On loving music.

I have this obsession. It's called music. This insane thing happens to me when I'm listening to music - the heavier, the harder, the crazier the music, the more calm and collected I feel.
When I'm listening to a song that really strikes me musically - it touches me. Like heaven, my soul is absolutely open and willing to listen.

It all started with my big brothers. My idols; my heroes.

I'll never forget the time they brought home the Rage Against the Machine album, cranked up the volume and we screamed the words to "Killing in the Name" in our front loungeroom as though nothing else mattered in the world. Swear words and all: I was meant to be a boys' girl from that moment.

One of the first deep experiences I had with music was in my early adolescence. It had something to do with my first kiss. He was older than me, by one year. In those days, that was an eternity of age; I thought the guy was the messiah of experience. I fell in love with him because of the simplicity and stupidity of the experiences we had together. But in terms of music, he was an influential person in shaping my taste.

We were sitting on his couch, lounging back. We weren't going out or anything; I was too young and embarrassing and unattractive to be his actual girlfriend. But still - something kept him revolving around me. He had put on the CD player and the drone of Kurt Cobain's voice wafted through the speakers. For a mid-90s Pearl Jam fan myself, I thought Nirvana sounded instinctively depressing. I didn't like thinking about sad things. I was young. I liked fun and happiness and enjoyment. I had never really thought of deep feelings or any of that stuff.

"Come As You Are" was playing. He turned to me, his eyes slightly closed and his head turned back, a pleasurable smile tinting his face. "Don't you just love Nirvana?" I stared at him a bit and replied, "It sounds a bit depressing. I don't know." He smiled at me and said, "No really, listen. Listen to the music. Listen to the sadness in his voice. Once you get into this, you'll never go back. Kurt Cobain is a true artist."

There was something about the guitars which struck me, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I was thirteen or fourteen at the time. Kurt had only died a year beforehand, and the true fans were still mourning his passing and lamenting his music. As the years wore on, Kurt gathered more and more fans from his tragic death than through his life, and I moved on to my next love, the budding Dave Grohl who took Nirvana to a more upbeat, controlled kind of rock in his next band, The Foo Fighters. They suited me better.

But, from that day sitting on that couch with my first love teaching me about music, I listened to Nirvana more and more. It became my anthem of sadness. It tainted my heartbreak as I realised that first loves inevitably dissolve. Youth doesn't mix very well with love. But Kurt kind of got me through those years, as I listened to the tender pain in his voice.

The next heartbreaking album that shaped my tastes was Jeff Buckley's "Grace". I don't even think I need to explain that one. Except that I think I began to form an extreme attraction to singer/guitarists who died at age 27. It annoyed me, all these suicidal artists, because I was someone who never wanted to be depressed. I was the happiest person I knew. But I did start to contemplate things at a whole new level, and the prettiness of their music stunned me into submission. By the age of 16 I was changing. I was maturing. I was becoming more physically beautiful, much to my surprise. And with that, the complexities of relationships started to grow. I still thought of myself as that ugly, unwanted little girl who was never good enough for the older guy whom I loved. I thought I was unattractive, so I used my vibrant personality to get myself through every situation and climb the ranks of popularity. People wanted to talk to me. Boys started taking interest in me. My parents started tightening the reins on me. I became angry in my world - held back from my potential, my growth. I wanted to be like the girls I worked with. Get a tattoo, get a nipple ring, be sexy, be wanted, be free.

Angry rock music started a cycle in my life. I would lock myself in my room and play the heaviest music around at the time. I'm surprised I'm not deaf from the amounts of music I used to play. I was a music addict, a maestro of knowledge at the time. Anything that was played on Triple J was in my spectrum of taste. I would try to teach others around me. The boys loved my music knowledge; the girls hated it. It was a sad time when I left high school and started going clubbing. Because at the time, there were no clubs that played music of my element. I was stuck listening to R&B or pop music every time I went to Fremantle or Northbridge. I became disillusioned. Why were people listening to this commercial rubbish when there were so many rich musical experiences around them?

And then life happened. A spiral occurred. Complications, boyfriends. I worried too much about moving out, finishing Uni, getting a job, getting a life.

I forgot about all the things I loved. Or so I thought.

