I did it, act two

After much discussing, planning, rehashing, fretting, and the stomach upset from hell, The Plan™ has finally come to fruition. I told Sister that I am gay at 10:30pm on Sunday night.

I had decided, upon advice from the ever-insightful Nicki, to do it over the phone so as to give her a week away to digest the information before she had to “face” it in person. The added bonus to this situation is that should she have a total meltdown, she could do so away from me so that I wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of it. After consultations with a few people it was all mapped out: I would tell her on Sunday or Monday night over the phone, wait a week for the danger to subside, deal with any arguments from Sister upon her arrival home the following week, and then flee to Lala and Cal’s to escape her objections to my “chosen lifestyle”.

In all the planning that went on, and there was a lot, it was never ascertained who would be making the call. It was the one, albeit rather crucial, detail that no one thought to entertain. By about 9:30, I was starting to think that perhaps she wouldn’t be calling. While this would usually be a welcome turn of events I was forced to try calling her mobile at a little after 10pm. She rarely answers these days because her mobile phone is usually in her room so I hung up and waited for her to call back.

Suddenly I became very dizzy and a little nauseous as I felt bats flying around my stomach; I felt a tide of acid rise in my stomach, threatening to burn a hole through it into my chest. Two swigs of bi-carb water later, I lay in bed and waited. The phone rang. It was her. Thank goodness for caller ID. I called out to Mum to answer the phone, because I knew that if Sister needed to talk to Mum and/or Dad about anything, it would be best that she did it first. Twenty minutes later I was handed the phone. Had I known that being so magnanimous would result in twenty minutes of agony, I might have thought twice.

I took the phone, exchanged a loaded look with Mum, and went outside for a cigarette. I sat on the chair outside and made small talk with Sister for ten anguished minutes. “So, any other pressing news?” she asked. “Well, since you mention it” I said, willing my head to cease spinning, “there is something I wanted to discuss with you.”

Knowing that this would end very badly if I didn’t sit down soon—likely in a rather spectacular episode of vomit and unconsciousness—I sat on the dirt of the driveway, my back against the back wheel of Mum’s car, and tried to breathe evenly. “You see I did want to do this face-to-face” I began, hoping that I would be forgiven this one little white lie for the sake of both our sanities, “but I guess this is the next best thing”—breathe, Dan, breathe—“so yeh, I’ve been meaning to tell you in person but ...”—come on, you’re so close!—“but, well, what I want to tell you is that ... I’m gay.”

“Oh ok” she said, shocked. But not disgusted. This was a good sign.

“Yeh” I said, aware that I probably should give her a chance to at least begin thinking about approaching the task of digesting such a monumental piece of news

“So what does that mean?” She asked. After my mind stopped going “Huh?” at the top of its little voice, I voiced my confusion: “What do you mean ‘what does that mean’? It means what it means.”—Right Dan. Clear as mud. “Well ...” she began, clearly choosing her words carefully, “you have these same-sex attractions ...”—more thinking on her part, more reeling on mine—“but are you going to act on them?”

“Yep.”

“Ok. What do you think God thinks about it?” This is more what I was expecting. “Well ... I think it’s ok because I was made in His image” I said succinctly. “Well it’s true that we are all created in His image, but that doesn’t make everything we do right”. I was going to point out that there’s a difference between being and doing, and the dizzyingly circular logic of you can’t have sex outside of marriage, but we can’t get married so we have to have sex outside of marriage, but you can’t have sex outside of marriage, but I decided to pick my battles and leave this for another day.

After a lengthy silence, which was probably all of five seconds long in reality, she said “you know I love you, right? No matter what, I’ll always love you.” The acid in my stomach subsided; the bats flying around in my stomach took to their perches; the dizziness abated. I always knew that she would never, ever, stop loving me but I always feared it nonetheless. I said “I know, Sister, I love you too”. I explained that I realised this was a huge shock to the system and something she would want to think about and pray about. I suggested we call it a night and would discuss this further, if she wished, when she got home. She agreed, told me again that she loved me and hung up.

I slumped down, totally relieved, utterly exhausted, and lit another smoke. It was the first breath of fresh air in a long time.

