The hypocrisy of some girls I know is outstanding.
I'm going to risk losing the last few friends I have in London by telling you how my life has been.
The last twelve months haven't been without incident.
*Disclaimer Attached Below*
After a year in London and the attached memories and friendships, I've faced an uphill battle to try and find my feet back home, in Australia.
I'm going to tell you how hard that was for me, not because I want to be mean to others or extract sympathy from my readers here; simply because this is my fucking journal.
I've been reluctant to really let it out for I know that my blog is read by several people who would rather be dead than reveal they still actually find me fascinating.
So, to satisfy them (a huge mistake) I've been laying low. Little posts, no details.
I didn't want THEM to know how much they hurt me. How much they still hurt me.
I can't be sure that the people I'm going to write about haven't read this blog for ages
and won't be reading in the future. After all, I'm dead to them. So why would they?
Here's the skinny y'all :-
I figured that if they don't read along and I post - I win.
If I do post about them and shit hits the fan then I know they are reading - I win.
Because at the end of the day, I'm very fucking tired of being the nice girl.
I'm done with the bullshit and thereisno more line in the sand.
It's my journal and my friends who read it right?
In fact, I'd prefer those that do read this to leave your name in the comments.
I'm curious just how much my readership has declined. I'm going to build it back.
So, I suspect that I am posting to the friends that I respect (you know who you are) then the next three posts are for you. They are a vivid and raw return to form that is Heroine/girl.
I cannot be silenced any longer.
I'm one to be judged for the life I've led, the things I've done.
The word "Addict" seems to be as hard to remove as the track marks it made.
It would be wishful thinking to have my bi-polar status so widely known.
In spite of all the labels I'm given (some I know, some I don't) I've never claimed to be perfect.
I've always tried to be a better person with every passing day. I can say that with no nagging voice telling me that I'm stretching the truth here. I'm always growing, learning and even in my darkest moments, I'm convinced that I always retain a higher conciousness of myself more than the majority of people I know. I'd love for this to be different. I'm hurt at losing friends but also reassured by the fact that their exit has made room for friends who understand and appreciate me for the uniqueness that I am. I'm sure people, even girls, are like me. I read their blogs and I know that they do exist. Cool, independent and wildly original people. Please find me.
Perhaps there was a time this year that I started to buy the message they were selling.
Maybe for all the reflection in the world, I am just a shiteous friend to have.
Despite not having a single issue with my male friends this year, I have been dumped by no less than five female friends. True, they are all connected by one person and that person never really dared the others into actually talking through the issues.
I debated whether I was loopy but the fact that I'm alive and alert enough to write about it all, is good enough proof of some high brain function.
Reflection takes balls. Honesty takes guts. Both of them, takes everything you have.
Let's begin, shall we?
I'm my own worst enemy. Fact.
I've been noticing over the passing year that even though I still get myself into considerably more binds than the "normal" person, the effort to recapture it all and share with people (not just speaking about the blog here) has waned. It's long and complicated.
Most things are. But eventually, I'm honest to fault.
Even if I am the one to be open or if pressed, I've revealed.
Denial is not a morning tablet I wash down with a glass of self-righteous piss from your pocket.
The bitter sweet reality of my broken childhood is that I tend to rely on my friends, the real ones ,to replace my family, in the heart. Perhaps this is a major mistake?
Because, as I have recently learnt, that this "friend" love is not unconditional even if you're willing to be. You can't make people like you, even if you think you've actually done nothing that warrants a total "dumping". I really thought it was cruel in Primary School and I haven't seen evidence that it's a normal and socially acceptable way to dissolve conflict. Anyways.
I have learnt this ; You have to be agreeable, socially acceptable and hold the same values or beliefs or you get dumped. This is not always possible if your a 'girl like me".
When I'm not being a drug dependent harlot, I am a sensitive person and I seem to take this a lot harder than my so called friends - now ex friends of course. I wish I could toss off their friendships with a dissmissive hand and call them all cunts. I really do wish that.
But, I'm an empath that feels things intensely and figure the hurt must be stopped so in order to prevent this happening again, I need to understand what happened.
I know that you don't keep all your friends forever. I'm not thirteen.
I gave up on the notion of a best friend when mine actually thought I was out to steal her life.
The real pain comes from having a large group of friends damaged because a disgruntled few seem to still resort to highschool antics of spreading opinions not facts and directly or indirectly involving the few friends that have decided to take me as I am. IN other words, me getting dumped is the hotness right now and it's gone viral.
I have my partner and my male friends that have decided that in spite of being an escort (now in the past) , they figure that this doesn't change who I am and the standard of friendship I can still deliver. Keep in mind that they know everything just like my female friends did.
Yes, I've confided in all of my shortcomings, when denial and lies would have been less painful. I feel cheated that I clung to old friendship values such as trust, honesty and loyality even in the dying gasps of my pleas to remain friends. Yes, I actually lowered myself to agreeing that yes, I am a bad person if I thought that selling my body was anything less than dirty and very hurtful to the people that cared for me.