Once I had a boyfriend who said to me, "yeah I guess we were never going to work out. Music is too important to you." I thought differently after that. I realised, 'yeah, he's right. We are too different.' Music is too big a part of me to compromise on someone who doesn't share my passion. In recent years though, people have swarmed in and out of my life, reminding me what I lost. Almost like those crazy 'meant to be' moments, I have met people who have changed me.  I have re-instilled my love of music, finding new and defining experiences. Triple J is still my backbone. Alternative, fresh new music is the key. Pushing the boundaries of possibility is what I love searching for.

 Listening to a new sound and realising that my heart is momentarily cured: Priceless.

I b

On tears and masculinity.

Ever made a boy cry?

I've made five men cry. Not just boys: men. It's possibly the most heartbreaking thing you can ever witness. Because when men cry, it's because their whole world has fallen apart in one hideous sweep and they feel the emptiness and power in all their emotions at the same time.

Women cry all the time. Part of the inbuilt over-emotional processing mechanism I guess. I am actually so sick of crying lately. I cry every few weeks usually, but recently that's become even more regular (annoyingly so). Now that may sound like a lot, but it's actually nothing in female terms. Most girls cry every second day. They freak out about every little incident that happens in their lives and let the tears roll, a little like a pressure system - a little gets let out to reduce the pressure. 

Most of the time I'm pretty strong, but I'm openly passionate and emotional. Sometimes I cry not because things are bad, but because things are good. For example, my super-talented housemate made a film for someone's wedding. When I watched it, the music crescendo towards the final scene progressed into a slow motion shot of the bride smiling blissfully into the camera and then folding into her new husband's arms as the image blacked out. I thought it had been done so professionally, tastefully and artistically that I literally felt the feelings swell inside myself until two tears rolled gracefully and silently down my cheek. 

I think my housemate felt pretty chuffed that he'd done a good job, judging from my reaction.  It had the ultimate effect.

So crying is not all bad crying. Sometimes it's ecstatic crying, it's massive tears of joy because you haven't seen someone for so long, or how about my favourite kind of tears - the rolling on the floor laughter that makes you feel totally high. 

The sadness tears are the worst. The I-miss-you tears. The I've-fucked-up tears. The I'm-a-worthless-piece-of-shit tears.

But what about man-crying?

I made my male best friend cry once. Actually I think I've made this person cry several times. 

My boss let a few tears slip when I left my work last year. It took everyone by surprise and it was in the middle of a speech he made for me. I have never felt so loved. Coincidentally, I felt perfectly at home when I arrived at my new workplace this year and found out that my new boss is perfectly ok with the man-cry. He claims he does it all the time.

Two men have cried when I have ended a relationship with them. There's just not a lot more I can say on that topic. I just don't want to think about it anymore. 

But the worst person to see cry, is your dad. 

Dad cried with me earlier this year. His heart had broken for me. Daddy's little girl. How much it made me gasp and choke on my own tears as I watched my father heave in pain and stumble over his words in a manly mess.

A lot of men tell me they don't like crying. They like bottling. It's unmanly to cry. Crying doesn't solve things.

But crying is sometimes like a free counselling session. You get all your negativity out, like a tap draining out all the shitty stuff you have inside. There's an intensity of emotion and then a sudden sense of relief, or sedation, or just... nothing. The feelings have gone. You can breathe again.

A friend once told me about a date she went on, in which the bloke started crying when telling a tragic story halfway through. Harshly enough, she didn't date him again. She felt that there was a lack of masculinity on his behalf... [it felt like she was dating herself]. 

I agree that it was a little too soon for the waterworks. It's pretty confronting seeing a guy cry, and I doubt it would make for a relaxed date afterwards. 

But long term... to watch a man hold back his feelings for so long, to only see a skerrick of their fears and desires every now and then when drunk and uninhibited... 

It sounds a bit sadistic, but what an artwork it is to see a man cry that you know and love.

It's not about seeing a man crumble. It's about seeing a man's true self. How incredibly attractive, to see that a man you know and love has a real heart that beats and resides with passion and feeling - and that he is man enough to live up to his truths.

On being lucky and loved.

I’m feeling blessed. I’m feeling the wash of love and good feelings and freedom and creativity and…. everything that is important to me.

The last two weeks have been so significant. To spend time with just me, my thoughts, my family and my friends. I can’t change who I am. I have to harness what truly makes me shine.

