Music: God only knows what I'd be without you.

Music is perhaps the biggest love of my life and that will never change. From the time I wake up in the morning, to the time when I fall asleep (usually in the early hours of the morning) I have spent hours listening to music. It's my constant companion, even more so than my depression, feelings or the people in my life. Everything else can come and go, but you will always have music from decades ago to make you feel connected to people you have never met or a time when you never existed. I believe my discovery of the Beatles is the most religious experience of my life, because it changed my perception of people, time and what kind of person I was. Music has the power to do all those things.

Everyone has songs which they love to listen to at certain times, music has that ability to adapt to any situation. For me, my feelings at any particular time will always influence what I choose to listen to, but at the same time, music will always answer back to me and change what I feel. That's what music is to me, it's my motivator, my way of expressing to the world how I feel when words fail me. It's like reading a novel and suddenly realising that this person you have never met, has written in words what you have felt your whole life but could never express with words. You always remember those experiences, because they change you.


For every important instance in my life, I remember it not through dates or by the actions of people, but by the music I heard on that day. It's a bizarre way to measure your memories, but it has always been my way. I remember picking up my sister from school with my mum, listening to the Cranberries and Oasis (it was the 90s) and I know that I was content and calm. When I was at my cousin's 7th birthday in Queensland and we listened to Aqua's new album and I was happy, because we danced all day and all sung rather poorly. When my parents separated and all my Dad would listen to (for the next few years) was Bruce Springsteen's album Born In The USA and U2's hit With or Without You, I knew my father was angry and hurt and I felt that through his music.

The lyrics, the chords and the changing rhythms of songs are perhaps the best expression of human emotions, far more reliable and expressive than words, and are something that we can universally understand. I know that the people closest to me can judge my mood based upon what I listen to, from being happy and energetic listening to The Beatles, to being sad and withdrawn when I listen to any track by The Velvet Underground (especially Pale Blue Eyes and I'm Set Free). Angelou said that 'music was my refuge, I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness,' and that resonates in my own life, because that is exactly what I do. Music offers a refuge for those of us who don't want to think about life for a while or who want to feel more connected to like-minded people. What I choose to listen to is not random and is a way of telling the rest of the world what I feel, without actually having to do it.

I could not imagine living in a world without any music. I have never met a single person who did not love it (apart from David Mitchell, apparently) and who did not partially base their identity around what they listen to. We define people or label them into a particular group once we understand their tastes, from indie groupies, to hipsters, to metal fans (I would say avoid those if you're faint-hearted), we all fall into some group. I think I would be an oldie, just based purely upon my love of sixties music and that decade in particular.

I'm not a big fan of quoting Nietzsche, but in my opinion he did not write anything more important then when he wrote that 'without music, life would be a mistake.' Life would be a mistake, it would be bland and boring and we would be trapped into using only language to communicate with each other, and we all know that's not the most efficient form of communication. Music opens the mind and the soul to people, to thoughts and ideas which you could never conceive on your own and connects you to the minds and the hearts of people you have never met. I can't think of a more powerful way to unite people, even more influential than any religion on this Earth, because it's the sentimental value, it's the feelings and thoughts we invest into a particular song, which makes it so great and so beautiful.

So whether you are a hardcore Beatles fan like myself, or a Led Zeppelin fan (shudder) or even a fan of  clubbing 'music,' enjoy it to the fullest, don't take people's criticisms to heart (people are idiots) and explore the possibilities it opens for you (not sure clubbing 'music' does this, but each to their own), because at the end of the day you'll always have your music to express yourself, to live with and to be connected with. If anyone has a problem with that, just call them a hipster and tell them where to stick it.

I don't believe in an afterlife, I just believe in me.

