Treat Yourself

25th November 2018

“Every day, once a day, give yourself a present; don’t plan it, don’t wait for it, just let it happen.” 

This is what my newfound fictional crush covertly advised to me. Agent Cooper, from Twin Peaks, was referring to a cup of coffee at a seemingly inconvenient time. I basically took it as the ever prevalent self care tip taught by Instagram, counsellors, and anybody who hasn’t quite figured out a sense of balance.  

“Treat yourself.”

Now, I’m no influencer, nor do I counsel, and I may only be a little off balance, but I feel like I can genuinely say it’s actually a good concept. I practice it daily. The extent of my wardrobe is testament to that; and the number of times I’ve impulse ordered Chinese on a school night speaks volumes on how easily applicable it is to your everyday life. “Treat yourself!” I say to myself, as I hang up the phone to Li Garden. 

These are just two of my own personal go to’s.  I obviously have less expensive ones, like painting my nails or taking a nap. But I feel like that’s the beauty of it, there are so many ways to treat yourself; and not one of them is necessarily the absolute way to do it. I mean, I hear of people going out to buy organic kale, just to give themselves a little somethin’ somethin’. I don’t get it, but I’m not going to tell them that their kind of “treat yourself” is wrong; because in all honesty, treating yourself is just a means to loving yourself. And if organic kale is the way to someone’s own heart, well, then let them at it.  

Because for each heart there is out there, there are going to be a million more ways to tap into it; and once you’ve realised how to do just that for yourself – a billion doors open. 

Let me elaborate. 

Treat yourself, to me, has meant discovering the little things that make me tick. I’m talking about the little micro-preferences I have in my everyday life: from my favourite colour (pink), to my favourite kind of sweet (doughnuts), even down to my favourite pair of socks (the ones with giraffes on them). Likewise, when something just doesn’t do it for you. I.e. mandarins. I don’t like mandarins. 

I’m definitely the kind of person to who is prone to being overexcited about everything, but I daresay these are the sorts of things we take for granted. Could you imagine how much better an otherwise yucky day would be if you’d just wear your favourite undies? What if you took only ten minutes for a random Sudoku break at work? Perhaps a kind word for yourself in the mirror before you go out each morning; or simply saying “no” to the boy you don’t like.

You know what I mean? It’s these very small, yet very revolutionary, acts that have taught me to ever so slowly learn about the woman, the human, that I am; which is an especially remarkable thing for someone who lost their sense of self for so long. The tiny things I decided to do for myself lead to a greater understanding of myself, and with that greater understanding came a special kind of empathy. 

Empathy is the willingness to put yourself in someone else’s shoes; no matter the colour of their skin, their sex, gender, orientation, where they live, why they live there, their ancestry, their hopes and dreams, pineapple on pizza or not. Empathy is this amazing super power that allows you to see the world from another’s perspective. It’s not always the easiest thing to do, trust me. I work in retail. But the most powerful thing about empathy is that once you have it for anybody: there is absolutely no way on earth that you cannot experience unconditional love.

Do you see where I’m going with this? 

What I’m getting at is that once you’ve begun to understand even the minutest details of yourself, even if it’s just your coffee of choice, you’ve well and truly started to empathise with your own being. And once you’ve done that, wham bam whoolio, unconditional self-love is closer than you think.

Isn’t that nice? 

To be able to tap into those heartstrings of yours to make your own life sing. I think that’s really exciting. To know that treating yourself can grow into loving yourself is something I wish everybody could adopt; because it’s something that manifests even broader than just saying, “you look fine today!” in the mirror. Unconditional love means redefining your own boundaries, and having the courage to say when something is or isn’t right for you. It’s creating and then knowing your own worth. Once you know your worth, you begin to stand up for it; and when you begin to stand up for your worth, you’re the one who grows stronger in spite of whatever else the world might throw at you. 

I’m not saying it's easy; it requires bravery, you’ll hurt a lot, you’ll scar pretty bad, and loving yourself will require smashing, moving in and around immovable obstacles. Trust me, I fall over heaps. 

What I am saying though, is that treating yourself is worth it, because it’s the most practical way for anybody to know their own value. And once this specific brain muscle has been sufficiently worked, you’ll find you’re capable of treating yourself to all kinds of other exciting things. Much bigger exciting things; like university, or a career you’re passionate about, a house, the love of your life, travelling to far off places, overpriced organic kale if that’s what you’re into. 

