Blogtastic bloggishness
Hm. It would appear that no-one's actually splitting up. Yet. Dad and Jane seemed to have called a momentary truce, and are of "working things out". At least that's what Jane told me when I finally managed to get her by herself for a minute on Friday. Things aren't exactly peachy between them, says she, but they want to give the relationship another go. Well, she does anyway. Kinda hard to tell with my father sometimes. But, he was singing along to Don McLean and Paul Simon at the top of his voice just yesterday, always a good sign where he's concerned.
Aw, and he actually gave Jane a hug the other day. And she did my washing, and bought me some new underwear. And he made my bed. And I did the dishes and walked the dog. And he's taking Jane and I to see Elton John play in Wellington. And then he's taking us kids to the Gold Coast for Rose's 7th birthday in January, her health permitting. So, we're good. For the moment...
Next question is can I now be bothered moving out, now thing's are clearing up, and I'm getting on well with the parents, and the kids are adorable, and my room's tidy, and there's food in the pantry, and no-one's been making any slurs about my weight for a while? Meh.
Uni's all finished for the year. Half-way through my Honours degree now. w00t. Had my exam on Friday- 'twas all right, considering I did all of about two hours study, and barely any reading all semester. Hurrah for ridiculously vague and open-ended questions, which basically say "write you're own three-act Greek comedy about anything that takes your fancy relating to topic XYZ". Awesome. So, I wrote two essays, and was fairly impressed with some of the eloquent bullshit I was scraping out of my rear, and I made one of them cynical enough to rub my world-weary and slightly atheistic lecturer with his black humour and Alan Rickman voice up the right way...so yay me.
I should pass in the end. Both my essays were a bit of a half-arsed, high schoolish effort, and I don't think I'll go and pick the second one up, but hey. I enjoyed the paper, but I had a bit of a crisis, so things kinda shriveled up not quite halfway through. Which was a shame, cos I started off well. And a lot of Auntie Helen's money went into this half of my degree, so it's a bit of a waste really. Maybe I am just lazy. Oh well.
Although, things with my application for journalism school are coming along quite swimmingly. I posted my application form for the Massey course a couple of weeks back, plus my portfolio, plus my story that got published and a bit of poetry on the side. Got a nice little letter in the mail telling me that my application had been received (whew!), and telling me to go to their website, and book an interview time. Jumped on just before, and I'm booked in for Wednesday the 22nd of November, at 3.30pm (although, cos I'm an eejit, I managed to book myself in for two different times, without realising what I was doing! *facepalm* Might have to call them tomorrow to point that out...). So yeah. Back on track, it would seem.
I suck at interviews. I still maintain that the only reason I got the job at Bennett's was because it was just before Christmas, someone had just left, and they were desperate. So, I'm scared. And I reckon my entry into this course is going to hang on how well (or not) the interview goes. Help. Oh well, just gotta swan on in there, dressed to kill, and let them know that I'm beautiful and talented and intelligent and ambitious, and I can read and string words together to make a sentence, and can do a bit of maths on the side if you're desperate...and I know heaps about books, and listen to decent music, and I'm good with kids, and help old ladies across the road, and pay my taxes, and have a clean criminal record, and only jaywalk when it's convenient. And I'm not an arrogant arse. Honestly.
So, please, Sir. Pick me. I'm your girl. I really want this. Please don't make me spend another year in retail...
Hm. Work is actually pretty good. I've prayed about it heaps, and we're getting there. It'll do for now.
What else? Well, I ended up finding me a counsellor in the end. I confided in my boss at work, who hassled me to tell Mum what was going on, who convinced me to make an appointment with our family GP, who referred me to a free counselling service for women in town. Cool, babies. Although, I will confess I was kinda hoping the Doc would send me away with a box of little shiny purple tablets to take three times a day with food. Shoulda done the trick nicely. But no, Doc doesn't think the synthetic option is the best idea, and he thinks talking things through, and learning constructive and healthy outlets is the way to go. So, no drugs this time.
