Tbh

To be honest with you, I’d much rather be watching the entirety of Kath and Kim for the second time this year (it’s only February) as opposed to sitting down for the tenth time to mull over what it means to be better than just nice. I mean, I don’t want to toot my own horn or anything, but it turns out I was right in saying this whole being a fucking good cake business tastes like stale vegemite sandwiches. After a couple of weeks’ worth of reflection and introspection (because I’m so *lisp* spiritual), I’ve done a lot of overthinking on honesty, and proved to myself that it isn’t as pretty as the dipshits who write poetry would make it out to be (ahem, me, I’m the dipshits). Being honest really is messy, it feels uncomfortable, and it sounds a lot like lengthy whinges to my housemate and wussy mutters as I try to spit out the being honest bits to myself or whoever else needs to hear it. 

In short, figuring out how to be properly honest is really hard (and writing about it is pretty hard too).  

Just to backtrack for a sec, last month we talked about how nice it is to be nice. We also talked about how being nice is a bit useless. To make it our life’s mission statement is honestly just a cop out from living with true chunk and hutzpah. I mean, I understand why we choose to just be nice, it can feel lovely; but I also think that we choose nice for ourselves because to live with stronger life values means we’ve got to get off our mental butts and figure out what it is we actually want to live for. That is really, really hard. It’s so much easier to just go with whatever will float you day by day; but, like I said, I’m not down for just being nice right now. And so I’ve done some groundwork and have kind of figured out that in order to be authentic and sincere with both yourself and with others you’ve got to be gutsy enough to face your own honest wants and needs. 

In the words of Kath Day-Knight, “you need to get out and go inside yourself to search your chasms for meanings”.

The more I’ve decided to be honest with myself in searching those chasms for meanings, wants and needs, and then asserting them into my reality, the more I’ve felt the hollowing of my chest cavity like somebody’s been intensely excavating my insides and chucking them out for nobody to pick up and only for me to leave behind. Learning how to be honest begins with completely restructuring your heart to get rid of all of the gunk that used to serve you, and then being attentive enough to the emptied space to see what truly calls back. That’s the poetic way of putting it. What I basically mean is that you’ve got to take the time to de-bullshit your priorities (people and things), and then shut the fuck up so you can actually figure out what feels or is logically right for you. If you sit still for long enough (times vary from person to person), I’m 95% certain you’re bound to hear your own answers. 

In doing that for ourselves we also have to deal with tricky things like the fact that our wants and needs are not going to align with the expectations of others; that in doing so may mean we need to let go of people and things (even the ones we love); and, scarier still, that in realising our wants and needs we often times need to let go of certain parts of ourselves. That last point is particularly terrifying, because if you’ve been harboring your wants and needs behind a thick wall of nice, the thought of unleashing them feels like letting go of a perfectly curated image you think to be true of yourself and just hoping you don’t cave in and around all of this freshly cleared out space inside.  

Oh man, do I feel all of that. 

Again, this is all very hard and scary and extremely boring to have to tend to. But I’m about a month and 700 words into the philosophy now, and I’ve convinced myself that if we really want to be honest with ourselves and with others, these foundations are fundamental. You can’t be honest or upfront with anyone if you don’t know what you want and need; and to go about any kind of relationship or situation without at least trying to sort that shit out for yourself is how you end up fucking people around (just don’t do that, okay? It’s rubbish.)  Add a touch of lack of assertion and you’re well on your way to being the worst cake ever (even if your frosting is icy and your sprinkles alluring).     

Figuring these things out for ourselves, and making the decisions to act on those realisations, is as painful as having your heart broken; but I feel like if we’re going to live life with chunk and hutzpah we’ve got to do those cognitive hard yards. You’ve got to be brave enough to let certain things go, roll with all of the different kinds of change, and let the processes break you while you’re at it. Because, the thing is, once we’ve given into the difficult feelings that come with figuring out all of what it means to be honest – soon enough it doesn’t hurt so much. And as soon as it doesn’t hurt so much, our bodies grace us with the feelings of elation and peace. It’s like our bodies are saying to us, “oh, you silly duffer. See? You did fine... Now, go out there and do the honest thing again.”

