She's not dead - she's just frozen I think !

Hello! It's nice to have a sequestered slab of cyber-cement to which I can carve my thoughts whenever I feel the need. I'm glad I decided to keep this blog, even if I don't get the chance to update it as often as one would like. Thank you for putting up with my inconsistency, it's very sweet and I value my readership greatly - all three of you!

You'll be pleased to know that on a whole, my life is doing wonderful things and the positive momentum has seen that I'm back at school for the first time in ten years, with a University degree (Bachelor of Social Work) due in the next three.

Even though I was accepted into University the first time from just an interview and my Japanese marks at high school, I never quite mastered the transition from supervised student at high school into an independent and focused academic adult, which you are expected to be at University. For many reasons, the main one being that I was still adjusting to life on my own terms, away from the insanity of my upbringing, my first attempt at tertiary study was a miserable and shameful disaster, that stained my academic record for the next decade with indelible failure.

Last year, I found it very hard for any institution to have faith in me as a student, given that all my previous academic history, (and due to my stubborn streak there were many incomplete attempts ; several courses, some correspondence, Japanese, Counselling, Teaching.) worked against me.
Predictably, every single attempt to "clear my name" if you will, was self sabotaged by myself and my lustful urge to skip class. I wouldn't be found at the shopping mall, trying on tacky chemist make-up and I wouldn't be round at a friends house, watching dvd's and munching down popcorn. No, you would always find me in the same place and that would be in bed.

Maybe it was my then undiagnosed Hep C, which was eating spoonfuls of healthy liver at the time, or it may have been the demanding upkeep of a heroin addled, bipolar lifestyle, but I couldn't get to all of the classes for longer than a month nor pick up the books that I'd bought with every intention on making good with my academic past. Some days I felt I deserved a little break, other days I came up with much more inventive excuses, so I skipped classes often and told myself that I would make up the time... another time. But that time never came.

I still remember waking up every morning of my first year of University, with a heavy sensation across my chest, as if all of life's paperwork, and worries that come along with it, had accumulated in my sleep and buried me alive. Somewhere under all the"failed to appear" notices, overdue bills, incomplete exams and disconnection warnings that had started to fill up my letterbox, was a very anxious girl that knew she was only making it harder for herself to return to class, but the mere thought of postponing that day was frightfully delicious. Of course, my life only gets better when I decide things cannot possibly be any worse, but back when I was 19 and feeling invincible, I managed to turn a life of potential into a nightmare addiction and I perhaps should have seen the writing on the wall when I fled University life in disgrace, there was no way I would not feel the reprecussions of that decision in my mind, because frankly put, I am quite an intelligent girl. In fact, out of all of my friends, I am perhaps the most passionate about academia and yet I was to spend the next ten years trying desperately to win back my seat within the system.

I'll always be able to recall the shock and shame of those days where I had to let the anxiety dominate my life rather than plan for some imagined day when I would be calm, peaceful and content. I guess my brain didn't want to buy what my heart was trying to sell it. One day in particular, which still features in my nightmares ( not that it is a gruesome or fearful memory but I find we often dream of fears we never dared to declare in our waking moments.)

It was nearing the end of year, not when the Uni bar is full to the brim with happy drunks that toast the end of another year of bull busting study but instead that strangely quiet period before exam week, the calm before the storm I guess. The student's lounge was unusually vacant, and a few plucky first years were trying out the pool tables for the time, the eerie clicking of balls echoing around the empty hall that was usually a swell of students. I felt very uneasy about this time of year, and not just because all the sensible students were busy cramming their minds with caffeine, but I had a horrible notion that cramming itself was not really learning, I wagered private bets with myself that even the most dedicated student will most likely never recall most of what is learnt in those early years of adulthood. As I was not one of the latter, I decided today was perhaps the right time to approach the Dean with a tentative request to defer my studies (in retrospect, this was a mistake of gargantuan proportions of course, but I was boldly going where no student was supposed to go and at that precise moment, I had to believe it would work.)

