Introspective, among other things

A few things, in quick succession, since I’m told I write long posts, and certain punters have small attention spans:

Gay man, have blog

On Sunday I was fortunate enough to be able to make it Woolloomooloo, thanks the generosity of Gus and Adz, who were kind enough to drive me there after a surprising lack of bargaining on my part (and the promise of free, convenient parking thanks to the disabled parking permit I possess). Upon our arrival we had a look around but couldn’t find anyone anywhere. I sent Drew a quick text message, asking if he had SG’s number because I couldn’t find them. He replied with something ambiguous like “here already”. Did this mean that he (Drew) was there already, or that SG was there? I wrote back asking which he meant, he replied with the one word, “both”. This didn’t help us locate anyone so I wrote back asking “Upstairs or down?”. “Up”. “In or out?” “In”. After finishing a cigarette, the three of us schlepped up the stairs (well, to be fair, I schlepped, the other two walked normally, only slower so that I didn’t get left behind). No-one familiar in sight. “Be more specific.” He sent some more directions, and we wandered along. As we went I thought I saw a familiar face although I didn’t know where from.

It turned out to be Brenton (who, by the way, looks even better in person), talking to Drew. They both stuck their heads into the corridor as I turned around to take a second look. I met many people last night, many of whom I don’t quite remember beyond a hazy recollection; my apologies guys. I finally met SG in person and gave him the hug I promised him, even though we didn’t get to talk much, and also Simon and his partner.

Although I hate playing favourites, the highlight of the evening was finally meeting Dan and Steven, after having resigned myself (rather prematurely as it turns out) to the fact that I wouldn’t meet either of them due to their recent move to London. As soon as they poked their heads through the door onto the tiny smokers’ balcony to say hello, I recognised them. I was quite excited, their blogs being part of the reason I started this whole thing in the first place. Despite some interesting and (if I’m honest) somewhat embarrasing topics it was great to meet them, and everyone, if only for a few hours. All in all, it was a great night, muted only by being walked in on while using the disabled toilet by a female member of staff.

Introspective

This morning I had to leave where I was staying at 7.45, so I headed into the Society office to work with the social worker on the youth pack. As we were discussing my story, she said to me “Dan, you’re very introspective. You’re practically a case study”. I took it as the compliment it was intended to be and smiled. “Hey, I have an assignment for uni where I need to do a case study and you’d be perfect.” That was a new one. It turns out that she is studying psychology at uni and needs a guinea pig to write about for an assignment on mental health diagnosis, and she wants to use little ol’ me. Although I think my life is just interesting enough to be written about by myself, I never thought anyone else would want to write about it. Go figure.

Splish, splash

I had a good day at uni, nothing spectacular but then not every day can be spectacular. Upon arrival in my hometown, I wandered over to the toilet as fast as my legs could carry me—at a snail’s pace—before being picked up by Dad. After having peed into the stainless steel, standard issue public toilet, I heard a resounding metallic clunk as I was doing up my fly and fastening my belt. I looked down and saw the bottle of apple juice, formerly of my jacket pocket, was on the ground, leaking. Suddenly I heard another metallic sound, this time accompanied by a glump sound. I looked for the source of the sound before seeing, to my utter bewilderment, my mobile phone submerged in the toilet bowl. I stood there, frozen, taking in the situation.

Those who have been reading since the beginning will remember that a little over a year ago I dropped my phone into a cup of tea. After a full minute of inaction, I decided I should probably retrieve it, since going for help was probably unwise—likely as not it would have been flushed or pinched if I left it alone. I fished through my backpack and found a plastic shopping bag, put it over my hand like a glove and stuck my hand into the water and fished it out. Luckily the bag had no holes. I dried it off as best I could, throwing away sodden toilet paper as I went, before wrapping it up in swathes of toilet paper and putting it in my pocket. With that I flushed and left with all the dignity of someone who has just dropped their phone into some kind of liquid for the second time in twelve months, only this time it was piss and not tea.

Too cute

On Friday, Liz picked me up bright and early, and we traveled northward to the Central Coast to see her (our) new baby nephew, Cooper. Liz's brother and his wife live in Terrigal, home to one of the most beautiful (and crowded) beaches I've ever been to.

We arrived a little early so we got icecream (I got sorbet) and sat on the broadwalk overlooking the beach until the appointed time to visit.

Cooper is sooooo cute. I usually go totally gah-gah over little kids, especially babies, and this was no exception. When we arrived he was being put down for a nap. He must have sensed visitors because it only lasted for 40 minutes or so before he came out to entertain his guests properly. We were also visited by Mia, Liz's (our) 10 month old niece.

It was, in many ways, the perfect day.

The day after sucked; all the walking around, particularly up and down stairs at the house, has wreaked havoc on my legs. But these things happen, I guess. And tonight I go to Woolloomooloo to the blogger's meet. Yay. I get a little incoherent when I'm in pain so I should end now.

Back to normal, whatever that is

The fist week back at uni is over, and I’m stuffed. El guapo was there in Wednesday’s lecture and I couldn’t stop glancing over in his direction. I find out if I’m in his class on Thursday next week.

Yesterday, Thursday, started off on a rather shaky start. I slept through the alarm and woke up five minutes before I had to leave. Miraculously, I got dressed and grabbed my bag and got the train on time. Just in time, it turned out, to need to go to the bathroom. After the trauma of having used the toilet on the moving train, I made it to uni in time to go again before the lecture. While Laura found us a seat I ran to the nearest toilet and did a monumental shit (I won’t go into anymore detail than that, but trust me, it was epic). I crept back into the lecture theatre and sat next to a girl who on first glance looked a lot like Laura, but who was in fact not Laura. Oh well. I caught up with her after the lecture.