I know, right? You have to be honest again. And again. And then again after that. It never stops. Because the thing about honesty is that it’s this transient value that moves with our age, where we live, with our health, what we do, who we love; and the ways in which we exist with all of those things changes so dramatically from one moment to the next. To be honest for any one person is never going to mean the same thing for very long. We people weren’t designed to be stagnant, and to nurture our innate ability to be honest means we don’t have to end up like stale vegemite sandwiches ourselves. There's so much behind being honest, and I’m certain that to live that way is so much heartier than just being nice. 

And, look, I’m going to have to tack a disclaimer to the end of every blog post just to say I’m not very good at whatever I’m writing about; because I'm not very good at whatever I'm writing about. I struggle with being honest like I struggle with being caught up in being nice. But that’s okay, I’m figuring things out, I want to get better, and these hearty values sure do give me some meaty content to think about. To follow on from being honest, I think I’ll write about being assertive next month. No, wait. Next month, I’m going to write about being assertive (better).

Until March,

Meg x 

Date: 16^th February 2020 

Credits:

My Housemate (for listening to me whinge)

My Aunty (for introducing me to Cheryl Strayed)

Cheryl Strayed (for the quote, “be brave enough to break your own heart”)

Carl Jung (Memories, Dreams, Reflections)

Everyone I’ve had to be honest to

Kath and Kim (duh)

Nice

I want to be liked all day, every day, by everyone and by anyone; because if I’m completely honest with you, and with myself, I’m a slut for validation. No, I’m not just talking about getting a couple of likes on an Instagram selfie; I’m talking about the kind of validation that feels even more satisfying than a little bit of narcissism. I’m talking about the validation that comes from baking cakes for my friends, wishing good morning to three strangers in a row, and saying yes to absolutely everyone. I’m talking about being nice, and doing nice things, and being the nicest person, because we all know how sucky the world is right now and wouldn’t it be so much nicer if we took the time to do something nice?

In a world as grim as the news makes it out to be, and in a time where so few people in charge seem to give an actual shit, doing nice things, for me, not only means taking a small amount of responsibility in these dire times to make a positive difference in someone else’s life – it also means I get to feel good, in an undeniably selfish way.   

I do nice things because the instant gratification I get from doing them feels a lot like how my friends look when they take a bite of my baking (orgasmic, if you were wondering). It feels nice to be nice; and making a conscious effort to be nice has held me in good stead as far as having a reasonably likeable reputation goes. As stated per my introduction, I like to be liked; but what I’ve recently realised is that I go after these hits of nice-feelings like a rat in some scientist’s experiment box, constantly tapping at a button for any hint of a tasty treat that sounds a lot like: “yes, Meg, you’ve done the right thing.” 

Some people use alcohol, others use drugs, I use saying sorry all the time and incessantly offering to do the dishes at someone else’s house party. Being nice is my addiction; and not only is the chase tiring, it’s also quite unhealthy, unnatural, and not necessarily kind at all. Sure, it’s definitely on the more socially acceptable end of “what people are allowed to be addicted to”; but when overdone, it can consume you, your health, and, without an iota of dramaticism, influence your identity and how you go about giving your life meaning. 

That isn’t a cue for you to fill my inbox with “oh, but, Meg, you’re the most nicest person I know!"I mean, thanks, I guess, but that’s really not what I’m trying to get out of this. 

What I’m getting at is that being nice (while fun and orgasmic) is my vice; and, like what I assume to be true of most people and their vices, my vice is exceptionally good at puttying up the holes in my self-esteem, weedling its way into my self-image, and planting itself so firmly in the middle of my psyche I have seemingly no choice but to say, “I am intrinsically a nice person. This is who I am. Me, a nice person, whether you like it or not (but please, seriously – like me).” 

This of course becomes problematic when I do something I believe to be nice, and the response isn’t as validating as my fragile ego needs it to be. Or worse still, when I (like the human I am) do something that isn’t nice, and then proceed to drown in my own self-pity because I haven’t lived up to this ridiculously inaccurate belief of who I am or who I should be. To chase the highs I crave from doing nice things is ultimately centring my identity around a flimsy rewards system and setting myself up for failure and weak self-esteem; because, basically put, I’m not an intrinsically nice person. And nor is it possible for anybody to be nice all of the time (shock horror to the emotionally well-adapted of you out there). 

