Day number 15 at my new job started the same way days number 1-14 did.
I am cold, I miss my grandparents, and I have no fucking idea what I am doing, or how long I will last doing it.
In the morning, I wake up early, when it is still dark. BEB showers while I cuddle The Loon on the bed. As I stroke his face while he nuzzles into me, I wish that I lived on a farm with BEB, The Loon, five other dogs, three ducks, a sheep, a cow and maybe a horse, and where my daily activities consist of tending to my menagerie, writing my memoirs and baking apple pies.
Instead my day’s activities are all bleakly blurring into a lumpy, grey, porridgey mess and as hard as I try, I cannot see through the murk.
While BEB gets ready in the bathroom, I try to decide on clothes to wear to work. Whilst style is a factor, warmth is more important. Being from Brisbane, I own limited corporate attire that is also arctic-breeze resistant. Every day I struggle with my choice. My inability to tolerate the cold is not helped by the fact that our work air-conditioning is set to what seems like a single digit temperature. No one else at work seems to mind, though.
BEB leaves for work before me. We always kiss goodbye, and I always tell him to “drive safely”. Sometimes BEB offers to drive me to the train station, but I always say no. This is because I worry about him getting in a fatal accident as a result of my inability to walk 500 metres to catch the train. Instead, I put on my scarf, grab my Glad snap-lock bag of Weeties, and head out the door, walking briskly as the cold air hits my face. My bag is always heavy, and I always wonder if I have remembered my work security pass (I always have it with me).
The train ride is relatively painless. The suburbs we pass on the way to the city are unfamiliar and intriguing to me. I could recite a demographic breakdown of nearly any suburb in Brisbane based on population ethnicity, crime rate and local attractions. In Melbourne I am flying blind. I watch the people who get on board at each stop, and wonder if their lives are as complicated as mine. Sometimes a person with a disability gets on board as I am having this thought. I feel ashamed at my self-pitying ways.
To occupy myself on my 14 minute journey, I eye off the business attire of the other women on the train. I am embarrassed at my effort to appear stylish, which has clearly failed. I don’t look like I belong in trendy, cutting-edge Melbourne. I just look warm.
I arrive at Parliament station before 8am. The station is drab and painted in horrible 1980s shades of blue. It is located deep beneath the city’s surface, and this simultaneously suffocates and comforts me. I feel much safer down here, than I do up on street level, in public view. In fact, to get out of the station almost takes me as long as the train ride. There are two long escalators to navigate, whereby I opt to stand to the left and let the more athletic, busy people walk past me. I used to be one of the athletic, busy types. Now I don’t know who I am.
With a quick walk downhill, I arrive at my building. It is new, and impressive. I am on the 18th floor, with sweeping views of the city. I have no idea what I am looking at or which way I am facing, but from my desk I can see many buildings, some water, and what could possibly be part of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. I have told BEB about this, and he thinks this is very cool. I think it is distracting.
I arrive at work before the rest of my “team” and I like this. It gives me time to settle before I have to put on my chirpy, cheerful and motivated face. I have been recruited to work on a project that deals with insurance incentives. This pisses me off no end, because I was not informed that my role would be project-based. I was under the impression that my role would be primarily policy and legal work – the kind of work I am used to. Instead, I have been duped. Even my title at work – Senior Policy Officer – is inaccurate.
I have been given five plastic ring binder folders of information to get my head around, all of which are related to my giant project. For the first few days I was dedicated to immersing myself in all there was to read – asking questions, attending meetings and asking questions containing keywords such as “remuneration” and “sizing factor”. But by day three, I had lost interest, and by day four, I was on the Victorian Government website looking for new jobs.
My manager is encouraging, but so she bloody should be given that it was her poor judgment that landed me in this role. As the primary interviewer on my panel, she was the one who made the massive mistake of presuming my legal skills would somehow morph into the business/commerce/economic skills required for this project. She has assured me that I beat a “large pool of applicants, including several highly skilled internal applicants” to work on a project that has “a very high profile within the organisation.” I have been told this role will benefit my career, and that the networking opportunities are limitless. I have, it seems, been earmarked for success.
This just makes me feel worse. And the fact that I am extremely skilled in self-sabotage, only worries me further.
Typically, I have meetings in the morning, at which I liaise with people working on similar projects in order to understand each of the incentives I am proposing for implementation. Despite consuming massive amounts of caffeine both before and during these meetings, I still have to battle to stay awake. Sometimes during these meetings, I shove my left thumbnail into the palm of my right hand so that the pain will force me back into consciousness. Unfortunately as I have usually bitten my nails prior to the meeting, usually out of stress at worrying how I am going to stay awake in the meeting, this is unsuccessful.
