Politics! Religion! Twitter! Things you shouldn’t talk about.

• After watching the second Republican Presidential Candidates debate last week, I think we can definitely rule out Newt Gingrich, Tom Pawlenty (after rather high expectations, he turned out to be a hesitant mess), Herman Cain, Ron Paul, and Rick Buttsex Santorum. Mitt Romney was assured and, dare I say it, Presidential looking — because appearance and looks are almost everything when it comes to the Presidency (although I can’t really explain Richard Nixon). But then he goes and ruins it… The surprise, for me at least, was Michele Bachmann: she didn’t sound the conspiracy-driven crackpot that she usually is… but days later, she’s returned to her old self and all is right in the world again.
• I’ve been staying up late (well, later than usual) in recent weeks. I started watching Big Love from the first season and am currently into the fourth season. I realise now that initially I was unconsciously prepared to dislike the Henrickson family for their Independent Mormon fundamentalists beliefs (or, to put a better way, not their beliefs but for being so foolish to believe such things), which includes the belief of plural marriage (polygamy). I found it reprehensible; now I find it incomprehensible but intriguing and I’ve been a little addicted to reading about personal experiences, like this one. Still don’t think it’s the best lifestyle, like open relationships — but that’s just me. Nevertheless, I could totally dig the idea of polyandry. Oh yeah.
• After quitting Twitter (yes, again) over a month ago, I feel FREE! It’s good to get away from the pettiness, the gossiping, the backstabbing, the lies, and the general bullshit that gets filtered through. People are weird: warm and friendly one minute, cold and aloof the next, and you’re left wondering what the fuck happened, what did you do/didn’t do, say/didn’t say. Of particular distaste is finding out that people were bitching about you – even though they don’t know you, never met you, let alone spoken to you. It’s a strange thing that happened to not just me, but others as well. Like I said, people are weird.

On a different tangent, I know some tweeps would argue that Twitter is a great source of comfort for battling loneliness and depression. I don’t disagree, I found sharing common life stressors with others made me feel less alone (although I always prefer actual human contact, face to face communication). That’s good.

But on the other hand, over and over and over, I would see people getting too attached to the online identities; pre-existing depression and anxiety would increase because of an imagined slight because tone and context is lost in 140 characters. People who flirt with others and were told to cease flirting felt rejected and despondent. And don’t get me started when love affairs go sour… Oh, there were so many scenarios, and I admit that on occasion I felt anxious, that whole “Oh my god, I went too far and now they don’t like me because they’re not replying to me!” or “Was that passive-aggressive tweet about me?” My point is, I often thought quietly to myself, “There are some people who shouldn’t be on Twitter… they’re not coping with it well.” It is a concern and I’d be interested to hear what others have to say.

But those aren’t the reasons I quit Twitter. It was simply because I was getting bored and also noticing my attention and concentration spans had gone to shit. A few years ago, Nicholas Carr, referring to Google in particular but which could be applied to Twitter,  wrote:

I’m not thinking the way I used to think. I can feel it most strongly when I’m reading. Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy. My mind would get caught up in the narrative or the turns of the argument, and I’d spend hours strolling through long stretches of prose. That’s rarely the case anymore. Now my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text. The deep reading that used to come naturally has become a struggle.

Bingo. That was exactly what I was experiencing. When studying, I couldn’t concentrate for any longer than 10 minutes before I wanted to “see what was happening on Twitter”. Facebook never bothered me the same way (and someone asked me why. I don’t know why, it just never did). Twitter, I realised, had become an addiction of sorts. I would try shutting down the tab and moving myself to another room, but that was difficult as much of my study is online. When I was on Twitter, I’d be chasing links: listening to YouTube clips that people tweeted, reading links that they posted (even when it wasn’t really a topic I had any particular interest in), following particular hashtag conversations, following other general conversations, and so on.

As Carr notes, this is a widespread phenomenon; many others are experiencing or have experienced this alteration in mental habits. The realisation that I needed to completely quit — since I was incapable of simply shutting down TweetDeck or the tab in which Twitter was open — was the night before an essay was due. Instead, I spent 3 hours following the Marrickville Council debate over the Israeli boycott controversy.