We people are constantly changing in demeanour and manner, and to place all of one’s worth in a single characteristic is damaging, because you begin to tell yourself that to be anything but that one characteristic (nice) is undesirable and to some extent punishable. It’s like how in some toxic relationships you learn to only behave in one way with the other person; because you know, if you present any differently, they’re going to go off their tree and berate you for even breathing. It’s like that, but you’re doing these toxic things to yourself (you deserve so much better). 

To make the whole self-reflection thing even trickier: I’ve realised I’ve been eating myself alive over something that isn’t even that meaningful. Being nice is lovely, sure, but in the scheme of things it’s only superficial; especially if we’re comparing it to things like kindness, love, trust and honesty. You know, the real things that matter. Delicious cakes are great, but honest intentions are even better; and I’d much rather root my identity in what it means to be true as opposed to how many brownie-points I can rack up amongst the people I know. To play on the cake theme just a little more: being nice is the behavioural equivalent of looking pretty. Again, so lovely, but at the end of the day it’s just the frosting on top of what should essentially be a really fucking good cake.

I want to be a really fucking good cake. The only difference between that cake and me is that my honest intentions aren’t always going to be delicious. Being trusting and kind, honest and loving aren’t necessarily going taste nice; in fact, I can tell you for a fact that they often taste like stale vegemite sandwiches. Saying no, having boundaries, being educated, having opinions, loving who you love, being yourself, and generally rubbing other people the wrong way are all examples of honesty, trust, love and kindness: I have difficulty with all of them. But I can only believe that living with these stronger intentions will be so much more rewarding than simply going after the superficial hits that come with complimenting strangers and saying sorry all the time; because I’d much rather live on the many strengths of my own character than the tidbits of validation that may be thrown at me from anybody else. Honesty, trust, love and kindness may not immediately sweeten this already sucky life; but they’re going to make for a damn substantial cake in the long run. 

And, to be honest, none of this means I’m going to stop baking for my friends and giving my bus seat to old people (I’m a really good baker and old people tell me I’m delightful); it just means I’m choosing to work towards something better for those niceties to sit on. I’m still working out exactly how to do that, and I’ve been told I’ll be working it out for the next 60 or so years, but perhaps we could talk a little about it in my next blog post. Title: Meg Figures Out How to Not be a Shit Cake (but, like, I actually talk about how to be honest and stuff). Yeah, that sounds good to me. 

Until February, 

Meg x

Date: 14th January 2020

Credits:

My Housemate (who is getting really good at saying no)

Mark Manson (The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck)

My Psych Lecturers at SCU (they’ve started teaching me about behaviourism, relationships and addiction)

My Psychologist (for, you know, all the psychotherapy)

Perpetual Prayer

5th August 2019

The word “prayer” has a world history’s worth of connotations behind it. You’ve got mass, you’ve got meditation, you’ve got speaking in tongues, grace, daily prayers; you’ve got pray to this god, now that god, now this god; and if you’re like my Nana you’ve got “I’ve just really gotta pray all the time because we all really, really need it.”

Now, I’m no theologian, I’m not old or wise or experienced, and I was raised in a very white Protestant church. This means that, technically, my talking rights on the subject matter are limited to “pray for the starving children and the dirty sinners too” or “one prayer = one like”. However, I’m going to talk about prayer anyway; because, like my Nana, I do it all the time, and I feel as though that gives me some sort of metaphysical cred. 

A while ago, I wrote about what being a Christian meant for me, and since then I can tentatively say that I’ve let the Christian label go in favour of something more suited to my tailored system of faith. My new label is yet to be announced, or even fabricated, but once I know exactly where I sit on the spiritual spectrum I’ll be writing something about it, you can guarantee (because I simply love labels and declaring my personal life to the internet). For now, let’s just say that whatever I am is a sprouting mixture of Humanism, Christianity, bits of Buddhism, numerous hospital mindfulness sessions, and a lot of inspirational quotes from Instagram. 

