All posts for the month March, 2013


Published March 31, 2013 by 51percentawesome

When I was a little girl, I always wanted to be able to play the piano.

My little sister can play the piano. The grand piano. My daddy bought it for her.

When I was a little girl, I wanted a mum who would pick me up on time, before it got dark.

My little sister was never forgotten.

A boy who was my equal and wouldn’t break my heart. My dad under my roof. Safe and stable interactions. Family friends barbecues. A place.

Things she can take for granted, and I don’t understand how this can be so.

Clean floor, a GHD hair straighter. Fitting in. A simple life, simple ambitions. Mainstream values, mainstreams desires.

Sometimes I feel like she honestly hates me, and I just do not understand, how this could be so.

I caught the bus through university. Years later I bought a car, which I then sold to my dad for my little sister.


I’ve heard this is common. Each time, though, it feels like a new slap, a new reminder, something not passing but ever-present.



Published March 31, 2013 by 51percentawesome

My grandmother is 83. Today she told me four times that I’ve always been a healthy eater. The first time I replied that no, I used to eat atrociously, and doesn’t she remember me eating all the rice pudding at Christmas?

We drive along a pitted road; me gripping the wheel and wishing I felt like talking to her, though not fervently enough to try. I hear her recount the boys removing her roses when they were renovating her house to sell it. Not surprising, this story follows her musing that she might sell her car, seen as someone else is always driving her. Not because she’s old, but because she has chosen a life of dependency.

I feel like the life has drained out of me. I want to lay on the floor. At the nursing home, pop stares straight ahead and ignores the woman who has sat on the couch and cried, and come here to give him her eggs. I have no desire to comfort either of them, and I regret the insinuation that I ought to. You make your bed and lie uncomfortably, old, forgetful, and wondering where your life went.

The toilet smells like shit. The door won’t lock. My grandfather doesn’t listen to what I say, but that’s got nothing to do with old age either.

On the table are chips, lollies, easter eggs. I’ll be right, thanks.

Where is my compassion? Left it at home with my fresh fruit and vegetables.


Published March 27, 2013 by 51percentawesome

Oh sun; why art thou hast forsaken me? Were not our days together long and joyous? Did you not kiss my skin again and again with every passing hour? Do you not know how happy I am wont to be with you?

Oh glorious sun; why art thou hath deserted me? Was not your constant presence a promise of happier times to come? Could you not, like I, envision endless days of the same? Do you not know the depth of the ache of my longing for you?

Beloved sun. Every cell of my being misses you. With every breath i yearn for your presence, like no other. With every parting, our time together grows shorter, and I know not a greater sorrow.

Farewelling you, I await with baited breath your return. I am but a shell of a woman, enduring the darkness of your absence. No other can complete me. I remain faithfully yours,



Published March 24, 2013 by 51percentawesome

Wide-awake. Fast beating heart. Aching shoulders, uncomfortable stomach. Stabby heart.

What the fuuuuuuuck.

Spent hours sitting on a brick wall talking about psychology, yoga, weights, diet, hormones. Danced. Kissed.

He wants a date. I don’t want a fucking date. The last thing I fucking need is a date. The thought of a date distresses me enough to keep me awake.

I am waiting for a reply from not one, not two, but three of my ex-boyfriends. A newspaper article arrived in the mail from one of them today, no return address. Another has gone vegetarian. And the other, and only…

I can’t sleep when I am alone in my bed. How do you boys expect either of us to get rest, with you and your troubles in here as well? The slight hint of anything that might happen directly implicating me, and I am wide awake. Let alone an incomplete deadline. Or someone wanting a date. OR three ex-boyfriends holding their piece.

A friend is over from Perth. I want to see her. I should see her. Add it to the list of things keeping me awake, the thought that I’m a bad fucking person because I never see anyone because I am a workaholic running to my own fucking hours. A shift-worker would be more regular.

My sisters hen’s night was tonight. Sweet jesus.

I’m 25, and that’s no big deal, except he’s 21 and couldn’t possibly grasp the width and depth of that gaping abyss between now and when I was 21. Boys my age can’t handle me. How are you going to?


I think I’m gonna cut my hair.


Published March 21, 2013 by 51percentawesome

yesterday i felt the chill move in. today, for the first time, the dark is longer than the light. the time for moving inwards has begun, and the ache has returned.

reality check

Published March 17, 2013 by 51percentawesome

Slinky strapless black. Strappy heels. Marilyn monroe hair. Smile plastered on.

Vodka and sugar and strawberries on ice. Vodka on ice. Someones rum. A bottle of red.

Cute boy. Surprisingly intelligent, and gentle. Nothing is lost.

Waking at 8am, blurry eyes and spinning room. Sitting fragile.

Hours later, nausea, nap, puking. Riding the porcelain express; this is the first time I regret it.

Rewind. Getting up at 1pm, heading bleary-eyed into the kitchen. Doing the dishes. Sorting through the the fridge for what needs cooking. Cooking through the list. Navigating many other people in my space. Cleaning. Listening to the voice saying my camera isn’t good enough, my presentation is dodgy, my recipes are inaccurate. Holding off rising panic as deadlines come and go. Pulling my attention back to the food; Do not burn it, find a better dish, do not spill it, you need better garnish. Taking my mat to the hill as the sunsets; pushing my body further and deeper into repetitions of downward dogs. Returning back to the kitchen with a sense of relief as the kitchen empties; feeling my imperfection less acutely. Cleaning more as 10:30 comes and goes. Packing up around midnight. Sitting in the shower, aching heels. Memory card in computer, review, insert, upload. Write and edit paragraphs. Mindless internet browsing. Laying down, maybe sleeping. Hands on chest and belly, waiting for the pounding solar plexus to subside.

And repeat.

The pressure builds and I don’t know how to release it. No sex. No drugs. No money.

Turns out that self-acceptance is the absence, of something. Something that goes away when you obliterate your senses. It doesn’t feel bad. It feels freeing, like it makes you able to outrun the dogs snapping at your heels. Like the mushroom boost on mario cart.

I woke up naked. I don’t remember getting undressed. My housemates drink and smoke all day, every day. And they said to me ‘that’s brain damage. I always stop before I get to that point’. Nausea rising.

My mother was, is, a raging alcoholic. My mothers mother was an alcoholic, with slightly less rage. If you asked my friends, they’d tell you I don’t drink. But if you stuck around long enough, you’d notice annual festivities of excess. Usually I find that amusing. The trail of broken/lost phones, forgotten kisses and morning fragility is like christmas, coming irregularly enough to live the rest of the year in denial of the horror.

Brain damage.

‘The belly is at the centre of the immune system. Healthy happy belly, healthy happy everything’.

My stomach is decimated.

‘Refined sugar is a nutritional minus one. In the absence of the buffering affects of fibre, the body struggles to manage…’.

Nausea rising.

Aching feet

Published March 14, 2013 by 51percentawesome

A while ago, a shaman put her hands on my shoulders. The first thing she ‘saw’ was a pack of wolves pursuing me. Then, a man with a scalpel cutting open my chest and taking a piece of me.

I am so incredibly tired. A strange and seemingly kind woman keeps trying to make small talk with me, I want to snarl at her and rip her head off; I want her to leave me the fuck alone. I do not have spare energy for her. I spend all day shopping, cooking, cleaning, photographing, writing. Who thinks I have time or energy to emotionally or physically care for them? I do not. There is nothing left over. So don’t ask.