24 Hours

Hello there.

I have sat on my words for the best part of Three years now. Wanting to write and yet only able to wait. Like many others, I have felt stuck in time for the last few years. Out of the covid-induced fog of crushed dreams and stagnant brain babies I have had the privilege of ‘thinking.’ All I can think is that there is nothing left to stop me…except for myself.

I stopped writing on this blog Three years ago after a series of knocks to my self belief. The first was feeling let down by someone close to me. From out of nowhere, I was being made aware that my success and drive was somehow hindering that of someone I loved and respected. I took this knowledge straight to heart and began to swallow all of my big thoughts and feelings. The world then closed its doors and my dreams of traveling overseas to further study or pursue my love of Musical Theatre felt barred from my reach. My last great love-letter to the world was a self-written and produced show. I left it all out there on the stage and then stepped back to go about my little life. On the outside, it would have seemed like nothing had changed. I had success in touring shows, lead roles in big-name shows on wonderful stages. On paper, my success was clear, but I can tell you that the effervescent joy and childlike- abandon with which I used to share my life, hopes, dreams and wonder had all but disappeared. Why is that?

I know I am not alone in the complex thoughts of being in your ’20s’ and feeling like you are simultaneously working harder than you ever have to build a life and yet still not doing ‘enough.’ By who’s standard? By the person with over a million instagram followers? By the Friend married to their high-school sweetheart? By the room-mate you met on a weekend-long workshop returning from their second OE to Europe since finishing Uni? By the friend who is expecting their second child and moving into their first, of probably many ‘forever homes’? What are we doing here people? I think if any of us were to answer this question honestly we would be comforted by the familiarity of each other’s answers. I’ll go first…

I have no bloody idea.

And for the first time in my 24 years, I find so much comfort and excitement in that.

I can’t speak to the future and for those who are older than myself who will look at my verse as juvenile, naive or innocent. I think I’ll be grateful if I reach an age where I can look back and have those exact thoughts and feelings. To look back on my 20s with fondness and be proud of how it all came about. I can however, speak to the chaos that I feel right now of feeling both free and frozen, of feeling that the best years are behind me, that I somehow peaked and have now let it all fall away from me. 24 is not ‘child prodigy’ and in my mind the battle has been one of purpose. I am comparing myself to my younger days when every adult I met said I was “wise beyond my years.” I grieve for the child who was told she was “handling it all so well.” The idea that I ‘peaked’ before now and can only live a quiet life of swimming, riding my bike, crocheting and working is a very silly, and yet very real notion in my mind.

However I feel the shift is beginning, and in my desperate need to find meaning and purpose in all things, I turned to that number that terrifies me so; 24. I am 24 years old (for now). There are 24 hours in the day. If I think about each of the years of my life as mere hours then those years behind me are but a drop in the ocean – no need for a “quarter-life-crisis” come January. I like to think that at the end of the day, my 20s, like any decade in my life, are going to be a moving ship. Just like every day is different, I will take each year as it comes. And though this year has been quieter than most for myself, it has by no means been a waste. Teddy Roosevelt famously said

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”

So if my 20s look different to the person next to me then I have no use in comparing them. I can guarantee my 24 hours look different to the very same people I share them with. That in no way makes them of any less value or impact. I am learning that slowly and surely, just as I am learning that I deserve to enjoy as many of those hours as possible. It is never too late to rediscover joy, to cut something loose that no longer serves you, to seek out a new passion or to welcome back an old one.

I don’t know what to do next, but I do know that I am not going to shrink myself or my life for the sake of comfort anymore- that of others or my own. I no longer want to ‘go through the motions.’ Instead I wish to find the joy in overcoming, in oversharing, in making it known that I am so proud of myself for all that I know but I will always be hungry to know more. If it helps you then I am more than glad, if it ends up being just for myself and my peace of mind, then no harm done. I have missed myself so very deeply and I am looking forward to welcoming myself home.

“beag air bheag” go I.

-Curlsmeetsworld

Curls Meets Super Moon Grief

I have been an absolute idiot.

I have decided to try getting a manicure and typing is now impossible. -What a fool.

I have a lot of unturned pages that I have been holding back from writing recently. Lots of things that I feel need to be discussed but I worry about how it will change things. That is what this blog has always been about though, growing up and changing in a wild and bizarre world.

On Wednesday morning I had a very normal breakdown on the shower-floor at my school (to clarify I wasn’t taking a shower, it was just the only private place to fall apart). Just your usual uncontrollable crying fit with sobs to wake the gods as my friend cradled me and patted my hair and kissed my head and held me while I let it all out. I would LOVE to blame this super-moon, but that is just another way to hide the fact that I am grieving.

Yes, grieving.

As a person who cries a lot I am aware of the different types of crying and there is a very specific one for grief. This was not your little sniff-sniff ‘Marley and Me,’ dab-dab tissue type of crying. This was the kind of crying where you think your lungs are going to come up out of your throat, you’d rather pass-out than feel this way, your body is fighting to purge the confusion out of your scared little soul type of crying. The sad part is, it was the only way for my body to get me to face what it is that I am feeling instead of working so hard to rise-above it. And ironically for a drama student, I’m not exaggerating this time. This is the kind of thing that I would rather not admit to because I’m usually on the other end of this process with the cool head and the insight and the logic to understand that this is a wave that will pass. This time around, this is a wave and I cannot swim.