Even as I said the words, I could tell in her facial expressions eyes that it wouldn't be enough. It just pleased her to hear me hate myself in order to plead for her friendship. But I am getting ahead of myself, and I want you to have the full story. I haven't even organised it my own brain yet.
It was a unusually cold morning when I clicked upon their facebook email message.
Even though we'd been playing email ping pong - no actually more like me sending seven or so messages over the space of a few weeks and getting no answer - I wasn't entirely prepared to be Dumped. My eyes skipped over the words like an irregular heartbeat, some of it was not even registering while other sentences boomed with serious intent "that they had high standards of friendship and neither them or myself could satisfy this anymore. They said that things would be civil (not really behind my back though) and I should basically "retreat gracefully".
It was expected that I would chalk this one up to me being a pathetic person and move on.
Um. Excuse me, I'm not buying it.
Of course, this was the dramatic conclusion to a dramatic year.
Regular readers will recall that I was living in London for a full year before I came home in January 2007.
I should add that my english boyfriend was going to Australia for a three week holiday regardless of whether I joined him. I figured if we were ever going to consider being engaged then I would need to show him my home and meet my family. It seemed like it was already predestined, as he booked his tickets way before we met. I'm a proud Australian and the trip home didn't let me down.
I'm pretty sure he had a great time and enjoyed his holiday regardless of what transpired when he returned to London. Whilst we were here, I really put all my efforts into revealing what a beautiful, rugged and plentiful country Australia is. Even though we had discussed that we would most likely reside in London, I would no doubt wish to return to Australia yearly to catch up with my sister and a few close friends. It's sad to think back to this now and realise that I have nothing to go back to London for. I loved London and I was almost convinced that I could marry even if I wasn't completely convinced about my english boyfriend. You will be pleased to know that I didn't do such a thing, I'm a hopeless romantic and the notion of marrying to stay in a country, even one as special as London, didn't set my heart racing in the manner it should have.
However, people back in London still needed answers and I understand now that my decision or lack of it, effected people. I have apologised no less than thirteen times and have made amends with the people most affected ; my boyfriend at the time Duncan (who has been eternally gracious and now seems to genuinely wish me well) and the Landlord that I owed $500 to for a month's outstanding rent. The biggest mistake I made was leaving the UK with my rent owing. I had secret plans to work as an escort and easily pay the pounds back, even taking the abominal exchange rate into consideration. I even revealed this to my english boyfriend as I didn't want to keep anything from him. Once again, my honesty is painful.
It was actually Dave that convinced me that I couldn't keep running around the world trying to recapture my childhood sense of adventure. The utterly frustrating thing is that I didn't love Dave either; I simply felt indebted to his care and health just as he felt about mine. From the moment he lost conciousness on the beach, less than 20 mins after meeting, I had a very strange feeling that a chain of events were unfurling and I needed to go with it. In that way, I guess I am hard to be friends with, some may think this makes me unpredictable and insensitive but I try to weaken this by giving myself entirely to whoever would need it, it just was Dave's time for my assistance. I knew it and my word would mean nothing if I left Dave in the lurch.
My english boyfriend couldn't wait for my indecision anymore. It was painfully obvious that by not being able to make a decision, I'd in fact betrayed my own silence. Should I have felt that my home was London and my english boyfriend was my love of my life then I'd already be curled up in his bedsit, not sadly reading his break-up email at three o clock in the morning in Brisbane.
Anyway, I offered to postpone my return to London by a few months so I would be there for Dave and his surgery. In the early days of his diagnosis, I like most people, feared the complications of open heart surgery and the idea of not being in the country if he was about to die was a very real fear to me. I'd lost Justin just a fews back and it still makes my cry
To top it all off, my nana decided it was time for her liver to fail her and my Father (who never shows an ounce of emotion unless it's of the happy drunk variety) rushed to be by her side. The Stepmother seemed more interested in what Nana could leave behind rather than focussing on how we could help her remain alive. Note; My Father is an only child, which makes my Nana my only other blood relative. (My mother shot through when I was six and a half)
So between assuring Dave that he would make it through not only the open heart surgery but the tedious recovery process and keeping my Father sober enough to be of assistance to his Mother ...I could say that I had no fight left in me when I recieved the breakup email (never a nice thing to be told on email is it?) and then the cold shoulder from all of my London friends.
The choice to stay in Australia seemed to be running away with itself and has caused me many tears and feelings of frustration ever since. After a year of being free of any opiates, I sought refuge the only way I knew how. Heroin. Lot's of it. Crash and burn variety.
To be honest, I was floored by the voracity of my rekindled addiction, I figured a year off the shit with no inclination to use in London would give me enough control not to slip into a full on habit. I was niave to think that.