It isn’t until around 2pm that I actually start to work. This is because I work better under pressure, and starting at 2pm gives me just enough time to pump out some work before I leave for the day, around 4.30pm. It also means the work I have done is fresh in my mind for when I have to meet with my manager the next morning to discuss the progress of my project. There is no progress. Fortunately my bullshitting skills are exemplary, and to date my deception has gone undetected.
BEB thinks I am too hard on myself. He says that when I talk about the work I am doing, I know what I am talking about. He thinks that I should stop second-guessing my superiors and just accept that they saw something in me that they knew would be a perfect match for this kind of work.
I want to believe what BEB says, but the truth is, BEB is biased and has a vested interest in ensuring I stick it out with this job. If I am happy and successful it should make the whole prospect of us permanently staying in Melbourne a lot easier for me to swallow. I have told BEB that I consider our time in Melbourne to be temporary. BEB tells me he agrees. But I think he secretly hopes I will change my mind.
I have told BEB that my current job is an exercise in treading water until I find something better.
The problem is that the people I work with think that I am waving, when I am actually drowning.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Figuring it out
I am starting to believe that the universe is conspiring against me. But in a good way.
It is almost as if despite my best efforts to dig myself into a bitter little rut, the universe is hell-bent on throwing me a bone.
At present, BEB is working interstate. Before I can move to be with him, BEB needs to find us a place to rent (I cannot, nay WILL not, stay at his parents' house, retirement village amenities notwithstanding). Correspondingly, I need to snag a job as good, if not better, than the one I currently have.
A few weeks ago I stumbled upon a job vacancy that seemed to tick all the boxes. Same industry. Government department. City location. In fact, the position description made the job sound as though it was right up my alley. The salary on offer was also surprisingly good, which made my neuroses switch into overdrive.
I wouldn't have enough experience.
My previous roles were too junior.
I was fairly confident that they would read my job application, thank me for my interest, and bid me farewell.
But that didn't happen.
So a week later (at which time I was still in the midst of Pristiq withdrawals), I fronted up to a the job interview.
The panel of three interviewers grilled me.
This question is in two parts.
Provide a recent example.
Can you expand on that answer more specifically?
So I smiled, and I laughed, and I self-deprecated. And they laughed, although they tried not to.
And I looked pretty, spoke clearly and was polite and receptive to their cues.
I was the ideal interviewee.
And I was exhausted.
As the interview was nearing an end, the words "mathematical formulae" were uttered by my primary interviewer.
As in a question.
As in the question "Are you comfortable applying complex mathematical formulae?"
The words "mathematical formulae" are to me what "pro choice" is to the Pope.
They strike terror in my heart and make me nauseous with dread.
I cannot do maths. And by maths, I mean basic addition and subtraction. I have snowball's chance in hell of figuring out "mathematical formulae".
The blame for this ineptitude lies squarely with my year nine maths teacher. A barely functioning alcoholic, his breath had the potency of OP rum. Whenever he spoke, the fumes of the beverage he had last consumed would spill forth.
The logical way of avoiding inhaling these odours was to ensure he opened his mouth as little as possible. The best way to do this, was to not ask him any questions.
So when I didn't understand algebra, I said nothing.
And when I couldn't calculate a percentage, I said nothing.
This continued for nine long months, by which time my mathematical skills were so abysmal, it was a miracle that I could even tell the time. In a period of one year, under Drunko the Disorderly my maths teacher, my marks had gone from an A- to a D+.
The next year, I was at a different school where the mathematical skills required extended only to determining the best ratio of bourbon to coke. And all other skills I possessed were being used to ensure my survival outside of the classroom, as opposed to my success in it.
By year eleven my maths skills were non-existent. Fortunately this was also the year in which maths classes at my school were no longer compulsory.
So I threw off the shackles of my mathematical dyslexia and marched forward into a maths-free world. I was ecstatic.
And now it had come back to haunt me.
But instead of lying about my mathematical abilities to my potential employer, I told the truth. I said that I possessed no mathematical or statistical training or inclination whatsoever.
I didn't do this because I am fundamentally an honest person.
Rather, I did this because I know my limits.
Words can be bullshitted. Numbers cannot.
I walked out of the interview terrified that they would offer me the job. I was convinced that they had mistaken my articulate nature as being generally intelligent, meaning that they would make the inaccurate assumption that I would be smart enough to figure out figures.
