Better Than This

Australia, here’s a story for you.

One of my best friends in Canada is Kate, a fellow Vancouver-dwelling Perthian. She sent me a message today, upset, asking how we were supposed to do our postal vote for the upcoming plebiscite.

Non-Australians reading, here’s an update:

For over a decade now, our federal government (let me be clear: both major parties) has been pussyfooting around the issue of legalising gay marriage. Though for at least a decade the polls show most Australians want gay marriage to be legalised, party politics and the absurd political standoff in our nation has prevented either of the major parties from actually doing their job (making a damned decision and governing their people in a manner reflecting the will of said people). The incumbent federal parasites politicians have gone one step further. They, poor poppets, aren’t allowing a free vote in their party on the matter. The opposition have (finally) taken the stance of wanting to legalise gay marriage. It’s entirely probable that quite a few members of the shackled party want to vote for gay marriage to be legalised. Not to worry folks, the Turnbull administration aren’t going to let this happen without a good fight. In honour of last weeks Pride celebrations, no doubt, they have organized a non-binding, not compulsory plebiscite. This means every Aussie battler can use a frankly outdated and unreliable (I’m looking at you, Australia Post) method of communication to tell the pollies whether they think consenting adults should be allowed to officially declare their love for each other in an equal manner to other consenting adults.

Phew, big decisions!

Here’s the kicker: legally, we don’t need a plebiscite. Plebiscites are used to change the Constitution. There is nothing in the Australian Constitution preventing us from legalising gay marriage. This is just going to give everyone with a soapbox (me included – duh!) the chance to tell all the other people what they think about the issue. This includes people who think being gay is evil or wrong (again, “consenting adults” people!) telling LGBT+ people, an already beleaguered group, that they are evil and wrong. This includes telling LGBT+ youth, who have a much higher suicide rate than heterosexual youth, that they are less than worthy. Oh, and did I mention the government just announce people have only two weeks to register to vote?

After the protracted postal voting period (the final results being determined in mid-November), the government will decide whether or not to decide on a matter they could decide on this week. This will be an extended verbal, possibly literal, gay bashing. Oh yeah, current estimates for this little social experiment are sitting at around $95 million AUD. Frankly, there’s nothing else I can think of to spend that on. 

Sounds great, right.

If you’re angry reading this, good! You should be. This is ludicrous. Australia is behind Ireland, a Catholic country, in legalising gay marriage (disclaimer: I love the Irish, but I’m not 100% sold on some of Catholicism’s wibbly bits).

For. Fuck’s. Sake (second disclaimer: language warning – oops).

Back to the anger:

Use your anger. Get up and prove that Australians aren’t the internationally reknown arsehats we are rapidly becoming known as. *cough refugees cough*. We are good people, not backwards, bigoted, boneheaded bastards. We a small country, with boundless plains to share (though we don’t know the second verse of our national anthem), if we could start sharing them with goodness and love, imagine how wonderful life in Aus could be? As the wonderful Sir Terry Pritchett once wrote, “don’t get afraid, get angry.” Don’t let apathy win.

Handy Tips for the Rebellion:

Inform yourself: learn as much as you can about the issues around gay marriage. Visit the below website for a good start on your research mission.

Click to access AME-Fact-Sheet-Free-Vote-versus-Plebiscite.pdf

Inform others: once you are up to date on the issue, you can positively influence those who can’t see the matter for what it is – two consent adults wanting to get married and love each other. People have all sorts of reasons for embodying the fear they have, and treating them with a level of understanding is critical to them being able to understand you too. Be kind. For ideas on how to manage this without blowing a fuse, watch the TED Talk below.

Support others: if you have a bit of spare cash rattling around in your pocket, make a donation to an LGBT+ youth support group. These are the people who are going to really need the love and care at this time. One suggestion of a place to donate to in in the link below.

https://minus18.org.au/index.php/donate

Support others who you know: give love and care to the LGBT+ people in your life. Figures are iffy given research methods, but it looks like at least 5% of people identify as LGBT+. Basically, you know LGBT+ people whether you realise or not. Find these people and, without being an idiot about it, ask them what you can do to offer support.

