STOP IT, PLEASE. WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.

Ex Girlfriend of Former Bachelorette Dude Rants on Social Media about How He Hurt Her 

Read about it if you can be bothered. It's all here. Personally, there is little I care about less.

But what I do care about is the way people air their personal grievances on social media. Why do people do this? When did private lives cease to exist? And how will anyone ever be able to trust anyone again if we all just run to social media every time we are hurt or disappointed?

I see it all the time, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Celebrities and regular people, with or without huge followings, sharing with the entire online universe the most intimate details of their lives. The dates. The sex. The passion. The hurts. The breakups. The betrayals. The disappointments. The fights.

It doesn't sit well with me. As someone who literally makes a living from writing about my life, I am very, very clear about my boundaries. And let me tell you, I'm sure it's cost me a click or two. I could fascinate you all with tales of my romantic adventures over the past couple of years. I've had highs and lows you wouldn't believe. (Or maybe you would - you've seen similar scenarios played out on other people's accounts ad infinitum.)

I've had great sex and awful sex. I've been deeply in love and hideously hurt. I've had fantastic first dates and quite shockingly bad ones. I've had all sorts of experiences that I could have played out, blow by blow, on your social media feed.

But I haven't, and I won't, because it's just plain wrong. It would be undignified for me, it would grossly unfair to the men involved, it would be humiliating for my kids and parents, and - most importantly of all - it is none of anybody's business.

Why would I need complete strangers to understand my perspective on a relationship? How would that help my pain or healing, or allow me to move on with my life? And whilst yes, there is a definite salacious titillation in knowing why two people broke up - I mean, which one of us hasn't wondered about Tom and Nicole, or Princess Di and Charles, or Jennifer and Brad - how does it help the actual parties themselves to share their secrets online?

Have some dignity, please. Keep your private lives private. The world doesn't need to know every single detail of your lives.

And we also don't need the inevitable 'Bouncing Back from Heartbreak' stories or the 'Brave Jilted Girlfriend Rocks Bikini Body On Beach'. But trust me, people. They are on their way.

Ageing: Are You Ready To Finish Your Slice?

Sometimes when I am pottering around my house I interview myself. Some people would call that 'talking to themselves' but it's far more formal than that. I pose myself questions, think about them, and then carefully articulate my answers.

If that makes me weird, well, wait till you hear about my faux cooking-show demonstrations.

The other day, during one of my probing interviews, I asked myself how I feel about ageing. After all, if I was a celebrity I would get asked that question all the time. Any female celebrity over the age of 30 is asked how she feels about getting older. Male celebrities aren't asked until they hit 50, but hey, I've interviewed myself about gender inequality many times and it's really not at all surprising.

So how do I feel about ageing?

cake: a metaphor

Well, I'm glad I asked.

At 46, the physical stuff doesn't bother me too much. Yes, I have wrinkles, blah blah blah. Yes, I have stretch marks, blah blah blah. But what do you expect at this age? Quite frankly, I get more upset about my occasional pimples than I do about the Visible Signs of Ageing.

And yes, I feel more Comfortable in Myself now than I ever did as a younger person. That all is true. I feel much more me than I did as a younger person. I am more confident, less concerned with what other people think. I know how I want to live my life, and am making that life happen.

But you know what I don't like?

I don't like the fact that time is running out. I don't like the fact that I am half way through my life. I feel keenly the sense that my years left on earth are limited. I know that we all have limited lifespans. I know that a twenty year old isn't going to live forever either. But I didn't feel my mortality at 20. I didn't even feel my mortality at 30. It hit me for the first time at the age of 45, and I suspect it will get stronger with each passing year.

I know it's not fair to feel this way. I have lived 46 years already, and many of them well. I am like a child with only half a slice of cake left, resenting the other kids who haven't started theirs yet. We all get our slice, I am halfway through mine, and I mustn't be greedy.

But I am. I want more cake. I like eating it and I don't want it to be over anytime soon. Or even in another 46 years.

I've interviewed myself, and now it's over to you. How do you feel about ageing? Will you ever be ready to finish your slice?

why no-one will ever truly know you... but that's okay

The other day, I was imagining a scenario in which a mad scientist took my consciousness out my mind, and then offered me several different minds from which to I had to identify my own. (It was late. I'd been drinking. Just go with me here....)

Of course, I'd be able to pick my mind immediately. Any of us would be able to pick our own minds. We would recognise our minds by our thoughts, fears and desires. Your thoughts would look very different to mine, or my mother's, or my friend Mandy's, or my cat's.

Which demonstrates to me that we all know who we are. We may not be able to clearly articulate who we are, because defining our own uniqueness in language is remarkably difficult. But we do, at a very profound level, know ourselves, far more than we may believe.

cristy johnson 'thinking too much'

But how well can other people ever know us?