That night, BEB tried to teach me how to calculate a percentage of a number. I got it wrong. Repeatedly.
Then on Friday I got the call I had been dreading.
You are the successful applicant.
The first words out of my mouth were "Wow. I wasn't expecting that."
It was, again, the truth.
I ended up accepting the position. The universe had given me this opportunity for a reason. Maybe the reason was so that I could live in the same state as my husband again. Maybe the reason was so that I could challenge myself and expand my horizons. Or maybe it was just so I could get some experience and find something less numerical later down the track.
I start my new job in four weeks.
Which I think equals 28 days...but I may have to check that.
It is almost as if despite my best efforts to dig myself into a bitter little rut, the universe is hell-bent on throwing me a bone.
At present, BEB is working interstate. Before I can move to be with him, BEB needs to find us a place to rent (I cannot, nay WILL not, stay at his parents' house, retirement village amenities notwithstanding). Correspondingly, I need to snag a job as good, if not better, than the one I currently have.
A few weeks ago I stumbled upon a job vacancy that seemed to tick all the boxes. Same industry. Government department. City location. In fact, the position description made the job sound as though it was right up my alley. The salary on offer was also surprisingly good, which made my neuroses switch into overdrive.
I wouldn't have enough experience.
My previous roles were too junior.
I was fairly confident that they would read my job application, thank me for my interest, and bid me farewell.
But that didn't happen.
So a week later (at which time I was still in the midst of Pristiq withdrawals), I fronted up to a the job interview.
The panel of three interviewers grilled me.
This question is in two parts.
Provide a recent example.
Can you expand on that answer more specifically?
So I smiled, and I laughed, and I self-deprecated. And they laughed, although they tried not to.
And I looked pretty, spoke clearly and was polite and receptive to their cues.
I was the ideal interviewee.
And I was exhausted.
As the interview was nearing an end, the words "mathematical formulae" were uttered by my primary interviewer.
As in a question.
As in the question "Are you comfortable applying complex mathematical formulae?"
The words "mathematical formulae" are to me what "pro choice" is to the Pope.
They strike terror in my heart and make me nauseous with dread.
I cannot do maths. And by maths, I mean basic addition and subtraction. I have snowball's chance in hell of figuring out "mathematical formulae".
The blame for this ineptitude lies squarely with my year nine maths teacher. A barely functioning alcoholic, his breath had the potency of OP rum. Whenever he spoke, the fumes of the beverage he had last consumed would spill forth.
The logical way of avoiding inhaling these odours was to ensure he opened his mouth as little as possible. The best way to do this, was to not ask him any questions.
So when I didn't understand algebra, I said nothing.
And when I couldn't calculate a percentage, I said nothing.
This continued for nine long months, by which time my mathematical skills were so abysmal, it was a miracle that I could even tell the time. In a period of one year, under Drunko the Disorderly my maths teacher, my marks had gone from an A- to a D+.
The next year, I was at a different school where the mathematical skills required extended only to determining the best ratio of bourbon to coke. And all other skills I possessed were being used to ensure my survival outside of the classroom, as opposed to my success in it.
By year eleven my maths skills were non-existent. Fortunately this was also the year in which maths classes at my school were no longer compulsory.
So I threw off the shackles of my mathematical dyslexia and marched forward into a maths-free world. I was ecstatic.
And now it had come back to haunt me.
But instead of lying about my mathematical abilities to my potential employer, I told the truth. I said that I possessed no mathematical or statistical training or inclination whatsoever.
I didn't do this because I am fundamentally an honest person.
Rather, I did this because I know my limits.
Words can be bullshitted. Numbers cannot.
I walked out of the interview terrified that they would offer me the job. I was convinced that they had mistaken my articulate nature as being generally intelligent, meaning that they would make the inaccurate assumption that I would be smart enough to figure out figures.
That night, BEB tried to teach me how to calculate a percentage of a number. I got it wrong. Repeatedly.
Then on Friday I got the call I had been dreading.
You are the successful applicant.
The first words out of my mouth were "Wow. I wasn't expecting that."
It was, again, the truth.
I ended up accepting the position. The universe had given me this opportunity for a reason. Maybe the reason was so that I could live in the same state as my husband again. Maybe the reason was so that I could challenge myself and expand my horizons. Or maybe it was just so I could get some experience and find something less numerical later down the track.
I start my new job in four weeks.
Which I think equals 28 days...but I may have to check that.
Friday, February 12, 2010
The Village People
A lot of change is taking place in my life at the moment.
