Dreams be dreams

I’ve been spending a lot of time in reflection. A lot of time considering and reconsidering my perspective of the world, of people I know, of people I care about and the ties I've made and broken.

In the last week, in the midst of trying to find out what demisexuality really means, I found myself engaged in the strangest conversation. I discovered ties between a new friend and many old friends. People we've come across, who looks like what and who did what music thing and which persons might have been serial gropers. At the end of it? I felt the wind kicked out of me.

 

I felt like everything I knew, everything I make excuses for and file away just melt and show how afraid I am.

 

I realised I'd created these dream people. Images informed by my perspective - a sole and solidarity experience of someone because that's the way that it had happened. Almost always alone together and that had been the norm. So, everything together just showed the person I worry about every other day that they remain silent may not even exist.

I was angry, I felt betrayed and hurt. A hot-white fury fuelled by thoughts that I’d been lied to. I can’t stand lies. I don’t need to be lied to. It’s exhausting and hurtful. I’d rather be stung by truth than be strung along with lies. Even the possibility of lies threw off my whole worldview.

A worldview I’ve build thinking that I was doing right by caring for others. Being concerned about the silent types.

I know what the darkness feels like. I’ve isolated myself. But I tried coming out of my cocoon and being honest after spending a long time in silence. Turns out, hasn’t been all that great trying to live honestly.

More than 7 years ago I had a conversation with someone I no longer know. It was about fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of commitment and fear of love. This conversation took place in the flour and rice aisle in MHCC. I was in high school and I thought I’d figured everything out (as you do at almost 18).

His words egged me into something that still haunts me. Trusting in emotion. Letting life take you in a direction you can’t plan, predict. Pretending that I was steel as long as I professed my emotions and wore them on my sleeve.

It was something that just hurt the whole way through. People that cared for me encouraged change but I thought my mind was made up about everything because of what my heart said.

Ehhhhhhhh. In short? I’ve been an idiot.

Emotions are sensitive things or at least mine are. Easily bruised. Nerves bare. Spirals of self-doubt and self-loathing. Questioning and re-questioning after being conditioned to exist in… ‘the relationship zone’.

A few months ago, as I stared out the window of the work-car I let my mind wander. I wondered what it would be like to turn into a side road, go adventuring, wade out into the ocean and sit and meditate among the trees. It had been a long time since I felt the outside pull at me.

I’d lost myself in and in-between relationships.

I thought of my phases in life around the people I’ve liked. My emotional attachments have dictated the music I listen to, the art I’m drawn into, the clothes I feel comfortable in, the people I spend time with.

It’s disgusting really.

After 5 years in a stable relationship, something clicked.

I don’t know what it’s like to just get up and let your whims take you. After 7 years of anxiety, I don’t know what it’s like to walk barefoot through grass listening to the sounds of other living things without holding someone’s hand.

I’m not going to break up with my partner though. That would be weird.

I talked to him instead.

Things went well.

But I have been meditating more. Reflecting more. Reading cards.

I’m trying to remember the odd flower child I want to be. Breathing the dark thoughts away rather than indulging them. Breaking bad habits. It may take a while. I’ve only been twisting myself here and there for about a decade now.

My heart may be convincing but she's a little too sensitive to be the one in charge.

Wonder-onder-ondering

I have always wondered. No, not wandered - I’m more than happy not moving for 36 hours, slowly almost turning into a rock before being dragged off to do something like breathe, eat or get to work.

Wondering - I let my mind roam, curious about the world and the things, the people, the creatures around me. And I wonder how you are. Reader. Friend. Stranger. Are you okay?

I reached out to what seems like an old, old friend about a week ago - curious if he was okay. In and out of hospital waiting rooms, my mind would wander to ask how he was - a question I couldn’t really answer.

We aren’t friends on Facebook or anything else really. My e-stalking dug up nothing. He seemed too quiet or was really good at keeping life offline. Even a friend of his who I had been friends with online had dropped me off his list. Interesting but understandable (we weren’t friends, anyway and I’m fairly antisocial).

So, I just sent everything out - to whatever Skype, Facebook Messenger, Email contact I had I asked “Are you alive?” Turns out he was. Was I worried something had happened? I don’t know.

I was scared he hated me. That’s why I went looking. Why would he hate me? I don’t know. Why should I care? I don’t know. I worried. My mind wondered it once and I couldn’t un-stick the thought.

He answered one email. Then the next email. Then he stopped.