We define ourselves by our thoughts. Sure, you may be a 'mother' or 'father', a 'son' or 'daughter', a 'writer' or 'accountant' or 'stay at home mum' or 'surgeon', but these are all just indicators of the things you think about all day.

I am a writer, sure, but this is because a lot of my thoughts are about writing. I am a mother, definitely, because my head is filled with thoughts and memories of my kids. But, while these are easy ways to explain who I am, they don't adequately describe what I feel like inside my own head.
I am my thoughts. I am a conglomeration of the thousands of things that cross my mind all day.

"I am worried about..."
"I miss her..."
"I love him..."
"I'm so uncomfortable about...."
"I wish that..."
"I'm scared to..."
"I'm excited about..."

These thoughts are what define me. These thoughts make me who I am.

And these thoughts are the reason that no-one else in this world will ever fully know me. Because no-one else will have access to all my thoughts; others can only know me through my actions and words.

And the same goes for you. You can never be known in your entirety because no-one else can ever get into your head. Unless you walk around offering a running commentary into your most private thoughts - in which case other people will most likely judge you to be psychotic - you can never be fully known by another.

And this is fine. It is how it is. But we need to remember that - just like no-one else will fully know us - we can never fully know another. Every single person you know has endless thoughts. They have a secret inner world that matches up only to a degree with the outside persona to which you are privy. And being aware of that reminds us that no-one is better than another, or more valuable, or more worthy.

We are all just thoughts. We are all just minds.

And my mind was clearly feeling a bit profound the other day. Right now, it wants to stop thinking altogether and take a bath.

Things I Should Have Sorted by 40, But Haven't

I am 46. That is closer to 50 than 40. (And yes, you probably worked that out yourself, but I'm still coming to terms with it.) By now I should probably have worked out this Adulting gig. I've been doing it for a long, long long time.

But there are still things I haven't figured out, despite my advanced age: things I should have sorted by 40, but haven't.

1. I am still searching for the ideal hair and skin care products. I have not yet accepted the reality that it's not the products that are imperfect, it is my hair and skin.
2. I still let paperwork pile up in huge mounds around my house. I have tried 758,000 filing systems over the past three decades, and not one of them has eliminated the mounds.
3. I still sometimes eat my feelings.
4. I am still a sucker for clothing bargains and am forever purchasing non-returnable items on sale that I hate the minute I bring them home.
5. I am still incredibly trusting, and get fooled by liars time and time again.
6. I still bite my nails. Even my acrylic nails.
7. I still run out of bread and milk all the time.
8. I still confuse sex with love.
9. I still don't have a formal exercise regime. Or even a casual exercise regime.
10. I still lose my temper with the kids and regret it afterwards.
11. I still don't know the capital cities of many countries in the world, despite really, truly trying to memorise them.
12. I still don't have a signature dish. I don't even have a signature drink.
13. I still fret if I don't get enough sleep.
14. I still assume people are dead or angry with me if they don't text me back straight away.
15. I still need therapy.

What about you?

Do you want to truly SEE yourself? Try this.

A few days ago I had dinner with a girlfriend who is also a single mum. She's recently starting dating a new man, and when she described him to me alarm bells started ringing. I could read between the lines, I could sense her tension and uncertainty, it was so clear to me the way she was compromising.

I didn't say much. It's not my place to challenge her. But it got me thinking about the numerous times close friends of mine challenged me when I was dating someone who wasn't good for me. The guy was a million shades of wrong, and was making me far more miserable than happy, but I couldn't see it.

And why not? Because it is almost impossible to see ourselves objectively. We are too caught up in our own heads.

Many of us are tremendously emotionally intelligent about other people. We can deconstruct their spin. We can analyse their motivations. We can cut through their bullshit. We can give advice! Fabulous advice! We can show them the way forward!

But when it comes to helping ourselves out of a quagmire, we are completely stuck. We can't see our own patterns, because they are the veil through which we view ourselves. It's like discerning the Matrix when you're living in it.

You can't know what you can't even perceive.

Recently I discovered a trick to help me see myself the way I can see other people. I've found it to be incredibly useful during those times when I have found it difficult to be objective about my own situation, in regard to a relationship, my career, a parenting issue or a personal decision.

I write down how I feel, what has happened, what I need to decide. I write it down in detail, in the first person, for example:

I'm sure I did the wrong thing. I'm sure this is going to ruin everything. I spoke to her, and she told me it won't, and so far nothing has happened, but no-one can come back from a mistake like this.

And then I go through what I've written, give myself a new name, and change it all into the third person.

Amy was sure she had done the wrong thing. She was sure it was going to ruin everything. She spoke to Sarah, who told her it wasn't going to affect anything. And, so far, nothing had happened. But Amy was sure no-one could come back from a mistake like this.

