Trigger Warning

Hi. Welcome.

Below follows the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written.

I make no apologies about its violent nature, or lack of grammar.

I don’t care if you don’t like it, or if it even worries you. I am a threat to no one. Quite the opposite. Please don’t try to make me feel like one.

I don’t care about your cognitive biases or constructs of fear and how they control you.

I don’t care about your flawed and short-sighted opinions.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

See. . . .

. . .here’s the thing. . . .

. . . .I can’t.

My survival depends on it.


Hi. Fuck.


Long breath

I’m so fucking angry man.

I’m so fucking angry with all of you.

What? Why?


I needed to go to the store.

I needed to go to the store because I was out of tobacco. Also my body wouldn’t wake up completely so getting on the bike and dodging traffic might help. Also, though I had previously planned to be leaving today to ride North toward the Sunshine Coast on Carter (the bike, whose full name is Carter Ryder, who is a character from a story I’ve been writing with my best friend since I was 14 he’s a gay sniper with a boyfriend named Jack whose older brother Eric and younger brother Tyler were both killed by a rival street gang when he was 16 jesus Krys FOCUS fuck


The fuck was I saying

I needed to go to the store for smoke and to wake up my body and because I needed to buy a $10 Kris Kringle gift for a trivia thing on Sunday at the place I’m staying. This was annoying to me because as will be a shock to absolutely no one I don’t like Christmas, and I fucking HATE obligatory gifting. It was also annoying because I found out about this event when I asked my friend if I could stay a couple extra days because I needed a bit more time to sort my shit before leaving the life I’d had in Melbourne and this fucker’s immediate response was to look annoyed about. . . 

. . .about I don’t know. I don’t know the contents of people’s hearts and minds. This is quite clear to me at this moment in time.

But to me he looked annoyed and OH FUCK THE RAGE

THIS cunt. FUCK this cunt.

Why am I so angry?

Because he hurt my feelings.

He’s not aware – no one is ever fucking aware – of what’s going on for me.

He doesn’t understand that he destroyed my childhood hope that I could rely on others. He said he’d be there for me when I finally left my ex and he was, he was SO spectacularly, he made me feel SO loved and cared for.

What did he do?

He cleaned a room and made a bed for me.

He did something he didn’t HAVE to do, because (I believed) he CARED about me.

I can’t say no one ever does that but they don’t do it so often and when they try they usually fuck it up spectacularly, sometimes even shitting on my heart or stabbing me in the brain instead of doing anything that feels even remotely comforting.

People rarely do nice things for me that I actually want them to do, so I feel quite touched on the rare chances life affords me that.

I was quite touched, and I felt quite safe, almost. It reduced me to tears.

Then the friend suddenly looked at me and said things weren’t ok and I needed to leave. He wasn’t ok, and he needed space for his mental health and I respect the shit out of that and it’s absolutely correct that he asked for it because I could see by his eyes that he fucking NEEDED it. He was NOT ok, and he was asking as politely as he could for the space he felt he needed.

I respect that.

So I left.

While my soul was dying inside with rage and sorrow, screaming this was the last time, the last fucking time, I ever DARE to believe that a single person on this planet gives even a single fuck about me, my health, my ability to stay here on this planet, sane. . .while my vision started to shut down and panic set in that this was it, this was it, I was about to shut down I couldn’t tether myself to this shitty reality anymore because I’d already abandoned the dream I could ever have a healthy and supportive partner and now reality was telling me that my deepest fears were in fact correct: Every ‘friend’ I have only keeps me in their rotation for what I can do for them and I am on a VERY short lead when it comes to my temper.

One moment.

One fucking slip up.

And I am dead to you.

All of you.

And I get it. You think that sounds dramatic. You think I’m over-reacting. You think I’m angry, now, furious, pounding away on these keys with indignant rage, my emotions a result of a mental defect that makes me inherently unreasonable.



Listen to me.

Believe me.

Believe I am here.

Believe I am Krys, the Krys you know, the Krys you’ve always known, who has only ever moved through this world with love in her heart and who is very capable of rational thought. I don’t fade in and out. I’m not Krys and then not Krys. I don’t lose my temper for no reason and then not apologize after.


I’m not telling you to back off for no reason. I’m not chewing you out for no reason. I’m not projecting my shit onto you.