As the Dean's office was attached to the very last classroom on the very last block, I quickly surmised that I would need to discreetly make my way past the classrooms, with my head bent slightly downwards whilst striding forward, my trousered legs snapping like scissors and the whole time I would keep my gaze connected to the footpath flashing before me. This worked for a couple of blocks, until I developed a stitch thus my gait looked stilted and odd. I decided for the last block to employ a stealth approach and I was actually creeping past a classroom and for some reason I looked directly in the windows. What I saw wasn't anything untoward, it was a standard class being taught by a stern looking professor up the front, and the students were littered around the classroom, fervently taking notes of everything he said. Even though the students had their backs facing me, I felt a jolt of recognition when I saw them and instinctively bolted to the closest cover, quite sure that anyone watching would think I was some kind of weird peeping tom that got off on spying on crusty old professors and escort me off the premises. Oh, it wasn't the first time I'd nearly been busted absconding from class, but it was the first time I'd realised, with a shock, how severe my problem had become. You see, I couldn't place the teacher at first glance, but now shock waves were radiating the images back to me. I saw myself on Orientation Week, red cheeked and wet behind the ears, bustling into that same classroom with a mountain of new books, hungry to learn. I now recalled, with painfully sharp detail, that I started missing weeks at first, to which he was sympathetic to my excuses as long as I made up the hours, to which they started to pile up and up and up until the units started to fail all by themselves. I felt humiliated by my own absence and dreaded whenever Sir called upon me in class to give my opinion, because very often I was not equipped with the knowledge and had to own up to such, which always seemed to take forever, like he was taking some secret pleasure in prolonging my academic agony. Perhaps to his relief and definitely to mine, I was pardoned for personal reasons for eight weeks and when I returned, I just wasn't the student I thought I could be. Keeping up with my extensions and excuses was a full-time job, I knew I could scrape by with my existing Japanese for the first year, but in order to stay within the University itself I had to physically be present in class for a undisclosed percentage of time and I was always skirting around the danger zone and teachers did their best to warn me. I now know it's my focus that is required and that I must "allow myself" to achieve things.

I say "allow" without flinching because up until the last twelve months, I never believed that I was deserving of good things like a University Degree, that just didn't happen to "people like me". The only disconnect was, I didn't actually feel like this "person like me" and that's why I never truly gave up and believed it couldn't be done. I was just lost, but I wasn't dead.

I know people sell a lot of books by bleating on about a bad childhood, which attracts the mirth of accomplished writers that I know, but this blog is not a commercial for that kind of book and I'm not trying to explain or justify myself to anyone reading. The facts are that I had a tough time but that I am rebuilding what never got built the first time. Cynical thoughts aside, I think our childhood is the foundation on which we are built as people and personalities, and some people have had access to better materials than others. Like me, some need major renovations for many years later, but after that is completed (and I am going to share how I did it) I do agree that you have to 'bloody get on with it.' But by then, you have to shout with joy "Gladly!!!"

In order to be a better student now, and leave my truancy behind me, I had to figure out what I was running from, what was I afraid of becoming if I did stick with my schooling. I thought it was a fear of becoming TOO rich and successful (good lord, reality stick please - now bash me with it thanks!) but of course this was just a skewed take on a common fear amoung us of failing to live up to our own expectations. When I was small, I was made to feel that I was a nuisance to people and a lot of my personal dreams and aspirations were snuffed out, along with the child I was, because The Stepmother had other ideas for the role I was to play. I was now to be a new child of a new marriage or else I could find another home that would take me, which at six years old was an appalling thought to actualise. I learnt to have very small expectations of people or risk being hurt and dissapointed, or even abandoned. Because I had to lower expectations of everyone else, it went across the board and allowed me to secretly believe that I wasn't good enough to have big expectations come true.

I was lost for a long time, my personality and my essence, was "put on ice", and it's only very recently I realised that I was perpetually grieving (and medicating this grief with heroin) when instead I should've been celebrating the reclamation and growth of the person I wanted to be, not what someone tells me I am. I kept stalling this reclaimation because I didn't want to face the hurt that had been hidden all those years back, when the "I" turned into "She".

This year, I've chosen childcare for the interim "pathway to uni" period, because I've always enjoyed children (on toast?) and they also enjoy my childlike nature. I was accepted into a split degree (tafe and uni) at the eleventh hour and the cherry on top is that my course for this year is entirely paid for, thank you Mr Rudd!

In case you're wondering (or snooping if you bother to) I've managed to keep clean now for a record 15months, which is the longest time in ten years that I have abstained from using heroin.

Wow, that's the first time I've plainly stated such statistics and I get a small thrill from the directness of numbers - as they never lie. I've learnt recently that it's better to face the brutalities of your life in a bold, unglamourous language that forces the speaker to look at the "meaty stuff" and address it, sometimes very plainly indeed. I can't hide anymore. Don't want to, and that is true recovery for you because you simply cannot allow any secrets, even the ones you tell yourself to get through to the next moment, because it could be that dark secret that winds up in your arm and all of a sudden you have tricked yourself into thinking that you have tricked yourself. Complicated I know, but an addict will know exactly what I mean.