So, please, please, please. Just go do the nice thing for yourself.   

Worth

9th November 2018

When I was small, I would go to auditions for commercials, TV shows and movies; I started going to acting classes; and I was taught about the industry, and what it would expect of me as a young woman in the years to come. I learnt that in order to be competitive in the industry, I needed to meet the right sorts of people; to be able to put my best, most virginally squeaky-clean, foot forward; and, I understood, that any worth I had, as an actress, would stem mostly from my appearance. Any talents I had would be considered an exciting bonus, so long as I looked the part.  

The industry is a game, you see; and while I’m fortunate enough to have spent not even a decade playing, I spent enough time in it for those rules to seep into my everyday life. I believed that any worth I had, as a human being, stemmed mostly from my appearance. I’d picked up that being blonde with long hair meant being the most beautiful; I’d ask the boys in primary school if they thought I was pretty in survey form; as I got older, I equated the greasy stares and inappropriate comments from old men as validation; and I was always fixated on my weight, eventually to a point where I’d become anemic and had developed amenorrhea. 

I was obsessed, and very unhealthy. But that’s just the industry.  

There was a time where all I would do was read. I was so voracious I was concerned I might turn into a bookworm (because kids take everything literally, bless). I was a smart, brave, and very intuitive girl; until all sorts of life layers became so heavy that those things weren’t given permission to breathe. I stopped reading, being smart, brave, and intuitive, only to focus on surviving and living out this compulsion to be beautiful. 

For the most part, I succeeded (if it's even something you can "succeed" in). There was a solid period where I had no idea what the fuck I was wearing, puberty was a bitch, and my haircuts were almost always questionable; but I knew I was attractive. I am conventionally attractive. I know how conceited that sounds (and, you know, let’s just say I am conceited); but women don’t go swanning through life oblivious to the kinds of attention we get. We are programmed to detect that shit. Or at least I have been. 

Looking back on it now, and unhealthy brain cognition aside, I’m pretty embarrassed by the way I prioritised appearance.

For example, when I was living in Wagga, I was doing a philosophy course at the university. I would also, occasionally, travel to Sydney for acting related things. At one point, I was asked to audition for a TV show, and at that same time I’d received a high distinction for one of my essays. I was more proud of being at an “acceptable” weight for the audition than I was for my academic achievement. Now, I understand and respect that all personal values are different. But, come on. That’s just silly. 

A lot of my personal values have shifted in the past two years (thank goodness), but, as much as I hate to admit it, I still place a majority my worth in the way I look. Sure, I let myself eat now and I don’t obsess over weight, I cut all my hair off and dyed it near black, sometimes I let my monobrow grow out, and choose to not wear makeup for whatever reason you want to hear: but if men aren’t looking at me on the street, asking me on dates, or if people aren’t telling me how pretty I am, I feel worthless. 

Yuck.

I’ve only realised this just recently, and feel very empty because of it. I’d put all of my eggs in one basket, and I’ve now decided those eggs are rotten and no good for me. I don’t have any eggs now. Well, I do. But I need to prove to myself that those are actually my eggs. 

Because I really want to be like the young doctor, not much older than I am, who came into work to buy thirty books. 

I want to be like my good friend, fluent in Danish, studying Journalism through distance whilst working two jobs. 

I want to be like my old school captain who just completed her Honours in Biomedical and Electrical Engineering.

I want to be like the French woman I met in New Zealand, who’s been travelling for eleven years. 

I want to be like my five-year-old self: a good reader, smart, brave, and very intuitive. 

These are the sorts of of worth that won’t fade by the time I turn thirty (film standards. Don’t worry, Mum, you’re still smokin’). These women don’t have expiry dates, rather a longevity that goes well and truly beyond their youth. These women have really good eggs, and no pooey industry is going to tell them otherwise. My Dad often says, “If you don’t like it, leave.” And so that’s what I’m doing: tapping out for good. Or at least until film and television properly values women for their brains and wit over their big lips and tiny tummies. I’ve been told that’s not going to happen though, so I’m just going to pick up my eggs and go be worthy somewhere else.