That’s what YA’LL do.

I’m just confused and scared man. So fucking confused, and SO fucking scared.

And I have good reason for that also.


I get off the bike and walk into the store. Start well.

I’m a little glitchy but it’s not so bad.

What do you mean by glitchy

I mean I keep getting lost in thought then snapping back to reality and not being able to remember why I am where I am.

I’m not startled. I know I’m in the shopping center. I know I am here to buy things. What I can’t figure out is why I’m still outside the store when the last thing I recall was walking toward it and now I’m walking away. Damn it.

I pace.

I sleepwalk in thought, through my waking life. I micro-dissociate.

Don’t look at me like that. You do it too. All of you do it. I can SEE you doing it. And I don’t hallucinate. I have never, in my life, hallucinated in any way I didn’t consciously construct.

In my reality, people shut down in front of me like rusting machines if I bore them. First the light will drain from your eyes. Then your focus will shift to the middle ground and your energy will start to float away. I have lost your interest. You are in YOUR world. Perhaps half listening to me, perhaps not.

As I continue, you may drift in and out. Or you may stay gone. You’ll be pulled back if I say something that interests you. You drift away when I bore you again.

You’ll also be pulled back if I say something that angers or worries you. . . .and it is VERY difficult for me to tell which I’m dealing with.

VERY difficult. And also quite terrifying.

Because if I can’t settle the pace that is now intensifying (and let me be clear, this isn’t purely energetic. The more concerned you become the faster you will speak, giving me less of a chance to diffuse whatever the fuck is going on while I trying to work out exactly what the fuck actually is going on. You may move toward me also, fast or slow. And if I move away, you will advance further, even if I ask you with my words to please not. That’s the fucking WORST thing to say actually. That will just make you move toward me FASTER, which is pretty fucked up). . . .if I can’t settle the pace that is now intensifying, if I can’t turn this final boss theme music back fucking down this only ever ends one of two ways:

You’ll try to take my fucking head off like my mother did that one time, or I’ll become dead to you. My tears will mean nothing. You will feel nothing for me, and with dead black eyes you will tell me this directly without explanation of why and walk away, potentially forever.

Because that’s what fucking happens.

That’s what happens every. Fucking. Time.

It always ends in a fight.



I’ve been through a lot recently.

I’m learning some things. Like boundaries.

Boundaries are important.

Thing is. . .I’ve never had any before.

I am trying to learn. But it is challenging for me, in ways it is not for you. I KNOW this. After 38 years I feel pretty fucking confident saying your external reality does not look like mine.

In my reality people behave like magnets on strings. But my magnet is like. . . .powerful as fuck.

That’s not a brag. That is to say that when people are attracted me they are often powerfully attracted, sometimes without any discernible rhyme or reason, and they may move toward me at a blinding speed without warning at any fucking time.

Not just people. Animals also. I accidentally killed a dog in India because it came fucking FLYING over a highway meridian out of absolutely fucking nowhere. And if you want to doubt me on that – I’m lying, I’m exaggerating, whatever your fucking resistance is to believing a single fucking word I say I get it, I’m just Cassandra to you motherfuckers – just ask Pete because he was directly behind me when it happened and he thought I was fucking dead. He has no idea how I kept the bike upright.

That dog flew over the meridian and I swerved TOWARD the meridian. Why?

Because I fucking understand physics.

I understand that if something is quite suddenly in front of me and it came from the East it is moving West. So. To avoid it, I turn East, and it will continue west.

But there wasn’t enough time. I managed to put the dog to my left instead of directly in front of me as it would have been but it wasn’t left enough and I smoked it with my left foot, footstand and exhaust. It hit wth such force the exhaust ripped off the bike (an Indian kid would later repair it with a door hinge).

I pulled over, shaking. Got off the bike and dropped to the ground and started sobbing uncontrollably.

Some Indians rushed over

They thought I was frightened. They were right. But not for the reason they thought. They thought I was scared about almost dying. I was not.

I was devastated that I’d killed a dog. Worse. That I may yet have to actually kill a dog. That the dog I hit wasn’t yet dead, and I would have to finish the job because I cannot stand to see something else suffer like that.

