To followers of Why Don’t You, welcome back, to new readers- hi!
I used to run this blog that was just like a diary of me. And it was funny and had lots of hits and whatever but I’ve decided that I’ve got to become a grown-up. Grown-ups use WordPress. They also have their own URL’s that they pay thirty dollars for and they say things like ‘ta’ when you help them with their bags.
This blog is going to be profesh. I’m legit going to post at certain prescribed intervals every week. Or at least post a few times a week. Or I might just… post. Regardless get excited. This is a space for thoughts to run free, to write about whatever is going on in Sydney and around the world. To make (hopefully) astute comments about topical social issues, to try and raise subjects that people don’t raise enough or are awkward when they do. To address the pros and cons of films, books and theatre etc. without channeling Ms. M Pomeranz. The point is, I don’t refrain. And please don’t refrain in the comments, I want to hear what you have to say. If I think that you particularly are a wanker, I’ll probably berate your comment and protect myself with a bogan pseudonym like ‘Destinee’ or ‘Cheryl-Lee’.
It makes me feel sad that this blog is so empty, so I’m just gonna copy and paste the piece that means the most to me from my old blog, here. It was originally posted on my friend Cerealmonk’s blog. He’s pretty alright.
I wake up and everything seems right, so I put on some dark brown lipstick, I straighten my hair, I wear a tight top, I put on my boots. I say hi to my Dad in the kitchen. He’s been for a swim and now he’s eating cereal. He’s shivering because he has bad circulation and he’s cold, but he’s in a good mood and he’s up for some banter. We talk about Brad and Ange, about the book I’m reading, the Irish talk he went to last night, his best mate. He asks me what I’m doing today. I say I have plans, which I do, because I’ve filled it with appointments with friends and coffees and salads.
I don’t walk, I clomp. Foot by foot, pressing down hard on the pavement with purpose to the beat. People tell me I look angry when I walk, but I’m not angry, just thinking. The bus comes but I don’t get on. I’d prefer to walk because that way I’ll be late and I won’t have to sit around waiting for people. I walk so fast that my face is covered in a sweaty sheen. A dark grey spot appears on my light grey t-shirt , just under my breasts. It grows and grows as sweat fills the cavity between my ribs. I keep stomping. I’m happy. I talk to my friends with rigueur, throwing myself into conversations with energy and curiosity and passion. What have they been doing? What have I been up to? What do we all think of Fitzgerald? Do we like ricotta cake? Are we excited for the festival? Let’s start a band! I giggle with delight because I’m on the same enthusiastic wavelength as everyone else. It feels effortless and I am genuinely enveloped in the talk and the place.
Then the moment comes, because it always does. I tune out for a second. Think of nothing. Breathe. And what I breathe in is not air, but a slow feeling of pointlessness, boredom, disengagement. I’ve lost my thread. I imagine other places and other people. Never satisfied, not quite sure what I want but knowing that right now, this isn’t it. I want to go. I get on the train. I walk down the hill to Bronte beach. I break into a run because no one is around. I sit on the bench on the promenade next to the bin. I stare at the sea and I am cold as the wind strips the warmth off my shoulders and turns the sweat on my back to ice damp. I never want to leave this bench; I just want to think forever. I feel at peace with the churning and the bite and my body wrapped around itself trying to keep warm.
I’ll stay in this mindset for a few days, a week. And gradually I will get up in the morning and the weight will lift a little bit more. I’ll start being able to put my mind to the present, as if it matters. In a week I might actually think it matters. And then it will matter.
This is how it happens to me. This is the process that I have come to identify. Pills even it out but mostly it’s just about consciously riding the wave. I’m okay. The good bits are wonderful. It’s just that I can write from both sides of the spectrum. This is my Depression. No fanfare. Just a blot of blue ink slowly dripping down a page into clean water, until the pigments coalesce and you can see the stark white A4 background once more.