THREE FUCKING HOURS! AND I HAD AN ESSAY DUE THE NEXT DAY! As it was, after the council voted to drop the boycott, the last thing I felt like doing, unsurprisingly, was my essay. I went to bed instead, feeling pissed off and beginning to think it was time to call it a day on Twitter.

So I did.

And that’s why I quit Twitter.

But wait, there’s more.

After I deleted my Twitter account, breaking the automatic response to “see what was happening” was strange and somewhat difficult, but gradually I realised I was starting to read articles and journals for research better — in the sense that I was concentrating easier and without distraction. Even deep thinking about my essays improved, instead of half-arsed thoughts and ideas that I then had to flesh out. Best of all, I’m reading books again. I’ve missed reading the most and it’s been wonderful to sit and read without a wandering mind for a couple of hours at a time.

Meanwhile, Professor David Chalmers, director of the Centre for Consciousness at the Australian National University, recently argued that Google was “actually making us smarter” and “turning us into superheroes of the mind”. I don’t disagree that the internet in general has improved our knowledge. I’ve learnt a lot of things online — but I still wonder how much trivia that I’ve read that I’ve retained. Things come at such speed, have I had the time to absorb that knowledge before I move onto the next piece of information or trivia? Still open to debate (with myself). How about you?

On a final note about Twitter: when I started contacting a few people who I wanted to keep in touch with about my intention to quit and explained briefly why, I was surprised at how often they understood, for they also found they were struggling with the same issue of concentration and attention, to various extents. All along I thought it was just me, thinking I didn’t have enough willpower or focus or some such to concentrate on my studies when required.

• This post took a week to write. What was that about improved concentration and attention spans?

Black hole is irony deficient

Sometimes you read something about conservatives and you are flabbergasted at their ability to be so self-unaware. Irony black holes.

Case in point:

This summer, Jennifer Keeton made news when she sued Augusta State University after the school threatened to expel her from its Counselor Education Program if she could not comply with the American Counseling Association’s Code of Ethics, which prohibits counselors from discriminating based on a number of factors, including gender identity and sexual orientation. Keeton claimed that this was a violation of her religious freedom to oppose gays and so, with the help of the Alliance Defense Fund*, she sued the university.

So, Keeton refuses to comply with a code of ethics because of her homophobia, and made erroneous statements that homosexuality and gender identity are “lifestyle choices”, clearly rendering her unable to be a potentially fit and proper counsellor, not to mention non-judgemental and open-minded as sensibly required. We’ve all heard the stories of horrifying psychological damage done to people struggling with their sexual identity from their religious leaders, families, friends, even doctors. A counsellor with Keeton’s mentality should not be in such a position to inflict prejudice where there should be non-judgemental guidance and counselling.

And don’t get me started on the Alliance Defense Fund, “dedicated to preserving and reclaiming religious freedom. …accomplished through strategic coordination with other like-minded organizations; training Christian attorneys and the future leaders of America; funding key, precedent-setting cases across America; and, when necessary, direct litigation through our in-house team of Christ-centered attorneys.” (My emphasis.)

Need I say more? We remember how Karl Rove and his team harnessed the Christian vote for Dubya. And just because common sense prevailed and Americans voted in Barack Obama (sigh!), don’t think that the Christian Right still aren’t mobilising their “armies” (as this excellent 2006 book demonstrates as well as explains their, huh, philosophy).

Anyway, anyway, I’m digressing. Back to Keeton and the ADF taking on Augusta State University. Now the Ku Klux Klan want to hold a rally in support of Keeton and her action against the University. The imperial wizard knighthawk (chortle) and grand dragon (chortle) of South Carolina and North Carolina reckons they’re “trying to protest the constitutional rights that they are trying to take away from her.”

Um, yeah, OK. Except they’re not doing that, they’re trying to protect vulnerable people from getting damaging counselling help.