Even though Heroin had caused me so much pain, loss and complete devastation of spirit I was lured back into it's soothing embrace in no time. The Dealers cackled to themselves, as I started to visit more often. First it was a shot and a catch up on my travels and soon enough a month vanished before my eyes. I was hooked again, of course. But with Dave's surgery date finally set, I had no choice but to continue to escort to pay for the dope that kept me from being voilently ill and useless to everyone. It was about one week before surgery when I had an abortion - father unknown.
*I recently heard that my english boyfriend thought the child was his - sorry love, do the math honey as I fell pregant two months AFTER you left the country. Your dick ain'tthatbig xx
The denial of what was happening was essential to me then, but hindsight has 20/20 vision.
One minute I was catching the Tube with all my gorgeous friends to picnic in Central park London and then in another moment (reality) I was vomiting blood in my dealer's toilet.
London seemed so very far away now. Perhaps the addiction really got it's hold on me because it was the thing I feared most. A fear that was so blood-curdling frightening that just to hold the concept of it in my brain would be enough to fuel just one more shot to forget it. Rinse and repeat. Another two months sped by in a chemical whirlpool, boiled and sucked up into a syringe and injected into my souless hell bent body. I was using more than I ever had before.
My habit knew no bounds and I was spending a thousand dollars a day. Something had to snap.
I wasn't healthy at all when Dave went into surgery or for the week after in hospital.
An angel by ways of a concerned client loant me three thousand dollars to get a unit but instead I stayed at the hospital and kept well by spending the money on dope. I lasted as long as the money did. I ended up telling the guy who loaned me the money the whole sordid truth.
That brought us closer together and it was a suprising start to my favorite love story.
Spurred on by finding such a warm, compassionate soul that actually said more with his actions than anyone else had ever done in my life, I decided that I would put an end to my habit.
I'd pretty much sworn off men at that stage and this beautiful man had pulled me back from the edge of despair, at the end of the road to nowhere.
Even though Dave was out of hospital, he was very weak and needed me to fix meals and things. I tried my best, but I was weak from my own sickness and every bone throbbed with intense pain. Even the bones in my face hurtI felt overwhelmed by my sickness and was forced to also confide in Dave the terrible truth.
Heroin had forced me to put it before everything whilst also ruling every waking thought. I longed to be free and was moved to tears when Dave pardoned me from Nursing him ONLY if I promised that I'd stop using immediately. Faced with the prospect of losing my one true friend and all sense of dignity, I considered my options. I saw several doctors and investigated the options. I've never been able to do "Cold Turkey" due to my bi-polar tendencies which make rapid detox a very real risk to my life and to those around me. Based on past success, I opted for Methodone Maintenence Therapy. My habit was so big that I still had two weeks of withdrawal symptoms that were the harshest I've ever seen or experienced. I vomited so much that I needed an IV drip to get fluids back into my body. I couldn't eat for a week. I cried so many tears that my eyes closed shut and at times I wanted to use so bad, but I didn't.
In fact, it was one month (the longest transition in my clinic's history) before I stabilised.
My dose for Methodone is one of the largest in Australia because my receptors are now totally wired to a life time of opiate dependancy. The counsellor informed me that I could never use Heroin again and if I did, I would immediately be hooked and methodone wouldn't cut it.
Once again, dave reminded me just why I'd stayed in Australia in the first place. We knew each other so well and having the other person around was the only thing that really helped us heal.
I was thankful that Dave was housebound. He would speak loudly from his bedroom to mine, a sane voice that could be heard over my rambling, incessive addict voice that constantly played over in my head. It was almost a month before we finally came to a grinding, shuddering halt.
We got better. That was a while ago now and I will never use again. This time, I mean it.
Just as the year was coming to a close, I finally had a chance to clear the air, face to face with one of my closest flatmates in London. I heard on the grapevine that she was in Australia for Xmas. I nervously boarded the Greyhound bus, destination Toowoomba and busied myself with wrapping the presents I'd carefully bought them, even though I wasn't entirely sure they wouldn't end up in the bin.
I wanted some kind of gesture to express how much I really did regret my debt and relapse into drugs, they knew about it all because I told them. I wanted them to know that I wasn't just sitting back sipping on cocktails, lying on a bed of hundred dollar bills. I know that email must've been shocking, it was the complete truth. I didn't get one reply. Not one.
But it was talked about - everyone knew and was so sad. Angry and sad.
How could I do this to them they wondered? After they "gave me such happiness and hope".
In spite of their silence towards me, the gossip wheel began to crank to life when I confirmed the relapse via a very personal, very private email that was only sent to the people who were affected by my debt. No one phoned, and overtime I was only mentioned when were high on coke, I'd become a sad story.
Even though I let them know that I was trying as hard as I could now to get better.
I tried to end the email with a hope of happiness. Not only for me, but for them as well.
The bus pulled into the small dusty bus bay of Greyhound Toowoomba. My heart throbbed in my throat, my tounge almost dry as cardboard. Collecting up my brightly wrapped gifts and handwritten cards with all my dear intentions and dreams, I stepped off the bus and into the fading afternoon sun.
To be Continued.