Anna’s Adventures

Fuck superior people. Fuck them into oblivion.

Fuck people who need to put me down. Fuck you all to hell.

Its all about me now. Me, me, me. You, you will not be reading this, but you’d know who you are: email psycho.

Fuck you to hell. And the man you rode in on.

Almost every day there is some new fight in the morning. I realise how tense it makes me. Sitting here at work, I’m suddenly paralysed with twinges of tension.

This is what I heard this morning. “You think you can do anything you like because you are a woman and you are weak”. A pithy summary of the state of play between Kal and I. He can do what he wants because I am staying at his house, and he thinks I can do what I want without repercussion because he won’t hurt a woman.

None of it is true.

I am moving out by myself! I’ve found a place - a one bedroom flat very close to transport, and 2 blocks from my mum and sis’ place.  I am excited! A place to my very very own for six months at least - 12, I hope.

A place with a door I can shut, lights I can turn off, windows I can close. I will invite people in, and then ask them to leave if I need to. Wow. No dramas. At least, not other people’s dramas.

Alone. I hope I don’t feel too lonely.

I’m getting a boob job.

I have longed for a reduction for years, but have been put off by the “after” images I could find. Surgeons advertised misshapen breasts (but with an obligatory nipple lift) with massive scarring. Patients complained of post-op pain for up to 12 months.

No thanks!

But I’m recently impressed by the results of a couple of ladies my sister knows via the internet and the “before vs after” shots. I can see that they weigh less, the shoulders are straighter, bras are bought off the rack, dresses do up around the bust, back pain subsides.

I measured this morning, and I think each of my breasts weigh 1.25kg. I want my back to be relieved from its 2.5kg weight. Imagine lugging 2 bags of sugar with you constantly. And then the insult of having men talk to them, and women tell you you’re lucky!

So, hence the plan. New boobies for Anna. Relief from back pain!

Last night I watched a terrible film called “I am a Sex Addict” in which writer / director / star Caveh Zahedi details his sex addiction. The thing is, the film is a misnomer. It becomes increasingly clear as the stories unfold, that Caveh visits prostitutes in order to punish the women in his life. He compulsively visits street prostitutes, brothels, massage parlors, and strip joints. But the real “fix” comes from talking to his girlfriends afterward.

He wants to be honest, and make a genuine attempt at polyamory, but for some reason it always fails. The women take him at face value and engage with him to make the enterprise work.

He’s delighted when they’re accepting, but compulsively transgresses their stated limits. When one girlfriend says that it is OK to talk about his attraction to other women, he begins pointing out every woman on the street to evaluate this or that sexual characteristic. Even when he begins a relationship with a woman who openly encourages him to flirt, gives him space and time to do it in, he begins to insist that she watch him with a prostitute in order to cure his addiction. She responds by going to pieces and indulging her coping mechanism: alcohol. Caveh gets off scott-free because his girlfriend’s alcoholism is a bigger problem than his bastardry.

It was horrible to watch the gaping wound of all this relationship trauma. It is awful to see the repetition, the need to punish, to push for more and more power and less and less responsibility in the relationships.

Caveh tells us that when he is alone, and uses sex with prostitutes as a band-aid for loneliness and depression, he always feels empty returning home afterwards. The second half of the fix is missing. The audience watches each trainwreck approaching, and hopes for the girlfriend to escape intact. None of them escape unblamed, and none of them retain their privacy.

Caveh isn’t a sex addict, he’s a control freak.

I’m free! Kalypso and I have forged a truce: we are not partners; I need to move out as soon as possible; and we can’t take each other for granted. Other than that, though, we’re being able to more relaxed, be fun with each other, offer comfort and understanding without strings.

He still peels mango for me, and I still cook dinner.

It is such a relief! This unhappiness and obsession has vanished.

He now needs to get on with his life, and I with mine. I’m very glad that he is continuing the good work (initated by moi) of addressing his compulsive behaviors and using relationships as crutches. But I am also glad that he is doing it without me. Its another case of “too little too late”, but more importantly, its a case of me deciding that I need to diverge from this disastrous path. He needs to tread this path alone… if I come along, I’ll just get more and more hurt.