The vainglorious lizard-man

I was accused today of trying to pick up a straight boy whom I know from uni. We are enrolled in the same subject, and as such both attend the lecture on Tuesdays, although we are in different classes. Today I went to his class, two hours earlier than mine, because I got to uni early and really had nothing better to do. I wasn’t, of course, trying to pick him up—I was just being nice—but he appears to be one of those “he’s gay so he must be interested in me because I am a guy” guys. He’s not even that good looking nor, as I learnt today, the most socially capable guy either. He actually reminds me of the “Lizard with a Ladder”, from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland movie, the cockney newt named Bill the Lizard.

I came lumbering down the corridor to the class and saw everyone sitting on the ground outside the room. My lumbering was due to a combination of lack of sleep (due, in turn, to reading a maddeningly good book—the kind that makes you play the “just one more chapter” game for hours) and having caught a tangara train uni, whose seats were apparently designed by those behind Guantanamo’s torture regime. I slumped to the ground and said hello to nobody in particular. “Why do you use a cane?” Bill asked without preamble. I was so taken aback, and not in the chirpiest mood, so I answered primly “I have fibromyalgia”, hoping to settle the matter. He pressed on; “What’s that?” he enquired. “A neurological condition,” I said, “makes my legs and back painful and weak, among other things”. “Oh,” he said, “I’ve never heard of it. Is it degenerative?” There was something about the way he articulated the word degenerative that had a certain gay lilt to it. I answered in the negative and explained that its not being degenerative didn’t really help me, since there is no cure anyway. “Still,” he said, determined not to let the subject drop, “it doesn’t seem to affect you too much.” This could not have come after a more traumatic month of migraines and insomnia, a three-day period of nearly non-stop diarrhoea, a week of sinusitis and the morning’s backache-by-public-transport. “There’s much more to it” I said curtly.

Mercifully he took me at my word. He asked what course I’m doing and what subjects and all that kind of thing. With each question I detected the lilt. I really didn’t think about it much beyond “that’s nice”, since I’m not in the habit of jumping a guy just because he’s gay. After class we exchanged MSN details and I went home.

Tonight, on MSN, after the hi-how-are-you pleasantries were out of the way, he asked, again without preamble, if I am gay. Although I wasn’t looking in a mirror at the time, I suspect a wry smile crept across my face. The conversation continued like this:
LL: are you gay?
Me: haha yes why do you ask?
LL: because i thought you were
Me: fair enough

At this point, I was either expecting an impish “me too” or another abrupt topic change. I knew he was socially inept, but he forged on to new heights (or lows, depending on how one scores these things) in a stellar display of machismo:
LL: i am straight
Me: thats nice?
LL: it’s not nice. it just is.
Me: im not trying to pick u up LL, you’re safe lol
LL: many a true word said in jest ;-)
LL: but i just like being clear, that’s all

I was about to ask if he felt it necessary to tell all men (or was it just all gay ones) that he encountered this small, but apparently vital, piece of information. Furthermore, I was about to suggest that either he is stupendously narcissistic to think I’d automatically want to hook up with him just because he happens to be a man, or he is himself gay and in denial and wants no doubt to exist as to his heterosexuality, lest my gaydar pick up on his lilty little signals and try something on. I chose to leave it and steamed silently to myself. Incidentally, the only other man I’ve ever heard using the word jest turned out to be a closeted transgendered liar. Needless to say, LL’s use of the word sent up a little rainbow flag.

The TV show Spicks and Specks has just started so, in a vain (and ultimately fruitless) attempt to resurrect the conversation, I asked him if he watched it. He said that he didn’t but he did know of the show. I commented that I love it and he said “I can imagine you loving it”. This struck me as a very odd thing to say, considering that although we’ve been in the same lecture for the past ten weeks, we’d never spoken until that morning, when he’d broken all conventional rules of etiquette for speaking with the disabled and then accused me of hitting on him and not accepting my assertions that this was not the case. I asked what made him say such a strange thing—“what makes you say that?”—because that is the kind of thing you say to someone whom you know intimately (and can therefore legitimately imagine loving something) or to someone whom you do not know intimately but have been fantasising about them and therefore feel like you know them intimately. It seems I overestimated him. He replied, to my infinite amusement, “because it is a friendly thing to say”.

I guess I should give him points for at least attempting, however unsuccesfully, to be friendly even if he undid all his good work by telling me it was nothing more than a friendly gesture. The conversation ended there. I certainly hope, for his sake, he is a lot more suave with women.

