solo in sydney

March 7, 2019, 1:28 am
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I fell head over heels in love with you, almost from day one. Everything about you, from your careless hair to your wary smile and your hesitant laughter.

Our first date was incredible. Hours spent together were comfortable, effortless.

But the decline started soon after. You wished we’d ended our date differently. Not together. The first flag.

You told me you liked me more and more every time you saw me, but you put a spike in the compliment by calling me a trap. It was a negative to like me, and my baggage.

I was a complication. And soon, you began to list the ways.

Our good times together were constantly marred by casual mentions of my faults. I have many to choose from.

But things got nasty. You started to compare me to your ex. You started to break down my online presence,  how I didn’t look like my photos anymore. How I was overweight and deluded.

You didn’t hold back, but I already loved you. I tried to see past the insults for the few compliments, and for a while it worked.

Until I wanted to see you too much. I wanted to be in your life when you didn’t want me.

Suddenly it was my behaviour that was too much. My behaviour that turned you off.

You never wanted me. I was a convenient distraction, nothing more than a complication.

I would never fit with your family. Never ease into your life.

I wanted to. I still do. But you don’t want it. You never did.

You say that staying friends is difficult, but you’re the one making it impossible.

I should move on.

I need to move on.

But I don’t want to.

I want you.


February 1, 2019, 7:44 pm
Filed under: dear diary

There’s a void under the surface, a cavern of nothingness.

The surface is shallow; empty smiles and hollow laughter. Vapid conversation and endless nothingness. It’s appropriate, it’s acceptable. It’s fake.

The abyss below stretches for an eternity, maybe more. One is not enough.

Calls from the deep go unanswered.




Nobody is out there. Nobody is listening. Nobody cares to hear.

May 1, 2018, 8:13 pm
Filed under: dear diary


I feel stuck.

Is anyone still out there?

February 7, 2015, 1:41 am
Filed under: dear diary

That’s as good as it gets.

I am okay. I have been much, much worse, but I am still not well. I have not felt great for a very long time.

I can barely recall what it feels like to feel ‘good’ but I have faith that the few remaining people I have supporting me will see me through.

Within the last year, I have lost people who I thought were structural pillars of my survival, and although moving forwards without them has been hugely painful and difficult – I am still standing.

I can do this. It’s not going to be pretty and I may even lose more friends along the way, but I have to hope that at the end, somehow, it will be worth it.

December 5, 2013, 2:26 am
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I’m feeling especially detached from life (and friends) recently.

Firstly, from J, who seems to be enjoying a huge resurgence in my consciousness courtesy of our few remaining Facebook friends.

Courtesy of mutual “friends” whom Facebook evidently deems of high importance, I feel as though I’ve recently been seeing a great deal more of J, his new girl and his new life. It feels sudden. It feels brutal.

Again, the pangs are ever more sharp; not necessarily because it’s J, but because it’s my old home, my old neighbourhood. Worse still, I’ve finally pieced together that those who I had considered friends have since moved into the same apartment complex as J and his new beau, and have subsequently cut ties with me for all intents and purposes. All, except Facebook, where I will constantly see various updates about the life I’m missing in the home I miss so desperately.

I can’t bring myself to cut ties with them outright. I know I should. I’ve hovered over the ‘Unfriend’ option for half hour intervals at a time, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. It’s a work in progress, however, because I know that seeing proof of J’s new (and improved?) life are of no benefit to me whatsoever.

At the same time, those in my life are making me feel quite secondary. It’s likely an entirely unintentional effort, but as someone who has been largely absent for a good portion of the last decade, I’m both understanding and disappointed by the fact that those I know I’ve been a good friend to in the past have felt abandoned by me and my illness over the last few years.


It’s not just about me. It’s about them, their events I couldn’t attend, their engagements and weddings I missed, and the lack of trust and faith in me that now reflects in the complete indifference to the celebration of my own deeply personal milestone.

