On Learning From Your Mistakes (And Why I Am Awful At This)

If there is some sort of omnipresent being that brought our universe into creation on a whim, she/he/it has a cruel and unusual sense of humour. As well as having to suffer through needless atrocities such as damp socks, microwaves that don't heat the centre of frozen pies and Australian politics, our most efficient way to learn is not by observing, but rather by doing... and then completely fucking everything up. These fuck-ups, or "mistakes" if one is in polite company (so, nowhere even close to my presence) are the foundation to our ability to grow and develop. You make the mistake of touching a stove, burn yourself, feel pain and never do it again. You decide it's a good idea to invest in male hoisery, go bankrupt and are laughed all the way to the centrelink queue and the dual sting of embarrassment and financial hardship ensure that you'll never dare foray into men's fashion ever again.

It's a very bitter and confusing place.

For those of you who like to maintain that they are perfect specimens of humanity who never complete flawed actions and perform excretions that smell like a rose garden, you can take your fragrant-smelling fecal products, bag 'em up and fuck right off to the nearest gastroenterologist. Here is a simple truth. Every human being that has ever walked this planet has made a mistake at least once in their short existence, no matter how shockingly insignificant. This is what truly unites humanity- not our comadre, our spirit of brotherhood, our ability to love, but our ability to approach any number of tasks and systematically fuck them up. This ranges from trying to put together furniture from IKEA and somehow instead ended up with one less limb to yet again finding yourself confused and alone because, whoops, you completely misread a situation and accidentally alienated someone important to you. In both cases, loudly yelling swearwords into your pillow can relieve some of your immense emotional distress, but there will still be a considerable amount of time where you'll be thinking "Oh GOD, why did I fuck up THIS badly?". Well, tough luck there champ. It's a life lesson. You'll learn.

Well, in theory, you'll learn. In reality, if you're as thick-skulled as I am, it'll take quite a few mental batterings to force the lesson into your squishy little brain. Let me tell you, while I like to think of myself as a pretty intelligent little human, I can be unbelievably dense when it comes to repeating my mistakes. At least there's comfort taken in acknowledging that I'm conscious of it. There are far too many people in this world who sleep walk their way through existence, unable to stop the trail of destruction left in their wake as their unwillingness to wake up to their own behaviour gradually tears away everything they hold dear. This, I believe, is why so many people end up dying alone and confused... something I am terrified of. When I exit this mortal coil, I would like to be able to say that I not only left at peace with myself, but also feeling like I spent a worthy amount of time connecting with those I hold dear. I truly believe that identifying these faults within myself is one of the steps to getting there.

One of my most frequently committed mistakes I've made in my nineteen years on this planet is never allowing myself the proper time and space needed to heal. If you've been following this blog since its humble, rambling beginnings late last year, you may have come to the realisation that the last six months or so have been a challenging time for me. Probably no more challenging than what the average person experiences in their existence, but because I am a terribly emotional and introspective little creature, the whole ordeal left me completely and utterly drained. By the time I exited my first semester at university, I was genuinely afraid of how exhausted I felt. Even the smallest of actions, such as filling out a form to apply for my academic withdrawal, left me teary, anxious and tired of being alive. This filled me with a deeply unsettling confusion. How on earth could my energy levels and coping resources be this low? I wasn't currently experiencing any trauma. I'd taken a week away from uni when my grandmother died. I'd dropped out of my courses and no longer had to deal with the rigours of exam season. Why did I still feel like I was only centimetres away from plunging over the edge?

Think this, but less cute.

Because, in all fact, I was. For all my sporadic days off, missed lectures and weekends home, I had done fuck all to address the fact that yes, I was emotionally damaged. Instead of taking time to regroup and know myself, instead of realising that because all the pain I was holding inside me, I no longer had any clear picture of who I was, I just kept putting myself in more and more situations that only damaged me further. The first step in overcoming any sort of personal trauma is to begin to know and love yourself again. Sadly, because of years of low self esteem, I had forgotten how to feel anything but utter contempt for myself. Most of the time, it wasn't even conscious. Faced with tasks that would be difficult to people not experiencing extreme distress, I called myself weak and commanded that I toughen up, keep it all inside and get through it. Of course, while some people advocate this approach, I do not. I believe that people need time to grieve, and we often underestimate how long that time will take. Anyway, this approach culminated in a very public mental breakdown and after being persuaded to get help, I realised that my inability to love and cherish myself was perpetuating my cycle of misery.