For the first time in a long time, I am approached with a situation where logic seems to mean nothing to me. I cannot make sense of what is going on. I will never understand either, what has happened is not justifiable by any stretch of the imagination. I wasn’t willing to admit it. I would come up with all of the excuses I could, tie off every loose-end until I could safely put it to bed. But I can’t. I have to accept that I am lost in Wonderland and the red-queen wants my wig and there isn’t a whole lot I can do about it. I have to let myself be looked after- and that is a scary place to be when you are used to being the one doing the looking after.

I can be quite composed, I like to be strong for others. So being told to release is a bit weird. Last year my counsellor told me to “Be like the ocean, the ocean doesn’t care, it just writhes and raves.” It’s ugly and it can be quite scary to see where it takes you. I don’t intend to hurt anyone or myself with my ocean- violence and acid words have never made me feel better. But I must let the violent white-horse waves crash upon the rocky shore and watch them dissipate to sea-foam if I am going to survive this.

Grief has a physical as well as an emotional component. I have been experiencing nausea, lethargy and severe shaking episodes to the point where I can’t steady my hand with my paintbrush to do my art-therapy. What a FEKKING joke. All I want to do lately is shower, cry and sleep. This is grief. Grief is having the rug pulled out from under you while you are holding a full bucket of love, hope, expectation and security. All of a sudden the contents is on the floor, you are on your ass and the world just rudely continues as it was.

Every day has had a new achievement attached but it comes with the fear of how long it’s going to last. Like some sad little carousel it goes a little like this;
Day one “Oh I smiled GENUINELY today”
Day two “There is the smile again”
Day three “Oh god, why am I shaking?”
Back to day one “I didn’t need to talk about it as much today”
Day two “I feel I understand it a little better now, I’m a little more at peace”
Day three “That was a big aha moment for me, I feel 100 pounds lighter”
Day four “Oh but remember how nice that was, and how you won’t get that again”
Back to day one “I don’t understand anything about this”
Back to day one “If I know this is not worth my time, why am I still sad about it?”
Back to day one “I miss it so much today, even though I KNOW there is nothing to be done”
Back to day one “It felt good to talk about it today, I feel clearer”
Day two “Hey, I’m smiling again!”
Day three “I have started to notice the sweet little things again like that older couple running to each other on the street”
Day four “My little sister hugged me today, it reminded me how worthy of love I am”
Back to day one “And this is still over my head”

There are many measures of things that I have been trying to do to help myself stay on top of day one. I am a person that buys things to make myself feel better to avoid being sad (horrid habit). I now have five new houseplants and they all have names thanks to Katie. Fletcher, Patricia, Elliot, Diego and I don’t remember the name of the last one but it’s tall and spiky. I thought having them in my room might bring some clean air, harmony and balance. I have to water these plants to make sure they survive, make sure they don’t get too much sunlight so they don’t burn and this routine of feeding and rotating them has given me a little purpose amid this bowl of gelatin it feels like I have been set in. It reminds me that I too still have to eat, get out, do things and move a little so I don’t metaphorically burn. I also have to be okay that this dead-weight is going to come with me for a bit.

I didn’t think you could be too kind. It turns out you can. You can be so kind and diplomatic and so HALF of yourself that you make yourself ill. I’ve known grief over some terrible things in my life, things I could never wish on anyone- why would anyone wish pain on anyone else to start with? So the fact that I am hurting over something that I feel cannot possibly compare to this, makes me not want to call it grief. Here’s the catch- I don’t get to decide. I didn’t want to bring my mess around with me, but it found a way of following me and it wasn’t until a tutor of mine said “What’s eating you” and I watched her eyes well-up with tears while I explained how I was struggling with something that I felt was insignificant that I realised, trauma is relative.

It’s a shock. My eyes are opening to new perspective, I’ve learned something that I wish wasn’t true. Grief isn’t just surrounding death. It’s surrounding losing a part of yourself or the world you knew and accepting that it’s different now and that’s uncomfortable. Twice this week I have been told “You don’t deserve to feel this way because you would never treat people this way.” And that has been sobering to hear- that not everyone is out there looking out for others. Some people are out there only looking after themselves, sometimes through the use of others. I didn’t want to believe that, not truly- I still don’t, but I sit here and I grieve the understanding of this knowledge. Almost, a loss of innocence- something that everyone seems to love about me. Have I let everyone down somehow?

