Ramblings of a Wannabe Author

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Ever since I was a child. I used to write poems and stories and tell my mum that one day I would be a famous author. One day.

I still want to be a writer, though now days I’d forgo the famous part to just be the kind of person whose words get under someone’s skin, leave an imprint on their brain, or better still, their heart. Yet, as I sit here at my computer for the first quiet time I’ve had in what feels like forever I stare at the keyboard and the flashing cursor on the screen and I realise how hard it is to write when you don’t know what to say.

So I look around the room for inspiration and my eyes rest on the calendar that mum got me for Christmas last year, one of those ones where each month is a cheesy or sarcastic saying, in other words me, and August declares “I USED TO BE DECISIVE BUT NOW I CAN’T BE SURE”. Fitting, and yet, kind of rude. Clearly the makers of this calendar are unaware that caps = yelling. Calm your farm, calendar makers. Calm. Your. Farm. And now I am rambling.

I wonder if my favourite authors sit at their dining tables listening to a random “chill out’ play list on Spotify and try and write words that matter. Or that don’t matter, but that are at least interesting. To someone. ANYONE.

There is so much competition out there. I’m a parent, but there are a bajillion parenting books and blogs out there. I could write about how I’m overweight/trying to lose weight, but again, no real points for originality. I could write about my depression and my journey into the (relatively) shallow end of the pool that is mental illness, but I have done that and seriously that just makes everyone else depressed along with you. Do I REALLY want to be THAT person? I guess that’s the tricky part isn’t it. Finding your, I mean my, thing.

I guess I could keep crapping on with my own personal tale of “Wah” but maybe I should just shut the computer down for a while, turn the brain off for a bit and maybe that elusive idea will come to me when I lease expect it. I might still have that amazing book one day. Today, however, is not that day.

We're all stories

It gets very loud in my head, trying to filter out what I need to be hearing or thinking from all the other noise. I often describe my brain as an international airport or Grand Central train station, so many arrivals and departures that it can be hard to concentrate on that one plane (or train) that will get me to my destination. I live for those moments when it’s quiet, when the noise is just a low ebb and I am able to sit down and take a deep breath and for that one split second, I can relax. I mean even as I am sitting here typing this in an empty house with nothing but the dishwasher and the wind blowing through the trees outside to keep me company it’s still loud in my head.

I wish I knew how to make it stop. I wish I could say that I could always put my brain to rest but it’s not the case. Don’t get me wrong, I realise in the scheme of things having depression and anxiety with an entrée size serve of OCD is really not a huge deal, but it is MY deal. It is my issue that I have to face every day. And I am getting better. I really am. Five years of medication, psychology appointments, advice, mental health days and a 28 day stint at a retreat for these (and other) kinds of issues and I think, that I am starting to deal with everything at a much more “normal” level.

It’s funny how these imperfections become an integral part of you, so much so that you can no longer remember who you were before the shit hit the fan. You have to stop and try and figure out not only who you were but, more importantly, who you ARE. I know what the person I often present myself as to people is the person that I think will receive the least negativity and I guess, therefore, I will be liked more. And then I bullshit my way through saying I don’t care what people think of me, but hey, I’m human, and whether we like to admit it or not we all want to be liked.

There are things about me I don’t like and there are sure as hell things I suck at.

For example, I’m a crappy friend. I struggle to stay in touch with the few friends I have even if they live nearby. It’s not that I don’t care about them, or I deliberately separate myself from their lives, I just struggle with having to dump my crap on them when I know they have their own issues to deal with. Then, before you know it, so much time has passed that I simply do not know HOW to reconnect. Making that call and saying “Hey it’s me, yeah I know, I suck…..” is HARD. And I desperately don’t want to get the inevitable “It’s OK” in response, because we both know that it’s really not. Being depressed doesn’t give you the right to be a total shit to those who care about you. It doesn’t excuse you for being a crappy person in general. It’s an illness, not an excuse.

And so now am doing the thing you’re not supposed to do which is belittle my own thoughts and feelings. Shit, you just can’t win with this can you?

These friends, they stick around. They’re the first to ask if you’re OK when it all falls apart. First to offer a shoulder to cry on, something to punch, or just tell you they are simply THERE. This has never been more apparent to me than these last few days.