After a quick trip to the library, I hopped a train to Strathfield to meet Liz. Liz was in Sydney for a week for a conference, and although it has only been two or three months since she moved, I missed her terribly. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t realise I missed her until she told me she would be in Sydney. Once together it was like old times. I miss those.

We drove homeward, did some shopping (Liz hasn’t bought Harry Potter yet). We stopped in at Nana’s to pick up the key to her parents’ place and found that she had a houseguest: a little white bundle of dwarf rabbit. He’d been in and out of her garden for a week or so, and she (with the help of Liz’s Aunt M, who also lives there) cornered it under a metal mesh plant stand. The plan was that they were going to give it to Liz’s sister, for her daughter, but unfortunately the plan was a little sketchy on the detail of how it was to be transported from Nana’s to Liz’s sister’s place.

The (seemingly) obvious solution to this was to carry him in a cardboard box, on the lap of the passenger (read: me) while Liz drove to her sister’s. After finding several boxes that were totally unsuitable, we found a box that, while a little on the small side, was the best we could do. Liz moved the metal mesh and deftly scooped the rabbit into the box. He wasn’t happy about it. After trying to scratch his way out he calmed down and Liz and I started saying out goodbyes to Nana and M.

I was saying goodbye when I noticed drops coming from the box. These were followed by a stream of acrid yellow liquid, spewing forth from the corner of the box. I said something (I forget what) to Liz and she held the box at arm’s length but the damage was done: she had rabbit wee all down her front and on her jeans. She put the box on the ground and the rabbit, like a small white jack-in-the-box ran off. He was quickly chased by Aramis, Liz’s dog, but he got away.

After this episode, Liz tried to catch the little fluffer again, but after a while we gave up, figuring that a rabbit like this was not suitable for a 3 year old anyway. We went back to Liz’s place and she washed her clothes.

That night, Nana, M, Liz’s sister, her two kids and her fiancé, Liz’s dad, Liz and I enjoyed a dinner of pizza before I collapsed into bed.

Life is, for now, back to normal. Whatever that is.

Love at first sight

While watching TV the other night, the character said to his wife “as soon as I saw you, I knew I was going to marry you”. “That’s what happened to me, mate.” Dad said.

My parents’ meeting is a bit of a fairy tale romance, one I’ve always enjoyed hearing. I love the casual intimacy between them: the cuddles in the kitchen while doing dishes or welcoming kisses when one gets home. Our home has always been one that is full of love; we were always hugged, kissed, and told “I love you”.

It was October 1978 when they met. Mum was 21; Dad was 23—my age. Mum was staying with a friend of hers from uni over a weekend to do a group assignment . This friend lived across the road from Dad; her twin brother was Dad’s best friend and they had known him since early childhood, having gone to the same primary school and her brother having gone to the same high school. After a long day of study, Mum’s friend suggested they go out on Saturday night with some friends of hers, and that she would invite her friend from across the road—“you’ll like him”—I don’t think it was a set-up per se but that’s how it panned out. Dad said to the twins’ mother “I’m going to marry that girl”.

The next day, Sunday, Dad dropped in to the friend’s house to say hello. He asked Mum how she was getting home (on the other side of Sydney) and she said she was just planning on catching the train. He offered to drive her and they hit it off. Shortly after he asked Mum out for a date at a fancy restaurant and so began the love affair of a lifetime.

After some time, a month or two maybe, he was invited by Mum’s parents to dinner at their place. Dad was petrified. Being their grandson, this is a hard scenario to picture but I can see that my grandparents are incredibly intimidating to strangers, especially new or potential lovers of their children or grandchildren. Dad shuffled in, all “Hello sir, hello ma’am”, and ate dinner with them. It was a culture shock; he was brought up in the inner western suburbs by the “typical Australian” parents, her parents immigrants with their strange food, language and customs. After dinner he offered to make tea, in an attempt to impress them, and was given orders to make special herbal after-dinner tea for everyone. He emerged from the kitchen, five minutes later, with four cups full of milky mustard-coloured water—he didn’t know that herbal teas don’t need milk. They laughed and I think he finally let his guard down a little. In no time, he was part of the family.

A year later, Dad approached my grandfather and asked his permission to propose to my mother. On the day that was a year after their first date, Dad took Mum to the same restaurant and proposed. She said yes and, two months later, they married in a small church on December 29, 1979.

Of the four siblings’ first marriages (in my mother’s family), theirs is the only one to have survived.

El guapo

This morning I slept through my alarm. Thankfully, it wasn’t an indication of the day I was to have. Upon entering the lecture theatre (for the only lecture I have on Mondays), I saw some people I knew from my linguistics class last semester and we sat together. After some time, a thoroughly beautiful young man walked into the theatre and began handing out course guides.

He resembled someone I had known at uni last year, and for a second I thought it was the guy I knew last year, but then realised that while he could be quite possibly be a twin, he was in fact a different person. He was gorgeous. Ravishing. Stunning. He’s shortish, maybe 5’9”, with tanned skin that has a Mediterranean look to it, grey eyes, and short dark brown hair. He had a decidedly pretty-boy look about him; my gaydar was going off like foghorn. He was introduced by the lecturer as a tutor in the course, along with another guy who, while doubtless equally as valuable as a person, was nowhere near as attractive. It’s just as well he wasn’t giving the lecture—I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. He introduced himself to the group, and I was taken by his voice—very deep and very rich—strangely at odds with the pretty-boy look.

