It's an icy lemon squash kind of day here in Queensland today. And I found one that is sugar free and actually does not taste like aspartame's ass.
What is it about the term sugar free that induces instant piousness? Like the fat chick who orders a supersized Whopper meal - with extra cheese and an ice-cream sundae...and then orders loud-voicely "just a small diet coke also please". Good girl, watching your calories like that.
Thing is, give it 10 years and Lancet will be printing studies about the various dangers of all the other shit they put in these sugar-free drinks to make them taste, uh, sugary. You know the ones, they end in -alanine and -oxydotol.
But if they contain all those acids and preservatives, won't we live longer? They are essentially pickling us, after all.
Anyway, sugar-free lemon squash is my beverage of choice while blogging this afternoon. Just thought you'd like to know.
Yesterday's beverage du jour was beer, Stella in fact. Just one schooner, as I was driving, but goodness I could have had at least four more.
And that is saying something as just six days before I was doing the "I'm never drinking again" thing, hungover as shit after my partner's 40th. (Happy birthday darling.) All it took was eight Asahis and I was a bed-ridden cactus that threw up twice the next day. Trust me, that is not a cactus you want in your garden.
Flaming Mojave Desert, I was sick.
It was buggeringly hot last weekend and I swear I ate a dodgy Ho Mai concoction (although that is unfair to Ho Mai, makers of the finest fake supermarket yum cha selections in history, so I take that back - but I am lying to myself and to you: there was no dodgy food poisoning here. I am simply soft and unable to hold my liquor.) There I said it - and yes alright I will admit it outside the comfort of those brackets back there. I. Am. Soft.
But a schooner here or there is ok. The occasion yesterday was a wonderful catch-up with two gorgeous friends, former workmates - the ones who have seen the light. Haha.
I have blogged about one of them previously. We were pregnant at almost exactly the same time until I lost the baby.
She is mere weeks away from giving birth so her girth is cause of much mirth. Sorry, couldn't resist.
Well it was generally mirthful until she started reacting to the baby moving, causing our other friend to put his hand on her belly. I was sitting on the other side of the table and thought for a split-second about reaching over for a feel, but withdrew.
Why?
Well, at that moment, it was confronting. I could see her top shifting a little as the baby's limbs moved under her skin, causing the slightest slide up and then down, casting a miniscule shadow to break across the fabric of her top before disappearing.
I felt the tiniest tear well up at that point and stayed silent. I think...maybe I talked about something else, or looked at the boats on the water nearby. I can't remember, but a sudden, gripping feeling of..."I want that" just choked me.
And I am sorry to write this down, because I suspect these two amazing people will most likely read this and feel bad. Don't. Please.
So you didn't give that a second thought at the time? You didn't notice anything at all afterwards? Good. I don't want you to.
As I have explained before, that is no sort of friendship if one party feels they have to censor themselves.
Stuff has been building for me this past fortnight. And again, like the weeks after we lost the baby where I would see baby-related things literally EVERYWHERE I turned, and so it is happening again now: near to my due date.
I came to work on Monday last week to hear three people I knew had had babies over the weekend. Then a high-profile contact at work announced she was pregnant, someone else got a positive pregnancy test, heavily pregnant women seem to cross my path with unnerving regularity and just this morning as I walked through the markets my nan pointed out a random sign on a stall warning about the dangers of mobile phones when you are pregnant.
Now I absolutely rationally know that nan, like my friends, would in no way have thought a completely innocuous gesture like that would make me feel terrible. So I cannot rationally A) make them aware of that (except via this blog, um?) or B) be angry with them about it.
And I am not suggesting that I take away from my friend that amazing experience of having her baby move inside her, and wanting to share it with her friends. That's what pregnant people do.
The thing is, it's all so fleeting. Maybe on another day, I would have reached over to feel her belly and been completely fine about it. And as I have explained before, whatever "bad" stuff I might feel is not something I hang onto.
So the tears started for a nanosecond there yesterday...but they were gone in a flash. Alright part of that is self-preservation, but part of it is trying to stay healthy mentally...and of course continue to honour the fantastic relationships I have with friends and family. I know I would absolutely hate it if people I liked to have around me felt they were on egg shells whenever we met.
Maybe I am stupid for writing it down here...and I am probably selfish for doing so. Because, like last year, Blogger is better than any therapist I've ever known. So, sorry, but don't take it on board or make it alter your behaviour around me.
This is a glimpse into how I felt for a fleeting moment one Saturday afternoon. Know what? Next Saturday, I am sure it will be very different.
Hmm, I am clearly formulating my application letter for Ramblers Anonymous here, but I hope some of this makes sense.
The next few weeks will be tough. March 5 will be tougher. But it is a mere moment in time. I'll be right.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Letter to the editor
I was compelled to take angry fingers to increasingly yielding keyboard this week upon reading a letter to the editor from one of the many right-wing bigots I am unfortunate enough to share my part of Australia with.
Here, first is the letter and below is my reply, which appeared in today's paper.
Legislation for same-sex marriages has been tabled in parliament. This is a recipe for disaster that will have far-reaching consequences.
The strength of society’s fabric is to large degree in the strength of the family unit.
The homosexual community would like to redefine society to suit their self-interested agendas which will be to the detriment of all that we value dearly – family and marriage.
Our government is based on the Westminster Legal System which is based on the 10 Commandments of the Judeo-Christian Faith. These laws are the foundation to a society that works well and has the blessings of the Almighty God. Marriage between man and woman has long been God’s idea, as has been procreation.
Shall we also toss out our current legal system one brick at a time and have the homosexual community rewrite it their way.
I certainly won’t be silent as they steamroll their way under a thin guise of “tolerance”. They are certainly not tolerant of anyone who has a difference of opinion.
Do we really want homosexuals running Australia when the majority of us value marriage and family as it has always been known?
I’m certainly not homophobic and I for one understand the sexual brokenness that underpins the choices they make. For many of them their brokenness is too painful for them to even contemplate.
All the same, I am a mother and I also have the right to advocate for what are better choices for our children. Same-sex marriages are certainly not about children and the children’s needs. Hence I will protect the values I hold dear to – marriage between a man and woman to the exclusion of all others. This creates a solid foundation for a stronger society in which to raise children.
What the homosexuals do in their private lives should not become a public endeavour for all to accept their choices by legislation. Let it remain as a private matter and let the definition of marriage remain as that of one man and one woman to the exclusion of all others. Our children deserve the best.
I strongly urge all citizens who value family and marriage to speak up about these attempts to redefine who we are in Australia.
