What Is Worse: Living with Boys, or Living in their absence with Rats and Demons?
Resurgence
Hello world!
I have been rotting in my room and dwelling on past discrepancies. In my debut blog post I know I advised against this behaviour, alas it is rare of me to follow my own advice. I figured I wouldn’t write again until the weather was sunnier, and I’ve had some sleep, and something nice happens. But none of that has really occurred and it’s been 4 months now, so I think it’s best to just get on with it. I’m slightly burnt out, but still smokin.
One night after going to the cinemas and coming home to an empty house as both my roommates were on tour with their band, I was lying on the couch being glamorous and evil when a rat similar in size to a newborn baby ran across the floor, knocking over a wine bottle before hissing into the ominous pile of blankets in our living room where I presume it still resides to this day.
Later the same night, an hour after lights out, I distinctly heard the back door squeak and rattle as if someone is trying to leave the house, not get into it.
Both of these things alarmed me and sent me into such a degree of hysteria that I thought “No! I shan’t investigate, I will simply go to bed and hope I don’t die or get nibbled whilst asleep, and make it to the morning where everything will be non-threatening once more and these problems will not be real.” I continue to learn in scenarios such as this that my fight or flight response is simply to pass out. My first time learning this was when an ex-partner and I stayed out in an isolated cabin in the hinterland with no reception. Late at night in bed he heard footsteps race up the front porch before banging into the screen door as if testing the locks, then promptly racing back down the steps from whence they came. In panic, my body just said absolutely not - and I was thrown into what was the deepest and best sleep of my life, whilst the boy lay awake, terrified, until the sun came up.
The next day, I called my roommate Seb whilst he was on tour to recount the events of the night and he was genuinely baffled as to why I didn’t follow this chain of events:
Leave the safety of my locked room
Get his samurai sword (a normal thing to have)
Confront head on whatever person or demon or rat was lurking with said samurai sword
Banshee screech, holding samurai sword, in pyjamas on front porch to ward off any final temptation
Go back to bed
When I first moved in with the boys, I was in an incredibly chaotic, insane, depressive and self-destructive period of my life. A time where I pawned my moral compass for cash until bankruptcy. My entire mindset was fuck it dog life’s a risk! Life is a rollercoaster and I’m tall enough to ride! And I was constantly putting myself in scenarios where I thought things like “what’s a girl gotta do to get in a brawl around here?” and “there is absolutely no excuse for what I am about to do.” I believe I am a smart person, but at that point in my life, I had to do dumb and self-destructive things in order to relax. From November-April I had truly abandoned my search for truth and was aching in desperation for a good fantasy.
I needed a swift change of energy, pace and environment, and moving in with Seb and Sam in their Young Ones-esque scum manor lair was the immediate solution.
Living with those boys was a consistent reminder that everything has humour, and that we are in some senses more indestructible than we may think. It all carries on. They were understanding and kind and silly and smart, but at the same time they didn’t indulge my emotions too much – which I desperately needed at the time after months of ruminating. Sometimes you do just need someone to tell you “Enough sooking now.”
Seb’s solve all is kefir and yogurt. Every time he’s sad he just eats yogurt and suddenly everything is okay for the most part. Something about probiotics. In truly dire times, he’d put on Foo Fighters music videos and rank the hottest to least hot phases of Dave Grohl. I think current day Dave Grohl is sexiest, Seb disagrees and believes young pigtail Dave Grohl is most attractive, but our middle ground is both believing that Monkey Wrench Goatee-Grohl was not a good look.
I found that when living with boys, they don’t give you time to sit and dwell. What’s that - you’re sad? Let’s go dig a hole in the backyard. Still sad? Well have you tried throwing a large rock? Alternatively, throw this knife at the wall! And when it’s really bad, they’ll take you fishing. Or bowling. Nothing quite like flying down a suburban street in a van en route to Aspley Bowling Alley, a venue that has not progressed past the 70s, listening to Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd, hungover, ruminating about decisions from the previous night, before ordering a packet of hand assorted lollies and double parking with some 4X before hitting the lanes.
Time has been passing quickly, and the ache and presence of August is pressing up like a sharp object against my ribs. Everything lingers just a little bit too long; everything is coming too quick, the emotion remains but the circumstances and environment have changed. I live with my best friend now. Everything smells good, we share our wardrobes, it is clean and there are no sword slashes in the couch or knives in the walls, she is so inspiring, it is beautiful, and I am so grateful, and we laugh incredibly hard every day.
But I still leave the house and find myself scanning crowds for specific faces at places that those faces have no reason to be at, like my brain is checking to see if those faces are still in my life, subconsciously patting its emotional pockets before it leaves for the day.
In my dire times, when in search of comfort, I think of 2 scenarios to bring me peace.
1.
I am back in Papua New Guinea, where I spent 14 years of my life, lying on the roof of a boat out near an island 20 minutes from Port Moresby, using my bilum as a pillow, reading a book, listening to Nau FM softly playing from the boat deck whilst my dad snorkels and collects shells for me. The boat rocks gently. The harsh sun turns me red. I eat a ripe mango; the juice soothes my burnt skin and taints the pages of my book. The local kids are playing on the beach. We share sandwiches with them, and they play beach cricket with my brother. It is warm, everyone is laughing, I am sleepy, and content.
I am back in London, I am with my mother, we are walking the dogs up on Hampstead Heath. We walk through Highgate Cemetery. We are wearing scarves that I knit for us, as well as thick socks with our ballet flats. It is cold, overcast, and we are happy. We get on the underground home and continue our walk, through Greenwich Park. We finish at the Plume of Feathers, our favourite pub, where we eat fish and drink Guinness. Mum has wine instead. The dogs rest their heads on our laps. It is cold, there is a fire burning, I am sleepy, and content.
Here are some things you can do if you feel yourself indulging the sook too much, too often:
Bowling
Camping
Fishing
Learn to line dance
Write all of your emotions out on an a5 piece of paper and hang it on your wall
Here are some things I have written on my wall that I like.
THERE IS NOTHING TO FIX
GUTS 2 LOVE HEART 2 LOSE, PLENTY OF BOTH
I AM YOUNG AND HAVE ALL OF MY LIMBS
LOVE HEAVY EVERY DAY
REMEMBER WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER. EXCEPT FOR THAT 1% WHO ARE FUCKING CANING IT