Out of this evolving-hybrid-mutt of a personal ideology, prayer has been the steadfast pillar. 

Whenever I’m asked, “are you a Christian?” I now very simply respond with, “mm, I meditate and pray to God everyday”. It’s both concise enough to make me sound spiritually attuned, and vague enough for me sound completely clueless. Both interpretations ideally opting me out of discussing the religious pedantries of whether or not we truly need to be saved by Jesus, if God’s actually a man, and what even is an afterlife? All of which I think absolutely nothing about. I’m too busy worrying about real life things like money, my general health, and whether or not I’ve remembered to lock the back door on my way out. 

Not only is “I meditate and I pray to God everyday” an excellent conversational cop out, it’s also as simplistic as I need my ever evolving faith to be. I mean, I don’t know if you’ve seen the Bible, but it’s fucking huge. I could just appropriate a select few messages from there to suit my young, modern, female self and live my life by those rules to a T as has been done by many a white guy over the past few hundred years; but I’m a millennial with a short attention span, so I’m not even going to do that. You know us, we’re of a microwave culture where we want everything and we want it now, damnit! Thus, I’d rather just skip the fine print and get straight to the part where I’m in sync with this almighty creator and life source that everyone’s been going on about (to at least some extent) since the beginning of human consciousness. Even more than that, I’d rather just recognise that this almighty creator and life source is an intrinsic part of me and the reason I get to enjoy and endure all of what makes me human. 

Prayer and meditation instantly grant me these things; and the practise has become as easy as waking up in the morning and marvelling, however briefly and in whatever way, at the fact that there’s another day. 

To me, meditation is living in all of life’s stillness and swift, and prayer is grappling to understand that there is a time and a place for both. It is intimacy, touch, learning to be open and vulnerable, it is hurt, it is isolation and solitude, and it is learning to embrace all of these things in spite of fear. 

Prayer and meditation to me is looking up at the sky over breakfast and being both grateful and proud that I’ve made it as far as I have; it’s sitting in conversation with friends and choosing to be with them and for them in whatever moment they happen to be in; and it’s hugging the family I haven’t seen in while like I only saw them last week. 

Prayer and meditation is acknowledging that there has, is, and will continue to be a lot of pain and discomfort, and wondering if I should, shouldn’t, can or can’t do anything about it. It’s also acknowledging that for every bad thing that there is, there will always be something good: be it as extraordinary as swimming in the ocean, or as basic as having my favourite tea bags in the pantry. 

More simply put, my spiritual practice is now guided by me being curious about what it means to be alive; and this simple act of being alive is how I get to pray all the time, every day. In doing this for myself, I feel more in touch with the God I remember first being in awe of when I five years old; my capacity for love of all sorts has increased tenfold; and the more I allow myself to experience all of what it means to be to be human, the more I can see and appreciate the human in everyone else (I know I go on about empathy a lot, but that stuff truly is the shit). 

I’m not sure if this is exactly what Nana meant when she said she prayed all the time because we really, really need it; but her devotions have been an exceptional life lesson in how I enjoy and endure all of what makes me human. By choosing to be in sync with my every day, I am directly connected with some almighty creator and life source; and this has enabled resilience, strength of character, love, empathy, and pride in my identity through the very highs, the very lows, the in-the-middles, and the scary bits of life that I haven’t necessarily wanted to do.

My kind of prayer helps me to do and to know all of these things, and it’s by this sort of perpetual curiosity that I can so bravely live; which, in my own book, is well and truly worthy of a resounding amen.          

My Biphobia

22nd June 2019

As a bisexual, it’s very common for people to ask, “so, how gay are you?” Which is questionably fine, I guess, if you can give a definite answer. If you’re like me though, who lives in perpetual ebb and/or flow, it’s very near impossible to give a man-to-woman ratio on who-am-I-more-likely-to-crush-on-next. 

