Voided

There is a void. In me. Something not quite right and I feel ill at ease. It's been a tumultuous weekend, that's for sure. In short, family drama. Usually, I tend to keep out of arguments and the like, however, this time, I was stuck right in the middle of the drama. Some of it was even my fault. I apologised and made amends with the appropriate people, however, the void lingered.

So, what to do? My first impulse, taken directly from the thorn in my flesh would be to eat. To drown my void in Tim Tams, chips, apple pie, and thick slabs of bread lathered in French butter (quite literally, butter that is specifically French, which by the way, is divine). However, for the first time, in, well, the history of myself, I didn't want to do this. Scratch that. Actually, my first impulse was to do this, however, instead of divulging into this activity without a second thought, I actually stopped, and thought about it (for a change), and decided that I just could not bear feeling icky and sickly the following day, along with all those other feelings of failure and self-loathing that accompany their dear friends. Instead I managed to realise that in actuality, food would not fill the void at all; it would simply exacerbate the problem. Progress people, progress! Healing, in all its wondrous ways, takes time.

Therefore, food bypassed, and apologies made, how do I fill this void? I'm not tired. Not tired at all. I slept for a lengthy and quality amount of time last night and woke up feeling rested and rejuvenated. It may or may not have to do with an elusive essay that just happens to be due on Wednesday that I may or may not have started, and that I simply cannot muster the motivation to begin. However, besides all this, there is a specific relationship in my life that is not quite right and I'm at a complete loss at how to manage it's capacity for development...I know all very mysterious but much too precious to be revealed. It also could be a hankering to commence some activities that I have been wanting to start for some time, and simply have not had the financial asserts to do so. Maybe it's the inner conflict I have been experiencing with certain beliefs that do not correlate to the beliefs held dear by certain family members. We appear to have now gone full circle, ending up where we first began. So basically, it's pent-up frustration, about a good many things, beyond my control. Most eating disorders revolve around people who have lost control and feel that by controlling and focusing on their food intake, eating too much or too little to make themselves feel better about certain situations. Psycho-analysis. #Wooo. No, actually, bad. I am a pyscho that analyses things too much. More like #Boo.

Maybe I should just be more like Scarlett and learn to brush things off. Whatever happens, happens, and worrying about something so much that it gives me anxiety problems is not ideal. Not ideal at all.

So...

"I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow."

To Be Connected Or Not To Be Connected...

Despite the fact that I've spent the evening with a wonderful friend and subsequently came home to a house full of people who wanted to engage in either serious conversation or comical banter, I felt a distinct need to be connected with the world. So where do I turn? Facebook.

*hangs head in shame*

I know, I know. Prying into the lives of others to feel a sense of participation in this world is not ideal. In fact it's a cop out. Facebook is a cop out. You see someone you haven't seen for yonks and inside your head is a flashing slideshow of all that's been happening in their lives for the elapsed time since you last saw them simply because you regularly check the newsfeed. So you ask them how they are, but in reality, you already know because you've seen it on Facebook, and then you have to act all surprised about the fact that they've bought a new car or recently become engaged or don't like the way their neighbours play music very loudly and early on a Saturday morning when they are trying to sleep. In. Don't want to do it. Act all surprised and crap. COP. OUT.

On the upside, Facebook is good for keeping in touch with friends who live overseas or for getting in touch with people you knew from yonder year. Other than these acceptable reasons, Facebook stands as a platform for annoying little bitchy witchy-poos who gave you hell at school (etcetera) to brag about their 'cooler than thou' existences. Think I'll pass. Thanks.

So why do I look to Facebook for connection? Is it simply because it's a live interaction with the occurrences of the now? Or is it to feel comforted by the fact that there are others out there struggling with the same things as I? Perhaps it is to feel warm from comments left on my wall, requests to catch up, or notifications regarding an invitation to an event. Is there an emotional void in my life? A lack of friendship or excitement, perhaps a longing to do as others do, to be included in certain things, to be part of a wild and colourful photo album of amazing pursuits. Why don't I just leave it all behind? Shut down my Facebook account. I could. But then I'd lose touch with some of the wonderful people I met in Sydney. People I didn't necessarily request a phone number from but were comfortable enough to give me access to what they do on a daily basis (see the irony?) Besides, just because you reject a social norm and become an anomaly, doesn't mean jack. Yep, I said it. Does not mean nothin' because you're missing out on the benefits all for the sake of proving a point. So as long as you can stomach the bitchy witchy-poos, you'll be right. And hey, whatever doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger.

