Being Held Back or Diverging Paths?

“I know they sometimes think that I hold you back.  You don’t think I hold you back, do you?”

I reassured Thabo that he didn’t and the decisions I make are my own.  But more and more often, it does feel that he holds me back in other ways.  It’s hard to explain; we’ve been together for almost eight years and they’ve been a great few years in terms of the relationship, and I do believe that he’s my soulmate forever.  But more often, probably over the past two years, certain aspects of our personalities have come head to head.  How we view things in life don’t always match (and I’m not talking about the usual differences and disagreements).  Certain more fundamental and basic views on – materialism, career, the value of happiness, living in the present, how much money is enough, how to express opinions to others, honesty versus rudeness, friends…the list goes on.  I get so shitty at him when he tries to correct me or aggressively express his views (it feels like being bullied).  How do I and can I resolve this?  Could I, he, or both of us changed so much in the past two years?  What does it means for “us”?

A very private thought I have which I’ve tried to avoid looking into too deeply until recently is:  is he the best person for me now?  And it’s that feeling of being suppressed (?) that makes me question this.  Maybe, I’ve been too independent in my beliefs and thoughts and find it difficult to accept an alternate view or opinion.  I don’t know.  I do know that these moments occur more frequently and piss me off more. 

Maybe it’s the real reason why marriage scares me so much even more than the stress of planning and having the limelight intentionally centred on me.   I don’t doubt that we’re going to spend the rest of our lives together but the the idea of saying, “I do,” makes me afraid that I’ll be “trapped”  into having to live with the feelings I’ve described above forever.  It’s a contradiction because either way we’re together.  I guess in my mind, marriage means I give permission and agree to having to live the rest of our lives with these differences that make me unhappy and sometimes angry. 

Our relationship looks doomed in writing.  But I usually write about things that make me unhappy.  I’m too busy living at other times.  I hope I don’t have to write about this again. 

Broken China

An earthquake, perhaps, was exactly what China needed to draw attention away from its poor human rights record and scrutiny afforded to it in the lead up to the Olympics.  My cynicism says, “Affirmative.”  No one wants to see suffering and rising death tolls but surely, hopefully, some good will come of this (not in the least, sound construction of foundations and buildings).

I do believe that terrible things on a large scale need to happen every once in a while to enable people to reprioritize what’s really important to them in life and to unite people.  Tragedy seems to be the strongest catalyst, and from it tales of the strength of the human spirit and kindness often arise.  But which would you rather be in, earthquake in China or cyclone in Myanmar?  I think I’d choose the former, where the government, at least, has responded quickly and allowed foreign aid.

Some of my extended family live in the Sichuan province.  I’m waiting to hear from Mum that they’re alright.

 

Smells of Home

Rain on a hot bitumen road

Frangipani

Freshly mowed lawn

Reef oil

Ocean

Fish Out Of Water

Stepping out into the hot balmy air is like being wrapped in familiarity. The sensations of past experiences come flooding back (the ochre Aussie accent, the laid back friendliness, tanned exercised bodies, the singing cicadas) just snapshots in a collective time creating livestreams of relived memories. In short, nostalgia. That was me at the airport. Even the coffee from the little airport cafe tasted better than any of the shit they call “coffee” in London.

I’ve been in Brissie for 4 days now and have settled except for the ongoing jet lag. At 3pm sharp daily begins the battle to stay awake. I’ve succeeded once so far and going by past trips home, will take a week to resolve, which is fortuitous since we have a wedding to attend at the end of the week.

We celebrated my birthday having drinks at an old friend’s home (Mitch, and his boyfriend, Ryan, who would put any one else’s Vogue Living featured house to shame) with a handful my the dearest friends and their partners. This was followed by a flash dinner which Thabo insisted on paying for in its entirety. He has yet to realized that although the pound goes far in Australia, it doesn’t make one obscenely rich. It was a fantastic night with everyone having a good time.

Thabo and I went back with Mitch and Ryan for a few more drinks. Part of the evening went like this:

Ryan: “Where’s the fish?” Their Siamese Fighting Fish was not in the fish tank on the kitchen diner.

Me: “Has he jumped out again?” This would be it’s third time since they’ve owned him – he was once found on the floor and another, in the kitchen sink – both times he was able to be resuscitated by placing him back in the tank.

Mitch: “Is he on the floor?” And so we all look towards the ground. By our feet was most of the fish. The rest of him was smeared across the floor.

Me: “Did someone step on him?” Quite clearly someone had but I felt the need to state the obvious.

Thabo: “Well, it wasn’t me.” At this point, we all looked down at the soles of our shoes. There was no fish seen but on the sole of Thabo’s shoe was a wet stain. Amphibious fish; Can survive on land but is no match for Thabo’s foot.

I really miss hanging out with old friends.

