Archive

Uncategorized

When it’s good, it’ll be right. And when it’s right, you’ll know. You won’t have known all the time, but there’ll be moments when everything is suddenly so clear that you can’t understand why you’d ever considered doing things any other way. When it’s good, it’ll be so right that to behave, think, speak or feel any other way, will be wrong. And when it’s wrong, it’ll be the worst.

When it’s good, it’ll be the best. And this doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be perfect. No one ever said that perfection was naturally the best. And whilst it may not be perfect, it’ll still be good. In a life where so very many things can go wrong, be wrong, feel wrong, the ability to recognise and hold onto what’s good may get a little lost. We’re so busy concerning ourselves with how the people and “traditions” of the world dictate us to feel, and who we ought to be, and what is or isn’t acceptable, that we lose sight of the most important fact: you get one life. One. And you’re the one who has to live it, everyday. So why would you choose anything other than what’s good, what’s right?

When it’s right, you’ll know. You can have faith in that. And when it’s wrong, you’ll know, too. The only thing that ever gets in the way in the pursuit of what’s right, is ourselves. We sit, and worry, and think, and wait. Instead of wondering who you are to have so much good, ask yourself who you are not to?

When I wonder who the people I have respect for are, my answers are probably somewhat unorthodox. It’s the man or woman who says “I don’t” when standing at the alter – arguably one of the most unacceptable places at which to be completely honest about how you feel. It’s the young rape victim who, pregnant with the rapist’s child, brings the child up to be the very antithesis of all of the evil of the man who caused his conception. It’s the mothers who love their children through the terrible two’s, teenage angst, drug addictions and worse. It’s the man who follows his heart in pursuit of the woman he loves, because even though his friends may tease him for being “whipped,” he’d rather sacrifice a man card or two, than ever risk losing her.

When it’s good, it won’t always be good, but it’ll be right. And you’ll know it. With every part of you. Once you know it, the times it isn’t so good will be okay. Because no one ever promised you that it would be easy, just that it’d be worth it. So, let go of the past. Let go of the fear. Start again. And this time, give more. Trust more. Love more.  Find what’s good. Find what’s right.

They say growing old is inevitable, but growing up is optional. And I believe I’m walking, talking proof of this. I may be giving you all a whole lot of somewhat embarrassing evidence to use against me, but I’m not ashamed. And to prove it, just read on and find out what sorts of things I’m not ashamed to admit that I still do.

1. I sleep with a teddy bear, sometimes. Mostly when broken hearted. It helps.
2. I can get scared of the dark, making the space beneath my blankets the safest place to be.
3. I still sing through the alphabet to figure out what goes where.
4. I die laughing at the farting noise the custard box makes when it reaches it’s end.
5. Bubbles are fascinating.
6. I cry when I get overly tired.
7. I can’t resist not stepping on a crack (it’s just not worth the risk!)
8. Skipping is still the best form of manual mobility.
9. Fairy tales are still magical.
10. Cloud busting still ranks in the Top 10 list of ways to waste an afternoon.
11. I can sing the theme tunes to Gummi Bears, Dexter’s Lab and Captain Planet; and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles still rock! 🙂
12. Easter egg hunts remain the only way by which to find chocolates.
13. I will not deal with a spider or Parktown Prawn by myself. Actually, I won’t deal with either of them at all. Unless running in the opposite direction squealing can be defined as dealing with them.
14. I don’t quite know what all the knobs on the washing machine mean, but usually if I fiddle long enough it ends up making a noise and producing wet clothes (that may or may not be discoloured and 3 sizes too small).
15. I don’t like olives or egg plants and I’m pretty sure I never will.
16. I’d rather play outside on a sunny day than work or study.
17. I still forget to floss. Every single day.
18. I never think my actions through, and have thus been referred to as ‘foolishly brave’ (read: impulsively stupid).
19. The Zoo & the Aquarium still fascinate me and jumping castles may still be the best fun you can have with your clothes on!
20. I still frequently hear ‘I told you so,’ in a disapproving tone of voice.
21. I still believe I’m invincible (when it comes to physical activity, mostly: “sure, let’s climb that tree/mountain/100-year old rusty lighthouse.”)
22. I can’t conceive of ever being alive without my parents being alive, too.
23. A fight with a parent/sibling/friend still reduces me to tears.
24. Chocolate Steri Stumpie is STILL the best invention ever (and its arrival in a 1L box just gives new meaning to my existence).
25. Any technological device (a cell phone, laptop, or iPad) will be used primarily for games, and for work and communication second.
26. Jumping on a trampoline still lets me believe that I can fly.
27. I still want to be an explorer.
28. Roald Dahl still blows my mind.
29. Death is still the scariest and most painful loss imaginable.
30. I’ll still always try to run before I can walk, speak before I’ve thought, and surf before I can swim.
31. Jumping into the deep end will always be the only way by which to get into a pool.