But what amuses me is the ADF released a statement on behalf of themselves and Keeton, saying, inter alia:

Jennifer and ADF are disgusted by the KKK and all it stands for… To say more than that or to discuss their activities at length risks bringing more attention to a failed organization that is seeking to exploit news stories for its own purposes… Neither Jennifer nor ADF wish to give the KKK the attention it craves.

The lesson here, kids, is this: racist organisations are very bad. But bigoted Religious Right ideology on homosexuality is OK!

One wrong and one right don’t make … No, hang on, that’s not right. One right and … No … But … They make a good excuse! Or something.

* I especially love the ADF’s title of their post about Keeton’s situation: ” Augusta State Univ. to counseling student: change your beliefs or get out”. Another irony black hole. How tolerant are the Religious Right towards different beliefs? Not much!

Somewhere down in Texas…

Random thoughts:

• You would think that, for me at least, reading my old diary and older posts on this blog would be encouraging and perhaps uplifting, because I’ve come so far. It’s not. It’s fucking depressing! I read back and I’m thinking, “Fucken hell, maybe I should have been or tried to be tougher, stronger, less whiney.” Then I kind of berate myself for being too tough. I have to remind myself that my depression has been very real and that I am still prone to what I call “mini-downs” (because in comparison to the past, they are mini and short-lived episodes of feeling blue). Yet, I can’t help feeling tough on myself. Anyway, I’m sure soon I’ll get over this weird sort of existential crisis or whatever the fuck this is! Just feeling annoyed with myself.

• I realise that there are some people who are just incapable of the old clich: “walking a mile in someone else’s shoes”. Maybe I’m one of them from time to time. It’s just that sometimes trying to make someone understand how you feel or how they make you feel is fucking impossible — and it’s not because you’re not explaining it properly or clearly, but because they can’t step out of their own “me, me, me” mindset and at least consider what the other person is saying and feeling, considering someone else’s perspective.

• I miss my cat. I very nearly bought a puppy the other day. Yes, I know a dog isn’t a cat. I just miss having a little animal to cuddle and care for. Soon. Soon I’ll get a job, a house and have a garden and get a cat and a dog.

• Except first I have put my overseas travel plans back on the agenda. I’ve invested a huge chunk of my tax return so that’s something to be happy about. I’m excited. The name Truth or Consequences in New Mexico enthrals me. It might turn out to be disappointing, but at least I’ve been there. And I want to see someone attempt to eat one of these whilst in Amarillo, Texas.

• Speaking of Texas…

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo…

…and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all.

– Richard Wright, American Hunger

For weeks now, I’ve started writing and only got as far as one sentence or one paragraph. I know what I want to say. I just don’t know how to say it. Every writer and blogger, great and small, stumble on this frustrating writer’s block from time to time.

In my case, it’s been an internal struggle: do I keep on writing about where my head’s at now? This blog started as a therapeutic exercise when I was at my lowest, to spill my confused and hurting thoughts out as I struggled to regain control on my life and my depression and anxiety. It’s not for everyone, but for me writing was a beacon in  the darkness of pain and black fog.

The past few months I’ve realised I’ve come a long way from where I was a year ago. The URL of this blog is A Fresh Start in August, started almost a year ago — it’s been nearly a year since I cracked it from emotional exhaustion, depression and anxiety, and had to learn how to look after myself again and deal with unresolved issues that I’d been carrying around for far too long.

Some time ago, I was asked why I write such a personal blog. It was never a conscious decision. It was never intended to be a woe-is-me blog, seeking validation or attention. I was hesitant about being public but I soon realised that I had to write publicly because it was the only way I was going to be honest with myself.

By being public, I couldn’t whitewash anything this way. I had to be honest because I knew if I started making excuses or diminishing or justifying issues, I would feel like a liar or someone with her head buried in the sand, unwilling to be honest. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to start making excuses and justifying myself to anyone, including strangers. I had this (probably irrational) fear that if I was public, I would be seen as a fibber if I started writing less than honestly. I just felt more compelled to be brutally honest with myself while writing publicly. I don’t know if that makes sense. I don’t really understand why it is so. It just is.

