Write

I move my cursor to the top right of my screen…”write“, it says. I click on it as it’s too enticing not to.

It’s Sunday and for the first time in months, I haven’t got any work to do. It’s weird. I love my job. I am writer. It sounds so lovely to say even lovelier to say out loud. I work seven days a week. I told myself today would be all about reading poetry and relaxing, but in all honesty—I am so fucking bored.

I did read poetry, dark poetry—Milk and Honey by Rupi Kaur. Her poetry is so simple, like anyone could have written it. But at the same time, it has an effect on me. Her words don’t need to be deciphered, twisted, and analysed like the long and strange poetry we were forced to read in high school. They’re straightforward, and true. Perhaps that is why they have an effect on me… that and her brave account of how badly men have treated her.

I’m home in South Africa for now, and I have almost no stress at all. It’s weird. I sit beside the ocean and write. I hear the stillness of the night, I breathe fresh air, I feel the sun on my skin. I feel reality. It’s now my business to know what everyone is getting up to in their lives—and while I couldn’t really care, it’s sometimes nice.

These are my thoughts as the day—and week—come to a close.

Have a happy week, everyone.

x

Advertisements

Feels Like A One-Way Ticket

So many new thoughts have entered my overactive mind in the last few weeks. While I love my adventurous side (and still have a dozen more countries that I would like to see), I have this need to settle down. No, I don’t necessarily mean having kids, getting married, buying a house and investing in things. I mean, I want to find a place that I can call home. This has been all too difficult for the past few years because I’ve had to move apartments, countries and cities every 2-4 months for work or because of a lease that has ended. It’s left me somewhat bitter in that I have to pack up everything I own once again and try to make a new place “homey”. So once again, it’s been a total of 6 weeks in this new place and I have to move out. Just lovely.

When I heard the news 3 weeks ago, I frantically searched real estate websites in Barcelona and even went as far as looking at places in Cape Town and Berlin. I also thought perhaps I’d do a month-long travel through Europe. But moving cities and moving countries means yet again getting used to the area, learning the language and so on and so forth. While that is exciting, I am just not in the place right now.

I’ve been living in Barcelona now for 5 months… and I love it. I am quite sure that I am not convincing myself that I love it because I don’t feel like making a big move. When I think back on the places I have lived throughout my adult life, none feel like home… besides Barcelona. Just my luck though, that places available for March are either utterly shit or too expensive. So, in an attempt to get my ducks in a row, I’ve bought a return ticket to go home for 2 months. In this time, I hope to save my money, come back in May and get a one bedroom place. There’s just one problem with all of this…

Having broken away from life in my home country, people move on – much as the same as I have too. They’re different, I am different. And suddenly, I get the feeling as though they really couldn’t care less that I am coming home. Family and friends probably see me as a burden as I need to crash at their place and rely on them (or public transport) to get around. I hate been reverted back to the state where I rely on others. I’ve recently learned that this is the reason why I love living in a different country. I don’t want nor need the help of others. Additionally, I realised that I don’t really have any one in this entire world that gives a fuck where I am or what I am doing. Sad, but sort of freeing.

So while I will only be spending two months at home, it almost feels wrong. It feels like I’ve bought a one-way ticket to a place where I am “the baby” again, asking for help. I really should be excited but I’m just not.

Is This It?

I am completely transformed back to a place in which I felt utterly hopeless. I lacked motivation and drive, I felt nothing and I hated it. The only difference now is – I have become somewhat of a recluse, spending all of my time inside my bedroom. I dread going outside. Everything outside seems like a chore – bumping into people, glancing at strangers’ faces, having to figure myself out in the city. I’m in beautiful Barcelona but it feels more like I am in a dark hole.

What is the point of traveling, living in new countries and cities when I can’t even get the energy to leave the house? What’s more frustrating, is that my friends tell me to snap out of it. They just don’t understand that there’s something weird and irrational happening in my overactive mind. I know that I need to get out more, and I fantasise about it constantly by Googling exciting places to see, cafes to work in, countries and hotels to visit – but all of those hours are put to waste when I wake up and cannot give myself a single reason to get out of bed.

