How can a person motivate others when she isn’t happy herself? I got High Distinctions in Drama class so it’s all too easy being something that you’re not and receiving a fortnightly pittance doing so.

Been there and done that to banish the Husky nipping at my ankles. Medication, therapy and attempting suicide.

Talking about it doesn’t help. Paying some “therapist” to wash my brain out for half an hour at $235 left me feeling even worse. Pissing the paypacket away on Peroni is a feelgood solution but the morning after is filled with extreme self hate. I think that’s a replacement for hangovers because never ever in my years of drinking have I experienced a hangover.

The same thoughts plague me day and night when the husky starts biting. My body image, facial features, the way I walk, the way I talk, I’m too vocal on Twitter, I’m too quiet when I go out, I dance like an uncoordinated gymnast, I’m too blokey when I should be all fluffymylittlepony girly like, I can still feel my body hit the floor and the feet ploughing into my ribs.

I don’t know whether I should continue writing, stop writing, find a hole to crawl in or do something that I never though I’d do before – start fighting (not with my fists, of course because I don’t roll like that and nor should you, unless you’re Steven Seagal or MacGuyver)

I wish this darn Husky would stop nipping at my ankles. Please, doggy, go play with a frisbee and leave me be for a while. You might be cute and cuddly but you make @melbournegirl cry.

What exactly is or was “my day”? The late 1990s? Pre-Internet days? Uni days? The 1980s?

Apart from using such a passé line, my tolerance levels for fads and resurrected trends has wained so much since my late 20s.

I see girls wearing what looks like nothing more than a long tshirt over leggings and think to myself “Darling, where are your pants?” I see guys wearing skinny jeans with a huge bubble where their bottom is supposed to be. My instant reaction is “Did you borrow your sister’s jeans? Let your nuts breathe, brother.”

2009 feels like 1989 complete with frosted lipstick, huge leather belts worn around tops and guys with mullet hairdos.

I have friends who were born between 1986 and 1989. I just can’t relate. I remember all your funky awesome trends the first time around. We didn’t have Supre, Cotton On, Politix, Facebook or Twitter back then. The only “Internet” we had were BBSes but even those were far and few. If you owned a Intel 286 PC back then or even an Amiga, you were the coolest geek around. We used to write letters back then too.

We’ve become a society that sucks hard on the teat of social media. I’m asked a common question by new acquaintences these days. “Do you have Facebook?”. I’ve started to answer no and tell them that I’m on Twitter, email or just direct them to this site.

Life was so much easier before social media. Less heartaches, misunderstandings, mistrust and confusion.

The world is a smaller place and it creeps me out.

This is a blog post about emotions. You know, those icky things that sneak up behind you every so often and either give you the mother of all wedgies or slug you so hard in the guts that you’re bowled over.

HAPPINESS

It’s an odd concept, this whole “being happy” kind of thing. I never really understood it while I was growing up. I was either so happy that I was high above the clouds or not happy at all. There was no stable amount of happiness in my life. No sane level of cheerfulness or satisfaction. Everything was either “Oh my fucking God, this is so fucking cool.” or “meh”. The joys of being manic. I could never imagine life without that twinge of mania in me.

It helped me survive my first year of university. It helped me come out of my shell. It got my a radio gig. It helped me keep my current day job. It fuelled my love of limoncello, beer and vodka. It also destroyed way too many intimate relationships, obliterated friendships and probably cost the life of my best friend.

The mania vanished with the loss of my best friend and six months of repressing all feelings associated with losing my father back in August 2008.

My happiness  is music, good food, family, friends (work, twitter, uni and school), old letters, memories and just knowing that even though I look like a stupid ditz with a lazy eye, I’m “me”. It’s all I can be. It’s all I know.

DEPRESSION

I know that I probably come across as someone who is beyond emo when I write something semi-coherent in here. I spent ten years hiding the fact that I wasn’t coping with life. I managed to make some horrible mistakes and to this day, as much as I stubbornly say that I have no regrets, it’s all bullshit. I have regrets. Only two or three that hurt when I think about them.

2008/early 2009 were dark times for me, right up there with turning 21 in 1998. That ten year gap is blurry in my mind. The only few items that stand out are failed relationships, family troubles and losing people.

People tell me that I am strong for not crying when my father passed away or when I received news of my best friend’s death. Not crying isn’t strength. It’s emptiness. It’s having the worst angina pain that you could possibly imagine. It’s having your inner core set alight and all you want to do is find a corner, a cubicle, a hole, a dark place where you can cry and cry and cry without anyone knowing.

I cry everyday. I’m just too chickenshit to admit it to anyone. Even the therapist that’s “helping” me get through all this grief. I’m as strong as that ‘roidmonkey you see at your local gym. Bodybuilder strong. A nine pound emotional weakling. Is that true strength? You tell me.

If my old man could see me now, he’d be shaking his head. If past lusts and loves could see me now, they’d be laughing their heads off. If my best friend could see me now, he’d grab me in a playful headlock and tell me to harden the fuck up. If only I could remember how to.

LOSS

Loss is hollow. If loss were audible, it would make the same sound a rockmelon/canteloupe makes when you gently tap the bottom of it. Hollow. Empty. Desolate. I used to think that I could cope with losing people who were near and dear to me. I’ve lost so many friends to suicide, drug overdoses and car accidents.

I never thought that it would all hit me so hard after losing my father and a few months later, my best friend. My father was a quiet man. A person who liked his footy (South Melbourne/Sydney Swans supporter since 1962), his beer and was devoted to his family. He came to Australia back in the 1960s looking for a ‘better life’ and he found it. What killed him in the end was cancer and his bad ticker. I was talking to him about the footy scores on the day he passed away. One minute he was awake and listening to me babble on about how the Swans had won by four points and the next minute, he didn’t wake up.

I miss him so much. He was one of the few people in my life who helped me pick myself up off the ground after an emotional fall. I sometimes think that my constant emotional falls ended up taking their toll on him.

The same can be said about my late bestie, Saso. I have my regrets. I could’ve handled things in a better manner. It all still hurts like hell and I’d do anything just to see @dopaminekid smile and call me a “dumbass putana”.

Loss isn’t only about death. It’s about messed up relationships. It’s about wishing that things could’ve been handled better. It’s about everything being in it’s right place and not scattered about like a stack of papers on the floor.

CONCLUSION

The Internet isn’t the greatest of places to spill your guts to the world about how upside down your life must feel but when you have nowhere else to really turn, what do you do? Ten years of sitting in silence. Ten years of filling up paper journal after paper journal with thoughts so dark and non-broadcastable. Ten years of wondering whether it gets better or if this is as good as it gets.

One of my Twitter friends told me that things do slowly get better. I believe her and I thank her for her words of wisdom. It’s good to know that even a 140 character tweet, followed by the same thoughts reiterated in person can have such a positive impact on an individual.

The Internet mightn’t be the greatest of places to spill your guts but once you’ve bit the bullet and done it, there’s a feeling of relief. I feel better for sharing my story with you.