I'm told by my teachers (suspiciously no longer in childcare mind you) that in Early Childhood you never have to grow up - but I will keep you posted on that. To be honest, there is nothing wrong with growing up, it can be the best thing to ever happen to you. I'm told by my teachers (suspiciously no longer in childcare mind you) that in Early Childhood you never have to grow up - but I will keep you posted on that. To be honest, there is nothing wrong with growing up, it can be the best thing to ever happen to you.

HG

Change of Plans (hee hee)

Darn it, darn it, DARN it. It seems that even with my twitter and my facebook obsessions, I've felt very strange not having a blog to capture my thoughts and feelings (truth be told, I almost never ever reread anything I write but I figure one day, when I'm old and grey that I may take an interest in my life and what it was.)

I guess I felt overwhelmed by the need to write quality material for my book and writing in this blog seemed naughty or plain stupid, because I know that I need to write my book and start earning money for my other plans and goals. But I missed you, I really did and I'm not used to feeling that way about writing, it's so nice to just have a place that I can be me, and I know I won't be judged. I've reconsidered my decision to close the blog because I think journalling is an important tool in my recovery process. I've been adding status updates to Facebook left, right and centre but it hasn't quite filled the hole that was left by leaving this little blog. So, I'm back.
I told you, I have attachment issues and I find it really hard to let go of people - sometimes it's good and sometimes it's very dangerous and annoying.

My boyfriend has been away for a couple of nights and it's got me thinking how much I love my life now, how settled that I feel in my beautiful home and nice things but I've learnt an important lesson by being alone (even though I was counting down the days until I was alone) . I learnt that it doesn't matter how many nice things you have or how many beautiful feelings you have what does matter is that you have someone to love, and someone to share it all with. That's the best thing about all of it, the love we give is in direct comparison to the love we share.
I'll be making a few changes to the format and also doing some cross promotion with my twitter page and my facebook page (which is private sorry) so over the next few days we will be up and running and thank you to all my loyal readers and supporters for putting up with my erratic writing, I'm getting there slowly but we are long left the gutter ..so let's head for the stars.

Love always,
HG
xxx


http://twitter.com/ticklemyfancy - that's my Twitter xox

So Long... But not Goodbye..

I know, it's been two months since my last confession - I am rubbish at consistency.In fact, it bores me silly having a routine and I've probably suffered more than any living creature because of it. I do need to write more if I ever want to do it for a living and more importantly, I really adore writing, it's actually one of my true indulgences. Mind you, I haven't been totally away from blogs (fucking everyone has one now) plus I've discovered Twitter - as you can see on the left of this page. Even though it's challenging for a gasbag like moi, I'm becoming rather adept at articulating myself in under 140 characters. If you love Facebook, fine, but I really do recommend Twitter if you are voyeuristic or a information Junkie like myself. In fact if you are a fan of this blog, it would probably be easier to follow myself on Twitter because I seem to update that quite a lot. Mind you - I'm trying to keep it real so some of my tweets are for mature adult minds, if there is such a thing. When I'm not getting my hollywood gossip, fresh off the grill, I love following interesting people and reading the variety of thoughts, the cyber version of "people watching". Even though the interface is simple and easy to use (sometimes I think it;s a little too simple for my geek girl tastes) you can choose to make your tweets public or private. For the time being, (my twitter id is bigbugger ) I'm public and by all means, please suggest anyone I could add to my following list by putting their ID in the comments.

The most challenging part of blogging for me is that I don't like the sound of my writer's voice right now, it's too... exact. Right now, I'm about to start a childcare course, I'm taking time out (I'm calling it a social sabbatical) I struggle to keep my giant house clean, there are more child custody cases to be heard in the Family Court, I'm still heads over heels in love and I'm also still stable on methadone and effexor and xyprexa (what a cocktail.) Point being, there are good bits to my life and their are really shitful bits that would take ages, no years, to explain. If I said I was blissfully happy (I would be lying) but if I said I was bitterly depressed (I would be exaggerating) So I guess I'm somewhere in between, a little patch of green surrounded by wild thumping seas.

