Category Archives: Not Acting

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Less a Home.

I’ve been homeless twice before in my life. Not out on the street homeless, thankfully, but I’ve certainly slept in my car on more than one occasion. I’ve crashed on friend’s couches, in their spare rooms, on a mattress on their living room floor. I’ve even slept in a hastily constructed bed in an actual factory.

Both occasions of previous homelessness were after the break down of a relationship, so I had some semblance of control, in retrospect. This time, however, I am homeless because the house I was living in is being demolished and nobody – NOBODY – will accept me for a new property. I have gone from almost always getting the property I wanted pretty much straight away, to being rejected multiple times for properties that aren’t worth the rent being asked. That’s the thing, even if I could afford some of these properties, I have learned over the last year that I cannot guarantee that I would even be accepted for one of these properties – despite my renting history. And this seems to be because I’m a self-employed business owner who is also on Centrelink. And I have cats.

The term “housing crisis” doesn’t seem to cut it. I’ve heard a few landlords complain about rising land tax or interest rates or whatever (I don’t know, I’m not and never will be a homeowner), which is then put on to the tenants as higher rent. But here’s the thing, we’ve seen exponential growth in rental prices over the past 5 years that aren’t matched by income growth. Example: There’s a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house for rent in Carnegie in 2025 that is going for $625 a week. In 2021, it leased for $550. In 2010, it was leased for $450. So, over 11 years – 2010 to 2021 – the rental price only went up $100 a week. Then suddenly, in the last 4 years, it shot up by $75.

Another 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom property in Hughesdale: circa 2013 rent was $460 a week. It went up to $495 in 2022. Today, it’s advertised at $650 a week.

Now, for many people, this seems to be reasonable. It’s not for me, as my income has barely changed since 2022. So how am I supposed to afford a $650 a week rent when I have a $530 a week rent-worthy income? Someone explain that to me without resorting to the out-of-touch conservative opinion of “get a better job.”

The thing is, I have a decent income. It’s not huge by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m not at the bottom of the barrel. I can stretch my income to cover a higher rent, I’m canny in the ways of making it work. But here’s a story for you. I applied for a property that was listed at $590 a week. The real estate agent said I had a good application. I didn’t get the property. Less than a week later, the property has been relisted at $570 a week. Apparently, I’m so unattractive to landlords that they’d rather drop the price to get a more desirable tenant than take a chance on a self-employed actor who was willing to pay $20 more.

I don’t get it.

We’re told rental prices are going up because interest rates have risen. We’re told there’s a shortage of rental properties overall, so supply isn’t meeting demand. We’re told there’s extreme competition for properties. If this is so, why then are people like myself being rejected for properties that are then relisted for less?? It doesn’t make sense! Something else is going on here, something far more insidious. My inner suspicious quasi-conspiracy theorist is saying that They (yes, capital T they) are trying to push the undesirables out of the inner city. The artists, the poors, the disabled, the depressed. We’re unworthy of not just good housing, but any housing. Even social and commission housing is backed up. There’s a 10 year wait to even get a look in. Believe me, I’ve checked.

(Side story: I grew up in New Zealand’s version of commission housing, what we called state housing. My childhood home was a badly haunted, poorly maintained house in one of South Auckland’s most notorious suburbs. My mother made that house into a home and taught me the importance of creating your own space in any environment through that house, but it was dark time in my young life. The energy in that place exacerbated my mother’s violence, and I spent a lot of the 12 years we lived there in survival mode. The well-meaning people who now suggest that I apply for social housing have a limited understanding of the connotations I have with that kind of housing, and how much of a backward step that would be for me mentally. Having said that, I have looked into and even started an application for social housing, because I’m 48 years old and should not be sleeping in my friends’ spare bedroom on the other side of town from my clients. For the third time in my life.)

I got really low last night, thinking about all this. My cats are staying with another friend on the other other side of town, and I miss them dreadfully. I recently had a crisis of faith regarding my career, and last night it all crashed into each other and created a despair soup that I splashed around in for a while. I cried. Quite hard. Last week, my father made a short sighted comment about my predicament. “I’m sorry, Kristina,” he said. “There’s no knight in shining armour coming to save you.” I got pissed off and shot back, “When has there ever been a knight in shining armour to save me, Dad? I don’t expect one because there’s never been one!” And it’s true. I’ve had help, most definitely. No more so than within the last 8 years. But no one’s ever “saved” me. I don’t think anyone can (and if anyone claimed they could, I would be very distrustful of them).

We’re in a seriously fucked up place as a society right now. Like, my problems are the least of my problems, if you know what I mean. It’s very easy to fall into despondency; to give into the anguish. I’m in no place to offer advice to anyone as I flap around uselessly in my soup but perhaps acknowledging that no one is coming to save us at least roots us in reality.

Just be kind, ffs. I’m saying this to myself as well as you, reader. And you, Universe, who seems to be merrily throwing chaos into the cosmos. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how things will or will not change. Last night I wanted to die, today I wanted crumpets. Somewhere in the middle there might be the answer.

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Special

The world feels entirely impossible to live in right now. The war in Ukraine. The ongoing conflict between Palestine and Israel. US politics, UK politics, Australians voting no to our First Nations people having a voice, and let’s not forget Jacinda Ardern stepping down from being one of the most influential world leaders we’ve ever seen. Some of us are still reeling from that.

Then there’s stuff closer to home. We’re in the middle of a housing crisis here in Melbourne. It’s truly fucked. I’ve only ever been rejected from a new home maybe twice in the entirety of my renting history, but in this month alone I’ve had four rejections. I already have problems with rejection (and I’m an actor. Go figure) but this is ridiculous.

Everyone I know is hurting in some way, including myself. It seems that there’s an increase in diagnoses of neurodivergence and mental disorders, and many of us seem happy to use these as excuses or reasons not to try anymore – myself included. That’s not a criticism by any stretch. The first time I noticed it happening in someone else (and was irritated by it) was a bit of a smack in the face as I recognised it in myself. And it’s never fun to realise that oneself is just as much of a jerk as another.

See, there’s this pattern. I am let down by someone I care about, but then I let down someone else I care about, then they let their friend down, or me, or their parents or whoever, and it’s this never-ending cyclic doom swirl of people hurting each other because they’re hurting themselves, and now everyone’s pissed off and hurt and no one’s apologising because no one understands how hard it is to live with [insert diagnosis here].

Myself included.

Then there are those with no diagnosis (they do exist), and life’s hard for them, and they’re like, “well shit, I can’t complain about anything, can I? I guess I’ll just go sit in the corner and eat worms because everyone is caught up in their own tar pit.”

Yeah. We are. Because we live in an impossible world with impossible standards and hoops that only a certain percentage can jump through, and the rest of us are left standing with our proverbial dicks in our hands asking, “what the fuck just happened?”

