The Colours of Self

This is my skin but I can’t say I’ve met her.

No-one has met me yet.

No-one really knows her either.

I’m too scared to face the world and so is she.

The tale of two cities; I live in constant transit.
I nurture with excessive love, catering to pleasure and the provision of absolute support.
I function from strength, monochromatic decisions and absolute definitions.

The pursuit of divine sovereignty seems to linger in my atmosphere like a belt of stars on a clear, dark night.

To unite these cities under a single rule, the colours of self.

Maybe, but definitely sometimes.

My darling,

The dust dances in the golden streams of sunlight, as if time is slowed.
Flooding the room with warmth, this moment feels comfortable.
White-washed window frames, high ceilings and glass French doors.
The scent of warm wood and fresh spring blooms fill the room.

Here is where my mind escapes the madness.
The overwhelming presence of my reality.
The battle between who I know I am and who I think I am.
I’m at war – fighting for freedom from my demons.

You meet me there; somewhere vast and full of space, secrets.
I dream of you while I’m awake.
We talk, you’re there, and you’re bound by my lost regret and unfulfilled futures.
You’re forced into puppetry and words that aren’t yours – to fulfil a future that will never exist because I can’t resolve the reality that there was nothing I could do.

I can’t accept that we just weren’t meant to be.

I blame myself, because that way I still have control.
If I blame me, the future could/should/would have been different.
If I blame me I can pretend there was another outcome.
I can pretend we might have worked.
I can pretend you might have loved me.
Maybe, but definitely some times.

 

Why I fucking hate my birthday…

It’s that time of the year again.

The celebration of my birthday.

The actual worst time of the year from me.

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Despite the grinch-like sentiment, I can’t remember the last time I looked forward to this day. Memories are filled with childhood anticipation, parties that ended in tears and – as I grew up – the overwhelming reminder each year that I’m far more sensitive than I care to acknowledge every day.

My birthday is my most emotionally irrational day. I care when people forget, despite my adult approach of ‘its not a big deal’, ‘who cares’ and ‘it’s just another day’.

It is a showcase of those who I expected to remember and who did, those I hoped would remember and who didn’t, those randoms who remembered because social media reminded them, those older friends who have it in their calendar and those family members who essentially own a card factory and sweetly never forget anyone (bless their cotton socks).

The day stings every year. God forbid I go as far as to have a party.

I didn’t plan an 18th or a 21st. My parents forced a 21st on me, that I eventually invited friends to on the day of – because I REALLY wasn’t into it.

My 30th is next week, and I’ve planned a SMALL party for tomorrow and the anxiety is real. What if no-one comes and I’m left feeling irrelevant?

What if people don’t come because they have better things to do? It’ll sting like it did at my 6th birthday when my mum arranged a private room at the local pool. We had snacks, balloons and a sectioned off portion of the pool – and no-one came. It turned out someone else had their birthday on the same day and everyone went there instead.

I suppose, all these years later, I can’t shake that feeling of rejection. The feeling of rejection that now veils my birthday every year. That sting that lands every time I have any expectations around this day. I’d rather treat it like any other day and be happy with anything better than a normal day.

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I’m not great at remembering others birthdays either, and it seems I’ve been infecting others with the rejection I felt, unintentionally. It took years of active effort to care/remember other peoples birthdays and make them feel special – its still an active fight against an internal wound, every time I choose to do it.

To anyone out there who I’ve hurt by not remembering their special day – I’m sorry, it wasn’t you, it was me.

I’m not a birthday person, not sure I even will be.

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Resumes, Cover Letters & Job Listings, Oh My! A How-To Guide on Obliterating Your Tolerance for the Job Market

Last night, at 1am-ish, I began applying for new jobs.

I’m heading overseas in July and would ideally like to find something to get me through until I return late August.

Much easier said than done I’m afraid.

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It seems every job worth having wants you to write a customised cover letter, and I’m mindful – as someone who has recruited before – that a resume typically trumps a cover letter in relevance and sway. A cover letter only really comes into play if I can’t find all information needed on the resume.

When reviewing a companies requirements, it seems my experience is relevant, transferrable and lengthy.

This is not the first time I have applied for jobs during the last 6 years – and I’ve never gotten a call back for any of the relevant positions I applied for in the past. This makes me nervous that it won’t happen now, when I need it to.

In some ways, I am over qualified. Too many years doing a varied role makes me a jack of all trades, master of none.

So, if you’d like to become as disheartened as I am, follow the simple steps below:

  1. Remove yourself/be removed from your employment.
  2. Spend hours updating/redoing your resume.
  3. Start looking around for jobs that suit your skills and interests.
  4. Keep applying.
  5. Apply for jobs you’re vaguely interested in.
  6. Apply for anything you might get.
  7. Get discouraged.
  8. Write a blog rant about your shit experience.

Voila! Just like that you now feel underwhelmed and overwhelmed at the same time.

I am hopeful things will pick up soon. I shall keep you posted.

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Rebellious Redundancy: Almost 30 and Starting Over

Last Monday I was made redundant from my career of 6 and half years.

I’ve spent the last week and half on pause, embracing discovery/excitement/nervousness.

What happens when the career you built for yourself stops generating passion and purpose, and becomes a health concern and a daily funeral for your soul? For me, you think about quitting for a year and a half, until the universe conspires to force you into a space of newness by manifesting redundancy.

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Being 29 and unemployed wasn’t on my life plan, and yet, here I am.

11:11pm, on a Tuesday night, making plans with my new and shiny bf, wondering what’s next for me.

There is only one thing I know for sure – I do not want to live a life without purpose, I do not want to jump into the safety of experience and strength of resume. I want to be bold, and brave.

Bold and brave, for me, are creative endeavours. Writing. Art. Both. Maybe even Yoga.

I spent 6 years trying to figure out what I was passionate about, what drove me, and what would light a fire in my soul. It seemed so easy for others to figure it out, while I struggled for years – and in a lot of ways, I still do.

Now, with all the space in the world, random inspiration rushes over me everyday.

Waves of courage inspire me to write. Self care wants me doing Yoga. Songs from my soul have me writing music and painting.

Starting over for me is rediscovering my bravery. Starting over is trusting in the universe and my ability to manifest my dreams. Following all the leads I feel compelled to explore.

I encourage every person out there who finds themselves in unexpected unemployment to be brave, embrace the moment you’re in, sit in the experience of freedom and delve into what’s important to you.

Allow your beliefs, values and passions to lead you and leave fear for dead in the wasteland of unfulfilled endeavours.

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