This is especially an important concept this year, as I approach a new decade. I struggled, wondering what this meant to me. But I need to stop worrying, and just be myself, and the best version of myself. The bright, happy, spontaneous, lovable, creative person that I am. I’ve struggled with my self-esteem so much over the years, and it’s time for me to just be happy with life.

I felt this strongly when I was on year twelve retreat. I was sitting, cross-legged, with a group of rowdy boys who just wanted me to feel accepted and equal. They knew I was a different kind of teacher, but they loved that I was completely myself. 

We shared so many personal experiences with each other, and I felt like part of their family. And the letters they wrote me at the end: it made me realise why I do the job I do. It’s not for the marking, the ladder climbing, the fact that my parents are proud that I’m an English teacher – it’s because I love connecting with people and sharing my love and life experience. I love guiding young people. I love building my family. And this wonderful, warm group of people left that retreat hugging me and tearing up as we left for the 2.5 week break. Not just girls, boys too. I felt it, a feeling of pride in who we were, and an understanding of what we all meant to each other. And the thing that really got under my skin, was the fact that one beautiful kid told me that he was sad that we’d only have two more terms in homeroom class together, and that he felt blessed that he had met me.

I thought, wow. I had stalled on leaving my old school, thinking that I’d never have these bonds again. I was so scared that leaving Kolbe would be the end of my career, or at least, the end of the beautiful parts of my career. And here they are again. Stronger, unstoppable.

I feel love. And that’s the only way to describe it, just as Gregory David Roberts describes in Shantaram. 

You feel love inside for others. You show your love to others. Unbridled and real and unashamed. That’s the Indian way that people show love and I guess that’s my way too.

And yet I always tend to feel the most love towards people who hide their love so deep, it is almost untouchable. Maybe because I have so much love within me, I need to unlock that love.

It’s no surprise that a lot of my creative writing is linked to love. Just as Tim Winton is inextricably linked with imagery of the ocean, I feel tangled in love. I breathe it, I understand it. And I won’t apologise for it. I feel songs and stories that tinker in love. I have had life experience that builds so many levels of understanding about love. The abuse of love. The loss of love. The reconnection of love.

Trying to understand a father who did not love himself, not one little bit. To the point where he was so willing to give his life away.

A mother who loved so much, too much, destructively, untamed, passionate, unstable. But always, always consistent. I will always love my mother for her reliable love. I think I am very much like her. I don’t fall in and out of love quickly; I hold love for a very long time, and there is something beautiful in that.

One thing I cannot stand in the world is a fickle love. One who decides they love one week, and fall away a moment later.

But I have also learnt the difference between love and attachment. Attachment holds no purpose. Love lasts always, an eternity. The people in your life who represent real connection and love will always fleet by your side and in your thoughts with only goodness and happiness. Attachment however, is destructive. I have fallen into this trap many times, trying to hold people in my life in a terribly unloving way. To let go of attachment is the ultimate love.

I’ve changed my life in many ways this year, but actually, I’ve come back around to where I was, and where I’m meant to be. I can’t be holding on to negativity and attachment anymore for the wrong reasons. There’s a great beauty in letting people go and letting them live their life. Because I will always be here when they want to be in my life again.

Life is exciting, and wonderful, and as I’ve experienced in the last few days, reconnecting with people who I hold so close to my heart, I know that all I need is their presence in my life.

And I had hugs with people I really, really needed hugs from. And I felt complete again, knowing that their open, honest smiles and warmth and twinkle in their eyes meant that our connection means a forever of happiness. I’ll always hold on to that feeling.

On filling voids.

(my creative writing on barelyabletodrawbreath.tumblr.com)

Champagne moons fill deathly bright in front of my eyes.

I am captured by the starlit beauty that surrounds me. Half-lit smiles, shiny eyes, bloodshot cheeks and spin-drop lights that blaze fractured rays through the crowd. I feel peaceful, I feel chaotic. I love, I crave, I shine bright in this black room of dusty shoes and high expectations. My toes curl inwards in my orange suede high heels which totter the planks of sticky floor. Don’t spill your drink on me. Don’t touch my pretty lace dress. Don’t take away my dignity. I smile up at you with lies and delight. I am not who you think I am.

My glass tinkles sparkly in my hand; bracelets graze my fragile wrist. I am not bound anymore.

And yet I am entirely bound: my hands are tied behind my back.

Fill me up again.

On drinking and writing.

No. I know what you're thinking. I don't write whilst drunk. [Interesting idea however.]