I feel like I’ve been asking this question for decades. See, I have just realised that I have a certain outlook on my life and its place in this world. I believe (yes, present tense) that because of the traumatic bullshit I experienced as a child and then as a 20-something lost soul, then as a married 30-something that I deserve to have the life that I want. I deserve success in my chosen field (acting) because I got smacked with the trauma stick, but I picked myself up and pulled up my big girl socks and got therapy and help and therefore I’m Special™. Idris Elba should rock up to my doorstep and offer me a part in his next project, not only because I’m a Good Actor™ but because I deserve it. I’ve worked for it. All the underpaid/unpaid acting jobs I’ve done, all the underpaid/unpaid music I’ve written, all the meditation and soul searching I’ve undertaken allows me to claim that I’m Special™ and I should have all of the good things. Because, you see, if I’m successful, all the stuff I went through would have led me to that point. It will have all been worth it. If I don’t reach that goal, then, well, it’s tragic. And it means I’m not special.

I mean, that’s dumb, right? Like, it’s actually dumb, because my belief system is such that the Universe has no ego, therefore it has no care, therefore it doesn’t actually owe me or anyone anything and it just gives you shit because you actualise it, so being Good™ is a choice and not a requirement, unlike traditional religion that believes in sin and Hell and all that fun stuff.

I have been given a lot in my life. I’ve achieved near impossible things and manifested desires out of nothing. Not because I deserved it. Not because I’m a Good Person™. Not even because I worked hard for it. I got them, simply because I asked the Universe for them. So why haven’t I achieved the thing I want most?

Because I’m an idiot.

No, seriously. I’m an idiot. Despite my well-read, well-researched and well-lived belief system, there are still some things that I don’t believe I’m allowed to have. Maybe that’s the Borderline Personality speaking. Maybe it’s my Mum, or my Dad. Maybe it’s society. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman. Maybe it’s White Guilt™. I don’t know, but it’s a sticking point to any of us who are Good by choice.

Being Good essentially makes no difference in the quality of one’s life. Not really. Screaming assholes like Bezos and Trump get everything they want (except maybe true self-respect). Cardinal Pell pretty much got off child sexual abuse charges, only spending 405 days in jail before he was acquitted. Then he died! The only saving grace is that he didn’t get a state funeral, but I digress.

Conversely, people like Jacinda also exist. Chadwick Boseman also existed. Pedro Pascal, I’m pretty sure, is real. Niloofar Hamedi and Elaheh Mohammadi exist – imprisoned for their goodness, yes, but still here. Ghandi was definitely a dude. All is not lost, is it?

A couple of weeks ago, I got this message in my Instagram inbox. It was from someone I don’t know, there was no name, no handle. Just this message. I probably don’t deserve this small kindness, but that’s not the point, stupid BPD brain, you shut up!

Anyway. I’m paying this forward. To you, dear reader.

A small voice in my head tells me, “see? You are special.” No, I’m not. Shrug. That’s okay.

Prioritize your mental and spiritual wellness. Do things that make you happy. Take time to nurture yourself. Don’t rush the process. Don’t judge where you’re at or where you think you should be. Just be kind and patient with yourself. Things are unfolding for you.

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The Passing

Two years ago this month, on her 14th birthday, my cat Persephone Aphrodite died.

It happened quickly. She got sick, and a week later she was gone. I grieved, of course I grieved. It was like losing a child. I don’t have children, see, and I never will, so giving in to that trope of the crazy cat lady, my cats are my kids. And Persephone was my second eldest.

I got Persephone the year I went back to Uni. I had decided to get a second cat because I read somewhere that cats thrive with company. Well, Sappho was pissed, but more about that later.

Persephone was a tiny ball of squeaking fluff. When I first met her before deciding to take her home, I thought her name was going to be Aphrodite. The day I picked her up, though, was the day I realised she was not the Goddess of Love and definitely the Queen of the Underworld, so Persephone she became. She hated being picked up. Hated it. She’d do that thing where they stick all four legs out like some demented fainting goat, but she loved to sit on me – when she chose to, of course.

When she was 7 months old, she came into heat. It took me by surprise because she was so young, and I was in the middle of a show at Uni so was distracted. I remember coming downstairs one morning to find her up on the kitchen window sill, yowling like a banshee, her butt pressed up against the fly screen and about five tom cats sitting outside in a semi circle just staring up at her. Needless to say, she got out by accident one night and came home knocked up.

65 days later, she disappeared.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, Sappho – my eldest – was not happy about the arrival of the Queen of the Underworld into her nice little domestic scene that featured just her and me. It took only a month before Sappho softened somewhat and began to tolerate the fluffy interloper. They even snuggled on my bed occasionally. But all that changed when Persephone fell pregnant. I can only guess to the hierarchy of female cats together, but I can surmise that mumma cats are probably automatically the alpha cat. This confused Sappho, as she was clearly the alpha cat in our house. She was older, she had spunk, she was the neighbourhood stand-over cat, and when Persephone first arrived in our house, she deferred to her older sister. But now, there were pregnant pheromones flowing through the house, and Sapph was decidedly NOT happy.

But the day Persephone disappeared inside the house, it was Sappho who led me to where she was. I say led with purpose. I asked Sapph where her sister was so she led me upstairs into my Dad’s room and stood next to his chest of drawers and hissed. I was confused, but Sappho insisted, growling some more before running away, so I pulled out the bottom drawer and lo and behold, there was Persephone under the bottom drawer with three kittens, mewling away. I had prepared her a kittening box downstairs, but no, it wasn’t safe enough for her. (I have to say that the term “kittening” sounds ominous to me. “Beware the kittening!”)

Anyway, Persephone turned out to be an excellent mother. She showed her babies – all boys – how to clean themselves and use the litter tray and did all the things mumma cats are supposed to do. She wasn’t a helicopter mum though, she let the kittens discover things for themselves. And this is when I learned that she trusted me implicitly. I was allowed to handle her kittens from day two. I remember one day when one of the kittens was on my lap and got his claw stuck in my jumper. He mewed loudly and Persephone came running into the room, concerned. As soon as she saw her baby was with me, she relaxed and miaowed at me. Then she cleaned her paw.

Persephone was the type of cat that had to choose you. If she sat on you, licked your hand, bbrrrpped at you or showed you her butt, she approved of you. She liked boys particularly, but it took her a long time to warm up to people. She had her favourites over the years, but there were really only two people besides me that she completely adored. My brother Hiran and my housemate Sara.

I remember when Sara moved in, they thought that Persephone didn’t like them. I kept reassuring them that she was taking her time, scoping Sara out, much like she did with my brother when they first met. And again, like with my brother, within the week Persephone was sleeping on Sara. She had chosen her human.

But she was a mummy’s girl at heart. All my cats are. Mum is the one they come to when shit gets real. And my cats are the ones I rely on when my shit gets too real.

