Running in circles

I’m terrified of my own mind.

This mind of mine. She is brilliant.  She is incessant.  She unravels as she weaves.  An intricate matrix of overlapping thoughts.  Dissecting, analysing, birthing contentment, and scripting terrors.

My anxious mind.  Scarred with disease.  Both villain and saviour.

No one understands you like I do.

I’m scared no one will.



Like it was yesterday

I love you like I loved you yesterday.

Yesterday I wanted all the best things for you.
Yesterday I couldn’t wait to fall asleep on your chest.
Yesterday I thought about all the things that would make you laugh and all the things you’d say to me to make laugh.
Yesterday I liked all the things that made you passionate.
Yesterday I wanted to make love with you.

And the trouble is that yesterday is today, and it will be again, tomorrow.

I love you.  Still.

For good reason and without reason.
Most would say, despite reason.

Because it was far from perfect.  So imperfect that I flew away from it.
I thought I would grow better without it.  I thought we both would.

But here I am, mostly grown and horribly disfigured by this love that I can’t shake.
Like a dimple in my side.  I’ve grown around it.  Willing it to un-pucker, open, heal.
I kept my head on – kept moving forward – prove that I didn’t leave for nothing.

And what is this?  Guilt?  What should I be sorry for?
That you couldn’t love me?  Sorry that you didn’t want to love me?
Sorry that you love someone new?  Someone who looks just like me but isn’t me?

Do you know how fucking soul-destroying that is?  To know that you love her better than you did me when she is my cloned replacement?  A fetish that you grew to love.

And there.  The hate comes.
It feels good.  Superficially cathartic.
But the true hate comes when I wake up tomorrow and love you like yesterday.
I hate myself for not being able to un-love you.
It’s eating away at me and no one wants to help me anymore.  Because it’s weird.  Because I’m clearly imbalanced.  Annoying, naive, emotionally weak-willed K, who’s allowed this fantastical illusory love blind and bind her.  It’s getting old.

So I don’t cry anymore.  I just will it to leave me.
Slip out the window when I’m sleeping or right out the front door when I’m head-down in work.

Tomorrow.  Tomorrow will be the day I un-love you.


Conversations with myself

I hate you.

I want to hate you.

I poured 3 and a half years of unconditional love into you, only to have you turn around and gift the loved/healed version of yourself to someone just like me but significantly not me.

And I don’t understand how I could still love you after everything you’ve done to me.

Hearing that you want to introduce her to our mutual friends makes me sick.

How could you demonstrate pride in her when you couldn’t bring yourself to show pride in me.  Was I that garbage?  Was I such human trash that you didn’t ever want to acknowledge your feelings for me?  I gave you everything and asked for hardly anything in return.  What was so wrong with me that I was never granted your pride?  What is so right with her?  Was she just fortunate enough to come after me?  I feel so used.

I hate you.  You’re so incredibly selfish and self-serving.  You didn’t think twice about hurting me if it meant you felt safe.  It was immature and disgusting but I made excuses for you.

I continue to make excuses for you and it makes me hate myself.  How could I value myself so little?

But still.  I love you.

Unconditionally, it seems.

And I’m just waiting until I stop.  1 year and 7 months and counting.


Jumping off the ledge

It’s been an age since my last post.

Tonight is my last night in Sydney.  I fly to London tomorrow.

I was supposed to fly out on 3rd March but somehow my recklessness, and the fates convened, and I badly sprained my ankle on my last day of my sister’s buddymoon in New Zealand.  I had to get an ultrasound, physiotherapy, a moon boot, some crutches, and postpone my flight.  It’s been hectic.

My family have rallied around me.  From literally carrying me, to preparing ice packs, to making me tea, to closing car doors.  I treasure them so much.  It’s hard to leave them behind.  It’s scary and sad.  This next chapter is going to be just me.  Only me.  A lone wolf.  What will become of me without my pack?


My last day at work was hard.  Almost gratefully I had quite a busy day, getting a campaign up and live in a working day’s hours.  It kept me distracted from the suspended wave of melancholy threatening to make me cry.  But as the final stroke was put through the T and the last email of the day had been sent, a final chat with one of colleagues.  It hadn’t been a particularly windy day but as we talked, the air moving through the alley became gusty.
“Doesn’t this make you feel like you’re standing on the edge?” he said, as he raised his arms out wide.
“Like you’re just about to jump?  And it’s exciting and terrifying and thrilling?”
“That’s how I’m feeling right now, at this point of my life.  Like I’m standing on the edge of the cliff and I’m about to jump.  About to send myself into the abyss – free-falling, windy rushing up, through and behind me.  Relying entirely on myself to learn how to fly.  Having faith in my ability to keep myself from plummeting.  Knowing that I can get myself to where I need to go.”
That last bit a may have kept in my head.
But it got me thinking.  And then it got me feeling.

