Gosh I feel sad today.

I feel directionless. Pointless.

I can’t even really write.

What I suppose I need to do is take action. Even a tiny action. A tiny thing. A tiny step. One small step. I can do that. Then maybe I will feel a bit better.


What if you’re not ready to change?

I don’t want to have to meditate.

I know it’s good for me, professionals have recommended it to me, and I suspect a consistent practice would transform my life for the better, but I don’t want to have to do it. I resent the imposition.

And yet I want to heal. I want to grow. I want to change my life. I really do. So… why the resistance? What gives, lizard brain?

I’m reading a book at the moment: Feel the Fear & Do It Anyway. I bought it years ago but was too afraid to finish it. (Go figure.)

Now I feel ready, but the book’s main thrust is that we each must step up and take ownership and responsibility for our lives. Stop the victim talk, use more powerful language, etc.

What if I don’t feel ready, though? What if I don’t yet want to emerge from my hard shell?

This petulance has been with me for years. Years. Granted, things have improved, but resistance remains.

I’m going to keep digging into this issue when I’m not so physically tired. The phrase ”I’m going to meditate on it” just popped into my head, which is ironic.

I am recovering from significant, sustained trauma; that is a fact. Unfortunately, my trauma is kind of ongoing. Part of me still hates me. It judges me, finds me defective and unworthy, and hates me for it… a lot. And that is traumatising. Every fucking day. And I am exhausted.

I have compassion and patience for myself as a victim of trauma, but how should I best navigate this aspect of my healing? By forcing myself to meditate, even though I don’t want to? It’s like a chicken-and-egg scenario.

Will I become ready on my own, or must I establish a practice first, regardless of how I feel?

I’m not sure yet, but I will try to find out.

One-third of a tub of choc-mint ice-cream.

I don’t know what the fuck I am doing. The amount of times I have written those words… I hate to think. But I suppose at least the phrase is self-expression. At least, by giving words to my hopelessness and helplessness, it allows me to take stock. It is an attempt to orient myself and pull back and hence get a bit of direction.

The burden of recovery is one I cannot always bear.

I hope that, one day, I stop doing this to myself. I hope the compulsion goes away.


It is a loss and I must mourn it as one. I could have loved her, I think. Could still, were I given half the chance. I don’t even know her, but there were a few moments when I allowed myself to imagine that my missive might lead to love. And how happy we were in my head. I could see it all and I delighted in the view.

I don’t feel this connection with people very often. And I have felt it with only and exactly two women: first C and, later, her. But she is not mine and she moves in a different stratosphere to me. High above, doing what she loves and clearly loving life. She is buoyant. She is gutsy. She is funny and kind and loving. I can see all that from my vantage point below. She is sexy and strong and creative and talented and forthright and funny funny funny. Oh God. All the good things. All the things I like.

I did not expect to feel anything for her apart from appreciation for her music. When I realised my attraction, I was shocked because it came as such a surprise. But a nice surprise. And then, months later, I tried a thing to get her attention. It apparently didn’t work. Maybe she was turned off. Maybe she never received it at all and my missive ended up in a bin, unread by any eyes except my own. Fine. Whatever. I tried.

I promised myself I would have no expectations. I tried so hard to let go of my expectations. But, I admit, I expected… something. Some acknowledgment. That, however, never arrived. Handwritten letters don’t come with read receipts, alas.

I wanted to make her smile. I hoped, if nothing else, to make her smile. And I will probably never know if I did.

This not knowing is not good enough for me. Inside I’m arcing up, as my friend would say. I’m bristling. Hey you, I want you — pay attention to me. There it is — that inner voice that believes she deserves everything she wants. Everything. All the thrifted goodies, all the opportunities, all the hearts of all the people she takes a shine to. Does the deeper, wiser part of me believe it? No… but the other part does. Oh yes.

If I am being ruthless with the truth, as Vania might say, I must admit that I have no regrets. I did what I felt compelled to do. I sent my heart — hearts, even — in a home-made pink-and-white gift box and I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. I poked the message down inside the bottle, threw it overboard and wished. I tried. Faint heart never won fair maiden, and I tried to be brave of heart.

It is what it is. I will allow myself to feel this pain. It doesn’t need to go anywhere. I can hold it, tenderly. It shows me I still have hope. It shows me I still believe in love and its possibilities. It shows me there are people out there who can still ignite that flame in me. It shows me I can and do and want to love. My heart hasn’t given up. My heart is full of love, even when it doesn’t know where to put it.

I tried. I tried, and that has to be enough for me. I will let my feelings and sadness and my loneliness and my hopelessness lap over me like gentle waves on a shore.

Now and now and now and now and now.


Oh, but the self-hate is strong today. A night of drinking will do that.

I have a silly crush on someone. This person is not available, and my feelings are not returned. That’s fine. I can live with it. It is what it is. What bothers me is that I feel so pathetic. Just so terribly pathetic. Wanting intimacy and harbouring silly fantasies. Feeling sorry for myself because I am so lonely. Hating that I feel this way.

I worry that I embarassed myself last night. I worry that I was a tipsy idiot in the company of new friends, and I cringe.

Then, when I got home, I opened my mouth and started pouring out my self-pitying sob story to my unsuspecting (but kind and sympathetic) younger housemate. I told him about my eating disorder and how my weight gain plagues my mind. Again, I cringe. The poor guy.

Yesterday at lunch during choir rehearsal, I was talking about how I intend to study singing next year. I said having done nothing with it is making me angry and bitter. And one of the women said, “And that’s not you.” Isn’t it? I worry that it is me, indeed. Can she see something I cannot? She’s lovely. I want to believe her.

The way forward

I have so many feelings and I don’t know what to do with them. I’m frustrated, I’m scared, I’m angry, I’m sad and bitter. I’m hopeful and grateful and excited and, in some ways, quite happy. I’m healing, but I’m also repeating old patterns because I don’t know what else to do. I’m alarmed that my thinking is so flawed but, that said, becoming alarmed is not helpful either.

There’s a mental health support group nearby and this week I’m going to try to go. It’s not run by mental health professionals but it’s a recognised program run by an international organisation. It aims to create a supportive environment in which people can learn to manage their mental health in order to live a better life. I went to one on the Sunshine Coast, twice, and it was helpful, but it wasn’t convenient. I’d like to make it a habit in Sydney, though, if it feels like a good fit. So that’s my plan for Wednesday night!

I have this week off work and it’s lovely. The sun is shining and the house is quiet. The housework is waiting for me to do it. My sewing projects are waiting patiently until I am brave enough to pick them up again and, maybe, even finish them (finishing things is hard for me).

I feel positive about the future. I do. I am grateful and I have things to look forward to. I have many people who love me. I have exciting creative projects on the go, and big ambitions. I have a beautiful home and a lovely almost-mine cat and sweet, friendly housemates and a stable job that pays reasonably well, even if it’s not what I want to be doing. I have my health, and a brand-new bicycle. I have a wonderful family and an amazing choir and my hair is approaching cute again. I have so much support. I can do this. I can get better.