At my wretched moments, I would sit down and just let it flow. I rarely had to stop and think about how I wanted to write something. I hardly ever edited a post once it was written, save for correcting typos. It was all there, out in the open, all my hurt and sadness and despair. When I read back on those earlier posts the other day, it was like reading another person’s pain and misery and I could feel my heart breaking for her. Me.

Wow, that was me. That was when I realised just how far I’ve come. It’s taken nearly a year to reach this stage and I still have the occasional off-days but they’re short-lived. I’ve learnt how to stop dwelling and put things into perspective. There’s no magic cure, other than time. It took time for me to get here and realise that I always have to get perspective when I start becoming too self-centred.

In the past few months, I’ve had some really genuinely happy moments, for no reason at all. If anything, I probably shouldn’t have had much to be happy about: I was single (not that that matters, many single people are very happy, so I’m not sure why I include this point), I have no real assets to speak of, I was returning to Sydney because I had to (another story in itself but not an interesting one), I had no job, and I’d turned 35. Yet, I was happy. Happier than I’d been in years.

I can only suggest that’s because after learning a lot about myself, going to Brisbane and living there for 7 months and a series of incidents while in Brisbane forced me to open up my eyes and examine my behaviour, my reaction to others and how far I am prepared to go when dealing with robust and delicate relationships and acquaintances. I realised that I needed to put up boundaries for my sake and to never lose perspective. I now follow yet another motto:

Don’t make someone your #1 if you’re their #2

Simple steps. Logical steps. Common sense. I lost sight for a long time. I like to think I’m regaining it — or maybe even learning them for the first time.

I think this is why I’ve had trouble finding something to write lately,  because progress has been made. Is it because we’re at our most creative when we’re sad? That’s certainly a common theory.

Even so, I’ve had comments and feedback that have been wonderful and affirming, giving me a different perspective that I’d never have otherwise considered. I didn’t always agree but the beauty of it all was that it made me see things in a different light. I’ve been surprised by the number of people who have contacted me privately to tell me they could relate on some level. Others have told me that my writing has helped them, which has surprised me even more. I don’t know how it could have helped anyone because I was merely writing while I was floundering around in the dark, trying to find my own way. I really don’t understand that, I don’t understand how.

But all of you, every single one of you gave me strength in your own way. Some of you I know very well, others I know not so well — but (cue the maudlin violins) you’ve all helped me in some way.

Thank you.

You talkin’ to me?

We all have memories that pain us to even fleetingly recall. No matter how much we try to suppress a painful memory, it resurfaces — whether often or rarely — and we try to quickly forget it immediately. It would be so nice if painful memories could be erased like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

One of my most painful memories, which I am almost loath to even write about, truth be told, was when I was 14 going on 15. I had started Year 9 at the local public high school where all my friends went to after primary school. I’d spent two miserable years in a private Catholic girls’ school and missed my childhood friends terribly. If I was with friends, I’d be happier, I thought.

Well, things didn’t quite pan out the way I thought they would. I lasted all of six weeks. It was difficult trying to keep up with the girls competitiveness for the boys attention. Students swore at teachers routinely and I was horrified. I didn’t like any of the classes I was in and I definitely didn’t feel like I was learning anything except to be a rude, insolent, swearing bitch.

Which is kind of ironic considering how rude, insolent and potty mouthed I am these days.

Anyway, I ended up returning to my private Catholic girls school and this time I enjoyed it a little bit more, having realised the grass wasn’t always greener on the other side. *

But that wasn’t the reason why I went back to my private girls’ school. I hated the public high school so much because it was the scene of one of the biggest hurts I ever had. Perhaps it hurt so much then because I was a hormonal teenager who was a bit over-sensitive to everything. Still, while I’ve gotten over it today, it’s still a deeply unhappy memory.