Together we can avert this disaster and protect what we value dearly - marriage and family.
LEA JOHNSON, Noosa Heads.
Now, I could have gone for the throat, I really could have...but decided against vitriol.
So Lea Johnson believes marriage between a man and a woman to the exclusion of all others “creates a solid foundation for a stronger society in which to raise children”.
Not sure what planet she is living on, but I don’t particularly see marriage working brilliantly out there in the community.
So, the “majority”, she says, value marriage and family “as it has always been known”.
Not sure which majority she is referring to, especially when current data proves a lot of people don’t in fact value it at all.
Ever heard the oft-quoted “one in three marriages ends in divorce” line?
There were 120,118 marriages registered in Australia in 2009, according to the ABS.
In the same year, there were 49,488 divorces. Almost 50,000 people who clearly don’t value marriage as highly as you naively do.
You claim you are not homophobic in the same panicked breath as declaring some rot about a homosexual movement steamrolling its way into “running Australia” and daring to be treated the same as everyone else.
News flash, Lea, we are all human. No other person, church, authority or state has any right whatsoever to decide one person is more entitled than another. Unless of course a crime has been committed, and last time I looked, homosexuality was not a crime.
“The strength of society’s fabric is to a large degree in the strength of the family unit.”
I couldn’t agree more. So why deny two people who love each other? Why deny two people who want to make a commitment to having a go at creating their own family unit?
Some might not get it right, like those 50,000 others, but some might do it well and stitch a defining thread in that social fabric of which you speak. You know the one, it changes all the time, to reflect the colours and textures of each generation.
This is not a self-interested agenda. This is an attempt at equality. An equality that has been enjoyed and sometimes destroyed by heterosexual couples for hundreds of years.
Why not let them in? Who knows, that divorce rate may actually decline...
Here, first is the letter and below is my reply, which appeared in today's paper.
Legislation for same-sex marriages has been tabled in parliament. This is a recipe for disaster that will have far-reaching consequences.
The strength of society’s fabric is to large degree in the strength of the family unit.
The homosexual community would like to redefine society to suit their self-interested agendas which will be to the detriment of all that we value dearly – family and marriage.
Our government is based on the Westminster Legal System which is based on the 10 Commandments of the Judeo-Christian Faith. These laws are the foundation to a society that works well and has the blessings of the Almighty God. Marriage between man and woman has long been God’s idea, as has been procreation.
Shall we also toss out our current legal system one brick at a time and have the homosexual community rewrite it their way.
I certainly won’t be silent as they steamroll their way under a thin guise of “tolerance”. They are certainly not tolerant of anyone who has a difference of opinion.
Do we really want homosexuals running Australia when the majority of us value marriage and family as it has always been known?
I’m certainly not homophobic and I for one understand the sexual brokenness that underpins the choices they make. For many of them their brokenness is too painful for them to even contemplate.
All the same, I am a mother and I also have the right to advocate for what are better choices for our children. Same-sex marriages are certainly not about children and the children’s needs. Hence I will protect the values I hold dear to – marriage between a man and woman to the exclusion of all others. This creates a solid foundation for a stronger society in which to raise children.
What the homosexuals do in their private lives should not become a public endeavour for all to accept their choices by legislation. Let it remain as a private matter and let the definition of marriage remain as that of one man and one woman to the exclusion of all others. Our children deserve the best.
I strongly urge all citizens who value family and marriage to speak up about these attempts to redefine who we are in Australia.
Together we can avert this disaster and protect what we value dearly - marriage and family.
LEA JOHNSON, Noosa Heads.
Now, I could have gone for the throat, I really could have...but decided against vitriol.
So Lea Johnson believes marriage between a man and a woman to the exclusion of all others “creates a solid foundation for a stronger society in which to raise children”.
Not sure what planet she is living on, but I don’t particularly see marriage working brilliantly out there in the community.
So, the “majority”, she says, value marriage and family “as it has always been known”.
Not sure which majority she is referring to, especially when current data proves a lot of people don’t in fact value it at all.
Ever heard the oft-quoted “one in three marriages ends in divorce” line?
There were 120,118 marriages registered in Australia in 2009, according to the ABS.
In the same year, there were 49,488 divorces. Almost 50,000 people who clearly don’t value marriage as highly as you naively do.
You claim you are not homophobic in the same panicked breath as declaring some rot about a homosexual movement steamrolling its way into “running Australia” and daring to be treated the same as everyone else.
News flash, Lea, we are all human. No other person, church, authority or state has any right whatsoever to decide one person is more entitled than another. Unless of course a crime has been committed, and last time I looked, homosexuality was not a crime.
“The strength of society’s fabric is to a large degree in the strength of the family unit.”
I couldn’t agree more. So why deny two people who love each other? Why deny two people who want to make a commitment to having a go at creating their own family unit?
Some might not get it right, like those 50,000 others, but some might do it well and stitch a defining thread in that social fabric of which you speak. You know the one, it changes all the time, to reflect the colours and textures of each generation.
This is not a self-interested agenda. This is an attempt at equality. An equality that has been enjoyed and sometimes destroyed by heterosexual couples for hundreds of years.
Why not let them in? Who knows, that divorce rate may actually decline...
Monday, February 21, 2011
Wait, breathe, settle
Pop quiz.
Would the following five things inspire A) confidence, B) indifference or C) shit-scaredness in your new IVF doctor.
1. Hearing him say, upon noticing a connection to the suburb in which you live. “(Suburb), hey? I was there only last week. Friends of my wife have a house up there...spent the whole weekend getting pissed.”
2. Watching him drop a pen, drop a file, drop a pen again and then ask our names three times because “I’ve got another donor insem. couple coming in right after you and I don’t want to get you mixed up.”
3. Listening to him go off on a Groucho Marx riff after he has asked you to hop up on the table for an internal exam because he is a gynaecologist and he can’t let an appointment go by without a bit of a spread-eagled visual and besides, in his line of work, he charms the pants off the ladies – and their knickers too.
4. Asking what T did for a job and, upon hearing she was a hairdresser, boomily remark that he needed a “fucking haircut”, followed by a cursory glance at our three-year-old, who was staring up at him in timid bafflement.
5. Watching as his Ada and Elsie receptionists greet you as a new patient and then make you stand at the counter for, oh, four score and 20 lifetimes while they painstakingly write down your details in a pen-and-ink cardboard-type fashion as if you are back in Year 7 and watching the library lady draw up a new card for her lovingly maintained filing system.
Holy Huey, Louie and Dewey Decimal System, Bat Man!!
Oh.
My.
God.