Write to your local member of parliament: show the government you know how to use the postal service, and send a letter. Write an email. Send a carrier pigeon. Do something to express your displeasure (except sending a bag of dog poo, which is generally poorly received). Oh, and tell your friends to jump on this too. 

If you are in distress about this or anything else, please don’t be alone. If nothing else, call Lifeline: 13 11 14.

This is about all I can think of in my rage addled state, but please do something. Don’t sit back and let people be cruel. Don’t let this be one of the things that defines our nation. We are better than this. 

Author note: I’m pretty heterosexual. I do love and care for a large number of people who do not identify as straight. I have written this article to show my support, but if I have written anything you as an LGBT+ person take issue with, please let me know in the comments.

The Reality of Our Not-So-Perfect Lives

Last night, I ate a packet of New York Style Cheese flavoured chips for dinner. I’m not talking a little snack pack; I’m talking the family size, share with friends kind of packet. I ate it in less than half an hour.

While some of you may read this and applaud my ability to inhale deep-fried potato (and I acknowledge your applause with a sweeping bow), others will wonder what happened to my preachy attitude to nutrition. Rightly so, oh dubious reader. I extol the virtues of health and well being, yet cheat myself in a massive, gut-wobbling, stomach-churning, toilet-clenching kind of a way.

By the by, was that too much hyphenation, or did you get distracted by the toilet comment?

This morning, I woke up and made myself a smoothie. It was a mix of blended spinach, strawberries, banana, hemp hearts, organic peanut butter and water. It was delicious (begone, doubters!), and I realised as I drank it, I enjoyed it more than the chips. I loved the chips, but hated how gross I felt afterwards. I hated feeling dodgy eating them secretively in the car as I waited for the pharmacist to fill my script. I really hated the realisation I’d have to go into the pharmacy with a chip-dust-covered right hand. I really, really hated (should I just move to “detested” now?) the fact that I licked my hand to clean it before I went inside. While this is all proof that I’m a glamazon for the ages and will go down in the style annals of history, it also shows that I’m human.

“To err is human” is an accepted truth (thank you Alexander Pope), but I’m not alone in feeling the pressure to transcend this mode of error to one of perfection. If you look at Facebook or Instagram, you’ll see people presenting what look like perfect lives. A number of people have suggested being on social media is detrimental for people with depression. The slue of perfect people on perfect holidays with perfect partners and perfect babies eating perfect food with their perfect bodies is enough to make a perfectly normal person want to stab their eyes out with a fork some days.

Obviously this is not reality. Reality is we all suck at something. Sure, some people may have a perfect looking life, but everyone has their imperfections. The Instagram model with the perfect butt probably took that photo 50 times before they were happy with the way they looked, and still may hate her body. The person going on the fabulous holiday may be stuck behind their camera the entire time and not appreciating their surroundings, or may miss their family like crazy. The people in the Facebook-perfect relationship may be posting about how much they love each other to prove to themselves that they are actually still in love. Maybe all these people really do have perfect bodies, relationships and love lives (and if they do, I’m glad for them), but they aren’t a Stepford wife. They may not be able to parallel park a car, possibly can’t sing for shit, maybe can’t walk a tightrope (but, honestly, who doesn’t know how to do that?). The point is, emphatically, nobody’s perfect.

I ate that packet of chips, but I’m eating well otherwise. In the great scheme of things, that was not my worst offence. I will keep eating well from this point forward, but I will not hate myself if I occasionally swan dive into a milkshake. I’ll exercise as much as I can, but allow for the fact that I’m not an actress being paid to workout, and I will probably have life happen enough to interrupt my regular training schedule. I will wake up fifteen minutes before I need to leave for work, I will leave dirty knickers on my floor for three days, I will send an email without attachments, and I will cry myself to sleep some nights for no “good” reason. After doing all this though, I hope I will pick up and keep striving for things above this.

“To forgive, divine” is how the quote finishes. Maybe instead of aiming for divinity in making ourselves the incarnation of popular ideas of perfection, we need to achieve the greater divinity of forgiving ourselves.

Not-Quite-Narnia

My bedroom looks like a dump.