OR that is what I would have learnt, had I managed to keep this lesson in mind. But of course, I didn't. What I did instead was mistakenly assume that because I temporarily felt a little happier and lighter, all my issues had magically fixed themselves. Woo, look at me, I'm so good at therapy, two sessions later and I'm a brand new human being! This was not a good assumption. While I was definitely doing better than I had in the last four months, my emotional wellbeing was still a mess of scar tissue and scabbed-over wounds. I was healing, but only up to that crucial stage where if I wasn't careful and knocked about the half-healed mass, I would begin to bleed again. But of course, oblivious in my cocoon of new-found joy and interest in life, I paid no heed and went straight back out into the world, my battered heart out on display for everyone to see. Of course, this didn't really work out well for me.

Pretty much me, waiting for the realisation to hit.

Existing in a place of emotional vulnerability while simultaneously being blind to it is a strange experience. There is a definite sense of displacement. You feel like you should be living entirely in the present, without a care in the world... and yet, there's still a strange fluttering sensation in your chest. The nagging thought that all could suddenly go wrong in less time than it takes to blink. You think you're happy, but you still wake yourself up occasionally at 3AM with your own restless murmuring. You still feel lost at times. Everything feels like it should make sense, but it doesn't. It's a state of utter, half-manic confusion.

During this time, I went on a two and half week to Adelaide, which did wonders to address my burnt-out feelings. For that glorious time, I was almost completely free of worry. I had isolated myself from all of my troubles, and boy, did that escapism feel good. I was also lucky enough to be surrounded by a group of patient and kind individuals, who were content to let me work at sorting out my issues and finding myself (although I'm fairly certain they were all sick of my tears by the end of it). However, that these issues were still popping up at the back of my mind should have been a warning sign. I was better, but there was still so much more healing to go. Truthfully, there still is, and all of this became painfully apparent when I returned home.

My first night back in my apartment in Brisbane felt oddly surreal. Here I was, just off a plane, oddly alert despite being awake for almost 32 hours straight and everything just felt wrong. Everything felt too busy and rushed. The very air felt like static biting against my skin. I couldn't shake the sense that everything I had been avoiding was going to crash down upon me like a tidal wave. This feeling continued for a couple of days, until I had a massive anxiety attack in my bedroom about a week later. Fortunately, this was less an indicator of things to come, and more a wake-up-call to my need to properly address my wounded self.

To my credit, I think I handled this latest bout of extreme anxiety well. In the past, I would cry and hiccup my way into a state of exhaustion and then collapse on my bed, forming what a friend of mine likes to call "an anxiety burrito" in my blankets. This time, the crying lasted less than an hour, and instead of dealing with it on my own, I called someone. This is a pretty big deal for me. You see, because I find it incredibly difficult to relate to most people (probably due to my own bitterness), I rarely feel okay with talking to someone about how I feel. There's a few reasons for this. Probably the number one reason is because when I do share my problems with people, I rarely feel like they're understood. This is absolutely no ones fault. I accept that I have some shit in my life that is hard to relate to. I also accept that many people in my life, while they love me to pieces, don't really have a good grasp of what's going on in my head. Again, all of this is fine. I pass no judgement and it does not make me love anyone any less.