If life were a cartoon, little bubbles the shape of hearts would have come out of my ears and floated heavenward, popping lightly a foot or two above my head. So I wonder if I’ll be in his class? I won’t find out whose class I’m in until Thursday week. On the one hand, if he is my teacher I definitely won’t be able to concentrate at all. On the other hand, he’s fucking hot!! This is going to be a long ten days.

Nada nos libra, nada más queda

I feel like shit today; my legs are killing me and I feel totally, and inexplicably, down in the dumps. I won’t go quite as far as saying that I’m depressed, but it’s getting mighty close. And I don’t know why.

I remember distinctly when I was 17 my Mum asked me “what’s it like being depressed?” She was desperately trying to understand me. The thing is that it’s hard to explain. On the one hand, it feels like there is no light and no goodness left in the world. It feels like no matter what you do you will never again be happy, or healthy, and as such you don’t care what happens to you or anyone else anyway. But on the other hand it doesn’t really feel like anything—it’s like time and space stop and you’re stuck in the hellish present, all the time in the world is yours to wallow in your misery. Today I don’t feel that bad, nowhere near that bad, but I feel flat and down. And I don’t know why.

Well ok, that’s not entirely true. I know why, I just don’t know how. What I mean is that I don’t know what happened to trigger these semi-depressed feelings, all I know is I woke up feeling like the sun is behind a cloud. In the past, when I was seriously depressed, there was usually a trigger before an episode; perhaps someone said something nasty, or did something (that in hindsight was a perfectly reasonable thing to do) that made me feel bad, or perhaps I was just so sick that I saw no end in sight. Today, I can’t put my finger on what it is. As for why, well that’s hard to enunciate.

I guess the short answer is that I feel trapped sometimes. And when I dwell on this feeling of entrapment I can get a little anxious. I feel trapped by my physical and medical limitations and by the consequences they bring. That’s about the size and shape of it. I’m not so naïve or vain as to think that I own the patent on human suffering—I know there are people out there in far worse predicaments than the one in which I find myself—but that’s how it is: I feel so trapped sometimes, and I wonder how I will ever get myself un-trapped.

Some days I don’t even notice my limitations. I fly high on the thrill of being alive, of being able to do what I can do and not worrying about what I cannot do. I walk around uni feeling I could take on the world—just me and my walking stick, ready to whack anyone who gets in my way—as the musical chorus sings in the background and strangers on the street dance a perfectly choreographed modern number in which everyone is smiling. That is how I am most of the time: happy-go-lucky, seeing the glass as half full and generally full of life. And then there’s the flipside: all I see are limitations. Some days I can’t walk without pain; I can’t even really lie down for any length of time without pain. I can’t drink much, certainly can’t go out at night. I can’t drive so I don’t see my friends (the few that I have) nearly as often as I would like. I sit in bed, miserable, as an oboe mournfully fills the room with tear-jerker music. Happy-go-lucky is replaced with wallowsome misery and the glass is always, always, half empty. If not moreso.

Life seems so hopeless. And I hate feeling this way.

So where did it come from? I mean I do get the odd twinge of regret and anger now and then—modern interpretive musicals numbers replaced momentarily by soulful ballads—but this is just ridiculous. The only thing I can think of as a trigger is purely chemical. I take three regular meds, two semi-regular ones on an as-needed basis for pain, another two as-needed for migraines, and two mineral tablets. All of them say to avoid alcohol, but that is fairly standard and I have been advised by countless medical professionals that I can drink a little (which I have worked out to be about half a standard drink every three hours). I had one drink last night, a simple kahlua and coke, so perhaps that has messed with my brain chemistry? Or perhaps it’s just a bad day. But the trigger isn’t the point.

What started as something random has grown into something real and scary, and I don’t like it at all. I had so many plans for my life: by now I was going to be living near a beach somewhere, with a beautiful boyfriend in my bed, a car in the driveway and a diploma on the wall. And I don’t have that. And I feel so trapped.

But I will go to sleep in my nice warm bed, my teddy by my side. Everything’s alright, yes, everything’s fine. I’ll close my eyes, close my eyes, relax and think of nothing tonight.

Tomorrow will be a better day.

Here we go, here we go again

Yesterday I journeyed cityward to uni to buy books for next semester, which starts next Monday. It was the coldest day in twenty years—not a good day to go out! When I woke up my room was balmy and warm, due to the heater that doesn’t get turned off (I have one of those oil radiator heaters that you can leave on overnight, it’s a lifesaver!), but when I stepped outside into the bitter cold I was jolted into the reality of winter. I’m not a winter person; I know that the Australian winter pales in comparison to other more snowy locations like North America, but nonetheless I don’t do cold well. The pot plants in the front yard were covered in ice—dew had settled on them and frozen into a two inch thick block of ice—and the windshields of the cars were covered in thin glaciers.

I was rugged up in long pants, three shirts, a sloppy joe that is slightly too small for me (it’s the strangest thing, I bought a medium and it fit in the shop but it shrank slightly in the wash so I’m going to have to stretch it into shape by washing it and hanging it out sopping wet with weights at the bottom to stretch it back), gloves, scarf and beanie. I got on the train, where thankfully the air-con was working today (unlike the tepid temperature of my last journey) and settled in for the trip.

