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)

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Four

(Part Three:

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

 

So, for the next few minutes, I just try and breathe and not have a panic attack about the strange woman weeding around my downstairs while my parts are well-lit. Then she has something else to say.

“Oh, I can see something!”

Oh. She can see something. The mystery continues!

“I’ll just get the doctor.”

The nurse hardly just gets the doctor. She abandons the theme of mystery for full-blown horror and calls out the door:

“Doctor, just come.”

Oh god. The door is open. The door is open. I know we’re halfway down the hall and the nurse is standing in the doorway but the. Door. Is. Open. I am not prepared for this vagina viewing party I seem to have been tricked into attending. Why, Jesus – why didn’t you invent nurses who realise that some of us are not emotionally ready to show our cervixes to the world?

“Oh, yes – I can see a polyp just at 11 or 12 o’clock,” the doctor says from the doorway.

Okay, it’s fine. Don’t panic, don’t move. There is still a speculum involved.

The nurse decides she’s going to explain. Kind of.

“Don’t worry – they’re usually not cancerous. Sometimes it just causes problems with conception.”

Soon after, the swab was done, the speculum removed and I was told they’d be setting up my referral. A shaky legged me slid off the examination table, made sure what I wanted to wear was on and I walked out of the room. The nurse didn’t initially want me to walk away with a set referral date but the doctor insisted.

(Part Five: Coming Soon!)

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Three

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

 

She circles something on the health card that looks like something you get people to pledge money on before a walk-a-thon. I try not to react – if there were set answers, just ask me all of them! Jeez. The multiple choice questions like ‘why do you take the pill’ are supposed to be the easiest ones aside from answering yes to all of the above examples of ‘a family history of x, y and z (a.k.a. 101 things you could die from or not die from because health science is complicated!)’

The line of questioning continues for a while. She’s eventually done, writes a few things on a blue card and hands it to me explaining my results would be ready in 5 weeks. Then off to the examination room.

Films and TV have taught me gynaecological exams take place with the examined woman sitting with her feet in some stirrups in a fancy chair, draped in white. For my first pap smear, I got a wooden table, draped in white, with a gooseneck light at the end. That was layer of confusion number one.

“Take off your undergarments and then lie down up here,” goes the nurse.

What is an undergarment, how much do I take off, do my put my head on the pillow and where do I put my things – all new questions, popping into my head simultaneously. I ask none of them.

I take off my underwear, shove it into my bag and put the bag on the chair next to exam table. I lie on the table. I get asked to scoot down. I do so. A bit more. Okay. Right.

“Okay, just move your skirt up.”

How far? I don’t ask. I just guess. Turns out that’s ok.

“How long have you been sexually active?”

I answer. Nurse gets a speculum or, as I was calling it until I googled it about 5 minutes ago, ‘that clampy lady part opener’. Now – a speculum is a scary thing if you aren’t expecting it. You can never fully prepare yourself for your lady parts to meet metal in this way (especially since, oh – I don’t know, sex toys are illegal so inanimate objects in that area is a foreign concept altogether). She uses speculum, she checks and apparently she needs a bigger one. Why? Who knows! The nurse appears to be carrying on like mystery is part of the whole experience.

 

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

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part Two

(Part One:

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

“I was hoping to get a pap smear,” I probably half-whispered. I don’t know who I had to hide this ‘secret’ from – the first woman had been taken into a counselling room and the other has gone back outside.

After checking in with the nurse on my details, I was whisked into a tiny room mostly containing a huge table. The paint was coming off the wall directly opposite the small chair between the table and the wall that I had squished myself into. The nurse went to get my records. I fidgeted.

She came back and we went through my details because someone who knows how many years ago didn’t fill in my allergies or family medical history. After being weighed, the nurse checked my blood pressure as nurses usually do.

“Your pressure is high,” she warned.

Here’s the thing here – I don’t know what that means. I see the numbers on those fancy automatic arm squeezing blood pressure machines and it’s just numbers to me. I never took biology. I don’t know what a good reading looks like. My brain rattled off a couple of responses before the words fell out of my mouth and all over the floor, desk and walls.

“Well, it is my first time getting a pap smear and I also have test Thursday and a major postgrad assignment due Sunday and I still have other work things to do including having to go into the office to do some filming with some of my colleagues and my mother is away again which means the house is kind of quiet but we use less electricity which is good but I guess oh I don’t know I guess I am just feeling a little nervous I suppose maybe just a little.”

Did I mention I get anxious? I get anxious. The nurse acknowledges my ramblings but didn’t really seem to hear me, thank god. We go back to filling out my records.