Why? I wonder. I don’t know. But I’m trying not to wonder too much. It hurts. I feel hurt. I shared something he probably didn’t care too much about.

If you’ve read The Gandalf Downstairs, you’d know I had a little polyp. Well, while my papsmear came back clear, the polyp results said I had HPV CIN1. What does that mean?

Well, if you believe the doctor who told me that I should definitely have children (because it’s so easy to decide these things and a stranger should pick for me), it means that in 6 months I either have nothing to worry about or early stage cervical cancer.

That scares me. To my core. It shakes me hard. I can’t even wonder about that. It’s my second ever wall. A block. A no-go zone.

1. My father.

2. The polyp.

The moment my mind starts to wonder, I start to cry. While I cry often - including at the drop of a hat, halfway through an ad about health insurance and at the sight of a yawning puppy - this is a different response. This is an automatic, turn-the-tap-on, slow crawl out of my eyes.

I'm trying to keep myself on the straight and narrow. I'm trying to keep healthy. I'm trying not to smoke. I'm not 100% doing okay and I don't know how to really express it because everytime my mind goes there - waterworks.

Stupid brain. I wish I could tell you what to do.

I wish I didn't wonder.

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Nine

(Part Eight: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-eight.html)

When it comes to breasts, vaginas, uteruses, ovaries and cervixes – they’re magical, complicated things that we shouldn’t be nervous or ashamed about when it comes to looking after them (even take a second right now to try say them out loud – I take comfort in reaffirming that they aren’t bad words).

As fabulous as the efforts of all to commemorate Pink October, it has come and gone. The message of early detection has come up time and time again but, still, people fall through the cracks because silence falls across business houses and private spaces once again. But there are so many services and so much information available all year round. Sure, it takes setting aside time, setting aside resources and setting aside fears – but it’s worth so much more to go before anything starts to hurt than wait for pain to set in.

I know science is way behind and that sometimes it feels like squeezing blood from a stone to get an answer out of a nurse or doctor, depending on their experience and temperament, but give it a go. You are important and you deserve to be well.

Or at least that’s what people tell me to tell you J

(From the Beginning:

http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-one.html)

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Eight

(Part Seven: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-seven.html)

I did go home and cry – but I good cry. A happier cry. A less scared and nervous cry. As awkward as it was having a doctor talk throughout a check-up does help. It also helps when they walk you through what they’re going to do and what’s going on. I had had to little of that in 3 weeks. All I wanted to do was release all my nervous, anxious energy and it just so happened to fall out of my eyes.

I may be pretty anxious most of the time, but this time I was just stubborn enough to follow through and I’m sure that’s what more people need to do. If you have a pap smear, go back for your results. If doctors find something while you’re seeing them for something else, go for your follow up.

Heck, as I found out it’s enough just to call the clinic with the right dates and numbers to refer to and you can get an answer over the phone. I had a nice nurse check my number and my file who read my report number back to me.

“And then put one N at the end,” she said.

“N?”

“Yes, for normal.”

“Oh, okay. Cool. That’s good news.”

I laughed awkwardly, we exchanged pleasantries and I went about the rest of my day.

I know it’s hard to not be intimidated by medical stuff. I know the public health system is frustrating and slow and painful. I know that you get sick with something new every time you go to the doctors (I managed to pick up a cold that left we struggling to use my nose for 4 days after my time waiting around). But it doesn’t matter how hard.

There are so many easy excuses to brush off a check-up and there are so many circumstances where going to the nearest health centre is actually a mission and a half – we need to keep ourselves well and those around us well.

If you have a daughter, a sister, a mother, an aunt, a friend or whoever – support that woman in your left to get herself checked (and, of course, everyone else!).

(Part Nine: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-nine.html)

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Seven

(Part Six: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-six.html)

My name was called, I strolled into consultation room 1 and was greeted by what turned out to be a very talkative doctor. I’d spent most of the week obsessing, nervous and planning a list of questions to figure out what was going on. I didn’t get a chance to ask anything as the doctor dived headfirst into an in-depth look at cervical cancer.

Apparently, having a ‘colpos’ or colposcopy is used more commonly for those who are at risk of cervical cancer. I’d describe it as vagina-scope because I’m not the one with the doctor learning. They look at your insides to check the area, see what’s going on and all that good stuff. As I mentioned earlier, my pap smear results had not yet come back so I had no idea if I was at risk. All I knew was that my cervix had a little friend that needed seeing to.