Enough with that. #inothernews

I've broken down. My month without junk has been violated. I feel disappointed in myself yes, however, I did manage to last two weeks (not consecutive weeks mind), and I feel proud of that. I've committed to starting again, and have been clean for three days now. Gosh that sounds pathetic. But, one day at a time, without too much forethought and obsession is the way to go. I'm learning everyday, struggling and triumphing, celebrating my wins, mourning my losses and having a jolly good laugh along the way.

To You My Dear, May You Be At Peace

Gar died today.

At approximately 2.15pm she left this world.

She wasn't a particularly easy woman to get along with, however, she was still my grandmother, and my life will not be the same without her. To be sure, the end of an era has come.

Every so often I visit this blog:

http://bensgotcancer.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00%2B11%3A00&updated-max=2009-01-01T00%3A00%3A00%2B11%3A00&max-results=50

I only met this young man once, but it is a conversation I will never forget. His story inspires me beyond comprehension to live my life to its fullest measure.

I find death an odd concept. This afternoon when I went to the hospital to say my final farewell, all that lay in front of me was a vacant body. The illumination that our spirits so graciously bestow upon us was simply absent. The spirit is not tangible, but ever so present in a living being. To ignore it would be to subsist in a world of denial. However, even with the beliefs I have about the afterlife, the first question that came to mind regarding her vacant body was: "where did she go?"

"They say in death, all of life's questions are answered." (Charlie's Angels) It seems however, that for the people remaining on the earth, death spurs on the raising of so many questions, including all the 'what ifs,' 'maybes' and 'I wonder whats' regarding that particular person and their life. I wonder about all the years before my time, and what she would have been like as a young woman, studying through high-school, getting married, having her babies, and meeting her children's spouses, and eventually meeting her grandchildren. I wonder why she was so proud, so particular, so proper. I wonder what she did on the many nights she spent alone, after my grandfather had passed away, and what her thought process was like.

The day someone dies is surreal. It reiterates the fact that no one lasts forever. That all the importance we put upon looking good and achieving marvellous feats and making our millions of dollars will one day become deeply insignificant. Death changes everything. Death laughs at secularity, at the world's concept of life and success. Death brings perspective up close and personal, forcing one to examine one's actions in a major way. Because death is finite and completely unavoidable.

Here be my ode to Gar:

She was the woman with the bright pink lipstick. The aquamarine eye shadow. The Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. The long navy skirt, the sprightly pink polo.

She floated into the room with her lady-like pace, handbag in place, hairdo intact.

Then came the anticipated "Hello Darlinksa," accompanied by a peck on the cheek.

She may be been opinionated, full of fire, and unaccustomed (willingly, I might add), to the more modern technology of our time, there is one one particular instance of love and benevolence that will remain my fondest memory of Gar. It was only a short six months ago, when the majority of my family had embarked on our overseas journey, but I was yet to depart, and still remained at home. It was a particularly low point in my life, which, without going into too much denial, was a time of great unrest and anxiety. I had been quite teary on that particular day she had called, and immediately she knew something was not right. I was very hesitant to discuss the details of my complex issues with her, and sensing this divide, after a long moment of stammering about this and that on my part, she gallantly exclaimed "Well, darling, if you get desperate, or just don't feel that you can cope, I'll get you up here!"

In the instance of "here" she was Armidale, the town in northern New South Wales in which she lived.

I'll never forget these words, and the deep love with which they were proclaimed. I will be forever grateful to her for giving me the most wonderful father I could have asked for. She will always remain in my heart as a strong, exceptionally capable and dignified woman.

So this here, Garfish, is for you. With all my love.