I’m going to miss the days I spent here, with these people.  Day in, day out.  The best days.  The days of the Golden Age.  I don’t think I’ll ever get it this good again.  Times change too quickly.  People move on, companies grow or shrink.
“People move to London.” my friend remarked, playfully.
Yeah.  I move to London.  Fuck.
This place is home.  My work home.  A different nest but an important nest.  This place, these people, made me so happy.  Happier than I thought I could get in Sydney.  Happier than I had given Sydney credit for.

As we wait on the footpath for my uber, the same friend says some kind words, the tears leak out of me, soon sending a sheer my steady line of wetness down my cheeks and tapering at my chin.  I can’t believe that I have to walk away from this.  I hate that I have to walk away from this.
Because London is the next chapter.  And it’ll probably be hard.  I’m going to cry.  I’m going to swear.  I’m going to miss my family, my dog, my best friend, and my work-home.
But hopefully it will also be rewarding, inspiring, grounding, and exciting.  Hopefully I gorge on the richness of the experience.  Steeling my soul for the next chapter.

Tomorrow I take the leap.  Tomorrow I leave loves behind.
Tomorrow I fly for the horizon.



countdown to emotional crisis. Happy New Year!


What if I’ve been duping myself this entire time?  What if you hate me?  What if you don’t want anything to do with me?  What if you’re in love with someone else?  What if you never gave me a second thought?  What if I’ve imagined and fabricated this entire year and a bit of twin flames in separation narrative?  What if my powers of manifestation and intuition completely let me down?  My only safety net is me.  My safety net is me, knowing (and when faith abandons me, hoping) that I’ll figure a way out from the hurt.  I’ve gotten through tough times before.  I can be strong.

But still, I ask myself, what if?

And my heart drops.



Soulmates and long, drawn-out farewells

My plans to move to Berlin and London got announced to the rest of the team about two weeks ago.
Most people didn’t seem too surprised.
Most people knew how much I loved and missed London.

My workmate, T, drunkenly asked me on Friday, and again, soberly, on the following Thursday if I was going back for N.  He said he didn’t want me to go back for him.
I reassured him that I wasn’t going back for N.  That I wouldn’t not consider things if he had changed for the better but that wasn’t the primary drive for me to go back.
He seemed happy enough with the reply but I don’t think he’s convinced, which is fine.  I doubt I’m going to convince everyone that I’m not uprooting my life back half-way across the world just for a dude who hasn’t tried to fight for me.

Oh, and who has a new girlfriend…apparently.

I found out the other week.  My friend was drunkenly whatsapping me and let it slip that she heard he had a girlfriend.  It burned my chest.  It made my fingers numb and my appetite disappear.
But not totally unsurprising.  It has been over a year.  And he never had a shortage of women wanting to climb on top of him.
I hope to God  it’s not Amsterdam.  And  part of me hopes it’s just a karmic relationship.

You know, the kind relationships you have with people just to learn a specific lesson or two.  I think that’s what I have with T, at work.  He’s been such an important male figure in my life for the past year and a bit.  He’s helped me so much with work.  Encouraging me, motivating me, stimulating me in all ways but sexually.  My friendship with him and the rest of the people at work has been the greatest thing to have come from this past year and few months but T, especially, has been that little bit more impactful.  Whether it was getting me to watch Seinfeld, redevelop the American-influenced type of humour I had packed away whilst I was in London, or chat shit about evolutionary psychology, T’s been humorous and dynamic replacement for a romantic relationship.  A part of me wants to tell him and thank him, and another part of me thinks he’d think me weird.

It hit me, the other day, just how much I am going to miss Sydney when I go.
I know I spent the better half of the time moaning about wanting to go back to London but I am going to miss the people is Sydney who helped me turn this shit-show into a fairly decent ride.  I’ve learnt an incredible amount, not only professionally but also personally.  I’m in a much stronger position in my life than I was when I left London and I have myself to thank for that.  My time in Sydney has been a continuation of my personal growth and agency.  Another summit on my journey of self-reckoning.  London was the beginning.  Sydney was chapter 2 – when I fully committed to my manifestation powers.  Sydney was hard work but it’s put me in such an enviable position to kick-off chapter 3 back in London in the best way possible.

I’m so grateful and excited.

xx K


Life Heroin

I hadn’t gotten high in months.
Because the last few times I did, I got existentially sad.  Go figure.

But I decided to get high again last night.  No one else was home, it was just me, a joint and my honest thoughts.
Boy did I get honest with myself.

I recorded myself and the resultant emotional breakdown/breakthrough.

I’ve decided I’ll publish some transcripts from those recordings.  Below is the first one.

I am so shit scared that I have imprinted you on my life so much…you…That’s what it is.
You have left such an imprint on me because you were the man I loved when I was living the most reckless, self-indulgent, selfish, exhilarating, caution to the wind, living on the edge of life, leaning into the universe, two years (I think that makes sense, grammatically).  You were the man I loved when I was living that kind of life, which made me fall in love with life.


Holy fuck.  Is that not a poem or something?