This isn’t exclusively due to me being lazy (although, to be honest, that’s become a contributing factor). It’s mainly because for nearly a month, plumbers have been working on the bathroom pipes, using my wardrobe as an access point. I suppose I should be at least a little excited that I have a wardrobe leading to another world. This Narnia-esque touch is not enough to override my horrible mess of a bedroom, and the effect it seems to be having on my psyche.

Due to the work, my wardrobe’s contents and the stuff I keep on that side on my room is now on or around my bed. It’s times like this I’m glad I’m single, because sleeping by myself is hard enough at the moment. I could have the things better organised, but the mess is something I’ve not been able to bring myself to deal with. The older I get, the more of a problem I seem to have with clutter in my space. It has a very negative effect on me, and distracts me from all the things I know are a priority for me to deal with. I’ve felt it becoming a negative cycle, catching myself thinking things like “well, there’s no point putting that away, cause it’s just a mess anyway”, or “I won’t deal with these letters until my desk is clean again”.

Needless to say, there has been a period of supreme inactivity and procrastination at Chez Nikita.

The really sad part of this (well, the sad part to me) is before the plumbers came, I had just gotten my space organised to a point where it was very functional and pleasing to me. I’m now looking forward to having the time to put everything back together, but part of me feels that it will be an insurmountable obstacle when I actually get to it. I suppose I’ll start with putting everything back in the wardrobe.

I know this probably seems like a trivial thing to be worried about, but this messy period in my house has coincided with a nasty bout of slump in my personal progress. I’ve been sick, had really mentally low points, seen a decrease in progress physically, and not been achieving (or even working on) the goals I’ve set myself. I’m feeling so goddamn frustrated, and I’m looking for something to point to as the reason.

I blame my wardrobe.

 

Happy

This is a picture of me when I was feeling happy.

I was looking for pictures of my family to print out and pin up on my wall at work, and I found this. It’s mid-December 2013, and I’m on my first ever solo trip (and my second time out of Australia). I’d left a toxic job in November, and decided to take off and travel for a month over Christmas and New Year. I’d only left the country once before; I went to Singapore in May that year with my concert band (band camp was fabulous, and before you ask, I play clarinet). I decided to go to Europe. I’d always wanted to go to Germany, so that was where I started.

This is a picture of me standing in the palace gardens in the Old Town (Aldstadt) of Dachau. Dachau is a beautiful part of Bavaria, just outside of Munich. Behind me in the photo, you can see the greater Munich area. I went to Dachau to see the concentration camp there. The camp at Dachau was one of the original camps, and a lot of the larger camps were modelled on it. While it wasn’t built as an extermination camp, a lot of people lost their lives there. It was a truly grounding experience, and left me feeling more than I can write here.

After an experience like that, I didn’t expect to be so happy. Perhaps it was because I witnessed the remnants of one of the greatest horrors committed by our species, I was able to appreciate what I had. I remember feeling true peace and joy as I walked through Aldstadt. From the gardens of the palace, I felt like everything stretching out in front of me was full of possibility.

I think this was the only holiday I’ve been on where I wasn’t worried about money. I mean, I had no income, so I was going home to nothing, but worst case scenario I could move in with family until I got on my feet. I had no debt, I was where I wanted to be, and this was how I wanted to feel.

Recently, I’ve been getting into personal finance management in a big way. I’m watching online lectures, budgeting like mad, and annihilating my debts. I’ve committed to getting home to Australia for Christmas, and I want to do that totally debt free. I want to be able to go somewhere and fully enjoy the experience. I never want to have to “worry” about money again after this year. I want to lie on a beach, and only worry about whether I’m getting sunburnt. I want to be with my family on Christmas day, and only worry about whether the presents I bought survived the trip from Canada. I want to see my friends, and not worry about having smashed avo on toast.

I want joy to be my base level of operation from now on.

Poetry Slam

I went to a poetry slam. As I left, I was overcome by a wave of pseudo-intellectualism, and wrote this.

 

I push my skirt between my knees
And clamber onto the bench
To listen to poetry.

I hear raw words,
Uneven beats.
Sometimes it rhymes and climbs in intensity
And moves my soul.