After the warm train, the biting cold of the city was a rude shock. I arrived at Railway Square in the city at 11.30 and met up with Nicki, my partner in crime. We hopped a bus to uni and went to the bookshop. The day was full of a series of being warm indoors and frozen outside. After buying books, I went to the library to borrow a few textbooks that I didn’t want to buy, and we went to Manning for lunch. The salad bar there has the best Italian pasta salad—penne pasta, juicy sundried tomatoes, roasted eggplant—and the best Caesar salad. It was closed. We went to the place upstairs and I bought their Mediterranean salad—thin spaghetti, dry sundried tomatoes, artichoke, and a proliferation of basil leaves. It was terrible. Nicki got wedges; they were terrible too. Every time we go to this particular place we are consistently disappointed. Even the coffee was bad. “If they can fuck up wedges then I’m glad I didn’t get the tortellini” Nicki remarked. I concurred. We will never eat there again!

So after lunch we headed to Central to go home. We were discussing reality TV and I admitted, guiltily, that I had watched Last chance learners and she said that she couldn’t understand how anyone could be that bad at driving. I said that I guessed some people just aren’t built for it. She commented “yeh, I get that, I mean I’m a good driver except I can’t play the play station”. “What!?” I said, “while you’re driving?” “No...you idiot...I can’t play car games on the play station. No one can play the play station while driving.” Well, didn’t I feel like an idiot. We laughed so loudly, and with such gusto, that the man in front of us turned around and looked at us with a shocked look on his face. “Right. This is going on the blog!” We arrived at Central and I had a worrying feeling in my stomach…

[Anyone who does not like stories about shit should skip the next few paragraphs. I'll let you know when you can start reading again.]

One of my more interesting symptoms of ME/CFS is Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS), which means that I get diarrhoea and cramps at the drop of a hat, particularly after eating foods with lactose (I’m lactose intolerant as well) or acidic foods. Yesterday I had a mini foccacia with cheese in the morning and the sundried tomatoes at lunch time so in a way it was my own fault. Upon walking into the station I felt the need to shit—now—and knew that it wouldn’t be easy to hold it in until I got home, two hours later. While I generally abhor using public toilets for my number-twos, there are times when one has to just bite the bullet and get on with it. That said, I refuse to sit on the toilets in the men’s room at Central station (and anyone who has ever had the misfortune of doing so will completely concur I’m sure) so I always use the disabled toilet for these things. It was locked. I asked a guard to let me in and he told me to ask at the information counter.

I joined the line, behind a young man and a young woman, and waited while clenching my buttocks. The man being served left the window of the information desk and was promptly replaced by a seventy-something man, who pushed in line in front of the young woman. “You have to be quick these days, don’t you?” the man in front of me said. The young woman and I laughed; the old guy didn’t hear. I looked at my watched and realised that if I waited for these people to do their thing, got the key, shat, gave the key back, I would miss my train. I left the line and went to the men’s room.

I couldn’t do it. I saw the state of the toilet and had visions of hepatitis and god-knows-what so I just peed and waddled back to Nicki, buttocks clenched. We went through the ticket gate and headed for the train. “Ok Nic,” I said, “I have a conundrum, and I hope you realise how close I consider our friendship by telling you this…I need to shit—now—and I was going to go in the disabled toilets but they were locked and the line for the key was long, and there’s just no way I’m going in the men’s and I don’t think I can make it home” (at this point she laughed at my misery, like a true friend) “so I was thinking, should I go in the toilet on the train?” After the laughing subsided, she said that I should go now while the train was stationary and get it over with. So I left my bags with her at our seat and went to the small toilet on the train.

I hate these toilets almost as much as the men’s at Central. They’re small, they often smell and they feel dirty. As I walked into the small cave-like room I was hit by the smell of lemon-fresh disinfectant. “Well,” I thought “at least it’s just been clean”. So with a little trepidation I sat down and did the biggest, smelliest shit in a long time. It was such a relief, I can’t describe it. I flushed, washed my hands and quickly slipped out before anyone would realise the stench issuing from the small toilet was at my hand.

[Squeamish readers: continue from this point.]

I sat down, blissfully cramp-free, and we travelled home in comfort.

The results are in

90% in linguistics.
85% in sociology.
Both high distinctions.
Fuck I’m good!

I’m not too surprised about linguistics, it’s “my subject”, the subject area I’m passionate about. Sociology on the other hand, while it interests me in a vague and non-descript way, isn’t my passion. The essay I did in the middle of the semester was an ok essay in-and-of-itself, but I didn’t feel it answered the question very well. Obviously the marker had other ideas. So I’m completely shocked at that mark, I was expecting something in the seventies. Oh well, don't look the gift-horse in the mouth I always say.

Freezing for a good cause

It was 8am when my alarm went off: an assault on my ears at such an ungodly hour. I stumbled out of bed, got dressed in a pair of cargo army pants, a small white t-shirt, a footy jersey, a hooded sloppy joe, two white cotton socks, two black gloves and a brown scarf. Dressed, I went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth and walked out the door bound for the train station. Sister, presumably, had a similar morning and soon joined us in the car five minutes after the scheduled departure time (it never ceases to amaze me how she is the most vocal the night before about the need to leave on time, but also the one who is running late in the morning). Upon stepping out of the house I noticed with some trepidation that the temperature was so close to freezing that it just doesn’t bear mentioning. I shuffled to the car, watching my breath cascade before me.

The air conditioning on the train to the city was on ‘cold’. I sat there, shivering slightly, listening to my mp3 player as I dozed in and out of consciousness all the way to central. When the train arrived it was like waking from a deep sleep for the second time that morning. I disembarked, convinced that the outside temperature couldn’t possibly be any colder than that of the train but I was bitterly disappointed as the ambient temperature plummeted as I stepped through the door. The next train was equally frigid. The air conditioning didn’t appear to be working at all, and the windows were open. As the train hurtled through the Sydney underground I tried to keep warm by hugging myself like a lost hiker in the snow.