Then I leave it. I file it away and ignore it for a day or two. And then I come back to it, and read it as though it really was the reflections of someone else.

And I can see it for what it is. I can see that Amy is worrying over nothing. Nothing has happened, she has been assured nothing will happen, and yet she is still worrying. Clearly, her anxiety is the issue and not the mistake.

Then I realise, Amy is me. And it is me who is worrying over nothing. It gives me the perspective I could not possibly have about myself. It gives me the emotional intelligence, the insights, that I can only have about other people.

Next time you're stuck, try it. And for my friend the single mum, I hope you try it too. I can see things that you can't, just like everyone could see things about me. Now we just have to learn to see them about ourselves.

A Definition of Resilience

I started writing this post the other day. Usually I write posts in a few minutes in one go. If ever I don't finish a post it's because I know it's not working and I trash it.

But this post just sounded.... too depressing. And it's not meant to be a depressing post. It's an insight into something I've been thinking about a great deal: what it actually means to be resilient.

So I'm trying again, whilst I'm in a cheerful mood (coincidentally after a cup of tea and a slice of cheesecake).

To me, resilience is the effort it takes to keep pushing through when times are tough. It is the ability to get up and keep going instead of letting the difficulties beat me. I don't need to be resilient when things are going well. Right now I feel happy and relaxed and am not consciously calling on any coping mechanisms or willpower (other than resisting another slice of cheesecake).

I need to be resilient when I am sad or anxious or scared or exhausted, when I don't think I can cope but I don't have a choice.

And I don't have a choice. Very few of us do. There are days when I'd dearly love to just get back into bed and stay there, and days when I actually do hop into bed for an hour or two. But I always get up. I have to.

I'm sure you have to, too.

But as I said, resilience is an effort. It requires great energy. And anything that requires great energy is exhausting. Running a marathon is exhausting. Cleaning the house from top to toe is exhausting. And pushing through when times are tough is exhausting. Sometimes just getting through my regular routine on a day I feel particularly lonely or burdened takes a huge amount out of me. I collapse into bed feeling like I've competed in the Resilience Olympics, where the challenges are emotional rather than physical, and the only prizes are getting through the day.

I've been depressed in the past and, to me, being depressed is to lack the energy it takes to be resilient. When I've been depressed, I can't compete in that Olympics. I can't push through. I can't get through my tasks and win that prize.

A lot of us need to have a great deal of resilience. People all around you are pushing through their days instead of sailing through. Life is tough, and that's just the way it is. But let's all remember that being resilient takes a huge amount of effort, and to understand their exhaustion and to nurture them that little bit more.

And if they struggle, be there to help them through. Because no-one can compete in an Olympics without a support team, especially an Olympics of the soul.

Do You Know The Stuff I Don't Know?

I'm a reasonably bright girl, but my general knowledge is woeful. The stuff I don't know could fill an encyclopedia, though obviously someone else would have to compile it because I don't know very much.

I know a lot about certain things. I know pretty much every detail of my kids' lives, and that is a lot of detail. I know about my friends' marriages and my parents' friendships and why Simon Baker is currently in Australia. I know how to get burned soup from the bottom of a saucepan, what hair products are best for curly hair, and how to write a good circular conclusion to a blog post.

I know about social media and 19th Century literature and how to compose a haiku. I can recite the raps of Eminem and poems of John Donne and the entire script of Grease including musical numbers.

But I cannot name the capital cities of half the world's countries, and when I say 'half', I mean 'much less than half' because I'm so ashamed about how little I know.

I'm fascinated by people with tremendous general knowledge. I want to be them And I try, but the information keeps slipping from my brain. Interestingly, though, the names of every celebrity baby ever born are wedged there like blu tac.

But are certain types of knowledge objectively 'better' than others? Is my father the smartest man alive? And why are we wearing scarves?

These questions and so many more could fill an encyclopedia, but they are answered in the five minute video below:

I'm Fooling You All (Or Am I?)

I spend half my life playacting. I pretend to be a Real Writer. I go on TV and pretend to be a Real Commentator. I discipline my kids and pretend to be a Real Parent. And I go on dates and pretend to be a Real Woman.

But inside I feel..... Can't they see I don't really know what I'm doing? Can't they see that I am an imposter???

It's not all the time. I have moments when I feel like I've got it all together. Small snatches of time - perhaps I've just published an article I'm really happy with, or I have successfully helped one of the kids with a problem - where my brain catches up with public perceptions of me.

But they are moments. Most of the time I feel like I'm fooling everyone, and that soon I am going to be recognised for the fraud that I am.



this is SO TRUE

I think Imposter Syndrome is very common amongst women; less so amongst men who seem to second guess themselves less. Even since filming this segment with Lana, I have learned that many women I admire and respect feel exactly the same way.