"Ask yourself whether the dream of heaven and greatness should be waiting for us in our graves – or whether it should be ours here and now and on this earth." Ayn Rand

"You will notice though that the kind of people who turn to Jesus tend to be the sort of people who haven't done that well with everybody else."  Dylan Moran

There are two subjects which should never be brought up at the dinner table or in polite conversation, politics and religion. I've never been a big supporter of social rules or forced politeness, so I quite enjoy engaging in these conversations with people. It's more stimulating than talking about work or other dull topics, the weather being by far the worst. If you're stuck in a conversation with someone about the weather, bail. Either your partner is obviously dull or you're the bore, either way you should leg it. 

Religion has always been an interest of mine, not because I support it in anyway, but I don't dismiss it either. I'm always fascinated to learn new things and you can learn a lot about someone by knowing their take on certain topics. The majority of my friends are staunch atheists, which is telling, but I do have quite a few friends who are still quite religious and reverent and I have absolutely no problem with that. 

My problem with religion (I'm thinking you knew this was coming) is not so much about the nature of religion itself (to an extent), I can completely understand and rationalise people needing to believe in something (even if I disagree), that's not the issue. My issues are quite particular, certain doctrines and practices which I think are restrictive or using faith as a justification for acts of cruelty. My absolute pet peeve with religion though is when it interferes with my own life, the running of my Government or goes beyond individual belief to converting people. As long as people keep their beliefs to themselves, I'm quite happy. If people want to impose their beliefs on myself or my friends, or say homophobic things in the name their 'God' (their God, not mine they should note) that makes me angry, that I will have a problem with. Luckily for me, in my life I've been surrounded by followers of all different religions, who understand personal boundaries. This is no longer an age where forced conversion is appropriate and for that I am entirely thankful.

I should probably identify my own religious affiliation and it's probably not what you expected. I call myself a CA, a Catholic Atheist. It sounds ridiculous, but it fits perfectly in my life and it does make sense in my head (that doesn't mean much though), but I'll explain myself anyway. I was raised in a Roman Catholic family, going back generations for centuries, so I did all the things I was expected to do like going to Sunday Mass, reading scripture in Church and attending a Catholic Primary School. My morals today and the ethical code I live by were no doubt influenced by the religion I was brought up with, even though I do think my morals are more based on being a good person and should perhaps not be considered intrinsically Christian. These values though, are why I still define myself as a Catholic. No one has the right to tell me I'm not a Catholic just because I don't believe in every aspect, just as I don't bother people about their own religious beliefs. I'm quite safe in labelling myself. As for the Atheist part, that is pretty self explanatory, read the quote by Ayn Rand (brilliant author).

I would rather rest my faith in humanity, with our extensive capabilities to create utter chaos but also be such wonderfully compassionate and inspiring creatures, than to believe in something so intangible and incredible. I don't believe in supernatural conceptions of Heaven and Hell, these are just terms which create barriers on our minds and intelligence (sociology calls it social control), depending on how you conceive them. If you are one of the few who actually believe there is a man in the sky, in this 'Heaven,' and down below us is 'Hell,' than all I can say is good luck to you, Darwinism has obviously failed. Ayn Rand had the right idea I think, all this belief in an afterlife, in being rewarded for doing good deeds on Earth is just limiting. Wouldn't you rather just be a compassionate and moral person while alive because you can be, instead of thinking that you had to be because you will be rewarded for it? That's slightly fraudulent. Why should someone be rewarded for just being a good person? People should spend less time worrying about what happens after they're dead and worry about what kind of a life they are leading now, while they're alive. 

I can't speak for other people, but I'd rather be a good person and know that when I die, at least I made someone happy or did something good in the world. I don't want to believe I will be rewarded after it's all over, I'd much rather live and enjoy the benefits of being alive right now, knowing I was a good person not for the benefits, just because I was. 

Hey Now.

Disclaimer: I really did not want to post something that was depressing, angst-filled or bitter, so I gave myself a few days off before writing this.

I went to England to study at UEA for a month and I absolutely loved it. I enjoyed every minute there and dreaded coming home. By the time it came to leave for Sydney though, I was accepting, sad, but accepting. I knew I had to come home, go back to work and go back to my regular University. I couldn't stay in England forever, no matter how much I wanted to.  So I came home and let's just say it has been all uphill (because going downhill is actually easier, logic!) and I have had only had bad days since then.

