You want rewiring done right, you have to do it yourself.

I have more feelings to share and it's one of these things that fill in some small part of your heart/soul and it's not a huge stride but it is a shuffle forward. This piece will one day be fleshed out into the most revolutionary of all political compendiums, but here is the first draft.

---------------

Learning to deal with new/current/old things using a new approach means you're literally rewiring your brain. The older you are, the harder it gets, not just because certain pathways have become very strong, but also because you don't necessarily have the means to hijack an existing network to link new thoughts and habits together to your core and growing new branches towards other dendrites takes ages. But you'll get there.

Learning to stay calm - to suppress and redirect the aspects of your flight/fight/freeze of your stress response - that's really tough and so, so, SO hard. But you can do it, because the next time you ask a older privileged white man about how to find a mentor and he immediately tells you that he understands what you're going through and that he has a a good friend who is Indian, you are able to actually say with polite words that 'yeah that's awesome, thank you for your business card, will totes come to you for career/life advice'. And you will do this without crying, or breaking the pen your holding, or literally slamming your head into a brick wall.

You will do this because this person's ignorance is not your fault or your enemy. Yeah, the three-year-old wants to shout NO, the teenager wants to roll her eyes, the young adult wants scream with the injustice of his misconception,. But you have disconnected the reactionary driver, and you deal with the situation with the default politeness you've been working on, and send a few thoughts down to the big processing centre to file away as 'brownie points for self-restraint'.

You are exposing old networks of anxiety and frustration to a pacifist's approach, teaching those high-strung neurones to reach for this new piece of golden nugget with soft hands and a softer heart.

Peace and love,

S.

Mid-20s can hit you like a wayward train.

Sometimes good things happen and sometimes bad things happen.

My problem has always been in the planning and foresight department. When something bad happens I forget that it will pass. I forget all good feelings and thoughts. And I just want the world to end. When good things happen, I forget that this, too, is transient. I forget about the problems I still have to deal with and the stressors that are coming up. I forget to work for my future. Despite all of this, I also forget to be in the moment, so the joy itself isn't appreciable either.

I received feedback on some ethics and law reflection journals and it was a real knock-me-down. The perfect reminder that I am not infallible, that I do not have a single thing that I am good at. I have always thought - perhaps wanted more than actually thought - that I can write and reflect well. This may have been the case some 10 years ago when I was still posting on my blog, which would be updated with teenage angst every second day. But I have stopped journaling and stopped writing for so long now, and it slipped my mind that things don't stay the same. Your talents don't grow or maintain themselves if you give no effort to them.

Today I find myself in a slightly melancholic state. I have glad that my friends will be interns next year, and yet I am so desperately sad that I will be alone as I go through the year and a half that remains. They have so many other friends, other supports and networks around them. But I have none and am unlikely to suddenly find any. I think the worst part is that I am always so desperately eager to make friends and hang out for the friends that I have, and it takes me by surprise when one of actually does something kind for me. I am used to driving the ~40minutes it takes to get to the library or friend's house but have never had the courage to ask anyone to do the same for me. So yesterday when a couple of them drove out of their way to pick me up, I was both embarrassed and bewildered. I don't know why I felt either these things. Surely, I understand by now that friendship is a two-way street? I think I am embarrassed by how desperately I want friends and kindness in my life. Especially given my entire friendship history - I was always the one who was keen to travel two hours to see high school friends and they were keen to travel two hours but not in my direction. Sad.

So I am proof that teenage angst does not doesn't not suddenly let go of its hold on you because you are not longer a teenager. I am jealous of my friends' friendships with each other, and I am insecure in my relationship with them. In some ways I don't feel worthy of their goodness, but I think there must be more it than that.

I think I'll leave this emotional word-vomit here and find a distraction.

Peace and love,

S.

Tea time, no punctuation.

I want to drink black tea and write poetry about how it reflects the depth of my soul but really it’s just dark liquid that will stain a page but not your heart and the bitterness you relish when it’s warm turns stagnant before you’ve reached the bottom of the mug.

Hermit

Like a little hermit crab
In a little hermit shell
I carry my world
On my shoulders
And as the ocean crashes in
I retreat into my little hermit home
And find peace
In my little hermit head

S.

May

May the homeward-bound
rest their feet,
and their souls
find peace.