Pete put himself between them and me, as he always did, as I am so grateful to him for always doing. As he did in Vrindhaven, when a mob of horny aggressive Indians completely ignored my holding up my camera and begging them to please not throw the colored powder at me because it would mess up my lens (which it did). When they did anyway it was from close distance, with high velocity, directly in my face, before they descended, pushing me back into a fence and trying to grab what of my body they could manage to take. 

Pete later informed me later that I my blind assault back mostly just hit him, which I felt only a smidge bad about. Why? Was I secretly hostile at Pete? Of course not. I only felt a smidge bad because I had just been blinded before being physically and sexually assaulted and I’m sorry my defence hit the wrong person but for fuck’s sake my flesh is literally my only boundary.

Actually. That’s not even fucking true because when I woke up in the Sahara to my guide grinding his bare dick against my leg as I slept I still didn’t lose my shit. In fact, I STILL FUCKING PAID THE GUY.

I walked out of the tent and a raging sandstorm quite quickly reminded me YOU’RE IN THE SAHARA MOTHERFUCKER. In the tent was a dude with a dick I couldn’t trust, and outside the tent was a dry version of the raging snowstorms from my youth that stretched into eternity without light, mountain, shelter.

I wondered if the camel knew the way home. If I got on, would it go in the right direction? How big actually was the Sahara? How hostile was Algeria at the moment? If I ended up there, how badly would that go?

I was just too fucking tired though. So I went back in the tent.


The fuck was I saying.


The store.

I brought the faf I had never wanted to buy to the counter. I hate this bit. Always a gamble.

Today’s not my day. Now that I am at a counter everyone has decided they are done their shopping. 7 people move in, surrounding me.

I breathe.

I remind myself: They are just people. Just strangers.

Life is not secretly a deadly game. None of these people will suddenly and aggressively move toward you (even though multiple people have, in multiple countries, multiple times. But not THIS time. THIS time I will be safe, surely. Australia. I am in Australia. Just a shopping centre in Australia).


Space is getting too tight though. The 3 on my right are hovering in and out. One seems like they want to see something and I’m in their way but I’m at the counter so I don’t know what the fuck they expect me to do. The cluster on my left is a line, bouncing with nervous energy. Someone is perhaps particularly excited, I couldn’t say whether with anticipation or impatience.

But the woman directly on my left is getting too close. We’re at half an arm length now and she’s moving closer.

She’s talking to her friend, see. She is paying no attention to me.

Because I’m dead. I’m invisible. At least physically.

I’m invisible, or a target. Always.

Occasionally I find solace in the company of friends whose trust I’ve earned. . .until I fuck it up and they block me forever.

I clear my throat. Nope. Nothing.

And then, I tried something new: I spoke.


She spun toward me, startled and furious, as though I had crept on her.

“Please,” I said quietly and clearly. “Can you please just back up a bit?”

You’d think I’d asked her to fuck off by the fire in her eyes but she took a half step back before wordlessly resuming her conversation with her friend. We got to about a 6 second count before she was drifting back again.

“Please,” I repeated again. She turned toward me startled, again, as though we hadn’t just been through this literally 8 seconds ago. “Just. . .move away a little.”

She moved toward me.

I backed a step but too quickly. My speed AWAY from her startled her so she moved TOWARD me again to match me and I put my hands up.

My hands about 30cm in front of my chest, another 30cm or so to hers. Why was she SO FUCKING CLOSE. Why was she so fucking angry. Why is this ok? Why is no one helping me?

I started to spin out with the madness of it all but pushed my hands. Not enough to touch her, just to make a motion of BACK THE FUCK UP

“Please, I have anxiety,” I say at a quickened pace because now everything is at a quickened pace my blood is racing everything’s coming back it’s ’Nam all over again motherfucker and this cunt is just oscillating in space; a slight move back, a slight move forward. Is she angry, scared? I don’t know. Concern. All I see is concern, everyone’s looking at me now that I’ve spoken and they look real worried and no one is backing the fuck up including this cunt that I’ve already asked twice. If anything, she looks like she’s about to raise her arms and come from me.

“I have anxiety,” I explain again, the panic setting in. “Please don’t come in my space, please stay where you are, please move back a bit.”

No one moved away.

Just stayed in my space, staring, oscilating.

I managed to finish my purchase. I felt like my eyes might roll back in my head. Still, no one had moved back to give me any space. But the reception lady at least smiled at me. . .before asking me to hand her something.