So I called someone, and that was a step forward. I may as well mention that it wasn't a close friend. No, on this occasion, I decided to call a crisis helpline. It's not the first time I've done this. And you know what? I'm pretty happy they exist. Having one kind-hearted person willing to listen to you cry and snuffle over the phone when you don't feel like there's anyone else you can turn to is very important, even if they are a stranger. I have had a few heartwarming experiences with helplines and also a few that I don't care to remember (note to anyone looking to comfort someone highly emotional- do not fucking suggest that they check themselves into a psych ward. I have enough to deal with without someone assuming that I'm so crazy that I'm a danger to myself and others, thank you very much. I was just having a bad day and that was hardly an appropriate thing to say to a heartbroken 16 year old girl). Luckily for me, on this occasion, I definitely had an experience that really changed my perception of my life.

Because I come from what people might describe as a "broken home" and also because I was taught to be independent from a very young age, I have never really felt like I've had a nurturing presence in my life. Most of the time this doesn't bother me. Sure, I had my moments in my youth where I burned with envy over people whose mothers still made them packed lunches, or people who could go home after a weekend away and have their uniform washed and dried for them. But that's all in the past now.

That being said, sometimes in my sadder moments, I long for someone to take care of me. This doesn't mean in a romantic sense- no one should ever be that reliant on someone they are in a partnership with- but more a motherly figure. Someone who will sit me down, let me cry, give me sympathy and comfort but also provide advice and force me to see around my own emotions. I was lucky enough to find this mythical matronly figure on the other end of the line.

The counsellor handling my call was called Shelly, and although we were only speaking on the phone, she immediately enveloped me in an abundance of warmth and care. This woman was definitely a mother- you could hear it in her voice- and she knew exactly what to say to calm me down and make me see clearly. She let me know that it was okay to feel upset. Although I wasn't aware of it, I had been trivialising my own problems, unwilling to acknowledge that with all the hurt I experienced, I had a right to feel sad. As Shelly explained, trauma does not suddenly go away because these hurtful events in your life have passed. It lingers, and follows you around like a malevolent shadow. If you aren't incredibly careful, it can poison other aspects of your life, which only increases your suffering.

We talked for about an hour, and she imparted wisdom on me that I will never forget. I would prefer that most of what was said stays between her and I, but there is one thing I would like to share from our conversation. It is a simple piece of advice and has been repeated numerous times, but I know I had overlooked its truth until now.

You cannot love others without first loving yourself.

On the surface, the meaning of this phrase seems pretty obvious. Okay, so, you don't like yourself, right? Well then, how the fuck can you expect to have healthy personal relationships? Obviously your self-loathing will impact on your loved ones, because there's nothing worse than seeing someone you're close to that doesn't love or respect themselves. However, I have taken deeper meaning from it. As well as impacting on your ability to have healthy relationships, putting yourself out there for others is so much more draining when you haven't taken care of yourself first. Before you can nurture the people you love, you need to be in your own place of strength and tranquillity. Only then are you able to give them what they need without damaging yourself further.

Not loving myself is a mistake that I have been repeating for almost a decade now. Its impact has been felt in many aspects of my life- my friendships, my passions, my ability to handle the hurdles of everyday existence, the health of my relationships. Although I wish I could have learnt all this sooner, and saved myself a lot of pain, I am still thankful for the learning experience. Truthfully, I am reaching a new level of security in my self and it's a wonderful feeling. From first working on myself, I am now gaining the capacity to interact with my outside world, one gentle smile at a time.

Taboos (And Why They're Stupid)

I'm going to admit it. Even though I am was doing a law degree, I am not the best at complying with rules. In fact, sometimes if I'm explicitly told not to do something, my inner annoying teenage rebel will rear her spotty head and start screaming for me to do it anyway, because fuck you, I do what I want! You can't control me! Rules are just a societal construct, man!

I'M NOT A PART OF YOUR SYSTEM. 

That obnoxiousness aside, realistically, our society couldn't function without something there to stop us stripping naked and fucking whatever we see. Sadly, there are far too many terrible people in the world to survive in a world without consequences. However, there's a bit of a difference between the law and social niceties. They correspond in some ways- don't get me wrong, some things like murder are not only illegal, but highly frowned upon in a social setting (you can't just murder whoever takes your favorite character in Mariokart, however much they deserve it), but other things just seem plain confusing and dare I say it, borderline archaic.