May the ink that writes
never dry unwritten,
and if the pages are found
their secrets are unhidden.

May your heart keep beating
even as you die,
and remind you
that you once were alive.

S.

Republic of My Heart

Oh Republic of my Heart
Don't falter in the breaking dawn
The sun will rise
And the blood in your streets
Will transform from seas of black
To warm ruby glow

Stand tall!
Stand tall
And take what is yours
But take care!
Keep at bay
the wolves of your past
with the fire in your depths
And the walls around your softness

Republic!
No one owns you
And you are uncaged
Step forward from your past
And know that I alone
Will hold you
And defend you


S.

The questions that keep us up at night.

The heaviness and warmth of instant sleep - the perfect example of you don't know what you had till it's gone.

Keeping a stable and regular routine - just keeping up with life - is exhausting. Fitting in enough sleep is a struggle, and even more so when you can't turn off your consciousness. Here I will expound on some of the thoughts that keep me up at night. Often I think I am alone in my thoughts, but we are never as special as we think we are - millions before us and millions after have the same thoughts, and sharing them is a comfort in its own way. So here goes.

1. Where do tears come from? Does your body make them on demand? Or is there a reservoir full of tears, just waiting to me shed? Is this why you feel so heavy sometimes, like you haven't cried in a while and you really need to?

2. Why do we have feelings? Emotional feelings, I mean. How does this feeling take place? Where do feelings come from, and where do they go when you forget about them for a while? How do you make the connection between a good thing and a good feeling in yourself? Pain, hunger, etc is easy enough to comprehend, because it has evolutionary and survival value. But what about jealousy? How does your body make the connection with something so abstract?

3. What is a thought? How exactly are opinions and memories stored? I understand the parts of the brains involved and so on, but I don't get how something abstract is stored in a physical location. Kind of like typing on a keyboard and letters coming up on the screen. It's basically the sort of stuff that you can't explain to your grandparents.

4. Why do people feel the need to explain Australian-ness to me? Why do they feel the need to say, 'Well, I'm Australian and this is how/what we say/do?' When you raise the point with them they get very defensive about their racist tendencies, or their white privilege, but their actions are very hard to ignore.

5. Why do people feel the need to look at me, say sorry, and then continue to say something very racist? Does prefacing it with an apology absolve them of their sins? Basically, why are people so sh*t?

This took a downwards turn, so I might stop for a bit. As important as it is to express strong feelings, the majority of mine seem to be angry on a massive scale. I don't want my sense of self to be tied to this. Deep breath.

Peace and love,

S.

Seven Hundred and Eleven Words of Whinging.

I know I start a lot of my blog posts with the 'I meant to update earlier but somehow didn't' sentiment, and I have come to realise that this is just another manifestation of what is wrong with my life.

I make plans and lose track of where I'm going or what to do to get there.

But it's okay, because it's a new year, and therefore an opportunity for a new adventure.

Well, I say that, but what I actually mean is I'm getting tired of muddling along and not really getting anywhere.

In Freudian theory, discord between what you are and what you want to be gives rise to psychological and emotional problems, and once again, I am a textbook example of a common problem. Aged 14, I had grand plans to travel the world, marry Daniel Radcliffe (after he converted of his own accord, of course), go to an Oxbridge university, and just be an amazing person. I was going to be supreme empress of the universe and the world was going to be great place with no pollution and lots of dolphins.

Ten years later, life has worked out in a roundabout way so that I am at least studying medicine and living out of home, if not at Oxford or in Spain. I suppose 10 years isn't that long, in the scheme of things, to achieve a life goal, but I can't help feeling like I've been a very passive part of the process. I somehow forgot to make anything happen. I didn't study hard in undergrad to get into med (I don't think I ever really expected to get in, I just had this image of me leading Medicines Sans Frontier to save the world with an adoring crowd and massive posters of my face everywhere). I didn't do much extracurricular stuff to help my development. I didn't properly try to get into med, and there's no way I would have without the sincerest prayers of my grandparents.

Not that I'm not happy to be here - it hits me every now and again that one day I will have a solid understanding of something amazing. It's a privilege and an honour to be trusted with someone's health, and to have all of the resources and opportunities in the world at your fingertips.

