Auf Wiedersehen

In a year and a day, I’ll be jumping on a plane to Germany.

I’ll have been in NZ for seven years. I don’t know why it’s important. But it is important that I leave exactly seven years after I arrive. There’s currently only one stamp in my passport.

I’ll happily admit: I’m running away.

I don’t know what from. I don’t know why. But fuck being here any longer. I love this stupid little country and I’m coming back to see even more of it, but I’m tired of it, tired of the way people live here, tired of the restrictions I feel I’m constantly living under. I’m tired of watching life pass me serenely by.

The thing is, I always tell people that changing your situation doesn’t change you. You can’t run from your problems, you can’t run from who you are. So part of me thinks that heading to Germany goes completely against what I believe – except, it doesn’t: I’ll happily carry my baggage with me.

Of course, I have and will have expectations of Germany – hot guys, cute girls, Porsches and Beemers fucking everywhere, all the things that matter in life – and there’s a strong possibility that too much dreaming leads to huge disappointments.

But that’s true for life. I blame it on movies and books and stories: you never see a scene that doesn’t matter. At no point during a movie will a boy walk past the house of a girl he likes and nothing happens. He will certainly not simply walk, lost in thoughts of said girl, and notice a few minutes later where he is.

And so we live with this stupid expectation that Everything Matters and that Something Will Happen.

And it fucking won’t.

Sitting around waiting for life to happen is only worthwhile in a movie or book.

So I can’t sit around waiting. ‘Cause nothing will happen. I’ll get stuck somewhere, content in the belief that things will magically get better or return to where they were, which is seldom better than right here.

No, I have to happen to life. I have to go and happen, I have to make my own stories. I have to make the changes I want to see.

Of course I could do that here. I could completely happen here. But I don’t want to. Nothing in me wants to stay, nothing holds me here; everything pulls me away. So I’m going to happen somewhere else.

Most people my age have settled. In a few years they’ll be married and kidded and bored and longing. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be comfortable. They’ll be happy and secure and content and dreamy. They’ll have things to work on, they’ll have work to do and a family to grow. They’ll have things to be proud of and people to love them always, unconditionally.

Not one aspect of that appeals to me. And I’m perfectly ok with that.

Because I could totally settle. I could find a lovely woman and settle into an analysis position and make my home here, make my mark right here so that when I die my memorial stone will say “BRB, gone to fetch my girl. See you kids soon.”

But so could anyone. And nothing makes me better than them for that role. There is nothing in me that makes me the sort of guy you’d marry and live forever with. Mostly, because I’ve never really wanted that.

Yes, I said I did. Yes, I love kids. But I feel that there has to be more to life. There has to be more to my life. I can’t simply raise some perfectly imperfect cultural mongrels and consider my life well lived. I just see no point in that.

What draws me is stories. What draws me is people. What draws me is love and sex and laughter and cars and drivers. Because I’d rather be broke in the passenger seat of a Porsche on the Nurburgring than wealthy in the driver seat of a Porsche on Tamaki Drive.

So I’m dawdling to Germany. And we’ll see what I do from there.

I’m ok

It took me 10 minutes to pile all of her things on one side of the room, ready for her to pickup. I didn’t feel a thing. There was nothing as I picked up her collection of perfumes and nail polishes, nothing as I piled up her books,nothing as I took down her clothes. I knew she wouldn’t take long to get here. Once she was here, she could take her stuff and be gone. Out of my life. Nothing left. Just me – free.

For some reason, I couldn’t quite read the words on the cds. I couldn’t work out which where hers and which where mine. I just kinda stared at them, trying to classify them – if they’re about cars or movies that make me cry, they’re mine, otherwise hers. But I couldn’t remember which ones made me cry.

She arrived whilst I was still bent over them. And she just kinda stood in the room, staring at the growing pile of stuff in the corner. Her eyes sprung a leak.

It’s not like either of us have an easy life. It’s not like either of us is worse off than the other. It’s not like either of us is not giving their all.

