Back in my day....

.... when I was a uni student studying engineering in 1992, my best friend from high school showed me his new HP48 scientific graphing calculator. These were the flagship models of the HP calculator line and they were ridiculously expensive. I can't remember the exact figures, but I think they were almost a thousand dollars expensive... However, he reasoned, they were the types of tools that engineers used and it made sense to learn how to use them  as a student. It made sense to me at the time and I mentioned it to my parents who bought me one for christmas and my birthday one year. Woohoo!


As it turns out, the university I went to was very theoretical and we learnt all things from first principles and so I didn't really need most of the functions of the calculator. I also discovered that I really sucked at a lot of the first principles of electronics engineering (although I did really well at the digital stuff and I liked the applied side) and I ended up focusing on software engineering which became my career for many years after I left uni. My friend also ended up in the IT industry and quickly found his way into (shock, horror)... management...  I don't know what ever happened to his calculator and I doubt he got value from it. I almost got into trouble in one exam because it was too advanced and they were almost going to confiscate it from me. It was a cryptography exam and some heavy duty number crunching was required and I fortunately managed to show them how to do a hard reset on the calculator to prove that I hadn't stored anything in there in an attempt to cheat.


Twenty years later and I'm doing statistics in psychology. I enjoyed statistics when I did it in engineering, mainly because I understood it and found it easy, especially compared to things like electromagnetic theory and quantum physics... I've just moved house and all my things are in boxes and I have no idea where my calculator is. My iPhone has a rather nice and satisfactory scientific calculator but it isn't allowed in exams. I thought I'd go have a look and see how much calculators go for nowadays, totally expecting them to be only available as oddities in specialist stores; much like a slide rule might be. I discover that something that cost me $70 in high school would now be worth about $15. Actually, my high school calculator wouldn't have been too bad if all the print on the buttons hadn't been worn off due to so much use.. Yes, I used it that much... I'm a nerd... 


Suddenly, I see advertised an HP48gII which was one of the successors to my calculator from uni. It was selling for a princely sum of $200 which is more than any other calculator on that site but lot less than what mine cost. I don't know what I expected really and this whole trip down memory lane suddenly made me feel so old.


I mean, back in my day, I used to go to the milk bar and buy chocolate drops for one cent each and I used to love the dixie cup ice creams for twenty cents!!!

Finding a place to fit in

Part of what makes us human is our tendency to interpret things and to search for answers and a reason. This inquisitiveness is a good thing but it also highlights our fallibility as we often tend to focus on over simplistic explanations for complex behaviours and problems. Indeed, Occam's Razor is often misquoted as saying something like "the simplest explanation is often the best". 

"I am thrifty with money because I was raised in a poor family."

"I enjoy spending money because now I have it where as I was raised and brought up in a poor family."

Our tendencies to focus on simple explanations and reasons often cause us to fixate on factors that jump out at us. Whilst these factors may actually be contributory, they probably aren't the single or even the single most significant cause for our behaviours. This can be seen when the same situations are used to explain different behaviours in different people. There must, therefore be other factors at play but it's a line of faulty reasoning that we fall into again and again. Perhaps we do this because it is simple and our minds really aren't that good at processing a lot of complex information without distilling it down.

Whatever the reason, it's possibly something to be aware of when transitioning. Growing up, I've always felt that I didn't fit in. It always seemed that I viewed things differently and that caused problems when dealing with others. I didn't understand nuances in schoolboy rough housing that made others upset at me and I still don't understand why their actions in certain games were considered okay whilst I was called a cheat if I did the same or less. This resulted in me, starting from very early on in primary school, spending most of recess and lunch times by myself counting the days till the next school holiday. 

In high school, my way of thinking resulted in teachers not liking my essays and creative writing and usually missing the subtle points I was making. English was one of my least favourite subjects during high school and I gravitated toward mathematics, physics and chemistry where problems could be solved with flair but (at high school level) there was only a single final answer. 

