Easy Like Sunday Morning

I wanna be free
Just me, babe!
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy

As you may have guessed it's Sunday morning. I know, you're astounded by my perception and, to be honest, so am I! It's just another day of course, the beginning or end of the week depending on your personal preference. Either way, it's not as easy as the song suggests!

We'll forget that the song is about the guy leaving his girlfriend and how he is actually complaining about the constraints and pressure of being someone whom he is not.

For as long as I can remember Sunday's have never been easy, at least in my household. Sunday has always been a day of high anxiety with the impending Monday looming dark over head. This anxiety was at it's peak when I lived in Sale, Victoria. You see,  in 1996 Monday's meant primary school, which meant The Run and disgusting teachers who would bully me because I was (and still am) not very good at running.  My anxiety manifested in such a way that when I ran I would hold my breath! Anyone who has ever run in their life knows that breathing is one of the most important aspects of running. Having a steady breath equals a good steady run. So after a few steps while holding my breath (without realising I was doing this mind you) I would inevitably have to stop and pant and, consequently, wonder why I wasn't able to breathe. At this point more panic would set in as I realised I would have to walk and thus get in trouble, again, for not running.
My friends weren't much help as they too would tease me for being fat and lazy because I couldn't run. No one ever asked why I was having so much trouble and, as far as I recall, no one cared. I was on my own.
In 1997 at the beginning of high school the anxiety got much, much worse. Not only was I now in a completely different environment with new students but it was here that the bullying increased. My very first day I was called "steam roller Renee", which didn't really help in reducing the fear of being there. Of course, that name stuck throughout the year I was forced to attend the school, despite my best efforts to be the nicest, sweetest, quietest person. The latter failed miserably as I wasn't really able to keep my mouth shut and that became another avenue for the other kids to tease me. The part that used to really make me angry, and I mean angry, was that there was another girl in my class who was the same size as me yet no one ever teased her. She was even more pathetic than I was but somehow I was the one "chosen" for the "privilege" of being teased. What the fuck was up with that?
What ever it was about me I managed to cop it all, except being physically touched. I'm still unsure why no one tried to beat me, they managed to break me mentally so it would have made sense that they'd "finish the job". Maybe they just enjoyed breaking me from afar?

Of course now it's 2010 and we're on the verge of welcoming 2011 and these things should no longer factor into my every day life. Yet, strangely, it still does. The old panic still surfaces every few weeks and I begin to panic as if I were still the 12/13 year old I once was. Of course now I can talk myself down from the hysteria and dry wretch inducing panic and remind myself I'm now 26 and no longer the helpless, pathetic child I once was.
Well, I may still be rather pathetic.

Sunday's may be easy and I'm quite sure for a lot of people they are lovely days of cruisey relaxation or maybe housework or maybe even a day of cute cafe's while reading the paper and meeting friends. What ever the day means for others I'm quite sure it's not the anxiety ridden dread that my Sunday's are filled with.

Fatty Diary

I've been looking at an online magazine which has raised many, many, of my old distressing observations of the ostracism experienced by those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty.

Part of a teenage girls mandatory rights of passage, during my teen years, was fawning over popular magazines such as Girlfriend, Cosmo and Sane (the free magazine one could acquire from the music shop "Sanity").
These magazines lacked the substance I needed to really be interested. What they didn't lack was the lashings of self loathing I was required to feel due to my body being bigger and of a different shape to the, very nearly, skeletal images of young women models.
Then, in an almost negligent way, the next two pages would be attributed to "exercises" that would tone and reduce the fat clumping around my arms and butt.
It was fundamental in my development for me to realise that I would never be anything like those skinny, wear-anything-they-want-and-look-great models. Despite a rational realisation of this I still spent many, okay, every day and night thinking about how horrible and disgusting I was because I couldn't wear anything even remotely fashionable.
Now, by the time I reached 16 (coincidentally that happened to be when I was in year 10) I had stopped looking at magazines because the depression and anger that would consume me, because of my self loathing, was uncontrollable.

It comes as a great shock that ten years later I would look at a magazine, even if it was a new online one. Part of me was curious to see if magazines had indeed evolved during my ten year separation or if they had remained frozen in time.
Turns out, they remained frozen.

There was one particular article written by their resident "Green Geek" which spoke about cotton awareness and fashion places who are supporting the fair trading of cotton in third world countries. This is all very good and I'm truly amazed to read that, at least, some things are improving, albeit slowly. The not so amazing part is that only small or "standard" sizes are available at these fair trading shops. Now, if I could just step out of my fat suit I could partake in the tremendously good appropriation of these amazing cotton garments! Where was that damn zip located again?

For those of us who are not "traditionally" pretty, who are curvy, rolly, rotund, flabby and squishy we must continue to be ignorant of the advancement in the fair trading of cotton. We, apparently, are not worthy of helping and supporting this organisation. And neither is our money good enough to be placed with those of "traditional" beauty.
No, we must continue to buy our frightfully ugly, misshapen and, quite frankly, frumpy clothes from stores that do not support the fair trading of cotton, thus preventing us from helping cotton farmers in third world countries.
How delightful that we should miss out.

Of course we could potentially donate money to the cause to all participate in our own way. However, and this is probably only just my view, isn't it backwards to donate money instead of purchasing the items made with this fair trade cotton? Isn't the whole point of these shops and foundations and organisations to make the whole market aware of, and comply with, the fair trading of products, in this case cotton?
Truly, I must be crazy to assume there is a real and genuine care for those in need. How remarkably silly of me!