See. . . .I always have to pay for kindness. Every fucking time. She smiled kindly because she wanted something. I gave it to her, and I left.






I think of that time at Chenrezig I had a revelation about how much I bend for others and when I went to tell a man about it who had only ever been quiet and calm and slow, he brightened up immediately and like a puppy seeing a treat I was so relieved he understood what I was saying and then he cut me off before I finished, finishing my sentence for me with that laugh of mutual understanding that I long SO HARD to share. . .I can’t recall the exact sentence he finished. I remember the context and all. Something about getting out of each other’s way.

But he got me wrong. I was trying to say ‘I think I’ve been too passive’ and he finished by saying ‘so you’ve been too aggressive’ and the fucked up thing is I laughed and agreed out of instinct and by the time I had gone ‘. . .no wait. The opposite of that.’  he was already walking away from me, satisfied, needing nothing more than my accidental and incorrect ‘confession’.

Probably because getting that ‘confession’ out of me felt like finally getting it out of his narcissistic firecracker of a wife and so he was pretty satisfied about that.

Do I KNOW that? No. 

But it’s PRETTY fucking likely. Because I know his wife.

But I don’t know what goes on inside his head or heart.

I don’t know what goes on in anyone’s.

But it fucking keeps me up at night man.


It’s just always been real clear to me.

Very clear to me whether the thing in front of me is frightened or not.

Very clear to me when it is not kind, or safe, to advance.

I don’t know why it’s not clear to you all.




Now I’m tired, honestly. 

I’m tired, but I want to post this, because I want to fucking complete something and I want this fucking out there.

Something I can point to. The next time one of you lose you shit at me. Or call me cold-hearted. Or tell me I don’t consider your feelings (FUCK your precious feelings, btw).

All my life, I’ve been trying. . . .

. . .Every thought I’ve ever had. . . .

. . .has been about how to save you all.

How to save the world.

So I can be in it, finally.


I get it. It sounds like insanity. It worries many of you.

But I am not worried anymore.

Instead, I am angry.


Angry at how I’ve allowed myself to be abused. Physically, sexually, verbally. 

More than anything else I’m pissed at my own inability to ignore such a glaring blind spot of idiocy in an otherwise intelligent whatever the fuck I am.

The blind spot: I don’t owe you anything. This is news to me.

I. Am permitted. My existence.

I BELONG here.

And, from now on?

Fuck ANYONE who tries to tell me otherwise.

Do? You’re fucking dead to me.

I don’t need to kill you. I don’t need to do shit.

I can kill you with my mind.

As Yungblud sings, “I’m coming after you in fiction.”


“Fuck,” they say to each other, whispering amongst themselves. “I really don’t think Krys is ok. Maybe we should do something.”




Don’t do SHIT.

I don’t need you to do shit.

You can’t fucking help me because







I’m fine.

No, shut up. Listen to me. No. Shut the fuck up.

I don’t care how hurt you are. I don’t care how cruel you think I’m being. I don’t care what you think you did for me or what you think I owe you or what rule you think I’ve broken I don’t fucking care.

I don’t fucking care because I have lived my entire life twisting myself inside out to try and craft a reality in which I don’t not only fear being attacked constantly but AM attacked constantly. I don’t care that you’re worried about your precious feelings because I am worried about my heart giving out, or having a stroke, or ghosts or forgetting myself entirely.

I don’t fucking care because I held onto my virginity until I was 24 because I needed to have SOMETHING to offer the person I’d certainly some day fall in love with and it had already been established that my soul and body had no inherent value. They were not mine. They were something for my mother to dress up and spin around on skates and something for a bully named Marty to grab by the cunt in the space display in the school gymnasium while I was momentarily distracted by the beautiful fake stars that shimmered overhead.

I don’t fucking care because I dared to believe ’true’ love existed despite never feeling it for 24 years and I lost my virginity to a good man but that good man needed to buy magnum condoms out of necessity as opposed to ego and why the fuck does everything in my life have to be so fucking painful all the time? Why can’t anything ever just be NICE? I fell so hard and so fast and was bewildered that love actually existed. I hadn’t believed it, hadn’t believed I could ever feel like I imagined but here it was, finally, and it wasn’t just as good as I imagined it was even fucking BETTER.

