It was a Monday & my brain checked out

Break ups are funny things. They have the ability to turn a completely stable person to the point of no return. As I have experienced this past week.

I don’t mean to brag about my mental stability but if I were to have a diagnosis on my bodies psychology, words such as calm, patient and shows tendencies to “check out” of intense emotional situations would be thrown around. Yes, in other words I would be described as a clam.

I loved my clam. My clam was cosy and safe, nothing got us down, until last week. Some may be assuming this is my first break up but no, my heart has been ripped in two before and I reacted the way any normal 18 year old would. I cried, I ate chocolate and I ripped up old photos. All regular post break up behaviour and rather quiet boring to note.

But alas, as I have grown older I have not grown wiser. With the introduction of social media platforms, relationships have become rather tricky. When do you change your status to in a relationship, do you delete past partners, can you comment on the opposite sex’s picture or can you private message the opposite sex? This isn’t even taking into account the anxiety that comes after a night out and you wonder if any tagged pictures will be questionable.

Online social media has made relationships stressful! We can now track our partner’s viral footprint, being able to locate exactly where they are at any second. I guess Mark Zuckerberg did not believe in the old adage, ignorance is bliss.

Oh to face the simple problems Dylan and Brenda did, it makes you look at the home phone line as this sexy piece of history. While I have zero facts to base this on, I believe there would have been less straying back then. Why? There was no temptation, but with Facebook you can view and pounce on any girl or guy all from behind a screen.

So what did I do that was so crazy and why is Facebook to blame, plus how do I know how to purchase genital crabs? Stay tuned...

A poem with no rhyme

Take me back to the time we met,

Where the wind was my friend and time grew with simplicity,

Let me see your eyes again,

With fleeting hope,

Naivety was your best friend,

Let me smell my burning youth and hear our futures roar with love,

Let our minds wonder with 'maybe's' and 'could we's' and the youthful illusion of perfection,

Let me feel your hand again,

It dripping in chance and seeking lust,

Let me float in your safety.

Take me back to the time we met,

Of playing with white flags and seducing hope...

A tale with no ending

The tale of two young lovers is both luminous and painful. We all hide our first love deep within our souls. The heart crushes when we realise the feeling of youthful optimism dies and the perseverance to sustain the passion of true love is replaced with other checklists. It no longer becomes a love of two hearts but of bank balances or ability to conceive.

Painfully, uninhibited love, free of expectations and games seizes when we grow up and in our adult years we retort to childish ways when it comes to love and war. We all have our stories of the one love that could never survive in the realms of adult reality.

The meeting was nothing unusual but your effect was. Overwhelming and intoxicating your stare consumed me. It would have been poetic had I contained my composure but teenage hormones do not allow for such discreet reactions. You spoke and my heart choked. A burning fire raged inside me. You said your name was Tom, I asked about your accent, we laughed and the start of the love story began.

The bus was our time together. Your arms held me time as the rain slipped like honey down the windows. It started to fog inside and we wrote our love for each other on the screen. We thought it would last forever, but ‘TOM ♥ ELLA 4EVA’ was already starting to fade as the school grounds came into view.

We had about five minutes of uninterrupted bliss before the stares begun. My hand entwined in his and his smile wrapped me in safety. We were kidding ourselves if we thought this could last. But living in this blissful ignorance was all I could handle right now. Before we headed round the corner, before everything would change, I searched his eyes for hope, for hope we could make it. They were blank.

Our hands unhinged like strangers and he was gone. I watched him swagger to his side as I slowly walked to my area with shame. People suspected but no one said anything. Their stares said it all, their disgust, their loathing but they smiled at me and asked about my daddy and I told them about his where about’s and enquired about their daddy. We both hid our utter repulsion under sharp tongues and unfocused eyes.

Speaking Out

I am going to be sick. My chest is starting to erupt in crimson, if only the excessive sweat from my arm pits would flow across my burning chest. He is still staring at me. Its hot, why isn’t the damn air conditioner turned up. He is still staring. I wonder why he isn’t hot. My hands slip on the chair handles, I can’t get my grip. Too much sweat. I can’t hold on. I can hear my heart. All I can hear is the thunderous beat and he is still staring. The room starts to spin. He moves. It’s about to begin. My heart pounds. Sweat drips. “So Chelsea you say you have issues with speaking about your emotions,” the counsellor says. Counsellors need to be paid more I think.

Once I almost killed my brother. It was fantastic. When he collapsed I cried. It was the best thing that could have happened to me. It proved I did have feelings. I realised I loved him. I realised I could love and feel. My friends and family say I’m cold hearted. I hate touching, when people hug me I tense up and think of every possible way to avoid the situation. I have severed friendships if the hugging level was too high. I don’t do the post sex snuggle. I don’t like to lay in each others arms listening to their heart beat. Gross.