This is an Ugly Post

6th July 2018

And here is an ugly language warning for my Mother.

As someone who gets caught up in appearances, I was, for a long time, scared about expressing any thing more than mildness, meekness, loveliness, and the expectantly feminine (doormat). I don’t want to be like that anymore. If yoga and meditation have taught me anything, it’s that suppressing emotion is generally quite toxic; and if I ever got anything truly worthwhile out of the high school experience, it’s that pretending to be what you’re not so you’ll be liked is futile, because they’re going to ignore you in Coles a few years later anyway.

Wrangling your emotions to fit in with what’s considered beautiful is exhausting for anyone, let alone someone with an oceanic emotional range. And in this society, anger is ugly, pessimism is not admirable, and negativity is unattractive. But just like the cellulite on my bum-cheeks, and the acne between my eyebrows: I’ve learnt out of necessity to be okay with them.

Putting energy into being positive when all I want to do is throw plates at a brick wall is tiresome and lame, and it’s something I do not want to do anymore. I came to this only recently, when all of the yuck bits of being a human bashed me about like a big-arse-fucking tsunami in a successful effort to remind me of just how shitty being a human can be. The past couple of weeks have been packed with twatty people, I’ve been reminded of how much of an anus society is, and my body may as well be a clump of wax, it is that useless. Long story short, I’ve been pissed off. Not like, “well this is an inconvenience”. Not even, “life’s a bitch”. It’s more of a, “everyone is a cunt, and I’m a cunt, and the world is a cunt, and not even the full moon can excuse this level of fucktardery.”

It’s not been a good time. 

These haven’t been the times for Minties either. Those things are fucking useless in an existential crisis; I don’t care what the wrappers say. It’s been a time to be a whining crybaby, and to swear at the self-checkout machines at the supermarket (don’t worry, they can take it). Both of which are extremely valid responses. Not enough credit is given to anger; or any dark emotion, for that matter. Sadness, moodiness, frustration, contempt, envy. All of these gross feelings are seen as ugly, something to be hidden, and not beneficial to society in the slightest. If you’re not a little ray of sunshine all the time, well, I’m sorry, but “you can’t sit with us.” 

To this whole notion of needing to be a little ray of sunshine all of the time, I call bullshit, and also the reason we have so many problems worldwide. I can hear you thinking, “Meg, anger and contempt are the reasons we have so many problems in the world.” No, anger and contempt are the natural bits of being human that we have been conditioned to resent, and therefore hide (a lot like cellulite-Sally on my arse). It’s because of this that we don’t deal with them healthily and productively. Or, even better, just let the feelings be. It’s okay for the ugly to be there if it’s not hurting anybody.

As someone who experiences a lot of feelings to widely varying degrees of severity, I will tell you that these feelings are as necessary as the night is to day. I’m not saying you can be a prick because you feel like shit; I’m saying you can feel like shit, especially if someone’s a prick. Anger is a very passionate thing, and it holds a lot of power. Jesus got angry. The suffragettes were angry. The school kids in America are angry. There are so many angry people in shitty situations, but they are determined to harness it for the uncomfortable, painful, and appropriate change. You see them, and you understand that it isn’t necessarily happiness and positivity that drives us through the tough times. It’s anger, and spite, and pimples and cellulite. 

I mean, how many perfectly content people do you know who are completely useless?

Going through this pooey time, I’ve tried my best to be an optimist who posts nice things on Instagram, looks at gardens, and freely compliments strangers. But beauty and emotional prettiness aren’t the life rafts I need to get through the big-arse-fucking tsunamis. I need to turn up some Alanis Morissette, embrace the ugly, flip the bird, ask myself “What Would Jesus Do?” and flip a fucking table (pretty sure that’s scripture). 

Every Man and His Dog

9th June 2018

Universally, it’s a known fact that we look like our dogs. I can’t count the times I’ve seen the coincidence. I’ve seen a pudgy old woman walking her pudgy purebred Shar Pei. I’ve seen young, grizzled up stockmen with their Kelpies to match. I’ve seen little girls with their pink bow donned Maltese Terriers, and gym buff men in their late thirties with testicle donning American Staffies. 