“Do you take any contraceptives?”

“Yes.”

We have a small aside about her confusion as to the brand, make and model of the pills I take before continuing with her data entry.

“Why?”

“Sorry?”

“Why?”

“…um?”

I’m trying to come up with an answer that will lead to the least amount of judgement. I’m torn between ‘I don’t really want children yet’, ‘I’m scared of pregnancy’, ‘I like making a regular period’, ‘I like spending $20 every 4 weeks just for the heck of it’ and ‘because I can and I want and I feel like it and maybe just because’.

“To delay pregnancy?”

“Yep. Yes. Mhm. That one.”

I don’t know if my face is red but I feel stupid.
 

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

The Gandalf Downstairs: Part One

I’m a pretty anxious, tired and stubborn young woman at the best of times. That said, I am privileged, educated, employed and supported by family, friends as well as (more or less) the health system.

Somehow, it still took me months to actually take myself to get a pap smear done. Supposedly, you should get your first at 21 making me approximately 3 years late. I did all the usual ‘adulting’ beforehand – checked my work calendar, found out if I needed an appointment at the clinic I was planning on going to, took the day off work and made it happen.

It was early. Just on the nose of 8am. I’d not had to get up to go to work, but there I was – at the Women’s Wellness Clinic first thing Monday morning.

There were 2 other women there. The first one had gotten there before me and the second had just arrived after I had. Woman number one was leaning on the nurses’ counter, chatting about what services she was looking for, I imagine. Woman number two hung around outside for a bit before coming in and picking up a number. I spent some time looking around from my rickety plastic seat.

Amongst the stapled pamphlets and pink ribbons, there was a plain sign printed on A4 and pinned to the notice board - ‘Pap smears 8am to 12pm, Monday to Friday’. I contemplated taking a picture and sending it to everyone on Viber just so they knew – but before I could decide whether to whip out my phone or not, another nurse had emerged and called me over.

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

Universe, oh universe

I have troubles with the idea of God. Im sure Ive said that many times before. I can't comprend it - faith. It used to all make sense. I have, however, just more or less played with words and instead of God or Jesus or even my little Ganesh on my neck if something seemingly cosmic is happening, I either blame or thank the universe. So here we go.

Universe - you and I need to just have a tiiiiiny chat. I'll buy the coffee. Oh, you're a metaphor so you'll pass? More for me then. Money that is - Im not going to buy and drink two coffees, what do you take me for? I'm polite not rich, jeez.

Do you mind if I smoke? Yes, yes I know it's absolutely terrible for me but please just... let's just talk, yeah?

Dearest universe,

I don't know how to feel. I know that more times that not I get myself down. I know it's not you. But I never did get those rose coloured glasses everyone else seems to wear when things happen to them. You know I cant help but be used to bad things that I don't trust the good.

I know Im scared. Terrified that years mean nothing even though everyone else keeps saying. I know Im supposed to grow up but I want to not be afraid of how I want to be. I want to be silly. I want to indulge my imagination. I want to not give a damn about the hair my body grows. I want to move and not be stuck in a chair all day absorbed by responsibilies and, when Im not working, I want to make my own worlds and not get so caught up with the worlds that other people create.

I want to be okay. I was to be happy and healthy and wise. I want to be silly and free and fan-fucking-tastic. I want to let go of all the things I struggle to picture because its been so long since I lost them. I want to find out who Im supposed to be.

Universe. I know I blame you when Im upset and I dont quite know why things are happening the way they are. People tell me that it's someone else that makes things happen - the things humans cant control. Then they tell me you seem to have some kind of plan. Recently you seem to be setting things up good. You're giving me opportunities. Opportunities to do the things I love. Opportunities to go where Ive never gone before. Opportunities to see the people i look up to without having to look through a screen.

And Im scared. Im scared itll get taken away. Universe. I want to know if this is a just for now kind of thing... or something that will stay. Its been such a rollercoaster of a year, I don't know how to trust you. I don't know if I should.

What if you break my spirit all over again.

I can't handle it.

Please.

If you could just let me know... maybe?

It was Father's Day (Oops)

This year I forgot to get sad. I usually get kinda weepy and down around Father's Day because, oh I don't know, I miss my dad and I get mad at the universe and I get cranky and sob and hide for a few days. I can't necessarily attribute it to some kind of overhaul of personality or reachign nirvana or anything. I think it was a collection of things though.

1. I had my dose of sadness the night before:

I get sad a lot. I mean, like, "it's the weekend and I don't want to go anywhere or do anything or see anyone because I'm sad as a bag of flaccid dicks after a cup of viagra." Of course, none of it makes sense - kind of like that sentence. I've been grappling a lot with dealing with the moods lately as they get a little bit more frequent and extreme (albeit shorter).