But there is so much fucking anger inside of me, I’m struggling to forgive. I’m struggling to see another side of the picture. All I see is my view, and my view is all that matters. Everything else is an excuse, a reason to not love me, a reason to not want me.

It’s so hard to keep trying when you feel you’ve given your all, and the only thing left is your anger and you don’t want to share that at all.

Her stuff’s back where it belongs now. It stayed sitting in the corner for a day. It made my room lonely. Where before there’d been little essences of femininity, there were now simply stark walls. So I returned it all from where it came, I replaced those touches that sparked off memories and thoughts and good ideas and my room is mine again.

Am I happy?

No.

Every day is the same day with different spelling. Every day, the same patterns, hopes, dismays, dreams and anger blaze through. I’m slowly being crushed under a weight I can’t hold.

I’m not fucking giving up. God no.

There is no going back. There is no “it get’s easier.” It fucking doesn’t. don’t fucking lie, it never gets easier! It only ever gets harder, there’s always more to add on, there’s always more to do, there is no quick fix, there is no point, there is no attainable dream.

The only options are to give up or to get stronger. Stronger and stronger, till what was heavy is light and light is unnoticeable. Stronger, until what took everything takes nothing and smiles are easy once more. Just keep fighting, keep pushing, keep holding on. The only easy way out is death, and that comes eventually so I may as well keep holding.

I don’t know if it’ll be enough. I don’t know if I can make it through. But I’m going to try. Though it hurts and every part of me is telling me not to, is asking what’s the point, I’m going to try. Just in case I can.

Entered Title Here.

It’s the softer words that strike me the hardest. The hidden meanings too. The words behind the meanings behind the squiggled lines of pen.

I’m struggling to write.

It’s not a block; it’s the problem of choice. There are so many options – so many words to write, so many stories to tell, so many feelings to deal with, so many things to do….just….so many.

I’m floundering in sea-sized waves. I don’t know where to turn. What to do first. How to even start.

This is so hard.

I’m not for a moment going to pretend it’s nothing but hard. Some moments are fucking awesome. I’m still laughing, still smiling, still finding joy. They’re just tinged with a guilty sadness.

Guilt is such an easy word to malign and misunderstand. I’ve been told so many times that it’s not my fault, I shouldn’t feel guilty. But that completely ignores what I mean.

My father is in jail. Not a sentence I’d have thought myself stating honestly. But he is. I don’t feel guilty for him being there: whilst his intentions were inadequately pure, his actions were stupid, counterproductive and harmful. I felt fury when he claimed he’d done it “all for us”. Because I never asked him too. But I apportion no blame at me or my family. The fault is solely his. Forgiveness was mine.

I don’t feel guilty for decisions that keep me at home supporting and stressing. If I’d have left, the only thing I’d have learnt is that I should have stayed. It frustrates me, it annoys me. But it keeps me dreaming. It keeps me hoping. Because it’s just one more year. And that’s exciting. I have no idea what will happen. But simply being free of obligations to myself, to be proud of standing by the people who matter most…that’s exciting.

No, I don’t feel guilty of my dad’s crime. I don’t feel guilty over my feelings toward him.

I feel guilty because my sadness overwhelms me.  Because, seriously, it’s not like he’s dead or anything. He’ll be out soon, really. And all I have to deal with are life things. They’re not that difficult, it’s all manageable. Other people manage it everyday. I have all the ability and skill to do all of these things – there’s absolutely no reason why I should find it all so hard.

Right?

It really is just like drowning.

Sex Matters

Apparently, men think about sex every seven seconds.

Personally, I think this is because women think twice as fast as men. But I may be wrong.

Regardless of how often we think about it, I haven’t had sex in four weeks and two days. I could give the hours but that would be a bit…pedantic.

This is not through lack of trying. I’ve got this gorgeously sexy, ex-gymnast Russian girlfriend with looks to cause a Trojan war.

I’m adequately interested.

The issue? Simple really.

She’s not.

(I’m not blaming, I’m not demanding, I’m not feeling entitled. I’m simply stating, because if I can’t state the facts, it’s impossible for me to deal with the repercussions.)