At high school and university, as interpersonal relationships became more important and more complex, my strange views caused further friction with those that I was close to. Girlfriends couldn't understand how I could be friends with ex-girlfriends (assuming ex's wanted to be friends with me). How I could be friends with a girl who cheated on me?And nobody could understand how I could remain best friends with my friend she cheated on me with! Then there were the (to me) arbitrary boundaries that defined whether two people were friends, interested in each other or "really good friends"... I still don't understand these nuances and I still don't understand why people just can't show affection and love without it being interpreted as something more. My views and beliefs often resulted in me feeling left out because they would translate into poorly received actions or I would have to pay close attention to my actions and behave in a way that, well, wasn't really me.

I often pondered what it was about me. Many things crossed my mind such as my ethnicity, my geekiness, my physical make up or my confusion over my gender. That last one can be a problem for those transitioning as it is all too easy to believe that your problems will be fixed once transition is "over". Each milestone in transition carries a kind of holy grail with it which only leads to disappointment when we realise that we the same person we were before but we just look different or have the genitals we always wanted. Many things change but many things do not. 

I am glad that I transitioned but, it may surprise many to learn, I still feel like I don't belong. Core beliefs and values tend not to change when transitioning and my beliefs and values still tend to be way out field compared to many. That's not to say that I stick out like a sore thumb or mope in a corner in social situations; I've learnt to navigate those waters well enough. Rather, I feel more like a golf ball that nestles into a social circle only to realise that this hole isn't the cup in the green but a divot in a sand trap and that I'm about to be whacked out.

Sometimes I just want to find a place where I feel that I truly belong but then sometimes I feel like Groucho Marx when he said, "I don't care to belong to a club that accepts people like me as members."

Yesterday

Yesterday was the anniversary of when my ex and I first started going out. Strangely, I didn't actually realise that until today and I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing. In some ways it was fortunate since by the end of last night I was already in bad shape and knowledge of another once happy day passing by would have compounded my already despondent mood.

After finishing some reading last night for a university unit that I'm doing over summer, which interestingly included two pages on gender identity, memories began to flood back about my house. Due to the fallout from our financial settlement, my house is currently on the market and I am no longer living there. Yet, memories still remain. Every room in that house has a story to tell of happiness and sadness, promises made and dreams and potential unfulfilled. Tears streamed down my face and I sobbed quietly into my pillow, dark spots spreading across it's surface just like my grief spreading through my body. 

Curling up underneath my blanket, I hugged myself to sleep.

These times of despair are happening less frequently now and, for that, I am thankful. For now, though, they still do remain.

Blast From the Past 2

After shredding all my old mobile phone bills that traced my history across three different phone numbers and just as many carriers that included moves from personal plans to business plans, I turned my attention to the next folder of paper. It was my stack of electricity bills. Electricity bills don't normally garner much interest but this included my first ever electricity bill, dated 24 July 2001, from when I bought my first house. My first bill was for $127.69 and I had used an average of 5.8kw per day or cost $1.19. I had signed up to Pulse, which was run by United Energy. A year later the industry was deregulated so that retailers and wholesalers were separated and Pulse turned into AGL. 


Looking at the name on the bill, I remembered that they kept spelling my name wrong during that first year despite numerous phone calls to correct them. 


This sort of history probably isn't really interesting to anyone except for the people involved; me. It was fun to stroll down another of memory's lanes before these documents hit the shredder.

Blast From the Past

There was I time when I was fastidious with record keeping. I've dropped off in recent times although not for lack of want. With that fastidiousness comes a mountain of records that piles up over the years. Being overly sentimental, I've come to attach emotions to them too. Not to the piles of paper, but to what they represent; times in my life that were historically significant to me.


At times, I've valued myself a bit too highly and have wondered if these records would be one day worth some money. However, since I'm not famous or of historical significance on even a local scale, I have come to realise that these records probably aren't even worth the paper they are printed on. Their only worth is to me and since I don't have the resources to carry around a mountain of paper it's time for them to go into the shredder. 


Curiosity overcame me as I fingered through statements from my first mobile phone contract back in 1998. It was with Hutchinson telecom and later became Orange late in 1999. They are now trading under the '3' brand but I left them long before that. I was on a $40 plan that had an access cost of $20 and had $20 of "included" calls which was more like $20 worth of call that had to be made and it appears that I exceeded it by a considerable margin on several accounts. Looking at the top of each statement, I remembered that my phone number was different back then and I racked my brain to try and remember how I got the number I have now. My question was answered not long after as I saw in one of the statements several phone calls I had made to what is now my present number. 