When I arrived in Sydney International Airport, I only had two prevailing thoughts. Firstly, I was glad I had an Australian passport because it's quicker to get through customs and security, especially after spending an hour in line for immigration at Heathrow. Secondly, I was quite excited to see my mum and sister. I quickly noticed that my mum wasn't there to see me, but I had my sister and her boyfriend welcome me home. I was glad for that. That was the only perk of the evening. Once I arrived home, I only got verbal abuse from my dad, who was so out of it he didn't recognise me properly and said "nice to meet you." Needless to say I was not impressed.

Things did not go back to normal once I returned, my life got a tad more complicated. In the past week I have been 'disowned,' even though that means shit to me (tried to keep this blog G, apologies) since my father is a tight arse bastard and his surname never meant that much to me anyway. His family never really liked me and even refused to see me at the hospital when I was born. So the whole disowning debacle was more irritating than upsetting, but what happened after was hurtful.

On my way to University I started receiving texts. These texts were from my sister and my father. My sister was moving and wanted me to come with her, since my father was the one who paid her bond (under the assumption that I was leaving too). My father, having found out I was not  in fact leaving, decided I had to get out too. I've never heard of anyone being thrown out of home through a text message. Even my sister got sacked over Skype! That's still kind of face to face. So I found myself these past two days packing up everything I have owned at home (having lived there for 12 years) and throwing out things I have cherished since I was a child. I even found that I still had awards I won in Primary School and was quite proud to have back in the day, because being awarded academic excellence was a big deal back then.

I'm a bit of a hoarder and I have a habit of attaching sentimental value to things other people would not bother with, which is why my day got even worse when I lost a ring which meant the world to me. In monetary terms, it was worthless, but I loved that ring and always wore it or had it with me. So instead of being upset at my situation in general, being without a home and down a surname, I broke down in tears when I realised I had lost this ring. It's rather fitting actually, losing something that meant so much to me, the feeling of loss directed at a possession rather than the obvious. I still don't want to think about it.

What I think about my life right now is that my 'father' is a stranger to me and I don't recognise whoever has replaced him. He stripped me of his name, his sister abused me over Facebook for sledging the family name (that family has a way with technology don't they?) and he threw me out of the only home I've known since I was eight years old. I don't hate him though and I'm not angry, I just can't be bothered to be honest. I just truly believe that life should not be this hard or painful all the time, other people seem to turn negatives into positives and I just can't do that. I'm not one of those people who can always look on the bright side of life, it's never really been that great for me. I've been lucky with gaining friends who mean the world to me and having some family members who seem to like me a bit. I probably don't deserve them.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do or where I'm going to go, but I really wish it wasn't always this hard. If the past twenty years have just been a warm up act to whatever is coming next for me, then I'm really not interested in sticking around for it. I have been called a masochist, but even I'm not interested in prolonged torture. It's just like leaving a terrible film early and nobody blames those people for walking out. We all know how it was going to end anyway.

Seriously, what the hell was I thinking? 04-09

Leaving primary school, I was told by a teacher of mine, that the friends I made in high school would be my friends for life. That was almost ten years ago and I've never forgotten it, purely because it was the absolute truth, at least for me.

The first friend I made was a girl named Tess, who shared a buddy with me. For the first two weeks we followed this girl around, neither of us speaking (shocking if you know us), until somehow we mutually decided to go off together and do our own thing. Good choice. I've made most of my friends like that, just through some shared idea or dislike of other girls we were surrounded by and I ended up with a group of friends that I've kept all these years. So my method must work.

The first three years of going to this school for me are mostly forgotten, mainly because I hated school and spent most of my days hanging out with older friends and watching films. I had some of the best nights of my life spent sitting on the floor of Blockbusters in Maroubra with friends, until they told us they were closing and we really had to leave. We would get pizza on the way home, laughing and eating, while we walked back to my house to spend a night watching stupid films. Those were the best of times.