Upon arriving at Chatswood, salvation was at hand in the form of a hot hot hot cup of coffee and a stroll around the (blissfully warm) plaza. I was in the mood for some retail therapy but didn’t quite know what I wanted beyond a nice warm bed to curl up in until I could feel my toes again. I wandered listlessly around bookstores, looking for more Paul Monette but realising very quickly I would need to go to Borders in the city for his books. I noticed that HMV was having a sale so I wandered around as my legs screamed at me to sit down, dammit, before they went on strike. I ignored them when I saw the “nostalgia” section and found, to my utter jubilation, a copy of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, starring one my favourite actresses, Bette Davis, and the illustrious Joan Crawford.

It’s one of my favourite movies, and I’ve been itching to own it for a while. It’s the story of the ageing Baby Jane Hudson (Bette Davis), a child star who never really grew up, and her sister Blanche (Joan Crawford), who always lived in the shadow of her beautiful sister when they were kids but who became a successful actress in her own right as a young adult, and their life together as fifty-somethings. After a terrible car accident, Blanche is left wheelchair-bound and dependent on her sister who is rapidly descending into madness. The movie is shows Baby Jane’s descent into insanity and Blanche’s struggle to break free from her crazy and overbearing sister. I highly recommend it.

With my brand new DVD in my bag, I trundled off to my appointment with legs moaning. Now full of hot coffee and pain killers I felt more alive and ready to face the world.

I’ve been asked by the ME/CFS Society to speak at an upcoming forum run by the teachers’ union health insurance company. The forum’s audience will be teachers and we’ll be speaking about the impact of ME/CFS on student’s education, and how to better accommodate ill students in the classroom and wider school environment. I will be speaking with another girl my age who has had ME/CFS since high school (like me), however unlike me, she had a terrible time at school. The idea is that we’ll talk about how we were treated differently in relation to similar issues and how we could have been treated better. Unofficially, it comes down to a lack of empathy on the teachers’ part in the case of my co-speaker, who had teachers tell her to her face she was a whinger and school-phobic.

Unfortunately, my co-speaker was unable to make the meeting so I met with the Social Welfare Officer and we ended up talking for a few hours about my history and my “survival tips”. The SWO is new to the job and is eager to learn more about the condition, so she took notes and devoured everything I said with rapt attention. She is writing a guide for youth that she wants to develop to a twenty-page booklet to send out to newly diagnosed young people (high school or uni students) but admitted she is only just learning details of the illness itself, so she was eager to get my input.

The funny thing is that although I could give my input and share my thoughts on strategies and coping techniques, I am a terrible role model. I can tell a newly diagnosed person with ME/CFS (known in local shorthand as PWC) how they “should” act and what they “should” do until the cows come home, but the fact is I don’t do it myself. For example, I explained the importance of good sleep hygiene—the need to go to bed at the same time each night, get up the same time each morning, not sleep in (too much) nor sleep too late, and what you might do if you can’t sleep—however, I often go to bed late, wake up late, and when I can’t sleep I get up and have a smoke. So, yes, I told her that although I know the mechanics of healthy living, I’m really not an ideal poster boy for good healthy living. She smiled, laughed, and said “well we won’t write that bit down” and got on with things. It’s a great project, and something I’m very excited to get involved in. I have made so many mistakes, and consequently learnt some valuable lessons that I think many newly diagnosed PWCs could learn from too.

I do admit that my arduous process of self growth and self discovery was complicated by the question of my sexuality and my clinical depression, however much of it is fairly universal to all PWCs. I made a point of talking about depression and the need to mention it somewhere in the booklet. It’s a tricky subject because many people with ME/CFS adamantly dig their heels into the dirt at the barest whiff of the “d-word” because so many sceptics callously write ME/CFS off as being “merely depression”. I totally understand that. However, I think it’s important to acknowledge that some young PWCs (like me) had underlying, concurrent, clinical depression that was present before the onset of ME/CFS and that some young PWCs develop “reactive” depression as a symptom (but not a cause) of ME/CFS. After my messy episodes of depression, many of which involved sharp objects and pain killers, I know only too well how important it is for young people with depression to ask for help. Unfortunately, I also know only too well how hard it is for young people with depression to actually ask for help; it took me a few years and many months of fairly serious (and self-destructive) depression.

I can’t wait to get this booklet printed and out on the streets, and I can’t wait to get out there at the forum and begin the process of re-education, to show teachers the realities of this illness and dispel the myth that it is “just being tired”. So, in conclusion I froze my butt off for a good cause.

The slow slow slow lane

I must apologise for the lengthy periods between posts. The reason being a combination of being a little under the weather and selling box upon box of books and maps from Pop's house. I plan to pick things up and get my shit together soon though, so this unnacceptable lapse of traffic will (hopefully) soon be a thing of the past.

Letting go

For the last week I’ve been feeling awful. The mix-up with my medications last week has left me in a constant state of crappiness. I’ve spent the last week in bed in a perpetual drug-fucked haze. Funnily enough, it’s at these times when I have the Deep Thoughts. I sit in bed, tongue lolling out of my mouth, alone with my muddled thoughts, running off lines of dramatic and eloquent prose in my head—as Deep as ever thoughts were—which are promptly forgotten before they can be written down here.

This week has been a week of letting go. It’s something I don’t do easily, nor (as recent events will attest) consciously. Dad and I went down to Pop’s house this week to continue on the massive clean-up. My aunt and uncle are still living there, the house becoming more and more empty as Pop’s things are either distributed among his flock or sold. He was a pack-rat (as my long suffering mother reminds me: I must have gotten it from him); there is so much stuff.

