I hate cockroaches. I effing hate them. Spiders I’m fine with, but cockroaches. Ugh. They’re ugly and dirty and revolting and when I see one I tend to twitch and convulse around the room like Iggy Pop trying to put on impossibly tight jeans while dancing a jig. Yep, they give me the willies.

This manifest hatred stems from the time I used to work in a brothel in Sydney, and invariably there’d always be three or four of the little bastards scuttling up the walls of the hallway to the laundry. After every booking some of the girls and I would routinely smack our stilettos against the wall in a vain attempt to squish the disgusting creatures and make examples of them to the roach hordes flying around outside waiting to come in and land in our hair (yes, in Sydney they fly. That’s probably why I don’t like the city at all. And yes, one did land in my hair once. *shudder*).

Cockroaches aren’t overly common in Melbourne, at least they haven’t been since I’ve lived here, but lately I’ve seen them everywhere, particularly in my bedroom and bathroom. It never occurred to me back in Sydney to discover what the symbolic meaning behind them is, but having been subjected to about six encounters with the bloody things since the new year, I endeavoured to find out. What I discovered has profound relevance, both during the time in Sydney and now. Cockroaches symbolise the art of adaptability, longevity and ultimate survival instincts. They represent perseverance, tenacity, determination and the fortitude to survive in any event. Well, that is right on the money. The ability to do all these things is paramount if one wishes to survive working in the sex industry, as dramatic as that sounds. Some women used drugs, others gambling, others still alcohol as a coping mechanism in that game – anything to preserve the fragile mental stability that sex work has such potential to destroy. I guess I used my inner cockroach.

So that’s awesome. That explains the roach significance for that time of my life, but what about now? I’m not working now, and I haven’t for seven years because I successfully adapted and persevered and tenaciously determined to get out of that industry and become an actor. So why am I encountering them now? Well, read on, dear blog follower.

Cockroaches also represent the need for renewal, rejuvenation and the cleansing of the self. There’s significance in where I have stumbled upon these paroxysm-inducing insects: the bedroom – intimacy, sex, privacy, rest, healing through sleep, sanctuary; the bathroom – psychological and emotional cleansing (as well as physical, of course), elimination of the old, renewal, vulnerability, purification and so on. If you’ve been reading my posts since the beginning of this internet blogging adventure you will have noticed that I’ve been through some riveting, all-consuming emotional shit. I use that word quite specifically, because it has been shit (2012 was shit for a lot of people, so it’s no wonder cockroaches have been rearing their frightfully repugnant little heads). Most of the shit has been to do with relationships (well, a relationship), the sense of self worth, issues with vulnerability and intimacy, mental insecurity, the feeling of not belonging anywhere, the feeling of being misunderstood and judged … all this stuff has been all up in my grill and preventing me from moving on in my life and achieving the things I want to achieve. I hadn’t cleared it. The Universe has been using the foul little periplaneta australasiae (I looked it up) to remind me right, well and proper that clearing stuff is what needs to happen in order to take full advantage of this new cycle we’re now in.

Well, that’s all very well and good but you know the other thing I dislike intensely? Confrontation. See, I have a relatively slow fuse when it comes to anger, but piss me off enough and I can get quite nasty. Having to confront someone I care for about their behaviour towards me always gets me on the defensive, and ultimately that need to preserve myself against any possible backlash results in my snapping like a dragon and yelling and throwing things (I can be a bit of a dick sometimes). And if that someone has hurt me deeply, betrayed me or insulted me, things can get … well … messy. So I usually avoid confrontation, let things roll off my back like so much water, bitch to my friends about it, and get on with it.

Obviously, that method of dealing with the things that happen is not healthy in the long term. Closure is important, and I know for me specifically, not having closure results in a whole pile of anxiety, stress and festering anger. So a week ago, I had to bite that bullet good and hard and go confront some people.

Holy cow wowness. Just saying “you were a jerk to me” was like emerging into cool air from an intense 90-minute Bikram yoga sesh. The relief was palpable. I was scared stiff leading up to the moment, shaking and trembling like a Mexican chihuahua, but once it was done, I relaxed. I didn’t even raise my voice, or get angry, or throw a single chair. I found my empathy again, and I understood that friendship doesn’t mean being joined at the hip, forgiveness is only possible when you let go of your own ego, and love – no matter how deeply it’s felt – isn’t always enough (that part made me sad, but I’m okay with it). I feel clearer. Lighter. Even wiser. I can deal with criticism and rejection better, I have less expectation of people, and I even like myself more.

Who would have thought that the creature I abhor most in this world would lead me to this? Funny little varmint, being all significant and stuff. I’m not saying I’m about to get a pet cockroach, call it Stampy and love it forever, but before I flush the crushed and broken corpse of the next roach that dares invade my habitat down the toilet, I’m going to stop and be reminded of what the wee ugly beastie is trying to tell me. ‘Cause the Universe is always whispering.