Random ramblings #16

A few random thoughts after “one of those days”. It wasn’t a bad day per se, but it wasn’t great either. I’m really not in the mood for baring my soul to the world today, although I have plenty to say—there are three half-finished posts floating around in my brain—however since there has been a distinct lack of posting on my part lately, I’m trying to make an effort to post a little more often. Anyway, that said, here’re some thoughts.

“The person you are calling is not answering the phone; please leave a message after the beep.”
This has got to be the most irritating sentence in creation. The smarmy quasi-human voice makes it even more infuriating. Forced politeness does not become machines.

One of the few things I love about public toilets, particularly those on campus, is the graffiti. I admit I giggled when I read the following, in the toilets at uni today:

At a height of about 1.8m:

“13/9/06 Got my piss this high top that chumps!!”


And then, at a height of 2m:“12/4/07 Got my cum this high! Suck on that chump!!”

This was amid a staggering number of blow job solicitations, drawings of men spread-eagled and begging to be fucked, and the declaration that at least one user of that particular stall “hates all the students”.

Lastly, much scheming has been afoot lately with regards to Sister and The Plan™. I want to get it sorted in my head and ask a few other informed people before I talk about it here. Watch this space!

Blacklisted

I must be doing something right if my blog has been blocked by the Chinese government.

Yes, you read that correctly. I learnt this morning from Lou, my friend living in China, that she cannot access my blog without going through a proxy server. I’m not sure how to react, but I do feel an overwhelming sense of achievement. I mean it’s not like I’m publishing the kind of anti-communistic, freedom-fighting, diversity-embracing, propaganda-filled essays that the Chinese government hates so. I’m just “lil ol me”. The only anti-Chinese thing I’ve ever done is here.

So while this little piece of cyber-space can’t be described as “The award-winning My Life in the Slow Lane”, I can say “The blacklisted My Life in the Slow Lane”.

That’s something. Right?

The week that wasn't

This week has been a total write-off.

Last Saturday we went to Grandma’s for dinner to see her for mother’s day. My two uncles, Luke and Zoe (my godson, aged 5, and my beautiful cousin, aged 2) were there playing. When we arrived and I walked into the lounge room, Zoe said “It’s Daniel!” and came running towards me. I knelt down and she put her arms around me and gave me the biggest hug I’ve ever had. It was nice. Luke was never a huggy child, so I missed out on that when he was younger (and I continue to miss out on it now that he is older). We sat around chatting, and I asked Zoe’s dad if she brought Milo, her favourite teddy bear, so that I could measure him because I wanted to make a little jackety-type thing for him. He fetched Milo and a measuring tape for me and, with the help of my Dad, proceeded to take measurements. Zoe was thoroughly unimpressed. She started crying and trying to grab Milo from her father, so it took the three of us twice as long to measure him and fend her off. The poor little thing was beside herself by the time she was given Milo, who she promptly hid somewhere in the dining room away from meddlesome hands.

We stayed for dinner and watched the movie Red Eye. It was nice to spend time with Grandma, something I haven’t been able to do for months. I had a migraine brewing, so I wasn’t feeling the best, but there’s something about being that house that made me feel very comfortable and young.

On Sunday, Mother’s Day, Sister returned home to visit and we all sat down to a yummy roast turkey dinner. I also made a new batch of Honeycomb (this one worked perfectly aside from a slight burnt taste that permeated it).

Sister stayed all day Monday too, alone with me as my parents were at work. I had decided earlier in the week that this visit may be the one in which I would implement part two of The Plan. If she made a negative comment about gays or about homosexuality in general (and experience tells me that the likelihood of this was high) I would ask her “why do you harbour such ill-will towards homosexuals?” and go from there, probably asking “do you even know any?” (admittedly, on Sunday night she made a comment but I was not prepared to get into it while sitting on the front veranda at 11pm in my jammies). After a considerable amount of psyching up, no mention was made on her part, rather ironically, to The Awkward Subject on Monday. However if it were I wouldn’t have said anything anyway because I had a small migraine and really wasn’t in the mood for gut-wrenching unpleasantness on top of the mind-numbing unpleasantness.