A few weeks before she died, Persephone slept in my arms for a whole night. She hadn’t done that since she was a kitten. Sappho was always the one in my arms, and Persephone slept on my butt, or tucked in by my knees, or curled up next to my tummy. This night, she ensconced herself next to my heart, purred loudly and stayed there all night. It was as if she knew.

See, Persephone’s middle name is Aphrodite because her love was subtle. She was choosy with whom she shared her affections, but once she had decided that you were worthy, she stuck with you. I’d tell her I loved her and she would tell me with little sandpapery kisses on my hand that she chose me. I miss her so much.

I didn’t write about her death at the time because it was too much. I’d had her for 14 years. She was rarely sick, she only disappeared from the house once (she was found two long and awful days later, skinny and dirty, but happy to be found). I had never expected her to go first out of my two girls, but she did.

Sappho, my darling black and white beauty, was devastated at her loss. Now, don’t get me wrong, Sappho barely abided by Persephone. However, when I was married, I got a third cat – Orpheus, a derpy ginger boy who I should’ve taken with me when I left – and Sappho and Persephone became allies against this invader. Once it was just the two of them again, mind you, it was back to the hissing and the growling because Sapph wanted to be the only one getting my affection.

There were moments, I must say, when I caught them playing. There was one time when they were outside my floor to ceiling windows together, happily playing with each other. I laughed out loud at their antics and Sappho heard me. As soon as she saw that I could see them, she hissed at Persephone and flailed a paw at her before stalking away.

Just before Persephone died, I was feeding them both one night. As they were waiting for their food, making those adorable chirrups that cats make when they’re being cute, Persephone started grooming Sappho, and not only did Sapph let her, she closed her eyes for a moment and enjoyed it.

Again, it was like they knew.

When Persephone crossed to the Summerlands, Sappho became dangerously depressed. She went searching for her sister, sitting in all the spots in the garden where Persephone liked to sit, meowing for her. When she couldn’t find Persephone, she’d lie down wherever she was and not move for hours. She wasn’t sleeping. She’d just lie there. For all her complaining, she missed her sister and it broke my heart. I got her a brother, Larichus Hades. She hated him, but she wasn’t depressed anymore. I guess I gave her something to hiss at.

Two years later, and I find myself lying down and not moving for hours for the same reason. Just last night, very suddenly, Sappho got sick. She had kidney disease, diagnosed last year, but was doing well. She’d had her treatment and was on her diet and despite a close call last December, she seemed to be making leaps and bounds. She’d always been a tough girl. Always been a fighter. But last night she had what I can only describe as being akin to a stroke. She had seizures and was yowling like I’ve never heard her before, and then she got worse and we had to go to the vet.

I knew this day was coming. I had prepared myself for it. But I thought we’d been given a reprieve because her kidneys seemed to be stable. I didn’t know her heart and her brain were not.

Sappho Mishka came to me in 2005. The night I picked her up I had to then go to work, so I took her with me to the brothel. She was supposed to stay out the back, but she kept hollering for me, so I set her up on my desk in the box I brought her in. She started chewing on this box, which gave me her name (it’s a gay joke, look it up). From that night, she became my staunchest ally, my best friend, and my saviour all in one.

I have so many stories of Sappho and her adventures. How she lost half her tail; how she’d puff up that stumpy tail to signify her moods; the different kinds of meows she had for different scenarios; the fact that she’d dribble when you scratched her cheek in that one spot; how she loved cheese and vegemite toast; how every time I cried she meow at me and purr; how every time I hurt myself – whether deliberately or accidentally – she’d lie on the sore bit and purr; how she’d go through stages of sleeping in my arms every night to sleeping on the couch when she needed alone time; how she loved my ex wife but as soon as we split, she hated that bitch and bit her to prove the point; how she saved my life numerous times by curling up in my lap as I contemplated leaving this earth.

My God, my heart hurts as I write this. It’s like there’s a weight attached to it, dragging it down into my stomach. My little girl is gone. Both my girls are gone. My constants for a total of 17 years are now away from me forever. They’re around, of course they are, but I can’t hold them. I can’t put my ear to their bellies and listen to them purr. I can’t look into their eyes and see my love reflected there.

I have two boys now. Larichus, my black panther, and Raef, my fluffy ginger kitten – a cross between Orpheus and Persephone. I adore them. They’re coping well with this loss. Larichus especially has stepped up as the oldest of my children now. I watched him search for her today, much like how she searched for Persephone.

But there will always be a hole in my life that can only ever be filled by my girls. I take comfort that they’re together again; Sappho no doubt hissing at Persephone while all Sephie wants to do is love her sister. I hope they know how much I loved them; how much they were my everything.

Rest in peace, my babies. I’ll see you soon.

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The Dream

I had a dream that my mother came back from the dead. That I woke up next to my brother who doesn’t really talk to me anymore, but whom I love with all my heart, awoken by the woman I used to have a crush on. In introducing her to my brother, she informed me that everybody thought he was weird, and she should add me to the group chat that discussed it. I asked her why would I want to join a chat that was mean about my brother, and she laughed, tossed her long hair over her shoulder and told me to get up.

I did so, suddenly dressed and brushed and deodorised and so I showed her around the house I had never seen before but knew was mine. She asked me about a door to the outside that I had never used, but then realised was a double door that opened on to a beautiful wooden deck with too steep steps, and I remembered. “That’s why we don’t use this door,” I said. “My mother can’t climb these steps.”

The woman (I know her name, but I’m not going to tell you) with her long hair and lithe body, followed me everywhere. I went up to see my mother, this woman in tow, and saw Mum in her bathroom, one of my little cousins playing in Mum’s bed.

“Mum.”

There she was. My mother. A thinner, older version. As she said, “it’s been 7 years.” Her family was in my house, a whole heap of them. My cousins and their children, who were basically my cousins as children. Karen with her daughter, Karen. Patrick with his son, Patrick. I introduced them all to this woman attached to my hip. Then I got to be with my mother alone.

“I don’t like her,” Mum said.

“But you liked her in previous dreams,” I replied.

“Yes, but I’m alive again now.”

I went downstairs with my brother who doesn’t really talk to me anymore, but whom I love with all my heart, to a locked-in island kitchen where a man I didn’t know was mansplaining everything to the woman I had once liked.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?” I demanded.

This man asked who I was and continued to dribble information I already knew.

“This is my house! Well, it’s my Mum’s house, but it will be mine and my brothers … in fact, Mum’s already dead, so technically, this is my house, get out!!!” Saying that made me happy in a strange way, as Mum never owned a house, but coming back from the dead had given her money and a comfort that life never had. It was satisfying.

The man disappeared into a fridge I had never seen before but knew was mine, and I rounded on the woman, the woman who smiled a coquettish smile, knowledge sparkling in her eyes.

“Why did you let him in here?” She cocked her head to the side and answered me with no answer. So I said, “you broke up with your wife, I was there as a friend, crushing on you, yes, but wanting to be your friend. Then you got a new girlfriend and now I don’t exist to you. Why are you here?”