There is of course one blatant fact that I have neglected to mention here. The clothing industry, media industry and fat haters will never change. Thin and beautiful men and women sell those newspapers, cd's, tv shows, magazines and the other array of socially acceptable paraphernalia.
Personally, I look forward to a time when anyone of any shape or size can be included without ridicule. Tell her she's dreamin'!

Lucky

I'm extremely lucky. I am surrounded by amazingly talented, intelligent and creative people.

This makes me sad.

I adore everything they do. Their personalities just shine through in everything they put their minds too. Whatever the project it is always brilliantly executed and designed.

This makes me sad.

They are the nicest people I have ever met. They're genuine in their nice nature, not trying to be something they're not. They would never deliberately flaunt their amazingness. They are all beautiful and confident of themselves and their abilities. They shine with brilliance.

This makes me sad.

I am none of these things. I do not shine, I forget who I am on a daily basis, my talents are limited and faulty, I am awkward and strange, my personality doesn't shine through anything because I have to hide it.
I'm broken emotionally and have trouble not being nice, even when someone is being awful to me. I cry a lot and I don't like to share my stories. I'm not particularly good at anything, only basically good at some things. My ideas are hardly original and my humour is never understood. I have more bad days than good.

I am literally everything they are not.

This makes me sad.

Shhhh, It's Oh So Quiet

If only it were nice and quiet in my head! So many things happened today that got my brain positively racing and now I can't shut the silly thing off.

I've been rather active and outspoken on some websites I'm part of and the responses are still making my blood boil. To be honest I think some people simply like to argue. It doesn't even matter what they're arguing about!
Okay, so I can be that person sometimes too.

In other news, I established today that I've spent a lot of time lately trying to be someone I'm not. I've been trying to say the "right" things to make people like me. Bloody hell, I thought I was passed all this bullshit! Maybe this is what some could refer to as "falling off the wagon".
Part of it is trying to figure out my place in a social setting. Since being diagnosed with depression, anxiety and borderline personality disorder my whole life has revolved around my illnesses. I've been constantly aware of situations and how they would affect me and how I will inevitably leave the situation under bad circumstances. I have been so consumed with all the negative aspects of my illnesses and my subsequent failings that I've lost my ability to "fit in".
Before I was diagnosed I could fit into any situation. I could be the life of the party, the listener, the witty one, the cute one and the one that would stand up for my friends.
Now I have trouble being "social" in Second Life! And Second Life isn't even scary like real life! I can "hide" behind my avatar and still talk with a vast range of people. The problem is I'm not really "talking". Instead I'm panicking while desperately trying to figure out what is socially acceptable in any given situation! This is with pixel people. Can you imagine what I would be like in a real social setting!?

So that's my most recent challenge/awakening. I don't know how to be in social settings. I realise now I don't have to tell every person I meet I'm utterly crazy, but at the same time I find that people are hesitant around me because they can pick up on my resistance and socially awkward behaviour.
Back at square one. Great.

Well, all I can do is continue on my path to "recovery". I think the term remission is far more appropriate since my illnesses (and many other mental illnesses) will never be "cured".
I will live with this for the rest of my life. Yay.

It Goes A Little Something Like This

I'm sitting on the couch, kind of bored, kind of tired, kind of hungry and kind of thinking I wouldn't mind having a chat. So I open the skype app on my phone and see who is online. The name at the top of my list looks good and I figure I haven't said hello in a while, which was rather rude of me. I tap the name, tap on "chat" and write "hey, how are you?"

Big. Freaking. Mistake.

I get sent a link. That's right, there was no greeting or any kind of pleasantry. Just a link.
As we all know I'm curious so I tap on the link. It's a newspaper article of a mother and child being killed in a crash. I couldn't read it. I mean, I'm not sad today or anything like that, but reading that article would have had me in tears and feeling generally awful. Knowing what the article is about was enough to make my gut wrench.
I closed the article and felt a burst of anger. What kind of person sends something so morbid? No explanation, no hello, not a damn word. So I tell him that I really didn't need to see that.
Finally, I get a response "that was my aunty and cousin."

Jaw. Drops. On. Floor.

Shit.

I say the only thing I can say "I'm so sorry for your loss." Hey, don't look at me like that, it's not like I can give him a hug and let him cry on my shoulder! He's nowhere near me.

The conversation basically ends there. Fair enough.

Anyway, I got to thinking about this person and how, forgetting today as there was a real issue, he always makes me feel awful. Every single time I speak with him he asks if we can be together, tells me that he loves me, wants to hug me and do other things which I'm not really keen on doing with someone I've never met and am not likely ever to meet. Then the conversation ends. I shouldn't even really call it a conversation.
I suppose a normal person would be flattered. I'm not normal. I find it rather insulting, to be honest. He doesn't know me, has only ever seen my skype profile picture and doesn't tell me anything about him. Yeah, I'm really flattered. *Insert lashings of sarcasm here*

The other night I tried to actually have something like a conversation with him. I spoke about a movie coming out that I would love to go and see. Yep, that wasn't even worthy of a response from him apparently. Instead, he says "my life is shit." Okay, let's talk about that then, maybe I can help just by listening. Again I was wrong. I asked him why it was shit, to which he doesn't reply. Well, maybe he just doesn't want to talk about it. I'm cool with that, I know what it's like not to want to talk.
Thirty minutes pass before he says anything "I wish you were here".
I got angry at this point. Saying shit like that is not a conversation. It's not something I want to hear and he knows that because I've told him.