I used to be a doer. I yearn for those days again. Now, I am back to that place where my anxiety is so high that I hope for wonderful things, plan them excessively and then – do nothing. Do I up the dose on my anti-depressants? Do I wait it out? Trying to push myself is just not working anymore. I don’t know what will work but this just can’t be how I live my life.

My Two Cents (And Merry Christmas)

Last night, I thought about what I wanted to achieve in 2016. It didn’t take me long to reach the conclusion that I should skip all the bullshit of my not wanting to go out sometimes and not wanting to do something or meet someone because traveling and planning left with me anxiety but more so, I’ve just become stubborn in that, I don’t know how I’ll feel on the day, hence my lack of planning. It’s probably fair to say that I have missed many opportunities to meet people because of this.

Today, however, I feel as though I couldn’t be assed to change in that manner. I hate doing things that I hate doing and that’s just it. So, I won’t.

That’s my two cents. Merry Christmas. xx

Beast Within. 

I’m beginning to think that I may not be able to be happy anywhere and that scares the shit out of me.

There’s something screaming and yearning inside of me. It’s something that’s been there for a long time and I still haven’t found that one thing that quiets the beast within.

Tackle the Mountain.

I wasn’t noticed very often. Not by boys, not by men and not by male family members. I was never the hot one or the confident one or the sexy one but rather the friend of the girl who always had a boyfriend. Year after year, boys and men came into my life via her and I always wished it were me. Why wasn’t there any one coming to watch me dance?

I wish I could lead a normal life. I am like a school girl learning how to deal with her crush because physical touch makes me freak out. Maybe I became that loud, in-your-face, crude drunk so that I was finally something to someone – I was the one with the stories. Maybe I drew my attention from that and not from other things, like being good at something. I continued to do damage to myself that it is a way of life for me. How do I function in society, sober? How will I ever become comfortable with the touch of a man or enjoy sex, without drinking.

Maybe if I had of gained more attention in other, healthier forms, I wouldn’t be as dysfunctional today. Maybe if I were thinner, my self esteem and confidence would be higher thus leaving me to feel comfortable in my own skin and around others. I am a proud big girl, finally, and can appreciate who I am and what I look like but walking around, sitting, sleeping, talking, eating etc while having that reoccurring thought in your head “how do you see me?” is mentally exhausting. I wonder how people see me? Do they look at me and think disgust? I am now in a country that is so diverse that seeing people of all sizes and colours and shapes is the norm. Am I seen less horribly now?

How the fuck do I start to tackle this mountain?

Dear Diary.

I’ve been avoiding writing anything that sounds like a diary entry for a while now (I hate the sound of it).

Everyone thinks that I am having the best time of my life. I am happier than Korea, yes. I persist to call Korea The Hole. I am happy… I’m just… not? What would the adjective be for someone that feels happier and looks happier and sounds happier, doesn’t feel sad or depressed but is? What do you call someone who has been put right in the centre of their ultimate fear? Every day, I am surrounded by people. People are moving fast, they aren’t stopping, they aren’t talking. They’re moving, in large groups and in small spaces, from A to B. I have to close my eyes or avoid looking at faces as not to hyperventilate and to try and meander my way onto a train that is so crowded that I have to wait for two or three more to come by in order to get on.

I still believe that life is punishing me for never taking transport to visit my friends in Korea merely because the planning of it all made me too anxious.

Where do all of these people come from?

I haven’t gotten black-out drunk since I’ve arrived in England. I haven’t used sex as a tool to be wanted since I arrived in England. The two things that cause my happiness and depression. Is that why I feel neither?

I am considering AA, not because I am addicted to alcohol but I am addicted to the stamina and ability it gives me to get affection and love in any form. Is that the same thing? Am I then addicted to alcohol?

I’m counting the weeks – 1,2,3,4 until I can get away from here. I sat down on the black and white checked bathroom floor ten minutes after I should have left for work and I cried and breathed deeply and quickly. The day prior, tears were starting to form whilst being pushed up against the side of a subway door. Why do I think that I am the only person who is struggling in this fast-paced human infested small space? I don’t feel normal.