I don’t think my counsellor needs to know I almost killed my brother and it filled me with elation. He might suggest another appointment. Instead he looks at me friendly and gently tries to knead information out of me. I hate him. I hate this room. I hate this chair. I hate talking. He keeps asking questions though. He is stupid. He keeps speaking. Words. Just words to me. I want to run. A sole tear runs down my cheek and I haven’t even spoken yet. I am exposed, vulnerable, overwhelmed. He hands me a tissue. The tear is joined by others.

I am the youngest of three children yet I defy the stereotype. I am neither the spoilt one nor the one that is lavished with attention. I rarely am asked for my opinion or encouraged to join in political debates. I sit and I listen and I nod. I am heard but not listened to. I am not expected to succeed but seen as the one constantly struggling. My sister is a child you brag about. She received an OP 1, was school captain and received a scholarship to university. She is now a practising lawyer in the top firm in the country at just 25. My parents coat themselves in her success whilst saying I’m doing the best I can. My brother has Down syndrome. My mum has sacrificed her life to him. I was born into a family that never really knew I existed.

I try to voice why I am like this but my voice trembles. I tuck my hands up into my jumper and scratch at invisible itches. He stares and he waits. Growing up my dad suffered from depression and went to stay at a mental health clinic, my sister become anorexic and my brother needed constant care, my problems were not life or death, my mother did not have time for them understandably. I rush through this sentence, avoiding his eyes. I stare at the wall, I get stuck half way through, a ball is in my throat and steals my words. I loose my momentum and fall. “It’s not your fault,” he says. I hate him a little less.

“Chelsea we don’t like to talk to you about that kind of stuff because you are like a rock,” was what my best friend said to me over a pumpkin risotto. “You’re so cold; you don’t understand emotional stuff….maybe that’s why you don’t have a boyfriend.” My friends constantly refer to me as the bitch, the cold one, the ice queen. They laugh and joke about it and I laugh along too while inside a little bit of me erects a new barrier.

I have worked so long at my wall, building it, making it strong and unable to be penetrated. People who are unaffected and don’t shed a tear are seen as strong and brave. They are confident and a tower of strength. What a lie. We are so afraid to feel, so afraid to show, so afraid of what will happen if we take a chance, so we continue building our wall. The wall of course takes casualties. That chance at love, at friendship. We sacrifice this for safety.

The tears won’t stop and I feel so stupid. I stumble trying to tell him I want to be able to hug my mum without tensing up with anxiety; I want to tell my sister I love her without my heart pounding in my ears. He looks and waits for me to continue but my words are replaced with tears. The tissue is soaking from being clenched in my hands. I worry he is watching my tears, watching my sweat, watching my fidgeting, I can’t hear him. Air struggles to get through my nose. All is struggling to get through to me, his voice, his advice, my mum’s touch, my friend’s laughs. I can’t feel it.

They all end the same way, relationships. They loose the battle they get tired of trying to break through my wall. They see no light at the end of the tunnel, they fail, and I win. Me and my wall win again. I lose nothing. I walk away with everything I brought it, they steal nothing, and I give nothing. The wall isn’t keeping me warm at night though.

I am an empty stream. Fragile. Exhausted. I have been with him for only half an hour but my body drips weak. I want to collapse on his couch but I need to escape from these pressurised emotions. I want to know I can change that I will get better. “It won’t happen over night Chelsea, you will have to start small, build your way up till you’re able to hug your friends without experiencing anxiety, visualise doing it first, see how you feel, what you experience,” he says. I feel so pathetic, like one of those people that have to take small steps till they can hold a handful of dust. I’m a freak.

I choose to emotionally shut down to not burden anyone with my emotions, then it was to avoid feeling vulnerable, exposed and to avoid getting hurt. Now it’s not a choice, now it’s paralysing. “Chelsea you appear to have an actual phobia of showing and discussing emotions and need to continue seeking help,” he says.

My name is Chelsea and I have a phobia, but I don’t want to talk about it.

Facing Colten

He was different. He knew it. His mother knew. Everyone knew it. Yet it was a covered truth. His mother refused to let people think her son may be different. She held Tupperware parties and drank merlot accompanied with camembert with ladies who lunch. She did not have a disabled child.

She disguised his inability to learn and adsorb like the others as just being a typical boy. Just a boy, going through a phase, rebelling. He knew something made him different. Even when he tried he couldn’t understand what was being taught to him. The limit on his ability crushed him and led him to face ridicule. He knew he had done something to deserve this. His mother looked at him with such distaste that he knew he had hurt her, he just couldn’t remember how. He made people embarrassed and awkward. He hated how upset he made people but he knew it was his fault. He had been bad his mother said. This is what happens to bad little boys.