I'm not being very concise here, let me just say that every "conversation" with this guy has been exactly the same. He whines about wanting to be with me and then proceeds not to talk with me. Yeah mate, that really makes me want you. Fuck. Off.
I'm always left feeling like my good mood has been leeched from me. Which, coincidentally, it has been.

Well, mate, thanks for everything but I'm going to block you now.
I'm not a damn toy he can play with to amuse himself. If he really wanted me like he said, he would have listened when I said "I'd like to get to know you as friends." Apparently that kind of thing is so ridiculous it doesn't even warrant a response.
Conversations are the most crucial part of getting to know someone, especially for me. If you don't want to talk to me that's fine, but don't expect me to hang around just for your amusement.

Turbulent Friday

Friday started off like any other day. I woke up, I walked around the house wondering what I was doing and then I sat on the couch and played Bejeweled Blitz on my iPhone. I know, you're all terribly excited to witness the life of Renee.

Anyway, this particular day I knew I had to see my doctor. It was time for the "how are you going? But I don't really care, are your meds up to date?" visit. I always enjoy this visit, it's right up there with the centrestink visits.

To make myself feel better I thought I would spend some time teasing my hair, and no not the standing in front of the mirror cracking jokes about my hair. Just in case you were wondering. I spent a whole 20 minutes on my hair. It looked fantastic by the time I was done. Bits of hair sticking up everywhere, just the look that I like. But I'm off topic.

I drove myself to the doctor's surgery and waited until it was my turn. I walked in to the room when the dr man called my name. I sat down and the hell began.

Let's give my dr a name, Dr B sounds good enough. So, Dr B starts talking and as usual I rarely listen. He mainly repeats himself so I only respond when he asks me something new. This time it was different. After Dr B had finished asking the preliminary questions he started to talking to me about my local mental health place and how he thought it would be a good idea to get in contact with my old case manager. (I say old case manager because mental health closed my file last year in November when I went to a psych hospital in Sydney.)
Before I have the chance to think of some feeble way to get out of having to deal with some reality, Dr B picks up the phone and dials mental health. I'm stuck. I want to run away. I can't.

Dr B talked with my case manager explaining that he thinks I need to be reassessed as I'm worse than before, then put me on the phone to my case manager. I was told that I wouldn't be able to see my usual psychiatrist because the waiting list is about two months long. Instead I get to start again. Two years worth of work is now gone.

And don't you dare suggest it's not, when you have to start with a new psychiatrist you have to start from the beginning, again. It's not like a GP who reads your history, asks you a few questions and maybe does a physical. A new psychiatrist goes through your history, your feelings, emotions and everything else. They tamper with your medications, you have to explain things you've been over before, you have to learn to trust them. It's not an easy thing to do.

So, I crashed and burned after the doctor's appointment. I cried my eyes out. I realised that mental health and the professional team who were meant to be behind me and in my corner, weren't. They had given up on me. Suddenly I found myself in the too hard basket. I wasn't worth their time nor their help.

Now I have to wait until Wednesday to be reassessed and to start again. I'm still struggling with the whole situation and it's now Sunday. Sunday people.

Here's to yet another beginning. Here's to yet another disappointment and yet another fall. The hole gets deeper every time I fall in it.

Another Step, forwards or backwards?

I am terrified.

The edge of cliff is right there, just beyond my toes and I can see the merciless waves crashing against the sharply ragged rocks below. This is it.

Last night I enrolled in a Bachelor of Arts degree through Open Universities Australia. I can take up to ten years to complete my degree, which means I have plenty of time and don't have to face seeing a crowd of people who are just as nervous as me. I can do all my studying from home, or hospital should I need to be there. I can work as fast or as slowly as I'd like or can cope with.
Yet, I am terrified.

I am terrified because I've made a decision. There is something in making a decision that is permanent. It is final. The decision is made, the change is happening. Yes, the change is now imminent. Am I ready for this change? Will I be able to accept this change and learn? Or will I fall to pieces like I always seem to do and fail?

While being terrified is one part of my current psyche, the other part of me is similar to a child in a candy store! I want everything and can't wait to get stuck into all the delicious, sugary goodness! I want it now, now, damnit!

There are times I'd like to split myself in two and let each part run around equally like chickens with their heads cut off. Actually, that is a bad image, I personally don't really like the idea of a headless chook running around with blood and feathers exploding in a hundred different directions. Who comes up with these morbid images anyway? And people say Emo's are morbid.... *insert eye rolling here*

Anyway, the idea of splitting myself in two isn't an original one. Let's face it, there's the "boring bits" ad on tv currently. The only difference between me and the "boring bits" ad is that my whole life is boring, with the exception of my Twitter exploits. I'd like to say right now that if it weren't for Twitter I would probably be the most lonely person on the face of the planet.

Back to being terrified. How do you cope with something that is terrifying? I mean, there are people who jump right in and just get on with it. There are others who plan their way through a terrifying encounter. Then there are people like me who want to run, hide, scream, faint and everything else they can possibly do to avoid feeling the entire effect of being scared. I wouldn't recommend the latter as it's not only a bad way to lose weight (it doesn't work), but it puts a lot of stress on your body.

I am terrified.

Humiliated

I am dreading something that I have to do today. The thought of me dreading anything is so strange I'm sure you're all sitting there gasping for breath with the shock of it.
However, I am dreading having to deal with centrestink today. It's another appointment day where I have to "justify" myself and prove to them I am actually as crazy as I say I am. It is so humiliating.