In about week 3 at this school, I had to go to the vice-principal’s office for something or other, something to do with my bus pass. She was a middle-aged, harried-looking woman with no colour in her face. Very grey and dour. She wasn’t exactly in the same mould as Principal Dick Vernon but she was certainly just as disliked. She was aggressive and brusque and you felt like telling her to chill the fuck out.

She was standing on the other side of her desk, rummaging around for something and talking hurriedly and impatiently to me, head down and mumbling. I couldn’t hear her and I said “Pardon” about three times, when she finally got exasperated, looked up at me and huffed, “What’s the matter with you, for God’s sake? Are you deaf or something?”

Nasty. For a person in her position and authority.

I froze for a few seconds, then heard myself calmly and sarcastically reply, “As a matter of fact, ma’am, I am deaf.”

The momentary speechlessness followed by garbled apologies from her was almost worth it, but I was wounded. She had punched a raw nerve. I walked out after giving her my best, most-withering glare that a 14 year old could muster, and went to the nearest bathroom and burst into tears. I sat there for the rest of the day, I couldn’t go to class again.

Three weeks later, I had enough and begged to go back to my old school. I couldn’t bear another day in that horrid place. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get over it. She didn’t know, I reasoned. But still, it fucking hurt.

I was born partially deaf. I have just under 10% hearing in my left ear and 70+% in my right. I wear a hearing aid in my right. We don’t know why I am deaf or why my ear nerves are damaged, irreparable — although it is possible there was deafness in my dad’s side of the family. Or my umbilical cord disliked me so much it tried to choke me as I was being born. Who knows. I don’t question it anymore.

But for a long time I did question it. No matter what disability someone has, no matter how accepted you may be, you always feel slightly apart from others. All my life I’ve been ultra-sensitive about being hearing impaired. I flared up at the slightest mention of it. When people asked me about my hearing, I’d grimace inwardly and answer their questions curtly before changing the subject. I felt despondent by it every day, it made me frustrated and I’d get into moods about it.

I hated being restricted by what I can and can’t do. I hated not being able to hear properly in class. I hated having to wear a microphone that a teacher wore which transmitted to my hearing aid (like a walkie-talkie of sorts). I hated being in a conversation and piping up with something and everyone laughing because I had heard wrong and said something that — to them — was totally random and unrelated. I hated being on a phone that was low in volume and I couldn’t hear what was being said the other end. I hated family dinners because I often felt my own family forgot I was deaf and mumbled or spoke too quietly for me to follow. That hurt. My own fucking family and they couldn’t even remember to speak up and speak clearly for me to join in the conversation. I hated mum always asking me in front of everyone across the table, “Did you hear that?” It made me so fucking aware that I was hearing impaired and I fucking resented that. I wanted to yell at the table, “For fuck’s sake, you know I can’t understand or follow you if you’re mumbling or talking quietly! I am your fucking sister and daughter!”

And then they wondered why I would always leave the table early and go and listen to music or read a book instead of being with the family. For fuck’s sake.

And I also hated it when people would remember and then talk very loudly, like my own father does. It makes me seethe. Forget it, I’m not interested in hearing it now, I want to say. I still hate it when people realise you’re deaf and start talking VERY loudly and slooooowly. It’s fucking patronising and doesn’t make it any easier to understand, particularly when I can’t concentrate because I’m too busy seeing red instead, so just shut the fuck up.

I’m deaf, not stupid.

I hated it when people would sigh or there’s a flash of annoyance across their face when I just simply couldn’t grasp what they were saying. I knew it was irrational of me to get upset if they didn’t know I was hearing impaired but it still fucking pissed me off. I can’t help being deaf so don’t be impatient with me, ya dickhead! And stop fucking mumbling if we’re in, say, a noisy restaurant!

Mumblers are the worst. And they’re always the ones who get the most impatient when people can’t understand what they’re saying. Irony right there. Don’t get me started on mumblers who do know about my partial hearing and still get impatient. It just makes me want to kick them. Hard.

The silliest thing though, I would never scold them or tell them off or ask them to speak clearly or look at me so I could maybe do some lip-reading to help me along.