Despite what you might think, I don’t enjoy sharing this. It scares me shitless to admit that I am struggling, I’m scared. I have no comfort in knowing that I’m going to be going through this process for the next however-long until very slowly it gets smaller and smaller- never dissolves because grief changes you, but gets smaller. You are a different person before and after. I sometimes worry that people must think I look for trouble- I promise I don’t. Although it seems like every five minutes I’m dealing with something new and terrifying, I promise I’m not looking for reasons to garner sympathy or attention. I would love to not feel this way. As a person who works to honour the work that her parents, several counsellors, family members, friends, mentors and herself has done to get her to a stable place- I am devastated and a little defeated. I am done thinking the rules are different for me just because of what I have already been through. and FEK does it show me how human I am. I have received the biggest love and support from so many people in my life both old friends and very new- that I am in complete shock. It would seem that I am worth taking off my little scholar’s hat and letting my wee heart hurt a bit while all these teddy-bears surround me with ENDLESS streams of furry love.

Call me dramatic and overreacting and I will ask you “who hurt you?” because empathy is what teaches us to respect others pain, no matter how small it may seem. Even now I’m being cryptic and unspecific because I think it’s so unworthy. One day I’ll be able to say ‘XYZ’ happened and it made me uncomfortable…today is not that day, today is day one…again. It is also day four, because as of Wednesday, I have accepted that I am grieving and that is an achievement in itself. I am fully aware that there may be a pack of hyena’s racing to my door to say “get over it you little whingey ginger, there are people who have it much worse than you.” You can bet your ass that I will be praying for those hyenas like I do every night and every morning when I feel the weight of this world’s pain and remember that I’m a little less than capable of loving to my full capacity right now.

Already, I feel strangely liberated to have been able to say that I’m scared and sick and tired but I’m about to take my pretty ginger mop out and celebrate some love today because it happens to be my favourite thing in the universe- love I mean. And as I am learning, love is a part of grief and it comes with you wherever you go.

Here I go

-Curlsmeetsworld

The Sun and the Boy Icarus

Careful now, Icarus, the sun burns brightly for you, but she burns with truth

And though your wings, like your words are beautiful they both are false

She doesn’t glow simply to keep you warm, however much you flatter yourself a god, you will turn to myth if you continue to fly only for the love of your own waxen wings

Leave her be if you can’t embrace her glow, she will see right through you and love you anyway

But don’t bring your falseness to her face or the ocean will catch your melted mimicry of something you never believed in

And the sun cannot swim to save you

Curls Meets Letting Go…a Little Bit

 

A note I wrote to mama when I used to go week-to-week between my parent’s houses. It would seem she ‘neva’ threw it away.

One vacuum sealed bag of clothes, 2 shoe-boxes of photographs and her eyes. This is the summary of what I have kept of my mother’s belongings.

Inheriting your mother’s entire inventory is not something I really considered before the age of fourteen. Weighing up what will be missed and what is unimportant was one of the most taxing tasks I have ever undertaken. 7 years later and I am still filtering through those belongings slowly allowing myself to be ready to set some of them free.

My sweet mother was a sentimental being. She kept everything that reminded her of a good time in her life whether it be a simple Christmas card from a friend, a newspaper clipping of a significant event like the death of princess Diana or even a scrap piece of paper which one of her children had written a note on for her.  I inherited this trait for sure. I’m an avid collector of memories with a penchant for holding on a little too long.

The slow culmination of all these things was beginning to make me feel unwell. I would look around my room and feel suffocated by the extent to which the walls were covered, every nook had something in it taking up space and the things I loved most were packed tight underneath boxes in my wardrobe, not being enjoyed as they should be.

The cleanse really kicked off when I returned from a Michael Buble concert this summer with a poster that my sister had ripped off a street corner for me. I looked around my room and thought “where the fek am I going to put this?” My room was genuinely littered with rubbish, piles of clothes on the floor, dust coated various shelves and window-sills because I couldn’t get to things to clean them. I was embarrassed to show people my room, overwhelmed by the fact that nothing had a place where it fit, worried about people coming into my ‘mess.’ That was the last straw for me. The thought that I may end up in one of those ‘intervention’ scenarios where a professional psychologist and a group of cleaners comes in to pick through all of your stuff and ask you why you need to be keeping that scholastic puppy-dog poster of academic doggos wearing glasses was just too much for me to comprehend. I could do this myself, there was plenty that I was ready to let go of and not even remember owning. But then there was mama’s memories and I didn’t know if I was quite ready to be dealing with that.
There are some things that I still haven’t brought myself to part with. I have a small, red analogue alarm clock that has never worked, a pair of Minnie-mouse pyjama pants and Minnie-mouse socks which no longer fit. All three are in my room folded neatly and tucked away they were the last birthday present she sent me before she died. I hold similar feelings about my Justin Bieber Autobiography which she bought me when I was 11 for Christmas. I have long-since disposed of my various embarrassingly large inventory of #belieber memorabilia, but I cannot part with this book. As a single mother, mum struggled a bit with money- it was a constant stress for her despite the support she received. I remember the book being about $40 at the time and she was hesitant to buy it because she wasn’t all that keen on the beebs and $40 was a bit steep for her at the time. Nevertheless I opened that book on Christmas eve- our Polish tradition and sat reading it til morning. I haven’t opened it since closing it the first time and I probably never will, however, part of me feels like I owe it to mama to hold onto the book she paid a lot of money for.

