Story of a Girl

She’s had it easy.

Born into middle class suburban life, she hasn’t suffered any serious illnesses. Nobody close to her has died. She hadn’t suffered abuse, or bullying, and her parents weren’t divorced or unsupportive. She’d never had a serious boyfriend, but she had many friends; from school, from work, from uni, from life.

She walked life in a relatively straight line. Primary school to high school, high school to university, in a degree that filters straight into the work force. While she studied she worked part time, first at a cafe, then at a cinema. She was responsible, average intelligence, fairly lazy. Laziness; probably her worst habit. If she didn’t have anywhere to be, she wouldn’t change out of her pajamas. She often flaked on plans, using various excuses when the real reason was her sub zero care factor. She can marathon a TV series like nothing else, and though she often resolved to do something physical; go for a walk, do some yoga… she would inevitably bail on that too.  And the more she flaked, the lazier and more unfit she became and the less likely she would follow through.

She had a good life, easy. But she felt unfulfilled, listless.

She was diagnosed with depression when she was seventeen. That is seven years ago now. She dutifully takes a tablet every day, to regulate the chemical composition of her brain; to fix her broken mind.

At times, she feels happy, normal. But there are still times where her mood takes a dip and she wonders if she can ever be truly happy, truly fulfilled, or if she is cursed to live her life finding flaws in everything, questioning the purpose of everything. And these feelings, they make her feel guilty. What reason can she have to be depressed? This girl, who as had sucg an easy life. A good home, an education, loving family and friends, stability. Someone like that, maybe they don’t even deserve happiness.

And so, she continues on with her life, unchanging, straight line, hating her selfishness and sadness. She can’t see any other path. It doesn’t matter when she takes risks because all decisions are based on obligation, loyalty, on what is expected. Who is to say what is smart and what is right, if they are different or if they are the same. Does it matter? To her it does, but at this point she doesn’t even feel like herself, and can’t remember a time when she did. And she can’t see any other path, but keeps wishing for something she can’t even comprehend.

A tragically anticlimactic story.

 

 

 

 

Narcissus

I have known the story of Narcissus for a long time.

One of your typical greek tragedies; A beautiful boy, blessed with long life, so long as he ‘never knew himself’. When he spots his beautiful reflection in a stream, of course he falls in love with it. The sources vary but he either accidentaly drowns himself or starves to death, never wanting to be apart from the one he loves. From his death is bourne a flower, the Narcissus flower, a lasting testament to beauty.

Something I didn’t know until recently; the Narcissus flower is more commonly known as the daffodil. DAFFODIL. I thought this was fairly anti-climactic, until I looked into it more.

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I wonder why the Cancer Council chose this flower as their symbol of hope in the fight against cancer? Sure, it’s the ‘first flower of spring’. For me, the story is packed with negative symbolism (to be fair, I’m depressed). Beauty; the boy, the flower. Flowers die (as did Narcissus), thus, beauty is fleeting and death comes for all. Narcissus is derived from the greek word narke which means numbness. Did the boy feel himself dying? Supposedly the flower was named for it’s intoxicating fragrance. There’s something else intoxicating about them. Turns out, the bulbs are poisonous.

Other ridiculously adorable names for the Narcissus are Daffadown Dilly or daffydowndilly. It is also sometimes called asphodel, of which it is a variant. Yeah, like from potions class with Professor Snape.

Circles within circles.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been 


As others were—I have not seen 


As others saw—I could not bring 


My passions from a common spring— 


From the same source I have not taken 


My sorrow—I could not awaken 


My heart to joy at the same tone— 


And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone— 


Then—in my childhood—in the dawn 


Of a most stormy life—was drawn 


From ev’ry depth of good and ill 


The mystery which binds me still— 


From the torrent, or the fountain— 


From the red cliff of the mountain— 


From the sun that ’round me roll’d 


In its autumn tint of gold— 


From the lightning in the sky 


As it pass’d me flying by— 


From the thunder, and the storm— 


And the cloud that took the form 


(When the rest of Heaven was blue) 


Of a demon in my view—




BY EDGAR ALLEN POE

Don’t Ask

Stomach churning, stiff neck,

Sunday funday sunday sad day.

Grey echoes in the air,

Lonely yet needing to be alone.

You Alright?

Speaking through closed doors,

The world pries with shadowy fingers.

Nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong.

Don’t ask, please.

I don’t have the reasons, and you don’t have the answers.

A voice within a voice within a voice,

Can you hear my silence?