She smiled, and my cat meowed so I woke up, still wondering why I’m alone with my thoughts, my cats and my pain, wishing Mum really had come back from the dead.

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Apocalypse Now?

I always knew I’d be around for the apocalypse. I’m indulging in catastrophic thought, I know, but it honestly feels like that. Firstly, in January, the whole of Australia was on fire. I’d walk through the streets of Elwood, an inner city suburb of Melbourne, and it looked like a disaster movie: red tinged and hazy streets, people darting from their cars to their homes, avoiding breathing in the smoke as much as possible. I caught up with a pregnant friend who lives in Canberra, and she spoke of investing in face masks and oxygen tanks just to make sure she and her unborn baby were okay.

Our government failed us, our Prime Minister going on holiday to Hawaii at the worst possible time, and it made us feel alone and afraid. But we prevailed and overcame, the true nature of Australia – the nature I admire – coming to the fore.

As soon as the bush fires were contained, however, we found ourselves in another crisis, unprecedented since the 1919 pandemic of the “Spanish flu” which killed 15,000 people in Australia before its end. However, unlike the “Spanish influenza”, the novel coronavirus (or in layman’s terms a new strain that has not been previously identified in humans), Covid 19 hasn’t had the same devastating impact on the health of Australia’s citizens. Rather, it’s affected our psyches in profound and possibly equally as devastating ways.

I was talking to my housemate about this just yesterday. The lockdown, the social distancing, the panic buying, and the self isolation are not limited to just us, or our town, or our state, or our country. Unlike the bush fires, that although affected the entirety of this vast continent was contained within Australia, Covid 19 has impacted the entire world. The. Entire. World. Just about every continent on the planet, bar Antartica, has a confirmed case of Coronavirus.

Before you start, yes, I know that the bush fires and Covid 19 are as comparable as cats and penguins, but that’s not my point. The bush fires were something Australia has dealt with before and many times, although perhaps not quite on the scale of January’s crisis. As gauche as this may sound, fires like these are quintessentially Australian. We pull together to fight them, we support our firies and our wildlife workers. We rescue our native animals from the flames and we rescue each other. We know exactly what to do to get through and survive a fire.

A global pandemic, however? We don’t know what the hell to do with this. And the initial response of some Australians was extremely disappointing. From casual racism to out and out violence against our neighbours – over toilet paper, no less – our inability to understand and listen to instruction was eye-opening. But it seemed to be happening all over the world. Everywhere had toilet paper shortages (I still don’t understand why), fights over hand sanitiser, and general panic related entitlement buying which kinda made me stop and have a really good think on human behaviour.

We really suck at this.

Because then the conspiracy theories started. Now look, I love a good conspiracy, and I’ve done my deep dives into the JFK assassination, 9/11, and Epstein didn’t kill himself (or if he did, he was allowed to), but I like to think I can keep a level head on what is likely and possible, and what is unlikely and improbable. What concerns me is that people I know and love, people who I consider to be highly intelligent and rational human beings are buying into absurd, insulting and quite frankly, ridiculous theories that are being spouted on Twitter of all places, by uninformed, shit stirring idiots, some of whom are leaders of powerful nations (I see you Trump, you goon faced twit). The theories range from Covid 19 being an elaborate hoax, or a means for the 1% to gain control of the masses by enforcing lockdowns, to it being a human-made virus deliberately set loose as population control or a foreign attempt to topple the US government. This is all apparently the start of the New World Order that the Reptilians, under the auspices of Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama, are preparing to unleash on the world and we better be ready, sheeple!!!!

Look, I get it. The response to this virus, which although virulent is certainly not as deadly as the “Spanish flu” (I keep using quotations, because that flu didn’t originate in Spain and terming it as such was a racist act) or even the AIDS epidemic, is seemingly overblown and reactionary. We didn’t have this level of concern over SARS or the swine flu so why Covid 19 and why now? There are reports that the death rate numbers have been fudged, that there is a vaccine that “the government” won’t let us have, or that it is a bioweapon or escaped experiment from a Wuhan lab, or a cash grab by greedy Big Pharma, or is connected to 5G WiFi, the list goes on. There’s no denying that the world governments have spread disinformation in times of crisis for political gain in the past, and certain media like Fox News grab onto this for their own piece of the pie, but here’s why seriously buying into conspiracy theories is dangerous.

They don’t help anyone. The people who tout these theories as facts, people like Alex Jones for example, are, in my opinion, only interested in themselves. Their concern for the truth is negligible. Their concern for their own celebrity and self importance is more than likely what propels them. I stress, this is my own opinion, but having dealt with narcissists like these before, I can now recognise the behaviour.

The theories themselves serve little purpose than to seed distrust, create panic, feed fear and isolate people from one another. The theorists claim that the mainstream media and governments and scientists are lying to us! That may be so, it’s certainly happened in the past, but there is every possibility that these theorists are lying to us too; just because what they say is the opposite of what the gub’ment is telling us does not necessarily mean it is truth. It is just another story.

Theorists claim that the 1% are wanting to divide and conquer us. Let me just say, I believe utterly and absolutely that a large portion of the globe’s wealth belongs to a distressingly small percentage of the world’s population and indeed the class divide exists and is for the benefit of that small percentage. However, this “information” that conspiracy theorists spout is doing more or less the same thing. Dividing us. It’s making us doubt each other. The common person is rarely going to get to vent their spleen at the higher ups of the world. The common person is more likely to come into contact with the police officers and nurses of the world, the civil servants and the teachers and unfortunately, they’re the people who will be adversely affected by an off-kilter conspiracy theorist who believes that anyone who is against them is a part of the conspiracy and then kablammo! Someone is dead. Someone who is not part of the 1%.

So why do we buy into these theories? I really don’t know. Perhaps because we’re trying to find some meaning to this existence. Perhaps we’ve been lied to so much we believe everyone is lying to us. Perhaps we’re lonely and scared and giving control over to all-powerful secret overlords is easier than taking responsibility for ourselves.

But then why is information about Covid 19 so disjointed and variable? Because we’re in the middle of it. There won’t be truly accurate information about this thing until it’s done. And that is perhaps what we’re most scared of. Nobody has all the answers.

Writer and occultist Alan Moore said, “Yes, there is a conspiracy, indeed there are a great number of conspiracies, all tripping each other up … the main thing that I learned about conspiracy theory, is that conspiracy theorists believe in a conspiracy because that is more comforting. The truth of the world is that it is actually chaotic. The truth is that it is not The Illuminati, or The Jewish Banking Conspiracy, or the Grey Alien Theory. The truth is far more frightening.

Nobody is in control.