It’s ‘100% official’ guys, too valuable to part with…surely?

There are many things of Mama’s that I use in daily life for instance- her clothing. I am fortunate enough to be the exact size and shape to fit most if-not all of her clothes. When I was 16 I wore her heavy-beaded black gown and matching shall to my year 12 ball. I felt a million dollars and didn’t pay a cent! I use her sewing machine regularly to create my own semi-masterpieces which granted are threadbare and wonky but it makes me feel closer to my lineage as a third-generation seamstress (even if I am a bit of a fraud). So it’s not all just ‘taking up space.’

But during my clean-up I came to the things that mama was holding on to. Things that I had realized, I was carrying for her- carrying for a person who would not be back to collect them. These were things like our baby-clothes and toys we would have played with when we were small. I assume that Babcia Olenka (Grandma Aleks) as she would have been called if she lived to be a grandmother, was holding onto these to one day give to myself and my siblings if we should ever have children. Either that, or she was very nostalgic for being a young-mother. In truth, it’s probably a bit of both. But nevertheless, regardless of the fact that I would very much like to have children when I am older, I cannot be carrying around a box of baby-clothes as a sort of collateral for the next however many years it may take before that dream is realized. So I have moved them on. This felt a little like a small betrayal. As if by getting rid of something my mother had wanted to keep for the future, I was somehow leaving her behind and refusing her to be a part of my future. But at this time in my life I felt it was necessary for me to be making room for the things that I want in my life and releasing the weight of someone else’s dreams which would, as sad as it is, never be realized.  I have kept one small outfit- my mother’s traditional polish-gypsy-wear, handmade by her own mother which I think is a happy compromise should I ever be lucky to love my own little girl as much as my mother loved me.

Surprise, surprise, I have now started crying as I write this. I have done so well up until now to write these things so matter-of-factly but it would seem that as stoic as I have tried to be about moving things on seven years later, it still hits home. I remember my father, who lost his own mother rather young, saying in the days after we found out mum had passed

“It never goes away, but it gets easier. I promise it gets easier”

He’s right, I hurt every day when I wake up and remember that it wasn’t a dream, but the ache is dull now. I don’t go to bed every night and cry as I did for a year, looking around at all the many things that used to have a home in her house looking awkward and disjointed in my room because I, a fourteen year old girl, didn’t have the room to carry them- nor the heart to part with them. I now have my own sanctuary, tidy and peaceful yet bursting with color, full of things from my own adventures.

I love my mama still, I carry her essence with me and all her love and magic which I keep in my eyes- the same grey-green of her own. I keep finding new photographs of her when she was my age and I think of this version of her that I never knew, the version of myself that I am today. So I’ve started taking more photos of myself, asking people to share their photos of me so that I can have  my own photo box to show my children, grandchildren, nieces or nephews. They can read all of my diaries and journals, wear my clothes and shoes if they want, play my songs that I wrote when I was 12 on scrap pieces of paper. The point is that when I should pass, people may keep what they want of me but I don’t expect them to forget just because they can’t handle carting around my 10 Michael Buble CDs.

7 years ago today I lost a mother and inherited a lifetime of belongings. What I also inherited was a changed perspective, a community of people who continue to love and support me and a heart so big that it wants to share all the hard parts to make sure we all feel a little less alone. I am grateful for all of this.

-Curlsmeetsworld

Curls Meets the Birds and the Bees

 

Spotted this stack of erotic fiction in a second-hand store and couldn’t help laughing at the irony

Make no mistake, I am nothing but uncomfortable writing this but I feel it’s necessary.

If I had a ‘vlog’ channel, I might let off a party-popper (an eco-friendly one of course) while I awkwardly celebrate what is for me, a huge and frightening realisation.

Before I begin, I’d like to make it absolutely clear that the views expressed in this article are completely my own and I am in no way suggesting that there is one right way to view this topic. All I am trying to achieve through this is greater understanding, in the hope that it might bring encouragement to others who feel similarly. I don’t intend to make anyone feel any guilt or shame for their choices or preferences, goodness knows I have felt enough of that shame and discomfort myself by holding the view that I have.

Here we go Flo, deep breath

I’m asexual.

Lots of people assume that because I’m a christian- it’s a ‘no sex before marriage’ thing. But it’s actually more than that. Ever since I can remember, it has been an issue for me. My sister and I used to watch romantic comedies and often the couple would have a one-night stand or would sleep together after the first date and I would just be so perplexed by it. Like, is it compulsory? They just met, how do they know they like each other that much? I don’t know.

I’m certainly no expert, and I’ll be the first to put my hand up and admit that my experience is limited. So how can I know that I’m asexual? A series of events have led me to this realisation, one of which being that I recently watched Youtuber Anthony Padilla sit down with a group of people who identify as ‘asexual’ and ask them questions about how they identify. The first thing that struck me was that Asexuality is a spectrum. As a person who generally thinks in absolutes (I work very hard to keep an open mind but I amaze myself at how blind I can be), this was quite the shock for me.