Just writing this post brings alarming thoughts into play - no emotional nuance can be captured completely by my smallish vocabulary lately and I think reading excellent books has only inflamed my inability. How do they come up with all those exact words, I wonder? I know, I know, it's just a blog right? But it's really hard to write crap (but just watch me do it now) if you ache, yearn and want to be a better writer because the sentences just won't swing into shape, just half thoughts dancing through the empty mind.

I just want to slam a fist into my head in frustration, as if that could unglue the mass of words stuck in there instead of them waltzing out like they used to. Ugh, it's never a good thing to hear the words " used to" in a sentence. You used to be so pretty or You used to love the way I wore my hair, I can feel the hopeless drain the colour of the words. I feel like such a bad writer at the moment (just let me get it out because I'm hoping that this will change things) that I know it's going to take reams and reams of absolute crap before I wear down my defenses and write completely from some naked, raw part of me. So, forgive me for being odd and talking like a stiff matron from the 1950's, my only explanation is that I'm simply out of practise (I hope.) I've contemplated throwing away the dreams of writing my book but whenever I prepare to do so, I become superbly frustrated and need to write instantly. The thing that truly baffles me is why I don't make enough time to practise writing, seeing that it is both needed and rather enjoyable? I've read some books on the subject of writing recently and they all seem to say the same thing - find a place alone, with a door that you can do the writing. Then write. Write out all of the bad , stilted garbage and hopefully something will crack and you will find your voice, some kind of miracle I'm starting to think! My voice keeps changing, right after I read an excellent book, I find myself writing like that person (Stephen King actually writes about this in his excellent writing memoir "Learning The Craft") apparently this is a totally normal phase of developing into a writer but I can't shake the feeling that I'm just not settled into my own style nor do I like how it sounds enough to keep it.

You know what? I think I have fallen out of the ability to write and that scares me more than anything in the world. However, I do admit that it also challenges me to get up off my arse and do something about it. Hence, we have a blog post today. I know it sounds nerdy and self-absorbed to obsess about it, but to me writing is such a birthing process, that I must love and cherish the words that are born from me but lately I have felt like drowning them in a bucket full of turpentine. I know readers don't expect genius but I do know that their time is precious, and I feel overwhelmed at times with the impervious task of making those ten minutes matter.
Somedays, I barely make sense to myself and the thought of writing in the midst of a manic spell is scary - who knows what I could say or who I would offend. And I know it's like a broken record, but I can't help the feeling that people I know but don't particular admire, are getting their Voyeuristic fix and reading my personal thoughts , smug in the fact that I'll never know they actually give a shit about me or my randomly assembled thoughts. Paranoid much?

For years, I have thought I am writing for the people who are reading rather than writing for myself. I just can't write everything that I think or we would be here for days and you would be very bored indeed. But this weekend I have decided that I need to make time to write, it's not going to fall from the sky and settle into my lap - as much as I'd like it to! Case in point; I have been interrupted six times trying to write this post, and three times this weekend have I had to field requests to do social things, which would probably be fun, but wouldn't help me be a better writer. I need to get serious about writing before anyone can be serious about my writing.

I used to think that blogging would be a daily thing, that would work itself out. I admired the greats of blogging and wished with all my blogging heart I could be like them. I still do (sometimes and only the really brilliant ones) But I have come to a harsh realisation recently.

I simply don't give a shit about "my life" as a multimedia experience. Some of it, is probably modesty - I think there is a thing of sharing too much information these days. But mostly, I can't seem to blog every thought and experience without wanting to give myself a very hard slap. Maybe it's a confidence issue, I might not have the self -esteem to be a die hard blogger like Raymi. Don't get me wrong - I love her style and her dedication and I'm thrilled to see her site evolve and it looks the best it ever has and all that shit - but I pick Raymi because I've talked to her a couple of times on msn and it's very nerve wracking to try and entertain Raymi "live" when you have probed into her life for the past five years, sitting in your underpants eating Cheetos. It's all well and good when it's a one way relationship. But you see, I just don't get off on that. I feel that no matter how awesome your life is because of your blog, you're still obligated to the thing and how many times can you go to bars, get drunk and make fun of taxi drivers ? I just want to ask her - do you ever get sick of your Raymi brand? But that seems rude, but I mean it honestly. Some of her deeper writing is brilliant but she doesn't do it very often, maybe that is because a blog needs to be light, a reader "snack" - something I am also not good at doing. Raymi on the other hand, has made it an art form and I think she is very passionate about ... Raymi. I guess sometimes I feel there is so much more to the story that we will never know and I wonder why we don't get that a lot in the popular blogs that I read. They are all starting to get very commercial about.. themselves. Where is the risk, the revelations on a personal level and where is the emotion ? I feel like an idiot sharing my inner most thoughts when Parez Hilton makes millions of dollars doodling cum drips from Miley Cyrus's crotch.