But the idea of myself at 14, an activist and a humanitarian, has crumbled a bit in the intervening period. I haven't eradicated poverty or corruption or AIDs or cancer. I don't speak a million languages. I am not a leader (I'm less of a leader now than I was at my most passive moment in school). I haven't run a marathon. I don't have prize-winning paintings hanging in the Louvre. I haven't solved any of the great mysteries of the ancient world (sometimes I can't sleep because I don't understand how the pyramids were built). My writing isn't being used as teaching material in High Level IB English.

This discrepancy between what I was and wanted to be, and what I have turned out to be now - it's what holds me back from fixing my situation. I spend all of this time dreaming and reminiscing and saying 'I totally could have' and then I realise that I've just wasted another year I could have used wisely. It's a vicious loop and I know the reason I can't get out of it is because my ego is too big to accept that I failed, and to move on.

Of course, this is the perfect opportunity to learn humility. To accept and be happy about the fact that I can do my best and that my best is good enough. Instead, I make a half-assed, panicked attempt and then try to justify my failure by making excuses.

Finally writing about this instead of just whinging to friends is a lot more productive, and a relief. I can be more methodical and see where I'm just bullsh**ing. Once you pinpoint a problem you can focus on fixing it. From where I stand now, I need to quit complaining and start doing.

And with that note, I am off to write some world-class poetry on the subject of my angst.

Peace and love,

S.

Outlets and Disappointments

I think everyone needs a side-project to help them get on with life. A sort of outlet, something different to do, totally unrelated to work or study. I used to read a book a day, update my blog, paint and draw, and over the past couple of years I've found less and less time for it all. I started a vlog this year, a weekly update/summary of my life, and it was going well until the fiasco with my grandpapa's health etc. I keep meaning to get back into but for some reason I never do.

Which brings me to my main point: why is it that even though these things make me happy, and I know they make me happy, and I'm capable of doing them, I have so much trouble actually doing them? It's not like I can't find the time - I procrastinate enough to know that I can find time for any little distraction. So why do I spend so much of my time lying on bed or sitting on ebay getting frustrated and not enjoying any part of it? What sort of person willingly forgoes activities that make them happy when they have no excuse to do so?

I know a part of it is to do with my laziness. I'm not sure how accelerate my progress in this area. I know that I have improved over the years, that I have a system that seems to work for me, but it doesn't feel like enough. I know I shouldn't compare myself to others, but I literally have no excuse for not being at the same level as everyone else. I've had every opportunity to learn, a great upbringing and family life, the perfect genetic background (both of my parents are brilliant) and yet I'm such a disappointment. All promise and no delivery. And I'm so pretentious! Sadface. 

Okay I know I'm waffling here in order to put off listening to this lecture I missed. I'd much rather listen to Ed Sheeran and play Candy Crush and write bad poetry, but I have a test in four days. Adios!

Peace and love,

S.

For when it hurts.

Sometimes, things hurt.

No matter how small, insignificant and meaningless in the whole scheme of things, they hit you and at first you think you're angry, but actually you're hurt. It can be as small as a group of friends walking to class ahead of you, or someone taking longer than usual to respond to your message, or just the slight change in expression - the briefest of looks - when they see you or talk to you.

Sometimes, you tell yourself you're imagining it. But what's the point in this? Regardless of whether the event is real or imagined, it still jabs you in a sore spot. You tell yourself to toughen up, get over it. But how? What do you use to plug the hole?

And then you're alone in your room at midnight, crying over thoughts you can't stop from racing across your mind.

In the morning, you've forgotten about whatever it was. But you're not quite back to normal. You can't shake of this strange feeling. And when someone doesn't return a greeting, you're back in the slump. The day drifts by, but now you are acutely aware of all of the painful things in the world.

And it sucks.

Yeah, you're never alone, and yeah, it'll pass. But right now, in this moment, it hurts.

And you need to know that it's okay.

It's okay to feel hurt. It's okay to take your time bouncing back. It's okay to worry about what people think of you. It's okay to cry because you're upset. It's okay to need a kind word or gesture. It's okay to deal with your hurt in your own way.

Peace and love,

S.

Who Hurt You?

Dearest,

Who hurt you so badly
That you can't forgive?
What terrible deed
Did they inflict upon you
That you can't move on?