Lately I have been pondering thoughts of cancelling all involvement with centrestink. The whole organisation treats me like a liar, they assume that I scum and am just too lazy to work. Hell, I've said before and I'll say it again, if you have a job you'd like to offer me where you don't mind that I may only turn up once a week or need to run and hide because I feel the grip of an anxiety attack.
I am sure there is a boss out there who love to have someone so unrealiable working for them. In fact, I should waste everyone's time and look for a job only to leave after three months. Yes, you're right organisation that is centrestink, I should be working no matter what.

I find this whole silly thing makes me so angry. I like to work. I like the feeling of accomplishment one gets when working. I like being "important" in some small. What I don't like; being told by centrestink that I do not like these things and that I just want money for nothing.

Today's appointment is all about the interviewer judging me. The person who I will see will look at me, take into account my appearance, how I talk and act. This person will write a report on their findings and will send that to some other department within centrestink.
I don't like acting or pretending to be something other than what I am. I lied to myself for 23 years about being sick, I will not lie about it now. I must admit, I do take some joy out of being blunt and telling the person who interviews me just what my frame of mind is. One lady actually sat at the desk with her jaw open, staring at me. All I can say is "hey Lady, you asked the question."

Having said all this, I contribute terribly to this dread as I do work myself into a lather of trepidation and anger due to their assumption I'm lying scum. I would sincerely love to say that what I have experienced is all lovely and they treat me with respect. Not one person that I have had the pleasure of dealing with at centrestink has treated me with respect or even with the decency of being professional. Instead, I am constantly met with rude employees, eye rolling, sighing, "you shouldn't be on this payment, why are you lying?" and other such horrible encounters. Is it any wonder I feel such acute anxiety when it comes to appointments with centrestink?

I have two hours before the appointment. Right now my stomach is a knot of muscles, my gallbladder is trying to leap out of my body and I'm breaking out in a cold sweat. I will stop writing now so I may administer some emergency anxiety controlling procedures. I sincerely hope it works otherwise I will definitely be labelled "loser scum of the Earth" by centrestink for not appearing at the appointment.

Bah Luvbug or Happy Valentine's

Usually I would hide under the covers and pretend today does not exist. I am usually more of a bah luvbug (thanks to @emlykd for that word!) kind of person. I know, you would never have guessed!

However, today the 14th February 2010 I am more of a Happy Valentine's Day kind of person. I have a Valentine this year. Indeed, something as small as having someone say to me "happy valentine's day" is able to make the corners of my mouth to twitch and eventually break into a grin to rival that of the Cheshire cat.

As humans we just want to be loved, whether we are loved by family, friends or a significant other. We crave that love, friendship and support that comes with someone being kind to us. I am no different, in some ways I'm more in tuned with that emotional side (even if it's not by choice!).

Having professed my love for being loved I'd like to make it clear I'm not so interested in the chocolate, flowers and presents that are apparently "required" on this day.
Personally, it is the thought that counts. It is the simplicity of someone saying to me "happy valentine's day" or wishing me well for this day.

So now I would like to share the love and wish everyone a lovely valentine's day! I hope everyone feels a little bit of happiness today, even if (like me) they are single.

Response from A SMOKER. God Forbid.

I feel that I need to say something here on behalf of those of use who are considerate, kind and try very hard to never be near an open door, a child or anyone else while they are (God forbid I write this) smoking.

I read a blog today about people smoking by hospital doors, smoking near children and other disgusting things. In the blog "So Now What?" the writer was clearly not happy with the inconsiderate people who abuse the "system". I am not saying I disagree with the points raised in the blog for I am not. I disagree with the comments made on the blog and the general assumption that every smoker is a nasty piece of work with absolutely no consideration. This general assumption is just horrid and I am appalled to be labelled among these people just because I dare to raise a cancerous-tobacco-filled-nicotine-ridden cigarette to my mouth and inhale it's toxic decadence.

Let me clearly state right here and now I do not think smoking is cool, I do not think it is health or good. I definitely do not think people should smoke around children or entrance ways.
Smoking is a disgusting habit and I am fully aware and agree wholeheartedly. This does not mean I will quit just because you don't like it.

No, indeed I won't quit because it would be detrimental to my health at this point. You see, as I explained in my comment on "So Now What?", I have this little problem with anxiety. This little problem means I forget to breathe and a lack of breathing can cause all kind of issues, including death. The reason that nasty little cigarette is good for me is due simply to this: upon smoking it I inhale and exhale in a normal rhythm which, in turn, means my anxiety reduces and I continue to live without any nasty side effects, like dying from no oxygen.
Yes, for all those of you who also have anxiety and don't need to rely on a cancerous, highly addictive form to continue breathing, I am able to utilise the breathing techniques taught to me by my psychologist. There are definitely ways around the anxiety without relying on the cigarette. I choose to use the cigarette when I find that the 30 - 40 minutes of repeatedly attempting breathing techniques is not working.

Now, I'd like to clearly point to everyone that I do not and will not smoke around children, especially within an enclosed area (ie. car). Children should not be exposed to many things, least of which is something as harmful as cigarette smoke. If I am out and I see children sitting near to where I was planning to sit to smoke, I will keep walking to find somewhere that is not inhabited by children or other people. Indeed, if I can not find anywhere and I know my anxiety is getting worse, I will hide in the toilets, put the lid of the toilet seat down and I will sit there, rocking until I can calm myself down to some extent. If you ever see a lady almost run to the toilet and you hear the crash and bang of the lid being slammed shut you can almost bet that it's me hiding out in the toilet desperately trying to calm down.
I completely support the laws that state smoking in a confined space with children present is illegal. It should be. Only idiots would jeopardise their children's health like that.