In fact, I’m pretty convinced that’s not how it works for any one bisexual; however, if you’re queer and that is how it works for you, I’m more than willing to be proven wrong. I’d actually love to learn how to compartmentalise my romantic wants and sexual desires; that sounds like the most erotic thing on earth. Rather, I’ve been bound to a sexuality that seems to do whatever the fuck it wants. I’ve been attracted to the masculine, the feminine, the neither, the both. If I were to place myself on the Kinsey scale, I’d make sure to bring enough lubricant so to avoid chronic chaffing as I slide my way up and down the silly thing willy nilly. 

I’m telling you, this being bi business can be hard work. 

Especially when you’re faced with the dysphoria that too often comes with such a wishy-washy identity. I don’t say wishy-washy as a way to invalidate the experience of being attracted to more than one sex and/or gender; I use the highly scientific term to legitimise the well-known experience that is: “holy hell, I love men. I LOVE men. I love men so m… IS THAT A PRETTY GIRL?” Which has proven to be rather challenging if, like me, you’ve been indoctrinated to believe in gender binaries, the nuclear family, that Jesus doesn’t like it when girls kiss girls, and that gluttony is a sin so no you cannot have both.

So, yeah, I’ve taken those little gems of bullshit into my dating life, all making for an unnecessarily worrisome time. 

When I first came to terms with how much I like women, I had to deal with the icky internalised homophobia I’d been harbouring since nine-year-old me was told, “God doesn’t really like gay people”. There was a lot of self-hate, and othering of the LGBTQ+ community, that was encouraged by the people I looked up to. I’ve spoken a bit about it here. That uncomfortable process happened a couple of years ago, and it was one of the best personal growth things I’ve ever been through (not just for my ‘bit-gay’ self, but also for my queer friends and family). Now that I’m quite comfortable with that gay part of me, I sometimes struggle with the fact that it can, in fact, coexist with the 'not-gay' part of me. As you can read, even the way I speak about it now suggests that these kinds of attractions need to be different in order to for me to understand them; I seek to categorise and to organise this beyond messy phenomenon, that is essentially love and attraction, in an attempt to, I don’t know, control an aspect of my life that was never meant to be caged. 

As I’ve said, I go up and down that Kinsey scale like no-one’s business. I can go for months without even thinking about a man, only caring for women; and just when I’m almost convinced that I might just be a complete lesbian, a man touches the small of my back and I’m writing poetry about how he sends electric sparks through my entire body. Rinse and repeat the process, with many a variable thrown in the mix. It might sound like an exciting experience with so many opportunities for love to some; but I’m highly anxious and a bit neurotic so it’s an “oh, fuck, here we go again” from me.   

All of the uncertainties of this wishy-washy identity combined with my own tendencies towards anxiety and self-doubt mean internalised biphobia is now something I experience from time to time. It’s a lot less frequent than it was when I first came out, and I’m aware enough to know that all of my attractions are valid no matter my experiences or how unusual they may seem to some; but when the internalised biphobia rears its ugly head I can feel pretty rubbish. 

It’s an anxiety that hits me the hardest when I can feel myself falling for someone. Intimacy is hard enough for me as it is; and when we take into account these self-prescribed prejudices and lies about what it means to be bisexual, I feel as though I will fall short of whatever that person needs me to be. I fear that I may abandon them in the future for someone of a different sex, as has been made of many bisexuals in nasty rumours. I fear that I may in fact just be straight or gay and this dating period shared between the two of us is an experiment where they will be left feeling worse off than me. I worry that when I date someone I may be picking a side, which leaves a whole chunk of my hard-earned identity behind; and from all of these concerns, I ultimately worry that my own insecurities, stemming from something as boringly human as who I like to kiss, could limit me from accessing something that I’ve wanted since I knew I deserved it: unconditional love from one person and one person alone.  

See? This being bi business can be hard work. 

I skim over all of that now and think, “mm, maybe you just think too much,” but they are all legitimate concerns, worries and wants. I wish I could organise the various aspects of my love life and crushes and sexy times into boxes for tidy reference; but that’s just not how my bisexuality goes. The whole thing is too fluid to be held behind bars, and it’s understandable that I should feel scared about what it is from time to time. As I get older, I’m sure a lot more will make sense; and maybe I will be able to give a man-to-woman ratio on who-am-I-more-likely-to-crush-on-next if someone were to so rudely ask “how gay are you?”