The worst of times were when I was completely out of my depth and did not understand any of the rather elitist topics that were being mentioned by my peers. Weird names of other grammar schools I would never have heard of, people living in places I certainly had never visited and even people talking about their trips abroad, that just did not happen in my family! A trip into the city was considered an absolute treasure,  since it seemed like such a long way away from my home.

Even worse than feeling rather excluded, because eventually I got over all that rubbish when I found like-minded friends, was having teachers that obviously had a problem with you. Teachers really can make or break your experiences in school. I have a personal record of being told off by three teachers within five minutes, which was within the first hour of school. There is one particular teacher I had that I will never forget,  but for all the wrong reasons. Every time I saw her or had class with her, she always had something to say to me, such as "Do you ever stop talking Georgia? I don't think you do," or "Do you do anything apart from watching TV?" and my personal favourite, directed at my friend Laura and myself, "You know, I tried to integrate you girls into the form group, but you're both such social outcasts." I really have no idea why she started teaching, but it's a bit late now for her to find a new career. Pity.

Not all teachers were like that, the majority of the ones I had I didn't particularly care for, but a few of them were fantastic. Considering my last year and a half at school was spent quite ill, for reasons I've already covered, I had a lot more exposure outside of the class room to my teachers than I had ever had before. I got to see how compassionate some of them are and most importantly, how human and relatable they are. As a student, it's a very odd thing to consider that your teachers may have a life outside of school, so actually talking to them like you would any other person is quite revealing and highly enjoyable (only if they're interesting, if not, don't bother). If a teacher starts chatting to you about Doctor Who, roll with it, because that's not an opportunity to be missed!

I had a lovely art teacher, who would always smile at me when I came to class on a bad day and even let me sleep because I just could not keep my eyes open. I remember once she pulled me out of class, I was quite upset and sickly at the time, to comfort me and calm my nerves about a test I had after recess, which I just didn't think I could do. I think that was the closest point I ever reached to breaking down in front of one of my teachers (I tried very hard not to). When I went to go and sit my test after recess, I was told by my ancient history teacher that I didn't have to do it, that he could see I wasn't up for it. I later found out my art teacher had sought him out and spoken to him about me, which only made me even more fond of her and I thought I was so lucky to be taught by someone like that. I still consider myself so lucky, things could have been a lot worse for me if I didn't have people like that to care for me during that period of my life.  Even if I didn't fully appreciate it then, I most certainly do now.

I read three years worth of online journal entries to write this blog and have barely scratched the surface, but I think I said the most important things. I could have told you all  about my hair dying antics, bad skin, horrendous love of Gloria Jean's Iced chocolate (shudder) and all my angsty moments. I didn't though, because all of those things are to be expected, they were my teenage years after all!  I had some of the best times of my life, laughing and tripping up and down the Chapel stairs and just generally being with my group of friends, friends I still have. If I wanted to write about all of that, I would be here all night and you lot reading this would definitely fall asleep. 

Sometimes I really don't know what the hell I was thinking (apart from my bright green Docs, they still rock!) and I definitely don't know why I said some of the things I did (especially to my teachers, my bad), but in hindsight it wasn't all that bad. It could have been a lot worse. I got the best friends a person could have out of it and was not completely traumatised by my teachers (I've heard stories). I was definitely lucky, at least for a good seventy percent of the time.  

Drugs: A not so popular idea, but why?

I know this is not a very popular idea. You don't hear it too often any more … but it's the truth. I have taken drugs before and … I had a real good time. Sorry. Didn't murder anybody, didn't rape anybody, didn't rob anybody, didn't beat anybody, didn't lose – hmm –one fucking job, laughed my ass off, and went about my day. Sorry. Now, where's my commercial? - Bill Hicks.




I thought I would open with a quote by one of the greatest comedians whoever lived, since not only is it quite an honest idea, it also leads nicely into the topic of this blog. Drugs.