In the past two weeks, the following developments have occurred:
- We sold our house; and
- BEB got a job interstate.
- BEB finds us a place to live in Melbourne; or
- I get a job in Melbourne.
BEB meanwhile has to live with his parents at their retirement village until we find a place to live. It’s not as bad as it sounds - access to a pool, a gym, daily activities, happy hour, plus all those doting old ladies who will fuss over him. I will be lucky if BEB ever wants to leave.
The retirement village where BEB’s parents live is like Club Med for the mature-aged. According to its website, the Villlage offers residents a choice of two and three bedroom villas and condominium. It also has:
- A Community Centre
- Extensive library
- Lounge areas
- Hairdressing, masseur and podiatry services
- Billiard table
- Grand piano
- Landscaped courtyard; and
- 24-hour emergency call buttons
My grandparents live in a five bedroom house in what could accurately be described as an “undesirable” area of Brisbane’s far-eastern suburbs. Their home offers:
- A frighteningly large amount of clutter
- Dust coverage that could suffocate a small child
- An abundance of cat hair, care of their daughter’s feline companion
- Tripping hazards in the form of rugs and phone cords (and their daughter’s feline companion)
- An extensive range of pest droppings in kitchen cupboards, including those from mice and cockroaches; and
- Fort Knox quality security grilles to prevent the booming criminal community from gaining access to the residence. These grilles also prevent escape from said residence, particularly in the event of fire.
At happy hour a few years ago I asked one of the Village people, Joy, to give me the dirt on what really goes on at the Village. Joy gestured to a sweet old woman, easily in her seventies, seated behind me. I turned around and smiled at her. She smiled back. Joy said her name was Margie. Joy then waved at an elderly gentleman, dressed smartly in pressed trousers and a checked button-up shirt. Joy called him Pat.
Joy then explained to me Margie and Pat had made a “scene” at last year’s Christmas party, when Margie “went underneath” Pat’s table. The worst part, Joy explained, was when Margie hurt her back trying to get out from underneath the table. Some of the staff at the village had to stretcher Margie back to her villa.
I then forced Joy to repeat all of this to BEB so that I would have a corroborating witness in the event of no one believing this scandal. I would later ask Joy how long the waiting list was to move into the Village, and if BEB and I could move in now.
I was in love with the Village.
It is my greatest wish for my grandparents to be convinced to move somewhere like the Village. My grandmother doesn’t know where (or who) she is anyway, so she wouldn’t put up a fight. But my grandad is stubborn and has emphatically told me that the next place he is moving to will be a coffin.
So, for now, I will continue to help them in their own home. And I will tell myself that I have done my best for them.
I just hope I can start believing this before my Grandad makes his next move.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Walking through glue
Three days ago, it was my birthday.
I turned 28.
This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but when you have been told repeatedly by the person who gave you 50% of their DNA what a failure you are, anything past 18 is really nothing to sneeze at. Now I can say that I have officially exceeded my father's expectations of my life span by an impressive ten years.
Traumatic childhood aside, I had intended to spend my birthday with my grandparents, and of course BEB. I had already booked lunch at a delicious Japanese restaurant in the city, and had planned to meet my grandparents at Central station, where we would catch a cab to said restaurant. Later, BEB and I would spend a leisurely few hours strolling around the city, before catching a ferry to Portside to attend the premiere of Precious.
Unfortunately, in the morning when I called my grandparents to finalise plans, my granddad (Gran) informed me that my Grandmother (Nanny) was too unwell to attend. She was refusing to get out of bed and take her medication and Gran didn't like his chances of getting her onto a train, much less keeping her settled for the hour-long train ride from their bayside residence to the city.
Nanny has Alzheimer's disease.
She is existing, but stopped living a few years ago.
Now my granddad lives for both of them.
I actually wasn't that upset. I knew that it couldn't be helped. And coincidentally, I wasn't feeling too flash myself.
The day before, on Australia Day, I had battled through the eight hours or so spent with my friends and had cleverly concealed the aching withdrawal symptoms I was experiencing as a result of weaning myself off Pristiq, an anti-depressant. Seeing as I now had the day free, I decided that my birthday would be the day that I commenced cold turkey Pristiq abstinence.
My doctor told me that coming off Pristiq would not be nearly as agonising as coming off Efexor, an adventure I had the privilege of experiencing several years ago. After being on varying doses of Efexor for over six years, I had finally found myself at a place in life where I wanted to taste life without the aid of an SSRI. And with the help of BEB and my doctor, I gradually came off the tablets I was convinced I would be taking for the rest of my life.