Back to the Motherland

3 days until we board the Heathrow Express and on our way to Home. It’s always a mixture of excitement and apprehension with these trips across the world. Will I be welcomed home? Will it still be the same Australia that I love? Am I going to get homesick with the thought of having to leave again so soon?

We’ll be making a short stop in Sydney for a wedding. It seems like (and is) years since we left. I feel a certain sadness at returning because so many of my friends have since moved away. I only have a handful of people I need to catch up with. And there’s a sadness about having moved from such a beautiful city. I remember the feeling, quite well, of exhilaration every morning I walked over Pyrmont Bridge, across the harbour and through the city bathed in morning sunlight. And the intense blue skies. I felt that amazement everyday; Being overwhelmed by the beauty surrounding me. I haven’t felt that since leaving.

And Brisbane, my childhood hometown. I love her more each time I return. Watching her grow and slowly come of age. My family and friends close by. I’d love to resettle in Brisbane. Of course, it’s not quite a possibility with Thabo’s work. And I do feel guilty that I can’t be closer to my parents. Dread comes over me if I dwell on it too long. It must be a sensation familiar to every 30-something year old – ageing parents and the sick feeling that time is running out to get to know them more, to continue to share your life with them. It’s hard to do living across the world from them. I hope that there is plenty of time ahead.

Moving

We’re supposed to be moving this weekend. Thabo is in Austria for work. His humourless vulgar fat cat clients are giving his group the run around, so now he has to stay for the weekend. Of course, I’m annoyed, left to sort out the whole move myself (nothing is packed yet). But I’m more fearful of a future where he’s consumed by work and I’m the “single” partner. Actually, the present is often like that already. No, I’m fearful that there is going to be no let up and this is how it’s always going to be. In which case I wonder, what is the point? I hate London. The whole reason I’m here is for “us.” And all too often there is no “us.” What does that leave me?

Baby Brother

I don’t know why I’m surprised by my state. It’s not as if there wasn’t a history of depression, in myself anyway. Certainly, not in our family. But we’re not really a family that verbalizes emotions.

My baby brother probably went through a depressive phase in his high school years. He was always angry, getting into trouble at school, fighting, engaging in petty criminal behaviour (there was one time…another story), hanging around “the wrong crowd.” The alternative explanation is that he had a mild form ADD. He got bored too easily and was never able to be still. Sitting at a table or desk was a serious challenge met with him doing something which inevitabley got him into trouble.

Despite all the above, he’s deeply spiritual. He’ll enjoy the beauty of a scene for all that nature has to offer. Only until recently, he believed that he was doomed and bad karma was all he had to look forward to as punishment for his past wrong-doings. But he learnt (through an abridged and illustrated book on the teachings of Buddha) that he could change that and his fate was not set in stone. His ideals regarding parenthood and friendship reveal a depth and maturity beyond his years.

He made a peculiar remark a few years later when he came to visit me to explain his behaviour. “Something happened to me…” That’s all he said. And I felt the immensity of his statement. He didn’t give details nor do I have reason to believe or be concerned that he was abused. I still don’t know what happened.

He’s on the straight and narrow having a great time and a full life in Tokyo now. The 24hour sensory overload calms him, I think. He has a real job that he loves and pays extremely well, a girlfriend who wants to marry him, regular weekends away to fulfil his snowboarding passion and all the boy’s toys that one would desire . He still enjoys time back in Australia and stocks up on the things he loves – eats three times his weight in meat pies, steaks, seafood and mum’s cooking, gets a daily dose of sun and surf and just chills (well, goes fishing, driving, just doin’ shit) with his mates.

I love him to bits but I don’t know if he knows that. I think he does.

Oh, I’ve exhausted myself. I was meant to be writing about my own history of being depressed. Another time.

I Remember When

Thabo and I went to a farewell for a former work colleague who is moving to Australia. A bar in Soho. Music was cool, venue was cool, drinks were cool. It was loud in the way that you couldn’t carry forth a smooth conversation or be spontaneous. How do you be spontaneous when every little quip or witty remark has to be repeated? Talking was such an effort to the point where you’d only say something after some thought was put into it, so as not to waste words and breath. It was also one of the few times that I’ve ventured into a bar stone-cold sober. Nothing like sobriety to emphasise how uncool I felt. And in an instant, I felt 40 years old.

For years, I’ve been stuck at 27 (I still look it), but suddenly I feel aged (and not in a good wine and cheese kind of way).
“The music is too loud.”
“It’s too crowded.”
“I’m tired.”
“I’ve had four beers and I’m still sober and I still can’t hear what you’re saying, and this is eating into my sleeping time.”
“Look at all those kids swivelling lollypops (ooh, it’s so obvious you’re off your titties – such an unclassy drug-pig look)” – something that I myself used to try with great effort to hide. No lollypops, just lollies, gum or incessant and furious application of lip balm, and occassional break-through lip-smacking.