Tuesday was just a pain in the arse. My uni schedule dictated two lectures and a linguistics class. I looked up what the class would cover in the outline and decided that it was stuff I already knew so decided to give it a miss. I did, however, take some work with me to do in the hour of the class while sitting outside Manning in the sun. I arrived at uni at 9am for my sociology lecture. After sitting in the auditorium for 10 minutes it became bleakly apparent that the lecturer was not going to be joining us. We wandered over to Manning and hung out until 10, when Nicki and Laura had class. I did the work thing and was rejoined at 11 by the girls for our usual lunch date. At midday I walked over to the linguistics lecture. After 10 minutes it again became bleakly apparent that no lecturer was coming. It dawned on those present that neither half the group nor either of the other two teachers had turned up. I got up from my seat and checked my email on the computer in the theatre, which displayed everything I did to the other students on the projector screen. Sure enough, there was an email from the lecturer cancelling the lecture due to his having the flu. I grumbled at length and walked back to Manning to wait for Nicki and Laura, ready to go home. In the end, I spent just under four hours at Manning and zero time actually learning anything.

On Wednesday, I wasn’t in the mood. I felt like shit and was a little depressed. I stayed home to wallow in my own crapulence.

Thursday was the only productive day this week. The sociology lecturer turned up as I did (which was cutting it quite fine) and I enjoyed an interesting lecture, the delight at which was diminished slightly by the discovery that I had lost the MP3 player the university’s disability services had lent me to record lectures (presumably I left it in the lecture hall of the linguistics lecture-that-wasn't).

After the lecture I caught the bus to the city to buy some new knitting needles and go to a chemist. It is one of the many curiosities of this great city of ours that the Haymarket area has at least five chemists on George St alone, yet the mid-city area around Pitt St Mall has but one (at least that was all I could spy on my mission). Furthermore, it was one that didn’t have what I wanted. I asked the “concierge” (a wanky and self-important title for an information desk clerk if ever I heard one) at Westfield Centrepoint where the nearest chemist was; he pointed me to Castlereagh St. I was soon at a loss as to why he sent me there, since I walked all the way down Castlereagh St to Market St and encountered none. I eventually found one at World Square, made my purchase and flopped on a bus back to uni. The irony that I had walked half the length of the city for pain killers was not lost on me.

I had a sociology class at midday, by far the most tedious class I have ever had the misfortune to be enrolled in (and which I usually skip), however I thought that since my marks aren’t going to be anything to boast about, I should probably not flirt with failure by having a poor attendance record too. I was in the neighbourhood anyway, I figured, so I should probably go.

Safe on the train, ready to go home, I got out the needles I had bought earlier that day and realised that both sets looked identical when they should have been two different sizes. I hopped another train to Martin Place and walked to Pitt St Mall (and, yes, I know that it isn’t the nearest station but I was in the mood for a nice Autumnal scenic walk through the beautiful city of ours, although I do admit I forgot how far the Mall is from Martin Place while planning this impromptu excursion) and exchanged them. Catching a train from St James, I arrived home an hour later than I had anticipated, but with a profound sense of achievement.

Today I woke up at 3pm, yesterday’s events having taken a lot out of me. To add injury to the insult of being robbed of half my day, I woke up with another migraine and spent the next two hours drifting in and out of consciousness with an ice-pack on my forehead. When my head had calmed down to a point where I could move around the house without feeling like puking, it was dark.

So there you have it folks, that was my week. Although it was full of wasted hours, personal tragedy, mental stress, a spinning head and a sprinkle of learning (on Thursday), I cannot help but feel it was a total write-off. On the up side, it would be difficult for next week to get worse. I probably should speak so soon, pride coming (as it does) before a fall, but I will deal with that next week.

Comfort

It occurred to me last night that the sound of my mother snoring like a rhinoceros with blocked adenoids is one the most comforting sounds in the world.

There are two reasons for my taking comfort in such an otherwise unpleasant rumbling sound. One speaks of my true romantic nature, my inner-child, my inner-vulnerability and of the fact that I, like most gay boys, am a total Mama’s Boy. The other is purely practical.

When I hear her snoring in the dead of night, I know she is here; I know that I am safe because my Mummy will protect me. When I was a boy I was terribly afraid of the dark, I never felt particularly safe alone in my bedroom with all the potential baddies out there in the night and no one but my teddies to protect me. It was Mum who sat with me, aged 2 and a half, and explained that there is nothing to be afraid of; when the lights go out, everything stays the same except we can’t see it. Presumably I took this under advisement because I don’t remember any further incidents of night terror until we moved house when I was 7, at which point I was convinced I could hear “robbers” traipsing through the house in the dead of night. Although I’m no longer afraid of the dark, and no longer hear enigmatic robbers in the house at night, it is still comforting to know that she is there should I need her.