Three months ago, I reflected in a letter to Pop:

As an abstract concept you are still here with me. I still love you; I always will. No amount of death or distance can take that away from me. Even in some small tangible way you have left vestiges of yourself here; you're on top of my television in a blue frame and on my filing cabinet, being held in place by two butterfly magnets. Your house is full of your life. But as an object (as opposed to a concept) you are gone. It does my head in thinking about it. Like poof, you just went away. Now all we have are relics and memories.

Packing boxes of books and maps, destined for ebay and eventually new homes, scattered to the wind like a spent dandelion flower, I felt a jolt of sadness as I participated in this ritual of deconstructing a life. But then, quite out of the blue while I was listing the items on ebay, the sadness was replaced by another feeling. I can’t think of an adequate adjective to describe it other than saying it was the feeling of “letting go”. If I had have been doing this three months ago, every book I picked up would have wounded me as I remembered its connection to Pop.

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

Tomorrow, the 9th of July, is the anniversary of my Grandma’s passing in 2003. I remember the funeral as a white dreamlike haze in which memories are at the same time blurry and starkly vivid. I didn’t cry before the funeral—in fact I didn’t cry until right at the end when my aunt read a poem and said (and I remember this part with startling clarity) “now it’s time to let go”. I realised as I saw that cold coffin at the front of the chapel that never again would I kiss her goodbye as I left her house, that I would never feel her warm touch. And I lost it. I let go, let it out, let the floodgates open, and began my grieving then and there. With Pop it was different. I don’t know why it’s panned out this way but I didn’t start letting go at the funeral. Nor anytime soon after. I swam in my grief, enjoying the slick feeling of almost drowning.

I still miss him—I always will—but the keen longing has disappeared, the happy memories bring a smile to my face and only a glimmer of sadness sits on the horizon as I bask in the glory of him in my memories.

Tomorrow is also the anniversary of the first real post on my blog. I wrote one on the 6th of July which basically said “here goes nothing” (and is now used as a post in which I put all the images used on the website). The post of the 9th, “three years ago today”, was about my Grandma. I remember typing it in Pop’s glacial lounge room, my frozen feet in football socks atop an oil heater, the grass green shagpile oppressing my vision of rooms beyond. So much has happened since that day, namely my coming out, but it’s more than that: I have learnt to be comfortable being me.

Back then, the thought of telling my parents, sister or the family-at-large that I’m gay filled me with such dread. I had only told Liz, Lala and Cal six months ago, so I was still getting accustomed to them knowing. In a way I was clinging to the coat-rail of my closet for dear life; truth, after all, isn’t truth until you tell someone else about it. While I could be myself around my closest confidants (I should say more myself, because I still wasn’t comfortable with it), I was still hiding myself around the FAL. Now, I’m sitting in bed watching Queer as Folk with the volume at a reasonable level rather than the clandestine viewings complete with earphones as if I were watching some extreme hardcore smut. I can’t tell you how liberating it is. I feel so free.

At that time, the doors of the closet now propped open slightly, I clung to the coat rail, wearing various coats in shades of grey (straight) in public. I had admitted I was gay but I still kept a careful eye on my wrist lest it go limp, and I made sure that I sprinkled my speech with the manly interjections mate and dude rather than the more flowery fabulous and sweety. As time wore on, and the doors to my closet remained permanently propped open, I let go of my cushy closet with its various straight coats. No longer do I cling to the coat rail when my parents or sister walk past. The only ones yet to officially open the closet and behold the rainbow coat I now wear is the rest of the FAL. I know it will happen soon—on MSN I’ve been plugging the GetUp campaign, which means certain family members will see it and finally put two and two together before scuttling off to tell everyone as fast as technologically possible, European families being second to none in the efficient transmission of juicy information stakes.

But I don’t care; I’ve let go of the coat rail, shed the grey conservative manly coat (which, I should add, is an illusion anyway) and am beginning to step out into the big bad world, finally colourful, fabulous, and free.

Please don't let labor preference family first

You may also want to visit www.pleaselabordontpreferencefamilyfirst.com, a petition to the Federal Labour Party, asking them not to give senate preferences to the socially conservative Family First Party in the upcoming federal election. In 2004, Labour preferences helped elect a Victorian Family First senator.

The Family First party believes that “Family grows out of heterosexual relationships between men and women” (source). While their policy documents aren’t overtly homophobic, they are conspicuously silent on gay and lesbian families (at best) and covertly homophobic in their constant touting of the “loving mother and father” as the creators of a safe and happy home, ideal for raising children (source) at worst. I haven’t read all of their policy documents, only the two listed here, but they appear to be a fairly right-wing bunch of ... well let’s leave it there shall we?

Get up and come out

I received the following email, forwarded by the NSW Gay and Lesbian Rights Lobby, the other week and have been meaning to post about it.

Dear friends,

We've done the research and it's a landslide. A GetUp-commissioned Galaxy poll last weekend reveals a whopping 71 per cent of Australians, including 63 per cent of Coalition voters, believe same sex couples should have the same rights as heterosexual couples in de facto relationships.

These results should make all Australians proud. Yet on Friday, the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission released its year-long inquiry into same sex discrimination which reveals that discrimination remains ingrained in 58 pieces of federal legislation. From superannuation and workers' compensation to Medicare, tax and pensions, Australians are treated like second-class citizens purely on the basis of their sexual orientation.