. . .about two months before we were meant to leave for Ireland a man who had never been anything but sweet and kind and clever and loving to me called me out of nowhere to tell me in a voice devoid of emotion he didn’t know what to say but he felt nothing for me any longer and didn’t want to be with me anymore.

I went anyway. And one year later, in Chișinău, about to celebrate Molodovan Independence day with a group of couchsurfers, I received an apologetic explanation by email and I lost my shit at that cunt because it was the stupidest fucking reason and it wasn’t even true, just a lie he told himself because. . .whatever. His secrets aren’t mine to share.

He had his reasons. I get it. He’s a good man. I think a lot of him, truly.

But in this, he was a fucking idiot.

It took 7 years to ‘fall’ in ‘love’ again.

. . . 

. . .

And that wound’s fresh, and its hard for me.

Hard for me because I don’t like talking shit about people behind their backs, and I don’t like affecting anyone else’s opinion of someone. It doesn’t matter if I don’t like someone or not, their reputation is never mine to ruin. If I have a problem with them I should say it directly to their face.

Fuck me I wish people gave ME that fucking courtesy.







It’s not actually that I don’t care. It’s that I care TOO FUCKING MUCH.

I care so much it hurts.

And I have made TERRIBLE life choices to avoid that hurt as much as possible, and in making those choices I have worsened the situation.

I let you break me.

I put myself back together. I always do. Every time. but

As a child you told me I had no trauma. I was just an annoying brat. I just lacked emotional regulation. Had a chip on my shoulder. Liked fucked up things. Cried too easily. It was my fucking problem.

And, sadly, I believed you.

I believed your opinions mattered more than my own, despite the fact that, to me, my mind is completely logical and rational while ya’ll are irrational as fuck.

I believed your emotions were more valid than mine, despite the fact that I have always been very aware that while I would walk through fire for literally any of you none of you will do a fucking thing I ask if I actually speak. If anything, you’ll spit in my face for daring to ask.

I believed these things so fully that when someone I loved broke the only promise I ever asked of them and had me committed I forgave him immediately. You all need to stop, and pause here for a moment, and really fucking listen to me:

You do not know what it is to be so confused you cannot form a thought, to feel like a machine rusting and shutting down, and have people you do not know come into your home and drag you out of it and laugh condescendingly while they do it because ‘oh come on now you’re not REALLY going to die if you walk through this doorway.’


And the fucked up thing is its not even traumatizing anymore. I could continue to drill in the visuals of that fucked up scenario but the honest truth of the matter is when I woke up in the locked psych ward the next day I was entirely sane and back in the same ‘where the fuck are we and how do we get out of this’ mode I’ve been in my entire life.

What was traumatizing was that a couple months back, when I finally broke down and admitted to the person I love that that was the wrong call he denied that it happened.

Not that he called them, of course. He did. No dispute there.

When I admitted ‘They laughed while they did it’ he screamed back at me that that didn’t happen. Just like when I told him that I felt gaslit he tsked and moaned and snapped, annoyed, that ‘I wish you wouldn’t say that’ before turning the puppy eyes on me that told me I had hurt him with my words and now it was time to make it about making him feel better again. . .like the rest of our relationship.

My words, in which I dared to try and communicate my own, lifelong neglected hurt.

I wasn’t allowed.

I have never been allowed.



I lived the best life I could for 3 decades, suicidal, secretly a white walker amongst the living. Then ya’ll broke my mind.

I spent 3 years trying to put it back together, delusional, oscillating between believing I had it ALL figured out and believing this Earth was literally Hell, and I was literally damned for something I couldn’t recall doing.

I have been imprisoned against my will for committing no crime, I have been medicated and told I’m broken.

I have had electricity fired through my brain twelve fucking times because that was the only way you selfish, weak, unimaginative cunts could ever overcome the force of my fucking will to hold my reality together enough to make me kill myself.

I have killed myself.

I have, absurdly, survived. Lain down to die in one bed and awoken in a hospital bed with a nurse dispassionately looking down at me. I have stared into her eyes, startled by how clearly and quickly the plot comes back to me and I have, in a polite and measured tone, asked that nurse how the fuck I’m still alive and she has shrugged indifferently and said ‘guess it wasn’t your time’ and I have sat in baffled silence.