I have been known walk in another direction to the one I needed because I notice the wind change and did not want anyone else to be downwind of myself and my smoke. I've picked up stray cigarette butts that others have dropped because I feel guilty that they would be so disgusting and inconsiderate in their smoking habits. I carry a little ashtray with me that I use to put my butts in when I am not home so I don't leave a mess or a trace of my nasty little secret.
Why must I be so ashamed when I am the one going out of my way to make sure no one has to breath in my recently exhaled smoke?

As some of you are aware I have recently been spending a fair amount of time in hospital. While the hospital itself is actually a no smoking area there are places (away from the entrances) that one may smoke. I myself have found there are lazy, rude bastards who decide they can not and will not make their way to those areas because they may have to walk those extra 20 steps. If you are well enough to get up to have a smoke you can damn well walk those extra few steps so you're not infecting anyone else with your horrid affliction.
I don't usually smoke when I am at hospital (this does not include psych wards), and if I do smoke I will walk further away than the prescribed area and I make sure no one else is around. No, not because I am shamefully hiding my habit, because I don't want anyone else to be subjected to the smell of the ridiculous thing.

Surely I can not be the only person in the world who takes these considerations? Surely there are good stories of smokers who respect other people and their health and do things to make sure others are not affected by their smoke?

Again, I feel I should repeat, smoking is a disgusting habit. It stains your fingers, makes you smell and has the potential to cause you great harm. I would advise anyone not to smoke if they do not do so already. Please, take that from someone who does smoke. It's horrid.

So here I am, hopefully shining a light on the whole situation and maybe more people will realise they live in a world filled with people, not just themselves and their kids, and maybe, just maybe everyone will have a little more consideration for each other? Ha! Who am I kidding!

By the way, to those of you who like to hate smokers and insist that smokers blow their smoke in your face and you walk past, do you ever notice the smokers who step back and let you pass, while they hold their breath? Do you ever notice the smokers who put out their smoke upon your arrival? Do you notice the smokers who DO NOT stand in the doorways causing you such agony? No, I didn't think you did.

Rain, rain please don't go away!

I don't know why I write blogs on weekends. I suspect reading a blog is like working, we only do it Monday to Friday and presumably between the hours of 9 to 5. So having said that, here I am on a Saturday afternoon writing a blog.

I have nothing to particularly whine about today, other than the need to write a blog on a day when no one will read it. It's actually a lovely day for me. I'm sitting here with my laptop on my lap, coffee on the table and the window open so I can listen to the rain as it falls. Most people seem to whine that the rain is so terrible, that it ruins their day because they "can't go outside". People, have you not heard of an umbrella? Perhaps you may have heard of this new contraption that one wears to help waterproof us? I do believe it's called a "Rain Coat."
Personally, the rain is calming and tranquil. I love the feeling of peace I get when I can just sit and listen to it softly landing on the roof and hear it pool on the leaves of the horrid rose bushes outside my window. Granted, I am not one to enjoy getting wet (unless I'm having a shower, bath or am swimming in a pool!) so I don't always venture out into the lovely rain.

Each person is different, and I like to think that I can appreciate that aspect of everyone (there may be times when this does not apply, especially when someone does something incredibly stupid see current opposition leader and his reference to "virginity"). However, I find it rather irritating when people bitch and moan and whine about rain. Look around you, is the grass almost completely brown? Are the trees reaching out to us for water to save them? Are our water catchment areas running low? I am sure we can all answer yes to all of these questions, including a little creative imagining of trees screaming, so why is the rain so terrible when we obviously need it so much?

Perhaps, in all my wisdom, I have neglected to delve into the psyche of those rain-haters? There is a slight chance I would return from such a mind-delving-expedition with even less of a mind than I went in with. In other words, I think it would fry what little sense is left inside this head to even attempt to contemplate what a rain-hater sees.

Instead, I shall listen to the rain softly falling and let my mind wander to the millions of places that only a mind can go. I shall enjoy the coolness in the air, the crickets making their joyful rain tribute song (or maybe they're just trying to attract a mate?) and I will bask in the glory of knowing that the rain is welcome here and that should it return I will continue to welcome it with open arms. 

Broken records

I started playing an online game again. I don't know why I did that. I don't know what possessed me to sign in and play. All I know is that it's been about two weeks now and already I feel like shit.

Most of the time I think I avoid a lot of drama and things from other people. I try very hard to remain neutral because it's usually none of my business and I have enough of my own drama. However, since playing this game again I am now assured that I cause the drama. It has to be me.
The part I don't understand is how, when or why I cause it. Surely I don't say things to incite people...? Do I?

So here I am. I got banned from a place, a sim. I don't know when it happened and I very much do not know why. I suspect it has something to do with a nasty rumour being said.

This is only a small snapshot of the circus going on. I realise I'm not meant to care, however, I do care because I am human. I'm not a robot devoid of emotions or feeling. A slurr against my virtual self hurts just as much as a slur on my real self. Yes, it HURTS.