Right now our politicians are deciding how to respond to these damning findings. This is our urgent opportunity to tell them it's time to wipe this discrimination off the books forever by giving legal equality to same sex couples.

www.getup.org.au/campaign/EqualBeforetheLaw

Australians want their friends, family and colleagues in same sex relationships to have the same rights as other citizens. One piece of legislation, redefining de facto legal status, can start us firmly on the path towards greater equality.

Sometimes change can only happen when the people lead. And we will. GetUp's poll found majority support for equal rights extends across every demographic, across every region, across every political party in the nation. Tell the politicians it's time they caught up to the people that voted them in.

Put your name to the petition calling for equality now - and please share this campaign with all your friends. You can be sure that at least 70 per cent of them will thank you for it! You can also support this campaign by donating here.

www.getup.org.au/campaign/EqualBeforetheLaw

Thanks for being part of this,

The GetUp team

I think it speaks for itself.

And now for a catch-up

For the last two-and-a-bit weeks I’ve been staying with Lala, Cal and Tia and as such haven’t had a lot of time to update the blog. I had been so busy getting on with life that I forgot about blogging, to be honest. I realised that I hadn’t updated in a while when I received an SMS from Drew yesterday morning saying “are you still alive?”.

Well here I am.

Holiday recap

So when the last post was about our trip up north, the incredible amounts of drinking and board-gaming. I have to say I’m somewhat embarrassed that all of them could drink me under the table with one hand tied behind their collective back. While it doesn’t bother me that Tom and Cal can hold their liquor with such finesse (being 27- and 25-year-old guys you would expect that), but Bin and Ben, at the tender ages of 18 and 16 respectively, are formidable opponents. Lala, at 24, is also quite an accomplished drinker; I would also wager Amber (at 22) is as well, however she is now called to the higher purpose of motherhood over drunken debauchery.

It turned out that Brendan had croupe, a condition one rung down the ladder from whooping cough. We were all tempted to collect the gobs of phlegm and hurl them at the chemist who refused to sell medicine to Amber, or to the doctors who dismissed him as “simply having asthma”.

Back to reality, Mr Handyman

We arrived home to Lala and Cal’s on Sunday night (the 17th of June). Over the next few days Lala and I watched some of the fine films in the Big Gay Movie Festival (more on that in a separate post), watched the entire series of Life as we know it (a one season, US series set in a highschool that is full of sex, drama and hot 20-somethings acting teenage roles), and started watching Queer as Folk again, just for old times’ sake.

I also stayed with Tia in her new home, a nice little duplex with 4 bedrooms (one of which is a converted garage). While there I donned my Mr Handyman garb and put TV aerial plugs in the kids’ rooms and a phone line to the computer. I also hung the dryer on the wall (after three trips to the hardware store because the bolts I bought weren’t long enough).

Fag hag, junior

While there I discovered an unlikely ally in Bin, the youngest of Tia’s children, whom I always thought would the most homophobic of her siblings. We went to the plaza one day and she offered to push me in the wheelchair. After a bumpy start (she didn’t realise that my feet stick out and consequently drove me into the counter at the chemist and at the lift) she was quite a good little driver. We went to Borders because she needed a new novel and I decided to see if they had a “gay section”. Using the computer terminal, I discovered they did indeed have one but it neglected to tell me exactly where it was. I explained the situation to Bin and she left me where I was and marched over to the information desk and asked, politely as ever, “Excuse me, can you point me in the direction of the ‘gay literature’ section please?” Armed with directions, she came back and collected me and drove me at breakneck speed to the two shelves of gay and lesbian literature. Most of it was on the top shelf so I had to shakily stand up and have a look around, and eventually selected Becoming a Man by Paul Monette. I started reading it a few nights later and still can’t put it down.

Sunday night at the local

On Sunday afternoon it was decided that we would go to the local pub for dinner. A good friend of Lala’s was in town and she wanted to catch up with everyone. It was a great night, all their friends are pretty awesome. And the boys are, for the most part, pretty hot. I won about $120 on the pokies (slot machines, for the American readers) and I have no idea how I did it. I had two features and one win of $88 in one spin. I never win that much. I was a pretty happy little cookie by the night’s end.

One crowded hour

On another day, Lala took me to the plaza to do a few things (and to spend some of my winnings), and again we got the wheelchair. While the entire trip began and ended within an hour, it was certainly action-packed. After hunting the car park for a spot only to discover all disabled spots were taken, we parked relatively close to the doors. We checked out all the cars in the disabled zone and noticed one did not have a permit displayed. We dutifully wrote down the number plate and took it to the information desk. Lala gave the young girl the details but we were left with the distinct impression that nothing would be done about it.

Our first port of call was in Target, where Lala had to return a DVD she had bought, and browse for a new one. She wanted a cardio workout DVD, and I wanted one with a beginner’s program in Tai Chi (something I’ve always wanted to do to keep some of my strength up but never had the time or inclination to actually attend any classes or groups). After finding nothing useful at all, Lala went to the front of the store to get a refund on the other DVD. She handed me her can of coke zero and headed off, leaving me to browse the specials tables with discounted DVDs.