It is remarkable to me that such high achieving women can have any doubt about their abilities. But then, it's possible that other people think the same about me. And that notion really blows my mind.

Watch our discussion here, and let me know if you feel the same:

Gratitude is a Commodity, and I'm Not Sold

Gratitude. Do you remember what it used to mean?

It was that feeling you had when you were nearly hit by a car as you crossed the road but it missed by that much (also linked very closely to 'relief').

It was what you didn't actually experience when your grandmother gave you a birthday present that was way too young for you and you were really disappointed (see 'ungrateful brat').

It was the emotion that rushed through you when your boyfriend arrived at the door and looked really cute and you felt hugely lucky to have him (also known as 'I can't believe he's mine!').

It wasn't a movement. It was a sensation. It was something that came from the heart, or didn't.

But gratitude has been packaged and commodified in our social media age. It is something that you 'practice', not feel, as part of a Way of Being.

It is something to be cultivated and shared, and expressed in public forums.

What are you grateful for today? people ask.

Today I am grateful for my cat, my hot coffee, this new assignment, they respond.

Gratitude is memes and blog posts and apps and Instagram pics. It is a way to live, to overcome depression, to ease anxiety, to enhance positivity. It is a panacea for all sorts of mental and emotional distress.

And yet... I'm not sold. I feel grateful when I'm grateful, which, admittedly, is a lot. I live a fortunate life. I have much to be thankful for. But when I'm anxious or distressed or in pain or sad, forcing gratitude for what is good can't fix my woes. Gratitude for my children or cat won't palliate my grief for my sister. Gratitude for my friends or parents can't heal a broken heart. Gratitude for having had two books published can't ease the anxiety over the third.

But many people I know practice gratitude, including someone unexpected. We discuss it below. And I would love to know your thoughts. Are you a 'grateful' person? What are you grateful for? Has it changed your life? Am I missing something?

And just like that.... I was gone.

Last week I disappeared. I had a general anesthetic on Tuesday morning, was home by Tuesday afternoon, and was completely stoned on Endone until Thursday evening. I lay in bed for forty eight hours, dozing and staring at the ceiling and doing absolutely nothing else.

Endone is a morphine derivative and even the tiny doses I took had a profound effect on me. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to do anything but stare at the ceiling. I had no interest in watching TV or reading a magazine or eating or chatting to a loved one. I was perfectly content to lay on my back and just BE. It was probably the first time in my life I have experienced that kind of serenity, and - if I stay healthy - hopefully the last.

It is a weird thing, not thinking. Can you imagine not thinking? I don't stop thinking for a moment. Even now, writing this post, I have worried about the article I just wrote and whether my editor will like it, the piece of toast I just ate and how I'd really like another, how the makeup I'm still wearing after my TV appearance  is making my skin crawl and I need to take it off, and that I can't keep on procrastinating with my taxes. I hate doing my taxes. I was thinking that, too.

Since finishing that sentence I thought of the party I was at last night, and how I told one of my close friends that his daughter used to be 'funny looking'. I was a little drunk at the time, but it's really no excuse and I am quite mortified by my behaviour. I am thinking about a chart on introverts I saw this morning, and how it was a revelation because I am not at all introverted. I am thinking about my best friend and why she hasn't returned my message. I am thinking about the mess in my apartment and how I plan to clean it soon. And I am really thinking about that second piece of toast.

"We become what we think about all day long," wrote Emerson, and he has to be right, because really, what else could we be? We are not our bodies, we are not our jobs, we are not our status; we are our thoughts, and our thoughts dictate who we are. I am me because I worry about the things I worry about, because I care about the things I care about, and because I contemplate the things I contemplate. No-one else has my thoughts, hence, I am unique in this world.

Last week I was nothing. I had no thoughts, so I wasn't me. I was a generic body, lying in a bed, staring at the ceiling. I occasionally rallied enough strength to be a simulacrum of me. When my children came in to kiss me goodnight I said the things I knew Real Kerri would have said. But I didn't feel it. I felt nothing. Just air and ceiling and a deep, deep peace.

Now I'm back to me. And with all the worries and petty concerns and ruminations, I wouldn't go back to the serenity. Without my thoughts I am nothing. Without your thoughts, neither are you.

Triggered

I don't cry very often these days. I spent a long time crying an awful lot, and I think I used up a lot of my lifetime quota.

What's more, I am keenly aware of my good fortune. I am deeply, profoundly grateful for my children, my parents, my wonderful friends, and my good life in this country. I do what I love, I live in a beautiful part of the world, and I am luckier than 99.9999% of people who exist on this planet.

But sometimes I do cry. And when I do, it is like unleashing a beast. The floodwaters break, and I cry tears for every grief and loss I have ever known.