If you answered mostly Cs, you and I are as shit-scared as each other. But comically so...as in, I am laughing now, but I am only a few teeny facial muscles away from that laugh turning to a grimace of holy shitly proportions.
I walked out of our appointment last Wednesday with one thought: sweet Lordy Brown, that man is going to be good fodder for this blog.
However I have to hope that we won’t be seeing him for more than the two more appointments we need to have another transfer.
Eek.
We are aiming for April.
Trying again.
April.
Always means Easter to me, and all those years in Catholic school weren’t for nothing, with a double negative emphasis!
Easter means new life.
Says so, right there in that Bible thing.
Anyway.
Now for us, it’s also a big time of hope. But hope with a lid on it. Hope with a “throw your gut feelings out the window” and this time actually do what you tried to tell everyone you were doing last time: just take the ride where it takes you.
Let it go.
And try not to think ahead. Don’t worry about the 12-week scan. You are not there yet, lady!
Wait, breathe, settle.
And for god’s sake don’t stress about the doc. This is what it says about him on the website:
"A founding member of QFG, Dr John Hynes has over 25 years of experience in infertility treatment. He is well known for the great rapport he establishes with his patients, and he is particularly popular among same sex couples.
A genuine pioneer in infertility, Dr Hynes achieved his first triplet pregnancy from IVF 21 years ago and one of the first successful frozen egg pregnancies in Australia in 2006."
Ahh, I feel better already.
Would the following five things inspire A) confidence, B) indifference or C) shit-scaredness in your new IVF doctor.
1. Hearing him say, upon noticing a connection to the suburb in which you live. “(Suburb), hey? I was there only last week. Friends of my wife have a house up there...spent the whole weekend getting pissed.”
2. Watching him drop a pen, drop a file, drop a pen again and then ask our names three times because “I’ve got another donor insem. couple coming in right after you and I don’t want to get you mixed up.”
3. Listening to him go off on a Groucho Marx riff after he has asked you to hop up on the table for an internal exam because he is a gynaecologist and he can’t let an appointment go by without a bit of a spread-eagled visual and besides, in his line of work, he charms the pants off the ladies – and their knickers too.
4. Asking what T did for a job and, upon hearing she was a hairdresser, boomily remark that he needed a “fucking haircut”, followed by a cursory glance at our three-year-old, who was staring up at him in timid bafflement.
5. Watching as his Ada and Elsie receptionists greet you as a new patient and then make you stand at the counter for, oh, four score and 20 lifetimes while they painstakingly write down your details in a pen-and-ink cardboard-type fashion as if you are back in Year 7 and watching the library lady draw up a new card for her lovingly maintained filing system.
Holy Huey, Louie and Dewey Decimal System, Bat Man!!
Oh.
My.
God.
If you answered mostly Cs, you and I are as shit-scared as each other. But comically so...as in, I am laughing now, but I am only a few teeny facial muscles away from that laugh turning to a grimace of holy shitly proportions.
I walked out of our appointment last Wednesday with one thought: sweet Lordy Brown, that man is going to be good fodder for this blog.
However I have to hope that we won’t be seeing him for more than the two more appointments we need to have another transfer.
Eek.
We are aiming for April.
Trying again.
April.
Always means Easter to me, and all those years in Catholic school weren’t for nothing, with a double negative emphasis!
Easter means new life.
Says so, right there in that Bible thing.
Anyway.
Now for us, it’s also a big time of hope. But hope with a lid on it. Hope with a “throw your gut feelings out the window” and this time actually do what you tried to tell everyone you were doing last time: just take the ride where it takes you.
Let it go.
And try not to think ahead. Don’t worry about the 12-week scan. You are not there yet, lady!
Wait, breathe, settle.
And for god’s sake don’t stress about the doc. This is what it says about him on the website:
"A founding member of QFG, Dr John Hynes has over 25 years of experience in infertility treatment. He is well known for the great rapport he establishes with his patients, and he is particularly popular among same sex couples.
A genuine pioneer in infertility, Dr Hynes achieved his first triplet pregnancy from IVF 21 years ago and one of the first successful frozen egg pregnancies in Australia in 2006."
Ahh, I feel better already.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Hello February
And hello to my good mate with the stunningly stylish blog sign-off font, Toushka.
Like Clayton's, the fake scotch that carried the tagline "the drink you're having when you're not having a drink", I am on Twitter, but I'm not on Twitter. If you know what I mean.
After much in-principle resistance, I signed up as a way mostly to plug blog posts and chat to a few friends. But unlike some people I follow who seem to take much joy in Tweeting their existence ad nauseam and on the second, days and weeks can go by without me even so much as clicking into the site. Some days, I must admit, I forget it's there and thank god I did the autofill thing on my computer, because I have no idea what my password is.
Anyway, I hopped on there tonight after an email alerted me to a new follower (yay Vote4Africa! Um?). That's right, Twitter. And thanks to the marvel that is the "new" Twitter, I am able to type in my user name and check out who's saying what about me - it's like my high school self has hired an all-seeing and all-knowing invisible PI, it's great. Haha.
And there, the lovely Toushka has alerted me to her version of a bloggy award. That's right, she gave me one! Naww. Shame it was two days ago - sorry!
Firstly, I must say thank you with as much intent as I can muster. And for me, that involves reproducing the word in as many languages as I can think of at this moment (and given the horrid humidity, my tiredness and lateness of the hour, do not expect the list to be long): danka, grazie, merci, xi xi, m'goi, grazias, and that's about it. Thanks! Did I mention you are lovely?
My dear, I humbly accept. Both the award and your challenge. Here's a bit of a rundown in case you didn't click on the above link:
"I will accept the awards - tell you 7 things about myself and then list 10 blogs I love and why I love them and am passing the awards on to). The writers of these blogs can accept without doing anything. Or they can chose to play the game and play by the rules"
Smart, huh?
Seven things about me. Easy, I'm a Leo: are you sure you only have time for seven?
1. I adore musicals. Yes I am gay. No I am not a gay man. I regularly go to sleep at night imagining myself as the lead in Chicago. Regularly. I often fall asleep with a smile. And a wicked point-kick-ball change-pivot flourish. And a black bowler hat sliding to the floor from my fingers as I drift off...pop! Six! Squish! Uh huh! Cicero!
2. I adore words. I'm a journo, it comes with the territory.
3. I am a gay woman, as previously noted, but I am in love with a boy. He is three, he is my son and he is the most spectacular centre of my universe. I would be lost without him, so let's stop talking about it!