Good Monday

Normally I hate Mondays with a fiery passion equivalent to the bowels of hell. However, today was different. I went out last night. Yes. I, (me myself and I; oh, and my sister actually), went out.

*Sings* "you ought to be congratulated!"

Moving on. So, as I was saying I went out. To a gig. Of a good friend. It was fun. The end.

Haha. No, no really. Wait, no, it was fun, really! But there were no fireworks. Nothing exciting or out of the ordinary happened, which would have been nice. Okay...why am I even talking (writing) about this? I heard a song today which went somewhere along the lines of: "I could never see myself with a boyfriend..." or something like that (please feel free to stop reading at any time), and I could completely relate. It's just a weird concept for me. It doesn't help either that people in my world are getting engaged left right and centre. Not that I want to be married or getting married. Hell to the no. Gosh, I've got things to do. Nonetheless, a man friend would be lovely right about now. Just someone to hold my hand. And perhaps whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Actually, that would be weird. But the holding hand thing would be nice.

This morning at my humble abode of work, I noticed how grumpy people were. Maybe because for the first time in a hell bent long time, I wasn't in that titanium boat that carries 98% of the population of a Monday. Sure, I was tired, but I found myself politely showing the 'imperial' brand of mandarin sticker to *INTERRUPTION*

Mum just called me a loser. Now I really don't have a hope in hell.

Continuing.

Yes, so I found myself politely showing the 'imperial' brand of mandarin sticker to this woman who impertinently insisted that "IT WASN'T THAT BRAND" (and she might as well have added, 'you imbecilic check-out chick'), and upon simply showing her the sticker I docilely said, "yes it is," (upon which I didn't even feel like adding 'you stupid douche'). Good Monday.

Something lovely did happen amongst all these grouches however. An older man (grandpa vintage most likely), was kind enough to comment on my name and how lovely it was. He even used the word 'lovely.' Even lovelier. The more astonishing thing is that I relished this comment. This is highly unusual. You see, I used to push my name to strangers as being just 'Tess.' Whenever somebody called me Tessa, I would blush a deep purple crimson inside, feeling thoroughly and utterly embarrassed. I don't know why but I associated this identification with being tubby and clumsy. As 'Tess,' I felt light and airy, cool, calm, collected, single syllabled and ready to go roaring off in a pearly white mustang, my floral head scarf flapping in the wind, my over-sized sunglasses emanating a a bombshell vibe. 'Tessa' was the girl who ate her hair in the back of the classroom.

Not any more.

I love that he commented on my name. I love that I loved him commenting. Because now I love my name.

I love it because I was named after my Nonna, Teresa, who was my 'amore grande,' a great love who enriched my life in an indescribable manner. I love it because it's rare, not a name you come across often. I love it because I feel genuinely happy to be me, under the banner of that name. And most of all I love it because it's a name that, underneath its label has persevered and overcome great obstacles to be all that that name is.

That's what I call a good Monday.

Weepy Week or What?!

I have watched a mammoth number of films this week. Let me see...Chicago, 10 Things I Hate About You, Memoirs of a Geisha, Angus, Thongs and Perfect Snogging, Water For Elephants (at the cinema), No Strings Attached, oh and off the record, the penultimate finale of Grey's Anatomy, all of which I have fogged up and cried in. Some may suggest PMS. I beg to differ. I believe that is a couple of weeks off. Unless I am pregnant. Like Christina. While this is anatomically impossible, one can still speculate.

I don't know what has brought on this emotionality (wow, thought the spell checker would come up but hey, it's a word!) but gosh, I'm one weepy chick. Another possible hypothesis is my abstinence from junk, which has not be defiled, and of which I'm extremely proud. It was Oli's birthday/pre-drinks at ours last night. There was pizza, cake, Movenpick ice-cream (hello lover!), and I didn't touch a thing. I did have to resort to my loop hole of emergency, come-to-the-rescue Allen's lollies, but the other stuff was left out in the cold.