I am not sorry for our relationship being over because it isn’t over. Its just changing. We still have cuddles and talk about politics, linux and all the rest. We make good friends. Very good friends.

I can’t wait to move out, though! The studio apartment in The Hills District is getting too small. I want my own space, my own door to shut and open as I please. The search continues.

I know that I’ll be hurt if he went out and found another girlfriend straight away (like last time). But if that happens, I will use all my strength and let my friends help me to withstand the pain. I need to be alone, single, Anna.

So things have been churning within me for a little while and I haven’t had much time or energy to post blog entries. A large part of my brain just wants to watch House and Oz, and vege out heavily while the other parts of my brain process what they have to.

Now, like Deep Thought, I finally have an answer. The meaning to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything is: “do what is good for me”. Not just what will be good for me. Not what I can tolerate. Not what I will put up with in order to be happy in the future, or preserve a romantic ideal.

Do what is good for me. And all it implies. Goodness. Timeliness. Me-ness.

With this in mind, I am trying to find my own place to live for a year. I need space and boundaries. I need to be able to tell myself when to come and go, when I need to eat, sleep, work and be entertained. I need to recognise when I need friends, and to seek them out accordingly. I need to be without material restraint on my emotional life and vice versa.

Something that I saw on facebook today and liked was that my tarot of the day is Queen of Swords:

Queen of Swords

The Queen of Swords card suggests that my power today lies in advocation. I have been there, done that and can be trusted to judge, perceive or tell it like it is. I own my authority and honor my authentic nature and wisdom but use my sharp wit responsibly and accept that not everyone will “warm up to me.” I have a sleek, keen but detached sense for quality, classic style and truth and my reputation for communicating or protecting justice, the greater good or serving as a pioneer is well-deserved. I am empowered to endure by obligation to my code and my virtue is order.

I am feeling very virtuous and orderly. My psychologist and I (mostly I) are looking at why I feel like caring-for; why I get myself into caring-for relationships, when I do actually want something mutual (or nothing at all).

So I have worked out some things that happen to me, and how some of them are related to bipolar. How going off the rails at formative times has lead me to overcompensate by being too committed to failing projects now. How going off the rails has lead me to not trust my own judgement as I should, and instead, relying on other people’s input way too much (even when these people stand to gain from me making bad choices).

So its back to being a little bit more selfish, and a little less gullible. And (shock horror), trusting myself. As a new acquaintance recently taught me: when everyone else is gone, you’re still in a relationship with yourself.

I owe apologies all over the shop.

Mostly to Kate, for being unable to express how I do feel about her.

Kate, I am glad you are in my life. I think of your bedroom floor as a fertile river running with multicoloured fish rushing to upstream mating grounds, their scales flashing brilliantly in the sun. When you stick your arm in through the mystic waterfall and pull out yet another sturdy, coquettish frock, and tell me the stories and circumstances of each one, I can only be happy. Each of your dresses could host its own travel documentary. I often think of you hitching through Europe in bright sun dresses, swigging juice and being OK in the world.

When I see the things you make, I melt and marvel. Your attention to detail is frankly amazing, and your creativity paints a sour expression on the posers. Not content to let the world bore you, you make your own additions and alterations.

As I said, you dress fearlessly. But you undress just as readily. Sweetly perfumed skin sometimes smothers me in sleeping sauce. Kate, you are a dream to me.

Kate, you are strong. You stand up for me, you stand up to me.

Mood changes.

I’m sleeping when I should be awake, and I am awake when I should be asleep. All I want to do it watch tv and stare at the wall. I want to press my head and make the thoughts come out.

I’m going to increase my dose of zoloft. My brain needs serotonin.

I want to collapse. I have collapsed.

Come and get me.

Maybe I’m just tired. Tired from fighting. Tired of doing the right thing. Tired of caring who sees me do it, or not do it.