Now I am going to make this crystal clear for people reading this, when I mention 'drugs' I am talking about all drugs. I'm not limiting myself to the common misconception that drugs means illicit drugs, I'm including alcohol and tobacco as well, unless I suggest otherwise. 


Every child in school is taught the same thing; drugs ruin lives, destroy families and even cause financial problems (that may have just been my school, totally elitist). I bought into this completely. From my own perspective, having been very exposed to drugs all my life, I knew first hand the problems associated with them.  Other girls at my school believed this too, but not out of experience or any proper knowledge on the subject, they were convinced like desperate people watching some advertisement for a new diet regime. Completely ignorant, but so willing to accept what was being served to them.


I think I carried this idea around with me until my mid teens. I had spent so much of my life hating drugs, hating what it had done to my family and believing deep in my heart, that without drugs in the equation, everything in my life would have been so much better. I got older though, and when you get older you become more aware of things and hopefully, you learn to expand your mind to question other possibilities before you dismiss them. I remember thinking one night that perhaps it wasn't actually the drugs I hated so much, perhaps it could be the people I blamed, the drug takers as individuals. Perhaps it was what they did after, or even before consuming something, that was what I truly hated. 


It is such much easier to blame something, rather than someone. I don't think any compassionate person on this Earth would want to blame their mother or father for genuinely being a lousy parent and having to admit and accept that, when they could blame what they perceive to be the source of their parent's lousiness. I can understand that, but believing that is just lying to yourself.


How could I honestly hate drugs when I come home after a bad day and listen to what they have inspired? Much of the music I love is the child of people out of their minds on all types of substances, creating beautiful and incredible sounds that have not been recreated since and have lasted the test of time. You listen to some of Paul McCartney's work, who admitted he was pretty much off his face, and try and tell me that drugs are all bad and cause chaos. Tell me that they they're so terrible after reading works by Hemingway, Poe, Burroughs or Huxley. Even if all their lives were tragic or ended far too quickly (that would be the destructive part), they created masterpieces and were all inspired by some substance. 


The truth is, and Hicks said it a lot more concisely than I have, is that most people who take drugs are not raving lunatics or problem causers. Recreational users are common, I know quite a few and they are all just average people, just going about their lives and occasionally dabbling with substances to have a good time. Who am I to judge them for what they do? I have absolutely no right to do that, unless their actions cause harm or hurt me in some way. I have often found that it is people who have been drinking that are truly the worst drug users (remember, alcohol is a drug people), changing from being friendly, into aggressive and dangerous individuals. That could be said for all drugs though, apart from tobacco. You try and take cigarettes away from a smoker and see how quick their mood changes. Give them back the cigarettes!


I should end this now before I start ranting about the problems associated with smoking nowadays. Honestly, the anti-smoking laws in this country are actually bordering on breaking some of my human rights. I do still have rights as a smoker don't I? I mean, I pay my taxes, actually no, I pay more taxes than a non-smoker because my Government feels like it, even though they apparently don't want me to be able to smoke anywhere. I didn't realise they owned Sydney's airspace now, that it was a crime from me to smoke outdoors. Aren't I just so ignorant?


The sum of all my musings on drugs is just this; don't judge people who take drugs or just try them, unless it personally affects you and don't limit yourself to straight-laced (very Victorian) ways of thinking. There is always much more to consider than what you may be told or taught in school. Just by broadening your mind to even consider other possibilities is an achievement, even if you decide to dismiss those thoughts anyway. 

The mostly forgotten years, 97-03.

One thing I am absolutely certain of, is that when you are six years old or around that age, summers seem to last forever and it is always sunny. 

I can barely remember any storm clouds in the sky as a child, apart from the nights my dad would take my sister and I to watch the storms off the beach, and it never rained. Every day was endless sunshine, summer holidays did not last for 2 months, they lasted years! Those years were spent running up and down my street with my best friend Gabby, my first and only friend made in Kindergarten and still one of my best friends to this day. We all ran wild in our street, playing stupid games, buying lollies with our saved up $5 pocket money for the week (big deal back then!) and only returning home when it was absolutely pitch black and you knew it was dinner time. I hardly even remember watching any sort of television, apart from my earlier days with my mum, watching Playschool, Art Attack, reruns of The Monkees and rather unfortunately, The Bold and The Beautiful. 