Did it mean so much
To you?
Did you care so much
For them?
Did your tears change
A thing?

No.
Water wears away at stone,
And so your tears
Will wear you 
Down.

And yet,
As you stand
And face them again,
The fierceness of your fire
And the strength of your
Dreams
Will 
Heal
You.


S.

A Conversation.

He said,
'I want to live in your world with you
The little boy in me
Wants to know the little girl in you
My heart wants to beat
With the rhythm in you
And my hands want to hold together
The best and the worst in you.'

I said,
'My world is in my head
And nowhere else
I have no comrade and no leader
I'm alive and yet
My pulse doesn't dance
And my fire and my rain never quite meet.'

He said,
'I want to be on your mind always
Like you are on mine
I want to be your playmate and your companion
And you can be mine
I want to listen to your breath
And for you to hear mine
And I want to warm by your heart
And you can calm by mine.'

I said,
'You're expecting too much of my thoughts
With their chaos and their order
How can you be friends with the friendless - 
What will become of this loner?
What happens when I want peace
And can't silence the drum?
What if the tidal waves never quell
And we're all tossed out to sea?'

And he said,
'I've seen your world
And I want to be your friend
I want to take the loner into my soul
And make it okay
I want to stand at your shoulder
And between and within each hurricane and firestorm
I want to say to you as we get older
That you live in my heart
And I by your side
That I hear you thoughts
And speak your language
That we are kindred spirits
Like two pearls from two oceans
That I can hold your vastness and give you mine
If you let me into your world.'

And I said,
'Okay, then.'


S.

Gaps

We are the ethers,

You find us

in the spaces

between your words,

And in the pause

between each breath.

We are naught,

And yet,

we hold you together,

Bind you,

And in our absence,

You fall apart - 

A jumble,

And naught but mess

- S.

Keep.

Keep me in your heart,
Even when I'm not dear - 
Still, then, your voice is
The last thing I want to hear...


S.

I was going to call my autobiography (coming to a store near you sometime in the distant future) "Dear Fatty" but then I realised Dawn French has already beaten me to it. Darn her wittiness. And her timeliness.

Stop stealing my ideas before I've had them, world!

Trying to by pithy.

Trying to write a witty limerick
Something short and slick
I come up with words
But the ideas are absurd 
And the last rhyme won't click

My Book.

I have felt for quite some time that I should write down everything I know and think. I have been doing this, to some extent, in the various blogs and diaries I have had over the years. But I think it is now time to commit to a book. It will be a never-ending book, with a chapter coming out at a time. There will be no single point I'm trying to make - rather, it shall be a chronicle of my dynamic, ever-changing life, views and events. I may contradict myself or formulate very different views from chapter to chapter, and that's okay. 

A little while ago this awesome lady who is an active member of the community and also teaches at my uni, suggested I write a book entitled 'Lessons In Humility'. It seems to be a very fitting title. Back in high school another girl suggested I write a book called 'My Opinions'. This is also a very fitting name. I have been brainstorming and I think 'The Magnitude of My Awesomeness Knows No Bounds' is also befitting. Or I could use all three? I will also need chapter titles, although numbers would of course suffice. Suggestions welcome! 

That is all for now. Apart from this decision, I think life is pretty dandy. Ramadan Kareem to all of my fellow Muslims (and anyone else who would like to join in)! This month is going to be an awesome one. I can feel the panic creeping up (re: Honours, data, no time!), but for some reason I have felt very good over the last few days, Alhamdulillah. The cell counts are frustrating but sort of fun. Although I can feel the craziness creeping up on me. But that's okay.

Peace and love,

S.

I wrote the Book of Pain.

A room with a desk, and not much more. A book sits on the desk. The title is faded and dull. The spine is creased and falling away. Sprawling letters on the inside cover, worn away with the years, barely legible. It hints at a name, a long forgotten person, a distant memory of a spirit. Does it start with an F or an S? Or maybe a J or a T. The story is printed in an uneven San Serif typescript. Each word echoes with the voice of thousands of sorrowful souls. The last page ends with a scream, a gut-wrenching cry from the heart. It wants to be read, to be cherished and bathed in the golden light of love. To be warmed by the hands of compassion, to be a part of a wholesome whole. But it stays alone, locked away in a room with a desk, and not much more.


S.