Actually, I don't know if anti-depressants are purple at all? Can anyone confirm that for me?
But yeah. I'm currently going to see a lovely lass called Jasmine once a week. She's young, I'm guessing mid-to-late twenties, which is weird, considering most of the therapists I had in my teens were at least my parents age, or older. She's not a Christian, but that's not been an issue. We've had two appointments so far, and it's all good. At the moment, she's letting me talk. As we get further on, we will work on changing the thought patterns a bit. Cos I need to do that.
So far, I've resisted the temptation to blog about what exactly has been the matter, and why I've decided to go back into therapy. I'm not sure if I will this time either; you gotta keep some things guarded. I've probably mentioned it indirectly on here a couple of times, and some of you know already (Pip, I promise I'll email you soon. Your parcel is coming...). But, the basic deal is that I've been struggling against one particular temptation for most of this year. A dangerous idea that almost makes sense, as Bono says. It's been cropping up on and off for a while, and it's been rather ferocious in the last month or so.
Several times, I've come very close to caving in. Some of the visions I've had have been pretty vivid, and pretty raw. It's scary. And y'know how it is when...you think about something hard enough and often enough, you actually dream it into being, and you actually start feeling it? Like, for example, if I fantasise about my first kiss, and how bloody good it was (even though he turned out to be a complete scuzzbucket, but that happens...), I will actually get the sensation of something rubbing up against my mouth, y'know? And if I obsess enough about not eating for three days straight, then I start getting the hunger pains with a vengeance, and start feeling the energy drain away. And it's been the same this time. And it hurts.
I'm not altogether sure why I'm wanting to do this. Could be the same as being an alcoholic or a sex addict- at first, you get the cravings cos you feel like shit, and want the world to disappear. And then, you can't remember why you got the cravings in the first place. It's become habit, and you want it bad.
But it would be nice to get better, yeah? It'd be nice not to be constantly wrestling with the self esteem gremlins that keep coming out of the walls when I can't sleep. It'd be nice not to be shit scared of the future, and of everything I touch dissolving and slipping through the cracks in the floorboards. It'd be nice not to be shit scared of people either. It'd be nice for the guilt to stop. And the cynicism as well. It'd be nice to feel content with what I have. It'd be nice to get a bit of my spark back, and actually get back into the things I'm passionate about, writing and dancing and theatre for a start. It'd be nice to stop feeling like I've stumbled into Stay (Faraway, So Close) by U2, or Hurt by NIN or Johnny Cash, and you guys can fight that one out.
It'd be nice to live. Dig?
I do feel like I'm getting there though. I've been feeling much more hopeful than I have in days, and the fantasies are getting a bit less. Just gotta watch out for the late night and early morning episodes. Today, I realised I'm actually not dreading the future for once. Quite excited, in fact. w00t.
My mother's been amazing through all this. Dad and Jane don't know yet. They don't need to. Always helps when I surround myself with people. Friends have been just lovely. Although, it really cracks me up when people suggest that at times like this I should cut out all secular music, and only listen to Gospel. Um, no. My "dark" music isn't actually part of the problem; in fact, it's a lot of what's saving me at the moment. Bah.
Speaking of which, Get Behind Me Satan is a bloody genius album. Just thought I'd mention that.
And, it does help a bit when I chat to God. Although, He and I aren't on regular speaking terms. I get mad with Him sometimes. Cos He's convenient. But that's another post.
Love life...bleh. Just bleh. I was quite seriously thinking of putting a profile on the NZ Dating website the other day. *facepalm* How hard can this be, Ezza?
Marvin needs new headphones again. Dang it all. Actually, screw that, I need a bigger iPod. So much music to discover, I'm sure you'll understand. Marvin does his best, but, y'know, size does matter, dahling. ;)
Must go. Work tomorrow and all. 19 days to go now. Don't worry about me, guys. I'm still shuffling along. Kick the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight. And I'm having fun lip-synching furiously along with Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of and making angry Bono-faces in the mirror. It helps, honest.