The doctor mentioned intellectually disabled. He needed a different facility to learn. Perhaps a special school. She cried. He stared. What was it about this place that made her so upset, so ashamed that she couldn’t look him in the eye? He hated the idea, hated what it was doing to his mother, and hated who he was.

The sleek black Audi comes to a defined stop. It does not belong here but he does. He’s here. Collten State Special School, the termite-infested block says. It wasn’t a new name to him; all the kids at school told him here was where he would “fit in,” which they always followed with a laugh that erupted like a burst tyre. School was never fun for him, not a day would go by without the words retard, spastic or freak being spat at him. He waves to his mother whilst he steps out of the car and slithers to the gate. The white picket fence seems innocent enough but behind it masks a more fearful encounter. The gate creaks when touched and makes an ear-pitching screech when opened to its full potential. As he enters sweat begins to perspire and fall like pellets from his brow. His cheap shirt begins to stick to his back; he can feel the material shrinking with every drop of fluid it absorbs. His breath is sharp and hollow, the repetitions unable to be controlled.

He’s late. He quickly picks up his legs. His feet begin to scruff the ground; tarnishing the new black polish his mother applied that morning. He feels the gum on his soles stick to the ground. It was a joke amongst all his peers to put it there, one he never saw the humour in. His thoughts begin to digress on as he follows the ramp painted in bright, fluorescent colours, in an attempt he assumes to hide the dark realities of the children’s future. He continues to follow its path in a hope of finding the woman. Eventually, he finds her lair. The door reads “Principal May,” surrounded by A3 drawings of intended objects that instead appear to just be swirls of colour. He cautiously opens the door and is faced with a mid-forties, plump woman, who reminds him of the lady on the front of the Sara-Lee choc-chip cookies. Her smile is warm, with loose caramel curls flowing like a slow water feature down the side of her chubby face. He instantly hates her.

He follows the plump woman. Watching her behind click up and down with the rise and fall of her weight. She continues to ramble on whilst her Kmart, short sleeved, floral dress sways like the tide. He doesn’t want to go on. He can feel his body freeze up. His muscles commence to cramp making even the thought of walking unbearable. He face begins to emit the fear that his body is erupting in. The women turns, sympathy flows from her eyes as she takes his hand.

Suddenly the woman slows to stop. He tries to look ahead but her smiling, fleshy face is masking his view. She steps away leaving him naked of all protection. They are all unaware of his presence. They continue to sit there tamely, laughing and smiling with each other. He wants to run. Suddenly, like the onset of a sneeze they all turn to face him. Eyes beaming right at him. With each second they begin to grow wider and wider. He’s cemented to his position, nowhere to go.

He stares at their altered faces. Each having the same features as any human, yet they all appear fractured and disjointed. His eyes are becoming blurred as someone is taking his hand. It’s the plump woman. She is smiling that fleshy smile at him. He is vulnerable, and alone in front of these things, with only the stupid plump woman’s hand for support.
He stiffens. They are up, each individual coming towards him. He can feel the force of their inertia coming closer and closer to him, decreasing the tolerable distance he once held. He can see their mouths moving and hear the noises but everything is muted. He feels numb. Hands, which appear sticky and moist, reach out towards him. He needs to run but he is swarmed. They’re grasping his stiff body. He is left immobile as each grubby finger seizes the control of his body. He waits for pain. He knows it’s coming, it happens everyday, why would today be any different? He continues to wait but nothing happens. The grasp on him has become soft and gentle. Warmth entraps his body. Smiles begin to flow towards him. Innocent flooded eyes comfortably linger on his face. The woman starts to say something, but he is unable to hear due to the continuous welcomes from the class. He doesn’t want to hear her, for once in this unusual bowl of mutant variation he is happy, accepted. He is free.

Great Keppel Island

My feet sink ever so lightly into the sand beneath; the sun warms my body like a treasured blanket while my hair blows so perfectly off my face. This could possibly be the setting for a fabulous fashion shoot with an equally fabulous model but reality bites and you have me. While I’m no model the setting is every bit as desirable as a Victoria Secret show. The smell of sweet, sugar cocktails lingers in the air inviting you to indulge in this luxury even though it is well before 10am. Great Keppel Island is a sub-tropical oasis wrapped in turquoise, clear waters. The perfect place to escape the daily grind and immerse yourself in living life by ‘island time.’