This apparent universal fact doesn’t only apply to just physical, or facial, features either. It’s also very much a character thing.  And I think it’s quite normal for us to become, or be like, the things that are most important to us. It’s this part of human behaviour, an innate need to belong and to empathise, that drives us to embody the things we love the most. I’ve noticed it in families, relationships, and friendships: where the people slowly but surely begin to mimic each other’s behaviours in order to love and be loved. 

I’ve also noticed this unique bond between men and their dicks. 

I’m not saying this to be true of all willies and their boys, but I am sure I’ve handled a large enough sample size to state that a guy, more or less, is a lot like his penis.

The revelation came to me when my best friend revealed the nitty-gritty of her boring sex life post semi-brutal breakup. She confided, “I’d have to tease it out, then do all the work, and it kind of just disappeared when we were done.” Not dissimilar to the everyday man he was, and very much like a tortoise: whilst quite cute and funny to look at, constantly in need to be urged out of his shell, manually maneuvered in whatever direction you needed him to go, and easily frightened by a bit of confrontation. 

Obviously, said revelation led to an in depth analysis of all of the men, and their dicks, we’ve been blessed enough to encounter throughout our budding womanhoods. You could say this is perhaps a little mean; but, honestly, you blokes didn’t make it hard for us. 

Take the first boy I ever sexually encountered: he was a somebody you couldn’t quite call a prick until you’d dealt with them personally; he was the somebody who’d invite you over for dinner, and be confused about why you didn’t want to touch his sausage. A somebody who is astute in mannerism, shorter in height than he is thick in stature: a somebody who is, most classically, gentlemanly. Without the gentlemanly.

Another boy in my line of boys, was was the man of your mother’s dreams. And his mother’s dreams. And probably every other mother’s dreams. Seemingly perfectly tailored in his presentation, and pragmatic in his approaches, each moment in his life formulated to a T. He’s the boy who was more than happy to do whatever it took to make you happy, he’d then dish out a couple of Dad jokes, and compliantly do the dishes. He was the whole package, with the package to match.

Since the discovery of online dating, and the lure of navigating a sexual liberation, the phallic array has extended erectly and beyond.

There’s been the enthusiastically clueless with no clue what to do with themselves; although whatever is performed is always done enthusiastically. I’m unsure of their levels of education, but I am almost certain that their life resources have been limited to either porn, or the Bible. Let’s just say both. Those good Christian boys are led by two things, it seems: God, and their dicks. Neither of which seem to be giving much guidance.    

I’ve met the skinny white boy with his skinny white toy; he’s the one who gives you well-intending poetry, but you can’t really feel the substance.

And I’ve met the maimed man with his maimed manhood. I can’t really explain this one properly, but he blamed his ailments (physical and mental) on his “crazy” ex-girlfriends. I do my best not to victim-blame, but, I mean, even if he did have to ward off these “crazy” women, I doubt he was doing a very good job of it. The sad sod didn’t even know how to put on a condom. 

There’s also been the tradie. An attractive man who takes great pride in how shiny his tools are, although quite protective when it comes to his handiwork. Which is fair enough, I suppose. Nobody likes to be told what to do when they think they’re hot-shit, especially not by someone who doesn’t even have the appropriate bits ’n’ pieces of their own, my goodness. 

And then there’s been the gentle stallion. The dreamiest man you could ever lay your eyes upon. I have nothing witty to say about this one, except: damn. As someone who has an eye for design, I love it when good things match up.  

And with that good note, I’m going to wrap it up. I could mention the quiet, 5’7” guy with an absolute cracker of a donger, but that would go against my original premise. Men are a lot like their dicks, in the same way that we are all like our dogs. You fellas might be offended, but please, you must understand that I’m just a writer with a knack for character analysis. If anything, this is an opportunity for your own self-reflection. In fact, this may well be the new Meyers-Briggs personality profile. I could be the next Carl Jung. “What does your knob say about you?” How exciting would it be to discover that you like your private parts, and therefore your private world? Alternatively, if you don’t like being the dick that your dick is; gentlemen, you have the power to change that. You can tame it like you would a Great Dane. Or a Chihuahua (depends on what you’re working with). And you can trust that they will be obedient, because after all: they are man’s best friend. 