Now I am a poet.

I speak fine words,
I leak emotion, express pain, show stoicism.
I talk of merit and hypocrisy,
Knowing full well I am a hypocrite.

I am not one of them.
In those moments I want to be,
But I am too mainstream,
My skirt to clean, my suffering too beige.
I judge myself before others,
Because then they can’t hurt me.

I am not one of them.
I am not a poet, but this is not a pipe.

I laugh at their clicks,
But I love their courage.

I am not a poet,
Though my soul is screaming.
I have so much to give,
And though it bursts out in muddled metre,
I am not a poet.

This is not a pipe.

A Haiku or Two (or Three)

Today is to be a day of poetry. This morning, I decided to go to a poetry slam with a friend. Jokingly I said to him “I’m probably going to see how much I can talk in haiku today, just to mess with people”. I didn’t realise how foretelling this would be.

At the start of the production season, the office sent out a draft list of contacts for everyone working on the show. I needed to email someone this morning, so I looked up his email address, wrote a perfunctory message, and sent it away into the ether. A little later I received this message in reply:

“A haiku trio for the Lucky Mistypist:

these I often get
messages, requests and such
of these, i know not

one Mister Bob Smith
is not all Mister Bob Smiths
beg to please try again

in your contact list
please amend all reference
strike misterbobsmith

Good luck on your programs,
Mr Smith”

Just to be clear, his name was not Bob Smith, but as he did not ask me to write a blog post about him, I didn’t think it kind to splash his real name about. His surname is Smith, so I shall refer to him as Mr Smith from this point forward.

I have never been so delighted to have sent an email to the wrong address. I, of course, replied as thus:

“Dear Bob,

The fault is all mine,
Misguided, I wandered lost
In email quagmires.

A new season’s work
Gives false information lists
Of worker contacts.

You’re unique response
Piqued my interests nicely.
I reply in kind.

All the best,

Nikita”

I have still not heard back from the delightful mystery poet. I hope I do.

This incident does leave me wondering if the best poetry of the day is already behind me.

Songs From The Old Country

Living in a different country than the one you grew up in has it’s challenges, but one that didn’t truly occur to me until I’d been in Canada for a while was the lack of Australian music. Yes, I know, it’s Canada! They have their own music (hat tip to The Tragically Hip and The Barenaked Ladies). I knew this, and I was expecting this. Still, when you listen to the radio as you’re driving and they have the nerve to play a version of Love Is In The Air not performed by John Paul Young, I challenge you not to feel a deep fury and nearly breaking the radio as you stab the button with your finger to change the station.

There was a point sometime last year where the nostalgia hit, and I spent the better part of a day saving random Australian songs to my Spotify account. This was everything from Cat Empire and John Butler Trio, to Paul Kelly and Cold Chisel. I remember that day I just lay on the couch and let the sadness and homesickness wash over me. For those who aren’t regular readers, I was more than a little depressed for the last year and a bit. Getting sad and listening to music from home in a lounge room pity puddle was basically a good day back then. One of the things it’s easy to forget when you’re depressed out of your mind is how fantastic music is. Now that my brain is grooving to a better beat, I can tune into that part of my life again and get joy out of the best kind of soul food available.

This morning when I got to work, I checked my messages as I sipped my first coffee of the day (another small joy). My bloody good mate, Kate, had sent me a message. Kate and I are both from Perth, and were friends back home. We decided to move to Vancouver at roughly the same time, having no idea that each other was doing the same thing. You can probably imagine there was a lot a squealing and hugging when we realised there would be a familiar face around when we uprooted our lives. I got here a month or two before her, and she has become one of my best friends during our time here.

Anyway, this morning I got  message from Kate. She said she’d played some Aussie Crawl at the cafe where she worked. Inspired, I fired up Spotify, plugged in my headphones, and put on Mental As Anything’s song Live It Up. Sitting at my desk looking at my emails, I was dancing in my chair (I may or may not have made up a dance routine to this song while driving my car in Australia years ago). Instantly I was transported to the time my ex-boyfriend and I went to a food festival in Tasmania, not knowing The Mentals were the headline act. Just to be clear, my ex is Canadian, and had no idea who they were. I squealed a lot and started busting out my stupid dance moves, and the way he looked at me as I danced made me think for the first time that he might fall in love with me one day. There was no pain attached to this memory any more, and I was just able to be grateful for that experience.