It was to Gosford and was made at a time when my Mum had gone up to stay with my sister for a while. My number was originally my Mum's number and at some point she had given it to me and had gotten herself a new phone number. 


Also on that statement was another number I instantly recognised. It was to my ex's number since we were going out at that point in time. Hutchinson was using the Optus network then and Optus had the 20-minute 'yes' time after 8pm and so after dinner at around 8:30pm we would often take a turn at calling each other for 20-minutes so that we could have a 40-minute conversation for free. That was on top of numerous SMS's and short two-minute calls during the day to say "Hi" and "I love you" of course... 


I have trouble getting rid of these sorts of things even though I don't look at them a lot of the time. Perhaps it's a fear of losing those memories of those parts of my life. Now that I've written about it, I feel a little more comforted that the memory will not be lost even if these records are now being destroyed.

Attaching Emotions

I'm reaching a point where I'm almost functional during an average day. Worries about life are no longer totally overwhelming and I don't live in pervasive fear or anxiety and I'm not constantly in tears or a state of despair. Almost.. 

Unfortunately, I find myself still traumatised by emotions that are attached to what were once happy memories. Places, things and events trigger memories in my mind that then release a flood of sadness that washes over me as quickly as a tsunami. Observers might think I were bipolar if they observed my mood swings but that would neglect what is actually happening in my thought processes.

As an example, there are now a number of movies that I can no longer watch. Antz was a wonderful animation that I enjoyed but it was also the first film that my ex and I went to see together. Avatar (the James Cameron film) is another that I enjoyed but that reminds me of the final times during which my ex and I were still in contact. As of writing, it was the last movie that we watched together. Remembering these movies is distressing due to the associated emotions and, even at this very moment, it requires a pause as I am brought to tears by these thoughts.

I did not choose to associate negative emotions with these memories and I have yet to figure out how to detach them. This places me in precarious position as I can find myself quickly crashing down when what might seem to be a small or innocent detail is brought to my attention. Judging by how my mind has dealt with other events, these associations will not go away but I can only hope that their effects will lessen over time.

Au revoir my therapist

Two years ago, I fronted up to her workplace as a boy for my first treatment in IPL hair removal. I was nervous but she immediately put me at ease. She knew why I was there and what I was going to be doing but she made me feel welcome and, dare I say it, normal. Her personality was honest, engaging and open and my confidence in her grew quickly. 

Since I saw her while I was laying down the foundations in exploring my transition, she was literally the first person to be involved in my transition. She has seen me go through the ups and downs. She has seen me through my surgery and she has seen me transform from the boy I was to the girl I am now. We have shared heartfelt stories and we have shared laughs over memories of Little Britain and over the funnier moments in each of our personal lives. 

Today, I fronted up once again for a short maintenance session. Only a few scattered hairs dot  around my lips and chin. I am so pleased at the result and for the work she has done for me. Sadly, this will be her last week as she is moving up north to what sounds like a wonderful opportunity helping to run a holiday resort. I hope everything goes well for her and I really do hope that we run into each other again one day. Sometimes you meet the most wonderful people in your life that you really don't want to leave. All the best Nik, I will miss you.

Personality and spirit

Some people like spontaneity, adventure and surprise whilst others prefer things to be more ordered, planned and prepared. Prepared... I used to be a boy scout and a cub scout before that. "Be Prepared" was the motto and an example of that was that we always used to tape a twenty cent piece inside our caps or hats in case we needed to make a phone call. (I'm giving away my age here.) Some of that must have taken hold since, when I was out of uniform, I was always conscious of carrying about some change so that I could always make that phone call. Most people hate carrying change, I used to make a point of it. It irked my sister that change was always jingling in my pocket. At a church camp one year, she laughed and rolled her eyes because everyone was doing a morning exercise class silently, except me. I was doing the jingly star jumps... 