Sooner or later, blogging is going to get old - even to loyals like Raymi. I can't help but shudder to think if she is still going to be blogging about kids, menopause and being called grandma - I mean how long do we do blog ? Are we all going to be reporting our ironies and rants until our fingers are bent with arthritis. Maddox at sixty? Jason Mulgrew when he is forty-five, bald and twice married, three kids. Depressing!

I often wonder whether Raymi minds certain things in her life being no longer private ( after all, she has only shared with us the parts of her life that she wants to share) but I can't help but feel encouraged by her to be a part to her life, her house, her cat Cid and her fiancee, well - because she is so dedicated to documenting it. It's kind of I'm sure most fans agree that if anyone deserves a book deal or "celebrity" status then she does but somehow I get the feeling that if that was going to happen, she would have made it happen by now so I get the feeling that being the "hot girl who takes lots of photos of herself dancing or on the toilet" is enough for her. But if I had been blogging every day for eight or so years, I'd start to wonder how much living is being done. I mean at some point you have do things like no one is watching - right?

Does blogging count as writing? I recently read Jason Mulgrew celebrated FIVE years of blogging and his blog is one of the free laughs I get in this world, but I cannot help but think (with a failed tv show and stalled book deals) that even he got sick of blogging about himself.
By the way he has wrote the equivalent of 13.5 books by blogging and his book is due out in 2010 - and none of the book overlaps with the blog. So, I guess it doesn't count after all.

So just so we have an understanding, I'm probably going to focus on my writing (real writing) and you may not hear from me for a while. Because every time I blog, I commend myself for writing but I really don't think this is what's going to bring my goals into fruition. I'm on twitter and I'm on face book. I use those to social chatter and the blog, has slipped down the list considerably. Right now, my priority is tidying up my memoirs and getting my auto bio manuscript done and dusted. I'm locking myself away for a season and I'm sure as hell going to finish this mongrel. I love writing but I think blogging is not where it is at for me at the moment, and I hope you all understand. I hate doing things by halves and I hate breaking promises. This isn't isnt goodbye though, my story is just beginning. This is just so long for now, you have been great, so very loyal and true and I really do love your comments and your thoughts. I assure you that every email and comment is read. I just cannot give this blog the time it deserves - so I'm never going to be a franchise I'm afraid. I'll never see my catchphrases screen printed over t-shirts. I just not that into "me" . And it worries me, lol, it really seems the only way to "make it" anymore. But you will hear about my book here, because it's more a labour of love that I have to get done and the longer I put it off - the harder it is to recall. I may only publish a dozen or three but it will be self published if need be! Life is going really great for me now and I'll be sure to pop in and tell you all about my journey in a few months time. It's time to get serious!!

I'll miss you (but this isn't goodbye!)
Heroine/Girl
xxxx


http://twitter.com/reneeisrad





P.s I kept waiting for the "Magical Blog Fairy" to wave her wand over my life and make me more interested in meticulously giving a fuck about everything I do (eat, see, think, drink, laugh at, surf at.) Hell, I wish I could even be assed enough to hook up my god damn camera, nevermind take photos of me dancing in the rain or pictures of the food I ate in resturants (can't they just remember it - I mean do we really need to see it if we're not the ones eating it?) Then again, I'm glad Raymi and the other seven million bloggers do bother with it all.. because lazy shmucks like me can read her site and be entertained for a while, that's nice. However, I can't help but wonder - is this blog about her life or is her life all about a blog? Just saying. < class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">Tui, so delicate and delicious to read, seriously the only complaint I ever have about her writing is that there isn't enough of it. I always leave wishing I could have read more, and I seriously would buy any book she ever published - hands down. Sometimes I just read entries over and over again because I honestly get the feeling that Tui has no idea how brilliant she is at writing. That's the killer punch. She is such a natural writer, equal parts bright and dark and even though the posts are few and far between, it somehow punctuates her lonely story with a real sense of longing, you only get to grasp her for a moment before she slips away, fading like a dandelion blowing into winter sleet. ih

So, for a long time, I have dwindled in the area of blogging, because there only seems to be two kinds of bloggers - brilliant and not so brillant. I'm sure I'm somewhere near the middle but that suits me just fine - for reals.