This snapshot of life, both real and virtual, has created a rather large whole in me. Like a tyre with a small hole. A little bit of air escapes every few seconds so it takes days for the tyre to go flat.
I am beginning to think that people just don't care about anyone other than themselves. Everything I seem to do or say is met with hostility, paranoia and stupidity.

People, let me state right here: I do not care about your inner most secrets, or shame. I do not care about your petty squabbles with other people. I do not want to spy on you to find out whatever it is you deem so important.

It's truly ridiculous that I allow myself to be affected by so many people. I guess I allow it because I want to fit in, I want to be liked and I want to please everyone. If I can't please people I get frustrated and begin to worry about my usefulness as a human. Hey, I never said I was sane.

So after two weeks I've been followed around an Australian sim by one of the "admin", I've been lied to, I have been the recipient of rumours and false accusations and I've been treated in a cruel manner.

Is this the best the world, both real and virtual, has to offer? If it is, well, I want out of both. Where's the off button for the real world? It needs one.

Why I Hate Christmas - Part 2

It was Christmas 1995. My father had just been posted to a country town in Victoria (Sale for those of you  who are familiar with it).

We left Hobart when the school year ended and drove from Melbourne to Sale after crossing Bass Strait on the Spirit of Tasmania.

While the trip itself was relatively good the next 6 weeks were not.

The married quarter we were meant to move in to wasn't available until the beginning if February. That meant we were stuck in a motel for 6 WEEKS.

I mean hey, that could be cool! I was 11 so it was an adventure for me. The thought of having my own room while living in a motel was pretty wicked!! I was going to have the best adventures in the history of adventure havers!

We rocked up at the first motel (two weeks at this one before the four weeks at the one with the extra room for me!) We were absolutely dumbstruck when we opened the door.
The room was disgusting. Dirty was an understatement. My mother immediately began her tirade and we checked out 30 minutes after checking in.

We ended up at the other motel, spent three days in the double room and the rest of the 6 weeks in a single room.

Living with my parents in ONE room was torture. It was the most horrible experience. I mean my father farts in his sleep. And I don't mean little "fluffs" either. He let's these massive explosions erupt from his arse. How he still has his intestines intact I will never know.
Then there was his need to continue to sleep naked. Ffs, he could have TRIED to sleep with some pants on so I wouldn't be scarred. I tell you what, it's fucking horrible waking up in your sleep because someone is moving around and seeing your father starkers.

So anyway, this is about Christmas and why I hate it, not the many idiosyncrasies I had to endure during those 6 torturous weeks.

For one thing there was no Christmas tree. Fair enough there was not enough room for one, considering three humans took up a fair amount if the space. However, how was Santa meant to find me and lavish me with presents when there was NO TREE?!?
Please note: I had already established that Santa Claus was a huge lie told to children, but I was ever the dreamer and hoped that maybe there really was some magic out there.

I raised the no tree issue with Mother and she whips out (of a bag you dirty people!) this puny and ugly little tree. It sat on top of the puny and ugly little tv. I mean, seriously, how were my presents going to fit there?!?!?

Turns out they weren't because there was no magic and there truly is no Santa because I didn't get a single thing for Christmas. Oh right, other than the joy of living in ONE ROOM with my flatulent father and moody mother.

It was that horrible Christmas morning when I woke up and realised I was an idiot. That's a pretty big thing to realise as an 11 year old.
As I looked around the room I realised my life was shit, I was an idiot because I had hope and that my parents really didn't give a shit about me.

When they got up there was no explanation, no sorry for ruining Christmas and destroying my fragile 11-year-old ideals. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The day went on and I kept hoping that they were just going to surprise me and grab me in a bug hug, laugh and tell me they loved me! I kept that hope alive for three days. Then I little the flame burn out. They were not going to do anything like that.

So Christmas 1995 was when I realised I was an idiot, how much I hated my mother (that's a blog for another time), and how much my dad smells and drinks. I never knew until that Christmas that he drank at least two cartons of beer a week. A WEEK people.

Now let's take a look at Christmas 2009. I'm stuck with the two people who irritate me more than anyone else in the world. But I'm meant to love every minute of it because they are my family.

My father will be drunk by 2pm, my mother will be coming to me to bitch about my father drinking, then she'll go to him and bitch that I'm not listening to her. No doubt the heat will be terrible and I'll spend the day wishing I had any other family (preferably a loving one) than the one I have and contemplating the ways in which I can avoid being "present". So far I'm thinking of taking my sleeping meds and sleeping through the whole fucking ordeal.

So don't expect me to buy into this bullshit that people harp on about. Christmas is the loneliest time of year and I have two people I'm supposed to spend it with. Kill me now. 

Bah Humbug. My version of Christmas (Part 1)

So far I have tried very hard not to write a blog about the horror that is Christmas. However, I have failed in my resolve and here is my Christmas rant.

I hate Christmas. Call me Scrooge, the Grinch, whatever you will. I do not care. I still hate Christmas. Although, in my defence, I have a rather good reason as to why I hate Christmas so much.

We need to go back about 20 years, to a time in the 1990's (actually it was 1990) when I was 5. My 5th ever Christmas. We were living in Melbourne at the time. It was the year I'd started school and the year I started walking to school on my own too. It was safe in those days, and I lived just down the road and around the corner a bit. But I digress.

I was 5 and it was Christmas. I was so excited even though it was hot and I wasn't liking the heat very much. Mother had set up the Christmas tree and I wasn't allowed near it (even though it was in the room where I watched my afternoon cartoons.) In fact I distinctly remember being banned from the room. Oh well, I was 5 and was easily entertained with my barbies.