It might help those who know me to understand that I am in the ‘Gray A’ category. I’m not completely opposed to the idea, but there is definite fear, and repulsion and almost a complete lack of desire in that arena. I’ll leave a link to a diagram below for those who want to explore this idea themselves for better understanding. I’m perfectly capable of falling head over heels for people. But what draws me to them is their character, their words, the way they view the world and their place in it- not what they can offer me physically. The way I see it, I’ve lived my whole life without it and haven’t ever felt the need for it, I’m not about to make it a requirement.

I remember I once told someone how I felt about sex and they said “well that is going to significantly narrow your dating pool.” And sadly, they were right and it has, in fact, directly affected the way I have been able to relate to people. If someone can tell you gently that  it isn’t for everyone, that there are going to be people in the world who don’t understand you or the way that you feel, then I will be that person. It’s going to shock you either way I’m sorry to say, but I hope this softens the blow. HOWEVER, there are many, many, many people who will have no trouble respecting your way of being. I recently told my sister and the conversation went a little like this

“Yeah, so I think I’m finally able to acknowledge it but, I think I’m Asexual”

“Yeah I think I’ve always known that about you. I could really go for some sour lollies right now”

To the right people, the ones who truly know you, you’re choices don’t make you any different, nor do they make you any less loveable. You, owning your feelings and giving yourself an explanation as to why you feel the way you do, is not for anyone to challenge. If you’re afraid to say it out loud because it has had a way of separating you from people, I am so sorry to hear that. But I recently had to sit down with my dad after going through something really difficult that made me feel like less-than enough and he said to me without me having to explain “Flo, I’ve always known that you are a certain way and you hold things in a certain way that lots of people you’re age don’t and I want you to know that that’s okay and there are people like you.” I’ve mentioned this before- the ‘people like you’ bit really sticks with me. And I think it’s because when I look around, everyone I know seems to be comfortable to talk about sex, to make lots of jokes about it and to talk about it candidly. I wish, I truly wish that I was not repulsed by it. But I am. It scares me.

I’ve wondered what it is that makes me this way, tried to understand if something affected me early on in life etc etc, but I don’t think it would explain anything. I’ve spent countless nights wondering what the fek is wrong with me. I no longer need to understand, but it’s time for me to accept.

If you’re a person who’s all good with the idea then well done! By all means, carry on as you were, all you’ve done is tapped into a genuine human-biorhythm like many people have for centuries. I commend you, I really do and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being okay with it. I’ve just come to a point where I need to acknowledge that my mind isn’t changing at the moment and I can’t promise if or when it will change. But that doesn’t make me broken. In fact, trying to change my mind and get on board with the way other people talk about it just makes me feel worse.

I want to make it clear that I don’t think sex is a shameful thing. I think it can be a beautiful way to express and to relate and it’s how LIFE IS CREATED WHICH IS SO SO SO BEAUTIFUL. But there are many, many, many views on this subject and I just wanted to make sure that this one was represented so as to help people feel a little less lonely who are sitting in my boat with me, watching all the couples float upstream while you have two perfectly good oars but you can’t bring yourself to put them in the water.

Since finding all this out, I have felt liberated, relaxed, relieved and a little less-alone and strange. I’ve managed to tell close friends and family without flinching which just shows how comfortable I have become with this wee thing about myself. It’s become another sort of little inside joke between me and my pals. I’ll often ask my ‘work-mum’ if I’m allowed to have a baby because I melt every time a cute little kid comes through the store. She playfully replies “uh sweetie, you know what you have to do to get a baby right?” Ahhh G, the irony is not lost on me. Granted it has been difficult, I did cry about it for the first time the other day when I told my best-friend. I’m still struggling to tell myself that there isn’t anything wrong with me, and that I’ll be okay. I think I’ve tried so hard to change and deny myself the right to be who I am that it’s a little strange to finally sit in my own skin and know I’m not the only one.

As always, I’m not looking for praise or for attention or sympathy etc. I’m trying to be vulnerable and transparent because it’s not worth being ashamed of and I have hope that it’s going to help somehow. Here it is.

So I’m going to sign off and wish everyone a happy valentine’s day for tomorrow. Seriously, love is so cute it’s disgusting. And now I’m going to go and sleep in my new double bed which is perfect for all the sex I’m not going to have.

-curlsmeetsworld

 

click here for a diagram on the Asexuality Spectrum

click here to watch Anthony Padilla’s Interview

 

Curls Meets Sh*t, Meets Fan

Picture this. I’m dressed all in white, fresh and pure as a spring daisy, my face to the glowing sunshine, soaking up all her warmth. Pure, unadulterated happiness.

And that’s when it happens. It starts its ascent to the heavens, hurtling faster and faster every millisecond to its destiny. You open your mouth to tell Grandma not to turn up the dial, but it’s too late, the summer heat is too much for her 76 year old frame, she needs airflow, the fan is now primed at full speed ready for the most catastrophic collision of the year.

The shit…hath Hitteth…the fan

It’s okay grandma, you couldn’t have known.

