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.



No one makes me bleed my own blood.

My little sister got engaged yesterday and as I was tasked with cooking our big family Sunday night dinner, I decided to cook up a big vegetarian meal for her and her new fiance.  I decided to make potato au gratin and for some reason decided to dig out the mandolin that I hadn’t used in years to cut the potatoes.  I was literally two minutes in to prep, and I sliced a chunk of my thumb off.  I felt the razor sharp metal bite into my flesh.  I immediately pressed under the wound to stop the inevitable pooling of blood.  I watched the cross section of the cut, white flesh with pinkish specks.  It hadn’t started bleeding yet because I was cutting off the supply of blood with my other hand.  I stared at this open wound, wondering in vain if there was a way I could avoid the bloodshed.  I knew there wasn’t.  As my mother helped bandage me up, I released my hold on the cut.  Blood rushed in and, as expected, pooled within the bandage.  I dabbed at the blood, soaking tissue paper in my shockingly red claret but knew I would have to leave it alone if I wanted it to congeal and scab over.  I held my arm in the air, continued prepping dinner, and waited.


Today was also the day I cut N out of my life.

And it’s going roughly the same way.


We had been messaging.  It started when he was travelling.  He was in Japan at the time and I DM’ed him and it went from there.  We continued to talk throughout the remainder of this travels.  I held onto some faint hope that he was going to end up in Sydney and it would be a reunion of sorts.  Part of me knew he wouldn’t come.  What could be achieved by visiting me?  Circumstances hadn’t changed.  I knew it’s looking more likely that I’ll be going back to London there is no guarantee and no concrete date.

And I was right, he didn’t come to Sydney.  The next thing I knew I was watching his Instagram story of his first day back in London.  I was disappointed but knew that it was illogical sadness.  I also figured our exchange of messages was also to end now that our time zones were back to being almost diametrically opposite but we ended up having one more round of conversation last weekend.

Throughout our conversations over the past few weeks we had referenced how things used to be, how we missed certain things, how nice things were back then…I’m not going to lie.  I was getting invested.  I liked knowing that he dreamt about me, as I did him.  I liked hearing him reminisce about our relationship’s heyday.  I gave me hope that not all was lost – that this inexplicable anchorage I felt with him was mutual.  Kindred spirits.  Twin flames.
Then yesterday I watched his Instagram story.  He’s in Amsterdam this weekend.
There’s only one person he knows in Amsterdam: this women who had deep-liked one my Instagram posts months earlier.  I watched her public Instagram story.  He was there with her.  He had gone to see her and undoubtedly sleep with her again.

I felt jealously burn in my belly.  As much as I reasoned with myself that he had every right to see and sleep with this woman because we weren’t together, the anger and sadness overwhelmed reason.
He had been messaging me only last weekend.  He made it all the way to South East Asia, and didn’t visit me but he flies to Amsterdam to visit this chick, with enthusiasm?  What a stunning rejection.  What a slap in the fucking ego.  I know we’re not together but that’s fucking cold.


So I did what any spiralling woman does – called my best friend.

And boy did she spell it out for me.

He doesn’t respect you.


It slapped me harder than his callousness had.
Because it was true.  It was something I had always feared and had tried to explain away with his mental health struggles but I couldn’t run away from it anymore.  He doesn’t respect me.  Maybe that’s what he meant when he said he didn’t think he could love me.  To love someone you need to respect them.  It’s a Captain Obvious situation and I feel pitiful for saying it like it’s something I’m just realising.
All throughout our relationship I feared that he was ashamed of me.  He didn’t care for me like I was a treasure to him.  He didn’t hesitate to hurt me.  He questioned our compatibility: even questioned my authenticity.  Our relationship was a public secret for 90% of the time we were together.  He never boasted about me.  I don’t think I can recall him ever praising me.  The only thing he enjoyed about me was the sex.


I can’t allow myself to be valued in such a base and one-dimensional way.  I mean I could, in the same way as I could totally do heroin, but I really shouldn’t.  If he doesn’t respect me, at least I can.

So he’s been blocked/unfriended/otherwise excised from my life.

