-flopping on how he feels about me, has hurt. My undying dedication to him and being repaid with "I like [insert something I'm not] type girls" and then dumping me for things I can't change, only to come back and apologise, might have been misplaced.

And now, at almost 30 years old, I'm still as lost as ever on how to date.

When the breakup with the ex was fresh, the unanimous suggestion was always "Go out!", and my response was always "I go outside all the time, for uni, work, and the gym, nobody wants me". I knew full well they meant I should go to a bar or some night venue and meet someone that way, but I don't think I should start doing something I don't enjoy so that I can meet someone who might have different values to me and possibly find someone who finds my body visually appealing. I feared being used, being disrespected, being tricked or conned into a one night stand. I maintain they're valid fears, but perhaps that isn't worth me dismissing the option.

So without boring you with the details I ended up meeting someone. It was someone I was already familiar with and already attracted to, but we met formally recently and started seeing each other.

It wasn't anything formal, and that scared me.

I struggle with my self esteem. I don't know how to be chill. I'm scared that if I don't trap someone, they'll leave.

I'm in this weird situation where every lack of response is received as him not liking me, me not being good enough, me being silly for thinking he'd like me at all; when he's done nothing except calm my fears when I raise them with him and express his desire to keep seeing me.

This is a me problem. I know this is dead in the water and it hurts; it's like I'm mourning the relationship before it's even happened.

I just feel like I'm silly for trying. I don't think I'm worthy. I don't know whether I should think I am. I know there's a few people who think I'm attractive, but that doesn't mean I'm worth a relationship.

So my solution is to just be single to save whoever is stupid enough to like me from me.

Suggestions appreciated, I just need to stop writing because I don't know how to get out of the spiral of self deprecation.

Things my cap taught me

2021-01-12T02:28:00.000-08:00

Okay so you might find it remarkable in the worst of ways that a woman struggling with depression would, in a time of crisis, decide to take a cap of MDMA on her own and walked away not worse than before, but here we are.

Before we get to the nitty gritty, please- don't think this is an instruction. I am not telling you to do this. It's a dumb idea, I'm just a freak of nature. I can't tell you what to do, but if you're going to take my word for anything, please let it be that I don't think you should do this.

And with that, let us begin the story.

So, let me paint the scene. It's a tedious Friday at work, I have a cap at home from months ago (I don't mess with my neurochemistry on purpose, and was coming off SSRIs when I acquired it) that I have denied myself on multiple occasions. Funnily enough I only ever thought to take it when I was depressed, which I know is a dumb way to face my depression and thus was being very logical in my decision to not take it - or so I thought, but we'll get to that.

This particular Friday began with the news that Brisbane was going into another hard lockdown for 3 days at 6pm that day because the UK strain of COVID has been found in our area. Having been totally unprepared for this, my mind flittered to all the things I probably should have done before this news, including, but not limited to, buying groceries. A colleague then informs me that the grocery stores pretty much everywhere were flooded with people fighting to get mounds of toilet paper (three days, seriously what is wrong with your bowels) and anything else they can.

I spent the day also walking the line between actual work and taking personal calls for a family disaster happening behind the scenes, with all kinds of chaos happening personally.

We're sent home from work early and a friend gives me a lift.

I give the grocery store a miss and probably do nothing productive or helpful for several hours.

Then I remember the cap.

I contemplate how it would work when I meditate. "Ooh, that might be nice", I explore the concept further.

I text a friend.

"Reckon meditating on a cap will be fun?" - 7:47pm.

The response was encouraging to say the least, and that was all I needed to swallow the damn thing.

So then I decided I would read and journal while I waited for blast-off, probably 30-40 mins later I decide I should be just on the cusp of greatness so I shut my eyes, tell Siri to set a 30min timer and get ready for spiritual awakening.

Except that was entirely the opposite of what happened because my next text to said friend was the following:

"Either the cap sucked or I do, had a little bit of almost okay, but meditation still sucks" - 9:19pm.

So needless to say this was the point where I had lost hope, felt nothing, assumed either the cap had expired or I was entirely defective and went to bed.

At this point begin to drift off into my usual sleep, when finally, a sensation of something happening swells over my body. Am I going to throw up? Am I hungry?

Wait..

No.

I'm fucking high.

I open my eyes, realise I'm beaming, step out of bed and get comfy for the next however long in bliss.

According to the text message I sent the friend, this was at about 9:50pm.

There I am, smiling at my dark apartment, wrapped in blankies and sitting on a pile of down cushions on my ever so plush couch, ecstatic at how high I am.

The high itself was uneventful, nothing tremendous "came to me", no major spiritual revelations or major epiphanies, I was just high and loving it. Hell, I even forgot to meditate or listen to hyperpop while I was high.