4. I adore tuna, but DO NOT DARE CONTAMINATE IT WITH SUN-DRIED TOMATOES, OIL, BRINE or any of that other weird shit. Make mine springwater, man, and NOTHING else.
5. I wish I had more time to paint and play piano. Oh, and the weeds in my veggie garden need urgent attention also. (These activities listed in priority order.)
6. Speaking of wishes, I desperately so to be pregnant. Some of you know it happened, and then stopped happening last year. I feel that experience is defining me less and less. Some sort of progress.
7. That desperation has turned to quiet intent and a much more relaxed approach to it all. I am looking forward to 2011, literally and figuratively.
So, here's my top 10.
Rosie at Rosie's Growing Snow Peas. Haven't heard from her in a little while, but wonderful musings from a fellow same-sexer on IVF and now pregnancy.
The gorgeous Nikki at Styling You. This chick is switched on to fashion and has a fabulous take on life. Plus her blog is funny, easy to relate to and looks damn pretty too.
The gorgeous Stacey at Veggie Mama. One of my best friends, so I'm biased. Say a bad word against her food blog, and you'll have me to deal with. (And I came *this* close to getting my taekwondo black belt, alright??)
Sunshine Coast artist Denise Daffara is whimsy personified and a delightful soul.
A Story of Two Moms who happen to have TRIPLETS!
Lori at Random Ramblings of a SAHM has been to hell and...actually I'm not sure she's back yet. Compelling reading here.
The completely lovely Ash at Mm is for Me who has no flaws and is an amazingly giving and beautiful soul.
Stephen at The Australian Gay and Lesbian Law Blog. Vital information.
Sass at Life Of The Bees is so down to earth, you are mixing with the plant roots. Funny. Brilliant.
And finally, Dusty Dexter (not her real name). Funky crime novel soon to start continuous play in my local newspaper.
You are all brilliant and I am proud to bestow this enormous* honour upon you!
I am now exhausted. Now to click Publish and see if all these bloody links have worked.
Enjoy!
*ok so it's not that big.
Like Clayton's, the fake scotch that carried the tagline "the drink you're having when you're not having a drink", I am on Twitter, but I'm not on Twitter. If you know what I mean.
After much in-principle resistance, I signed up as a way mostly to plug blog posts and chat to a few friends. But unlike some people I follow who seem to take much joy in Tweeting their existence ad nauseam and on the second, days and weeks can go by without me even so much as clicking into the site. Some days, I must admit, I forget it's there and thank god I did the autofill thing on my computer, because I have no idea what my password is.
Anyway, I hopped on there tonight after an email alerted me to a new follower (yay Vote4Africa! Um?). That's right, Twitter. And thanks to the marvel that is the "new" Twitter, I am able to type in my user name and check out who's saying what about me - it's like my high school self has hired an all-seeing and all-knowing invisible PI, it's great. Haha.
And there, the lovely Toushka has alerted me to her version of a bloggy award. That's right, she gave me one! Naww. Shame it was two days ago - sorry!
Firstly, I must say thank you with as much intent as I can muster. And for me, that involves reproducing the word in as many languages as I can think of at this moment (and given the horrid humidity, my tiredness and lateness of the hour, do not expect the list to be long): danka, grazie, merci, xi xi, m'goi, grazias, and that's about it. Thanks! Did I mention you are lovely?
My dear, I humbly accept. Both the award and your challenge. Here's a bit of a rundown in case you didn't click on the above link:
"I will accept the awards - tell you 7 things about myself and then list 10 blogs I love and why I love them and am passing the awards on to). The writers of these blogs can accept without doing anything. Or they can chose to play the game and play by the rules"
Smart, huh?
Seven things about me. Easy, I'm a Leo: are you sure you only have time for seven?
1. I adore musicals. Yes I am gay. No I am not a gay man. I regularly go to sleep at night imagining myself as the lead in Chicago. Regularly. I often fall asleep with a smile. And a wicked point-kick-ball change-pivot flourish. And a black bowler hat sliding to the floor from my fingers as I drift off...pop! Six! Squish! Uh huh! Cicero!
2. I adore words. I'm a journo, it comes with the territory.
3. I am a gay woman, as previously noted, but I am in love with a boy. He is three, he is my son and he is the most spectacular centre of my universe. I would be lost without him, so let's stop talking about it!
4. I adore tuna, but DO NOT DARE CONTAMINATE IT WITH SUN-DRIED TOMATOES, OIL, BRINE or any of that other weird shit. Make mine springwater, man, and NOTHING else.
5. I wish I had more time to paint and play piano. Oh, and the weeds in my veggie garden need urgent attention also. (These activities listed in priority order.)
6. Speaking of wishes, I desperately so to be pregnant. Some of you know it happened, and then stopped happening last year. I feel that experience is defining me less and less. Some sort of progress.
7. That desperation has turned to quiet intent and a much more relaxed approach to it all. I am looking forward to 2011, literally and figuratively.
So, here's my top 10.
Rosie at Rosie's Growing Snow Peas. Haven't heard from her in a little while, but wonderful musings from a fellow same-sexer on IVF and now pregnancy.
The gorgeous Nikki at Styling You. This chick is switched on to fashion and has a fabulous take on life. Plus her blog is funny, easy to relate to and looks damn pretty too.
The gorgeous Stacey at Veggie Mama. One of my best friends, so I'm biased. Say a bad word against her food blog, and you'll have me to deal with. (And I came *this* close to getting my taekwondo black belt, alright??)
Sunshine Coast artist Denise Daffara is whimsy personified and a delightful soul.
A Story of Two Moms who happen to have TRIPLETS!
Lori at Random Ramblings of a SAHM has been to hell and...actually I'm not sure she's back yet. Compelling reading here.
The completely lovely Ash at Mm is for Me who has no flaws and is an amazingly giving and beautiful soul.
Stephen at The Australian Gay and Lesbian Law Blog. Vital information.
Sass at Life Of The Bees is so down to earth, you are mixing with the plant roots. Funny. Brilliant.
And finally, Dusty Dexter (not her real name). Funky crime novel soon to start continuous play in my local newspaper.
You are all brilliant and I am proud to bestow this enormous* honour upon you!
I am now exhausted. Now to click Publish and see if all these bloody links have worked.
Enjoy!
*ok so it's not that big.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
I am illegal in 82 countries
This post is dedicated to David Kato, below, and Brenda Namigadde.
Two names you may not know, but ones you should.
David was a gay rights activist in Uganda who now forever has verbs conjugated in the past tense following his name after he was bludgeoned to death a few days ago.