Last night I had an argument with someone very important to me. In the scheme of things, it wasn't particularly significant. It was the kind of argument that we have had many times before. But I was tired, and took it badly, and when I was alone again I started to cry. Not the kind of gentle tears I cry when watching One Born Every Minute or when someone amazing performs on The Voice. No, these were great racking sobs that shook my whole body and turned my face into a squidgy red puffy-eyed mess.

And I stayed like that for nearly two hours.

When I cry, it triggers the deep well of pain I still have within me, the pain I will carry for the rest of my life. the pain of missing my sister, which is buried in a place only accessed by the key that is my tears.

On a conscious level, I remember how much I miss her when I am feeling sad, because she was always there to comfort me when I had a problem or needed support.

But on a far more primal level, sobbing unlocks that grief, like picking a scab off a wound will cause it to bleed. And the only thing left is to cry it out until the tears have passed once again, and the grief retreats back into that safe place in which it lives in my heart.

This morning I woke tired and low, hungover from a night out on the sobs. So then I went back to sleep, and started the day again a couple of hours later. And now all is restored in my world, and in my equilibrium.
We can endure. We can be happy. We are stronger than we think. We need to feel what we need to feel, when we need to feel it.

And then life begins, anew, in all its fortune and wonder.

In The Chest - All The Special Things

For my 18th birthday, my parents gave me an antique wooden chest. I had always loved chests. (The kind you put things in, not the kind that grow hair and nipples [though, you know, they're good too].) This one had several compartments, including a secret drawer and a hidden shelf. It was magnificent.

Over the years, I put all my special things in that chest. Love letters from my boyfriends and future husband. ID badges from my jobs. The program from the Young Talent Time concert I went to with my sister. My Brownie Guide Manual. The edition of TV Week I featured in after my short lived career as an actress. Broken watches and pieces of jewelry and notes from my friends and a dozen or more handwritten journals.

My life was in that chest.

This is not my chest (or phone, or plant, or truck) but it's very similar indeed

The chest followed me wherever I went. Once I was married, I pretty much stopped adding to it, but the chest lived contentedly at the end of our bed, often covered with clothes or blankets or a pile of books.

When I moved out of my marital home last year, the chest moved with me. There was no room for it in my current bedroom, so I put it out in the lounge room. But the idea of my most personal, private possessions being out in the lounge room made me feel too intensely vulnerable. The thought that one of my kids or their friends could rummage through that chest, sifting through my woeful poems and diarized confessions and proclamations of unrequited love was just too agonizingly hideous to contemplate.

It was time for the chest to give up its contents, and be put to use for some other purpose.

I transferred all my papers and books and treasures into an air-tight plastic wheelie, which now lives in the back of the store room. The chest is now filled with DVDs and strange power cords and random fragments of technology that I am too scared to discard. It is a platform for Lego and My Little Ponies and pillows and the cat, and is battered and weathered and chipped.

But I love that chest, and it will always be with me. And one day, I want it to live on in the home of my eldest daughter.

As for the wheelie bin of memories, well, the idea of someone looking at them is still too hideous to contemplate. Then again, there's an amazing Young Talent Time program there that someone will really love... and an ID badge from David Jones that's kind of cute... and some airmail letters from my ex boyfriend R that are really very special...

Think I'm just going to pop down to the storeroom for a while....

The Anti-Oracle

If I could have just one superpower, it would be the power to see into the future. (Actually, that's not quite true. If I could have just one superpower it would be the ability to sing really well, because I have these recurring fantasies about singing in front of a room full of people and breaking their hearts with the beauty of my song. But given my woeful singing voice, the power to see into the future is actually far more plausible.)

As an anxious person, I like to have certainty. I do not like the endless cliffhangers that come with everyday life. I like to know, roughly, how things are going to turn out. Whether that job is going to come through. How that problem will be resolved. What decision that person is going to make. Whether everything will work out okay in the end.

Artist's Impression Of Me As The Oracle

And so because I like certainty, I create the answers where there are none. Anxiety loves a vacuum (meaning, 'a space devoid of matter', not 'a vacuum cleaner' - ain't nobody got time for those) and so my mind will rush in, writing the end to the story when the story hasn't actually finished yet. I compose entire scenarios in my own head that are as real to me as anything that has taken place in real life.

The problem is, they are nearly always wrong.

I am the Anti-Oracle. I am the Soothless-Sayer. I am forever deciding what will come to pass, and am forever being stunned when it doesn't happen.

In all of my forty-five years, I have virtually never accurately predicted the future. (Okay, so that's not completely accurate; I totally saw the whole Gwyneth-Chris split coming, but I am far less clairvoyant in my personal life.) I predict disaster when a happy outcome is around the corner. I predict good fortune just before everything goes to shit.