Walking through the city one day, I needed to make that phone call. The first call I made reached an answering machine which cost me my thirty cents. Yes, inflation had taken it's toll by then. That wasn't a problem, because I was prepared and had another thirty cents; it takes more than two coins to jingle. My next call reached someone who wan't home, but someone else who could take a message was. This wasn't helping. Fortunately, the situation I was in resolved itself without my help and I was left with a sixty cent thought. How much change should I really carry in order to be prepared? Should cub scouts tape a roll of ten and twenty cent pieces in their caps, protruding to look antennae? How prepared was being prepared? If I phoned ten numbers that turned out to be uphelpful and was unable to dial an eleventh, was that being unprepared or was that just unlucky?


At the end of last year, I was operated in hospital for a Cerebral Cavernous Hemangioma that in fact caused a delay in the original scheduling of my SRS. Cerebral Cavernous malformations affect only 0.5% of the population worldwide and of those, 75% experience related medical symptoms^[1]. That makes me part of a unique 0.375% of the population and that's only for all related medical symptoms, not necessarily only the serious ones. When my doctor says that it's not usual for my condition to have occurred so quickly and so seriously, I think I'm becoming more unique. Something you never want your doctor to say while he's examining you is, "That's interesting..." and having yourself filmed so that he can show how interesting you are to his students which makes you feel even more special. I don't know the odds right now, so let's stick with the original 0.375% even though we all know I'm more special that. 


Of course, we all know that I'm transsexual and that makes me really special in more ways than one. Determining the incidence of transsexualism is difficult, but drawing upon a report by someone who is trying to show that it is more common that officially recognised^[2] (Oh! I want to be more special!!), I'll pick the figure of 1 in 500 or 0.2%.


Now, assuming that my hemangioma is unrelated to being a transsexual (any of you ts's out there also have one of these?), then I'm special to the tune of 0.375% x 0.2% = 0.00075% of the population. Oh, did I mention I also have a totally unrelated herniated disc in my lower back? Not really uncommon, but combine that with what we have here and I'm literally your one in a million unlucky guy. Throw in the acute appendicitis I had and you actually have a better chance of winning the lottery than having all the unrelated medical afflictions I've had and that's not even the end of my medical history. How the hell do you prepare for that??


But I didn't need to do the maths or even hear about my hemangioma to begin to believe that you can't plan for everything and in my uni days, I developed a taste for adventure, spontaneity and learning to accept surprises instead of trying to assert control. I loved nature and the wilderness and, if I hadn't been so lazy in not getting out as often as I would have liked, I would probably have been like Sean Penn's character in the film Into the Wild and I'd probably have died out there from some accidental event. Perhaps that's my subconscious defence for being lazy, it actually saved my life. Lol!


Unfortunately, year after year in the corporate world (albeit trying to stay in the technical side) groomed that out of me. Corporations don't like surprises, they like to plan and believe they can control. Several project plans, Gantt charts, risk analyses and matrices, career plans and goals later, I fell into the trap of thinking I could control everything that happened to me too. In a twist of irony, not long after thinking that all that planning was paying off, that I was the master of my destiny and that my career was going where I wanted, I found myself booted out of the industry, unwanted and unable to get a job. How someone in the IT industry with 10 years experience including time as a project leader can find themselves unable to find another job is a really long story, so I won't go into it now except to say that it left me devastated. Clinically, majorly depressed. Candidate for ECT depressed. I declined that treatment, by the way, even though my doctor strongly recommended it. Somehow, I didn't really want to undergo sessions of several hundred watts of electricity being pumped into my brain to induce seizures that were supposed to help depression even though they didn't know why...


To make a really long story just slightly long, it was during that time that I came to realise that control is an illusion. You can't control what happens to you, you can only really control how you react and behave. I still have a thing for Stephen Covey's 7 habits though, so I do believe you can influence what happens to you but you can't control it. It's an important distinction. Given that acceptance, I relearned to not fear surprise but to embrace it and my sense of adventure slowly returned. "It is what it is", said a friend of mine several times one day. Good words to live by.