I have beaten my own literal head against a literal wall of a mental institution and screamed my throat raw only to have something sweep in in a way I can’t explain to put a hand over my mouth and gently whisper in my ear ‘You don’t want this. Don’t scream. You have seen what happens to the ones that scream.’

I have. I have seen people in agony held down and medicated against their will and been. . .not powerless to stop. . .but have had to deal with that collison of safety and duty: Someone is hurting and I must save them but if I try they will just inject me also and it will do nothing to help her.

I lost my math. Where was I?

3 decades of hope in hell.

3 years of being lost in a labyrinth.

12 blasts of electricity to the brain to shatter my reality.

1 suicide attempt.

And then I woke up and pulled on my big girl boots and went ‘Right. None of this is working. New plan.’

And I built a life man. Built a good one.

After ya’ll telling me I was bipolar and broken for 37 years, after spending those 37 years being. . .well, pretty bipolar and broken to be honest. . .

. . .I came good.

March 2020 I was sane, sober and working in disability support. I had fixed reality. Go me.

Then the malthusian check that is Covid tore the fucking world apart, I caught a rhinovirus, then started having migraines of blinding intensity.

Fuck me this story is long urrrrrrrrrr

Migraines. Pain. Suck.

Fuck this. I can manage. Stay graceful. Maintain sanity.

Then I. . . 

. . .some shit happened.

A different part of my reality broke, and I went manic, which wasn’t something I expected to happen again, honestly, which was probably pretty naive on my part.

To clarify, I don’t do anything violent or cruel in my mania. I’m just fucking weird man. And that’s ok. It’s ok to howl at the moon, or to jump in the ocean naked. Fuck it. It was 4am. No one was around. If they were, they got a show. I sang a French song at some point. I don’t even fucking speak French.

And now. . . I feel pretty good.

I feel ok.

I feel better than ok.

But I also have no fucking patience left.



I don’t care what you want from me. I already gave you everything. All I had. My life.

It wasn’t enough.

And you didn’t care.

And it didn’t do anything anyway.

Because the world isn’t mine to save.

Only MY world is.

As are your worlds.



From here on out.

Let’s be clear:

Your unrequited childhood needs are not mine to fulfill. I am not your mother, or your father, or your sibling, or your lost or dead partner. I am me.

I do not owe you ANYTHING, save what is owed by contract and, by necessity, I keep those few and simple and short and the terms VERY clear. So if you come at me with some bullshit argument about how I owe you something, expect a poor reaction.

Expect a particularly poor reaction if you are trying to make claim on my flesh or time. My cunt, and what I do with it, and where I do those things? ZERO fucking concern of yours.


If you try and stand in my way when I am trying to get somewhere I believe I need to go? Like say, the fuck away from you? And you try and stop me?

Motherfucker I will take your head off the same way my mother tried to take mine.

Because like I screamed at her then with conviction,

Don’t FUCKING touch me.

EVER again.

– Wanders, and her completely justifiable rage, out.

On the Fear of Losing Faith


ArtaxI feel you, my love.

I feel your heartache beat, and your sorrow echo. I know your despair.

It feels so cold, so dark. The swamp is all around you, threatening to swallow you whole. You fear sinking into the depths too deep to ever again emerge. You fear losing the battle.

You fear that the beautiful things you so passionately love are dying all around you and no one but you is heeding their pained cries. You weep as the divine is trampled unseen by those too blind or callous to care about the damage their eager feet wreak, and you feel responsible for not being stronger, wiser, cleverer, more able to save the delicate beauty of gentle, valuable things. You are screaming at the sky, calling for aid, and the silence you are receiving in reply feels like the Universe deciding that what you love is not worth saving. And you mourn the impending death of all that which makes life worth living.

Please, my love, remember: Lights shine brightest in the darkness.

Be a light.

Continue reading

On Monsters

This is the incongruous dilemma of our current reality: we create laws and place restrictions on our fellow man because we believe others are immoral and that without these enforced restrictions society would descend into a hellish chaos. . .but the world is a hellish chaos due to the (largely unintended) repercussions of those very restrictions. 

Christian’s combat with Apollyon.

We tell ourselves and each other ‘There are monsters in the world and we must protect ourselves from them’. We say ‘Look at how people act when some freedom is given. Give an inch, they’ll steal a mile.’