But that's okay, because I am constantly surprised. Life never follows the script in my head, and - as challenging as that may be for an anxious person like me - it does tend to keep things exciting.

I think a quote from Pretty Woman just about sums it up (and let me tell you, I never expected to quote from that particular film so I really am walking the talk right here):

Edward: It's just that, uh, very few people surprise me.
Vivian: Yeah, well, you're lucky. Most of 'em shock the hell outta me.

What about you? Are you good at predicting the future?

The Hurted

Do you ever get hurt by people? Oh. Of course you do. You're human. (Unless you're a sociopathic human, but I suspect sociopaths wouldn't have a particular interest in reading this blog.)

But what do you do when you're hurt by someone? Do you confront them? Talk to them? Send them an email? Cry alone in your room?

I'll tell you what I do. I simmer. I ruminate. I get hurter and hurter. (And yes, I know 'hurter' is not a real word, but it is the most accurate non-word there is.) And then I concoct wild stories in my head in which the person who has hurt me does something really terrible, something so utterly, horrendously vile that I can scream and yell and make an absolute scene and impart something poetically withering that conveys without ambiguity just how hurted I am.

But I don't, of course, because it never happens. And so I just sit on the feelings, and eventually they pass, sort of absorbed into my system, or perhaps into the air. And then I let it go. I never hold grudges. Anger simply feels too uncomfortable to hold on to.

I'm not like this in romantic relationships. I never had any trouble expressing my feelings to my ex. Nor do I hesitate in conveying hurts or upsets to my parents, no did I with my late sister, nor do I with my kids.

It's friends that are hard. So ridiculously hard.

A couple of years back a very close friend sent me an email. She'd been hurt by something I said, and she wanted to clear the air. I was so happy she had sent it, and I was mortified by having distressed her. It gave me the opportunity to apologize, and we moved forward, and all was fine.

On another occasion I actually did confront a friend, after a very long series of small but significant hurts. But I didn't do it nicely, in a thoughtful email. I ended up yelling at her for pretty much nothing at all, which left me feeling far worse than if I'd addressed the issues in the first place.

I'm not sure why I can't express hurts when they occur. It's not that I'm not assertive. I think it's fear of total rejection, or uncertainty about my right to feel hurt in the first place. Either way, it gives rise to some quite bizarre fictional scenes that would play beautifully in some movie starring Meg Ryan and scored by Taylor Swift.

So that's a little insight into the complexities of my brain. What about yours? How do you deal with hurt?

Do you know all the things?

The knowledge. All the things! There are too many things to know.

They say that the more you know, the more you know you don't know. Well, let me tell you, I've known how much I don't know for a long time now. And it pains me, because I want to know everything. Or at least a good part of it. A percentage. More than I do.

I read the news every day and try to remember everything I've read. But it's hard. For one thing, there are so many stories, so much going on around Australia and the world. For another thing, there is so much internet to distract me, and Twitter and Facebook are so tantalizingly there. For another thing, I have three kids to look after, and a house to run, and work of my own to do.

For another thing, the cat is usually sitting on the newspaper. And that makes it really hard for me to read.

I can retain an enormous amount of what interests me. Great TED talks, for example, stay with me indefinitely. Brilliant books, articles and blog posts make a lasting impact. I can remember theories and ideas, because they appeal to the creative side of my brain. But hard facts seem to disappear within seconds of processing. Names, dates and places can vanish into thin air, perhaps via an escape valve directly from my brain.

I have forgotten the majority of what I learned at school. Granted, you need to use your knowledge  to retain it, and I haven't had much call for calculus over the years. I have, on the other hand, remembered much of John Donne's poetry, because I love it and have re-read it a billion times. Sadly it doesn't help me to recall the names of world leaders or where Estonia is on the map, but I do comfort myself by reciting The Apparition when SBS World News begins to get blurry of a night.

And then there is the myriad of other useless information in my brain. Song lyrics. Chunks of my favourite books. Why Jodie left the Young Talent Team. What Bill Murray supposedly whispered to Scarlett Johansson in the final moments of "Lost In Translation". And the entire script of Grease, together with musical interludes. Perhaps if my mind wasn't filled with such trivial nonsense, I'd remember that the President of Greece is Karolos Papoulias, that the capital of Kazakhstan is Astana, and that the Battle of Hastings took place in 1066.

So what can I do? How can I learn all the things? And do you want me to recite The Apparition now?

Chicks

Tomorrow is International Women's Day. And to mark the day, I'm thinking about all that is important to me as a woman. A girl. A chick. A person with a vagina. A mother. A daughter. A sister. A friend.