Adventure is in my spirit and in everything I do, even in city life. I don't need to know the exact directions of where I'm going, much less know that I'm taking the most efficient route, before I being the journey. I do have a map in the car which I can look at if I get lost and, in the worst case, I could always ask for directions. Even if I get lost and spend double the time driving around, I don't really mind unless it makes me late for an appointment. I don't need to know what's in my food before I eat it, as long as it looks ok. I hate spiders, so I'd have trouble eating Cambodian deep fried spiders, but otherwise I think I'm doing all right. This proves useful in foreign countries or when trying new and foreign cuisines where you might not have even heard of half the ingredients or even be able to read the menu. However, I find it exciting. Maybe I'll discover a new favourite food that I hadn't know existed before and the variety and anticipation of what I'll get is invigorating. At worst, I'll not like it or throw up and have to buy something at another shop.


Some people like to seek guidance in certain situations which isn't a bad thing. It may help to prepare you, knowing that ordering the "Fong Jao" at yum cha will net you a small basket of braised chicken feet (my favourite, by the way). It's good to know that in some asian countries, you need to bargain for the prices at certain places to avoid paying twice what you could. It's even better to know how much a taxi fare might cost you in Thailand in case the meter in the taxi mysteriously fails and he wants to charge you double what it would normally cost. 


Ultimately though, knowledge and preparation are good things but even better is the ability to just enjoy the journey; even if it does take you to a different destination.


--
[1] http://ghr.nlm.nih.gov/condition/cerebral-cavernous-malformation and my doctor said the same thing too.
[2] http://ai.eecs.umich.edu/people/conway/TS/TSprevalence.html

More memories

I saw the brown striped wallet box on the floor next to my bedside table and picked it up. Before my wedding I had been given two new wallets. My wife gave me one because I needed a new one. She was sick of seeing me pull out my stretched and overstuffed wallet with frayed stitching and panels starting to separate. I really did need a new one. My inlaws bought me a new wallet as part of chinese wedding tradition. I was supposed to carry it during the wedding and since I had started to use it, inertia one and I decided to keep using it until it wore out upon which time I would switch to the one my wife gave me. Unfortunately, I never got that chance.


This box I was holding now was probably that unused wallet. I opened the box cautiously and peeked inside to discover that I was right. Light reflected enchantingly off the beautiful leather surface and that leather smell was still there. It would be a shame to let it go to waste and I was never going to use it. My mind ran through a list of possible candidates to whom I could give this special gift and I made a mental shortlist as I lifted the wallet out of the box to remind myself of how it looked inside.


As I opened the wallet, my neck stiffened as my heart fell. Sitting perfectly inside and showing through the license holder was a photo of my wife... or ex as the case may be. I remembered how she complained that I didn't have a photo of her in my wallet and recalled how she had specially bought me a wallet with a spot that would hold her photo nicely. My body lowered itself onto the bed and I sat there, numb, staring at the photo. It had been taken during our holiday to Japan and there she was sitting atop a statue of a red ladybird with black spots. This was our first day in Tokyo and we had exited from the wrong side of Shinjuku station and spent out afternoon walking around like idiots in the business district on a Sunday. But, we still managed to make fun of it this photo brought those memories back. My feelings of numbness were slowly replaced by despair as tears welled in my eyes. I knew I would not be be able to give this wallet away and I slowly packed it back into its box and placed it inside one of the large cardboard boxes into which were packed my old clothes. I sat back down on the bed, paralyzed as the tears trickled down my face.


My task of packing was no easier.


At this moment, I had set myself the task to pack a little more but I find myself procrastinating and writing this blog instead. Feelings of despair, sorrow, loss, pain and even a little regret remain. It probably doesn't help that I ran out of anti depressants today and I'm not seeing my psychiatrist for another few days. Neither does it help that my mom seems to feel sorrier for my ex than for me and then she wonders why I don't talk about stuff with her and tells me off for it. So I find myself weeping at my computer while writing about my feelings and sitting next to an empty plate of nachos. I really didn't need those nachos since I was full before I made them and now I'm satiated. They weren't even that good since I ran out of sour cream and didn't have any jalapenos...