It hurts.

Like the cut to my thumb, I had been applying pressure to the wound all this time.  Don’t let it bleed.  If it doesn’t bleed it’s almost as if the cut’s not there.
But it needs to bleed.  It needs to bleed so that it can coagulate and a scab can form.  Then that scab needs to flake away to reveal tender, pink flesh and a newly healed thumb.
I’m bleeding right now.  A delayed and overdue letting to purge the toxins that had accumulated and allow for the painful process of healing.


I thought he was worth it.  I thought he was worth fighting and waiting for but maybe he’s not.  Maybe I was overly optimistic.  Sometimes people don’t develop into the people you hoped they would.  Maybe the person you thought they were was a mirage, a projection of your own messed up shit.  Maybe he really never loved me.


I’m still bleeding.



It’s visceral.

I haven’t written in a while and even though I kept telling myself that it was because I was too tired from work or that I was doing well enough to not document it, I think, truthfully, I was scared.

I’ve had about 4 sessions with my therapist and whilst I do think that it’s helping, I don’t think it’s helped me get closure on N.
I think I’ve gone into these sessions trying to be too rational.  Because being rational is such a rational approach to solving problems…
…but my problem isn’t rational, it’s emotional.

It’s almost been a year since I last saw him.  Almost a year since I have allowed myself to my physically or emotionally intimate with a man.  Almost a year since I seemingly pressed paused on my good life and pressed go on my purgatory life.  Except that I didn’t press pause.  Life in London continued on without me.  My friends have changed jobs, fallen out, moved cross-country, had babies, started new relationships, ended relationships, travelled to different cities.  They didn’t wait.  He didn’t wait.  He’s on his own journey now.  Literally right now you is on a literal journey.  He’s travelling through China.  How long for?  I don’t know.  Where else is he going?   I don’t know.  Am I happy for him?  Undeniably.  Do I hope his feet and heart lead him to my doorstep?  Ashamedly, yes.

And I am ashamed.  Who in their right mind, breaks their own heart, actually gets broken up with, stays celibate for a year (maybe more), pines after their ex and still has hope things turn out in their favour?  A fucking delusional person.  A person with serious emotional issues.  If this happened to a friend of mine, you bet that I would be judging her for not getting the fuck on with her life.
But I have gotten the fuck on with my life, haven’t I?  Bar the giant emotional hole.

I’ve learned so much about myself in the past year.  I learned that I can make life-altering, long-term, adult decisions that break my heart.  I learned that I can rebuild my life again and again.  I learned that I have passion for and can actually excel in my career.  I learned that I can still function relatively well without the fulfilment of an emotional connection or the pursuit of one.  I learned that I can take my life into my own hands and work towards a singular goal.
Oh, my manager told my that the company would “of course” send me to London.  A 6-9 month timeline has been suggested.  So things are in motion on that front.  It’s a huge relief.

I should be over the moon, right?  I should be so happy, right?
But right now it’s 2:36 AM and I’m writing in this stupid blog that no one reads because I’m not happy.  I’m restless.  I miss him.

Those words feel so insufficient.  What I’m feeling feels deeper.  It’s visceral.  It’s a yearning.  It’s knowing that I want him lying beside me.  It’s a want that borders on need.  It’s the warmth that only an entanglement of his arms and legs can lend.  It’s the undefinable, inexplicable, inability to say why my love for him hasn’t waned.  It’s the dawning realisation that this may be bigger than me.  It’s the fear that I’ve not grown as much as I think I have.

And the pathetic thing is that I keep telling myself that he feels the same, that he pines for me too.  We’re stuck in this emotional purgatory whilst we both do some adulting.  Me, on my career and grounding, and him, on his emotional healing and spiritual self-alignment; both of us wanting to be with the other but knowing that this shit needs to be done first.  But I don’t actually know if that’s the case – I just have this feeling.

I need to be prepared for the high chance that this isn’t the case.  That’s what multiple people, as well as my therapist, have said to me.  I need to be prepared for the let down, for the rejection.  Can you ever really be prepared for that though?  I’ve said before, I generally like to let the cards fall where they may and play what I’m given.  I literally have no control over the outcome so I may as well pursue what I want until it blows up in my face.  You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.