We'll get to the writing part later. What I'd really like to share, is my latest revelation: Drinking. It's not good for you. Big discovery, right?

I think I hit my drinking peak on Saturday night.

You're probably thinking that I'm some kind of tiny crazy 5"2 alcoholic.  But that couldn't be further from the truth. Since I was young, I'd probably have a drinking session once a month or so. Lately, it's been more like once or twice a week. Did someone say alcohol? Big night? Deafening music so that I don't have to think? I'm there. But unfortunately my tiny little liver is not liking it one bit.

Hey, it helps at the time. I went to a pub for a birthday party last weekend sober, and it was the worst night of my life, standing around in a crowd with losers hanging all over me, people screaming into my ear, and boozy dickheads spilling their beer on my orange suede heels. People weren't as funny anymore; life wasn't so easy. I needed my happy drug, and badly. 

And there is evidence to suggest that moderately "getting loose" every now and then is good for your body when you're in times of stress.

But after this weekend, I've decided to ease up. I'm feeling like shit.

Does drinking cause depression? Or is that just the brain-fry effect that happens after a big night? I am in a world of pain and am wondering if my life choices are worth it right now.

I guess what has really hit home is how severe my self-esteem problems are. I'm incredible at masking myself in front of others, but really, I am in a constant state of anxiety about whether I'm doing the right or wrong things, or whether people like me or not. And alcohol just isn't really helping me feel better about myself.

Where the hell did this come from? Which arsehole from my past screwed me up like this? Of course, I know the answer to that question, and it's from a long long time ago. It's up to me to resolve these issues that are churning inside of me, and figure out that I'm worth more.

On my bucketlist, number 29 states: "Stop caring what other people think of me". But do you think that's happened yet? No. I'd like to have a real sense of bravado here by saying I don't care, but of course I do. I analyse everything that people say to me, or how people act around me. I only feel good about myself when people say that they like me, or say that I'm pretty. But when I'm feeling more alone, and I don't have those props around me, I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. When I'm like this, I don't think I'm likeable. And I've never believed that I'm pretty.

And so here I am, sinking into Day Two of Hangover, and I feel depressed. Because alcohol exacerbates shitty feelings once the party's over. 

It's so hard to feel good when you feel displaced no matter where you go or who you turn to. Nothing in my life feels right at the moment. I miss things, I feel awful about my choices; I'm losing myself in trying to gain my identity again. Where am I heading?

But there's one thing I can trust that will make me feel good again. My writing. 

I always feel a little lost and less accomplished when I haven't been writing. Sometimes I feel as though the only thing I can truly depend on is my mind. My creativity.

I know I need to get back into my writing.

You'd think that a time like this would be inspiration for me to write something ingenious. Like, my best potential could come out of a situation like this. But I'm still waiting to feel whole again, to feel comfortable. Actually, to be more accurate, I'm still waiting to get a really good night's sleep. I think I need ten hours straight, for three days straight, before I'll feel amazing again.

I'll know when my true ability returns again. When I get the big one. The idea for a novel. I want to document something grand, something poetic and real and publishable; I want to be worthy of something more. That feeling, of desire and exhilaration, is the real purpose to me. It's like a drug, euphoric, when I get a wave of words crashing over me. 

So maybe that's what I need to do. Start writing. Start using my experiences, my fucked-up-ness, to create something of some kind of value to my life.

On suddenly appreciating Gotye.

Everyone knows I can't stand Gotye.

But when I hear "Save Me" blaring from the radio, I am taken, heartbroken, and uplifted at the same time. I am not sure if it is the bittersweet sounds of the song, or the lyrics, or both that get me... but every time I hear it I feel as though my heart is ready to burst.

That is the effect that music has on me. Paralysing, heart bursting. But it's also a magnetic way for me to deal with my feelings.

And then, this morning I read the lyrics.

I was spellbound with the common theme... about me, and about others in my life. This  state of sadness that captures us and causes an endless spiral; the inability to love when you can't save yourself.

There have been moments lately when anger has taken over, since this massive life change that I've undergone. The sheer listlessness of my 'self' dealing with the consequences of sadness and guilt, the moves from place to place, people who are too selfish to understand: this has all taken its toll on me. And yet I have removed myself from a situation in which I needed to be saved, despite how selfish and sad that choice was. I realised that the only person who needed to 'save me', was myself. 