I spent those 28 days last July in QLD, avoiding the brutal Canberra winter, getting to know more about myself, others and humans in general. I learnt how to be more honest with myself, more compassionate and, in some ways most importantly, less judgemental towards others. 28 days away from home. Only Skype to stay in touch with the husband and children that were still at home. I wasn’t alone though. Far from it. I had my rag tag bunch of fellow “inmates” along for the ride.

The retreat catered for a variety of issues, mostly focusing on depression and anxiety, with a strong slant towards rehabilitation. When I first got there I felt like the odd one out. The only non-smoker having quit in February 2014. The only person there “just” for depression and anxiety. The only one with no addictions. Took me a while to realise I had as much right to be there as anyone else. My journey was no less significant, it was no less challenging, it was just different. It was MINE.

For 28 days I woke up, ate with, talked to and slept near my fellow inmates. Some I gelled with, some not so much, but by the time I checked out, as much as I wanted to go home, part of me was hurting. These people, this motley crew of people, had become my family.

Like family, some I have just kept a quite eye on via social media, checking in on them from time to time making sure they’re still good. Others, I have more regular contact with. It doesn’t mean I care about the others less, it’s just we live our own lives, we NEED to. These people, you see, get to know you. REALLY know you. You share things with them you never normally speak about. They don’t care about who you were, what you look like, or where you are from, they just care that you are there. You are there with them. It’s something that is profound really. Only this handful of people have been on this part of your journey with you. They get it.

So, when you find out that one of you has died, it fucking sucks. Bad.

I found out on Saturday night that one of my inmates family members had died. Via Facebook (thank you Facebook, you do serve a purpose for something other than the sharing of memes and Candy Crush) no less. I found out on the 9^th. He died on the 4^th. Overdose is what I heard. I don’t know for sure, that’s not exactly something you DO advertise on FB. As a result Saturday night equalled a flurry of text messages, PM’s and phone calls between the rest of my “family” and I. I had been so focused on another one of us who had returned to retreat that it never crossed my mind that something was amiss with anyone else. Whilst keeping my eye on S, worrying about him, hoping he would be OK, another one of us was drowning. And none of us saw it coming.

I’m not angry that he died. I am sad though. I am sad that he felt that this was the only way to find peace. I am sad that this is how his story ended and that he could not see himself for the amazing human that everyone else saw in him. I don’t blame myself, or anyone else for not picking up on it. He had to live out his own journey. Write his own book. I just hope it’s not a story I ever have to read again.

That noise in my head is a bit louder this week. I’m sad he’s gone, frustrated I can’t go up and say goodbye, and to be honest, a bit lost. I’m giving myself time, but not mourning him forever. I think he deserves more than that. It does make me question myself though. Maybe I am worth more than I feel like I am. Maybe I too would leave a void. I’m not planning on finding out though. I still have a lot of chapters to write for my story.

Jacqui

In Memory of Peter van de Heide (9/03/81  -  04/01/16)

The Ghost of Jacqui Past.

Dear Jacqui Past,

Well mate, the time has come for us to part ways. It's been 33 years but it's time to say goodbye and move on.

I'm not sure exactly when and why you decided that it was ok to go through life complacent, and to a degree, oblivious as to how one day you would come to look and feel about yourself. I think it began at 19. You started to gain weight and gloss over all the emotional baggage you were carrying from a less than fantastic relationship and as a result you became overweight, well very overweight, and started to lose your sense of worth and found it hard to like yourself.

The funny thing is though Jacq, you hid most of this (well the inside stuff anyway) pretty well. Only a handfull of people knew how sad and insecure you really were. Most people thought you were a very confident, out going person. We both know the truth though, it's all a front.

You did some things right though. You married an amazing man who loves you 100% unconditionaly, even though you often wondered why. You gave birth to beautiful daughters who you would do anything for. You were reasonably smart and you worked hard in a job you loved. BUT where it counts, you were bullshitting yourself.

Well mate, you're done. 

You see, I DON'T LIKE YOU. I haven't for a while. I was always in you I guess maybe I was just waiting for the right time to fight. It hasn't just been a battle, it's been a war. And I have won.