Maybe I have grown a little bit.


xx K

Getting help.

I’m not really okay.

And that’s okay.  Great, even, that I can recognise that I’m not okay because it means I can ask for help.  Which I have.  I went to the doctor today to ask for a referral to a psychologist.  I have requested the same doctor I saw before I moved to London.  He was great.


I just need some help, making sense, and sorting through the matrix of thoughts and feelings I have.  I had hoped that things would get better with time but they haven’t…or maybe I haven’t.  I feel like a slowly decomposing zombie.  Work, sleep, repeat.  I’m getting by; I can still laugh and enjoy some things but it feels like how food tastes after you’ve burnt your tongue – the experience is reduced to the sensation of the food in your mouth and the memory of what it should taste like.  The texture and weight of the food, abrasive against your raw, course palette.
I don’t want it.  I don’t want this life.

I feel like a zoo animal that got to roam free, in the wild for two years and was then forced back into captivity.  Sure they feed me well here but I’d rather have to hunt for my food and have my freedom than be imprisoned.  And the other animals in the zoo don’t get it, they’re happy here.  A mixture of not missing what they don’t know, and preferring to have steady shelter and food.


“I don’t want you to go back to London for N.”.
And I completely understand that.  It would be unhealthy to pin such grand expectations onto a guy or onto love.  I truly believe I’m not doing that.  Sure I still love him.  Sure I hold some hope that we can sort shit out when I go back.  The strength of that want freaks me out sometimes too.  But when I look at a photo of a London street or of a village backdrop in country England, I experience a yearning that is like my soul is reacting to a beacon, lit thousands of miles away.  It pulls at me.  It tugs at something almost primal inside me that I realise I am barely containing in my daily life.


I’ve never experienced this kind of devastation before.  Functional devastation.
I am not debilitated.  I am not confined to my bed or to my bedroom or to crying myself to sleep.  I think the strength I developed since my last bout of depression is the reason why I’m not in that non-functional state.  I’m keeping my head above water.  I am working hard.  I am not letting myself succumb to the devastation.  But my world is rocked and I need help to stabilise it again.


xx K

Blame the gin.

I never thought I was the type of person who put a lot of stock in their career.  I learned, from my last depressive episode, that it was okay that I didn’t derive a sense of identity from what I did for a living.  It was okay that my job was a means to an end to pursue happiness from other facets of my life.
I think that’s changed somewhat.  Whilst it’s still not a primary informant of my sense of self, my work has been a major driving force of personal growth for me over the past 6 months.  I’m still learning in love but I think I’ve reached that point where the lessons I’m learning from forging a career are the lessons that are having more impact on my life.  Stress management, communication, networking, time management, etc.  These are adult soft skills and although I’ve been managing to avoid any real development of these skills thus far in my life it’s probably beneficial for me to have them as I near my 30s.

Oh that reminds me; I turned 29 two days ago.

N wished me a happy birthday.

I’ve spent the last 2 days being a bit pathetic and lamentable.  I’m blaming the gin.

I just want to be together.  Is that so bad?  I just want there to be no distance between us.  I just want him to get to a point where he can love without masochism.
I want him to burn with the unease of realisation; the realisation that I left an imprint on his soul – a level of contentedness he fears he can achieve will no one else.  I want him to ache with daily dullness at the thought that I might not feel the same way.
I want the bright sunshine to sting like icy shards because it doesn’t feel right for there to be light and laughter for a soul so dark with melancholy.

I am weak.  I am not strong.  I am trying but a large part of me doesn’t want to succeed.  Because what will my life be if I don’t have the safety net of this hypothetical love?  Aimless.  Work-filled.  Some zombie person.  Sydney turns me into this Zombie person.  Work, partner, kids, property.  Rinse and repeat.  I would rather kill myself.  Sydney is a parasite.

I feel like I’m in the matrix, forced to live in this dream-state of sunshine and good pay whilst the life is being drained from me.

Maybe I need to reconsider therapy.