The End.

I watched a RomCom last night. I know you told me not to, I know it gets me footloose and fancy free. I know I begin to daydream, losing my head in the clouds of romantic moments and the proclamations of love. I know all of this. But I did it anyway. And you know I kept my feet firmly on the ground. Barely. My big toes clung with all their might, and in the end I managed to bring myself back down to the ground. And it wasn’t because you told me to.

I slept in your hoodie last night. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, I mean the zip was cold and scratched against my tummy. But I persevered. You never told me not to, but I can’t imagine your being one hoodie short with Winter coming was your idea of facing the change in season. Still, I saw the chance to take a tiny piece of you home with me, and when you asked if I was cold, I nodded yes – knowing I’d get more than just warmth out of it. And then I slept in it. And willed my hair and body to leave the sweet scent you say you smell when I’m near. I know it sounds romantic but it isn’t. I slept in your hoodie because it was cold.
It wasn’t because you told me to.

My heart skipped a few beats this morning. I know you find it dramatic when I say such things, but I can’t help the way you make my heart jump. And it never jumps just once, but flicks and flacks its way through five or ten minutes, during which I fear I may pass out. And it wasn’t because of anything you said, or did. You never say, or do anything worth messing with my heart beat. In fact, were it to up to you, my heart would flatline every time. But – with thanks to the RomCom and hoodie clouded dreams – I woke with the memory of your arm across my stomach whilst we slept and your lips against mine in a kiss. And that was all it took to set my heart a-beating. And I sat and missed you and then (unsuccessfully) resolved not to. And it wasn’t because you told me to.

I began a blog. A blog in which to pour my meandering thoughts and views as I weather the stormy seas of our single-sided love affair. You like me, alright, but not as much as I like you. And you did warn me, to your credit, you did. You told me not to fall for you. And I did.
And it wasn’t because you told me to.

Find strength my friend… I know your heart is broken, and you’ve no will to mend it. But you have strength. You have it inside. You needed it to love at all, and to have loved so deeply that your heart is broken takes some of the greatest strength on Earth. We humans are not prone to easily giving away that which we have, least of all our hearts, hopes and dreams. To allow someone access to all that you are, and to give them the chance to be loved by you, took strength. So to mend, find strength, for you will need it over the next few weeks. The pain doesn’t last forever, although it seems it will. The tears, they dry. The lack of sleep will pass, too. And one day, and I promise this, one day it won’t hurt anymore. Speaking simplistically, pain is our body’s way of letting go, and whilst in the depth of it, it is unbearable – but you will survive. The best advice I was ever given, when in the depths of a broken heart, was this: focus on the small things. Allow yourself time, and focus on the small things; the simple things. At first, just getting out of bed is feat seemingly unconquerable. But each time you do so, do so with pride and a head held high. The broken heart within you dissolved your very bones and took from you every bit of strength and will you had. But you got up, today. And it wasn’t that bad. Then take two steps without falling back into the bed from which you just freed yourself, and congratulate yourself. A literal step when hurting, is as good as a metaphorical one, because in the end, we always wind up moving forward, though we may not know what it is we move towards. Then push for three steps, and then four, until one day you’re walking for miles without a single thought to it; each step a tiny testimony to the bravery with which you’ve faced the odds. The same happens with breathing. From the moment your heart is broken, focus on breathing. In and out. In and out. It’s seemingly the most simple thing we can accomplish as human beings, yet when your heart is broken, even this most simple of physiological functions can become impaired. So breathe. Allow yourself to focus on your breaths, even though they’re choked at times with tear and anger and pain from deep within. I know this pain, the one that holds you. It starts at your toes and curls its way around every organ in your body, sitting in your stomach like a pit of lava and clutching at your throat so that words, and breath, seem caught within you. But you’re still breathing. Despite the pain, you’re alive. And it’s this to which you need to cling. Accomplish these seemingly tiny victories without pain, and they’ll become the footholds of stability on your path towards recovery. I know it seems impossible now, but one day the same will happen with loving. Do not rush into it. Allow yourself to grieve. You have lost greatly, and all great losses require great lengths of time for recovery. But you WILL recover. And one day, just as easily as you learnt to walk and breath without pain, you will love without pain, too. And when you look back on all of this, and the person who put you into this painful place, take a moment and thank them, for showing you just how strong you can truly be. For survival of a broken heart is a skill we are not taught, until we’re in the depths of it. Send your past lover gratitude and well wishes, and let them go. Allow them to drift into your past once more, as you take those steps forward, breathing deeply, and moving ever closer towards love.