A month or so ago I decided it was time for me to emerge. And I am here now. I can feel my wings unfurling like a butterfly just out of the cocoon and let me tell you something, I am going to FLY.

In the week and a bit since is started the 12 Week Body Transformation I feel good. I am eating right, excercising and most importantly starting to like myself again. I am proud of every little accomplishment I make. The sky is the limit.

So Jacqui Past, it's been real. But it's time to move forward.

Much Love,

Jacqui (Present and Future)

Instant expert

So, I am not truly great at ANYTHING. I mean there are things I can do, but I am not outstanding at anything. That is until I sit down and turn the TV on, then believe me when I tell you, I know (and am therefore awesome) at everything.

I can Cook.

I don't just mean cook, I mean why-the-hell-aren't-I-on-Masterchef cook. I can SEE that olives and pomegranite are a bad idea, can't they? I KNOW that looks crap and I could do SO much better. I see their scones, their cakes, there beef cheeks and chocolate fondant cakes and I laugh!! I could out cook them in a heartbeat.



How I THINK I can cook.....

Then I step into the kitchen and am hit with the startling reality that I suck. If it has more than three ingredients and more than, oh, six steps, and I'm screwed. I don't have half the stuff I need, my roller has gone AWOL, and I realise If it's not Spag Bol, Chocolate Mousse or something else I've cooked 100 times I've got nothing.

How I ACTUALLY cook.....



I Can Sing

OK, well maybe not sing, but should definatly get a new career as a music journalist or start a talent agency. I mean, I have seen some of these people on Idol, X Factor and The Voice and you have your good, then you have your pitchy, toneless i'd-rather-stick-hot-pokers-in-my-ears types. And I know who is awesome and who is shit. Surely the major television networks don't know what they're missing by lacking my expertise. I sit at home on my lounge and yell at the box as if they can here me. And you know what, if I was a talent scout, the world would be Beiber free.


I Can Build......Stuff

And I mean anything, ranging from a spice rack to a brand new deck and pergola. Well at least that's what I'm telling myself as I watch some far to perky, far to blonde chick waffle on about how simple it is. Well if it's that simple I should be able to smash it... Right? Then after a trip to Burnings to by all the required timber, nails, glue, paint and such to make what will literally be the BEST SPICE RACK OF ALL TIME only to get home and make some mutilated off balance "Spice rack" that is quite possibly reducing a tree to tears to see another piece of timber destroyed in such a brutal manor. In fact it vaguely resembles something a 10 year old child might make... Only much, much, MUCH worse. Points for trying though right?

 Anyway, that's enough of me telling you now good l am,  and besides, they're cooking a dish on Master Chef that has 40 odd ingredients and well, I could totally rock that.

J


N.B. Tried to find a pic of a really crap handmade spice rack using google images but I could not find anything as close to the shithouse one l made.

Don't give up your day job.

So work has been pretty full on lately and I realised that very few of you know what I do, and even if you know, you probably don't KNOW, so I am going to fill you in. Consider it, if you will, Histo 101.

A superhero movie once said "With great power comes great responsibility". I'm not sure if it was Superman, Spiderman, Batman or Captain Caveman but it was in one of them. My point is that's a bit how I feel about work. I have no power, hell, I'm a working government pleb, but responsibility I have in droves.

I work at The Canberra Hospital. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a chick or because it's an automatic assumption, but usually when I tell people I work there I get "So, you're a nurse?". Seriously? No, no I'm not. What I actually am is a Laboratory Technician in the Anatomical Pathology (Histology) Department, but we just like to call ourselves Histo Techs. Now I know, when you think science you think this: 

Yeah....Were all blond and gorgeous with test tubes and perfect titration's...MY ARSE

When in actual fact, most days I look more like:

   Alright, seriously, WTF is with all the test tubes?????

I'm suddenly beginning to wonder after my little jaunt through a Google Images search for "Laboratory Scientists" if I am being ripped of working in Histo as we don't get to play with test tubes.....EVER. Pretty coloured solutions yet, but NO TEST TUBES DAMN IT!!!!

Well, I could give you the long drawn out version of what I do, using fancy words like Microtome, Dissection, Gross Specimen (as in big, not yuck...), Formalin and all other things, but in the easiest way possible I assist Pathology registrars and Pathologists to get this:

Settle down, it's just an appendix......