About the only thing that I accomplished this afternoon was to wheel my motorbike out of the shed and into the driveway. But even that was a sad affair. My Yamaha TRX-850 that was at one point my pride and joy is now a dusty relic since I have been unable to ride it for some time. Given that I won't be able to ride it for some time into the future, I've decided it would be best if I sold it. Money from the sale would be most needed also. I haven't been without a bike for fifteen years and the thought of being without one leaves me strangely anxious and dejected.


When it comes to packing, some things can stay and some things just have to go...

Filly's Frolic #19

"Look at you in that beautiful dress", said the friendly receptionist at the rehab centre. I beamed and twirled a little just for effect. I had finished all my allocated sessions for the balance classes so I was able to wear something less utilitarian and more stylish to my visits to the rehab centre. 
"What shoes are you wearing today?", she asked. She always teased me about my heels since, as soon as I was able, I stopped wearing flats to my rehab session and opting instead to carry my runners in my hand while walking in on heels. I kicked up my heels to show her and she nodded in approval. The other receptionist leapt out of her corner, running to the counter and peering over. "I want to see your shoes", she explained as she leaned over to look before also nodding and remarking, "Nice shoes.. Very nice". If I had beamed any more brightly, I would have incinerated myself from the light.
"Look at her in her dress and heels. Doesn't that make you jealous?', complained the receptionist to my psychologist as she passed by. I laughed as my psychologist approached nodding and sighing. 
"I had a friend who used to steal my clothes and I hated it when he looked better in them than I did", bemoaned my psychologist. 
"Look at her legs and her feet", continued the receptionist. "Those shoes are just so out of fashion and they don't match your dress.", she teased sarcastically. "The colours on your dress are terrible and your legs have such a terrible shape. Oh, it's all just sooo awful". We both laughed as we wished each other a good week and I left to return home.


As I no longer had balance classes in the afternoon, I had a bit of time on my hands. I decided to start packing some clothes away in preparation for the inevitable time when I would have to move house. Some girls, when they transition to full time, take great joy in ridding themselves of all the male clothes they used to own. For some, the purging process is also healing and pleasurable if not uplifting. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. My tendency to attach emotions to everything I own probably contributes to my hoarding tendencies and also made the process of purging all those old male clothes difficult. I had gone through all those old clothes at one point and had placed maybe half of them into a bag for donating. Most of those clothes were the same ones that my ex had wanted me to get rid of for ages. It was ironic that the (male) contents of my wardrobe was probably what she wanted it to look like now that she was gone. 


I still had a decent amount of male clothing and since I wasn't going to be wearing them any more, I figured that I may as well box them up first. As I began doing so, the memories began flooding back as I touched each item, folding it and stacking it neatly inside the box. These shirts that were custom made by my ex's friend who was a tailor and that were made around the same time as our wedding. This shirt from Atelier which I loved because it had that cute little man logo. My ex had bought me a fleecy jacket from the same company and  I loved wearing it and became very distraught when the tab of the zip, which was also the little man logo, fell off. She bought me the shirt soon after; she spoiled me so much. That thought hollowed my chest and watered my eyes. I continued on stoically trying not to let all these emotions and memories affect me, resorting to even taking a break after some time. As I continued, those memories continued to flow. These board shorts which we bought at Wilsons Prom one year when I discovered that my waistline had grown and I didn't fit into the ones I currently owned. These clothes that were given to me by my friends for Christmas in an effort to make me a trendier guy. All these memories of a time with particular friends that I will never be able to revisit. 


A tear dropped from my eye as the feelings of loss became too much. I packed one last t-shirt into the box and placed the box on the floor next to the bed. Sitting on the bed, I sobbed softly for a moment. Even after this time, the pain was still there. I'm glad the memories remain because I never want to lose them but I long for the day that I can remember with happiness rather than anguish.