2. We did a thing... kinda:

It was a slow Sunday, but with no time to dwell. I woke up, I dicked around playing the Sims for a few hours, I napped, we went to lunch, we shopped, cooked, played WoW and slept. That was my "father's day". I guess.

3. We didnt go to the grave:

Sometimes people think its a thing to go to a place to remember someone, to get sad or to go say hi. Sometimes we stop by my father's grave to say hi, maybe drop off flowers, something like that - but not this year. I dont know quite what it is but I used to feel vaguely drawn to the grave, like I was supposed to go there or something. But as the years passed, I feel like Dad has kind of moved. He was the "Mr Gypsy Never Quite Settle" in my head almost - and I guess I dont look to a location to feel close to him. I dont know, it could all be just a lovely little concocted story to avoid going to the cemetary. Maybe.

4. Don't dwell - do something or drop it:

Im tired. Im tired of getting upset when I see Fathers Day advertising. Im tired of feeling sad that I "dont have a dad like everyone else does". There's no point to get angry or get sad or anything. All that stuff is neither here no there. There has to be more to life than constantly looking back at what you miss or what you had or even more than comparing what you have to what everyone else does. In the same vein I could be super bummed I dont have a beard like guys do - i dont, I just draw one on paper and cellotape it to my face or buy a stick on one when the fancy strikes me.

Either whichaway - Im either maturing or I got so lazy I forgot to think about my late Father this past Sunday. Both are fine because both mean I dont lose a whole day to being depressed all around the house I suppose.

The fire is burning a little low

I live and work in multiple creative spaces. I am blessed to be allowed to write in a way that feels natural, make videos on a regular basis, learn, express myself and share what I find. I am constantly inspired by the women, in all their diversities, that I work with.

I am lucky to have what I need. I do not struggle as much as the women I get to work with. I live the way I would like, I am not restricted in any way other than by reason and recommendations. I am able to live with my family as well as with my long term partner. I am lucky.

Yet, despite all of this, I feel my inner fire, my passion and drive dimming slowly. I feel tired. It might just be a "today" thing - I was up super late because, because, because ... I was working. I was both utter disappointed in what I made as well as overjoyed because it seemed far too hilarious at the time.

I showed it to a colleague and she laughed. I was so scared. I was nervous because what I had made was meant to be funny, but I wasnt sure. But it did keep that little fire flickering inside me, just a little.

So as I struggle to do what I do on a day to day basis, I keep trying. I cant let that fire go out. Im terrified it will, as it has before, but I cant let it go out. Not again. Its far too hard trying to reignite it.

Not goodbye.

The 31st of August. I was woken up by my mother skittering around. She was rushing to the hospital. It was something I had never seen. We expected it. We knew it was coming. But it was a dreary Friday outside and the candle in front of the photos had flickered out at some point last night.

My grandmother, after her early morning bath, left this world. We joke, she was waiting for the Friday or checking the bills or something or other. She waited till her bath, she must have told my Grandpa Ben Bhagwan to wait, just wait, she was coming. She even shocked the doctor who had given us the "few days left" and she gave us about a week.

Strong. Passionate. Quiet. Creative. Amazing. Beautiful. Just... there's so many words for her but none of them really encapsulate who Rachel Ayesha Bibi Bhagwan (nee Yusuf?) really was. But she was, simply, my grandma.

My grandma who had me over for Friday night sleepovers. She's let me hang out as a little one shirtless as I watched cartoons and made dough. She would put me to sleep, be there, offer advice and guidance through her actions... she amazed me as she worked a room at a pinktober event last year. I saw her guide a woman out of a violent marriage without even a harsh word about him (out loud really).

As I sat in the church she was baptised and married in for her funeral, I did reflect on my own sense of faith. I dont know if I really have one. I dont pray. I find it awkward. I dont know who to thank, get angry at or question about all of this.

"Why her? Why didnt we find out about the cancer spreading? Why didnt she tell us how she was really feeling? Why did she compromise her own health? Why? Why? Why?"

Im not sad. I miss her, fuck, I miss her so much. But it was weeks before she passed that I actually got to see the woman who moulded me into what I feel I am today. Sometimes I daydream about the soft clink of her bangles, her high noted humming and singing, her longwinded cooking, her teasing way... I miss you but I dont want to.

GUHH

I have no idea whats happening. No, truthfully.

I feel a slight bit of pain in my lower belly extending down to my knees, just like every other day.