Love and Vomit

13th February 2018

Don’t expect anything. I think that’s been one of the most important lessons my Dad has ever taught me. Don’t expect anything within reason, of course: I think it’s fair to expect of someone to not spit at you, or call you falsely mean names; so when they do, you can hold them accountable (like, duh). But when it comes to people’s feelings, and how they respond to the things you’ve said or done: you can’t put unrealistic expectations upon them to be who you want them to be. For example: I could say to someone who has an ice cream, “I would love to eat your ice cream,” but it would be dumb for me to expect of them to just give me their ice cream. It would also be dumb to expect for them to give me their ice cream after they’ve specifically said, “Um, no, this is my Golden Gaytime. Go get your own.”

The lesson has held me in good stead over the years; what with rejection, and bad results, and a body that just won’t do what healthy bodies are supposed to do. I think it’s fair to say that I’m used to things not going to an idealistic T. But even when I do prepare myself for the inevitable, the inevitable still stings. 

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a poem about a very dear friend of mine. Unsure of whether or not I wanted to give her the poem; I transcribed the text from my phone to some paper, put it in an envelope with her name on it, and had it sitting in my handbag waiting for me to make up my flakey mind as to whether or not she should ever see it.

You see; every time I’ve seen her, my whole being has felt beamy; and I could feel whatever’s in the core of my chest swell to tenfold; and I don’t know what the colour yellow feels like, but if colours were tangible I’m pretty sure this would be a solid yellow.

The yellow has come and gone over the years. Suppressed by my own guilt, and reasoning, and long periods of time spent apart. But it always comes back; and I’m always left dealing with the skip in my heart when I see her, and the late night thoughts rendering me sleepless for hours. These are the kinds of feelings my Mum and my Grandmother have told me to cherish. They’ve told me, “you don’t even need to act on them; but to know what it’s like to be young, to feel anything at all, is this marvelous part of life that reminds us of how alive we truly are.” Which is so true. But it also gets annoying after seven years, and I needed this shit sorted.

I am a decidedly very upfront person. Maybe not with everyone, but it’s something I strive to; and honesty is a tool I use to solve every single one of my personal problems. It’s honestly the best. And it’s not even a matter of not lying; it’s more to do with unearthing, and accepting, whatever the situation is as a means to moving on with other, more important, things. And this deal I had with this friend of mine, needed unearthing.

I decided to give her the poem without any agenda. And I thought to myself that it wouldn’t take that much of an emotional toll on me, because I already knew her response. I knew, by no deficiency of her own, that she wouldn’t be able to offer me the same kind of love I’d so readily give to her; and I’d already accepted the situation for what it was. I knew she would be gracious about the whole thing, and we’re both grown-up enough to still be friends. And I have a good feeling we’ll be friends for ages. But when I did hear her response, you can bet your arse I was surprised to feel my heart hurt.

There are definitely better ways to put it, but the best way I’m going to put it is this: the whole me telling her how I felt was a bit like throwing up. You over indulge in all of the sweetness that is a crush; then you sit with this uncomfortable nausea for what feels like forever, anticipating the grossness that is vomiting, doing everything in your power to avoid it; until you responsibly buck up, and decide to stick a finger down your throat. All of my pent-up emotions (and you all know very well how many of those I have) needed a good purge; and I thought I was ready for a well planned clear out with my rational mind at the ready. But it turns out professing love isn’t something to be tamed or controlled. Once it comes up, there’s no turning back; and you’re left with this spacious cavity wishing it had never been emptied. And even though I was able to say, “Ah yeah, it’s fair of her to say that,” my poor body has been a little slow on the uptake.

What we should keep in mind is that no matter how mentally prepared we are for the things that we are (or are not) expecting, is that when it comes to hardcore sentiments like attraction and affection: we’re going to feel uneasy when the upheaval of all the yellow we’ve been holding onto for so long takes place. And our hearts will hurt, as much as we are sure that they won’t.

But the good news is that it can be totally fine. Because eventually we’re going to feel much better, and the sickliness will wear off, and we can move on to all of the other good things that life has in store. And though, like throwing up, we may wish that we would never have to go through something like that ever again: we undoubtedly will. And that will be fine too. Just as messy, but still fine. Because we have wise family members to tell us things like: it’s these marvelously tricky feelings, and expectations (or the supposed lack thereof), that make up the parts of life that remind us of how alive we truly are. Or something like that.