Because I'm feeling lazy and also really don't have the time to write this.... er, I mean, I'd like to experiment with actually structuring my thoughts rather than progressing on my usual incomprehensible stream of tangents, I'm going to write this up in a fun little list. Yes, that even means proper subheadings. Obviously going to university has at least taught me about the importance of structure, if not anything else... I kid, a little public service announcement to teenagers everywhere: tertiary education is fantastic and a great way to avoid being unemployed (in the future, I mean, if you're like me and do a double degree, you end up very unemployed). All that being said, here are some of my favorite taboos and why they're absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Taboo 1: Sex

You knew this was coming (haha, coming). If there's one point of consistency in this blog, it's that I write a lot about copulation. Fornication. A bit of the old slap and tickle. Knocking boots. Bumping uglies. The horizontal monster mish-mash. Saying howdy-doody to your neighbor. The old mambo-jambo pineapple squash, jubbly-lubby funtimes and banana-rama-ding-dong.

I made at least three of those up and I'm not telling you which ones.

Society's attitude towards sexual activity is something I find utterly perplexing. I mean, really, look at us. With 7 billion people on the planet, odds are that quite a few of us and our ancestors did a fair bit of shagging along the line (ew, not WITH their ancestors, gross). Touching our genitals to other people's genitals is something most people enjoy. We have whole, billion dollar industries dedicated to catering to the sexual fantasies of any and all bizarre niche fetishes, millions of websites simply created to provide us with sexual content, self help books, workshops, even rallies... and yet, it's still socially acceptable to judge someone over how many sexual partners they have? We're all still okay with shaming women who not only acknowledge that they like sex, but that they have a healthy interest in it? It's totally acceptable for a woman to buy a vibrator, but if a guy gets a fleshlight, we act like it's the most weird and perverted thing on earth?

Trust me, I'm from the internet, there are weirder things out there.

I don't know if I'm being a bit of a radical thinker here, but my perspective on sex has always been that as long as no one's getting hurt (unless they're into that), it's pretty much all good. And more importantly, it's no one else's goddamn business anyway. Some people aren't comfortable with having sex outside of monogamous relationships. Some people aren't comfortable with being in monogamous relationships full stop, but are human and desire some sexual contact. Some people (gasp) are a mix of both at any given time, because hey, we're human and our needs change all the fucking time. Ditto with sex toys. Some people would never dream of using them, some have one or two and others have whole dungeons devoted to taking your average sexy time to a whole new level.

Bruce Willis knows what I'm talking about. "Bring out the gimp" indeed.

Like with everything, sex is something we all approach differently. There is no "magic number" of sexual partners. There is also no perfect, universal sex toy because, you guessed it, people have different ways of getting off. There also shouldn't be a stringent set of sexual standards applied to different genders and cultural backgrounds, because honestly, it really limits a person's ability to seek out what they like/want/need and express it. If you don't agree with how someone else expresses their sexuality, there's a simple solution. Don't ask them about it, and better yet, don't have sex with them. The minute you start applying your own standards to other people, you completely ignore their right to be comfortable with their sexuality as an individual. In a nutshell, we're all different, and no one should be punished for that unless what they're doing actively harms themselves or others.

Taboo 2: Drugs

Drugs are always a bit of an edgy subject to bring up in polite conversation. While marijuana is becoming socially acceptable due to Hollywood and massive reforms in the US, mentioning anything harder than that to your average person will probably result in them being more than a little uncomfortable, because, well... drugs are illegal and most people of my generation were brought up to believe they're extremely dangerous. To be honest, that's probably a good thing, because if you want to use any mind-altering substance without a higher risk of really fucking up (including alcohol), it's wise to have a bit of maturity behind that decision.

However, to be brutally honest, I've always thought that the war on drugs is kind of dumb. Don't get me wrong, some illicit drugs are fucking dangerous, not just because of what they do, but the kind of culture it can entrench you into. But to some extent, that's less the problem of the drugs themselves and more due to the fact that they are so heavily illegal. A lot of drug related violence stems from distribution methods (dealers, gangs, come on guys, you've all seen Breaking Bad), and arguably if there was a better and safer way to get them, not as many people would be at risk of being decapitated by a big friendly biker called Cunt Puncher.

