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.