It hurts.

It pains me to know that I’ve disappointed so many, and appeased so few.

There are a precious few still by my side, and for that I will be forever grateful. But part of me, a large part, admittedly, can’t help but wonder how many more there would be to share my big day with me if it hadn’t been for my illness and the resultant last-minute cancellations.


October 23, 2013, 1:08 pm
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In moments of extreme stress or anxiety, I often feel like I’m watching myself in the third person, narrating my own thoughts from a distance.

This generally occurs as I lay in bed, struggling to emerge and meet the day’s responsibilities. I can hear the internal battle raging. I’m not dispassionate to the discourse – the pain is still there, of the harsh words being spoken to me, about me – but I feel disconnected from the final decision. The decision to stay in bed, to cancel plans, to shirk responsibilities and let people down.

My narrator self knows how the day should go, how I truly want the day to go. How I want to get up and start rebuilding myself, my life, and the trust in me that my loved ones have long since abandoned. But any attempts to communicate this, even scream it, at the entity that’s making the decisions simply doesn’t pierce through the dense fog between us.

The internal battles go for hours and leave me utterly drained. If there is any relief in choosing to stay in bed, or in sending an email or text message to cancel plans, it is blindingly short-lived and promptly followed by hours of guilt-fuelled tossing and turning. Any sleep I manage is fitful and broken, but the energy to remove myself from bed and rectify the situation, even belatedly, is long gone, and even my narrator self has given up by then.

Defeated and despondent.

Another day gone.

Unfriended and Replaced
October 11, 2013, 1:37 am
Filed under: dear diary


In between what can only be described as weeping, he meekly asked if we could remain friends.

“Of course,” I said, and he pulled me closer and cried some more.

It wasn’t long before we weren’t friends anymore, at least in Facebook terms (which are admittedly tenuous at best).

I only realised I’d been unfriended when, courtesy of his unconventionally expressed name (in non-Roman alphabet characters) I attempted to navigate to his name via mutual friends and realised, with a shock, that he was listed as little more than someone with whom I had friends in common. It could have been anything from 6 months to a year later, but after so many years together, it felt raw.

I hovered over the Friend Request button for quite some time before clicking away and closing the window in a blur of unwelcome tears.

My intention of briefly shooting him a cordial message asking him if it was at all possible to ship one of my abandoned items soon resulted in an all-out Facebook stalking episode that would have intimidated most investigative reporters.

We had been friendly. We had wished each other the best. We had posted birthday greetings and even caught up just before Christmas, where both pleasantries and gifts were exchanged. We had recognised that we had once loved each other, but that time had passed. I thought we had truly managed the impossible feat of becoming “just friends”.

But suddenly, unexpectedly, our friendship was over. It didn’t take me long to find visual proof of precisely why that was – he had moved on.

I had been replaced.

She looked very much like I had in my earliest days with J. Same hair colour, same hair style, same eyes, same skin tone – we even shared some more unusual facial features.

I irrationally felt myself wondering if the hotly-contested wall clock had been replaced just as soon as I had been.

It wasn’t difficult to piece together, through our many continued mutual friends and their many shared photographs, that my “replacement” now lived with J, in the very home we had  shared together for many years.

I’m not sure if recognising my old home was quite as painful as realising how many changes had occurred since I’d left, even at a superficial level. Different prints on the wall, different furniture, different layouts. I wondered if my name was still on the lease.

For a long time, it hurt desperately. I felt that after so many years together, after being the first person he’d ever loved, I had been replaced so easily, so seamlessly. His life went on, whilst mine felt like it had been ripped out from under me.

Even now, years later, it still stings. But looking through old photos of us together, and thinking about our old life, I’ve slowly come to realise that no matter how much I loved him at the time, that time has also passed.

We are both in better places for knowing that we now seek love, support and acceptance from those who can give it to us without hesitation, without caveats.

And yet, it still hurts.