But ‘some’ freedom is a half-hearted attempt at the full bodily autonomy that is the sacred birthright of all living, sentient beings. Not the freedom to do whatever we like without consequence, but the freedom to do as we like with ourselves and with those freely consenting to joint endeavours.

Because we develop within a world of limited freedom we become miserly assholes. When we obtain something that helps – to numb the pain, to protect against future lack – we fiercely desire to hold onto it. And we desire more – more finances particularly because in our current social structure wealth is all but equivalent to security, as it can be traded for most anything else.

So when someone else wants what we have (which of course anyone who perceives they’ve less than us naturally will) we brace against them. ‘No. Fuck you. This is mine. I fought for it. I need it.’ The idea of sliding back to a place from our past in which we had less is anxiety-inducing, yielding perhaps even rage.

But were we to grow within a system in which we believed we were free and safe to remain so, it follows that we would defend less fiercely. Without the learned trauma of subjugation, an egoistic altruism¹ naturally flourishes, because we are creatures of reason (at least in part) and the fact is solid that helping my fellow man just makes sense. Why? Because I would of course want him to help me in turn. No one wants to get fucked over. But the error we make en masse as a species is assuming most everyone else would take advantage of us, given the chance. Continue reading

Oh. . .Hai

aprox 20 min read

Hi. I haven’t written in over a year. I’m sorry about that.

There’s. . .a lot to catch up on. A . . .lot.

I’m well. For the first time in my life, I’m well. It took a lot. My last post had it right. It took me a year (to the day, synchronicity strikes again) to be able to really listen to my own words, but I’m well now.

. . .I hope. I think. I believe.

We’ll see.

It’s the best any of us can ever say.

A story caught my attention the other day and inspired a blog post but I felt that, before sharing, I should first write some sort of catch up post, as this blog has become, above all else (oddly, primarily, unintentionally) the place I write for the people from my present and past interested in doing so to catch up with where the fuck I am.

It’s a place you can always find me. It’s a place I post what is most important to me, at any given time, when – and only when – I feel like doing so.

Valuable that. This sacred space. This place I have complete control to add or ignore, with no schedule or obligation. It’s not remotely what I had planned for it. I love that it’s what it’s become.

So. Catching up:

I’m still in Melbourne. Continue reading

That One Time I Lost My Mind

(aprox 35 min read)

I’m still not entirely certain what happened. My mind snapped about a week ago but it was a long time coming. Almost 35 years long, to be honest.

There are still conversations I need to have with my lover (the only one who witnessed it happen as it occurred in the privacy of our home) to fill in the gaps, but one thing I do know is that what happened felt like some higher power was flicking the switch of my awareness/consciousness on and off at ever increasing intervals. I know I didn’t try to hurt myself and I didn’t try to hurt anyone else, but I must have been making less and less sense to Dags (the aforementioned lover) because it eventually got bad enough that he broke one of the only promises I ever made him make to me, which was that he would never call mental health services on me.


I realize now you cannot have ultimatums in a relationship, however well-intentioned. I’ve forgiven him for breaking his promise, and I hope he understands that.

I’d never stayed in a mental health institution before. (I was briefly and voluntarily enrolled in a program back in Newfoundland in my early twenties when I felt I was close to suicide but that just hooked me up with a psychiatrist and some meds that I only stayed on for a very brief time). I realize now it was always my greatest fear, largely because I didn’t believe in myself enough to have faith I could ever get out again once in. Happily, in that as well, I was wrong.  Continue reading

Why I Hate Your Hating

Different people come from different backgrounds. My life experience has been different from yours. This is a simple concept, but I feel the vital sub-points of it get missed all too frequently in common human interaction.

One vital sub-point being this: My entire belief system and moral compass have been shaped by the summation of my experiences; my actions and the world’s reactions to them, the people I have kept or found around me, my family, my education (or lack thereof) . . .the list goes on and on. Your beliefs and morality have been likewise shaped. So when you and I collide in the world, as people often do, and find ourselves with beliefs antithesis to one another, we have a choice: We can engage in conversation, and share the reasoning behind our beliefs. I can learn of yours and vice versa, and we can each test the stability of our convictions to see whether they hold up in the light of day.

Or we can call each other ass hats. Continue reading

Why Write?