And now that I'm on the other side, despite being tired and scared about my future... I can see so clearly, those around me, who need saving. Whether it's those experiencing depression, constant drinking problems, anger, disengaging from life... whatever.

And the inability to love, is the first clue of that reality... that some people just need to deal with their own problems, before anyone else can save them.

So I have a different take on Gotye's song. I don't believe it's a song about someone needing to be saved, it's a song about how someone has tried to save them, but in the end, it's yourself that needs to know and love yourself, first and foremost, in order to satisfy anyone else's needs. And therefore that is the only way you can satisfy your own needs.

I'm too tired now to do that job for anyone else. And I won't waste my time trying. I want to live, and be uplifted. Because now I know the road, and I know that all of us need to spend time fixing ourselves. Most of the time, our problems are due to past hang ups... people who have burned us, partners who have hurt us, parents who haven't loved us, fear of the unknown... whatever that hang up may be, that is what causes us to be paralysed within life. 

"And I could not love...

'Cause I could not love myself.

Never good enough, no:

That was all I'd tell myself

And I was not well...

But I could not help myself -

I was giving up on living."

One of my students came up to me the other day and showed me a photograph. My heart surged as this seventeen year old boy introduced me to a picture of his newborn 'daughter'. I thought I hadn't heard right. But there he was, scared as all hell, as he finally opened up on the secret that he had been hiding from me, and everyone in his year group, for months.

It now made sense why he sat at the back of the room, expressionless, and didn't participate or talk to me all year. He had his own problems to deal with. But he explained to me many things as we had our little chat in my classroom... He had always had a problem in opening up to people, and that he was hoping this situation, with this girl, and his daughter, would help him to connect with people again.

See, he had hang ups. He had seen four people killed when he was only four years old.

Now I could relate to that immediately because at nine, I thought my father had died. He had attempted suicide... and I will never forget walking into hospital with my brother and seeing his body being rolled down the corridor, covered by a green sheet. It was an image of death. That is a reality that no nine year old ever wants to face.

It is an image that haunts for all of eternity. And this poor boy in front of me is finally opening up to someone, about the deaths he witnessed, and about his inability to trust and open up to people... and the biggest of all... the fact that he, by accident, now has a daughter.

This boy needs saving. But I know that he needs to save himself. And perhaps through this image of new life, so perfect, so beautiful in his arms, perhaps he will be able to rectify the horrors that he's seen in his life, and witness the perfect cycle of life: that he has now created life.

I may not be able to rectify the wrongs I've done, for a long, long time. But I know it's nobody else's problem, but my own. And if I can share solace in others' stories... if this boy found the strength to share this secret with me, perhaps knowing inside that I would understand... then perhaps humanity is a beautiful thing after all.

We all need to take that step one day to save ourselves. And that's why I'm proud of this young man. He finally realised he needed to talk to someone. My heart burst as I walked out of the classroom that day. Just like the Gotye song, I couldn't decide if I was sad, uplifted, or just... amazed by the complexities of life.

On reconnecting with my past.

The strangest thing happened last week. 

There's this friend of mine, who has always been in my life since the time we were 9 years old. Coincidentally, That was the same year that something disastrously big happened in my life, in my family. But that's for another story. 

She met me at a time that I was vulnerable. I was shy and didn't have a whole lot of friends. We lived down the road from each other and the first time we met, I was taken back by her assertive and forceful way of giving a backhanded compliment. But I liked her.

We spent almost every day together, from that time on. We were pretty much inseparable. Every day I would wander over to her house and knock on her door and trudge into her room where we would listen to music or play with her barbie dolls and sift through the never-ending mess that cluttered her room. She was free and wild and loud-mouthed, the complete opposite to me, and yet we loved being friends. 

As we grew older, things changed. The expectations from my family meant that I couldn't see her as much; couldn't go the the same parties as her, couldn't stay late at her house. I started to retreat inside myself. I had immense jealousy towards her lifestyle and yet at the same time I wanted to scream at her: "Get your shit together! You can't be wild forever!" 

And yet, she influenced an important side of me. 

As we got older, it became more apparent that she needed my sense of responsibility, and I needed her sense of freedom. She represented everything I didn't have. She didn't care about what people thought of her; she just went with the flow. 

One thing we always had in common though was low self-esteem. How original. Teenage girls with low self-esteem.