Finally,  finally, the magical day had arrived. Christmas was here. It was the day I held in such high esteem because I would be showered with gifts and love and my parents would love me unconditionally.
Like all fairy tales it wasn't to be.

Parental units finally woke up and allowed me to enter "The Room" only for my grin to drop and tears to begin their sluggish way down my cheeks.
Santa Claus ripped me off.

Yes, that fat bastard ripped me off. There were only two presents under that tree for me. A lousy TWO. But the best was yet to come.

As I was standing there with two rogue tears sliding down my cheek, my mother looked at me and sized up my ungrateful attitude. Without any warning her hand connected with my wet cheek and a screech issued from her lips. I have no idea what she screeched as I was in my own little world of cursing Santa for being a tight arse.

I was sent to my room. Hey, I don't mind being sent to my room. I mean that's where all my toys were and everything so, send away mother dearest.

I spent that day in my room writing a long letter to Santa listing all the things I thought of him. I'm pretty sure I made up some new swear words too that day. Pity I never kept the letter...

There's always one that got away

This is the story of a girl, a broken heart and the wrong decision.

It was a couple of years ago now. I was playing this online game, being all pretty and popular in this virtual world. I felt like I had this virtual world as my oyster, I could do with it what I wished. It was like an adult version of playing with a barbie doll.

There was this one part of the game that I liked the most, an unexpected surprise that was strange yet wonderful.

I was into the emo, neko (that's a hybrid human and cat person, post apocalyptic etc, I have pictures of my avatar on Flickr if you really want), grungy chick who loved the whole guns and weapons scene. Yes, indeed I am describing RP (role play).

Then one day there was this chick. She was running through the street, shooting someone (or thing really, she was after a lycan) with such accuracy I literally stopped what I was doing to watch this spektical. I was hooked.

Her name was CrimsonX Varriale.
She taught me how to use weapons, where to find the best things and how to have fun in this virtual world that was fast becoming the only life I had.

We spent pretty much every day together. We spoke via voice (thus I know she was a real chick!) and were never at a loss of things to do or talk about. She opened my eyes to amazing games, music and even photoshop techniques.
In a word, she was perfect.

One night at a gig I was doing (I was an online DJ, which is a lot of fun!) she requested a song. Flyleaf - All Around Me, which I still listen to and think of her.
Crim then asked me to be her partner, yes in this game you could partner people, and I accepted.
I had never been so happy in my life.

I didn't know it then but I was actually in love. I was in love with her brain, with her personality. It wouldn't have mattered what she looked like in the flesh, I was hooked. But I digress.

One day I started to think. This was pre-diagnosed-with-crazy-illness. The thinking led me to do something I regret.
I ended the partnership with Crimson and promptly decided to leave the game. I couldn't face her or even myself and chose the easiest way to leave. I regret that decision with every fibre of my being. I miss her.

I miss talking with her, laughing, joking and all that other stuff. She knew there was something "not quite right" about me, but she liked me anyway. I never had to be anyone else other than myself with her. I was in awe of her awesomeness. I was, in all honesty, in awe with her.


Now I sit here and tweet about how unhappy I am. Yet I know that I'm the reason I am unhappy and this regret eats away at me every day. A little more each day I become harder, jaded and more fractured. All because I was scared of what I felt for her and of the thought of her finding out what I'm really like and thus leaving me.


Every time I hear Flyleaf - All Around Me I stop and think about Crim and my utter stupidity.

Saturday Blues

Who would have thought that on a Saturday afternoon I would start to fall apart.
Why I am falling apart, I don't know. I am just falling apart.

I probably shouldn't have indulged in the behaviour that makes me upset. However, if I did that I would have nothing to blog about. Maybe that would be a good thing?

Anyway, I was tweeting as I always do when I am bored. I mentioned something to a friend about a game I used to play and how the people on that game hate me. This is where my crazy disorder kicks in.
On one hand I was saying everything in jest, I mean I'm not that horrible am I?
On the other hand I knew that the people I used to chat with on that game do in fact hate me, even if I don't know why.
Unfortunately, it was sort of comfortable being in my little world where I wasn't sure which one of the two it was. I believe this is called denial.

My friend told me which of the two options it was.

Result: Renee is crushed.

Rather stupid is it not? I mean it's not a big deal. So pixel people hate me. I mean I have nothing more to do with them, so why should it bother me?
Argh, it's so frustrating being a few sheep short of a paddock! Although I might actually have a few sheep too many thus all the confusion. It makes a bit more sense than not enough sheep....

So now, I'm sitting on my bed resisting the urge to scream at everyone for ignoring me and to just leave me the fuck alone, while holding back the hysterical laughter and a tempest of tears.

How can things go from awesome to broken in a few minutes?
As much as I'd like to believe the professional mind fucks about a series of events happening that cause us to be sad but not acknowledge that sadness until it's too much, I just can't seem to come to terms with their reasoning.
Wouldn't I feel something if I were upset by situations and circumstances?
Wouldn't I notice something different before the final spiral into oblivion?

Oh well, I only have a mental illness (or three), I'm not the one who knows anything about them.