When we weren't running around our street, we did attend the local Catholic primary school. My memories of that place are quite mixed. The school work was never challenging and the first week was always spent colouring in a title page or learning some ridiculous song. I kind of loved it there and will admit I also quite liked reading scripture and knowing things. I've always loved knowing things, but I was quite the little show off, which my sister hated, being two years above me at the same school. I did earn the nickname 'Teacher's Pet' for a reason, I always did sit up the straightest, which seemed to my peers to be a sign of a suck up. Probably true. 

Segregation in the playground was an unspoken, but very important social rule. Big kids (Years 3 and above) got to play in the upper playground and the rest of us had to stay behind the path which separated the two. Having a sister two years above me, whenever I got lonely I did seek her out, always anxious about being dobbed in by someone to a teacher. I shouldn't have bothered though, big kids did not want their little siblings to be hanging around with them and their friends. That put me off quite a bit. Sisters can be so cruel. It didn't matter much, I had Gabby to play ridiculous hand games with, some kid was always getting "married" behind the cricket nets and later we had hand ball, which we were all highly competitive about. Some people just could not accept that they had to go down to Duns!

Apart from all the fond memories I have of the place, I did get bullied and I certainly hated one particular aspect of the school and that was sport. I've hated sport my whole life, even now the thought of standing in a line and knowing you're going to be picked last fills me with dread, or having to go to an athletics carnival (shudder). I was always picked last. I hated sport, I was never good at it, I'm never going to be good at it and with the Olympics on at the moment, I'm not going to waste any time going on about the subject. Sport is dreadful.

Perhaps the oddest part of trying to write out my memories and experiences between the years 1997-2003, is that I can barely remember them as well as I can other, probably more important, years of my life. They're my very own forgotten years and I had to think about them seriously for a long time before some wispy memories came through. The only things I remember, apart from school and playing in my street, was the fact my mum doesn't really frequent these years too much in my head. I feel very guilty now for somehow forgetting her without knowing, because it wasn't like growing up with separated parents, it was as if her entire existence had been erased because I had forgotten her in some way. She was certainly never spoken about and none of my childhood friends ever asked about her. I do remember my sister was gone for some months because she wanted to be with her, only to return back to my dad and I, with my mum dropping her off and then leaving again. I don't even think I really missed her until I had her back again properly.

In the years 2000 until 2003 I gained a younger half-sister Gabrielle, who I barely know, a stepfather and an ex-stepfather and I lost a grandmother. I had quite a bad bicycle accident, having been flipped over my handle bars, which ended with me sliding across the concrete on my face (it hurt). Photos of me at the Sydney Olympic Games show the damage, since half my face was covered in bruises, scabs and cuts and I had quite a magnificent black eye. I made my Holy Communion and my Confirmation with the saint name Therese, so I was and still am, an adult in the eyes of the Catholic Church. I got to see my mother again, properly this time, although it would be quite a few years before we connected properly (it never starts well when they think you're 8 and you're actually 10) but when we did, I went from being my father's daughter into my mother's baby. A late conversion.

The years 1997-2003 are my forgotten years and have been the hardest to write about (having to leave out a few memories), but surely the easiest to read. After all, I did promise I would try not to depress people and I hope I have succeeded. It wasn't bad from what I can remember or from what I have written, but I'll admit that some things are better left kept in our heads, not for the world to read. 

Depression and an eating disorder: A recipe for disaster.

One of the theories of what causes depression, is the lack of coping abilities of the individual who is suffering. That was something I was taught in a philosophy tutorial and it has stuck with me until now. I thought I'd take a detour from my childhood musings and talk about depression and eating disorders, topics which have been endlessly covered to death and yet, I still believe I have something to add to this never-ending discussion.