We just dealt with it in different ways. 

It's been ten years since our teenage years, and it's been three years since I last talked to her. The last time was painful - I cut her out of my life because I just couldn't deal with the emotions of our friendship anymore. There was something resentful and seething underneath, and I couldn't deal with what was going on. So I shut her out. I cut her off. I never spoke to her again.

I never stopped thinking about her. She has always been part of me. She has grown in me, even in her absence. Often I would think of certain situations: What would she think of that? But I remembered - she wasn't part of my life anymore.

Recently, with lots of changes going on, we've been thinking about each other more. 

I emailed her the other day. She called me that night... and we cried and cried. It was like no time had changed, but at the same time, so much was different. She let me know that she had actually tried calling me two weeks earlier.... and she was having bouts of insomnia two months earlier than that. It was like the world was calling us to reunite. 

I believe all things are meant to be. At certain stages, things happen, people change, circumstances gravitate in different paths, and all of it makes sense in the very end. 

Having her back in my life is a blessing. Because we have learnt that we have both become more like each other over that time. She has become more like me, and I have become more like her. I'm not sure of the significance, but I think true friends will always make it back to each other in the end. 

I told her that in many ways, I needed her out of my life to figure myself out. She agreed. 

And now I'll be attending her wedding on New Years Eve. I'm super excited for the future. I can't believe how much has changed... and how nice it is to experience moments of revelation with somebody who understands you more than anyone in the world. 

On suffering and chasing dreams.

“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams.” Paolo Coelho, The Alchemist.

Ok. Yeah. The greatest philosophical book on life ever written. Coelho weaves a simplistic yet conflict-ridden narrative into a fable style, littered with magical metaphors and life lessons that no reader will ever forget. I am in awe of writers like this who just know instinctively how to touch the hearts of their readers.

I am following a life journey right now. The path is long and tricky and many parts of it feel awful and uncomfortable and guilty and wrong. So many times I have wanted to run back to peace and simplicity where I know best. But I know this is not the answer for me.

I have to find out what my heart is telling me.

When your heart has been crying out for so long, there's nothing more you can do but listen to it. Otherwise you will go crazy, and do things that will change you into a bad person. I never wanted to be a bad person.

But I certainly am sick of being such a good person.

When I say good person, I mean doing things in life knowing that it will be better for the good of everyone else. I don't think I've ever spent decent time in my life contemplating exactly what I need as a person. And since my heart keeps pulling me somewhere - I need to follow it.

It's strange though. Because I feel like I'm following a path with no end, with no answers at the end of it. It makes me want to turn around and go home because of this overwhelming fear of the unknown. There are also times, just like Santiago experiences, where I feel as though all my treasures I've ever worked for are being taken away from me.

But then, there's this... excitement? Exhilaration? There's this feeling emerging deep inside which overrides the painful guilt that follows me like a dark shadow each day. These are moments of insanity, of freedom, of perfection which make me feel so alive.

If I can smile, laugh every day for the rest of my life - I will be a complete person.

If I can commit every day to the things that mean everything to me: health, reading, writing, music, positive people - I will be a complete person.

If I can experience exciting moments that challenge me, often - I will be a complete person.

That's all I have to go on right now. 

The only way to stay happy and in control is to trust myself more than anyone else. For the first time in my life I am not letting anyone else influence me. I am keeping myself surrounded by beautiful people who let me speak from the heart.

Tonight, I'm going to drive by the beach on my own and sit on the sand with the stars watching over me. I'm going to breathe, cold and alive, take in the life that I'm meant to be living. I'm going to try to forget about the pain I've left behind and focus on finding myself, completely - because that's all we've got in life - our "self" - and if we can't listen to ourselves once in our life, when can we?

On teaching and being taught.

Just another typical day at work. 

I'm watching a year seven relief class do maths, while I persevere with my Year 9 reports. I also need to study for Macbeth: I am teaching Shakespeare with my Lit class.

And yet, my mind is wandering. 

The kids are fidgeting; their active bodies can only take the silence and the mundane routine for so long. I want them to stay quiet, and give me my momentary peace, but I sympathise with them. Life is meant to be active, lived: not tied down to a classroom for hours on end.

I never thought I could be a teacher. But here I am. The job of being a teacher is certainly different to being a student. I have never been less bored in my life. 