There I was, a spring daisy, pure and perfect, optimism as endless as the Brexit negotiations and completely covered in shit I did nothing to earn. The way I saw it, I only had one option, to roll myself in some glitter and be gloriously happy anyway.

Obviously I’m not referring to any real shit and it’s not often you’ll catch me in monochrome colours anyway but in a roundabout way, I’m trying to say that just before Christmas and then again shortly after Christmas and then of course because things happen in threes, shortly after my birthday, the shit hit the fan and it hurt…bad. And with all good intentions, I pretended it didn’t.

I have a problem with believing in things a little too much. Believing that people mean what they say even when they are teasing or joking, but especially when they are answering a heavy question that you want an honest answer to. Believing that I’m strong enough to handle hurt quickly and quietly. Believing that I am responsible for all of the bad that comes my way.

Naturally, my father tells me I’m being too hard on myself. Naturally, I tell him that I really, really wish I knew how to stop. I like to believe that I have a firm grip on the reigns of this sweet little romantic carriage I have been driving for the past 21 years. But when I look down, in my hands are venomous snakes, the carriage is made of matchsticks, the road is paved in gasoline and we are headed straight into the sun, preparing to combust in a glorious inferno. Hmmm, I think, maybe this isn’t so fine. I think the main thing to take note of here is that I’m not in control of what I have in my hands. I didn’t ask for the snakes (sorry little dudes) or the carriage made of matchsticks. And, as much as I love the sun, I’m a pasty redhead so I tend to avoid it rather than sabotage myself to it. But alas, sometimes these things find their way to you no matter how careful you have been.

I wish I could say I was wiser, that I knew how to not let people pull the wool over my eyes. This, I have learned is a bit of a flaw of mine. The word ‘naive’ springs to mind and sticks very firmly to the inside of my chest, tightening like a cable-tie, the only way to loosen it is to cut it out. I’m not proud of entertaining this thought. The thought that I could be ‘naive’ for thinking that people mean what they say when they say it to you, that if things should change, you’ll get fair warning. But it would seem that I am.

I’ve been trying to kick the sad-buzz that I’ve been coasting on for a while now but I don’t seem to be going anywhere fast. I’ve been putting effort into making beautiful things, making myself feel beautiful, catching up with friends, talking about what went wrong, processing the situation over and over, forgiving myself again and again and again. So why am I not okay yet? If I’m trying my best to be okay, why isn’t it working? Also, why am I so bloody exhausted, I’m trying to be joyful, joyfulness is supposed to be a good thing right? How do I fix the mistakes I made that must have been responsible for leading me here?

Dad: “ahem-hem. Stop Trying”

Me, through raspy breaths and tears falling down my cheeks into my mouth: “does that mean…oh god…I don’t know why I need permission for this but…does that mean I don’t have to be over it yet?”

Dad: “Of course not”

The thing I find most upsetting about this, is that I felt I needed the permission of someone else to tell me that it was okay for me to still be hurt by this, to not be over something that felt big to me. And I have to be honest and say that it breaks my heart to think that there must be others out there who have the same problem. If something is big to you, it is big to you, don’t let anyone tell you not to take it so seriously. Perhaps a nicer way to hear it might be “yes this is big, but it will be okay.”

Of course it hurts honey, it’s heart-break. And no amount of glitter is going to fix that, sometimes shit happens and it’s not your fault and you don’t have to explain away any feelings or misery you may be holding. People want you to be better, but in your own time. Stop holding yourself accountable for everything.

To be honest, the reason I am writing this now is because I’ve been learning to laugh at things that hurt a little more. I mean there are only so many times a girl can cry at cherry tomatoes in the supermarket while she listens to Joni Mitchell singing “Both Sides Now” before she realises the hilarity of the situation. Doesn’t make it hurt any less, but it is a small victory telling me that I’m getting a little better. I caught up with an old friend today and as we were talking about something really painful from my past he said abruptly and bluntly “yeah, that was just a prolonged mess.” My laugh exploded through the cafe. Noise-control was alerted to the scene with a suspected case of hooliganry involving a chalkboard being accosted by an over-excited seal wearing a jacket made of nails- it was just my laugh. Four years ago, the situation in question had caused me no end of grief, but today in plain terms, the two words “prolonged mess” allowed me to laugh. Sometimes bizarre and unfair things happen to you and one day you get to be released from them with all the delight of a dancing seal in a spiky-jacket. I cannot WAIT to laugh about this one day, even if it takes me four years.

The fact of the matter is that life truly is as bizarre. Some days, your ten year old sister is chasing your down the hall, tailing on your Birkenstocks calling you a ‘VSKO-girl’ -which you will hate, but you’ll live through it to fight another day. A day when she’ll be sitting across from you at the dining-room table with socks on her ears and goggles on her face, staring you down. That’s joy. Joy in the little things. I didn’t have to force that in any way, shape or form.