Brenda is a 29-year-old lesbian who had fled to the UK after she claimed she was beaten and ostracised for her sexuality in her home country.
Just this past week, she was facing deportation to her homeland until a few hours ago, when she won an eleventh-hour reprieve - while she was sitting on the plane.
She told news outlets she was shaking in fear at the thought of going home, certain she would be killed. Can you imagine being her, sitting on the plane as the engines started revving?
My god.
I heard the news about David Kato on the way to work Friday. My jaw involuntarily dropped. Beaten to death with a hammer. The police apparently noted it down as a robbery.
Not only had he been viciously murdered, the chances for justice are slim, with homosexuality a crime in Uganda and newspapers running a "name and shame" campaign, printing photos of suspected "homos" under the headline: Hang them.
Google "homosexuality is illegal" and prepare to be horrified.
I was going to copy and paste the list here, but I am ashamed and sickened to say it is too long. Find it here.
And watch the hell out if you are openly gay in Iran, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, the Chechen Republic, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Mauritania or the Sudan: there, they will put you to death if you are caught.
Thankfully due to an all-you-can-eat buffet of other atrocious shit going on in those countries, visiting them is not likely to be on anyone's agenda. It's certainly not on mine and, man, I am shocked about Saudi Arabia. But I guess the entire Middle East is not glitz on steroids, kind of progressive Abu Dhabi.
But save your gasps for the thousands of others who are no doubt taken care of in endless makeshift vigilante murders where the consensus screams: "it might not be officially punishable by death here, but unofficially it most certainly is".
Apparently Uganda is seriously considering introducing the (official) death penalty themselves. That's right, parliamentarians and politicians elected to represent their people - in the year 2009 - seriously debated the prospect of mandating human life extinction based on sexual preference.
2009 was an interesting year in Uganda. Seems they were paid a visit by a team of evangelical Americans who reckoned they had a program that could cure homosexuals. They got in Parliament's ear and told them there was a gay agenda that involved gay men sodomising teenage boys. That old chestnut, all gay men are paedophiles. Where do the ignorant bigots stand on lesbians?
And these people so proudly call themselves Christians? I spit on them across the internet, and would happily do so in person.
The same day David Kato died, that idiot shop owner in small town Arkansas placed a plastic shield over the magazine cover showing Elton John, David Furnish and their new baby boy.
"Newsagent censors Elton John magazine cover", I read online and then clicked, imagining Elton had had a few too many Cinzanos at the photo shoot and consented to posing the child buck naked, thereby thrusting a baby penis onto the shelves of middle America.
No, the child was fully clothed. The offensive part was the fact that, well, what? That two men dared to express their happiness at becoming parents?
I honestly do not know where to start.
One glance at this blog's title and you know I am biased here. But COME ON!
How can you call yourself a decent citizen, a good Christian or even a nice person if you agree with any part of this behaviour?
And I laughingly detest the fact that so much of this hate comes from right-wing Christians. People who claim to have been made in Jesus' image, or to at least be his number one fan. You know Jesus, right? Apparently the most humble, tolerant man of all time who forgave easily and welcomed all into his embrace, minus any discrimination or judgement? Yeah, that guy. The one who preached something about sinners throwing stones: you're only allowed to cast one if you are clean, my friend. And, sorry, but we are all dirty. We're human!
Why commit your life to speading hate? What good can possibly be done from that? And based on something so banal as sexuality. So what if who I choose to sleep with doesn't rock your boat: it's none of your god damn business. In the same way, it's none of my business who you sleep with. And we all know it's the good Christian men with wives and children who are cruising for young gay men in certain public toilets, don't we?
Hmm, bigoted, ignorant, scandalous and baseless generalisations hurt, don't they? Stereotypes are nasty, aren't they?
Life is a two-way street, why doesn't everyone just stick to the road rules and play nice?
Ugandan Parliament is still discussing the anti-homosexuality bill.
Two names you may not know, but ones you should.
David was a gay rights activist in Uganda who now forever has verbs conjugated in the past tense following his name after he was bludgeoned to death a few days ago.
Brenda is a 29-year-old lesbian who had fled to the UK after she claimed she was beaten and ostracised for her sexuality in her home country.
Just this past week, she was facing deportation to her homeland until a few hours ago, when she won an eleventh-hour reprieve - while she was sitting on the plane.
She told news outlets she was shaking in fear at the thought of going home, certain she would be killed. Can you imagine being her, sitting on the plane as the engines started revving?
My god.
I heard the news about David Kato on the way to work Friday. My jaw involuntarily dropped. Beaten to death with a hammer. The police apparently noted it down as a robbery.
Not only had he been viciously murdered, the chances for justice are slim, with homosexuality a crime in Uganda and newspapers running a "name and shame" campaign, printing photos of suspected "homos" under the headline: Hang them.
Google "homosexuality is illegal" and prepare to be horrified.
I was going to copy and paste the list here, but I am ashamed and sickened to say it is too long. Find it here.
And watch the hell out if you are openly gay in Iran, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, the Chechen Republic, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Mauritania or the Sudan: there, they will put you to death if you are caught.
Thankfully due to an all-you-can-eat buffet of other atrocious shit going on in those countries, visiting them is not likely to be on anyone's agenda. It's certainly not on mine and, man, I am shocked about Saudi Arabia. But I guess the entire Middle East is not glitz on steroids, kind of progressive Abu Dhabi.
But save your gasps for the thousands of others who are no doubt taken care of in endless makeshift vigilante murders where the consensus screams: "it might not be officially punishable by death here, but unofficially it most certainly is".
Apparently Uganda is seriously considering introducing the (official) death penalty themselves. That's right, parliamentarians and politicians elected to represent their people - in the year 2009 - seriously debated the prospect of mandating human life extinction based on sexual preference.
2009 was an interesting year in Uganda. Seems they were paid a visit by a team of evangelical Americans who reckoned they had a program that could cure homosexuals. They got in Parliament's ear and told them there was a gay agenda that involved gay men sodomising teenage boys. That old chestnut, all gay men are paedophiles. Where do the ignorant bigots stand on lesbians?
And these people so proudly call themselves Christians? I spit on them across the internet, and would happily do so in person.
The same day David Kato died, that idiot shop owner in small town Arkansas placed a plastic shield over the magazine cover showing Elton John, David Furnish and their new baby boy.
"Newsagent censors Elton John magazine cover", I read online and then clicked, imagining Elton had had a few too many Cinzanos at the photo shoot and consented to posing the child buck naked, thereby thrusting a baby penis onto the shelves of middle America.