It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but not needing to feel that awful sense of dependence was wonderful.
And here I was again. Dependent on a chemical for emotional stability. I often wonder if it will ever end.
I started taking Pristiq on my doctor's advice, a few months before my wedding. I wasn't handling the prospect of being the centre of attention and in many ways I was dreading the day. The day I was to marry BEB seemed to have transformed into some kind of demon to be slayed. I never had cold feet about marrying BEB, but the wedding was a constant source of anxiety.
The worst part was the well-meaning excitement heaped upon me by well-meaning friends. And why wouldn't they be excited? There was a day of getting dolled up, drinking champagne and scoffing wedding cake on the horizon! Oh, and of course witnessing two souls being united as one blah blah blah...
It soon became abundantly clear that admitting to my friends that I had to take an anti-depressant to get me through my wedding would really have ruined their big day.
So instead, I remained silent on my latest prescription. I told BEB and my best friend and swore them to secrecy.
And now, two months post-wedding, it is time for me to bid farewell to the best wedding assistant I ever had.
By the time Precious had ended, the emotional rollercoaster of withdrawal symptoms was just beginning. And as a side note, let me stress that watching a movie on your birthday which deals with issues of parental abuse/neglect, when you have experienced parental abuse/neglect (albeit on a significantly lower scale), is not a good idea. It was right up there with the mistake I made on my birthday two years ago by seeing Juno, a film showing the intricacies of teen pregnancy/adoption. In hindsight, having been raised by my grandparents after my 19-year-old unwed mother flew the coop probably should have alerted me to the fact that Juno was not going to be the comedy riot for me as it had been for others.
The day after my birthday (48 hours sans Pristiq) was the worst. There was no way I could go to work - I could barely get out of bed and the dizziness left me nauseous. But I could hardly tell my colleagues that withdrawal symptoms from my medication were keeping me home for the day. BEB asked me to describe what I was feeling. I told him it felt like i was walking through glue.
So to avoid the unspeakable, I lied to my workmates. And to make the lie believable, I used Nanny's illness as the reason for my absence. I said she was too unwell and that I needed to stay with her for the day.
And because I work with lovely, caring people, they believed me.
And when I returned to work, not only did they have left over birthday cake for me (which they had intended to give me the day before, when I was absent), they were also asking me all about my Nanny - offering their assistance and goodwill. Then they sent me home early with extra pieces of cake to give to my grandparents.
I felt awful. I wanted to punch myself in the face.
I also ate the cake intended for my grandparents.
Over the course of the next 24 hours I managed to scream at BEB for incorrectly wording a letter of complaint to a phone company, hallucinate by seeing an abused cat sitting in a shopping trolley in the car park at the end of our street (it was actually a loaf of bread) and cry hysterically on several occasions but for only minutes at a time.
Today is day three. I have masted 72 hours without Pristiq.
And there is no turning back.
I am still dizzy and disoriented, but I no longer feel like I am walking through glue.
Instead, it feels more like I am walking on a cloud.
I just hope it doesn't rain.
I turned 28.
This may not seem like much of an accomplishment, but when you have been told repeatedly by the person who gave you 50% of their DNA what a failure you are, anything past 18 is really nothing to sneeze at. Now I can say that I have officially exceeded my father's expectations of my life span by an impressive ten years.
Traumatic childhood aside, I had intended to spend my birthday with my grandparents, and of course BEB. I had already booked lunch at a delicious Japanese restaurant in the city, and had planned to meet my grandparents at Central station, where we would catch a cab to said restaurant. Later, BEB and I would spend a leisurely few hours strolling around the city, before catching a ferry to Portside to attend the premiere of Precious.
Unfortunately, in the morning when I called my grandparents to finalise plans, my granddad (Gran) informed me that my Grandmother (Nanny) was too unwell to attend. She was refusing to get out of bed and take her medication and Gran didn't like his chances of getting her onto a train, much less keeping her settled for the hour-long train ride from their bayside residence to the city.
Nanny has Alzheimer's disease.
She is existing, but stopped living a few years ago.
Now my granddad lives for both of them.
I actually wasn't that upset. I knew that it couldn't be helped. And coincidentally, I wasn't feeling too flash myself.
The day before, on Australia Day, I had battled through the eight hours or so spent with my friends and had cleverly concealed the aching withdrawal symptoms I was experiencing as a result of weaning myself off Pristiq, an anti-depressant. Seeing as I now had the day free, I decided that my birthday would be the day that I commenced cold turkey Pristiq abstinence.