I’ve found myself avoiding the things that used to give me strength in my sense of self. These things are films and movies where love prevails – even if the path is a little more difficult than the lovers hoped for it to be. I’m avoiding them because I’m scared. I always had these dreams, aspirations and goals – the view that my life would be exciting and filled with love, laughter and happiness. And for the most part it has. Don’t get me wrong, I completely recognize that life is what you make of it… And I’ve learnt the hard way that life is a gift and it can be taken too quickly from us all. So what is it that I have no come to fear? That love (that which I cherish) may not turn out as I had hoped. That we are all just human; so mistakes are inevitable; and I am the rule, and not the exception. You see, the exception, she gets the knight in shining armour, kisses at sunset, and a lover who promises to love her forever no matter what – and it happens. The exception says goodbye to the man she’s in love with because of some extraneous circumstance – and he chases her, and pulls her towards him, whilst whispering in her ear and letting her know that everything IS going to be okay. But if I’m to be honest, and that’s what He’s Just Not That Into You tells me to do… I’m the rule.
I always have been, and will continue to be.
And when you’re the rule, just how much damage are you doing by daring to dream of the exceptions and romance your heart longs for?

Then again, there’s an entirely new way to see it, and He’s Just Not That Into You states it as well…

“I may dissect each little thing and put myself out there so much but at least that means that I still care. Oh! You’ve think you won because women are expendable to you. You may not get hurt or make an ass of yourself that way but you don’t fall in love that way either. You have not won. You’re alone. I may do a lot of stupid shit but I’m still a lot closer to love than you are.” – And it’s that, I suppose, that keeps me going. Because I do a lot of “stupid shit”… But I do it with an honest heart, the best intentions, and taking one step closer to love…

Learning who someone really is, can be both the best and worst lesson we have to undertake. Throughout the course of my life, I’ve had the honour – and the heartbreak – of having to relearn this lesson in its many shapes and forms. These lessons have shaped the course of my life, and it’s with bittersweet memories that I’m able to recount its contribution to my life.

I’ve lost many friends to the various in’s and out’s of life’s path. The most recent being the most difficult since his reason for the friendship ending left much to be desired. That being said, his reason was none. That I knew at least. I’d SMS, call, even Facebook chat towards the end, but alas – he wished me a nice life and so I resolve to live it. He was not the friend I believed him to be, not by a long shot. For no friend could punish a friend in the way he has punished me, nor turn any and all care and good done between them into nothing but anger and bitterness. I wish him all the best, but will never be his friend again. And that’s sad. Letting go of friends such as these, special, wonderful, dear friends is hard – most of all when there’s no feasible reason for it – but if there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that you can’t MAKE someone love you, or want to be in your life. And if someone wants out, you can’t stop them – well, without resorting to kidnapping that is 😉 a little humour always lightens such topics I find.

Now for the flip side. How is this tumultuous tutoring of people’s real sides ever one of the best things to happen? Well, when you’re left more than a little pleasantly surprised. And this happened with none other than my darling lover. The man with whom I’ve been the happiest woman alive for the past three months. Upon first meeting him, there was no electric connections or love at first sight. I found him abrasive and abrupt. Imagine my surprise then when one intoxicated night spent at the Bohemian allowed me to finally experience those long-over-due butterflies, goosebumps and beaming smiles. Finally getting to know the real him has allowed me to get to know one of the best human beings I’ve ever met, and whose existence brings me happiness each and every single day!