I call to memory earlier today as I despaired at the sight of myself looking as deranged as Cathy calling for Heathcliff on the moors as I called out to my runaway dog on the street- only not as romantic as Cathy with a Singapore airlines toothbrush in one hand (I was in the middle of scrubbing the grout in the bathroom), my hair in a messy bun and barefoot. And although I’ve never read the book, I’m pretty sure Heathcliff was not a 6kg fox-terrier with fish-breath. I allowed myself to laugh at the situation, drop my socks and toohtbrush to the ground, lift my arms to the wind in reckless abandon and say “this is utterly ridiculous and I had NOTHING to do with it.”

Note to Flora: life is nonsensical. Picture the next line being read through pursed lips and my eyes slitted tight like I have conjunctivitis “get over it”. But in your OWN time sweetness.

-Curlsmeetsworld

Curlsmeets 2020 vision

“2019 can kiss my a**” is a thought that passed through my head today. I’m sure I’m not the only one who might have felt this way. The irony is that I don’t truly believe it. A year of shitty things isn’t really anyone’s fault. It really just serves as one of the many badges of human existence.
I won’t bother filling you in on all the details of what has been both an exhausting and exhilarating year, you don’t need to know me to understand that it’s difficult to be a human on this planet along with the other 7billionish other souls who are struggling to varying degrees. Everyone learns different lessons at different times, here is the unofficial “Curlsmeetsworld 2019 Highlights reel”

JUST DO THE F**KING THING
I’m really trying to tread peacefully and gracefully, with minimal impact on those around me unless they invite it. I don’t really like to force my way into things when it might affect other people. But to be invited and reject the oppotunity out of fear of inadequacy is something different. “Self-sabotage is not cute” is something I have been trying to tell myself for a while now. I can’t say that it has worked every time but it has allowed me some really sweet growing moments where I finally allow myself the opportunity to be happy.

I know things, even if I don’t KNOW things
Something I wish I had listened to when I was younger is not to mistake innocence for inexperience. I maybe wouldn’t have worked so hard not to feel different from everyone. If you are like me then I want you to know that your sweet and soulful, innocent self deserves the respect of being allowed to be assertive once in a while. Just because you choose not to know things that everyone else knows, doesn’t mean you aren’t as wise. In some ways, you have more wisdom for protecting yourself. In short, you shouldn’t have to change the essence of who you are to earn the respect of others. You are ENOUGH, more than enough as you are and if people choose not to see that then I encourage you to stop looking to them to understand you. My dad said to me recently “out there, there are people like you” and I breathed a massive sigh of relief because he is right, I cannot possibly be the only one. This applies to more than just “people like me.” We all have our own category of “people like us” and it is our duty to try to understand all of these categories but that doesn’t mean we need allllllll of these people in every corner of our lives. I’m a believer in loving all people, even if that means from a distance. The ones who understand you won’t ask much of you and that is a rare and splendiferous (can you believe that is a real word) thing.

Life’s full of tough choices, ain’t it -Ursula, sea witch, queen, fashion icon (1989)
I have decided to stop looking at the life like it’s some out of control merry-go-round, a sort of “stop the world I want to get off” scenario. The innate mystery of life only has half of a hand in the way things are. The rest of the time, we are dealing with each other’s choices. That’s all we are up to, a bunch of wobbly noodles flailing about and trying to make the best choice possible at the time. Whether it’s to protect themselves, their loved-ones or even because they think they are protecting you, we are all about choices that no two people are ever going to view in the same way. That’s not to say that we have to agree with everyone’s choices or that we can’t be hurt when they immediately affect us. By all means, grieve, get mad, recognise what it is that you don’t agree with. But from then on, it’s your choice what you do with all of that.
“Shit can’t run uphill, that’s why we climb” this is something that my brother-in-law quickly and wittily came up with recently and I swear that NOTHING has made quite so much sense to me across this whole year (complete exaggeration please forgive me). Being shat on is one thing, sitting in the shit is a completely different ball-game. You have a choice to move, I’m daring you to.

Losing sucks
Sometimes we have to grieve our quiet dreams. Christmas night I grieved the loss of a dear friend of mine who showed me the love of a grandmother, she’s also one of the many female role-models I looked to in order to learn the different strengths of a woman. I will miss her dearly but she is a reminder of all of the light we leave behind in those who knew us. I’m grieving the dream of my mother being here for my 21st birthday in less than a week, a love that didn’t go anywhere, and on behalf of several people my heart grieves for their pain too. All this pain, I have chosen to pour out into light, to cherish the joy that I will receive tomorrow and into the year ahead. To make sure my words mean something and that for the people who came before me, I may be a testament to what they wanted for me. Love and ladybugs to my Nanny and Granda. Kocham cie babcia i dziadka i mamie.

In short (like the girl writing this)
The reality is that a new year comes around every day. If you want to tie 2019 up in a neat little bow tonight and call that a fresh start, I completely respect that but if you get to a week or a month in and you feel like you’ve ruined it all, I encourage you to start your new year over again. It is never too late to change your mind, you don’t need an excuse or a “get out of jail free card” (monopoly, please don’t sue me), all you really need is enough love for yourself and for others to live the life you want to be living. Just maybe go about it all mindfully- not timidly, but mindfully of who your actions affect and how you can minimise the pain incurred without that annoying little thing called ‘self-sabotage’ which will keep you rooted in one place forever watching the world go by. 