In a strange, unexpected way, I feel relieved. I no longer have to worry about feeling fat, miserable or disappointed in myself. Of course, there are other non-food related reasons to feel miserable, fat and disappointed (having to work a double shift, being unable to find clothes that look good, (no matter how skinny you are, sometimes clothes just look crap; I do believe they have a mind of their own), feeling sad about Nonna and Nonno being gone, having to do homework instead of watch movies etc), but for such a long time, these feelings have all been food related, and to simply feel things without all that extra baggage (mind the pun), is just, well, was going to say wonderful, but it's not really 'full of wonder,' so instead, perhaps, it's pretty much a new way to be human (thank you Switchfoot).

Sometimes I feel invisible. This is actually an improvement. I used to often feel not only invisible, but deeply embarrassed to be myself. As if the way I presented was in fact completely unacceptable. So I stayed home a lot. I'd watch films and live vicariously through them. So when Heath Ledger sang "You're Just Too Good To Be True" or whatever the song title be, it was to me, and I was that girl on the football field witnessing the most romantic serenade since the "Say Anything" stereo-on-top-of-head-outside-bedroom-window gesture. However, slowly slowly, like a snake shedding its old, no longer required skin, a happiness began to boil and bubble up inside of me. Maybe it's this water that frequently comes squirting out of my eyes, mourning for days of old that have been wasted due to insecurity and shame.

Watching 'old faithful' at the minute. Oh, my apologies, Sex and the City, series five. Bar Grey's Anatomy, it would have to be my favourite show. Some people just don't seem to understand this phenomena. One of them happens to be Mother dearest (cue sheltered and strict upbringing). For me, this show, and the girlfriends that became my own, was my salvation during my time in the lonely city of Sydney. Make no mistake, I loved my adventure in the Harbour City; it was an experience that I will be forever grateful for. However, at many-a-time during my brief dwelling up there it became unbearably lonesome, and as I have previously described, I integrated my life into theirs, and we had a fabulous time together. I still like to pull it out of the DVD cabinet sometimes and visit with my old girlfriends, reminiscing about times gone by, the people who have left, the loves that have been lost, and the struggles that seem eternal but slowly pass away.

Goodnight. (But not goodbye).

Take Two -or- Month Without Junk

Hola Goodfellows!

This is actually my second attempt at a blog. The previous endeavour had good intentions but an undisciplined disposition. Here's to hoping this time will be different. I do feel different this time actually. I've since move back home (from my hide-away-home of Sydney), traveled overseas, had a hernia repair surgery, begun a new job, recommenced my bachelor degree at Melbourne, and (inhale), feel much more content as a person. More on that later.

What instigated this need to (re)join the wonderful world of people who feel the need to write down their ingenious inner-thought processes? Primarily it was my pledge to embark on 'A Mont Without Junk;' basically a entire month (beginning Thursday, 19th May), without chips, chocolate, ice-cream and I'm still debating about whether marshmallows and jelly snakes count as junk, or essential emergency sugar come-to-the-rescue snacks. My weight and my appearance have plagued me for as long as I can remember. Actually, that's not true. I can remember a time when I was a happy little girl, playing in the garden without a care in the world. I have wonderful parents. I had a fairytale upbringing, despite it being quite strict and sheltered (translation: Harry Potter, The Simpsons and The Spice Girls concert were all out), however, somewhere along the conversion from girl to woman, the message that it was unacceptable to be the person I was turned into an eating disorder that has lingered. It sounds like a complete sob story and quite pathetic really, but it's mine and I don't apologise for it.

Other reasons to perhaps justify my return visit to the blogosphere is the fact that I want to do things. Exciting things. Like go ice-skating, horse-riding, pole-dancing and just thoroughly enjoy my life without finding my sole happiness in a creamy piece of Cadbury DairyMilk Chocolate. I want to be the best version of myself (fare the well The Oprah Winfrey Show). I want to stop feeling guilty that I've blown my calorie intake for the day, and dread the tempestuous bloat anticipated the next day. I want to feel beautiful on the inside and out. And to do that, I feel I need to eradicate my dependency on fatty, creamy foods.

So that's the story. Day one and day two have been full of continuous reminders of why I am embarking on this journey, as well as the impending need to actually commence the prose of my promise.

So here it is, here I am, and here's to the next month.

Lovely.