On the other hand, the sound of snoring indicates she is asleep and therefore my parents are not having sex. While I’ve passed the stage where the thought of Mum and Dad doing it is “eww grose” it is still nonetheless unpleasant. This is particularly relevant considering my life is becoming increasingly nocturnal (due in large part to the migraine medications containing a good hit of caffeine). Most nights I go outside for a smoke at least once after Mum and Dad have gone to bed, and to get outside I have to walk past their bedroom. They sleep with their door open, so you can see the huge potential for embarrassment. Whenever I get up, I walk slowly through the house, waiting for a tell-tale sound of the state before continuing confidently down the corridor to the front door.

Usually it is only after a few steps outside my bedroom door that I hear Mum snoring like a freight train on a collision course and know that all is right with the world.

Golden scrumptiousness

After the abysmal failure of my last three attempts at biscuit baking, I admit I was not a little worried when Mum said last night “will you make some ANZAC cookies for me tomorrow?”

This afternoon, after having come around to consciousness at around 2pm (after having been awake between 4 and 8am this morning), I ventured into the kitchen and cracked open the recipe book. Seeing the fairly self-evident potential for disaster, mayhem and general culinary unpleasantness as vivid as the ominous shadow of a plague of locusts on the horizon, I decided perhaps ANZAC cookies, or cookies of any type for that matter, were probably not the best course of action. I flipped through the book and found a few cakes I liked the sound of, all of which were rendered utterly un-makable by an acute egg-shortage that gripped house. Then I stumbled on the proverbial gold nugget amongst a sea of silt: honeycomb. Mum loves honeycomb, I love honeycomb, I was in possession of all the ingredients and the recipe seemed simple enough to follow (although I wasn’t going to admit this to the recipe because that would be tempting fate and we all know what happens when I get arrogant in the kitchen). It turned out in the end to be simple enough to make, if a little idiosyncratic.

It’s probably worth mentioning that children with loose teeth or anyone with loose fillings shouldn’t indulge in this scrumptious golden treat. The honeycomb, while delicious, will probably not be viewed kindly by your dentist, or by the one paying your dental bills.

Be aware

This week is International Myalgic Encephalomyelopathy/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Fibromyalgia Awareness Week.

Be aware.

To be frank, I’ve always had mixed feelings about awareness week. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a wonderful idea to bring such a totally misunderstood and thoroughly debilitating illness to the limelight to raise awareness within a wider community that believes only what it sees, however at the same time the effect on sufferers and their family is one of ramming home the fact that such an illness exists within their personal consciousness.

Here’s some stats to give you an idea of where ME/CFS and Fibromyalgia fits into the scheme of things:

• An estimated 0.2% to 0.4% of the population have ME/CFS; this represents 40,000 to 80,000 in Australia.

• “Chronic fatigue” is a symptom, not a disease or illness in and of itself; “chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS)” is an illness, not a symptom by itself. Chronic fatigue is prolonged exhaustion for a period of at least six months, and is not alleviated by rest or sleep. It is not related to the patient’s level of activity. Chronic fatigue is only one of over 120 possible symptoms of ME/CFS. Chronic fatigue is a symptom of many other illnesses, including cancer, diabetes, rheumatoid arthritis and multiple sclerosis.

• In 2002, a working group funded by the Commonwealth Department of Health and Ageing wrote: “Based on a conservative assumption of a community prevalence of CFS of 0.2%, this implies an annual cost to the Australian community of $525 million.”

• Psychological features play no role in the development of ME/CFS following a known infection (most cases of ME/CFS are a result of infection). The absence of a link to psychological illness was a 2004 finding from the large scale Dubbo (NSW) Infection Outcomes Study funded by the US Government. The strongest predictor of development of ME/CFS following infection is the severity of the acute illness at onset.

• The severity of ME/CFS can vary from mild (reduction in some activities) to very severe (bed-bound or hospitalised); “one in 3000 Australians is severely ill with CFS” (Prof John Dwyer, May 2004). Recovery from ME/CFS is prolonged (2-7 years) and commonly follows a pattern of remissions and relapses.

• Misdiagnosis of ME/CFS is common, as many symptoms overlap with other illnesses. Up to 50% of patients presenting to a Sydney CFS clinic have been misdiagnosed (Prof John Dwyer, May 2004) and 23% of all ME/CFS patients will eventually receive an alternative diagnosis (Prof Anthony Komaroff, Harvard University, October 2004).