My doctor told me that coming off Pristiq would not be nearly as agonising as coming off Efexor, an adventure I had the privilege of experiencing several years ago. After being on varying doses of Efexor for over six years, I had finally found myself at a place in life where I wanted to taste life without the aid of an SSRI. And with the help of BEB and my doctor, I gradually came off the tablets I was convinced I would be taking for the rest of my life.
It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but not needing to feel that awful sense of dependence was wonderful.
And here I was again. Dependent on a chemical for emotional stability. I often wonder if it will ever end.
I started taking Pristiq on my doctor's advice, a few months before my wedding. I wasn't handling the prospect of being the centre of attention and in many ways I was dreading the day. The day I was to marry BEB seemed to have transformed into some kind of demon to be slayed. I never had cold feet about marrying BEB, but the wedding was a constant source of anxiety.
The worst part was the well-meaning excitement heaped upon me by well-meaning friends. And why wouldn't they be excited? There was a day of getting dolled up, drinking champagne and scoffing wedding cake on the horizon! Oh, and of course witnessing two souls being united as one blah blah blah...
It soon became abundantly clear that admitting to my friends that I had to take an anti-depressant to get me through my wedding would really have ruined their big day.
So instead, I remained silent on my latest prescription. I told BEB and my best friend and swore them to secrecy.
And now, two months post-wedding, it is time for me to bid farewell to the best wedding assistant I ever had.
By the time Precious had ended, the emotional rollercoaster of withdrawal symptoms was just beginning. And as a side note, let me stress that watching a movie on your birthday which deals with issues of parental abuse/neglect, when you have experienced parental abuse/neglect (albeit on a significantly lower scale), is not a good idea. It was right up there with the mistake I made on my birthday two years ago by seeing Juno, a film showing the intricacies of teen pregnancy/adoption. In hindsight, having been raised by my grandparents after my 19-year-old unwed mother flew the coop probably should have alerted me to the fact that Juno was not going to be the comedy riot for me as it had been for others.
The day after my birthday (48 hours sans Pristiq) was the worst. There was no way I could go to work - I could barely get out of bed and the dizziness left me nauseous. But I could hardly tell my colleagues that withdrawal symptoms from my medication were keeping me home for the day. BEB asked me to describe what I was feeling. I told him it felt like i was walking through glue.
So to avoid the unspeakable, I lied to my workmates. And to make the lie believable, I used Nanny's illness as the reason for my absence. I said she was too unwell and that I needed to stay with her for the day.
And because I work with lovely, caring people, they believed me.
And when I returned to work, not only did they have left over birthday cake for me (which they had intended to give me the day before, when I was absent), they were also asking me all about my Nanny - offering their assistance and goodwill. Then they sent me home early with extra pieces of cake to give to my grandparents.
I felt awful. I wanted to punch myself in the face.
I also ate the cake intended for my grandparents.
Over the course of the next 24 hours I managed to scream at BEB for incorrectly wording a letter of complaint to a phone company, hallucinate by seeing an abused cat sitting in a shopping trolley in the car park at the end of our street (it was actually a loaf of bread) and cry hysterically on several occasions but for only minutes at a time.
Today is day three. I have masted 72 hours without Pristiq.
And there is no turning back.
I am still dizzy and disoriented, but I no longer feel like I am walking through glue.
Instead, it feels more like I am walking on a cloud.
I just hope it doesn't rain.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Aussie Aussie Aussie! Urgh urgh urgh...
In two days, it is Australia Day.
In the past, this has been a big day for me. My birthday is the day after, so usually I would combine birthday celebrations with the public holiday. This would usually result in binge drinking in city bars while wearing an Australian flag as a dress. Occasionally, this would also involve drunkenly volunteering to sit in dunking machines, where inebriated punters would pay to throw balls at a target. Hitting the target would result in the moron sitting in the dunking machine plummeting into the water below.
Instead, I am spending Australia day at a friend's unit complex pool. This could be a very smart idea, or a big mistake.
I am, by nature, a control freak. I like things to be organised, plans to be watertight, and itineraries finalised in advance. I also like to be assured that when someone says "Come to my unit and we can use the pool!" they do in fact know that use of the pool is possible.
The best case scenario that I can envisage of the day's events involves my friends and I retaining an absolute monopoly over the pool/BBQ area, thus ensuring unencumbered use of the amenities. I will take up position on a deck chair perched dangerously close to the pool edge (for ease of access), laying myself in a strategic position where my stomach appears slender and my thighs appear firm. I will stay in this position for approximately four hours, moving only to eat food which I have requested BEB bring to me. I will sip on a maximum of two beers, knowing that any more will result in unsightly bloating to my already rounded belly. Then, when no one is looking, I will slip into the pool for as long as it takes for the others to turn away from me, at which time I will return to the safety of the deck chair, and my towel.