The world is rudderless…”

Perhaps we are rudderless. Especially now, with the whole world on tenterhooks. Nobody knows when this will end, nobody knows how we’re going to get through it, nobody knows what the world will be like after it’s done. The only thing we have control over is our own response to it. So let’s make our responses kind, yeah?

by

Survivor Day

I’m gonna tell you a story. It’s a true story, not a very nice story, but true nonetheless. A few years ago I wrote a piece about being in Sydney (you can read it here), detailing how confronting I found that city at that point in time. A couple of other things happened at that time that I didn’t go into in that post, including getting triggered by a rape scene in a theatre show I saw, and being peeped on by the man in the room next door in the backpackers we were staying in. There was something else that happened. Something else that was lost in the mess of that trip but that stands out to me now as a pivotal point in my highly abusive marriage.

Ah yes, here we go, that old chestnut! Narcissistic abuse. Why am I writing about this again? Well, today, dear reader, is World Narcissistic Abuse Awareness Day. 1 June is officially the day to be aware that this shit actually happens, and it happens to people you know.

So, what is narc abuse? Honestly, you could read every post I’ve written on this blog since meeting my ex until now to get the full arc of an emotionally abusive relationship, but tl;dr so I’ll go ahead and tell you.

In adult relationships the person with narcissistic traits (my ex wife, KL) seeks out an empathetic, codependent-type partner (me) to suck dry in an attempt to gain power and control through the latter’s admiration of them (known as supply). This relationship starts with what’s called “love-bombing”, in which the narc falls intensely for the empath and idealises them, showing them the best version of themselves. In my case, KL showered me with gifts, flowers, food, love notes, calls and texts all day, every day. She made herself vulnerable by claiming she was being treated unfairly by her ex (whom I will call IC), and feeding me sob stories of her “challenging” life with IC, painting herself as the victim. I fell hook, line and sinker.

Once we were married, her true self began to emerge, but I was already addicted. I was a goner. Shit slowly started to happen, and that old adage of the frog in a pot of water that is slowly brought to boil comes to mind. This process is called devaluation and it starts small; the odd off joke here and there, casual belittling remarks that I took “too seriously” until it grew to adultery, contempt, triangulation, and gaslighting.

This is all very well and good, and I’m sure you all understand those words, but what I’ve discovered is without a clear example, these concepts are lost on most people.

So here goes, here’s my story.

We’re in Sydney on tour. I’m not having the most excellent time, but see, I have this habit of always being upset about something, always feeling things, you know, so I try to buck up and be happy. One night KL wants to go out and get drunk. I give her my blessing and tell her to go, happy to hang out with myself, read my book, drink my tea and relax for a damn minute. Our show playwright, Z comes into the room and some point and falls asleep, and soon I’m also in snoozeville.

It’s around 1.30am when KL comes stumbling in, sozzled to the tits and horny for me. This rarely happens at this point in our relationship and to be honest, I was gagging for it, so even though I was a little apprehensive because Z was asleep in the other bed, I comply with my wife’s wishes and fuck her silly. She goes to return the favour, but I gently rebuff her, concerned we’ve crossed the line already by going at it with our friend in the room. She falls asleep in two seconds flat and it’s all sunshine and roses.

The next day, Z goes to hang out with the rest of the cast and KL and I are left alone in the room. I’m feeling all sexy and glowy from the night before and say, “hey baby, how’s about it? I reckon it’s my turn.” I think I’m being flirty and I don’t see any resistance to the idea from her. She’s not overly responsive, which I attribute to the previous night’s drinking, but she doesn’t say no. So, she services me. I use that word specifically as that is what it felt like. She dutifully makes me come, and not two minutes afterwards as I’m pulling myself together, she says (verbatim),

“You forced me to do that.”

What?

My mouth drops open and I stare at her, aghast. “I what?” I rasp, feeling my stomach drop into my gut.

“I didn’t want to do that, but you don’t like it when I say no, and I figured I owed you from last night.”

WHAT??

I sat there, all the breath sucked from my body, my eyes stinging, my skin prickling and suddenly I feel sick and very, very dirty. “Are you saying I raped you?” I asked her, my stomach heaving. “Why didn’t you say no? Yes, I get upset when you say no, but I’d never force you. I feel like I’ve raped you.” I started to cry.

This seemed to shock her and she suddenly backtracked, exclaiming “no, of course not, I have issues, why would I say that, I love going down on you, I just …” But at that point I feel I want to tear my skin off my body, slough away the shame oozing out my pores, so feeling like a sordid old sleaze I excuse myself to take a shower.

In the shower I scrub at myself, feeling like the worst person in the world. Guilt, fear, shame, all of those awful feelings cascaded over me. I was certain I had her consent. Didn’t I? I went over and over what had just happened and I couldn’t understand why she would have sex with me if she didn’t want to. And then claim that she did want to! I was so confused. I later came to realise that this is gaslighting, a tactic to confuse and addle me, to keep me under control.

I start to sob and smash my head against the side of the shower. I clamp my hands over my mouth because I’m hiccuping and sobbing loudly and that embarasses me even more and I don’t want her to hear. I hear her calling my name but I yell for her to please leave me alone so I can get myself together.

Eventually, I calm down and get out of the shower, dry and dress myself, and open up the bathroom door to find her lying on the bed, foaming at the mouth. There’s a part of me that knows I’m being manipulated, but I’m learning now that this is a game, and I have to play my part. I stare at her. “What have you done?” She’s crying and foaming and gurgling, so I say I’m going to get Z who is a nurse, and she suddenly sits up, spitting the contents of her mouth into her hand and says, “I didn’t swallow them.” I understood then and there what this was. This was emotional blackmail, something she would do a further two times. So again, I played my part and I comforted her and I apologised while she convinced me that she put the pills in her mouth because she was “so hurt” by what she had accused me of doing.

And then it was forgotten. Just like that. A few days later the peeping incident happened and the last two nights of the show we were performing in was cancelled, partly because of the peeping, partly because sales were shit, and partly because the venue organisers were being difficult. I, being the eternal martyr of course, felt overwhelmingly responsible and began to disappear into myself in an attempt to dissociate.

Our last night there was the Mardi Gras parade and we were marching. I didn’t feel festive, I didn’t feel celebratory. I still felt dirty and disgusting and responsible for the tour being ruined, so my energy was low. Despite this I got dressed up, did my hair, did my face, slapped on a smile and we went to the marshalling area.

I couldn’t maintain the level of energy required to keep up that façade, however, and the mask started to slip. So my wife, the person who was supposed to hold me up when I was falling, the person who promised to hold my hand through the crap as well as the parade of life, the person who had seen first hand what kind of week I’d had in Sydney, got shitty at me because I wasn’t “having fun.” She told me I always did this, I always ruined it for her, and as much as I tried to defend myself, her anger won out. So I played my part. I conceded. I apologised and “had fun”. We marched, and she loved the attention. Every time a camera was on us she would grab me and kiss me in a show of defiant lesbian love. She held my hand and performed her role of loving wife for the public to see. I smiled and nodded and waved and danced and in doing so, unconsciously prepared myself for the shit storm of the last year and a half of our relationship to come.