Given the amount of fucked-up-ness in Her head (No, she doesn’t get any sympathy. Just support and love for every part of her) I accept entirely where she’s coming from. And I’ll help her work through it. But it has no impact on what I’m feeling.

There’s a belief that sex is dirty. It permeates everywhere. It’s cheapened by advertisement and used as an insult. It’s used as a distraction – I’m bored, therefore I watch porn. Visiting a strip club is considered exotic; being a stripper is considered low-level. We say “sex sells” but what we mean is “men buy from women”. Desirability is equated to sex to the point that a lesbian admiring a well-proportioned woman is considered acceptable. A straight guy doing the same is considered “pervy”.

Women are considered “odd” if they’re sexual; men, “dirty old men”. Neither are “partner potential”. It’s like it’s wrong to enjoy – or, god forbid, desire –  sex.

It becomes taboo. To the point we can’t talk about it. To the point that “gay” is an insult. To the point that “being gay” is only acceptable if it’s loud and brash and in your face. Where every movie and tv series has to show a gay couple to “keep with the times”. Yes it’s real. And yes I really do like it. But I wish it wasn’t so noticeable. I wish it was the norm instead of the new.

We have this innate desire to be desired. Not the object of an orgasm; to have someone be so comfortable with you they touch you and say “wow, your skin is so soft!” because every other sentence in their heads is “wow, they’re so…wow”.

Sex isn’t about orgasms. It’s about boobs and tummies and legs and thighs and cocks and pussies and bums and mouths and noses and fingers and feet and toes and arms and backs being completely irrelevant to the simple act of loving and being.

Cause there is so much more than just the physical. We define ourselves through our clothes and when they’re gone we’re just lumpy sacks of feeling. We’re so vulnerable. We’re trusting someone to let us in. We’re trusting to someone to come in. It takes a different sort of bravery to say “this is all I am, love me.”

People do treat sex as a conquest – though I think the conquest belongs to whom lets in, not who takes – and they treat it as a badge of honour. They can also buy it.

And then sex seems meaningless.

But it’s not. Because they’re not on about sex: they’re on about orgasms. The difference they’re missing? The emotion.

And that’s why I don’t blame Someone for the situation we’re in. It’s been 4 weeks and 2 days and it’s been hard because all I want in all the world is Her. But I want Her to want me to. Because I’m not after an orgasm. I’m after that deeper, better, fuller emotion, that little four letter word that leaves me breathless as I smile and say those three little words:

“Did you cum?”

Because the answer doesn’t matter. Because I know the stresses that enter Her life and I know the troubles that I face. I know what stress can do to you. I don’t ask for the answer. I ask so that we can talk. I ask because the barriers are down. I ask because those stress and troubles are too big to be faced alone.

My Lesson

Blessings aren’t few and far in between.

I’m feeling – these days – that everything is coming to a head. Everything is simmering, it’s about to boil. A hugely complicated chapter in my life is – hopefully – coming to a close next week. It’s been the most trying and character-building period of my life, and I appreciate it. I’ll be so happy to see the back of it though.

I have only 10 000 words to edit of my first full novel. That’s super exciting. I’m nervous of it: I don’t know if the story is good or shit.They only way to find that out is to get people to read the book. So tomorrow or Wednesday…there’ll be a new book out for people to read.

My perspective of jobs has also changed. I’ve done some diverse things – sales, deliveries, software development, tutoring, retail – and I feel that whatever comes next is going to be iconic. In terms of my little life, that is. I don’t know what it will be, but I believe it’ll be Vital when I look back – regardless of what it is.

I realised recently my current friendships are almost all the best and longest I’ve ever had. It is humbling to realise how long I’ve been in people’s lives – people who care about and love me. It’s a foundation I can rely upon – and they’re friendships I can build upon. I’m truly blessed to have them.

My family, too, is fairly special. My brother and sister have bought tickets to travel in the middle of the year. I’m jealously excited for them. It’s super cool they get to go, it’s even cooler to realise how much they’ve worked for it. My mom is, of course, my mother: understandably arrogant. My dad is…incredible. Over the last few months I’ve seen such a powerful change come across him. He’s a different person and I love it. I’ve always been proud of him: never more than now.