When did I suddenly get so old? So weary and scared to venture from my daily routines? I used to love big nights out, getting wasted or consuming anything I could, orally or intranasally (never ever intravenously, vaginally or rectally – my friend took an E once rectally – he said the effect was very smooth and long. He’s also gay. But he has settled down with a “husband” and their surrogate twins, now.) Even more telling is that I insist on letting people know that I’m too old for -insert activity-. I don’t even try to convince people that I used to be a party princess once. In fact, I could get away with being a 60 year old nanny nodding wistfully, “Yes, I remember back in my day…” Except, I’d say, “Remember last month?”

Potato and Rice – It’s All Starch To Me

What a hoot! The All Men Are Liars blog in recently featured two topics which I found to be breathtakingly amusing and poignant (?). Yes, because it was as if all these strangers had stolen my recollections of various stages of my life. How is it possible that we have the same memories and experiences? My ultimate dream is to write a memoir/novel in the style of Nick Hornby’s medical recollection, on what life was and is like. Probably, only Asian-extractions, their relatives and partners would be interested…but that makes a lot of us.

Particularly funny from, “Why Don’t Aussie Girls Date Asian Men?”:

There are two types of Oriental Asians: FOBS (Fresh off the Boats) and ABCs (Australian Born Chinese). FOBS are most likely to drive skylines or integras filled with stuffed toys and Honky/Korean pop music. These guys have a clear preference for Asian girls (preferably the Louis Vuitton totting toting

The ABC’s on the otherhand are the Asian yobbos of the world. They will approach any girl of any race if she has the right attitude and looks good. I’m dating one at the moment (6 Ft 3 who can easily intimidate in a dark alley). Perhaps white girls are more accustomed to associating Asian guys with FOBS and therefore ruling out all the eligible ABC’s? Could be good fodder to feed a man drought!
Posted by: Chop Suey at October 17, 2006 03:31 PM

From, “How Do You Say ‘Yobbo’ in Vietnamese?”:

… You can’t change human nature – a lot of people get freaked out by individuals and customs that are different to what they’ve grown up with. I don’t know why. A thousand years ago it was the people from the next valley who wigged us out, now it’s people from across the other side of the world. The thing is, as ‘newcomers’ blend in with ‘us’, we can’t help take their pigment into the cultural mixture. In twenty years, a white kid will pull a rice paper roll out of their lunchbox, sitting next to an Asian kid chowing on pita and a Lebanese girl picking the cheese off her pizza pie. This is good. This is very good. Maybe we’re not as tolerant and accepting as we should be, but evolution will force it upon us. My uncle always tells me that in 200-300 years, Australia will be the first true Eurasian race. We’ll be identifiable around the world because of our beautiful caramel skin, almond eyes and thick bloody accents. Wish I was going to be here to see it – Sam

Look no further than Kylie Kwong for your quintessential Asian Aussie chick… perfect blend of her parents culture and her own…love it.
Posted by: ramona at August 17, 2006 10:07 AM

Kylie Kwong is not the quintessential Asian Aussie chick – she is a typical Surry Hills lesbian. Posted by: Lerker at August 17, 2006 10:46 AM

I am a big fan of asian migration – the more of them in Australia the comparatively larger my penis seems.
Posted by: Paul C at August 17, 2006 01:01 PM

All well and good, but that effect is being cancelled out by the number of Sudanese migrants recently.
Posted by: Andrew at August 17, 2006 01:18 PM

So true about FOB (Fresh Off Boat) and ABC (Aust Born Chinese) these are acronyms used by ABCs; I prefer to just use BHs – (Born Heres) instead of ABC as they ain’t all “Chinese”- The differences are extreme (apart from the cool Aussie accent on BHs) totally two separate human species. Clothes and style is another obvious one, but attitude is also a huge denominator. FOBs are off another planet whilst BHs are rockin’ it right in the pocket with you and right back atcha! Awesome! Gorgeous gregarious and groovy 2nd-gen Asian chix are the best thing about immigration, big whoop about the so-called culinary benefits; noodles not very solid grub. Opposite is kind of true for mid-east immigrants IMHO – I don’t mind the odd kebab, although I prefer the Israeli kebabs – how mad is that!?.
Posted by: marcusbondi at August 18, 2006 05:02 PM

Man Ray

While eating breakfast this morning, I cried. I woke up inexplicably sad, or more accurately, emotionally labile (it was not PMT). It came from nowhere and hit me like a ton of bricks. I cried at sad things, I cried at funny things, I cried at the MTV-flux best music video clips, and the British Red Cross appeal ads. Every other band is a derivative of Radiohead. Just that idea seemed so momentous that I felt choked up. And why is Ben Stiller in P. Diddy’s video clip? This made me cry. It was as if every hint of emotion was amplified a million times and manifested itself as my tears.

I’m so thirsty now.