I didn’t tell anyone except our therapist about this. I didn’t feel like I had the right. The irony is, deep in my heart, I felt like I deserved it because of my dismissal of KL’s ex IC and her claim of abuse. I was so invested in my ex wife’s version of this woman as a scheming, lying harpy that I failed to see the parallels in our stories, that she too had an incident that is not mine to tell, but that affected her as much as mine affected me. I will feel the sadness and embarrassment of that failure for a very long time to come.

~

Writing that didn’t make me feel better, I’m afraid. I’m not crying, I just feel gross. Rehashing all of that stuff isn’t cleansing for me because I know that wasn’t the first time – and it certainly won’t be the last time – she’s done something like that. However, I tell that story to illustrate what an abusive incident is, and as it was the onset of a continuing trend of behaviour, not just an isolated occurrence, it bears telling.

I understand that people with these narcissistic traits don’t actually love themselves. At their core, a narc is a mixed salad of entitlement, low self esteem, and shame. They have an idealised version of themselves that they seek out others to confirm and bolster. Underlying all of this of course, are profound feelings of inadequacy which are almost always projected onto their target. If KL was feeling unattractive, she would make underhanded comments about my age or my weight, never explicitly insulting, but barbed enough to make me start doubting myself. If she was feeling loss of control in another part of her life, she would start withholding sex, or demanding money, or claiming that I wasn’t pulling my weight.

The last year of our relationship was a blur of me working my arse off managing her career, arranging her music, writing and directing her cabaret (which she recently publicly claimed ownership of), funding that cabaret, producing that cabaret, doing all of her admin, paying some of her rent, giving her money to go to South Africa, accompanying her to night clubs in which I watched her getting hit on by various women while holding her wallet, keys and phone and generally being ignored by her and most of the other people in the club, promoting her, being available for sex on the rare occasion that she was drunk enough to be interested, and warning her about stringing along the young, 18-year-old girl that had fallen for her. Devaluing 101.

The next part, in which she ended our marriage and shacked up with the girl – who I’ll call PR and who she went on to also abuse – is called the discarding stage. PR, young, inexperienced and naive was fully ensconced in the idealisation phase and only saw KL’s ideal self, not knowing that she was caught up in the next cycle of narcissistic abuse. Of course, KL took no responsibility for this, just as she took little responsibility for her abuse of IC and again the cycle has continued onto the next woman.

This is what KL wrote to me just before our divorce application was submitted (I will add that this was not the end result of a text fight, this was in response to my refusal to print a document for her):

“Being married to you that last year sucked as you never appreciated what I could do for you, only pointed out what I couldn’t. Stop blaming others for your problems. Stop blaming just me for our failed marriage. I am safe and happy now and in a great place that I have forgiven myself for everything. I am moving forwards.”

She wrote something similar to both IC and PR after their relationships were over. I don’t think either of them refused to print a document for her, but who knows what atrocities they committed to elicit such a response (joke).

Despite what it may look like, this is not a “dump-on-my-ex-wife” post. To be honest, I feel genuinely sorry for her. Her behaviour, that message from her, her continued vicious cycling all point to someone who is deeply broken and self-hating. She doesn’t know how to fix it, how to make it right, so she keeps repeating the same thing over and over again, hoping for a different result. However, the only person that can get her off that wheel is herself.

I am a survivor. The other two women who have shared in these experiences are also survivors. We are strong, we are supportive, we still cry over what happened to us, but frankly, we’re kicking ass and taking names.

If you see anything similar to what you may be experiencing in my story, please seek help. In honour of World Narcissistic Abuse Awareness Day I end with a link to their page, and a list of warnings and red flags, edited because I’m a grammar nazi. I experienced probably about 95% of these signs. Be safe, peeps.

WNAAD

WARNING SIGNS

  • They have a sense of superiority, often being highly critical, often judgemental about others.
  • They have a sense of entitlement. Sometimes this comes off as confidence, but can manifest in subtle ways, like cutting through a service station rather than wait at the traffic lights, or deliberately leaving rubbish for someone else to pick up.
  • They give out back-handed compliments, such as “she has a figure like yours, you know, slim but no muscle tone.”
  • In a romantic relationship, the relationship moves quickly. For example they will shower you with attention, compliments or gifts, and say “I love you” very early on in the relationship.
  • They will start to subtly ignore you. They may appear to lose interest/get distracted or check their phone while you’re talking.
  • Their seemingly innocent words are often contradicted by their body language and tone of voice.
  • Their stories don’t quite add up, and you start to see the little lies. You may even tell yourself, “I just heard them lie to their friend, it was just a little white lie. But s/he wouldn’t lie to me.”
  • They have two sets of rules. Rules that apply to them, and rules that apply to everyone else. They may have unrealistic expectations of love and nurturing from others, but don’t hold themselves to the same high standards.
  • They have a lack of empathy, and are unable to see things from the perspective of others.
  • They have poor boundaries, and may regularly invade your privacy, go through your belongings, or expect that you can mind-read their wishes and needs.
  • They may be highly sensitive to criticism, or any suggestion that they are not in the right.
  • They have a “my way or the highway” attitude. They believe that they know best, and that their way of doing things is the correct way.
  • Initially they can come off quite charming and charismatic, always knowing the right thing to say.

RED FLAGS

As the relationship becomes more established, you may start to see some stronger warning signs, or red flags, such as:

  • You may spot bigger lies, and when you confront them, you never get a straight answer or they will turn it around and accuse you of what they’re actually doing.
  • If you try to raise an issue with them, it becomes a full-blown argument. They may accuse you of causing the fight, or they may use the silent treatment as a way of punishing you for confronting them.
  • Arguments feel circular and nonsensical. You’re left feeling emotionally battered and confused. There is no resolution to the issue, no sense of compromise or seeking a win/win outcome. It feels like they need to “win” regardless of the issue or what’s at stake. You’re left feeling unsupported and misunderstood.
  • They may tell you something didn’t happen when you know it did, or vice versa. This is called gaslighting and it’s designed to make you doubt your own reality and judgement.
  • You feel like you need to ask for permission before making plans with others. They may try to control where you go, or call and text constantly to check up on you, and interrogate you about where you’ve been/what you’ve been doing.
  • You start seeing less of your family and friends. Perhaps because they openly prevent you from doing so through guilt tripping or threats of abandonment. Or, it could be more subtle, where they make such a fuss about seeing your family and friends that you start avoiding them so you don’t have to deal with the fallout. You end up feeling isolated and lonely.
  • The relationship feels one-sided – like you are the one who is doing all the giving, the one who is always in the wrong, the one who is trying the hardest, changing the most or doing the most sacrificing, just to make them happy. And it still doesn’t work. Nothing is enough for them.
  • You can’t feel at ease or relaxed in their presence. You feel like you’re walking on eggshells, waiting for the next time they lash out at you. You realize you feel a sense of relief when they aren’t there.
  • You feel like whatever you do, it’s not enough. You’re manipulated so that your flaws and vulnerabilities are exploited and used against you at every opportunity. You begin to feel inadequate, unlovable, and like everything is all your fault.
by

Same Sex Divorce 101

Firstly, congratulations! Your marriage failed! The thing our queer community in Australia fought so hard for is something you’ve failed to execute! Hooray! Bet you feel shit, yeah? Yeah. Whether you’re the leaver or the leavee, this process sucks. It’s worse than just a relationship break up because it’s MARRIAGE. And it FAILED.