Sometimes I actually find it incredible how much can be going on in my mind, how much I am able to tolerate on a day to day level, and still experience the rise and fall of normal emotions. All this is going on throughout the drone of the odd 150 students I personally teach, and the close to 1000 people I hurtle my way through in the hallways, every day.

It is almost a miracle that I still feel something. 

I've changed so much over the last decade. It feels like only a moment ago I was an insecure, naive teenager who didn't know a thing about life, how to take care of myself, or how to make accurate decisions.

These days, I am so quick at taking matters into my own hands. Should I attribute my career to the changes within me? Or have I just grown stronger as a person, naturally?

I think my students have taught me a lot.

Over the years, I have had lessons taught that no other situation in life could have taught me.

Situation 1: The bitchy teenage girl.

Girl sits at the back of the class, chewing gum, smoothing back her hair. She is giggling with her girlfriend. They show each other a magazine. Class begins. Girl looks teacher up and down. She then interrupts teacher to announce, "I like your shoes Miss. I think I saw them in Myer."

Don't be fooled. This girl is not trying to be friends. This girl is trying to announce the fact that she is the Queen of this classroom. No teacher is going to take that title away from her. 

Now, in order for me to handle this situation, I learnt quickly not to be too nice to the girl. Be short, sharp, clear with my response. Do not pander to their prettiness. Do not give any allowances. And for god's sake, do not think that she is going to like you, no matter how nice you are. In fact, she will only like you, once you are out of her life. 

So my lesson in this scenario is: Acceptance. Not everyone is going to like you. So deal with it and move on, realising that the motive for their actions is based on simple primal insecurities. 

Situation 2: The class clown, the joker. 

Boy bustles into class with a crowd of boys, grunting obscenities and jostling desks. Boy screams out, "Hey Missss! What up!" Neutral reply from teacher. Boy sits down and asks, "What's going down today?" Teacher replies, "Nothing is going down, Tom. You, however, need to do some work."

This situation is a tedious one, because it is never-ending. The boy will not settle down. He will not be subdued by threats of phone calls home. He will not do his work just because you have yelled at him and told him he is a no-hoper. He will simmer in anger, planning his next move to ruin you.

My lesson in this scenario: Compassion. Always, there is a kind boy inside waiting to be heard and loved. I sit down with the boy. I ask him how his weekend was. I have a joke with him. I talk about the fact that I want him to do well. I remind him that if he does his work now, he is going to have a totally awesome weekend. I praise him for his efforts.

Situation 3: The kids are leaving you.

Teacher is at graduation, waving and tearing up as her favourite kids are leaving. The bonds she has shared with them are absolute. She knows though, that they are not going to visit. She knows that they will not see each other every day any more, leaving a big gap in her heart where she learnt to love them. And now they are leaving her. 

My lesson in this scenario: Love and respect never dies. One day, they will contact you again, and it will be like no time had passed. And always, always there are new students that will touch your heart again.

This job has been an endless rollercoaster which has taught me so much about life and human relationships. It is not just a job. Once you have students, they will affect your life forever. And not only will you teach them, but they will teach you lessons that will last forever.

Teaching has taught me to be a strong person. I can handle almost any situation that comes my way without the need for tears, or a man to save me. 

That is something to be proud of. But in the meantime, it's time to let the kids out for lunch.

On fearing myself: the demon lies within me.

Fear is such a crippling emotion.

It literally causes our bodies to shut down, bit by bit, hounded by illness and paranoia.

I breathe it all out. Forget it. Wash it away.

Hang ups. 

Fear of not being good enough. Fear of making the wrong decision. Fear of life travelling too fast. Fear of failure. Fear of falling behind. Fear of being stuck. Fear of getting hurt. Fear of not taking risks. Fear of losing someone. Fear of not being pretty enough, smart enough.

It’s always about not being enough.

Fear is a constant enemy in my life and I watch it travelling alongside me each day - stabbing me slowly, seductively in the abdomen, willing me to take the pain, to lower myself into the knife. I resist, I resist. Sharp pangs of silence ensue. I am not myself, I am not complete, I am not living the life I am meant to.

This pain is crippling.

And yet it is not just me afflicted by this pain. We live our lives constantly knotted up, wrenching ourselves from one infestation of worries to the next. We all cope with it in different ways. But the truth lies in this: the people who look the most calm, the most at ease, are the ones who have fear gripping them savagely the moment they lose control.

I am one of them.