No, the child was fully clothed. The offensive part was the fact that, well, what? That two men dared to express their happiness at becoming parents?
I honestly do not know where to start.
One glance at this blog's title and you know I am biased here. But COME ON!
How can you call yourself a decent citizen, a good Christian or even a nice person if you agree with any part of this behaviour?
And I laughingly detest the fact that so much of this hate comes from right-wing Christians. People who claim to have been made in Jesus' image, or to at least be his number one fan. You know Jesus, right? Apparently the most humble, tolerant man of all time who forgave easily and welcomed all into his embrace, minus any discrimination or judgement? Yeah, that guy. The one who preached something about sinners throwing stones: you're only allowed to cast one if you are clean, my friend. And, sorry, but we are all dirty. We're human!
Why commit your life to speading hate? What good can possibly be done from that? And based on something so banal as sexuality. So what if who I choose to sleep with doesn't rock your boat: it's none of your god damn business. In the same way, it's none of my business who you sleep with. And we all know it's the good Christian men with wives and children who are cruising for young gay men in certain public toilets, don't we?
Hmm, bigoted, ignorant, scandalous and baseless generalisations hurt, don't they? Stereotypes are nasty, aren't they?
Life is a two-way street, why doesn't everyone just stick to the road rules and play nice?
Ugandan Parliament is still discussing the anti-homosexuality bill.
Monday, January 24, 2011
A new year
Well, I did it.
I made the call.
I did it today.
And I am not sure if I should be blogging about it either.
Not sure if I should try to be more private, more gun shy, about it all this time around.
Should I take my very public blog and kick it old school by transforming it instead into an old-fashioned journal, like some of us had in primary school?
You know the ones, they came in hardback floral covers with a dinky little brass lock and tiny key.
You would scrawl ‘PRIVATE’ in angry red ballpoint, indelibly imprinting the hardback for all eternity, with intent as hard a tattooist’s scrunching your face into a petulant, adolescent frown.
I feel weird. Firstly it’s been more than a month since I wrote an entry on this blog (hi, atus, how are you? Been a while)...and secondly, am I mad to think I can take the same steps and expect a different result?
I blogged about getting pregnant last time. And then we lost the baby.
Should I, then, not blog about it this time? And therefore guarantee us a joyfully different result next time?
Not sure it works that way, but I think you can forgive a little fear and superstition.
Honestly, I don’t think not writing is possible. For, despite my shameful use of a double negative in the previous sentence (it was for emphasis, alright?) I do love to write. I have to write.
In fact, I think blogging is probably more important this time, as I suspect my need for some form of catharsis, venting and support may be greater than before.
Anyway, now that I’ve come to that decision after three minutes of typing, I will continue with my story.
I rang the fertility clinic today to see what our first next steps should be.
Turns out those steps will take us on a decidedly different path – and one that is unexpected.
Our doctor has upped and retired.
Thanks a lot.
I thought something was up when I rang his number – the one that persists in sitting alongside his photo on the clinic website – and the receptionist said “Dr Smith’s rooms?”
I don’t know what was more insulting: that our much-loved doc had gone, or that he had been replaced with someone with such a nondescript name. He may as well have been John Citizen. Although someone with that many credit cards would surely have no time for obstetrics.
So I have been referred to another doc in the same clinic, thankfully – they have about a gazillion there. There was some toing and froing from the receptionist while she decided who would be best.
First there was the lady doc in Toowong, but that wouldn’t work as we were not in Brisbane, and then another guy with an Aussie comedian’s surname was mentioned.
I casually asked if he was ok with helping same sex couples and was greeted with a second’s silence, a “hmmm” and then a “Actually, yes, it might be better if we sent you to John Hynes”.
“Heinz as in baked beans,” I asked.
“No, H. Y. N. E. S. Here is his number.”
And with that, an extremely emotional connection and four-year bond with a doctor who was so important in our lives came to an abrupt end.
I worried for a moment that a new specialist was being chosen for me, all within a matter of seconds, and that it all seemed so last minute.
It seemed our doc had done a very swift retirement runner, without establishing much of a handover for his existing patients.
These might be clinical, administrative and very business-y type decisions for people in that building to make, but I felt I needed a bit more...care.
Anyway, I rang Dr not-baked-beans and we have made an appointment. I won’t say when just yet.
I asked his receptionist if they were ok seeing same sex couples. “Oh yes, we have a practice full of them.”
Huh, what are we? Termites?
Haha.
Watch this space.
I made the call.
I did it today.
And I am not sure if I should be blogging about it either.
Not sure if I should try to be more private, more gun shy, about it all this time around.
Should I take my very public blog and kick it old school by transforming it instead into an old-fashioned journal, like some of us had in primary school?
You know the ones, they came in hardback floral covers with a dinky little brass lock and tiny key.
You would scrawl ‘PRIVATE’ in angry red ballpoint, indelibly imprinting the hardback for all eternity, with intent as hard a tattooist’s scrunching your face into a petulant, adolescent frown.
I feel weird. Firstly it’s been more than a month since I wrote an entry on this blog (hi, atus, how are you? Been a while)...and secondly, am I mad to think I can take the same steps and expect a different result?
I blogged about getting pregnant last time. And then we lost the baby.
Should I, then, not blog about it this time? And therefore guarantee us a joyfully different result next time?
Not sure it works that way, but I think you can forgive a little fear and superstition.
Honestly, I don’t think not writing is possible. For, despite my shameful use of a double negative in the previous sentence (it was for emphasis, alright?) I do love to write. I have to write.
In fact, I think blogging is probably more important this time, as I suspect my need for some form of catharsis, venting and support may be greater than before.
Anyway, now that I’ve come to that decision after three minutes of typing, I will continue with my story.
I rang the fertility clinic today to see what our first next steps should be.
Turns out those steps will take us on a decidedly different path – and one that is unexpected.
Our doctor has upped and retired.
Thanks a lot.
I thought something was up when I rang his number – the one that persists in sitting alongside his photo on the clinic website – and the receptionist said “Dr Smith’s rooms?”
I don’t know what was more insulting: that our much-loved doc had gone, or that he had been replaced with someone with such a nondescript name. He may as well have been John Citizen. Although someone with that many credit cards would surely have no time for obstetrics.
So I have been referred to another doc in the same clinic, thankfully – they have about a gazillion there. There was some toing and froing from the receptionist while she decided who would be best.
First there was the lady doc in Toowong, but that wouldn’t work as we were not in Brisbane, and then another guy with an Aussie comedian’s surname was mentioned.