Maybe the power of my Australiana binge had summoning powers. After less than half an hour, for no reason at all, the only other Australian in the production office walked into my office to talk to me. I’m embracing the woo woo, so I’m choosing to believe it was the power of my merry Aussie bopping (I think when he walked in, I had just hit a Vance Joy song).

There is something transporting about the music of you homeland. There’s a certain feel that’s different. Every song has a personal connotation, every artist the ability to conjure home to your heart. I live overseas, I want to travel the world, but I love Australia and I always will. Something about the landscape, the beach and the smell of eucalypts will never leave me. Aussie music is my teleportation device.

As I’m writing this, The Nips Are Getting Bigger by the Mentals has come on my music shuffle. Good timing, guys!

Not-So-Gentle Reminder

Here’s a short, but hardly sweet, quick riff for you all.

I was driving to work today when, like every day, I pulled up behind another car at an intersection. I was staring off into the middle distance in front of me, when I realised something was not right. I focused in on the car ahead of me, and saw the man in the passenger seat was beating up on the woman in the driver seat. He was shouting at her, shoving her, yanking her down towards the hand brake by her hair, and I’m pretty sure he hit her.

My first reaction was freezing. This delicious society we live in speaks of defending those in need, but quite often our action or lack there of is driven by an inclination to mind our own business. This didn’t last long, as I became the physical incarnation of “fuck this!” I put on the hazards, slammed the car into park, struggled with my seatbelt, then ran over to the car. I believe I was shouting something witty like “hey!”

The woman in the car in front of theirs clearly had the same idea as me, because we met each other at the driver’s side window. She shouted at the man to get off the woman, where I shouted at the woman trying to find out if she wanted our help. The woman in the car made apologetic motions at us, indicating she was fine. The woman from the front car started walking back to her car, but I lingered. The fight started again. I opened the driver’s door and interrupted, asking again if she wanted help. She said sorry, and that it was okay. Reluctantly, I walked back to my car.

I ended up driving down the same patch of highway as them for a few minutes. He kept at her, as they were driving, and the car swerved a few times. I memorised the number plate and model, and called the police as soon as I got to work.

When the call operator asked for the plate number, I had a mental blank. I hadn’t taken a photo or called while driving, because I didn’t want to break the law and use my phone. Turns out, that’s totally okay. Here’s the aside moral of the story: if you see some horrible shit going down while you’re driving, the police in Vancouver will let you use your phone to record and report it. Another aside moral is don’t impair the driving ability of the person operating the vehicle you are currently travelling in.

Here’s the actual moral of the story: work to create a society where violence against women is no longer the endemic problem it currently is. Challenge sexist language and behaviour when you see it. Men, please call out other men when they casually talk women down to be things instead of people. If you see something going on that you don’t think is right, call it out (either directly or, if it feels unsafe, by calling the police). Raise your children without the toxic gender-normative throwback ideas (“when a boy pushes you, it means he likes you!”). Got a spare couple of bucks? Make a donation to a women’s help or education organisation. For Vancouver locals, please see the below link for Rape Relief, a fantastic women’s refuge and social education non-profit.

Please just don’t mind your own business any more.

Donate to Vancouver Rape Relief and Women’s Shelter: https://www.rapereliefshelter.bc.ca/help/donate/donate

Let the Husbands Live

Good news everybody! My brain is starting to behave itself.

*applause ensues*

Whether it’s a combination of my dietary health, new spiritually embracive mindset or my small doses of anti-depressants, in the last month I’ve begun to feel like a human again. It’s truly strange (and wonderful) to feel joy again after I haven’t really felt it for the better part of a year.

Today I sat in the sunshine and enjoyed the company of a friend. I drove over a bridge this morning, watched Stanley Park rise in front of me, and actually appreciated how beautiful it is. I got my nails painted, and it was frivolous and silly. I also joined a gym, and was thrilled.