Secondly, if you’re like me and you married an abusive arsehole of the same gender, you’re also going through the trauma of recovery! All the good times to be had!

Thirdly, you’re gonna have to wait one year and one day before you can apply for a divorce. This is so you can sort out whether there’s any chance of reconciliation, but again, if you’re like me, it’s just an opportunity to be manipulated, used and lied to by your narcissistic spouse for a whole ‘nother year because you’re an idiot who believed that they were just going through a crisis and the love you shared was real and worth fighting for.

You’re not an idiot. It happens to the best of us, and through this process you can finally learn that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it take responsibility for its terrible behaviour and get life-changing help before it abuses another horse.

Here’s what you need to do if you’re going through a same sex divorce in Australia.

  1. Take a breath. It’s shit, but it’s going to be okay. By the end of the process, you will feel better, even if you didn’t want the divorce in the first place.
  2. Get some therapy to help with the yuck feelings that are going to come up at various stages of the process. If you don’t deal with them feels, shit’s gonna get real.
  3. Your ex is gonna be a dick. You’re gonna be a dick. There’s going to be a lot of dicks happening, even in a lesbian divorce. Prepare yourself.
  4. Jump on to the Federal Circuit Court website here to find out how to apply for a divorce. Same sex couples can’t do it online yet, even though it’s been legal for over a year now, so I flung an email at the National Enquiry Centre and a lovely lady sent me back the printable pdf of the application.
  5. Okay, here’s the tricky bit, and it’s to do with fees and court appearances and all that. If both parties carry a Health Care Card or a Pensioner Card or any of that biz, you can submit a joint application and get a discount on the fee (about $300 down from the full fee of $1000). Both applicants have to sign the Affidavit and you don’t need to serve documents on the other party. Also, court attendance is not required if you file a joint application, but you can request an appearance if you want. I didn’t want, so I didn’t request. If only one of you has a concession card and you want the discount, then the card carrier has to submit a sole application. This means the applicant has to serve documents on the respondent, and if you have kids under 18, you have to go to court. You don’t have to go to court if there are no children.
  6. If you do not have combined assets or property, you don’t need a lawyer. Getting a divorce is expensive enough as it is, you don’t need the added cost of lawyer’s fees if it’s not necessary.
  7. You will need to get your application witnessed. I used the sergeant at my local police station. He was cool.
  8. Once the application and all its copies have been submitted, you will get a stamped copy back of your application with the date of the court hearing, even if you’re not attending court. I found this information helpful in preparing for the mental shitstorm that happened around that date.
  9. Once the court hearing is complete, your divorce will be finalised one month and one day from that date.
  10. Have a party. I did. It was very cathartic and you and your friends can yell “fuck you” to your absent ex as you smash a cake with their face on it.

I’m going to be honest, the entire process was brutal. I felt like a failure. I felt like I had let my community down. My ideals and principles regarding marriage were shattered. I learned that there is very little support for same sex couples going through divorce, despite the amount of campaigning we did for marriage equality. Even though it is now legal, I felt that what I was going through wasn’t taken very seriously. Maybe because we’re still not used to the legality of our relationships, maybe because people didn’t realise I was actually legally married, maybe because not a lot of my friends in the community were married so they didn’t understand the gravity of it. I don’t know.

The nature of my relationship with my ex was confronting to a lot of people in the queer community, I realise now. People are uncomfortable with intimate partner violence anyway, and hearing about it makes the average person feel impotent, unable to offer support, unsure of what to say or do. A lot of people in the community still like my ex. She’s seen as a nice person, and because she’s a fairly well known performer, the community wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I would comment on the manipulative and controlling things that she did during the divorce process and they would back away slowly, unwilling to be involved, which is their prerogative.

However, I had overwhelming support and love and respect too. So much so that there was a crowd of people at my divorce party, there to celebrate and commiserate with me, there to cheer as I continue to move on to a greater life as a gay (bisexual) divorcee, finally free of an awful lie of a relationship.

My ex wife’s ex was there. A woman who I had previously maligned in my attempt to remain loyal and supportive to my wife; a woman who graciously gave me her hand in support when I needed it most as she understood that we have a unique shared experience of surviving an abusive narcissist; a woman who I feel I need to apologise to and thank for the rest of my life was there, raising a glass with me. Solidarity in survival.

So, yes. My greatest advice for going through a divorce? Have your tribe with you. The people who have proven their loyalty and trustworthiness are the ones to have by your side. They will keep you sane and they will remind you that you are not a failure, that you do deserve real love. They will remind you just by being there that although this is an ending, it is also a very bright beginning.

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Choosing to be Childless

I had it all figured out. I had a plan of what I was going to do when I got pregnant. I was going to have photos taken every month of my baby bump, from the day of confirmation all the way up until the birth, Artsy, candid shots of my blooming belly in soft lighting, but not hiding any of the messy bits of pregnancy like stretch marks or rosacea.

Then, when the baby was born, I was going to have a pagan midwife and use meditation and hypnosis to give birth drug free. We were going to have mood-filled family pics, rose coloured and achingly beautiful. The miracle of birth. New life. All that.

I got older. We had donors lined up, my lesbian wife and I, but they all fell through. Then I turned 40 and we decided that probably the only way I could get pregnant was through IVF, and that was hella expensive, so the choice was made for my wife to bear our children. All my plans for the documenting of my own pregnancy was transferred to her, as was most of my life. She would have photos every month, she would have a pagan midwife and lovingly cradle our newborn addition in that rose coloured light. I was so excited for a brown baby, for my little rainbow family. We planned for it, had names picked out, godparents chosen, shared pictures of baby and toddler fashion that our very cool kid would wear.

And then everything changed. And I mean everything. Shattered marriage leading to a new job, new life, new couch to surf, new goals. Whether I liked it or not, my existence shifted. I found myself cleaning houses for a living; the suburban homes of the working mother, some married, some not, all with children of different ages, different stages. The one thing that became abundantly clear to me is that children take over everything. And I mean everything.

These women I clean for are all intelligent, hard working, motivated career women. They have jobs, they have partners, they have lives. But one thing I noticed that they all shared was that their lives and their homes were dominated by their children. They were mothers first. Women second. People third. Their lives were defined by their offspring. It made me feel anxious.