 

To end up like this:

A stained section of appendix.

 

 

 

 

 

By now you're either going cool, ewwwww or huh? You know how before I said responsibility? Will it's not all Appendectomy specimens. It's also Gallbladders, Rectal and Colon Cancers, Prostates, Breast, Lungs, Spleens, Livers and Post Mortem tissues, just to name a few. That section is on a slide that a pathologist will then use to make a diagnosis off. Cancer or not? Benign or malignant? If I cock up, at any stage of this process, it has the potential to have epic ramifications on someones life. It does happen. It's sad, no beyond sad....tragic but it DOES happen. 

But not on my watch.

Love to hear any thoughts you guys have about this post. Hope you've learned a little something today. 

J

Oooooh Scary

So tonight, the husbanian and I sat down to watch a film. As per usual I had no clue what it was about. Anywho, sat down, watched it, bored the husbanian and it gave me the complete wiggins. Which has inspired me to share with you, what movie's creep me out.

*Disclaimer: I am a pretty big wuss, so what does not scare most people gives me the total heebs.*

1. The Wizard of Oz

This one, my friends is simple, FLYING MONKEYS. It's just wrong. They gave me the creeps when I was a kid and they still freak me out now.

2. The Blair Witch Project

Now, when it comes to Blair Witch people generally have one of the following three responses: It's stupid, It's nauseating, Holy-fucking-shit-i-just-peed-my-pants. I have the latter response. I still remember going to a midnight screening and being so terrified I was nearly in tears and I had to physically hold myself in my seat to not leave the cinema. Scares the crap out of me. Even now. I own it on DVD.....never watched it. Same as...........

3. Wolf Creek

Shit Scary. I could not watch "Better Homes & Gardens" for MONTHS after this. And John Jarrat still freaks the crap out of me.

4. The Ring

Both the American and original Japanese version are just plain creepy. When she climbs through the teev?? Urghhhhh. Makes my skin Crawl.

5. Pitch Black

Not sure if it's the creepy alien planet setting, the creepy alien things that eat you, or Vin Deisel's acting but it creeped me out. Bad.

As I could go on for a while, I'll leave them as the big ones, but honourable mentions need to go to:
- Alien/s/s3 etc.
- The Dark Crystal
- The ORIGINAL Texas Chainsaw Massacre
- The ORIGINAL Psycho
- Apollo 18 (tonight's film)
- Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
and
- Anything involving Brittney Spears or Miley Cyrus.

Have a good night....Leave a light on, and check under your bed :o)

J

Perception

Some people see me as a bitch. This is due to several things.

1. I'm loud. I seem to only have one volume, which is about an 11. At a whisper I'm maybe a 6, but that's trying REALLY hard to be quiet.

2. I'm honest. To a fault. I say what I am thinking pretty much 95% of the time. Now being honest is a good thing in general, but due to my lack of brain filter some of the stuff that comes out of my mouth is not always, shall we say, tactful.

3. I swear more than I should.

4. I have an opinion. On EVERYTHING.

But probably mostly because, well I can be a REAL bitch.

Every now and then though you realise you do something that you see as self preservation where other people see as bitchy behavior. It's all perception really.

I guess for me the big test as to how irrational I've been is to review things the next day. If I look back and think shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, usually means I stuffed up. If I look back and think "OK....maybe slightly hasty, a bit (or alot) of an overreaction, and a touch dramatic" but I am ultimately still OK with what happened then as crazy as I was at the time, the right decision was made.

Perception is a funny thing though. How people perceive you can define you if you're not careful. It's tricky not to get to sucked into believing the things others say or think of you, generally especially if those things are negative. Or maybe that's just me. If someone tells you something long enough, whether it be true or not that seed of doubt gets planted, and with enough water (thoughts) it can grow to this huge effing tree of self crapness.

And I for one, am jack of it. I embrace who I am. I am fat (but working on it). I am honest. I am loyal. I am loud. I cry at everything. I love my family and friends with an immeasurable strength. And, I am proud to say, I am a bitch. But you know what? I. Am. Me. And I think that overall, I'm not too bad. Not perfect, but OK.

And you know what? I think you're pretty freaking awesome too.

J