This is why I had to leave
I haven’t written anything properly all year. What I’ve come to realise is the writing I love the most, the writing that some people want from me, it doesn’t allow for a linear flow. It’s not free-flowing, it’s not based on briefs, or deadlines, no matter how hard the man tries to squeeze it out of me. What I’ve realised is that I can’t force anything down on paper that isn’t something I’m feeling in the soles of my feet to the tips of my chewed-off finger beds.
I need to feel everything. I have to live through it to tell you about it. And maybe that makes me a crap writer. One dimensional. Stagnant. Selfish. Maybe this whole gig will never work out for me.
I do Sauce because it rounds me out. We don’t do Sauce for money. We don’t compete with anyone. We go silent sometimes. It’s always hard, but it’s always worth it. I do it because I want these stories, however minuscule they are, to scrape themselves into this tiny corner of the internet. If only three people read this, I want them to know I had something to say. Growing up, I got teased to the point of pieces, and I lost my voice somewhere along the way. I was told it was too high. Too gay. Too girly. I kept it in. I let my opinions rot and roll around my stomach, looking for a way out, puncturing holes, gashing wounds, seeping toxins into my bloodstream. The silence made me sick.
When I was younger, I used to have sleepovers in my sister’s caravan at our family batch. It always smelled like a beautifully toxic mix of trash, Juicy Couture cologne and marijuana butts. I loved it there. The walls were wearing thin with pieces of flower paper ripping off each hour. The water didn’t work, the mosquitos gave me love bits in triangles, and the air would flow in at night through the cracked windows, and no matter how hot it was the day before, it was always cold by 2 AM. I used to wrap my sister’s duvet around me, count my heartbeat and feel a cosiness I haven’t quite felt in years. But what I remember most about Emily’s caravan was the growing pains.
I used to wake up in the dead of night screaming. My bones felt like they were French kissing each other. The growing pains were long and painful, and she was always there to assure me it was just another part of growing up into a big boy. I’ll never forget how much pain growth made me feel.
What I didn’t realise back then was growing pains evolve. They don’t stop as you get older; instead, they come in many different shapes and forms.
A week or so ago, I left New Zealand. For the last three and a ½ years of living in New Zealand, I’ve never wanted to be unequivocally there. I’ve felt displaced. I’ve felt alone. I’ve felt boring. Nothing has been enough. Constantly comparing myself to people in other countries with more people, with more gay people, with more of fucking everything. The comparison brought on a starvation I didn’t know I could feel – I was perpetually empty. I’ve felt like my best years have been going to waste. So I left.
In my final few months in New Zealand, I felt like a floating carcass. I was done. And I thought that leaving would fix everything. My naivety assumed it would be instantaneous. I thought a city a mere few hours away would be enough distance between me and my past that I would have the space to pick up the pieces of my life.
I was so good at living in New Zealand. I could do it with my eyes closed. I bought milk from the same dairy every Thursday afternoon; the shopkeeper knew my name, he’d ask if I wanted cigarettes, I’d tell him no – and then I’d proceed to buy them anyway. We’d always smile. People bought me drinks when I went out, and I’d skip the bathroom queues like I was strolling down the street. I had a room with working lights, a bed that didn’t have a piss stain on the mattress. I had a private laundry line to ensure my tighty-whities weren’t visible to passer-by’s eyes. Everyone I surrounded myself with knew me and my bizarre intricacies. Like, all my friends know I want to set myself on fire if someone chews in front of me, or even worse, if someone shows any interest in me, I freak out, bite all my nails off and then mentally rip them apart in my head until I have the world’s biggest ick. It’s such a big ick it usually gives me acid reflux. All I am saying is people understand me for me back home. I don’t have to prove myself to anyone.
Ever since I’ve been in Australia, I’ve been wildly uncomfortable. My friend told me I was having an identity crisis just last night – I laughed then downed a bottle of wine over the dinner table. Someone unmatched me on Tinder yesterday, and I burst into tears on the subway outside of Kings Cross Station. I sat on gum on the bus heading to Bondi, and I tried to book a flight home. I’ve constantly been doubting myself and looking for ways to put myself down. I guess I built up this image in my head of how my life was supposed to be over here, and none of it came to fruition. I think I had such high expectations, and, unsurprisingly, I fell short.
What I’ve realised, I think, is I’m having a week-long growing pain. Much like the ones I used to have in my sister’s hotboxed caravan. Because, well, change hurts. But whenever I look back and think about the points when I was on the cusp of something new, I remember the moments that made me and not the ones that held me back for a split second or two. I don’t remember the nuances of my growing pains.
And as for you, well, you’ll know when you’re ready for change or two. Quit that job. Dump that friend. Stick it to the fucking man. Light a few candles and burn a few bridges. Fall over and scrape your knees on different sidewalks and pee in different oceans. Be selfish. Allow fear to seep in and inspire you but don’t live in it. Fail. Fly. Fall in love with yourself over and over again. I know I am.
I’m still going to do Sauce while I am in Sydney; we’re not done here. I’m just changing for a bit. But, to be honest, I’m over writing about myself. Over the last year, I’ve tried to fill a hole in New Zealand’s virtual arena I thought was ripe for the picking. I just wanted a guy to allow himself the space to be a touch sensitive online. I wanted to share my life and experiences that have built me, fucked me and grown me. I’ve written about anxiety, loss, toxic positivity, Arbonne (God save me from those fizz stick freaks RIP), I’ve written about ghosting, my unfortunate seemingly-perpetual dating history, I’ve blasted serums and poured out potions. But, right now at least, I have nothing more to give you. I’m all out. It’s time for me to live, to learn and to let life consume me to the point of it being a choking hazard so I can come back to you soon with something new. There are miracles inside of me and stories I haven’t written. I’m never giving up on myself.