Here’s step number two: the brain is starting to behave, so I am reigning in my self worth and getting the body there too. My main incentive is to fix my health. It’s like Reese Whitherspoon’s character says in Legally Blonde:

“Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t shoot their husbands. They just don’t!”

Wise words indeed. I mean, I don’t have a husband, and I’m not the biggest fan of pink, but the principle translates well.

I’ve previously tried to get fit, but the perpetual cycle of poor belief in myself, classic laziness and the after effects of the fat kid mentality have culminated in what I can currently describe as a not terribly unfit, but definitely cuddly 26 year old woman. Though I don’t hate this state of affairs, it’s not the modus operandi I intend to continue with. Funnily enough, depression and succumbing to a family history of Alzheimer’s and type two diabetes don’t appeal to me.

So I joined a gym. I don’t trust my inspiration to hold out, so I’ve also gotten myself a personal trainer. I’ll do my own workouts until Wednesday, when I get started with my trainer. Hopefully that gets things going in the right direction. Maybe if this keeps up, I’ll end up with actual abs. More importantly, maybe I’ll be able to jog without feeling like I’m vomiting up a lung. Most importantly, maybe I’ll feel like I’m in control of my body and it’s progress in this world.

Autonomy for the win.

Exhuming the Dead Dog

It has been far too long since I sat down to write something for this blog. Hell, it’s been far too long since I sat down to write full stop. There are several good and not-so-good reasons for this, which I will get to later in this piece, in a couple of articles time, or never at all – are you feeling lucky? Regardless, I’m issuing in a new era of the Dead Dog Diary. Welcome back to those who return. To the new comers, hello, and welcome aboard.

When I first began writing this blog, I was making a huge change in my life (if anyone’s wondering what this “huge change” was, go back and read the first article, you lazy bugger). I feel this is a good time to kick it back off again, as I’m starting a hell of a change now.

I had an appointment before work this morning, during which it was confirmed that suffer from severe depression. To some of you, this will not be a surprise. To a lot of my more recent friends and acquaintances, and to new readers, surprise! I’m generally a high-functioning person with depression. One of the ways I control it is by distracting myself with work. I work a lot. Unfortunately, that’s just a distraction. To say my problems have been compounding is an understatement. The quote the psychologist I finally gave in and went to see a couple of weeks ago, I’ve “been running on less than empty for too long.”

I hate to tell people about my depression. I feel like they’ll think I’m some kind of lesser person, that I’m making a big deal out of nothing, or some other nasty hypothetical my brain comes up with. After all, depression’s all in your head, right???

I’m opening up now, because I’ve had amazing reinforcement of the kindness and generosity of people when you admit you need help. For example, my appointment this morning was only possible due to the incredible decency of my boss. He called on a contact of his, and made starting treatment possible, despite my lack of appropriate Canadian health cover. In a situation where I felt admitting my shortcomings would compromise my position at work, it only made things better. For this, I am incredibly grateful.

For my own part, I’m trying to change a number of things that will hopefully positively effect my haphazard brain chemicals. I’ve been researching the links between digestive tract health and mental illness, so have totally upended what I eat and my approach to food. Though I don’t drink ridiculous amounts, I am cutting alcohol consumption to a once a month treat. I’m working on dancing again, which is something I love and haven’t been doing much of in the last year. I’m making a bit more effort to contact my long-suffering family and friends. Maybe leaving everyone I love to move to the other side of the world wasn’t the greatest idea, but it certainly hasn’t been the worst. I’ve found so many wonderful people here, and I’ve found an industry to work in that I love. I’m trying to be less guarded, and so far it’s paying off.

For now, I think that’s enough. This blog is going to be a way for me to document my progress. There’s a lot of shit I’m going to be pushing uphill this year, not just with my beyond fabulous brain gymnastics, but with my dubious visa, my burgeoning career as a glorified garbage lady, and generally navigating my way as a stranger in a strange land. It’s going to be ridiculous, so watch this space. Feel free to leave snarky comments, throw popcorn at your screen, or storm out of the room you’re reading this in. I’ll love you anyway.

I’m off to dance my pants off. Bye for now.