For me, depression is not something which is curable or managed by the new trends of yoga-practicers, chinese medicine (who bloody knows what that is!), meditation or rubbish practices like acupuncture. Strangely though, to me at least, these are some of the things I have been told can help me. Now it is highly likely that being a very skeptical and cynical person I have dismissed some of these unfairly, I'll admit I have because they're rubbish, let's be honest. These recommendations actually insult me to varying degrees and to understand why, I should probably put my experiences with depression into context.

I think I diagnosed myself around the age of 15, a teenager with hormones raging and angst being my emotion of choice, it made a lot of sense that people would dismiss it as teenage rubbish. However it didn't go away as I got older, it grew with me, until I reached a point where I had to make some change to my life, to do something that I thought would end my torment and make me happy. I rather stupidly began to believe my depression stemmed from my unhappiness with my physical appearance, which made sense at the time, given the fact I was surrounded by thin and gorgeous girls and I had throughout my teenage years always been on the heavier side of the scale. My solution was to diet and that leads us to eating disorders. Very cliche I know.

I did not, as most people believe until this very day, automatically starve myself. Over the next year, from Year 10 until Year 11, I completely overhauled my diet, exercised mornings and evenings and even began to feel better. I was riding a rush of being praised by my father, my mother and by other people at school who noticed and soon I threw myself into the challenge of losing even more weight, setting new goals every time I reached them. The problem with this should be quite clear to you, every time I achieved a goal weight, I would make it lower and lower and lower.

I got to the stage where I was a very healthy 60 kilograms, which is quite a good weight for someone who is 5'6.5.  I couldn't stop though and things turned quite bad from this point on. I began to cut out foods, became a Vegan to do this more easily and exercised more and more. I set a goal to exercise 2 hours everyday and eventually my calorie limit plummeted from 1800, to 1500, to 1200 and at my worst, 600 a day. Starting to count my calories was and still is, the biggest regret of my life.

Having an eating disorder, I have told my close friends, is like being an alcoholic. You may give up the alcohol, the action of drinking it, but you will always be an alcoholic, that craving and those psychological tendencies are always there. Eating disorders are also extremely self-obsessed for the obvious reasons. I paid little attention to anyone around me and when I did, I began to twist and manipulate things that were being said, into things that I wanted to hear. When finally one teacher asked me how much I weighed, I replied 52 kilograms almost instantly, because of course I knew, it was always in the forefront of my thoughts. I spent every lesson calculating how many calories I had eaten and how many I planned to eat that day, while trying to ignore the freezing cold which had settled permanently in my bones. People began to start telling me I looked sick, I was unhealthy. Those words did not produce the reaction they wanted, in fact, in my mind 'sick' and 'unhealthy' had become some sort of sign that I was succeeded. Indeed, being told at my year 12 Formal that I looked healthy made me feel disgusted with myself.

I ended up in the hospital twice, not because I was underweight (although that caused problems at only 46 kilograms) but because my depression got the better of me. Perhaps the reason I'm writing this blog, combining these two issues, is because of a rather dull conversation I had with the psychiatrist the emergency room staff made me see there. She told me my circumstances occur in two different ways, in some instance the depression causes the eating disorder, or the reverse, the eating disorder causes the depression. I always knew it was the former for me, I'd lived with that far longer and it was my constant companion during my loneliest hours and still is.

It will have been three years this month, since I was first rushed to an emergency room for the first time in my life, having collapsed in a HSC Trial exam. I was amazed I actually made it into the exam, I was wondering how long the pills would take to kick in. By the time I got to school, having taken a cocktail of valium, anti-depressants and Panadeine Forte (a prescribed cocktail by the way), I was quite convinced I had failed and that nothing was going to happen to me. I was wrong, but not completely. I'm still here. Three years on and I still experience extreme lows quite frequently. I still count calories, obsess about my weight every single day, I've almost made dieting into some sick sort of art form. I am a master at calorie counting.