As I realised there were no movies on the tables worth bothering with, I felt a cold went feeling on my left thigh. I glanced down and saw, to my horror, that the can of coke zero which was formerly smooshed between my left leg and the side of the chair had tipped out and was spewing forth its contents onto the leather seat of the wheelchair, making a beeline for my bum. I righted the can and wheeled away from the table, in case a puddle started to form, and zoomed past Lala calling out “going to the loo, I’ll be right back”. I went as fast as my little arms, the chair’s wheels and the surrounding traffic would permit and, after being stuck behind two overweight women who walked at a snail’s pace, locked the door of the disabled bathroom. I stood up and surveyed the damage. As I moved, the fabric of my trousers touched my legs and felt instantly cold. I took them off and realised, heart sinking, that my boxer shorts were also soaked. They came off too and were dried under the hand dryer (as best as one can dry coke-stained boxer shorts in these situations). I then mopped up the excess accumulation of coke on the chair, tried to squeeze as much out of the legs and butt of my pant s as possible and then redressed. Upon sitting down I realised that this would be a cold and sticky trip if some padding was not introduced into the equation. I got a small sappling’s worth of paper towel and stuffed it down my pants to create a barrier between them and my skin. I sat and felt marginally more comfortable and left the toilet.

When I emerged from the toilet I zoomed over the Target again, to find Lala sitting quietly on one of the seats in front of the store. “Oh look,” I said to her, “pillows! Have a look at these!” She followed me, perplexed, to the stack of pillows at the front of the store. “Pretend to be looking at the pillows!” I whispered urgently before telling her about the whole saga. She laughed and began to wheel me to the next stop: the food court.

After a very quick lunch (and a stop at the toilet for me to change my paper towel padding), we went to the $2 shop to buy some DVD cases. As we turned a corner she suddenly accelerated, pushing me with the might of a mad woman. I started turning my head to ask what was going on and she said to me, her voice full of neurotic tension, “don’t turn around!” I stopped turning, held on, and tried to relax as I was propelled through space by an obviously distressed Lala. “I just saw The-Ex!” she said. “Well I think it was him but I don’t want to turn around and look because he’s right behind us and I don’t want him to see us and don’t turn around!” The-Ex, Cal’s predecessor, puts the psycho in psycho-ex-boyfriend. He was nuts. I mean really nuts. But he was nasty and because of this it is hard for me to feel sorry for his other obvious problems, in light of the way he treated Lala. It was a nasty break-up, full of emotional turmoil and Shakespearean drama.

Safe inside the refuge of the $2 shop, Lala relaxed and span me around to face her. I told her to try to calm down and offered her my water bottle. I found the cases I wanted and wheeled myself to the front of the shop to pay for them. Lala followed carefully, ready to duck behind a shelf at any moment. Once it was clear he wasn’t in the shop, and Lala had composed herself she wheeled me out into the main part of the plaza. At every corner she stuck me out into the corridor and waited for me to give the all-clear before proceeding. We must have looked strange. Lala ducked into the supermarket to buy a few things while I sat outside and had a smoke. I was all rugged up—gloves, scarf, sunnies—totally incognito. Lala came towards me and the gasped and leapt behind a pylon. “That’s him!” she said. I glanced over at a guy some 20 meters away. “Wait a minute”, Lala said, “he’s smoking.” This was odd. Odd enough to make us doubt it was actually The-Ex and not some Ex-like doppelganger, but when he moved his face towards us I was convinced it was him. “That bastard!” I said, remembering all the shit he gave us for smoking.

She wheeled me to the car, me still acting as recon agent at every intersection. After all our purchases were loaded into the car, I sat in the car and removed the sodden paper towelling from my pants, petrified it would fall out if I walked. I went back to return the wheelchair (alone, so that she wouldn’t be recognised). I entered the plaza and started to go up one of the ramp escalators. Whenever I am on these I have to lock the wheels so that I don’t roll backwards or have to hold my weight on the wheels as I ascend. That day I evidently locked the wheels a little too quickly because as soon as I did the chair tipped backwards, my legs flailed helplessly in the air and my arms grabbed the side of the escalator to steady myself. Once righted, the man behind me said something like “Wow, that’s a dangerous way to travel.” Not wanting to appear like the idiot I felt I simply said “it’s ok, it happens all the time, just usually I’m quicker at catching myself.”

With the wheelchair returned, I went back to the car and sat down, discovering that the wet pants were incredibly uncomfortable to sit in. I undid my top button, slipped the pants to my knees and we drove home, Lala very frazzled and me in my boxer shorts.

Oh my God, he’s gorgeous

I believe I’ve mentioned Cal’s brother, Nate, on this blog before. He’s gorgeous. Blonde hair, cute face, great body, very sweet guy. While I was staying with Tia, Nate came over to give her a quote on putting a sliding glass door in the garage-bedroom of their new place. While Tia, Bea and I explained the situation to Nate, Bin loomed in the background, gawking. When Nate left, I went outside with him as he measured the external dimensions of the door and I had a smoke. As I re-entered the house, Bin came up to me and exclaimed, breathlessly “Oh my God! He’s gorgeous!” He had had quite an effect on everyone, the four of us practically fanning ourselves on the couch after his visit.

That’s all folks

As the holiday wore on I realised I was running low on my vital medication. I was sure I had packed extra in my suitcase but after much frenzied searching I discovered this to be a false memory. After a night out at the local RSL restaurant for dinner with the clan, I arrived at Lala’s totally devoid of energy and made a call to Mum and Dad, asking if there was any possibility of them picking me up. Tomorrow. Or the day after. As luck would have it, Mum was in the mood for a Sunday drive, so they came up to get me on Sunday. It was a rude shock to have my holiday cut so short, but I was down to my last tablet on Saturday so it was essential I didn’t stay any longer without meds; I’ve gone a few days without it before it wasn’t pretty. I was in bed the whole time. I wasn’t going there again!

And now here I am, feeling slightly better but still not great. I suffered a migraine in the wee hours of the morning on Monday (at about 4.30 am) and have had an upset stomach since I arrived. But such is life.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, that’s my philosophy.