My favourite thing about me is that I am resilient. That doesn’t mean that bad stuff doesn’t hurt me, it just means I have done the work required that when crisis hits, I know how to move ahead and who to go to with complete faith in myself that I will come out the other side. I am my own haven. I am giving a gentle and loving nudge (literally all my love is in this nudge) to encourage you to do the same. If you haven’t quite figured out how to be okay, if you’re tired and timid and you are ready to stand up out of the shit hill and start climbing, now is your new year and every day after that as it gets easier is your new year.
You’re forever blooming. Sweetheart, don’t stop now.

-Curlsmeetsworld

Susie

She was car polish, coffee and sunflowers. A glint in glass frames, and a heart with love enough for me and all who she held under that motherly wing. More than she had to be and carrying it all with the grace and joy of a woman with purpose.

Another reminder of the light we leave behind

A Quiet and Final End

I spend a lot of time trying to cut the thorns off roses
Trying to make possible of the impossible
Reading the page another three times just to see if I can find the meaning I want inside it

Looking for something within you that I now see was never there

Curls Meets Marge

The black cloud descends.

We’ll call her Marge because I think Marge is a funny name for a depressive black cloud. Sorry to ‘Marges’, I don’t think your name is funny nor do I think you are a depressive black cloud, it was only that it was the first name that came to my head that I chose it.

Anyway, the black cloud descends.

She is hungry and demands food to feed the pain. Marge is never satisfied and whatever she eats, she eventually uses against me to make me feel guilty for not looking after myself.

Marge is mean. She points fingers at me and laughs as she reminds me of all of the embarrassing things I did today and how they are actually FAR WORSE than I could imagine and EVERYONE important saw them. Marge is a bit of a bitch.

Marge gets jealous. She doesn’t want me to go out with my friends. She would rather I sit at home in the fetal position and listen to her go on about everything that’s wrong with me. How I’ll probably get as sick as my mum, how no-one will be able to love me while she’s around, how I’m never going to be good enough or pretty enough…whatever that means.

When I do go out, Marge likes to keep me to herself. She likes to tell me that I don’t fit in with these people and I’m not good enough to even tie their shoelaces (if they had any in these pictures that is), let alone be their friends. Marge has cost me many great adventures and opportunities I wish I could get back.

Sometimes I wonder if life exists outside of Marge, she sometimes makes me feel like it doesn’t. Sometimes Marge comes by when I’m listening to a song that makes me think of a sad time. She stays long after it has finished.

She makes me tired, so tired I can disappear into my room for days, just lying there, not doing much, not feeling like I’m worth the thought of doing much.

Sometimes when Marge visits, I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone she’s here. I try to wash her off with three, sometimes four showers a day. Just desperately trying to wash her off my back.

I can be a different person when Marge visits. Like I’ve lost every good bit of me and I just stand there blankly.

I know Marge very well by now. It took me a while to recognise her but eventually it became clear that she was going to be a recurring visitor. Sometimes all I have to do is just close the door on her face. Sometimes she can take a little more convincing. I don’t want her to get too comfortable in my life but I need to acknowledge that she’s here and she can make me do things or feel things that aren’t so helpful to myself or the people I love.

When I started introducing Marge to people, I was surprised by how unphased they were. They didn’t think any less of me because of my little beast, in fact they were concerned for me and were relieved to know that I was going to be okay and there was a way to get help. At first, I was afraid because I didn’t know if anyone was going to understand. Until someone told me about their black cloud ‘Tony’ and I met someone else who had a cloud named ‘Fiona’ and another person who had something called a ‘Loretta.’ Ooooh Loretta could hide very well indeed.

I think more of us have black clouds than we might realise. But they don’t tend to like it when we start talking about them and finding ways together to be okay without them hanging over us. After some strategy, care and time, they tend to rain themselves out until someday they finally disappear altogether, or at least for a while.

I know what Marge looks like now. Sometimes she tries to disguise herself but I’ve gotten pretty good at knowing when she’s here and I know a little more about the importance of looking her square in the eye and telling her as many times as I have to and in as many ways as necessary to ‘Go Away.’

I’ve kicked Marge out a few times now but she keeps coming back, sometimes only coming in for small visits, but still for long enough to hurt.

It’s okay, your black cloud makes you a little different but it doesn’t make you worth any less. You are not weird or strange or worthless or anything else that it tries to tell you. You are struggling and from the bottom of my heart, I truly wish you didn’t have to. But please hang in there, it’s going to be okay, please reach out and know you’re not alone., please don’t think that you were born to live under a black cloud. We all have these dark days but things have a way of coming right when we look them in the eye and see them for what they are. If you need to hear something tonight then this is for you;

There is nothing you can do that will make you unworthy of being loved.
There is goodness in everyone and that means you too
There is no shame in asking for help
You belong here

With love and courage from me and all that my shitty black cloud has taught me

-Curlsmeetsworld