dump

I had a little meltdown two days ago. Well not really a meltdown but a little emotional dumping of stuff. All over my girlfriends. My family and B. Mostly to do with my inability to move. My desire to get up and go has got up and gone. And I just can’t fucking find it. And then lots of other stuff too that I thought I had so dealt with but um clearly not. I am not perfect. I know you know it. And I know it. But I have to be. I know I don’t really. But its what I do.   I’ve been the perfect cancer survivor. The example of how to be. The person friends say, don’t worry look at Lianne, she’s survived. And look I mean really look how well I’ve handled my third recurrence too. Look at me. But actually don’t. Because then you’ll see how less than perfect I am. How scared I am. How I’ve never really known how to be. How being perfect is how I hide the imperfection that is my fear. My truth. And all our realities. Beause we are all imperfect. Which is just beautifully perfect. Anyway. I don’t know how to be perfect at this new phase. And I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like it. Not one bit. I don’t like how I feel. I don’t like how I think. I don’t like how I look. I don’t like feeling so frustrated by it all. I don’t like how its all changed. I don’t like feeling like it was a lie. I don’t like not being a survivor. And yet I always hated that word.  I don’t like it one little bit that its owning me. I don’t know how to be me right now. I don’t like feeling so self pitying and self indulgent. Me me me.  I know how damn lucky I am. And I am so very grateful for it all. And I know its all to be expected, and all in the realm of normal for what is my new normal. Thank fuck for my friends, family and B for allowing me to spew. For loving my imperfections,  because they all know what a fuck up I really am.  We all are. For knowing I’m really not dealing well with this. How I’m struggling knowing what I thought was, never was. How dark it is in my head sometimes. But dumping keeps it real. Sharing lets me see what I think. And gain perspective. And perspective is a beautful thing. And yes I am perfect. Perfectly imperfect. Or imperfectly perfect. Oh fuck who cares, i just want to get up and go.

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three hundred and fifty

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30 December. I am grateful for a trip down memory lane and for worlds colliding, a Melissa’s in Parkhurst. Perfection. I loved living in Parkhurst. But I still don’t get why they painted our crisp white wall dog poo brown. Not that I care. But seriously, what were they thinking. I guess there is no going back.

three hundred and six

16 November. I am grateful for a distracting girls night out. A welcome distraction because B and I decided to walk away from the house purchase due to an impasse on various issues. So I am grateful for a fun end to a not fun day. For meeting new friends and getting to know old friends better. For sharing and for perspective. And for gratitude at being reminded once again how blessed I am.

two hundred and eighty three

There is something about women and how we share. I am grateful to be surrounded by women who choose to celebrate life. In all its weird and wonderful and challenging ways. And for friends who genuinely open their hearts and their homes. ( And their champagne bottles). Even (or especially) on a school night.

two hundred and thirty two

3 September. I loved these rows of little paper people at school pick up today symbolising care@gslc week, as part of child protection week. A beautiful way of creating awareness and sharing that all the students should care about each other and protect each other. I am grateful for the gentle lesson to my children that we are all responsible. That we can all help make the world a safer place, a better place. Simply by caring for each other more.

therapy

A friend said she’s missing me. Me ranting and oversharing she meant. I realised I have been sharing less. Even though the writing thing has actually become quite therapeutic. Whether a moment of gratitude or a moment to ponder, writing about it seems to calm me. I realised my therapy is ongoing, I just have a new therapist. Kate. She gets a letter a day, because by now we all know I am a tad obsessive. I can’t bear the thought that she might be the only 15yr old not to get a letter on letter day. By now we also all know I am a tad controlling. (Not sure how she feels about probably being the only 15yr old to get a letter from her mother every single letter day. Oh well.) Anyway she was the one who heard all about the lady from the shop downstairs who is being boycotted by me because when Jem very sweetly and very bravely went to ask her for a 40hr famine donation she said she supports many charities but that is not one of them. So no. I so wish Jem could have said what B came up with at dinner as a response. My mom buys lots of stuff from many shops, but yours is no longer one of them. Bitch. Especially because we do buy lots from her all the time. And she knows Jem. Very well. And she was mean. And Jem was brave. And I feel guilty because Jem doesn’t have a ‘normal’ neighbourhood to canvas because B and I love apartment living. Anyway I did feel better after sharing this with Kate. And it did give me pause and decide to lift the boycott. I’m sure she’s relieved.