These days, as part of my growing up, I’ve decided I’m not going to let my disability hinder me. I’ve accepted (with the help of my psychologist) that there are some things I simply can’t do, like take minutes in a meeting. There are some good things about being deaf: I don’t have to take minutes! Yes! No one wants to do them but have to; I don’t and can’t do them and that’s nice. Ha ha ha. Sucked in.

I’ve also been glad that I can switch my hearing aid off on a plane, train or bus when there are gasbags about. I don’t have to listen to their inane, irritating chatter, especially if I’m trying to sleep; or to reduce the engine noise so I can rest. Sometimes I can say to a stranger on a train or plane or bus, “I’m deaf, can’t hear well, battery dead” and point to my hearing aid when I don’t feel like talking (a rare thing). I can sleep in a place that is situated on, say, a busy road in the middle of the day. I just roll onto my “good side” and all noise is cut out. Restful, beautiful napping!

I can probably empathise with people with a disability (or none) better. Perhaps I am more attuned to moods and body language to compensate for not being able to pick up everything aurally.

I don’t hesitate these days to let people aware that I have a hearing disability, or to tell them to repeat themselves, or to stop being impatient, or to stop mumbling and talk properly (it’s interesting how people hate to be thought of not being eloquent enough). What was once embarrassing is now something I realise I simply have, like ten fingers and ten toes. It’s a part of me, it’s never going to change. I can’t control people’s rudeness or reactions to my disability, but I can control my feelings about my disability.

A year ago, I would never have dreamed about blogging about my disability, so embarrassed and pained by it as I was. Nowadays, it’s just another flaw in me but one I can use to advantage from time to time (no minute taking! Sorry, I can’t help but gloat about that.). It’ll always be a part of me and I’m proud of it.

* I am not having a go about public schools; some public schools are very, very good while private schools can be pure hell. Later I heard that the year I was in, Year 9, at this public high school was considered one of the worst by the teachers who had the misfortune to teach us that year. It was like we were a generation of extra-horrible kids.

Song for a Sunday

Months and months ago, this song was something I couldn’t listen to because it struck a chord inside while I was crying and hurting inside. It wasn’t necessarily the lyrics or the music or Etta James’ voice, but the whole package. It was a song at that time that perfectly captured how I was feeling. It was doubly galling as it is a song I absolutely love, although I can’t pin-point why. It’s one of those songs I could listen to over and over and never get sick of (as is the case with most of Etta James’ songs).

It wasn’t until the past week that I finally listened to this song again and realised I still love it. Sure, it reminded me of that time in my life, like certain songs remind us of a time or a place or a person. But it was a great feeling that I could listen to it without it hurting me anymore. Instead, it gave me joy. Joy because the pain has been so great that I savour happiness and good times with greater appreciation now. I still get the sads, still get melancholy sometimes and recently was going through a very rough patch (from which I think I’ve come through), but now I know I can be sad and I know there will be happy days ahead. I know that I can ride it through and I will get there. And I’m going to love it all the more.

One is the loneliest number

Three weeks ago, my computer decided that it wanted a sip of my dry martini and liked it so much that it drained the whole glass, rendering it an alcoholic useless piece of shit ever since. It probably didn’t help that I thumped it hard in frustration either. How dare it drink my dry martini!

Since then, I’ve relied on the trust of friends to allow me to play on their computers, or used my work computer or went to the internet cafe across the road from where I live. I just haven’t been arsed get my laptop fixed.

In the evenings when I’ve gone to the ‘net cafe, I’ve noticed a number of times a woman parked outside the shops downstairs from where I live, using the light shining out from the shops to read her book. I just assumed she was a mother waiting for her daughter or son or someone to finish working at the Gloria Jean’s outlet.

But three hours later, I’d be returning home and she’d still be there in her car. Weird, I thought, she’s incredibly devoted — or is one of those mothers who doesn’t trust their kid and watches them all the time. Or something. I couldn’t figure out what the hell she was doing.