But until then I’ll just be riding the Kinsey scale, breathing through my biphobia, and kissing whoever feels right.

ps - happy pride month :)

Treat Yourself

25th November 2018

“Every day, once a day, give yourself a present; don’t plan it, don’t wait for it, just let it happen.” 

This is what my newfound fictional crush covertly advised to me. Agent Cooper, from Twin Peaks, was referring to a cup of coffee at a seemingly inconvenient time. I basically took it as the ever prevalent self care tip taught by Instagram, counsellors, and anybody who hasn’t quite figured out a sense of balance.  

“Treat yourself.”

Now, I’m no influencer, nor do I counsel, and I may only be a little off balance, but I feel like I can genuinely say it’s actually a good concept. I practice it daily. The extent of my wardrobe is testament to that; and the number of times I’ve impulse ordered Chinese on a school night speaks volumes on how easily applicable it is to your everyday life. “Treat yourself!” I say to myself, as I hang up the phone to Li Garden. 

These are just two of my own personal go to’s.  I obviously have less expensive ones, like painting my nails or taking a nap. But I feel like that’s the beauty of it, there are so many ways to treat yourself; and not one of them is necessarily the absolute way to do it. I mean, I hear of people going out to buy organic kale, just to give themselves a little somethin’ somethin’. I don’t get it, but I’m not going to tell them that their kind of “treat yourself” is wrong; because in all honesty, treating yourself is just a means to loving yourself. And if organic kale is the way to someone’s own heart, well, then let them at it.  

Because for each heart there is out there, there are going to be a million more ways to tap into it; and once you’ve realised how to do just that for yourself – a billion doors open. 

Let me elaborate. 

Treat yourself, to me, has meant discovering the little things that make me tick. I’m talking about the little micro-preferences I have in my everyday life: from my favourite colour (pink), to my favourite kind of sweet (doughnuts), even down to my favourite pair of socks (the ones with giraffes on them). Likewise, when something just doesn’t do it for you. I.e. mandarins. I don’t like mandarins. 

I’m definitely the kind of person to who is prone to being overexcited about everything, but I daresay these are the sorts of things we take for granted. Could you imagine how much better an otherwise yucky day would be if you’d just wear your favourite undies? What if you took only ten minutes for a random Sudoku break at work? Perhaps a kind word for yourself in the mirror before you go out each morning; or simply saying “no” to the boy you don’t like.

You know what I mean? It’s these very small, yet very revolutionary, acts that have taught me to ever so slowly learn about the woman, the human, that I am; which is an especially remarkable thing for someone who lost their sense of self for so long. The tiny things I decided to do for myself lead to a greater understanding of myself, and with that greater understanding came a special kind of empathy. 

Empathy is the willingness to put yourself in someone else’s shoes; no matter the colour of their skin, their sex, gender, orientation, where they live, why they live there, their ancestry, their hopes and dreams, pineapple on pizza or not. Empathy is this amazing super power that allows you to see the world from another’s perspective. It’s not always the easiest thing to do, trust me. I work in retail. But the most powerful thing about empathy is that once you have it for anybody: there is absolutely no way on earth that you cannot experience unconditional love.

Do you see where I’m going with this? 

What I’m getting at is that once you’ve begun to understand even the minutest details of yourself, even if it’s just your coffee of choice, you’ve well and truly started to empathise with your own being. And once you’ve done that, wham bam whoolio, unconditional self-love is closer than you think.

Isn’t that nice? 

To be able to tap into those heartstrings of yours to make your own life sing. I think that’s really exciting. To know that treating yourself can grow into loving yourself is something I wish everybody could adopt; because it’s something that manifests even broader than just saying, “you look fine today!” in the mirror. Unconditional love means redefining your own boundaries, and having the courage to say when something is or isn’t right for you. It’s creating and then knowing your own worth. Once you know your worth, you begin to stand up for it; and when you begin to stand up for your worth, you’re the one who grows stronger in spite of whatever else the world might throw at you. 

I’m not saying it's easy; it requires bravery, you’ll hurt a lot, you’ll scar pretty bad, and loving yourself will require smashing, moving in and around immovable obstacles. Trust me, I fall over heaps. 