You can find more information, or make a donation, at the NSW ME/CFS Society’s website: www.me-cfs.org.au.

Shock realisation

It occurred to me today that I don’t remember what it feels like to not be sick.

Funnily enough this came as quite a shock. I had just been picked up from the train station after a long day in which I felt like crap the majority of the time with headaches, muscle aches and an almost overwhelming exhaustion that I woke up with and couldn’t shake no matter how much caffeine I consumed. My mind wandered, as it is want to do, onto a friend of mine who has just suffered a particularly nasty bout of food poisoning (which caused him to cancel a coffee date) complete with all- vomiting and a trip to emergency at the local hospital. The next day I sent him a text message and asked how he was feeling and he said “tired and worn out”. I know the feeling, I thought. A few days later, he’s back to his chirpy (if a little busy) self and remarked that “if there is one thing I hate above all others it is being ill”. I was thinking about all of this in the random stupor of my exhaustion and was suddenly struck by the horrifying realisation that I don’t remember not feeling sick in one way or another.

It is actually quite poetic that I should be struck by such a realisation this week. This week is International ME/CFS and Fibromyalgia Awareness Week. I won’t rehash the sordid details, I’ve already done that once this month and frankly it’s getting a little depressing. Suffice it to say that there’s always something.

There’s always headaches, migraines, aching legs or arms, sore back or shoulders, crippling exhaustion, stomach upsets or the ever-present memory of a goldfish. I don’t remember how it was before all this started eight years ago. I don’t remember having energy, going to school every day or being able to go to a party at the drop of a hat. I don’t remember having a life.

The economy of rights

I’m watching the news, the shorts haven’t even finished yet and I’m already pissed off.

Peter Costello has been praised for his new budget. Wayne Swan just said “the treasurer is rolling in money; it has been raining gold bars”.

Yet attorney general, Philip Ruddock, explained that it was budgetary restraints that prevented war-widow pension scope being widened to include same-sex partnerships. “Issues that can be readily addressed that don’t involve significant budgetary outlays which do bring different considerations to bear will be examined by the government”, he added (presumably to make the government look a little less homophobic).

Human rights only if financially viable huh?

More info at here and here.

Slow down, you move too fast

A reader and fellow blogger, Campbell, sent me an email the other day with a poem that reminded him of me and my posts on Pop. He wasn’t sure if it would help or be any comfort but wanted to share it nonetheless; it was.

Do not hurry as you walk with your grief;
It does not help the journey.

Walk slowly, pausing often,
Do not hurry as you walk with your grief.

Be not disturbed by memories that come
Unbidden; swiftly forgive.

Be gentle with one who walks with grief.
If it is you, be gentle with yourself; swiftly
Forgive, walk slowly, pausing often.

Take time. Be gentle--as you walk with your grief.

I suck at doing things slowly. As I’m sure you can imagine, that makes life with ME/CFS and fibromyalgia considerably harder than it would otherwise be. I want things done now or, preferably, yesterday. The hardest thing to learn when I first got sick was to slow down. But that’s a topic for another post. Suffice it to say I need to learn to slow down and take things as they come. Thanks Campbell, for the gentle reminder.

Who am I?

Maybe it’s the migraines, maybe it’s the pain killers, but I am feeling very introspective today. It occurred to me that my “about me” needed some updating so I started writing a list of things to describe who I am. By the time I got to number 46 or so, I thought I may as well go the whole hog and try for 100. I hope it isn’t as self-indulgent as these things can often be.