On Thursday night, I stayed at work til after 9pm, not to work (of course not!) but to use the computer and catch up on the news and blogs and gossip. Making my way to the train station, I walked past an older gent. He was ragged looking, wore shabby clothes, limped heavily — and had no shoes. I walked past him silently, not looking at him, thinking what a travesty it is that this wealthy nation could be so poor in other ways.

I got to the traffic lights and sneaked a look back at him. The look on his face was pained — whether caused by his limping or from the grief and misery that is his wretched life, I don’t know.  Either way, it hammered home once again that I am so fucking lucky with my life, no matter how miserable I’ve been. I know I sound selfish in suggesting that seeing this poor soul makes me think of me. But that’s not how it’s meant to be — it was just a realisation, albeit one I already knew, but a reminder that no matter how shit life is for me, I’ve still got it good.

Perspective.

That’s not to say the sads are going to disappear. Can’t help those. Won’t be able to help feeling lost and despairing from time to time, but I will need to remind myself that I’m lucky in that I am getting help, and have wonderful friends, and a loving family, and have shoes to wear on a cold, wintry Sydney night.

With these thoughts on my mind by the time I got to my suburb, I decided that since I’d barely eaten all day, I’d have a late-night pizza. So, I walked down to Pizza Hut (not the best pizza, I know!) and walked past a familiar-looking car. It was the woman sitting inside again, reading her book. This time she was parked on the other side of the street, next to the Commonwealth Bank which was lit up like a Christmas tree.

OK, she’s definitely not waiting for anyone. In fact, I realised with a shock, her car is her home. Her pillow and blankets were folded neatly on the back seat. There was a toiletries bag in the front seat, and other bits and pieces neatly placed around inside the car. I was walking very close by the car so I was able to absorb all this in one look. It made sense for all the times I’ve seen her.

I didn’t enjoy the pizza that much after all. I kept wondering if I should invite her in to have a hot shower and sleep in the spare bed. But I didn’t, because I had no idea who she was and I’m a wimp: what if it embarrassed her, what if she stole my stuff, what if she was a bunny boiler, what if she never moved out? And what if I can’t get her out in the morning because I had a plane to catch to Brisbane?

There was nothing I could do for the complete stranger. Two strangers in one night who were bereft of safety and security. In Australia. Just so fucking wrong. And they were all alone.

I also wondered, had these two souls ever admitted they need (or asked for) help — help of any kind? From their family and friends (as opposed to help from, say, charities)? Do any of us know when we need help or do we have to hit rock bottom before we reach out and ask? Is our pride and vanity the first hurdle? Or could it be that we just don’t simply know when we need help? Is that self-denial or a lack of self-awareness?

There’s a multitude of possible reasons. And what happens if we have no family or friends to reach out to? Someone we know we can call upon anytime, someone who will always be there no matter what. Or there is someone but for whatever reason we don’t ask them for help?

It’s a terrible thing, this loneliness. I feel blessed this week as I realise how much support I have been given. It was tough to talk in the first few days of the crash, and indeed in years gone by I could never open up honestly, because I didn’t want to “burden” anyone (apart from the fact I was also in self-denial). I would feel stressed if I knew someone was stressing about me. Sometimes it was better to be alone.

But finally I did reach out, during and in the aftermath of my big crash the other week. And I was surprised at how … well, not easy, per se, but easier than I previously imagined it to be. The support and strength that has been readily available has been an eye-opener and I now realise I needn’t have worried so much about “needing” people to give me moral support. People are keen and happy (for want of a better word) to help, to listen, to offer advice, or just let you know that they’re there whenever you need them.

If those of us who, for whatever reason, find it hard to reach out, just try harder. There’s no magic solution except trying a little harder, no matter how shitty you feel. Last thing you feel like doing is talking or letting someone share your burdens or whatever, but you just have to try. It’s worth it. Because loneliness is the worst — and it doesn’t have to be that way.

Shared joy is a double joy;

shared sorrow is half a sorrow.

– Swedish proverb