… Perusal of Diaries

I’ve been going back through my diaries, starting age 11. Weeping for that poor child who was already lost, and angry, and under pressure to lose weight, and confused about cultural identity, and socially awkward.  

To that child, I want to say:

Relax. 

None of these fellow students’ opinions mean anything, and you’ll never see them again anyway. 

You’ll learn down the road that your understanding of what it is to “be Australian” is flawed: you either are or you aren’t, and nobody else’s definition has to apply. 

You’ll be ecstatic when you learn of the worldwide TCK networks: these are your people. 

Please: be happy in the moment. Stop analysing. Stop wailing about the inherent unfairness of life and learn how to work with it. 

Learn to eat within reason. Tell someone how unhappy you are. You’re screaming at innocent parties when you could be using that energy to fight for your future. 

Learn how to deal with unrequited “love”, so that when you’re 35 you’re not still trailing after uninterested males trying to get their attention. 

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So tired

I’m tired of being tired.
I’m sick of being sick.
All but my inner circle
Seem to think I’m thick.

I’m tired of futile input.
I’m sick of doctors, all.
Even the inner circle
Seem to think I’m weak.

I’m tired of watching life
go by, of sickness being all.
Who are we, really, when
Hope has left the ball?

I’m tired of being tired;
Sick of being sick.
I thought I used to be someone,
But even I now know I’m not.

Tired.
Sick.
Existential agonies.
Futility.
Resignation.

I’m done.