Palms graze low over the white sand beaches while the Pacific sea is like crystal waiting to be broken by your touch. Temperatures over the summer reach above 30 degrees yet the water stays refreshing and cool. Diving in, expect to see tropical fish swimming in schools below, sting rays nestling in the sand and if you’re lucky a sea turtle floating by. As Keppel is located up north visitors must be wary of the stinger season, which include Irukandji Jellyfish and Box Jellyfish. Stinger suits are provided for this season, which runs from October through to May. I have always travelled around the late September to November period and have not worn a suit once nor witnessed anyone being stung. Maybe I live life on the edge or maybe it’s the infectious calm feeling island life brings.

Great Keppel Island is a 28km shoreline of pure bliss. It has 17 white-sandy beaches and most of them are secluded, this allows for some topless sunbaking away from prying eyes. Staying at the resort permits access to free activities such as golfing, snorkelling, kayaking and other beach activities but really I wasn’t going to replace my already busy schedule with another. If you are into activities galore then Keppel is the place for you but if like me your idea of a holiday is waking up at 10am, lazily wandering to your spot on the beach, cocktail in hand while you read your romance novel only to fall asleep 20 minutes later, this island will suit you fine as well.

Places to eat on the island are scarce but you will still find variety. The resort has its own buffet meals and a burger store. The island also has its own pizza place while the pub up the road offers you all you would expect whilst gourmet offerings as well. If you prefer to cook yourself there are two local stores located at each end of the island. However, expect prices to be more expensive due to extra shipping, so try to pack all you will need (no one likes paying $5 for butter). The cocktail menu is all you will need to be acquainted with on this holiday. Expect a different delicious, slice of life cocktail to be served each morning as you drift to the beach. Keppel has it all from the fruity Cointreau twists to the decadent Baileys chocolate cocktails.

Accommodation on the island is varied to suit a range of tastes. Ulrika Richards who has been travelling to the island for 15 years said, “Keppel has also been my desired destination as it has been able to suit each different stage in my life, from when I was married, with my kids, and when I was looking for some fun.” The island boasts its own 3.5 star resort which hosts water and garden view rooms and hillside villas. It has five swimming pools and two spas, all with the necessary waterside bar. The resort will suit both families and couples seeking a relaxing getaway. Yet if you’re a couple seeking some time away from the kids plan your trip outside of school holidays. During my trip I stayed in the garden view room, which costs around $145 a night depending on the season. The rooms are not spectacular but they are clean and spacious. Rooms consist of usually two double beds, a balcony, TV, phone, fridge and large cupboards. The bathrooms are basic yet kept clean. The rooms don’t scream luxury but when you’re on a tropical island who spends any time in their room anyway?

The island has numerous beach houses that can be rented for visitors. The houses can occupy four people and up to 20 in the Keppel Lodge for $440 a night. “These are great for group getaways,” said frequent traveller Marilyn Sneyd, “they are central to everything and a big money saver as you can bring all your own food.” The north end of the island also has its own camping ground, which is perfect for students and the younger crowd as it is allocated right behind the island pub. The pub is a must when at Keppel. It is the hub of the island where you can meet true locals, staff and people looking for a good time. It buzzes with a relaxed energy that is refreshing. Where else can you lay back, beer in hand with Crowded House sweeping through your ears while a goanna lurks in the sand? Tents can be rented from $33 per night, which includes all linen, kitchen wear and snorkelling gear. Yet if choosing this option be very wary of the goannas, it’s a face you defiantly don’t want to be waking up too.

Great Keppel Island is located 15km off the Capricorn coast near Rockhampton. Flights between Brisbane and Rockhampton take one hour and cost around $90 depending on the season. To reach the island you can take a 20min flight from Rockhampton airport for $70, which allows you to take in the breathtaking aerial views. Otherwise, a catamaran charters from Rosslyn Bay, which is allocated about half an hour from the airport by bus. The ferry costs $30 and takes 30min in good weather. This form of transport is a great way to unwind and lie back whilst watching the mainland get smaller and more insignificant. However, not recommended if you get sea sick, as trips can be quiet bumpy.

At the end of a long day lazing by the beach there is nothing better to do then to go to the sunset lounge. It is breath-taking watching the crimson colours melt into the Capricorn Coast and life on the mainland seems like such a distant memory. The sky swims in oranges, reds, whites and blues like an undiluted oil painting. Sipping your chocolate island dream cocktail drowning in the fading light, you wonder if anyone would really notice if you never went back. Could you turn your back on the mainland forever and live in complete paradise? The life of a scuba diving instructor continues to become ever more alluring.

Waiting

I stood there waiting for you to care
You shut the door behind you
The rain fell hard on my body like your hands did last night
I felt my body dampen with each drop
My soul starting to sink
I stood there waiting for you to care
You watched me drown from dry land
I still stood, waiting for you to care