1. I pretend that it doesn’t matter to me, but the truth is I do care what people think of me.
2. I feel sorry for Aunt Agony and Rick; they seem so unhappy and it breaks my heart.
3. I enjoy helping people, but only if they are willing to help themselves.
4. If I could change one event in my life, I probably would do it; I just wouldn’t know which to change.
5. I genuinely don’t understand people who are threatened by love between two women or two men.
6. I enjoy smoking, but I regret having started.
7. I didn’t get the real meaning of ANZAC day until this year.
8. I don’t cry often, but when I do I really cry.
9. I yearn for independence, but I miss being a child.
10. I am more a cat-person than a dog-person.
11. I believe in love at first sight, simply because it has happened to people I know.
12. I had a crush on my (female) art teacher in year 9.
13. I am not scared of spiders, snakes, rodents or insects; they just piss me off.
14. I hate being treated like a child by Sister and my mother.
15. I think I look good in brown and blue.
16. I think I could pull off wearing a pink shirt, but I’m afraid to try.
17. I’ve never broken a bone in my life.
18. I genuinely don’t understand people who believe that same-sex relationship recognition is a “special right”.
19. I had two ingrown toenails removed when I was a teenager and had a panic attack each time.
20. I can go from being secure to being wildly insecure very quickly.
21. My favourite colour is bright blue, but more on the aqua side of blue.
22. I can’t help but hate pumpkin and green beans.
23. I like Tía’s pumpkin soup recipe better than my mother’s.
24. I like Grandma’s chicken livers.
25. I hate that people use “gay” as a derogatory term, but don’t often speak up when I hear it.
26. I was most afraid of coming out to my aunt, Tía, because I was afraid of her rejection more than anyone else’s.
27. When I was little, I wanted to be a “tattooist”.
28. I loved Astro Boy when I was a kid, but I rented it on video as an adult and thought it was lame.
29. I am a little scared of Sister’s reaction to my being gay, but not as much as I used to be.
30. When I was five, I thought the (male) school captain was hot.
31. Bad use of grammar infuriates me.
32. I love reading good poetry, and secretly wish that I could write good poetry too.
33. I generally believe myself to be a good writer.
34. I generally believe myself to be a good person.
35. I carry a photo of Luke, Sam and Zoe in my wallet.
36. I truly believe in marriage, just not as a political wedge or as an elite institution, yet I respect others’ decision not to get married.
37. I can’t help but believe in God.
38. I can’t help but believe in the Catholic Church.
39. I saw my first porno magazine at the age of 10.
40. I don’t drink much, but when I do I don’t know when to stop.
41. I had a crush on Cal when I first met him.
42. I hate it when people say things like “I’m not homophobic, I just hate gays”; I would much prefer that people owned their homophobic, racist or sexist ideas.
43. I feel like the black sheep of the family.
44. I believe in the concept of “the family” being important, even though I feel stifled by my own.
45. I hate Macs, if for no other reason that their mice only have one button.
46. I love reading a good novel on cold winter nights.
47. I can knit, and I’m pretty good at it.
48. I genuinely believe my mother had no idea that I was gay; I don’t understand how, but I believe it.
49. Even though I’m 23, I still have teddy bears on my bed.
50. I genuinely don’t understand people who think that God hates me, simply because I am gay.
51. A good male singer makes my knees weak.
52. I am generally attracted to blonde surfers or dark Latino men.
53. For the first year or so, I only looked at straight porn. It didn’t occur to me that gay porn existed (or that I would like it).
54. I often wonder what life would have been like, and what I would be like, if I wasn’t sick; I wonder if I’d like myself.
55. I prefer summer to winter.
56. Increasingly, I’m ashamed to be Australian.
57. I am ¼ Spanish, ¼ Slovak, 3/8 Australian and 1/8 German; I identify more with Spain than with Slovakia or Germany.
58. I love to laugh so hard it hurts my stomach.
59. I am proud of Sister’s achievements, even though she does a lot of things I don’t agree with.
60. I wish I had a brother.
61. I am afraid of never getting better.
62. I am afraid of being alone.
63. I am afraid of having access to Luke, Sam and Zoe denied me.
64. I am afraid of the end of the world.
65. I say things without judgement; if I say “that shirt makes you look fat” I mean it as a statement of fact, not as a comment on your worth.
66. I often wonder if people love me as much as I love them.
67. I get really, really disappointed when people say they will call me and then don’t.
68. I believe in the ideal of “turn the other cheek”, but often thirst for vengeance.
69. I am comfortable in the knowledge that people who use God, the Bible and religion as a basis of hatred will get their just deserts.
70. I love Australian slang like “wig-wam for a gooses bridle”, “you’ve got Buckley’s”, “pearler” and “no flies on you”.
71. I generally believe myself to be fairly good looking, but some days I feel so ugly.
72. I generally believe myself to be fairly intelligent, but some days I feel so stupid.
73. I can’t listen to Mr Jones, by Counting Crows, without a stab of pain.
74. I vividly remember meeting Luke for the first time, but I cannot remember meeting Sam or Zoe that well.
75. Even though I’m 23, I still enjoy cuddling up with Grandma on the lounge when we watch TV together.
76. I am often embarrassed by my memory problems.
77. I try to forgive people; I think I do a pretty good job at it.
78. I am loyal to my friends and I expect nothing less in return.
79. For a long time before I accepted my sexuality, I considered myself bi even though deep down I knew that was a lie.
80. I feel comfortable swearing in front of my parents and grandparents.
81. I don’t pray as much as I’d like to, or as much as I think I should.
82. I was always good at maths but hated it.
83. I generally believe myself to be a good cook, so I don’t understand why baking cookies is beyond me.
84. I’ve lived in two houses in the same city my entire life.
85. I’ve never been overseas; the only places I want to go are Madrid, to the church in which my grandparents married, and to Rome to see the Pope.
86. I considered Pope John Paul II a third grandfather.
87. I felt personally betrayed when my uncle left my aunt for another woman.
88. I have a high pain threshold for generalised pain, but a low one for localised pain.
89. I don’t really have a favourite food.
90. I love playing monopoly, even though I’m not very good at it.
91. When I get depressed I just want to sleep and forget.
92. Of all the people I know, my grandma has the best laugh.
93. Of all the people I know, my pop has (had) the most amazing mind.
94. Of all the people I know, my cousin Lala has the biggest heart.
95. Of all the people I know, my friend Liz is most like me.
96. I love the beach but hate the ocean.
97. I probably swear a little too much.
98. I have no qualms with using the word “cunt”.
99. I wish I had the kind of skin that tanned easily, instead of burning.
100. I don’t really have a favourite band, TV show or movie; I have lists.