Im at work, trying to concentrate, just like every other day of the week… but my head won’t stop buzzing. Im terrified. Im worried. Im confused.

I don’t know if Im supposed to be any of these things but I can’t help it.

My grandma will probably leave hospital soon. She seems to be getting a little better but… I feel so awful. I feel awful because I can’t fully express how worried I am.

Yes, she started to say a few words, wake up a little. But that doesn’t mean what’s wrong will go away. People don’t live forever. And because I have these things in my head I feel terrible.

I would like to think Ive made my peace; that I want to see her comfortable and surrounded by family and calm before the inevitable comes and turns everything over for a while…

But what if that just makes me more broken than I would like to be?

I mean, sure, I, just like everyone else, have been to my fair share of funerals. I hate them. I think they’re strange spaces where we pretend everything is okay instead of actually healing.

Or you know, you’ve just got the wailers that annoy the crap out of me.

Eugh, here I go again. Yeah, I feel salty. Im stressed out. Im a human being. But… I guess Im stuck between feeling awful and hopeless and useless and mad and devastated and annoyed and just… lost.

I don’t know how to feel, what to do, where to go, how to help. Im trying, fuck, Im trying… but youknow, how youre always in this dumb little bubble that is you and your mindspace – and everyone has that so you’re stuck trying but you just don’t know if you’re going to make things worse or help or if it makes through it at all.

Im rambling. Yeah. Im going to just… get back to trying to work I guess.

Dear Whoever You Are

As a person of mixed faith (or none - it depends on our outlook really), I don't know who to ask for guidance.

Ive worn a little Ganesh pendant for about 4 years now. I say it got me through Mums Cancer and Uni and everything in between. But i dont know any prayers. I dont know how to offer thanks.

I made a conscious choice to be confirmed, to serve in the church, to be the little human that got to ring the bell thrice. But after Dad passed I lost all the connection i thought i had to that big building with its cold floors.

I bow my head as others pray. I will say grace. I will listen to a sermon. I have tried to read the bible. When I did I found my favourite passage because it just... fit... at the time.

Ecclesiastes 3: 1 to 13

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

²     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
³     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
⁴     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
⁵     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
⁶     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
⁷     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
⁸     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

⁹ What do workers gain from their toil? ¹⁰ I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. ¹¹ He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. ¹² I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. ¹³ That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.

As we go through all the yaya we moved into our new house, as we wait to see how soon my Grandma may leave us all, I reflect on this passage I found years and years ago.

I find no comfort. I find just words. I find words I stumbled on as people wept over the idea and memories of my grandfather over a decade ago. Words I brought up every time I couldn't understand something. Yet I cant recall the feeling of comfort I thought the words gave me.

So, yes, dear "whoever you are" - you awesome, unfathomable power, or you one aspect of a whole, you entity that could never be understood or simply Im talking to the uncaring push and pull of the universe - be gentle. Not for my sake. For the multitude that call around for updates on her condition, who visit the hospital, who work around her, who stand by her bed and who say prayers wherever they are.

You dont know what you are taking away from them. From us.

I want to, I do.

Hey hey hi howsit going?

So in case you didn't know I'm documenting my 23rd year for reasons unknown. I dont know, I guess I wanted to put a pushpin in time and see what happens when I come back to it. Just like when I look at any of my old videos - where I used to sing, and said dumb things and all the while knowing that was me coming off the back of a breakup I didn't really understand and still trying to figure out what cancer meant for my family.

I wanted to vlog, I did, but Im exhausted. Im tired at work, Im tired at home, Im driven as ever but energy is down at an all time low. I know its mostly worry, insecurity, just all round feeling really really lonely and I don't know if its my depression/anxiety flaring up or just realising that at 23 Im not sure who on earth I am.

We never know though, do we? We're always changing, moulded by whats happening around us and to us and near us. I wanted to be a storyteller. I could say that I still am. But I have no idea how true that is sometimes. I miss drawing. I miss singing and playing music. I miss going home and feeling like I have hours to kill so I fire up a game. I dont know where all of thats gone. I feel like my inner light has been put somewhere for safekeeping and Ive lost the key and cant even remember why I did it in the first place... or maybe I do.

Im scared. Yup, Im a terrified human being. Im scared about bills, my grandmother, my job, my country, my partner. Im drawn out and pulled mentally in all these directions and I just cant get a handle on the fact I have no idea what Im supposed to do and who Im supposed to be in all of this.