• My daughters. I want to raise my girls to live lives of their own choosing, to be in control of their careers, their finances, their homes. I want them to know how to compromise, but how to stand up for what they believe in. I want them to have the freedom and power to follow their own particular paths to fulfillment. 
• My son. I want him to have everything he wants for himself, whilst encouraging the women in his life to do the same. I want him to be an excellent partner to a nice, feminist girl.
• My parents. I want to love them and support them as they have loved and supported me. Life is about nurturing those we care about, and being nurtured in return. 
• My friends. My friends boost me up. They share in my joy. They feel my pain. And I feel the same way about them. I would be lost without my female friends. I want to give to them as I receive.
• People in need. We need to notice other people. We need to be alert to signs of distress. We can't take responsibility for everyone in our lives, but we can extend ourselves for the benefit of others - as long as we don't stretch ourselves too thin in the process. We need to be kind. To friends, to family, to acquaintances, and to complete strangers (and yes, refugees are 'strangers in need').
• My body. My choice. I want to have control over the number of children I have (three is enough, thanks). If I want to let my hair go grey, I will. If I want to get my ears pinned back, I'll do it (actually I did). If I want to get a facelift and boob job, well, I'd be fairly surprised, but hey, it would be my choice.
• My career. I want a career. I also want to work from home and be available to care for my kids. That is my choice and I have been fortunate enough to do it. But there is nothing objectively 'right' about my choice. It is simply what is right for me. 

And that, for me, is the key to feminism. It's about fighting for choice. I want women to have choices about their bodies and their careers, about their relationships and their finances, about their family responsibilities and their futures.

Women deserve choice, just as men deserve choice. Choice balanced with care. Choice balanced with love.

Happy Chickies day, people.

My Secret Self-Help Tool

Let me tell you, I know therapy. I had therapy for years, and it did me a world of good. And I'm still very much into talking therapy, as my best friends will no doubt wearily confirm. (Also texting therapy, emailing therapy, Twitter Direct Messaging therapy, Facebook Private Messaging therapy....)

And I write journals. I've always written journals. In my early years I used to hand write them in tiny, lockable diaries. These days I type them directly onto my computer, and store them in double-password-protected files that no-one will ever be able to crack*. It's incredibly cathartic to write down your feelings and worries, as anybody who has ever committed thoughts to paper will know.

And catharsis is good. Catharsis is great. Catharsis stops us from putting our fist through walls and writing inappropriate things on social media. But to really make changes to our lives we need more than catharsis, and I've found a seriously effective way to use writing for self-help.

My Seriously Effective Way To Use Writing For Self-Help**

Think of a situation or issue in your life that is causing you difficulty. Perhaps you have a conflict with someone significant to you, and you can't figure out how to resolve it. Perhaps you're in a career or relationship rut, and don't know how to move forward. Perhaps you're making the same mistakes over and over, and you don't know why or how to stop. Or perhaps you have a really tough decision to make, and you can't choose one path or the other.

Write it down. Write it all out, in narrative form, from the very beginning, with as much detail as you have time to add. You know...

I've done it again. I've just had the discussion with John and he says he's not interested in getting married and having babies. I don't know how to convince him. I feel hopeless. I know he's the one I want to be with and he says he loves me but he can't commit....

Every day I wake up agonising about whether or not to take the job. On the one hand, it's a massive opportunity. And the money is fabulous. But on the other hand, I love where I am and I'm scared to make a bad decision...

Write it out. And then when you're finished, come back and do this magical thing:

Turn it into the third person. 

Give yourself a pseudonym, and then go through your narrative and rewrite it in the third person and in past tense, as if it happened to someone else. 

Tammy had done it again. She had the discussion with John and he said he wasn't interested in getting married and having babies. She didn't know how to convince him. She felt hopeless. She knew he was the one she wanted to be with and he said he loved her but he can't commit....

Every day Sue woke up agonising about whether or not to take the job. On the one hand, it was a massive opportunity. And the money was fabulous. But on the other hand, she loved where she was and she was scared to make a bad decision...

Don't re-read it just yet. Put it away for a while. Leave it alone. And then, a couple of days later, go back and read it over. You will be amazed at the difference it makes to read about yourself as if you were reading about someone else. It offers an entirely new perspective. Things become clear that were never evident before. We can be far more objective about other people than we can ourselves, and this tricks our minds into doing just that.

It works. I promise you. Try it and get back to me. 

Also, double passwords people. ALWAYS. Double passwords. 

*she says, praying

**if this was one of those shonky websites it would open onto a screen allowing you to see my Seriously Effective Way for three easy payments of $129

Keep Away From The Internet When Cranky (Or Not)

Normally I subscribe to the 'Keep Away From The Internet When Cranky' rule. Okay, there have been some notable exceptions (during which I have got involved in ridiculous arguments with anonymous morons on Twitter), but for the most part I stick to my guns. Nothing good can come of posting when you're shitty. Your defenses are down, your emotions are heightened, and it is very, very easy to say things you will later regret.