Misery loathes company

Today was bad on several levels. Last night I felt thoroughly depressed and could barely sleep. My legs were aching and tingling and I couldn’t shut my mind off. What is it about being in a rotten, depressed mood that subconsciously begs strangers to attempt to engage you in conversation? I was sitting in a quasi-meditative state in my lecture this morning, which was very interesting but not enough to drag me out my 9am stupor, quietly appreciating what was being said but without actively participating. Apparently, however, the lecturer had other ideas. She was talking about racism as a social construct and she asked the crowd “what do you think that means? … Anybody … Anybody? … Come on guys, someone must have an opinion … What about you?” It was me. My first thought was “that it’s bullshit” but I managed to suppress the urge to speak my mind. I stumbled my way through an explanation. I groaned. “It’s way too early for this, but it means just that it’s constructed by society.” I realised that I had really just rephrased the question so I added “it’s not real”. She was happy with my answer and moved on. After the lecture she thanked me and said it was a good answer. I apologised for being less than enthusiastic and blamed it on an acute lack of caffeine.

After the lecture I had an appointment with the optometrist. He was a nice guy who was way too chatty for my liking. After each measurement he took he’d ask some factoid about my life. What are you studying? Does it take you long to get here from the mountain? What subjects are you doing? I did my best to dissuade him by giving barely monosyllabic answers and closing my eyes in between reading the second line from the bottom but he wouldn’t let up. Turns out I need new glasses. I did finally learn what “stigmatism” means in relation to eyes. So that was nice.

The last encounter was by far the weirdest but also the most positive. I was sitting in the chemist, by now a little less depressed but considerably more exhausted, when the old lady who was seated piped up “you’re very young to be walking with a walking stick, dear”. I hate it when people say things like this to me; not only is it stating the blatantly obvious but it’s a cruel reminded. I just smiled and said yes. We got chatting (or, should I say that she chatted and I grunted answers). She asked have you always had the stick? No. How long have you had it? A year and a half. Silence for a bit. Then she told me why she was there. She wanted to ask Bill, the pharmacist, about a throbbing vein in her forehead that she noticed this morning. She asked do you work? No, I’m at uni. What uni? Sydney.

“You’ll do well,” she said, “you have a kind face and intelligent eyes”. That made my day.

The last few days have been bad days. I’ve had seven migraines in the past four weeks. That isn’t normal behaviour. So I went to Dr KHS on Tuesday and told him about it. After a neural exam (which involved touching my nose then his finger with mine and all manner of strange things, the likes of which you only see on American TV as sobriety testing) and other run of the mill tests, he wasn’t really any more the wiser than when he began. I think he’s loosing his touch.

I’ve been told to cut down one of my pain killer meds by half, as a precaution, in case it is the cause. The odds of the migraines being related to this med are pretty slim, considering I’ve been taking them for eight months. If not, then who knows?

The words CT and scan were mentioned. I can’t think of anything more disturbing than being strapped to a table and inserted like some hapless tampon into a machine which bears a remarkable resemblance to a giant vagina. Yay.