As I watched the drugs wear off, began to settle into my skin again, and the feeling of me-ness that is sobriety increased, I was contented. Sweat and saliva came back so I knew that the night's festivities had surpassed and it was time, once again, for bed.

The next day I had honestly expected some post-pill depression. Some sluggishness, some throbbing headache, something. But after some water and my usual morning routine, albeit several hours later, I was perfectly fine.

My meditation was super pleasant.

I was able to sit, watch the pain, watch the thoughts, watch me wonder off, and be totally okay with it.

And this brings me back to the entire point of this post.

I don't know why I've had a lasting effect from that capsule of sticky brown stuff, but I've come out of that high feeling okay with myself and everything that happens.

That trip has helped me experience being, outside of doing, even if I didn't feel it while I was trying to refrain from chewing my face off.

My holiday to the clouds has helped me feel less trapped by the grounded earth-ness of real existence.

I don't know how long this will last, I'm not going to hold onto it or try and work to do it again or make it happen for longer, but I'm happy I've had this experience. I'm happy I am now able to look at most things and, if not in that exact moment then sometime later, say "this is okay".

It's not my job to change the world or solve everyone's problems. I'm literally just tasked with the job of observing. Witnessing.

This is simply an existence.

These are just experiences.

The human life is approximately 80 years long.

How many more of those precious minutes I've been given do I need to spend - nay, waste - on worrying about things that were always going to happen?

Enjoy this. Whatever this is.

Be Authentic, Surrender The Outcome, Do The Hard Work

2020-02-11T01:23:00.003-08:00

Be authentic.
Surrender the outcome.
Do uncomfortable work.

This is apparently the mantra of recovering addicts in some circles. It's also how I want to live my life.

The most truly terrifying thing I can do is openly and honestly be my most authentic self.

What happens after that is not for me to control.

This is how it is, how it's meant to be and how it was always going to be. I can't change that by being someone or something else. I can't change the way existence unfolds by pretending one way or the other. I can't make this tiny blue dot in a vast galaxy any more or less blue by lying about this or that.

This is. So it be.

I don't need others to like me. I only need to be the 1 me that will exist.

I don't need others to care. I just need to know that I do, because that's my duty.

My truest, most authentic self isn't here for you.

In this, your response to my sincerity is not for me to worry about. Only that I am sincere.

Even that alone is hard work. Nothing worth having is ever easy.

I can't be a better version of myself if I try to pretend that right now? I'm the best. I've always been the best, I will always be the best, don't you love me.

I can't wake up tomorrow and correct the mistakes I've made today if I don't acknowledge that I've made mistakes. If I don't acknowledge my fragile human existence.

I'm not here to Facetune my life- this is me. Dirty, rough edges, real. Truthfully trying to be better, with or without anyone else.

Acknowledging your shortcomings isn't a reason to downplay your accomplishments, it's merely an opportunity to see what growth can be done. Where are the gaps? What can I do better?

I don't listen to blocked messages that hurt me because I don't need to. I don't need to know. I don't need

Clinically removing people is part of the hard work.

Making a decision and sticking to it, despite societies best interests. That's hard work.

I don't have to hide myself, who I am, what I look like. My appearance is insignificant, it doesn't improve quality of life or solve the world's problems. If you don't like the way I look, that's a shame.

I don't need to impress anyone or uphold standards, I don't need to play by your rules, I just need to make sure I'm happy in my life and how I experience this world.

If I'm being my most authentic self, that's all that matters. If someone else is unimpressed with me as myself, that's not something I can change.

Surrender the outcome. No expectations no disappointments. Do the thing and don't care what happens as a result.

Make the move, but don't expect a response. Try a thing, don't hope to be good at it or enjoy it or do well.

Nobody owes me anything, nobody has to respond. People could respond (or not) for a number of reasons, and I really have no control over that outcome.

Do the hard work. Take the time to practice meditation, to journal, to read and show effort for friends. Reach out, be nice, spread kindness. Offset the dick footprint. Hell, try and offset the carbon footprint too.

Never take what you have for granted, because you don't deserve a single thing, Nobody owes me anything, it's not a right, it's a gift. Show appreciation. Show care. Put in the work. Have meaningful conversations about how to help.

I've been writing this post for weeks now, because I kept loosing the spark to write. I've been taking my time to make sure I'm not here trying to bullshit you and give you some half-felt nonsense that I couldn't stand behind.

I didn't want to put this out if I wasn't "in the mood", and I say that to mean that I don't do things I don't feel.

Be authentic, surrender the outcome, do the hard work.