Sunrise, Sunset

When I was in primary school and being shuffled off to piano lessons every week, there was a girl who had her lesson before me who was always smiling. She was several years older than I, but I was always struck by that radiant smile that always graced her face. While concentrating and playing the piano, a frown would always cross my face, but never hers. If she was waiting for someone and began reading a book, a hint of the smile would still be there. Her smile was not fake or forced but it was radiant and she exuded brightness and happiness whenever I saw her. 
I wished I could have been like her, but I felt as if I had little to smile about. Sometimes I did have moments of fun, but otherwise I lived in a melancholy world with few friends and, I felt, nobody who understood me. Even while my age was only single figures I wished, although I didn't understand the concept of suicide, that my life would end each night. In high school, the prayers became regular.
"Let me wake up as a girl", I would plead. "And if not, then don't let me wake up at all."
I guess God doesn't bow to earthly demands and many times I discovered that I lacked the nerve to actually take my own life. It has been the basis of many a comedians routine, but there is actually nothing more devastating to be curled up in tears at the planned site of your own demise, forlorn at the knowledge that not only are you a failure at life but you have failed at something else yet again.
By the time I left university, I decided to try the advice I was constantly given. 
"Cheer up and smile."
"Wake up and smile and everything will be ok."
"Smile and it will make you feel happier."
I suppressed all those unhappy feelings and began to smile. It sort of worked for a while, but years on I found myself out of work and was diagnosed with clinical depression. I guess you can't just ignore your feelings and hope everything will go away. At one of the support groups I cringed every time I heard the phrase "Fake it till you make it". The therapist must have felt my cringing since she didn't much like me either.


Another couple of years later and here I still am. My smile is still here, mostly, but now it is real and it is because I am really happy with myself. I am trying to live my life with integrity and even when I found myself in hospital recently, I had a strange sense of calm. It was as if there was nothing to worry about because I had lived my life the way I needed to. Perhaps it was inappropriate because I discovered that lying in bed smiling during (supposedly) traumatic events may annoy people around you. Barring social convention, I was at peace. 


Sometimes, events in life seem to conspire against you. When hopes, dreams and feelings are crushed it is difficult to smile, especially when tears are streaming down your face. It is difficult to believe in yourself when you question your integrity and the decisions you have made. So the smile fades from my face but I cling desperately to what I have, to what will keep me afloat; hoping that one day, I will find peace again.

Ink of Destiny

"Use Black Ink", the form stated. I glanced across to my "To Do" list that I had just added to and saw, with disappointment, that the pen I had handy was blue and not black. Reluctantly, I heaved myself off the bed and trudged to the back room where all my pens still were and rummaged to see what I had available. Being a little fussy with pens, I prefer not to use ball point pens and opt for roller ball or gel pens instead where the ink comes out a little wet. I also do like fountain and cartridge pens although their maintenance is a little bothersome. My eye caught a felt tip pen which also aren't on my favourite list but my ex used to use them almost exclusively. This would no doubt be one of the pens that she had had a tendency to misplace or lose. In some corner of her office there was probably a cluster of pens huddling away and trying not to be found like prison escapees.

I picked up a fountain pen and wondered if I should fill it up and use it for filling out the form. My feelings were torn but I finally put the cap back on and placed it back in the pen holder. Something caught my eye and my heart sank. Hesitantly, I reached out and picked up a red pen shaped like a cigar that was fat in the middle and tapered towards both ends. The tip was a brushed metal and there was also a similar metallic ferrule at the nib. Encasing the body was a soft, squishy red plastic. There used to be a cap to match, but that had started to fit improperly soon after I had bought it and it was now lost somewhere.

I felt my heart grow heavier and the tears in my eyes begin to well up. I had bought this pen when I had gone to Sydney and it was the first time I had been away interstate from my girlfriend who was to become my wife much later and is now my ex wife. Wandering through the streets of Sydney, I was looking for a small gift to bring back to her. It had to be something stylish, yet useful as well; neither of us were fans of useless tourist trinkets. 

I hadn't known at the time that she wasn't a fan of ball points either and the pen did look quite stylish so she accepted my gift graciously and appreciated the thought. She had neglected to take it with her when she left and it had now been left behind and I wondered if the sentimental value, that at least I had attached to it, had also been left behind. It was now discarded to haunt my thoughts and memories. 

Fighting the heaviness in my chest, I brought it back to my bedroom and began to fill out the form as a tear fell from eye.