I know what I would like to do, to be. I want to be sane. I want to be happy and calm and relaxed. I want to just move house and build new memories and continue in life and try make people happy. I want to work and do good in this world. One day I want to make my stupid movie with tropes and a weird father character and I want to, at some point, figure out how dancing works. I want to teach my cat things, I want to make time to hug all of my dogs and tell them how much they make me happy. I want to put flowers on my fathers grave that I havent seen in years. I want to one day buy a house for my family so my mother doesnt have to worry ever again. I want to do good. I do.

I just have no idea how.

What colour?

I never realised how often we use labels. Trans, of colour, gay, straight, while, cis, etc etc etc. It made me wonder... why?

Don't get me wrong, I don't have an issue with labels. I wish that I had cool ones too. I just think they're wholly unnecessary to give (keyword here: GIVE) to people. Does that make sense? Maybe not yet but just hear me out:

Use a label to help you identify yourself in the crowd, or to someone you've been trying to wink at from across the room for like an hour now or something, if that's what you want. What I would hope is that labels aren't dished out because the cis, straight, vanilla's trying to figure out what is what and who is who.

That's we saying something as a cis, straight, vanilla... for all intents and purposes. It's funny because I was scrolling through social media and I wonder “what are my labels” and “would my labels be celebrated”?

I was never the kind to fly the halfcast flag because I didn't know my “other half” like everyone else seemed to. I felt out because I didn't look like the rest of that side of the family and I couldn't compensate with language. Ive never felt comfortable in my body but I know it's not a case of dysphoria. I don't have typically exciting hair, features, lilts in my accent or anything in particular. I like wearing pretty dresses and I like throwing on my raggedy pants and vests. I didn't like very many people so I was never all over the place and my hormones were mostly in check. I grew up knowing that I was a mix of this or that and the other but that whatever I felt, I was me.

Does “I dont like what my reproductive organs do to me on a regular basis” count as a part of my identity? “3 years and counting in a relationship and I want to marry him and avoid having babies as long as possible”? “I dress for comfort and context”? “I don't like hair removal because I cant stand how itchy the growing back is”? “Sure I love socialist principles but how do we make sure everyone actually contributes”? “I played a male character in an MMO because I didn't want awkward, special treatment female toons sometimes get”? What really is there to celebrate among my experiences as an all-purpose wholemeal flour kind of human?

From all my reading of people coming out, coming to terms, identifying with the past and present to determine the future – it's about the self, right?

It acts almost like a kind of justification. “I am the way I am because I am (blank)”. Insert label here... and that makes me angry. I get angry because people, maybe even those like me, fall nicely (more or less) into the box of the expected.

Never questioned, never had to explain why I am x, doing y or hanging out with z. I don't want to have blind privilege. I just want to do my part in whatever way I can so that the kids I may eventually have never have to worry about what their labels are.

Can I just not be here, thaaanks.

Things are getting weirder. You know when a layer of calm settles over the way you thought things were and youve completely forgotten why things are the way they are? No? Oh.

Well, Im a human of habit. I like rules. I learn rules. Understanding rules and sticking to them were why I loved maths and physics and all that good stuff in high school. I made up rules as I went along to help myself how politics may have worked or how journalism is and was and so on when I got into uni.

And of course, all of this seeped into my personal life. Yes, I talk to the "big bad ex" because he's my friend several timezones away... but I taught myself "the rules" of what we say and don't say. Early on in the whole relationship with the Owl I thought those rules applied as well. It didn't bode well and I had to re-learn everything about intimacy and what I thought a relationship was because if I didn't I'd still be the far more nervous wreck who'd lock herself in the bathroom and cry whenever I got invited to something.

Then there are dealings with my family - the close and the not-as-close. Those have rules too. You never say anything too rude to the face, you don't take our attitude out on someone else, you don't discuss who weird periods are or how weird someone's face is (no matter how PMSd or tired you may be).

Then society has rules. However, Ive been shying away from sticking to those to be honest. For the most part, yeah Im a hairy (and yet perhaps sexy? who knows!) beast. I dont want to shave. I dont need to shave my legs or underarms. My skin hates it, I hate it, and that's it. I may for a special occasion but it always just goes back to me hating the fact I have to wait until its grown out and manageable again. Then theres the eyebrows. Please. For the love of god, please, don't judge me for them.

At the core, sticking to the rules for me has always been about respect. Sure, I have the same amount of respect for all strangers on the street but not the institutions that tell me Im disgusting if I grow hair or dont look or dress or act like Im "supposed to" as a female. But, when it comes to friends, family, my partner - rules are kept with express bending coming at a time where everyone agrees to it or when its needed. Rules never for rules sake because that's just silly - because that the end of the day, they're your rules.