Listen harder,

and don’t ask me.

STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT

Can’t you see you’re making it worse?

 

 

Right in the Childhood

There are some kids shows that you forget existed until you hear the opening theme, and it’s like you’ve been punched right in the damn childhood. These lesser known shows conjure up all sorts of bittersweet feelings of nostalgia.

 

 

Magic Mountain

 

 

 

The Adventures of Sam

 

 

Oakie Doke

 

 

Johnson and Friends

 

 

Where’s Wally (hands down best opening theme of the lot)

 

My mum makes it better

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Pet hate. When you mention something you love, and the other person claims that they like it too, but ONLY a certain type. For example, I have a friend who is constantly shutting down foods because her mum makes it better. Like, “Oh I love lasagna! But only the kind my mum makes.” It wouldn’t bother me so much if it didn’t happen ALL THE BLOODY TIME. Just the other day I ordered hash browns on the side of my breakfast. Yum yum yum, nothing beats a delicious hash brown, I thought. And yet ‘Normal’ hash browns gross her out, because her mother’s browns have RUINED her for other ones. Like no, that’s not how potato works; it is literally all good. It’s like pizza – even a bad pizza is still good pizza! IT IS STILL A PARTY IN MY MOUTH!!! Get back into your corner (in your ma’s kitchen).

The curse of RBF

There’s no such thing as being born with resting bitch face. Who ever saw a ‘bitchy’ baby? Sure, there are grumpy babies, and babies that give mad side eye (trust me, I’ve seen it), but you can’t call a baby a bitch. RBF is something you must grow into. And who can say at what age I grew into mine? All I know is that throughout high school, and ever since then, I have been afflicted with the ‘curse of RBF’. 

On numerous occiasions, close friends have revealed that “omg I thought you were such a bitch at first, but you are actually sooo nice” (I’m paraphrasing here but you get the idea). Usually I embrace the bitch face. It’s just another quality on the long list of traits that make up my identity as a unique, tenacious, fiercely indepentant young woman (read: bitch). It helps to guard me against unwanted attentions or conversation. It keeps away the people who haven’t broken through my nutty outer shell to the delicious marshmallow within (is anyone else hungry?).

One thing I HATE, however, is when people I’m partying with, or working with, or just hanging out with, ask me ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘are you okay?’ when nine times out of ten, there was nothing wrong! I was just being quiet, or thoughtful, or calm. Of course, following the question, there now  WAS something wrong- I’d be angry. For some reason, it flips my cranky switch, and I can’t really explain why. 

The majority of the time this happens, I am absolutely fine; happy even; and maybe the reason the question grinds my gears is because I then feel like a robot- too apparently inhuman for others to read correctly. Of course, I KNOW the question is generally coming from a good place, a place of friendly concern. The thing is, if there WAS something wrong, I’m the sort of person who wouldn’t want to discuss it then and there. I like to process my thoughts and emotions privately, and then if needed, evaluate them with whoever at a later time. You, drawing attention to the fact that I apparently can’t hide my feelings, are making a bad situation worse. 

The fact that it bothers me so much is very confusing, and I suppose it speaks volumes as to what type of person I am. But does it speak of complexity or immaturity? Of my being private or prone to mood swings? Hmmm…

From South Australia to Far North Queensland

Since I moved North, I have noticed a few things about the people up here that differ from back home.

  • Instead of ‘pool’ or ‘school’, they say ‘pewl’ and ‘skewl’. Bathers, or bikinis, are called ‘toggs’, and a third person is often referred to as ‘old mate’. As in, ‘Hey Em, can you pass this to old mate over there?’ 
  • It’s always hot. Even when it’s cold, it’s hot. My roommate with complain about the ‘freezing’ mornings while I still need an air-conditioner to get to sleep. In summer, you need approximately five showers a day, give or take.  
  • The traffic lights take forever to change. Get caught at a red light, expect to be there a while. I’m used to it now, but when I first got here I had some serious impatience induced road-rage.
  • Far fewer coffee snobs than down south. Is it because it’s too hot to drink coffee? Either way, it took me a long time to scope out all the decent coffee spots.
  • Almost everyone has a tattoo, or many. An ink-less person is a rarer sight than an inked one. Me and my cool temporary tattoos I bought online don’t fit in here.   

  

Oh, and there’s one more thing that really gets me about this place. Beaches, beaches everywhere but not a spot to swim.

Yeah, and when it’s not stingers, its crocodiles