I casually asked if he was ok with helping same sex couples and was greeted with a second’s silence, a “hmmm” and then a “Actually, yes, it might be better if we sent you to John Hynes”.
“Heinz as in baked beans,” I asked.
“No, H. Y. N. E. S. Here is his number.”
And with that, an extremely emotional connection and four-year bond with a doctor who was so important in our lives came to an abrupt end.
I worried for a moment that a new specialist was being chosen for me, all within a matter of seconds, and that it all seemed so last minute.
It seemed our doc had done a very swift retirement runner, without establishing much of a handover for his existing patients.
These might be clinical, administrative and very business-y type decisions for people in that building to make, but I felt I needed a bit more...care.
Anyway, I rang Dr not-baked-beans and we have made an appointment. I won’t say when just yet.
I asked his receptionist if they were ok seeing same sex couples. “Oh yes, we have a practice full of them.”
Huh, what are we? Termites?
Haha.
Watch this space.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Friend, I miss you
I have a friend.
We share a raft of uncanny similarities and often call each other doppelganger. Actually I call her doppel, she calls me ganger.
Not all the time.
Actually, not very often at all.
Maybe it was once, and I initiated it, and therefore think it to be funnier and a longer-lasting joke than it actually was. Leos can be like that.
Whatever the official statistical facts on the term’s usage, the point is the foundation reason why we/I decided upon such a term: we are very much alike.
We have not been friends very long, maybe a year, but we realised pretty quickly that a “clicking” was underway, and complete, within about three emails between us (she worked in an outer office of the newspaper where I work).
In-jokes, the crafting of a new pseudo-language, outrage over grammatical faux pas, tears of laughter over a random assortment of YouTube clips, primarily from the 1980s, tales of woe from our respectively mental family units, tips on tweaking our blogs: we have shared them all in rapid succession.
In my more vain moments, I may consider it plausible that we look alike in a sisterly way, although she is stunning. Well, we are both brunettes and tall, and that’s good enough for me.
We might not see each other very often, or talk all that regularly...but when we do, we slot as neatly into a rhythm of candour and affinity as a Scalextrix car into its tracks.
The spooky, mirror-imagery of our relationship reached a peak about six months ago when we became pregnant at almost exactly the same time.
There were, in fact, seven days separating our due dates.
Seven days.
It wasn’t planned, it just happened that way. And it was accepted as yet another example of two lives in parallel.
In those early months, before we lost the baby, I was so overjoyed to have strengthened our connection in such a freaky way.
What are the chances?
I told someone at work how great it was. “It’s like having a mother’s group before you’ve even given birth,” I said, smiling.
Smiling, and anticipating all the wonderful times we’d have complaining about being bloated while slurping mocktails and shoving her home-baked cookies into our endlessly-starving gobs.
Crying together when the hormones just got too much, laughing at the insane changes in our bodies and falling into that inevitable, non-malicious tit-for-tat dance all mothers – expecting or not – get into: have you felt the baby kick yet? No, I heard it won’t happen for another few weeks. How are your ankles? Huge! Same as my boobs. And will I ever stop going to the toilet? I know! Are you feeling sick at all? No, but really really tireddddddd – I barely had the energy to finish typing that word. Yeah, me too and I cannot sleep. I am eating so many almonds right now and heaps of tea. Be careful of the types of tea you drink – have a look at this website. Thanks, have you checked out baby paraphernalia yet? There are some great forums and product tests at this site. Good one, when is your 12-week scan? This week, Friday.
This week, Friday.
And that is pretty much where all the good stuff stopped. That’s when the beauty and colour went out of the world for a while.
That’s when bleak was an understatement. When tragic seemed a cliche not dark enough, or sufficiently devastating, to describe what we went through.
But I am lucky to be able to write that sentence in the past tense now, and realise that today, exactly three months on, things are slightly better.
Some hesitant watercolour brushstrokes are gradually bleeding into the stark white parchment of our lives (and I use the term bleeding both figuratively and literally...more on that later).
What picture are they painting? I don’t know yet, but I am grateful it is starting to take shape, and in living colour no less.
So what has it been like seeing her in the three months since?
There is no easy answer to that question.
I don’t mean to sound vague, but it has honestly been an equal and intense mix of heartbreak, elation, jealousy, joy, sympathy, sadness, anger and delight. The good feelings outweigh the bad ones. They have to, for sanity's sake.
Of course, when we see each other, I am not the type of person to let the bad stuff out face to face. It’s not as if I sit there drinking tea with her, seething and picturing myself slamming her head into the table.
Actually I must admit I don’t even have that thought when I am not with her.
I will admit, however, that in my quieter moments – often when I am going off to sleep at night or driving in the car – I feel a physical pang of what must be jealousy. But it is more about me wishing so desperately to be still pregnant, rather than me wishing she was not.
I would never dare think that. I am worried, in fact, about even writing it down.
I cannot deny it is hard sometimes seeing pregnant people, or mums with kids. I am such a bitch that I actually have flaring flashes of white-hot anger when I see some feral, disinterested teenager with two toddlers already hanging off her tattooed arms, pregnant and whining to her B-Boy wannabe boyfriend about the price of chicken nuggets or two-minute noodles or something. How dare she. She doesn’t deserve it. The baby, I mean. Everybody has a right to two-minute noodles.
It is easier to direct those sorts of feelings, fleeting though they are, to people I will never know or talk to. But I am not someone who would even contemplate feeling that way about my pregnant friends.
The fact is, good always beats evil with them, because I care for them deeply. Our friendship gives me an in-built cut-off switch for any of that bad stuff. But it’s a switch that never moves anyway. It’s taped stuck in one direction. That’s why, I think, we are friends in the first place.
Again, I am sensible and mature enough to know that hanging on to those toxic kinds of feelings will only contaminate your soul.
Yes you are allowed them for a while when life deals you a truly shitty hand, but letting them rule you day-to-day does nothing but leave a permanent and very ugly stain.
Perspective.
Attitude.
Outlook.
Every individual has one very powerful thing when crafting their own: choice.
I choose to recover from this. I choose to concentrate on all the wonderful things in my life more often than the bad shit that has happened. I choose to let myself grieve and remember and never forget, but I also choose to move on. I choose to feel whatever my hormones, environment and thoughts make me feel. But I also choose not to get too carried away by extremes. I choose to realise that having a purpose gives me the strength to push the darkness away. I choose to take refuge in the unconditional love I am so fortunate to have as my constant cloak. And I choose to make the effort to make good, not bad, on this short life.
What alternative is there?