Pictured here: not some biker called Cunt Puncher.

The fact of the matter is, because human beings are curious things by nature, they are going to want to put weird substances into their bodies to see what happens. A lot of modern medicine happened this way. If someone hadn't decided that chewing on tree bark seemed like a dandy way to get some pain relief, we wouldn't all be reaching for a packet of aspirin every time our head hurts. However, being harshly punished for this is not something I agree with. There are a lot worse things in the world than turning up at McDonalds at 3AM with red eyes and smelling like the backstage of Woodstock '69. As for the more dangerous stuff... well, isn't it just common sense that something like that should be, oh, I don't know, regulated? Alcohol's arguably extremely dangerous, and not only is it not outlawed, we encourage people to drink it! Having your first (legal) drink is basically celebrated as a right of passage. While I'm not suggesting we start chucking tabs of acid at people on their 18th birthday, it still boggles the mind that something that causes 13% of all deaths of 14-17 year olds is available on store shelves whereas marijuana, a drug that strictly speaking cannot physically kill anyone, is illegal.

Much like sex, drug use is a personal thing. People have different ideas of what is okay and not okay to put into their bodies. Again, I'm going to maintain that everyone is allowed their own opinion on this. However, I don't think anyone that has a strong negative opinion drugs should be allowed to make legislation about them. It's biased, it's unfair and has already made a complete mess on how we handle crime syndicates and addiction. And in the immortal words of Forrest Gump, that's all I have to say about that.

This movie did NOT deserve the critical acclaim it recieved.

Taboo 3: Love

So we've gone through the most generic societal taboos, and you've probably scrolled down to this one, made a face and gone "huh? Sex, drugs... love? Isn't she going to go onto something a bit more edgy, like, I don't know, bestiality, necrophilia or experimental jazz?"

I couldn't find a good enough gif for necrophilia.

My controversial love for wailing saxaphones and off-beat bongos aside, yes, love is something I find to be a massive taboo. Of course, you're probably already dismissed this as ridiculous because in in our society, we're surrounded by reminders of love all the time. The greatest commandment in the world's largest mainstream religion is to love thy neighbor. Most chart-topping hits are spawned from either falling in love or swiftly falling out of it. The entire greeting card industry is based on days specifically allocated to tell someone you love them, whether it's in the "I want to sip wine with you while listening to classical music and then rip your pants off" way or the "you're my mother and you spent 19 years of my life washing my underwear, so the least you deserve is a well-meaning piece of cardboard and some flowers" way. All the movies we watch and the books we read are usually based on someone's love for something. And yet, as a society, we're still not comfortable enough to show people how we really feel.

It's a little weird, isn't it? We celebrate love in the most ostentatious of ways- huge birthday celebrations, spending thousands of dollars on a wedding, diamond studded condoms... and yet usually, we struggle to remind each other of this love on a daily basis. We're not okay with letting the people in our life know that they mean the world to us, and we'd be so devestated to lose them. Most of all, we're terrified of letting new people reach that same level of importance. People percieve the outside world as full of strangers and hostility. That's why we don't make eye contact when we catch the bus, and keep our earphones in on the train. It's why we rarely say thank you to the people serving us, because hey, it's just their job. We are so scared of being hurt by other people that we pre-emptively shut our little lives off from one another like a bed of frightened clams. It's more than a little disheartening, and if anything, makes us more likely to be hurt in the long run. It is far easier to justify doing something shitty to someone else if you feel like you barely know them.

So yes, as a species, we celebrate love, but not where it counts. I don't think letting people know once a year that they're an important fixture in your life is enough. I think love should be a more constant entity, something that is like the tide; although at times it withdraws along the shore, it always comes back. We shouldn't have to trip over words and constantly feel entangled in our emotions. We should just be able to treat those around us with warmth and kindness, no matter what tentative bonds exist between you.