So, back I was on the table. Only this time it wasn’t just a table and it wasn’t just any old hospital type bed. There were little gliding footpads on the end of the bed. Between the doctor and nurse, we had a quick chat about my tattoos. He asked me about my job and we talked about that as O shuffled myself down the bed to set myself up and brace for the speculum.

But this time it wasn’t put in any old how – the doctor encouraged breathing, relaxing and pacing everything so by the time it was in there was no pain. I kept counting my breathing out of fear of any resurgence in pain but I probably didn’t have anything to worry about.

Throughout the exam, we talked about my work.

“So, what do you do?”

“I work for a women’s media NGO. So, I… um. I write a lot. Mostly about women.”

“Why?”

We discuss gender imbalances in the media in Fiji and globally.

“So you should write about this, then.”

“Mhm.”

“People don’t get their pap smears done. When they do, they don’t come back for their results. It’s important.”

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

We also talked about how small my friend living in my cervix was – apparently only 1mm tall. The doctor looked around, asked me if I wanted it out.

I said yes.

“You sure?”

“Um. Yes? You’re the doctor – should it come out?”

“I’ll take it out.”

“Okay.”

Out it came, I was plugged up and it was done. The little polyp apparently looked benign, my insides were a-okay and I left ready to put everything behind me.

 

(Part Eight: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-eight.html)

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Six

(Part Five: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-five.html)

I had a lovely doctor inspect my bits, checking around to confirm that – yes – the polyp was still there. I lay there on the medical bed, feet tucked almost the back to my bum, nervously clutching my underwear and trying to breathe through the pain of having a speculum in.

I don’t remember there being too many questions.

I only remember a cotton pad splattered with blood and I was ready to faint. Instead, I was referred to another doctor for a different type of examination described only as a ‘colpos’. What’s a ‘colpos’? I had no idea and I still barely know.

I shakily got up once the speculum was out again, a date and time was scribbled on the back of my referral card and then I was off to a meeting, trying to start my work week. I had no idea if the polyp was out. I had no idea what had just happened.

I cried a little in the cab to Nabua.

I tried to focus for the rest of the day.

I updated my mother on Viber.

I texted my supervisor about the follow up.

I just wanted the day to end.

And it did. And I was home again. But before I knew it, it was Thursday and I was back in the Lancaster Ward.

My first time there, it was full to the brim with mostly much older women, the majority of whom were visibly married. There were few children. Come Thursday, around 10am, babies were everywhere.

A tiny baby shrieking, a small baby gurgling and a few toddlers pulling themselves across the tiled floor, licking benches and playing with wall switches. There was a different air about the place – a far busier one. This time, my name wasn’t called until after 1pm. I was starving and hadn’t gone to the bathroom since the morning. My anxiety coupled with the fact I was alone this time deterred me to seek out a toilet in case my name was called and I missed my spot.

The doctor who has seen me on Monday, on his way out to what I assume to be lunch told me I was up next.

(Part Seven: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-seven.html)

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Five

(Part Four: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-four.html)

5 weeks for the results of the test but only 2 weeks till the follow up – I was dazed, confused and a bit emotional. My plans for the rest of the day was to spend it at the USP Library, furiously studying, and drop by the office to film. Turns out I had a fancy newly discovered companion to join me on my adventures in life – and then there was me trying to find the humour in it all and hoping I didn’t have to pay extra bus fare for it.

By the time the follow up check came around, I’d already shared the horrific experience of my first pap smear with anyone who stopped long enough to listen. I figured I had a duty to let people know how important getting checked was.

I’d also decided that I’d like to use the word vagina as often as possible.

Vagina. Vagina, vagina and vagina. You’re welcome.

Anyway, along came that fateful Monday. Before 8am, there I was again – outside the Wellness Clinic, ready to pick up my referral note from the doctor who has stood in the doorway of the examination room to spy a look at the Gandalf Downstairs.

I had to wait about 20 minutes before receiving the stapled note and heading off to find the Lancaster Ward. I had my partner with me – because there was no way I was going to go see a doctor without some emotional support – and at the ward we sat for almost 2 hours before my name was called.

I was a little tired and a lot nervous when it came time to go one-on-one with a new speculum. I’d somehow lost a bit of weight in the 2 weeks that had passed and I was ready to be told the little finger wizard was going to come out.

(Part Six: http://commaopinionated.blogspot.com/2016/11/the-gandalf-downstairs-part-six.html)