I love reflecting on how many cars I’ve owned or driven. I’m driving a basic shitbox at the moment and I love it for it’s raw uselessness. It’s a car in it’s simplest disguise and you don’t simply sit and relax: you drive it or you crash. It makes me long for more cars – not better cars. Cars with the same characteristic, cars that make you drive them, cars that aren’t simply show pieces, cars that are proud to be cars.

There’s one aspect of my life that – alone – I could consider a blessing worth anything.

I could quite happily spill all of the little details that make Someone so truly special to me, but I think I’ll cheapen them all if I do that. To put it quite simply: I fought for us because I believed She’s worth it. I thought I’d have to make all the effort to make us work because She’s struggling with life. And She turned around and has made more effort than even I could expect of Her.

She is simply wonderful to me. Everything we’ve been through becomes worthwhile when I consider She’s with me.

And that’s it really: things have been crap for so very long. It’s made me stronger and more fragile, it’s made me a better me and it’s made me a worse me. But finally, I feel like things are getting better. And I don’t by that mean that good things are going to happen: I mean that whatever happens, I feel like I can make the very best out of it.

And that’s a lesson only I could teach me.

 

Money Matters

This week has been a bit more than all over the place.

I’ve driven 970 kilometres in one week. That’s 30 kilometres below my goal. So that was a fail.

I discovered that my job is not sales. I’m actually providing a health service – I was told that if I can’t find a need for our products, I should not sell. I like that.

I also made my first sale. Which was awesome. And then I went door knocking and discovered a rather good friend lived two doors away. So we went out to dinner. I didn’t get much door-knocking done that night.

I had someone try sell me a car, disturbed a couple having sex, met the scariest friendly man, found some gorgeous cleavage and crawled through spider webs. I won an argument with a dog, had the sweetest lady slam a door in my face by mistake, had someone shout “Fuck off!” without moving from their chair, and got confused when someone answered my knock from the deck upstairs.

It was so much fun.

I also moved out of the place I was house-sitting and back home, where the most common question is “When are you moving out?”. Comforting.

I’ve slept a total of 26 hours since Monday, and I’m finding that suits me fine. I would have slept less, but two of those nights I’ve spent with Someone. I love waking up next to Her so much, that I cuddle up to Her and go back to sleep. I wish we’d spend more time sorting out where our relationship is going.

My writing is being abused. I’m editing “Porsching” and writing “Habits of a Ticketless Speedster” whilst I wait for someone to pay for “Killer Queen”. I’m very far off my goals and need to get those on track – otherwise I have nothing to show for my words. I need to balance my time better.

I’ve been to the gym three times. It must be unusual to see a fat guy sweating – every girl has to come look. Some of them are actually pretty. It’s a little embarrassing to be panting away, all the water I’ve drunk sweating away whilst opposite me a pretty girl effortlessly exercises her biceps with a weight setting I can’t manage. Smiling works wonders in those situations.

I’d just like to point out – in case you missed it – that I’ve been to the gym. Three times. In a week. I hate the gym. What the fuck is wrong with me?

I like destressing there. I like the simplistic routine – bike, rowing maching, whatever-those-weight-machines-are-collectively-called, bike, shower, home.I like the friendliness of the staff. I like the cleanliness and the emptiness.

Things are starting to look up.

For too long, I’ve felt as though I’m walking on a path that keeps giving way. Crawling more than walking, my support structure limited to just me.

I’m walking now – slowly, to be sure. I’ve found a beam with it’s own fragile support, and some guides to show me where to go. Of course, life is more complicated than a single path or beam. I still put my foot down on a tile and it cracks and gives way, leaving me strandedly dangling. But there’s a path nearby – a support of sorts – and it gives me hope. It’s not very reliable – money never is – but hopefully I can use it build more support. Hopefully, it’ll keep me going just long enough for me to find more to stand on.

And if it doesn’t?

Well, I’ve always wanted to go base jumping. I think I’ll still be ok.