Sometimes the psychology behind our compulsions is clear: We want to eat because we are hungry, or perhaps we link the idea of food to comfort, or freedom or simply the chemical satisfaction of a sugar rush, however short-lived.

We want a cold shower because we are over-heated or feel uncomfortably dirty, or because for us it marks the end of another day; it has become a mental cue that we can relax and enjoy the remainder of our evening.

We want to fuck because millions of years of procreating tells our crocodile brains this is how we continue for another million. And because society tells us, relentlessly, that we should all constantly want sex (then slaps our wrist and calls us a slut for having it. Dick move, society).

But there are other things we feel compelled to do, and it can take us a long damn time to sort out the root (heh. Root. It’s funny if you’re in Australia) of the drive, if ever we do.

I feel compelled to share stories from my travels in a public forum, and it’s taken me a long time to figure out why. It finally came to me upon returning to Mellish Park, the North Queensland cattle station on which I worked four months of last year.

Photo credit to Bridget Webber. I feel this photo rather successfully portrays exactly how entriely in the middle of absolutely nowhere I am right now. (Let’s ignore, for the moment, the sequence of events that led me back here and focus on the epiphany regarding my desire to blog.)

Photo credit to Bridget Webber. I feel this photo rather successfully portrays exactly how fully in the middle of absolutely nowhere I am right now. (Let’s ignore, for the moment, the sequence of events that led me back here and focus on the epiphany regarding my desire to blog.)

Continue reading

A Holiday Service Announcement From RTI:


I do not celebrate Christmas.

This is not news to anyone that has known me for some time but, because I move around a lot, there are some people I’m currently close with who have not known me for some time. This message is for you.

I haven’t celebrated Xmas for a number of years now. I used to be quite (read: very) soap-boxy about my hatred of all things yuletide but throughout the years that fanaticism (like most of my fanaticism) has relaxed to more of a dulled disdain.

Or, in some instances, evolved into a disturbing embrace of holiday iconography.

Embracing the holiday iconography perhaps more than peeps intended me to for an Xmas KitKat party in Köln.

There are facets of holiday celebration I’m more than happy to partake in; the parties and get-togethers and the like. I like spending time with people I like so, really, whatever the excuse – boom hells yeah lets go.

I will not decorate. I feel for the Earth, poor struggling whelp that she is. It does not bring me joy to string sparkly reminders of our diminishing rainforests from one corner of the room to the other.

I don’t do carols. They are terrible and make me want to kill myself. Or at least stab myself in the ears.

But above all else – I don’t do gifts. This is not exclusive to Xmas. I do not do gifts for any calendar occasion. I do do gifts, occasionally. . . just not when I’m supposed to.

This confuses a lot of people. Allow me to explain more fully: Continue reading

Lock Up Your Sons, Melbourne

Please allow me to introduce you to my friend, trouble.

Please allow me to introduce you to my friend, trouble.

So about 9 months back a mate of mine from Germany visited Melbourne (and Jess, this story is about to make your day). Near the end of her time we spent a day hanging out in Fitzroy – not my usual hood – and had one of those ‘ah, just one beer sure’ that turns into several pitchers kind of nights. It was one of those nights where the conversation comes easy, and one of the recurring topics was regarding a beautiful man that worked there, and the hilarious face Jess would pull whenever he walked by.

I can’t remember now whether we just left, and I later cursed not getting up the courage to go ‘aw, fuck it’ and ask if he was straight(ish)/single or if I WAS actually going to and then couldn’t find him. . .but the beautiful man with the eye-catching forearms went un-asked-out. And I promised Jess that, should I come back and see him again, I WOULD go through with it.

I didn’t even know the name of the bar we were drinking at. Continue reading

Hey There Victoria + Thoughts On Mental Excrement

One last ride: Saying bye to my boy ❤

In the end, I spent five months in Northern Queensland: four months working as a jillaroo for Mellish Park, and one month working as a ‘resort assistant’ (I had to come up with a title for ‘vagabond that lends a hand with the kitchen/housekeeping/meteorology stuff’ for my CV. That is what I went with) at Sweers fishing resort in the Gulf of Carpentaria. It has been six years and 30 countries since I first left Canada to ‘see the world’ and I would rate my time in Queensland among my richest travel (hell, life) experiences to date. I have learned more about myself these past five months than ever before. Continue reading