I fear, however, that this may not transpire.
Firstly, how does my friend know that we can enjoy exclusive use of the pool? She has instructed everyone to arrive at around 11.30am, at which time we will make our way to the pool/BBQ area and swim/eat/drink and listen to the Hottest 100. This sounds all very well and good but what is the plan if the rest of her unit complex have the exact same idea, but instead have instructed their respective friends to meet at the pool at 9am? I can tell you what it means - it means I will have to parade around in my bikini in front of strangers. It also means it is highly likely that I will miss out on the only cellulite disguise known to be foolproof - the deck chair.
Secondly, how are we to monopolise the BBQ area with our culinary treats if Barry, Robbo and Gaz and their collective throng of bogan mates are already grilling up a storm when we arrive? I can't have my vegie sausages tarnished by their meaty residue! And yes I know I can wrap the vegie sausages in Alfoil as I usually do, but that is beside the point.
I am already dreading getting my gear off in front of people I know, let alone the boozed-up unit dwellers who are likely to be lurking around the pool on what is forecast to be a sweltering day. I have made a mental list of all the preening my body requires before it can go on display - shaving, exfoliating, fake tanning and of course, waxing (which I will be too cheap to pay someone to do, so will instead use Veet cream which will undoubtedly give my sensitive skin ingrown hairs and a rash). To make matters worse, post-wedding I have already gained approximately 2 kilograms. This may not sound like a lot, but I can assure you that 2 kilograms is very noticeable due to its distribution being solely on my stomach. At least in the event of drowning, my fellow swimmers will have something to grab hold of as they are towed to safety.
You would think that being married would strip me of such insecurities, and to an extent it has. But lurking beneath the surface of every self-assured and bubbly woman, is a girl who seriously hopes you aren't staring at her thighs.
In the past, this has been a big day for me. My birthday is the day after, so usually I would combine birthday celebrations with the public holiday. This would usually result in binge drinking in city bars while wearing an Australian flag as a dress. Occasionally, this would also involve drunkenly volunteering to sit in dunking machines, where inebriated punters would pay to throw balls at a target. Hitting the target would result in the moron sitting in the dunking machine plummeting into the water below.
Fortunately, those days are behind me.
Instead, I am spending Australia day at a friend's unit complex pool. This could be a very smart idea, or a big mistake.
I am, by nature, a control freak. I like things to be organised, plans to be watertight, and itineraries finalised in advance. I also like to be assured that when someone says "Come to my unit and we can use the pool!" they do in fact know that use of the pool is possible.
The best case scenario that I can envisage of the day's events involves my friends and I retaining an absolute monopoly over the pool/BBQ area, thus ensuring unencumbered use of the amenities. I will take up position on a deck chair perched dangerously close to the pool edge (for ease of access), laying myself in a strategic position where my stomach appears slender and my thighs appear firm. I will stay in this position for approximately four hours, moving only to eat food which I have requested BEB bring to me. I will sip on a maximum of two beers, knowing that any more will result in unsightly bloating to my already rounded belly. Then, when no one is looking, I will slip into the pool for as long as it takes for the others to turn away from me, at which time I will return to the safety of the deck chair, and my towel.
I fear, however, that this may not transpire.
Firstly, how does my friend know that we can enjoy exclusive use of the pool? She has instructed everyone to arrive at around 11.30am, at which time we will make our way to the pool/BBQ area and swim/eat/drink and listen to the Hottest 100. This sounds all very well and good but what is the plan if the rest of her unit complex have the exact same idea, but instead have instructed their respective friends to meet at the pool at 9am? I can tell you what it means - it means I will have to parade around in my bikini in front of strangers. It also means it is highly likely that I will miss out on the only cellulite disguise known to be foolproof - the deck chair.
Secondly, how are we to monopolise the BBQ area with our culinary treats if Barry, Robbo and Gaz and their collective throng of bogan mates are already grilling up a storm when we arrive? I can't have my vegie sausages tarnished by their meaty residue! And yes I know I can wrap the vegie sausages in Alfoil as I usually do, but that is beside the point.