You think not telling is the same as not lying, don't you?
Then I guess not feeling is the same as not crying to you...
Aw, and he actually gave Jane a hug the other day. And she did my washing, and bought me some new underwear. And he made my bed. And I did the dishes and walked the dog. And he's taking Jane and I to see Elton John play in Wellington. And then he's taking us kids to the Gold Coast for Rose's 7th birthday in January, her health permitting. So, we're good. For the moment...
Next question is can I now be bothered moving out, now thing's are clearing up, and I'm getting on well with the parents, and the kids are adorable, and my room's tidy, and there's food in the pantry, and no-one's been making any slurs about my weight for a while? Meh.
Uni's all finished for the year. Half-way through my Honours degree now. w00t. Had my exam on Friday- 'twas all right, considering I did all of about two hours study, and barely any reading all semester. Hurrah for ridiculously vague and open-ended questions, which basically say "write you're own three-act Greek comedy about anything that takes your fancy relating to topic XYZ". Awesome. So, I wrote two essays, and was fairly impressed with some of the eloquent bullshit I was scraping out of my rear, and I made one of them cynical enough to rub my world-weary and slightly atheistic lecturer with his black humour and Alan Rickman voice up the right way...so yay me.
I should pass in the end. Both my essays were a bit of a half-arsed, high schoolish effort, and I don't think I'll go and pick the second one up, but hey. I enjoyed the paper, but I had a bit of a crisis, so things kinda shriveled up not quite halfway through. Which was a shame, cos I started off well. And a lot of Auntie Helen's money went into this half of my degree, so it's a bit of a waste really. Maybe I am just lazy. Oh well.
Although, things with my application for journalism school are coming along quite swimmingly. I posted my application form for the Massey course a couple of weeks back, plus my portfolio, plus my story that got published and a bit of poetry on the side. Got a nice little letter in the mail telling me that my application had been received (whew!), and telling me to go to their website, and book an interview time. Jumped on just before, and I'm booked in for Wednesday the 22nd of November, at 3.30pm (although, cos I'm an eejit, I managed to book myself in for two different times, without realising what I was doing! *facepalm* Might have to call them tomorrow to point that out...). So yeah. Back on track, it would seem.
I suck at interviews. I still maintain that the only reason I got the job at Bennett's was because it was just before Christmas, someone had just left, and they were desperate. So, I'm scared. And I reckon my entry into this course is going to hang on how well (or not) the interview goes. Help. Oh well, just gotta swan on in there, dressed to kill, and let them know that I'm beautiful and talented and intelligent and ambitious, and I can read and string words together to make a sentence, and can do a bit of maths on the side if you're desperate...and I know heaps about books, and listen to decent music, and I'm good with kids, and help old ladies across the road, and pay my taxes, and have a clean criminal record, and only jaywalk when it's convenient. And I'm not an arrogant arse. Honestly.
So, please, Sir. Pick me. I'm your girl. I really want this. Please don't make me spend another year in retail...
Hm. Work is actually pretty good. I've prayed about it heaps, and we're getting there. It'll do for now.
What else? Well, I ended up finding me a counsellor in the end. I confided in my boss at work, who hassled me to tell Mum what was going on, who convinced me to make an appointment with our family GP, who referred me to a free counselling service for women in town. Cool, babies. Although, I will confess I was kinda hoping the Doc would send me away with a box of little shiny purple tablets to take three times a day with food. Shoulda done the trick nicely. But no, Doc doesn't think the synthetic option is the best idea, and he thinks talking things through, and learning constructive and healthy outlets is the way to go. So, no drugs this time.
Actually, I don't know if anti-depressants are purple at all? Can anyone confirm that for me?