So, friend, I love you. But I miss you almost as much as I understand why you are sometimes absent from my life. Please don’t worry about me or for me. Don’t ever feel you have to run and hide your big old pregnant self from me.
Tell me everything, keep me in the loop. Don’t anticipate or wonder how I might react. Just know that I will react, and 99% of the time I will be filled-to-overflowing with happiness for you.
If I’m not, if that 1% creeps in, well that’s my cross to bear; but it’s one I am trying to shuffle off.
I won’t be that type of crucifixed martyr.
I choose not to be.
We share a raft of uncanny similarities and often call each other doppelganger. Actually I call her doppel, she calls me ganger.
Not all the time.
Actually, not very often at all.
Maybe it was once, and I initiated it, and therefore think it to be funnier and a longer-lasting joke than it actually was. Leos can be like that.
Whatever the official statistical facts on the term’s usage, the point is the foundation reason why we/I decided upon such a term: we are very much alike.
We have not been friends very long, maybe a year, but we realised pretty quickly that a “clicking” was underway, and complete, within about three emails between us (she worked in an outer office of the newspaper where I work).
In-jokes, the crafting of a new pseudo-language, outrage over grammatical faux pas, tears of laughter over a random assortment of YouTube clips, primarily from the 1980s, tales of woe from our respectively mental family units, tips on tweaking our blogs: we have shared them all in rapid succession.
In my more vain moments, I may consider it plausible that we look alike in a sisterly way, although she is stunning. Well, we are both brunettes and tall, and that’s good enough for me.
We might not see each other very often, or talk all that regularly...but when we do, we slot as neatly into a rhythm of candour and affinity as a Scalextrix car into its tracks.
The spooky, mirror-imagery of our relationship reached a peak about six months ago when we became pregnant at almost exactly the same time.
There were, in fact, seven days separating our due dates.
Seven days.
It wasn’t planned, it just happened that way. And it was accepted as yet another example of two lives in parallel.
In those early months, before we lost the baby, I was so overjoyed to have strengthened our connection in such a freaky way.
What are the chances?
I told someone at work how great it was. “It’s like having a mother’s group before you’ve even given birth,” I said, smiling.
Smiling, and anticipating all the wonderful times we’d have complaining about being bloated while slurping mocktails and shoving her home-baked cookies into our endlessly-starving gobs.
Crying together when the hormones just got too much, laughing at the insane changes in our bodies and falling into that inevitable, non-malicious tit-for-tat dance all mothers – expecting or not – get into: have you felt the baby kick yet? No, I heard it won’t happen for another few weeks. How are your ankles? Huge! Same as my boobs. And will I ever stop going to the toilet? I know! Are you feeling sick at all? No, but really really tireddddddd – I barely had the energy to finish typing that word. Yeah, me too and I cannot sleep. I am eating so many almonds right now and heaps of tea. Be careful of the types of tea you drink – have a look at this website. Thanks, have you checked out baby paraphernalia yet? There are some great forums and product tests at this site. Good one, when is your 12-week scan? This week, Friday.
This week, Friday.
And that is pretty much where all the good stuff stopped. That’s when the beauty and colour went out of the world for a while.
That’s when bleak was an understatement. When tragic seemed a cliche not dark enough, or sufficiently devastating, to describe what we went through.
But I am lucky to be able to write that sentence in the past tense now, and realise that today, exactly three months on, things are slightly better.
Some hesitant watercolour brushstrokes are gradually bleeding into the stark white parchment of our lives (and I use the term bleeding both figuratively and literally...more on that later).
What picture are they painting? I don’t know yet, but I am grateful it is starting to take shape, and in living colour no less.
So what has it been like seeing her in the three months since?
There is no easy answer to that question.
I don’t mean to sound vague, but it has honestly been an equal and intense mix of heartbreak, elation, jealousy, joy, sympathy, sadness, anger and delight. The good feelings outweigh the bad ones. They have to, for sanity's sake.
Of course, when we see each other, I am not the type of person to let the bad stuff out face to face. It’s not as if I sit there drinking tea with her, seething and picturing myself slamming her head into the table.
Actually I must admit I don’t even have that thought when I am not with her.
I will admit, however, that in my quieter moments – often when I am going off to sleep at night or driving in the car – I feel a physical pang of what must be jealousy. But it is more about me wishing so desperately to be still pregnant, rather than me wishing she was not.
I would never dare think that. I am worried, in fact, about even writing it down.
I cannot deny it is hard sometimes seeing pregnant people, or mums with kids. I am such a bitch that I actually have flaring flashes of white-hot anger when I see some feral, disinterested teenager with two toddlers already hanging off her tattooed arms, pregnant and whining to her B-Boy wannabe boyfriend about the price of chicken nuggets or two-minute noodles or something. How dare she. She doesn’t deserve it. The baby, I mean. Everybody has a right to two-minute noodles.
It is easier to direct those sorts of feelings, fleeting though they are, to people I will never know or talk to. But I am not someone who would even contemplate feeling that way about my pregnant friends.
The fact is, good always beats evil with them, because I care for them deeply. Our friendship gives me an in-built cut-off switch for any of that bad stuff. But it’s a switch that never moves anyway. It’s taped stuck in one direction. That’s why, I think, we are friends in the first place.
Again, I am sensible and mature enough to know that hanging on to those toxic kinds of feelings will only contaminate your soul.
Yes you are allowed them for a while when life deals you a truly shitty hand, but letting them rule you day-to-day does nothing but leave a permanent and very ugly stain.
Perspective.
Attitude.
Outlook.
Every individual has one very powerful thing when crafting their own: choice.
I choose to recover from this. I choose to concentrate on all the wonderful things in my life more often than the bad shit that has happened. I choose to let myself grieve and remember and never forget, but I also choose to move on. I choose to feel whatever my hormones, environment and thoughts make me feel. But I also choose not to get too carried away by extremes. I choose to realise that having a purpose gives me the strength to push the darkness away. I choose to take refuge in the unconditional love I am so fortunate to have as my constant cloak. And I choose to make the effort to make good, not bad, on this short life.
What alternative is there?
So, friend, I love you. But I miss you almost as much as I understand why you are sometimes absent from my life. Please don’t worry about me or for me. Don’t ever feel you have to run and hide your big old pregnant self from me.
Tell me everything, keep me in the loop. Don’t anticipate or wonder how I might react. Just know that I will react, and 99% of the time I will be filled-to-overflowing with happiness for you.
If I’m not, if that 1% creeps in, well that’s my cross to bear; but it’s one I am trying to shuffle off.
I won’t be that type of crucifixed martyr.
I choose not to be.
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