I am already dreading getting my gear off in front of people I know, let alone the boozed-up unit dwellers who are likely to be lurking around the pool on what is forecast to be a sweltering day. I have made a mental list of all the preening my body requires before it can go on display - shaving, exfoliating, fake tanning and of course, waxing (which I will be too cheap to pay someone to do, so will instead use Veet cream which will undoubtedly give my sensitive skin ingrown hairs and a rash). To make matters worse, post-wedding I have already gained approximately 2 kilograms. This may not sound like a lot, but I can assure you that 2 kilograms is very noticeable due to its distribution being solely on my stomach. At least in the event of drowning, my fellow swimmers will have something to grab hold of as they are towed to safety.
You would think that being married would strip me of such insecurities, and to an extent it has. But lurking beneath the surface of every self-assured and bubbly woman, is a girl who seriously hopes you aren't staring at her thighs.
The lure of the pancake.
So 2010 was supposed to be the year that I pulled my finger out of my ass and actually dedicated myself to healthy eating and regular exercise.
This was my first mistake of 2010 - aiming too high.
Nevertheless, the idea had legs. For the majority of 2009 I had dutifully obeyed a (relatively) healthy diet, and at one point was exercising EVERY DAY. I became one of those people I used to hate - the lithe, athletic types who rise early on the weekend to run several kilometres before returning home to a bowl of porridge and half a grapefruit. I used to be one of those people who only encountered these exercising freaks pounding the pavement at 5am because I was on my way home after another weekend bender. But in a matter of months, my life had turned 180 degrees, and I was "engaged".
Getting engaged was a very healthy idea. With the looming wedding ever-present in my mind, it became near impossible to enjoy eating Nutella out of the jar as I once had, and after nearly destroying my relationship after one too many beers on the last day of 2008, I had sworn off drinking. Then the exercise followed. Before long I was running 5km a day, which increased to a 10km fun run ("fun run" - the cruelest oxymoron of all). But the best part was the complete shock I had when I discovered that I was actually athletic. I had never been sporty as a kid, and my highschool sports activities consisted of trying not to vomit on the hockey field after a night of underage drinking. Suddenly my body - that I had damaged with years of alcohol, smoking and the occasional illicit substance - was performing in ways I never thought possible.
And although my muscles ached, I had never felt so alive.
But then, the wedding came.
And it went.
And I no longer wanted to exercise AT ALL, let alone eat healthily.
So for the past two months, I have done nothing athletic. I have eaten whatever the hell I want to eat, and I have enjoyed it.
But today, even though I am still not ready to exercise yet, I thought I would at least eat healthily.
Instead, I ate pancakes.
I would never usually make pancakes, but it seems technology has conspired against me and created this little doozie which has made the prospect of obesity well within reach -
It is called Breville Pancake Creations, but you can call it God.
...open the lid...
This was my first mistake of 2010 - aiming too high.
Nevertheless, the idea had legs. For the majority of 2009 I had dutifully obeyed a (relatively) healthy diet, and at one point was exercising EVERY DAY. I became one of those people I used to hate - the lithe, athletic types who rise early on the weekend to run several kilometres before returning home to a bowl of porridge and half a grapefruit. I used to be one of those people who only encountered these exercising freaks pounding the pavement at 5am because I was on my way home after another weekend bender. But in a matter of months, my life had turned 180 degrees, and I was "engaged".
Getting engaged was a very healthy idea. With the looming wedding ever-present in my mind, it became near impossible to enjoy eating Nutella out of the jar as I once had, and after nearly destroying my relationship after one too many beers on the last day of 2008, I had sworn off drinking. Then the exercise followed. Before long I was running 5km a day, which increased to a 10km fun run ("fun run" - the cruelest oxymoron of all). But the best part was the complete shock I had when I discovered that I was actually athletic. I had never been sporty as a kid, and my highschool sports activities consisted of trying not to vomit on the hockey field after a night of underage drinking. Suddenly my body - that I had damaged with years of alcohol, smoking and the occasional illicit substance - was performing in ways I never thought possible.
And although my muscles ached, I had never felt so alive.
But then, the wedding came.
And it went.
And I no longer wanted to exercise AT ALL, let alone eat healthily.
So for the past two months, I have done nothing athletic. I have eaten whatever the hell I want to eat, and I have enjoyed it.
But today, even though I am still not ready to exercise yet, I thought I would at least eat healthily.
Instead, I ate pancakes.
I would never usually make pancakes, but it seems technology has conspired against me and created this little doozie which has made the prospect of obesity well within reach -
It is called Breville Pancake Creations, but you can call it God.
You put the pancake mix in the little wells...
...close the lid...
...flip it over...
...open the lid...
...and hey presto...
pancakes!
Suffice to say, the diet starts tomorrow.
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