My Messy, Forever Unresolved Break Up

I’m going to contravene all of my principles and vent about my break up.  I can hear the cliché police now. 

I was in a relationship for over six years.  The whole time I was in it, I thought it was pretty good.  We didn’t fight much, and we laughed a lot, and when there was an awkward silence over dinner it never lasted longer then a few minutes.  I think I would have quietly stayed with him forever.  But he suggested a break, and I think this is why:

I wanted kids.  Not right then, not even in a couple of years, but it was a non negotiable on my eventual to do list.  Once we had been together for six odd years, I thought I’d better bring that up, seeing as he was the man with whom the requisite procreating would take place.  So we sat down to have one of those chats that are few and far between and are really important, and I said I would like to start trying by the time I turn 28.  He looked a little startled, as if he hadn’t once in the term of our relationship considered the idea, but after some squirming agreed.  A few months later, he proposed a break. 

During the break, I re-discovered a carefree Katie I hadn’t known for a long time.  I had been so frightened to leave, clinging on for dear life because I was scared of winding up alone.  But when I was thrown in the deep end, I thrived.  I accepted invitations from uni friends and got pissed and had a blast.  When it came ‘decision time’, I went back on my guarantee that my vote would remain a solid yes, and said goodbye.  I went first, so I’ll never know what he would have said had he.

I was really surprised by what happened after that.  I moved out, and he refused to ever speak to me again.  I in my naivety had assumed we might actually be friends.  After a couple of attempts to get in contact he sent me a message making it abundantly clear that not only did he want nothing to do with me, he had accrued a deep disdain for me and what I had ‘done’.

I am not writing this column to sling mud.  I am writing it because I want to talk about my feelings.  I have no idea what I did.  I don’t know if it was one thing or the whole bloody relationship.  All I know is that I thought we had a nice 6 years, but apparently he doesn’t. 

It’s caused me to look at the entire relationship in a negative light.  If I could be so utterly wrong in my assessment of how he felt post-break, perhaps I was living a delusion the whole time.  Was he quietly despising me every time I ranted about the managers at The Botanical, or when I made him eat at a restaurant and drink wine, because that’s what I liked to do?  Maybe he just didn’t know how to leave?  He did try to break up with me on a previous occasion.  I talked him out of it.

I’ve only really started thinking about this stuff lately.  I suppose I just turned away from it till now.  But the more I think about it, the more I think I have a right to know.  Because as it stands, I can’t enjoy any of my memories.  They’ve all been tainted by my assumption that the entire relationship was built on a false pretence.  A pretence of happiness.  It’s a big chunk of my life to be so un-sure about.

It’s a long time ago now, and it’s not going to get resolved.  I just want to express that I’m angry.  Just a little bit.  Angry that he claimed the moral high ground and made me the bad guy and refused to tell me why.  Refused to talk to me at all.  So after six years all I’m left with is confusion and a murky sense of guilt for I-don’t-know-what.  I’ll never have the faintest clue how he sees it.      

Tom's Love Affair

Over the past few weeks, I have witnessed a side of my boyfriend I didn’t know existed.  His heart has melted like a neglected chunk of Western Star butter, leaving him reduced to a cooing, love-struck mess.  Now, I’d love to reveal some grand romantic gesture on my part that’s set Tom’s heart a-flutter, but alas, it’s not me who’s cast the spell.

Tom is head over heels in love with two snorting, squealing little pigs. 

It all started with an idea.  Tom is a true hobbyist, and his latest venture is transforming the disused land at his mum’s place into a working farm.  Part of the reason is so we can become ‘ethical meat eaters’, whereby we only eat animals we raise ourselves, ensuring they’ve been given a happy life. 

‘I bet you won’t be able to actually kill them.’  Said everybody ever who has heard Tom’s master plan, and Tom, defiant as always, begged to differ.  I kept quiet, eyebrows raised.    

We adopted the piglets from an exhausted local farmer amid deafening squeals and the smell of shit.  The mother hog, fat as all hell and screaming in protest, frightened the heck out of us, and Tom backed out of the pen, never letting her out of his sight.

The first days were to the book.  We set the sisters up in their homemade enclosure, purchased some pig pellets, and were glad when they seemed to settle in. 

I knew it was all over when Tom brought them a hot water bottle. 

‘Do you think they might be a bit cold?’  I asked as we lay in bed one freezing morning.

‘I dunno.’ 

At that point, I’ll admit, I decided to tell a porky.  ‘Back in Iowa we used to give the piglets hot water bottles when they’d been separated from the mother, to give them warmth and comfort.’

Well Tom couldn’t exactly refuse those pigs their due, could he?  He got right up and fixed them their hottie, and as I watched him place it tenderly under the snoozing swine, I knew it was everlasting love.       

He is more protective of those bloody things than their own mother was.  In the morning, he leaps up at sparrow’s fart to prepare them a hot meal of potato and donut mush.  I tried to feed it to them once but was severely reprimanded.

‘KATIE, NOOOOO!!!’  He screeched, hurtling over to me at lightning speed and seizing the pot.  ‘You’ve got to check if it’s cooled down enough!’  He proceeded to dip his elbow in the mush, like, 20 times at intervals of a minute before he was finally satisfied as to its palatability.