What I am saying though, is that treating yourself is worth it, because it’s the most practical way for anybody to know their own value. And once this specific brain muscle has been sufficiently worked, you’ll find you’re capable of treating yourself to all kinds of other exciting things. Much bigger exciting things; like university, or a career you’re passionate about, a house, the love of your life, travelling to far off places, overpriced organic kale if that’s what you’re into. 

So, please, please, please. Just go do the nice thing for yourself.   

Worth

9th November 2018

When I was small, I would go to auditions for commercials, TV shows and movies; I started going to acting classes; and I was taught about the industry, and what it would expect of me as a young woman in the years to come. I learnt that in order to be competitive in the industry, I needed to meet the right sorts of people; to be able to put my best, most virginally squeaky-clean, foot forward; and, I understood, that any worth I had, as an actress, would stem mostly from my appearance. Any talents I had would be considered an exciting bonus, so long as I looked the part.  

The industry is a game, you see; and while I’m fortunate enough to have spent not even a decade playing, I spent enough time in it for those rules to seep into my everyday life. I believed that any worth I had, as a human being, stemmed mostly from my appearance. I’d picked up that being blonde with long hair meant being the most beautiful; I’d ask the boys in primary school if they thought I was pretty in survey form; as I got older, I equated the greasy stares and inappropriate comments from old men as validation; and I was always fixated on my weight, eventually to a point where I’d become anemic and had developed amenorrhea. 

I was obsessed, and very unhealthy. But that’s just the industry.  

There was a time where all I would do was read. I was so voracious I was concerned I might turn into a bookworm (because kids take everything literally, bless). I was a smart, brave, and very intuitive girl; until all sorts of life layers became so heavy that those things weren’t given permission to breathe. I stopped reading, being smart, brave, and intuitive, only to focus on surviving and living out this compulsion to be beautiful. 

For the most part, I succeeded (if it's even something you can "succeed" in). There was a solid period where I had no idea what the fuck I was wearing, puberty was a bitch, and my haircuts were almost always questionable; but I knew I was attractive. I am conventionally attractive. I know how conceited that sounds (and, you know, let’s just say I am conceited); but women don’t go swanning through life oblivious to the kinds of attention we get. We are programmed to detect that shit. Or at least I have been. 

Looking back on it now, and unhealthy brain cognition aside, I’m pretty embarrassed by the way I prioritised appearance.

For example, when I was living in Wagga, I was doing a philosophy course at the university. I would also, occasionally, travel to Sydney for acting related things. At one point, I was asked to audition for a TV show, and at that same time I’d received a high distinction for one of my essays. I was more proud of being at an “acceptable” weight for the audition than I was for my academic achievement. Now, I understand and respect that all personal values are different. But, come on. That’s just silly. 

A lot of my personal values have shifted in the past two years (thank goodness), but, as much as I hate to admit it, I still place a majority my worth in the way I look. Sure, I let myself eat now and I don’t obsess over weight, I cut all my hair off and dyed it near black, sometimes I let my monobrow grow out, and choose to not wear makeup for whatever reason you want to hear: but if men aren’t looking at me on the street, asking me on dates, or if people aren’t telling me how pretty I am, I feel worthless. 

Yuck.

I’ve only realised this just recently, and feel very empty because of it. I’d put all of my eggs in one basket, and I’ve now decided those eggs are rotten and no good for me. I don’t have any eggs now. Well, I do. But I need to prove to myself that those are actually my eggs. 

Because I really want to be like the young doctor, not much older than I am, who came into work to buy thirty books. 

I want to be like my good friend, fluent in Danish, studying Journalism through distance whilst working two jobs. 

I want to be like my old school captain who just completed her Honours in Biomedical and Electrical Engineering.

I want to be like the French woman I met in New Zealand, who’s been travelling for eleven years. 

I want to be like my five-year-old self: a good reader, smart, brave, and very intuitive. 

