The week after that in In which our ignoble friend

Now settling down again, a bit. Have gotten an invitation to interview for one of my less preferred universities. Still baffled by the idea that, in 8 months, I might be back at uni.

At work last night I mentioned the whole thing to a colleague, who surprised by suggesting that my imminent departure might be sad. It’s strange really, I felt things more acutely before; certainly leaving the first care job was tough, if only because I had a lot of extended one on one visits with a lot of chat, as well as clients that I’d been seeing for the whole 5 months I was there. Also worth noting, I’ve had 5 jobs in the last 3 years, 2 involuntary stretches of unemployment, and 1 job that I failed a security check for. I’ve grown cynical, I guess, a bit. Also, I knew this was a bridging arrangement. Point is, I give 0 fucks about leaving. I’m ready. Let’s go.

Filled out forms for GP during a lull last night. Need to figure out what vaccinations I had and when. Need to get in touch with Australian humans for that. Anyway, it’s been 15 months since we moved (where the hell did that time go?) and I need to get registered up here - not least because I want to look at going back on meds. The choking on essays thing needs to stop. It’s pure performance anxiety / perfectionism that’s stopping me - I’ve gotten enough good marks on other work to be sure that I know the material. Just need to keep reminding myself that I don’t suck, my brain is just fucking with me.

Lots of strange deja vu, applying to uni again. Or, harmonic memories? I do the thing, and it prompts the memory of the last go round to arise. Or the memory of an emotion, or some weird angle on both the original and the duplicate. I feel as though I’m in neither one place nor the other. Outside and looking in.

It’s nice being part of a group of people working towards similar things, collaborating not on group tasks but just on helping each other through. That brings up memories of its own. I haven’t stayed in touch with anyone really. Facebook comment every couple of months. Must have called my family fewer than 6 times in the 3 years I’ve been out here. It’s not that I rely heavily on Fran either - if anything, over the last 3 years I’ve become less reliant on her as I’ve found my own feet (and, more importantly, earned my own money). There’s also the fact that we’ve been together for going on 8 years, and there’s a certain amount of, if not complacency, then relaxation of standards. We both pretty much know we’re in this for the long haul, so the risks are lower, and fretful neediness can pleasantly diminish. Point of all that being, I’m pretty isolated. Deliberately, to a certain extent.

Is there some axis along which seeking approval and seeking control lie? I don’t know. I think I’ve always been inclined to keep people removed from my various bullshit. That’s how I ended up on OD - not telling irl humans things. I gots trust issues, and commitment issues (which I thought until maybe a year ago were a concept manufactured by US sitcoms), and what the hell ever else. Issues about having issues have thankfully abated as my strategic reserve of fucks to give has gradually depleted. Commonly ignored fact that we are born with all of the giveable fucks we shall ever have. Strictly limited resource. Tragic to see a young person fritter their fucks away, clinging to a measly few into grim old age; worse yet to see them shuffle off their final mortal fuck and, thus being rid, flying all too soon from this veil of tears into the warm, slightly sticky embrace of the whatever that lies beyond.

So yeah. That’s what we’re going with - I have matured into a conservative fuck giving strategy more rationally geared towards a long, full life, punctuated at sensible intervals by the moderate and restrained giving of fucks. I’m definitely not a hollow (though counter intuitively heavier, more bulbous) shell of my former self.

I liked the second half of this entry rather more.

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