Compassion is one of the most beautiful of human traits. It reaches out to people when they are struggling. Whether it is just a whisper or a tsunami of pain, we all need to feel the warm embrace of someone’s compassionate heart at different times in our lives. And hopefully, when someone is in need, we are able to return that warmth whenever it is needed. But eventually, compassion can also be exhausting.
I live with my ex-husband. It’s been seven months now and it’s going great. We’re best friends. But that’s a whole story for another day. Despite being separated under one roof and very good friends, I think I still drive him mad. And nothing drives him more mad than me listening to songs on repeat. And by on repeat, I mean the exact same song for a month at a time. I can listen to the same song a thousand times.
When I was a wee young thing, I was taught that beauty is a currency. And I had none of it. So, from that perspective, I was very poor.
There are few things more comforting in this world than feeling understood and accepted. I am not sure if the world has more or less empathy than it used to. But I find that as I get older, it seems like there is less around. Now, that could be because of the personal journey I have walked, or simply because I’m ageing and I look around in search of it more than I used to. But whatever the reason, empathy is something that is becoming as rare as rocking horse shit. Perhaps it always was and I never noticed before.
Since last I wrote, I have aged a whole year. Quite literally. I had a birthday. I am now 59 years old. Where that fits on the spectrum of “old” completely depends on where you’re currently standing. To my two-year-old granddaughter, I’m just a few short steps away from the grave. To my elderly patients at work, I’m just a youngster who is full of life and verve. From where I sit, it looks awfully close to 60. And I do not like the sound of that at all. Not one little bit.
Who doesn’t love a touch of happiness here and there? It is such a soul-quenching joyous thing. I used to think the pursuit of happiness was the point of my life. But I have learned differently. It is a beautiful thing to have in the moment, but a life spent searching for happiness is a life spent living elsewhere and not in the moment. Happiness is found in moments – and they are fucking beautiful moments to cherish and hold onto. But everything passes in life. The heart-warmingly good, the bad and the very, very ugly. Life is a conveyor belt of emotions. It never stops and you really can never tell what’s going to be on offer on any given day.
So folks, I had a new experience on the weekend. I went to the Pride Parade. Dressed in pink. Well, kind of dressed in pink. I was actually dressed in a black jumpsuit with a warm pink jacket because it’s now the only pink thing that fits me but it was a hot Hobart day so it was a little bit sweaty marching down the streets. But it was worth it. It was my first ever outing as somebody who no longer entirely identifies as straight. But I don’t identify as anything else either. Maybe my identity is pink.
Just kidding folks. I don’t do New Year’s resolutions. I have learned better. But I do want to wish you all a Happy New Year and I hope 2025 brings much peace and joy and laughter to all of you. Including me.
Eating disorder recovery is not a perfect art, but I am a long way into the process now. I have four years of what feels like solid progress to me. I still wobble from time to time, but I do not spiral. So let me tell you what that means.
In honour of International Grief Awareness Week, I want to share my experience of all the many different ways I have experienced grief. All grief is valid.
For nigh on fifty years I was like most people – very quiet and private about my personal life. I barely shared my inner world with myself, let alone anyone else. But now I live my life like the door to my house is wide open and everyone can see inside. And there are reasons for that profound change. Let me see if my humble words can explain a little bit.
I have a cycle. And it’s not menstrual (that ended 20 years ago). It turns out that every four years, something major happens in my life that changes me. Forever.
Childhood is a tricky time. As is parenting. And while the vast majority of parents do the very best they know how, sometimes it just isn’t enough. Sometimes the scars last a lifetime.
At 11:03 AM on Tuesday 03 September 2024 I developed a tremor. It hasn’t left yet. I think it highly unlikely it ever will now. It was triggered by shock.
Sleep and I have not been friends for a very long time