These are the sorts of of worth that won’t fade by the time I turn thirty (film standards. Don’t worry, Mum, you’re still smokin’). These women don’t have expiry dates, rather a longevity that goes well and truly beyond their youth. These women have really good eggs, and no pooey industry is going to tell them otherwise. My Dad often says, “If you don’t like it, leave.” And so that’s what I’m doing: tapping out for good. Or at least until film and television properly values women for their brains and wit over their big lips and tiny tummies. I’ve been told that’s not going to happen though, so I’m just going to pick up my eggs and go be worthy somewhere else.

This is an Ugly Post

6th July 2018

And here is an ugly language warning for my Mother.

As someone who gets caught up in appearances, I was, for a long time, scared about expressing any thing more than mildness, meekness, loveliness, and the expectantly feminine (doormat). I don’t want to be like that anymore. If yoga and meditation have taught me anything, it’s that suppressing emotion is generally quite toxic; and if I ever got anything truly worthwhile out of the high school experience, it’s that pretending to be what you’re not so you’ll be liked is futile, because they’re going to ignore you in Coles a few years later anyway.

Wrangling your emotions to fit in with what’s considered beautiful is exhausting for anyone, let alone someone with an oceanic emotional range. And in this society, anger is ugly, pessimism is not admirable, and negativity is unattractive. But just like the cellulite on my bum-cheeks, and the acne between my eyebrows: I’ve learnt out of necessity to be okay with them.

Putting energy into being positive when all I want to do is throw plates at a brick wall is tiresome and lame, and it’s something I do not want to do anymore. I came to this only recently, when all of the yuck bits of being a human bashed me about like a big-arse-fucking tsunami in a successful effort to remind me of just how shitty being a human can be. The past couple of weeks have been packed with twatty people, I’ve been reminded of how much of an anus society is, and my body may as well be a clump of wax, it is that useless. Long story short, I’ve been pissed off. Not like, “well this is an inconvenience”. Not even, “life’s a bitch”. It’s more of a, “everyone is a cunt, and I’m a cunt, and the world is a cunt, and not even the full moon can excuse this level of fucktardery.”

It’s not been a good time. 

These haven’t been the times for Minties either. Those things are fucking useless in an existential crisis; I don’t care what the wrappers say. It’s been a time to be a whining crybaby, and to swear at the self-checkout machines at the supermarket (don’t worry, they can take it). Both of which are extremely valid responses. Not enough credit is given to anger; or any dark emotion, for that matter. Sadness, moodiness, frustration, contempt, envy. All of these gross feelings are seen as ugly, something to be hidden, and not beneficial to society in the slightest. If you’re not a little ray of sunshine all the time, well, I’m sorry, but “you can’t sit with us.” 

To this whole notion of needing to be a little ray of sunshine all of the time, I call bullshit, and also the reason we have so many problems worldwide. I can hear you thinking, “Meg, anger and contempt are the reasons we have so many problems in the world.” No, anger and contempt are the natural bits of being human that we have been conditioned to resent, and therefore hide (a lot like cellulite-Sally on my arse). It’s because of this that we don’t deal with them healthily and productively. Or, even better, just let the feelings be. It’s okay for the ugly to be there if it’s not hurting anybody.

As someone who experiences a lot of feelings to widely varying degrees of severity, I will tell you that these feelings are as necessary as the night is to day. I’m not saying you can be a prick because you feel like shit; I’m saying you can feel like shit, especially if someone’s a prick. Anger is a very passionate thing, and it holds a lot of power. Jesus got angry. The suffragettes were angry. The school kids in America are angry. There are so many angry people in shitty situations, but they are determined to harness it for the uncomfortable, painful, and appropriate change. You see them, and you understand that it isn’t necessarily happiness and positivity that drives us through the tough times. It’s anger, and spite, and pimples and cellulite. 

I mean, how many perfectly content people do you know who are completely useless?

Going through this pooey time, I’ve tried my best to be an optimist who posts nice things on Instagram, looks at gardens, and freely compliments strangers. But beauty and emotional prettiness aren’t the life rafts I need to get through the big-arse-fucking tsunamis. I need to turn up some Alanis Morissette, embrace the ugly, flip the bird, ask myself “What Would Jesus Do?” and flip a fucking table (pretty sure that’s scripture).