But yeah. I'm currently going to see a lovely lass called Jasmine once a week. She's young, I'm guessing mid-to-late twenties, which is weird, considering most of the therapists I had in my teens were at least my parents age, or older. She's not a Christian, but that's not been an issue. We've had two appointments so far, and it's all good. At the moment, she's letting me talk. As we get further on, we will work on changing the thought patterns a bit. Cos I need to do that.
So far, I've resisted the temptation to blog about what exactly has been the matter, and why I've decided to go back into therapy. I'm not sure if I will this time either; you gotta keep some things guarded. I've probably mentioned it indirectly on here a couple of times, and some of you know already (Pip, I promise I'll email you soon. Your parcel is coming...). But, the basic deal is that I've been struggling against one particular temptation for most of this year. A dangerous idea that almost makes sense, as Bono says. It's been cropping up on and off for a while, and it's been rather ferocious in the last month or so.
Several times, I've come very close to caving in. Some of the visions I've had have been pretty vivid, and pretty raw. It's scary. And y'know how it is when...you think about something hard enough and often enough, you actually dream it into being, and you actually start feeling it? Like, for example, if I fantasise about my first kiss, and how bloody good it was (even though he turned out to be a complete scuzzbucket, but that happens...), I will actually get the sensation of something rubbing up against my mouth, y'know? And if I obsess enough about not eating for three days straight, then I start getting the hunger pains with a vengeance, and start feeling the energy drain away. And it's been the same this time. And it hurts.
I'm not altogether sure why I'm wanting to do this. Could be the same as being an alcoholic or a sex addict- at first, you get the cravings cos you feel like shit, and want the world to disappear. And then, you can't remember why you got the cravings in the first place. It's become habit, and you want it bad.
But it would be nice to get better, yeah? It'd be nice not to be constantly wrestling with the self esteem gremlins that keep coming out of the walls when I can't sleep. It'd be nice not to be shit scared of the future, and of everything I touch dissolving and slipping through the cracks in the floorboards. It'd be nice not to be shit scared of people either. It'd be nice for the guilt to stop. And the cynicism as well. It'd be nice to feel content with what I have. It'd be nice to get a bit of my spark back, and actually get back into the things I'm passionate about, writing and dancing and theatre for a start. It'd be nice to stop feeling like I've stumbled into Stay (Faraway, So Close) by U2, or Hurt by NIN or Johnny Cash, and you guys can fight that one out.
It'd be nice to live. Dig?
I do feel like I'm getting there though. I've been feeling much more hopeful than I have in days, and the fantasies are getting a bit less. Just gotta watch out for the late night and early morning episodes. Today, I realised I'm actually not dreading the future for once. Quite excited, in fact. w00t.
My mother's been amazing through all this. Dad and Jane don't know yet. They don't need to. Always helps when I surround myself with people. Friends have been just lovely. Although, it really cracks me up when people suggest that at times like this I should cut out all secular music, and only listen to Gospel. Um, no. My "dark" music isn't actually part of the problem; in fact, it's a lot of what's saving me at the moment. Bah.
Speaking of which, Get Behind Me Satan is a bloody genius album. Just thought I'd mention that.
And, it does help a bit when I chat to God. Although, He and I aren't on regular speaking terms. I get mad with Him sometimes. Cos He's convenient. But that's another post.
Love life...bleh. Just bleh. I was quite seriously thinking of putting a profile on the NZ Dating website the other day. *facepalm* How hard can this be, Ezza?
Marvin needs new headphones again. Dang it all. Actually, screw that, I need a bigger iPod. So much music to discover, I'm sure you'll understand. Marvin does his best, but, y'know, size does matter, dahling. ;)
Must go. Work tomorrow and all. 19 days to go now. Don't worry about me, guys. I'm still shuffling along. Kick the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight. And I'm having fun lip-synching furiously along with Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of and making angry Bono-faces in the mirror. It helps, honest.
You think not telling is the same as not lying, don't you?
Then I guess not feeling is the same as not crying to you...