Well, today I am hideously cranky, and I am throwing caution to the wind. I am on my third day of tonsillitis/ear infection, and am OVER IT with a capital everything. I am taking anti-biotics for my disease, pro-biotics for the anti-biotics, and Roses Chocolates for the depression that descended late last night after two days in bed.

On top of it all, I am pre-menstrual, which would be wonderful if I planned to have any more children and needed my stupid ovaries, but I don't, so perhaps they could just dry the hell up already? (And yes, for all those menopausal women out there, I'm aware menopause is no walk in the park either, but I'm cranky, so just ignore me and trust that when my time comes I'm sure I'll be complaining about that, too.)

So what else? Well, my inbox keeps filling up at the most ridiculous rate. No sooner do I delete all the junk and see to all the vital correspondence than I have another 30 emails waiting for me. About 10% are important, another 20% are important if you want to read about minute changes to the school canteen menu and what the kindergarten kids did at Assembly today (and seeing as my kids are in years one, seven and nine quite frankly I don't, not even slightly), and the other 70% are rubbish. I get emails about penis enlargements (and I don't have a penis - the still functioning ovaries would be a testament to that), vampire facials (because who the hell wouldn't want to take blood out of themselves just to inject it back in again), offers of large amounts of money in exchange for my bank account details (which I'm sure are, like, totally valid, but who has the time to write back?), and requests to link with people on LinkedIn for no reason whatsoever because LinkedIn has never done anything for me but generate emails (having said that, all requests will be accepted, because if I'm going to be on LinkedIn, I'd rather have heaps and heaps of connections than none).

Also I have bills to pay, laundry to do, a book to write, fleas to kill (yes, the cat has fleas and has spread them all over the house and the kids keep complaining [which seems completely unreasonable, I mean, when I was their age I walked to school barefeet in the snow....]), dinner to prepare, paperwork to fill out.... and I should probably also shower at some stage, too.

So that's it. I'm cranky. And if you're cranky too, now is your time to share it. I am declaring this Day of the Crankypants, and all cranky submissions will be accepted.

And if you're not cranky, well, you can comment too, but don't expect sympathy. And YES. I know you won't need sympathy if you're not actually cranky. You don't have to point it out! Bloody hell. Everyone's giving me a hard time today....

I Think Therefore....

Existentialist: I think therefore I am 

Excellentistentialist: I think therefore I am awesome 

Exhaustistentialist: I think therefore I sleep

Vexestentialist: I think therefore I worry 

Xanaxistentialist: I think therefore I take drugs

Intoxistentilist: I think therefore I drink 

Pecsestentialist: I think therefore I lift weights

Excerstentialist: I think therefore I work out

Ingestistentialist: I think therefore I eat

Sexistentialist: I think therefore I bonk

Textistentialist: I think therefore I message

Netistentialist: I think therefore I blog

Any others???

Passion

"You are what you think about all day long."
- Dr Robert Schuller (apparently. I wasn't there to hear him say it)

I believe that, one hundred percent. We are what we think about all day long. What else could we possibly be? We are not our face or our bodies or our jobs or our friends. We are our minds, our thoughts, our hopes, our beliefs. These are what define us, what make us who we are.

So who are we? Who am I? Who are you?

I was pondering this on my recent holiday. If I am what I think about, then to determine who I am, I need only identify my thoughts. And the first place to start is to figure out what I feel passionately about.

Sounds easy - after all, we all feel passionately about something. But we don't always know what we feel passionately about. I have been surprised more than one by my passionate reaction to an issue I had never given much conscious thought. Sometimes we need to be placed in a situation in which our attitudes are brought to our attention by force. Which leaves me wondering how much of myself I still don't know. How many beliefs I have yet to uncover. How many passions I may never find.

Still, I have a list of beliefs that I feel passionately about. Some of them I will share below. Some of them I will keep to myself. And I will keep on thinking, and keep on discovering. And I would love it if you shared some of your passionate beliefs with me.

My passionate beliefs (in no particular order):

• The right of children to unconditional love and acceptance from their parents;
• That Eminem is the Shakespeare of our generation;
• The right of women to choose abortion;
• That white chocolate is not real chocolate;
• That there is no god;
• The importance of charity;
• That poverty is the fault of society and not the individual;
• The importance of free speech, a free health care system, and social welfare;
• The right of couples to marry regardless of gender;
• That addicts deserve compassion and not punishment;
• That diets are unhelpful at best and dangerous at worst;
• That the most important quality any human being can have is kindness;
• That there is no one right or wrong way to mother;
• That life is random and that bad things happen to good people for no reason;
• That human beings are capable of change;
• That love isn't all you need, but it certainly helps.

NOTE: The #MyFirst.,. series will commence again on Monday.
With #MyFirst... Date. Of course!