I, the, I can’t even think of of our relationship without thinking of the life I led that was just mine, it’s not, you didn’t do those things in my life that i fell in love with.  I just loved you at the same time.   You didn’t cause these things, I caused these things.  I was the one pushing my life to the furthest it had ever been before.  I had started over.  I just picked up my life and moved it half-way across the world.  I was in it, that was mine.  I sat in it.  I sat in it and moved around in it and I engraved myself onto my own life.  

I’m so sad.  And I’m so scared.
That I fell in love with my own life and I can’t, I can’t recreate it.
And I’ll spend my whole life chasing this.

I feel like I did life heroin.  I feel like I did life heroin.  Oh my God.

I’m in so much pain

I feel like I’m imploding.

Oh, Jesus.  I think I’m addicted to the destruction.
I think I am doing life heroin.  Well someone who’s doing life heroin would feel like they were doing life heroin and that’s the fucking paradox.  I don’t think paradox is the right word…

I just keep doing this to myself and I think I’m addicted to it.
Oh, God, I hate myself.

Now I’ve gone an upset the dog



xx K

I cried for the first time since blocking N on social media.
I was watching ‘To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before’ on Netflix and just started crying.  It wasn’t a long cry.  I don’t allow myself to cry for long periods of time anymore, if at all..  It seems like a waste of energy.  Maybe I’m just dead inside.
But I realised, through my tears, that I was angry.

Fuck you for making me think that I imagined you loving me, for doubting that you ever loved me.  You may not have loved me in the best way but you did, love me.

When we sat on that rooftop in Istanbul, watching the sun set, and you leaned in to whisper in my ear, “I hate you.”
When you got really ill and asked me to come over to take care of you.
When you called me baby when we made love.
When you wrapped your arms around me as I cooked dinner.
When you mock-karate chopped me, interspersed with kisses.
When you introduced me to your brother and dad.
When you took me to your childhood home and slept in your childhood bed.
When you strapped my walking sticks to my backpack before I hiked up Snowdon.
When you told me that it should have been just the two of us from the start.
When you cried at the airport after we said our goodbyes.
When you searched for me in your bed when I went to the bathroom.
When we shared toothbrushes.
When we shared a shower.
When you watched Interstellar about 6 times because I kept on falling asleep.
When you held me like a baby when I started crying after watching Game of Thrones because I realised how much I was going to miss you and didn’t want to leave you and how fucking scared I was about going home and breaking my heart.

I remember these things.  I remember the ways in which you loved me.
But I also remember the ways in which you hurt me.

Both memories make me sad, mad, and afrad.


xx K

Rotting from the inside, out.

I feel ugly.

Not in a fleeting, “I need a deep exfoliation and restorative mask” kind of way.
I see the ugliness seeping out of my giant, greasy pores.  Black sludge, oozing out as a move – leaving tar-like smudges in my wake.
My soul is garbage.  It’s been decomposing for months now.  The clawing, wet heat from the rotting core slicks my swarthy skin with condensation.  I feed the weeping wound with alcohol, fries and hazy nights.

I pick at myself.  Literally pick my skin away.  It hardens, trying to protect itself but I pick that off too.  The pad of my thumb is course, hardened and ugly.

My body is giving up on me.  My hangovers are getting worse.  Must still be suffering some side-effects from the concussion I gave myself the other night.  My arms are ballooning into a 50 year old tuck-shop lady’s arms.  Must be bloating from all the salt in my diet.  Or I’m just getting old.

I look at my face everyday.  It’s not getting better.  No matter all the oils, syrups, toners, cleansers, acids, and masks I use.
My skin is turning into the bitumen of a well-travelled road.

I hate myself.  I hate that I am my own worst enemy.  I hate that I still don’t know how to be happy.

I don’t want this life.  I can’t keep doing this.  I don’t have the stamina to keep going.  I hate cardio.

It’s getting harder and harder to contain the infection.  It’s written on my skin, the dullness of my hair and the broken capillaries in my eyes.  I’m sure people can smell it.  The smell of vomit, whiskey, and cigarettes.  The walls of my body are rippling with the strain of holding a increasingly liquefying interior.  There are bulges and rolls I never had before.

I’m losing the battle.
I’m exhausted.



How did I screw up so badly?

I stood here, the light of the street lamp bouncing off your dusty-white Holden turned Toyota your dad had helped patch together.  We debated how best to fit your bike in the backseat.  You may need to roll the rear window down.

The night was young or was it?  I can’t seem to recall now.  3 years is a long time.

I tried to help the best I could but as usual, you managed to do most of the heavy lifting.  You were always good at that.
The door clicked shut, just.  As you turned around to face me I hugged my jacket closer.  Maybe because of the wind.  Maybe because I needed the protection.

You told me you didn’t want me to go to London but you and I both knew it didn’t matter.  You were the reason I was leaving.  I needed to do this, for me.
The unspoken understanding enveloped us.  I think we hugged.  You were good at that too.

I stood right here and said goodbye to the first and maybe the only man who loved me.