So, to end, I say – may the pleasant surprises be many, and the unpleasant ones few and far between. But for every sadness remember that it’s there to purely make you truly appreciate the happiness when it does come. And I promise you. It will come.

My vagina is an illegal immigrant. Bourne in a land far, far away, snuck across the border under cover of darkness, it takes part in criminal activity and its English leaves much to be desired!

Its fluency rather lies in Spanish, or French, perhaps even Mandarin. It must do, since I can’t understand a word it’s trying to say to me.

Let me explain. The first time I had an orgasm, I was already 19. Almost exactly a year after “All The Darkness” happened. Anyway, the orgasm, it happened by mistake. A complete accident.

I mean, it wasn’t as if I tripped, fell to the floor, bumped my head and came. No. But I wasn’t trying to have one. How could I have been when I honestly didn’t know what the hell I was doing! As for my vagina, try as I might, the words she used in an effort to tell me what was going on made little more sense than, well, than Quantum Physics.

There I was, just lying on my back, legs spread-eagle, and staring at the ceiling, giving the odd moan here and there. Lord knows why, I mean a man must not really hear all that much with thighs cupping each of his ears. Anyway, I was staring at the ceiling… well, actually, I was watching the TV – a documentary about Snow Geese. Fascinating stuff, really! Did you know that Snow Geese only have one mate for the whole of their… Sorry. Where was I? All this stuff about orgasms sort of makes me lose my mind…

There I was, moan, moan, moan – when next thing I know my vagina imploded sending shivers and squirms and spasms of pleasure up and down every single nerve and fibre of my being!

If you missed my meaning, it was good. World-rockingly good!

I may not have been able to understand what my vagina had been trying to tell me, but the giant grin she wore correlated with the warm glow emanating from deep inside of me.

When I’d recovered, I said to my vagina, I said “listen, do that again.”

Its grin disappeared.

“That thing,” I said, “you just did it!”

It stared and me blankly.

“Right now, that explosion!”

It blinked and then raised its eyebrows.

“Come on, you must know what I mean!”

Searchingly it looked around the room, before turning back to me and speaking. “Que?”

Fuck. I took stock and decided that if it’d happened once, it would do so again. But it didn’t.

And all the doubts, and anger, and fear that had first featured after “All The Darkness” happened, came flooding back. Because, you see, my vagina is a criminal. And I can’t go to the police. Because of “All The Darkness.” With the boy. The 19-year old, first in his class, funny, clever, brown-eyed-boy. He’s not a criminal. My vagina is a criminal.

Because my vagina and I – we went to that party to see him. We drank the drinks he bought us, and laughed when he’d flirt. We climbed the stairs and let him unlock the gate when we couldn’t find the key. I knew I felt uneasy, unsafe. But I didn’t do anything about it, and that makes me the criminal. I kissed him back when he kissed me, and let him think I was the kind of girl who didn’t want, who didn’t need. Vulnerable, never vulnerable.

But yes, I told him to stop. I drew the line. I threw away my carefree image and begged him not to… But he wouldn’t listen. And who else can I blame but myself? One kiss, two kisses, three kisses and he wouldn’t stop. I waited for him to be satisfied all the while telling him enough was enough.

But by then I had no vagina. Not the emancipated, self-sufficient kind anyway. Not the kind that many great women before me meant me to have. My vagina was locked away in shame, in hiding, like the criminal that it is.

When I eventually told my parents four years later, I could hear their hearts begging for it not to be true and for me to have kicked and screamed and fought my way free. But to tell you the truth, I don’t remember what I did. When it was over I got up and I left, and buried both him and my vagina deep, deep into The Darkness behind words I chose not to understand.

But now, everything has changed. I met a man, and my vagina and I fell in love. We fell in love with a man who made me love myself first, and it is that which set both my vagina and I free.

Because of him, I’ve learnt that my vagina is beautiful and that I should not only hope for orgasms, but that I deserve them.

Because of him, my vagina can wear its stilettos and little black dress without quivering in fear at the eyes of the men around her.

Because of him, my vagina and I finally feel comfortable in our own skin, our own naked, make-up free skin.

Because of him, my vagina can stand tall and tell the world, “here I am. Read my lips!”

And it is because of all of this, that my vagina and I are free and able to speak in English and finally tell the world:

“I was raped but I’m not a victim. And neither is my vagina.”