After all my musings (I did go on a bit didn't I?), there are two main things I just wanted to make clear. Firstly, depression is not a fancy way of saying 'Oh boy I'm rather sad today,' it's something people like myself have to deal with on a daily basis. It is not something you can brush away just by thinking happy thoughts, it's an illness that is unique to every individual and cannot be dismissed. Secondly, people suffering from eating disorders (and they do suffer), are not doing it for the attention, they are not intentionally being self-absorbed or trying to cause others pain. I never wanted to cause anyone around me any sort of pain or guilt for being unable to help me and if I did, I can only apologise for that, I can't change it. Everyone is different (although have you been to Newtown recently?) and I'm sick to death of people giving me advice on how I should help myself or take vitamins and other rubbish. I deal with these illnesses in my own way, which may not be the best way, but there is no right way.

So, do I lack sufficient coping abilities and that is why I have depression? I don't think so, whoever thought that up should meet my family, I have brilliant coping abilities thank you very much.


Do I think I will ever not have depression or an eating disorder? You never know, but I'm going to play it safe and say that I doubt it. Those thoughts will always be there in my head, so perhaps the better question is 'Can I learn to manage them and not let both kill me?' That is a question I would like an answer to, because at the moment, I just don't know.

We will start at the beginning and then stop. 91-97.

Blogging, or just writing in general I think, is supposed to be sort of therapeutic, or at least that's what I've been told. I thought I may as well give it a go, I can always scorn this blogs creation at a later date.

So to begin with, it should probably be said I am not your typical twenty year old female. Indeed, I don't think anything about my existence up until this point has ever been typical. I can only explain this covering short periods of time. This post can cover from my birth to age five I think, past that point it gets more complicated and I cannot be bothered sorting out my thoughts this evening to cover beyond that age. 

I was born to young parents, 24 and 21, my father already having fathered two children by this point and my mother only one other, my sister Jessie. My father was and still is, a mechanic, while my mother stayed at home or as it says on my birth certificate, her occupation was "home duties." I was apparently a planned child, conceived in a tree and from what I can gather, some sort of trap to keep my father (a serial adulterer) from straying even further from my mother. I'll give you a spoiler right now, that didn't work so well for my mum.

Much of my first few years is a blur, as you can imagine, but there were common occurrences in my household that I very much doubt are common or "typical." For one thing, my parents were young and loved to party. My sister and I often found ourselves with our Grandma in Bondi, while my parents danced the night away and took God knows what. It would often be a few days before they came back for us.

By the time my sister started school, we were very close, having gotten used to the fact we were pretty much on our own. For a long time I didn't even bother speaking to people, I just communicated through my sister and she was only too happen to tell my parents what I wanted. She was always the more charismatic and outgoing child. When she left for school I had no one. I didn't grow up surrounded by other children my age or go to preschool, I was always with my sister or my mum. The problem was that by this point, my mum was very depressed. She had two young children, she was young herself and often my father just left for days and didn't come back. She would lock herself in her room, with all the light blacked out and just slept. When my father was home it wasn't much better. They were terrifying when they fought, my father is a physical fighter and my mother has a cutting and brutal tongue. I have so many memories of hiding behind doors with my sister just waiting for them to stop their own little war, usually staged in our kitchen. Dad always ended it. Someone was always hurt. Screaming and crying was typical background noise for me.

From the time of my birth to the age of five, when everything seemed to fall apart, all I can really remember is being with my sister, then being separated and then being alone and having some sort of rudimentary feeling that this was probably what life was.  I started Kindergarten in 1997 and missed half the year. My maternal Grandfather, who was my mother's world, died of terminal cancer in 1997. My mother and my father finally separated in 1997. My mother's depression got even worse in 1997, when my father took my sister and I away from her in 1997. 1997 was not a good year for me.  

I think I'll end this in 1997 and pick it up again at a later date, but it should be noted I can count on one hand the number of times I saw my mother over the next four or five years.