Aftershock

I think I scared some people today. It seems that I have this ability to appear okay, then I'm not okay and people are shocked. This surprises me because I am constantly living with the craziness, the mood swings and other sundry "benefits". Perhaps I could be an outsider for a day and see what others see?
Today was particularly bad. My reasoning and ability to cope is severely limited at the moment. This period (the Christmas one) always makes me sad. I guess I've never had what I would call a happy Christmas. I always found it boring. I mean sure, there's presents, but then there was nothing. Just my parental units and me. All my friends were on holidays, with their families or both.
Mind you, being in Tasmania for three years and living in the Anglesea Barracks was fun. I could run around the whole barracks and never bump into anyone! However, even that got boring after a few hours.
Many days I wish I could just wake up and not have so much ridiculous rubbish floating through my grey matter. Although, I know that in my case such a wish is extremely unrealistic. There are very few people who wake up one day and are better.
Tomorrow... Ah well now we're dealing with a whole new kettle of fish. A new day and all that rubbish. Another year since more shit happened! Another year in which I haven't been able to change so everything is better. Another year of failing. Yes it is failing because I haven't been able to fix, help, do anything to make the next day better.
Now I even begin to wonder why I write such horrible things that only make others upset. Maybe it doesn't? But what if it does?
Upon scarring someone you can never take it back. It's burned and etched in their psyche forever. That's a guilty side of life I have trouble dealing with.
Haha, it's all a guilty side of life for me!!
Well 10pm, I have to go to bed. Apparently my GP thinks that if I take my meds early and take a double dose I will miraculously feel better. Ha!

Over it

I've realised so much in the last few days. One thing is the latest near breakdown I'm sort of having. Okay, so that doesn't make a lot if sense.
Basically since my last botched hospital attempt I've been on a tightrope, desperately trying to keep my balance. Lately I've realised that I've been falling for a couple of weeks. Falling hopelessly into yet another black hole.

Then there's the part where I tried to pretend everything is fine. I put on the smile and say "sure you can stay here!" instead of really saying "I'm feeling like shit and can't cope with people here right now". I guess I worry that my friend won't understand. It doesn't matter if I'm not feeling well, as long as they are happy.
Now I wonder if they really are happy if I'm breaking apart?
Do they notice?

There is such a sweetness in escaping reality. If only I could escape it permanently! Oh, right, because that's not allowed. I seem to always forget that little part.

Anyway, I guess I have to suck it up and find some way of dealing with all this. Well, at least finding a way to tell my friend that I need her to stay with someone else while up here. I'm struggling with not having my space. I'm totally not coping with anything right now. In fact I'm very close to driving myself to hospital... Or doing something else. I guess another few weeks in a psych ward wouldn't be so bad. I hope. Maybe? 

HOT! HOT! HOT!

If you're in the southern hemisphere, predominantly Australia, you will understand me when I say, IT'S BLOODY HOT.

It's only November and already we're reaching temperatures of 40 degrees! And that's not just in Adelaide, SA, where they are known for some serious heat waves. Talk about global warming. I don't think the globe has warmed, I think some smart arse put it in the oven.

As you may, or may not, be able to tell I don't really cope so well in the heat. Not only that, but I'm one of the unfortunates who have to endure the super-hot-spring weather without the comforting aid of an air conditioner. Yes, you read that right. No air conditioner. None. None.

You may wonder how I survive in this insane heat. In fact I'm wondering the same thing...
Perhaps it has something to do with the fan strategically placed in front of me? Maybe the fact that sitting right next to me is my best friend, a water bottle, who helps reduce the heat?

Either way, I'm sitting here, melting. I'm breathing in hot air. Hot air people. It is not pleasant.
Did I mention that it's not even summer yet?

I envy all these summer-going-loving-the-sun-beach-bums that are outside tanning and laughing. I even go near a window in this heat and I find I have sunburn. How I long for gorgeously tanned skin, blonde hair and the summer body to match.. You know, one of those gorgeous girls in the summer commercials or ads in magazines? They are always so pretty, so composed, and never sweat or show signs of extreme discomfort because of the heat. Maybe that's because of all the airbrushing they go through.

Speaking of airbrushing, when will I ever get air brushed in real time? I would love to walk around with a permanent airbrushed look. That's right, no bad hair day or bad skin day for me!
Ah, one can dream...

So how will I spend my summer? That's easy, I plan to hide in the dark recesses of shade. I may even hide out at my local shopping centre where they have air conditioning and pretty things to looking at.
What I won't be doing is spending my time cavorting the stunning sun with all the beautiful people at the beach.

Another day, another dye

Today I decided that all those stray grey hairs I have needed to be reminded who is in control. Damn it, I am in control!! I really am. Maybe?

So now I have a sexy blue-black colour in my short hair. Yes, it's short. That doesn't mean I can be denied the joys of colour. Bite me.
The style is like that of Ruby Rose (the chick in the picture). If only I were as pretty as she!

It's remarkable how something so small, so simple, can make a person feel better. Something as simple as dying my hair has lifted my spirits to an almost soaring level. I even feel hot (the good looking hot, not the "I'm melting from the heat") sitting here in my lounge room at 9:48pm in my pj's. Sexy.

Why is it that grey hair is so hated? In fact why do we, as women, hate our hair no matter what colour it is naturally? I mean, people with straight hair wants curls, those with curly hair want straight hair. Why can't we ever just be happy with who and what we have?
Perhaps those are rhetorical questions as they will never be satisfactorily answered, at least not without going into a deep and meaningful debate about the reasons behind the female psyche. I'll leave that debate for another day.

So here I am, sitting in my lounge room in the most sexy pj's ever (hey, they have pink stiletto's on them and glitter) pretending to watch a repeat of NCIS.
My Wednesday night is one hell of a party!

Let's get this party started...