I went home, back to New Zealand to figure out where I was going. I tested the waters back home, trying on the possibility of moving there, having a baby on my own. My dad and his husband are there, both big fans of the idea of me progenerating little Bentons everywhere. I had a chat to one of my cousins about how her life had changed since she had kids. She said unequivocably that she loved her sons, but all her dreams for herself had taken a back seat. I looked at her face. She was tired.

On the plane flying back to Australia I thought about all the times I’ve been pregnant, ended in either a termination or miscarriage. My doctor had told me that I was very fertile, that despite the polyps in my ovaries and the scarring in my uterus, I had a “very viable womb”. If that were so, why so childless?

The realisation settled on me like dust settles on polished wood: I would make a wonderful mother. But I will never be one.

Quite simply, I’m too selfish to give up my life for a child. I gave it up for a partner and it nearly destroyed me. I would love that child until I had nothing else to give, but I would grieve for my childless life. I understand that everything changes when the child is in one’s arms, but to be honest, I don’t want that change. I’ve just emerged from a cocoon of my own making, all my insecurities and neuroses woven into a personal carapace that blinded me as it protected me. I have broken free of not only an abusive and toxic relationship with another person, but also with myself. I’m not ready to put that aside to dedicate my energy to someone else, fruit of my loins or no. By the time I am ready, I will be too old. I’m already too tired.

I wept painful racking sobs over this decision. I had longed for a baby since puberty hit at age 11 and I had always assumed that it was an inevitability. Even as I flip flopped about marriage, shooting out a sprog was unquestionably a thing that would happen. But as I’ve matured and grown and realised what being a parent actually entails, I’ve chosen myself instead. I look back at all the sacrifices my mother made for us kids, how the decision to have a family impacted her life. She died stating that her greatest achievement was her children and I am so grateful to her for that. But I just can’t do it.

I’m okay with it now. In another life, in a parallel universe, I am a mother and I’m damn good at it. In that existence, my kid is ridiculously talented, intelligent and beautiful and will grow up to change the world. And in that world I would be content with being a mother first. I would be proud to be a mum.

But not in this one.

Aside by

You used to take my breath away. There was a time when I’d look at you and my heart would stop, just for a moment. I’d watch you dance and my knees would buckle at the heat emanating from my very core. I used to wonder how I got so lucky to get someone as sexy, as talented, as wonderful as you.

Now, it’s all been exposed as an illusion. You tag me in things because I wrote music for you, hoping I’m sure, to impress me. But I can see through it all now. It doesn’t impress me. I don’t feel the same heat. In fact, I feel a passing indifference. It’s all the same. The same moves, the same looks, the same songs, all directed at someone else, all trying to show me what I’m missing out on. I’m not missing out on much.

Today, though. Today was different. It was supposed to be a day of celebration, a day of love. It was, but I walked into that room where three years ago we exchanged vows that I thought were sacred, that I took very seriously, and it all came crashing down. Here, in this room, where another same sex couple were joining themselves together under the law, where I thought my life as a married woman had begun, I was reminded that you got away scot free. You walked away relatively unscathed. You don’t have to be confronted with any of this.

I returned to New Zealand seeking solace. Seeking my home. I didn’t find it. I hadn’t been home since my mother died, since you and I became wives, and it all slapped me hard in the face. You don’t have to feel any of this. You keep telling me that you were hurting too when you ended our marriage, but how could you have been? You will never be forced to come back here and go to the places we went to together, to relive those times now knowing it meant nothing to you. You do not have to look into the eyes of my family that took vows with you to help us to honour our union and admit that you fucked up. You will never be forced to remember, to have your home forever linked with something that was so full of promise, but wasn’t treasured as it should have been. You can just walk away into another person’s arms and never have to take responsibility for the pain you caused because you’re so good at pretending that everything’s fine.

I have to carry that weight. I have to carry it for both of us. Still. And I hate you for that.

But …

But, I’ve met someone else. I’ve met a man that has opened my eyes and my heart. I’ve met a man who has reminded me that I’m allowed to be beautiful, that I’m fascinating, that I’m intelligent, that I’m sexy. All the things you failed to see in me, he sees. I’ve met a man at a time when I don’t want a man’s attention. I’ve met a man at a time when I don’t need anyone’s attention, and yet here it is. And it’s reawakened in me the knowledge of my own power as a woman. It doesn’t lie with you. It doesn’t lie with him, either. It’s all within me and it’s all mine.

I am not pursuing this man. He came into my life simply as a signpost. He has reminded me that I am not your soon-to-be ex wife. I am not a divorcee. I am not one of many of the broken souls you have left behind. I am not one of your victims. I am better than how you left me. I am better than how you treated me.

I am moving on.

Onwards

by

The Fullest Circle

22 years ago I arrived in Australia, fresh faced and damaged, 18 going on 19, already affected yet still so naive. I moved in with my Dad in a Victorian suburb called Clifton Hill, in a cute little apartment opposite the massive park that dominates the suburb. I had intended on a fresh start, away from the mire and malignancy of Auckland, a city I loved and hated simultaneously. I came here, to Australia, to Clifton Hill to reinvent myself.

Of course, we all know that problems follow us, even across the expanse of oceans. A fresh start is a fallacy, especially at that age, when wisdom is yet to touch our brows. The span of experience between then and now is staggering. So many lives compacted into one. 41 years old, and I find myself back in Clifton Hill, cat sitting a marvellous creature named Keyser in a cute little shoebox apartment – right next door to where I used to live.

The concept of things coming full circle has always eluded me, being somewhat of an unintentional nomad. I have moved constantly in the 20 odd years I’ve been here, all within the same city, never settling for long, always trying to outrun the darkness. And here I am, back where I started, in much the same situation. Shell-shocked and blinking against the light as I start my life again. Again. Always again. It feels odd. I don’t feel completed, or satisfied, or finalised in any way. I feel much the same as I did then, albeit tempered by the complexities of a life well-lived. Here I am, talking as if I’m in my twilight years when really, I’m just beginning.

I have no idea what’s coming next. I don’t know what the Fates have in store for me. I know things are moving; my career, my self worth, my adultness, all are moving forward at a rate that I can’t fathom. I have no control, I’m just holding on and going for the ride, knowing that what’s to come will be as surprising and soul altering as what has been.

One thing that is different now to what was then: I am fierce now. More fierce than I have ever been. My heart is shredded, my soul is singed at the edges, but it gives me a power that I can’t describe. I am aware now, more awake than I ever could have imagined. I don’t see the path in front of me, but I’m now at a point where I don’t need to know what’s coming. I just have an unwavering faith that the Universe knows what it’s doing, and I’m about to enter something new and unimagined.

This blog, all the things I have written, splashing my innermost desires and despairs across the page gives only a fraction of what I experience. It’s my platform, my tool of self-expression. I have followers, but really, it’s just for me. My own little narcissistic soap box of opinions and responses; a sifting of disjointed thoughts into something clearer. Comprehensible.

I am here now.

I am here.

I am.