Then, when they do eat, he kneels down on the ground and gives them a nice big scratch, grinning from ear to ear.  Like a child with a reluctant feline, he insists on picking them up and cuddling them, laughing hysterically as they squirm in his grasp.

  

He’s spent a great deal of time and money fencing off an enormous area for them to play and dig, which they do, day after day like industrious miners.         

When we’re back in Melbourne he scowers the dumpsters for them, locating hidden treasures like pita bread, muffins, and their favourite; chocolate mousse. 

And for the first time in his adult life, he calls his mum every day for a blow by blow commentary on their movements.  Today, sitting beside me eating breakfast, he told his mum to ‘put the pigs on the phone’, and went on to listen to their snorting for a deranged amount of time, smile glued to his face.   

Now, what do you think, will we be eating these pigs?  

Our Piggles are Growing Up!

We love our pigs so much! They have oodles of room to run around out at Val's farm. Tom goes dumpster diving for them; their favourite food is chocolate mousse!

My Struggle to Write About my Anorexia

As some of you would know, I’ve spent the better part of two years working on a book with my mum and sister.  The book, to detail or respective battles with the debilitating eating disorders that robbed us of great chunks of our lives, has taken me a very long time to put together.  It’s been a real struggle documenting my experience, and more than once I’ve abandoned the project, frustrated and exhausted, telling myself it was just too hard.  Now, finally reaching the end of the manuscript, I thought I’d share with you the reasons why it’s been such a long time coming.  

For years I wondered where the emotions were.  Why wasn’t I suffering, images of my own sickly frame plastered to the walls of my mind?  Where was the torment, the rage?  It seemed I had escaped my anorexia with nary an emotional scar to show for it.  Of course, I was pleased with this outcome, but I was also nervous.  Nervous that somewhere in my mind lurked a big, squishy ball of hurt, just waiting to be burst open.  

And then Mum suggested we write a book about it.  I was wary, of course.  But mum thought it would be a great idea, and friends were encouraging, saying it would be a cathartic experience.  When I first sat down at the computer, I was hopelessly blank.  My words were cold and mechanical, prompting mum to suggest I change tack.  I tried to remember the way it felt, to be cold all the time, to be frightened of meeting up with my friends at meal times.  But it wouldn’t come.

When it did, I wasn’t at all prepared.  Waiting for a tram on sunny Sydney Road, a memory rudely hijacked my mind, demanding attention.  It was me, traipsing up a hill in the rain, cursing myself because I hadn’t done enough exercise that day.  Suddenly there was a car pulled up beside me.  It was Nina, my boyfriend’s sister. 

‘Get in!’  She yelled through the downpour.  ‘You’re soaked!’

Horror filled my chest cavity, freezing my breath so I couldn’t speak.  Stepping silently into the car, my brain searched frantically for an excuse.  There was nothing.  I felt sick as I watched the footpath whizz past me, so many missed minutes of exercise.  

The floodgates had opened.  Every time I tried to write, I was inundated with intense emotions.  They didn’t make sense, just a big mushed up mess of discomfort.  I abandoned the book and went to see a psychologist.

She made me talk about it.  I realized it was the first time I’d recounted my experience without sugar coating.  Gradually, I was able to differentiate and understand my feelings.  It seemed they weren’t willing to be pushed back to the place they had hidden quietly for so many years.  In the safety of the psychologist’s room, it was ok.  I could handle it.

Part of the reason we went to Eden was so I could return to the book.  Free from the pressures of the city, I could dedicate my time wholly to what I now knew would be a difficult process. 

I tried my best to be brutally honest.  I wrote about the relentless calorie counting, the convoluted lies I would tell to avoid being served a meal.  I recounted the sense of power I derived from being the thinnest person I knew; an addictive power that fed the fires of my illness.  Every day, I walked to the library and made myself write it down.

It made me feel disgusting.  Disgusted at myself for doing it, for being proud of it.  I thought for the first time about my friends, watching in fear as I faded away.  At the time I thought that they were jealous.  Embarrassment gripped me as I remembered swanning into parties, thinking I looked great.    

I felt bitter anger.  Anger at myself, but more so at my parents.  Why had they let it continue?  Why didn’t they say anything, like they did when Anna was sick?  Was I not anorexic enough for them?  That question has led to a lot of confusion.  There is a part of me that has always been convinced I made the whole thing up.  That I lost some weight, got a bit obsessive for a while, and then the drama queen in me had the inspired idea to label it anorexia.  Part of me just can’t let go of the notion that the whole damn thing was an overblown exercise in attention seeking.  Out of all the bullshit, that bit is the worst.  Whenever I let myself feel something, a voice inside screams:  ‘Oh get over it!  You never even had anorexia!’

I’ve learned to counter that voice with logic.  On the books, I was definitely anorexic.  My ‘stats’ placed me squarely within the severe group, and my psychological symptoms were classic of the illness.  Still, there’s a piece of me that will never accept that I was sick.  The internal debate is exhausting.

As I’ve gotten deeper into the manuscript, it’s gotten easier.  I feel it’s taken me so long because as I’ve been writing the book, I’ve been working through feelings I’d been sitting on for years.  It’s been tough, but I’m really glad I pushed ahead with it.  I don’t want to be one of those people who are numb to their emotions.  

Excuse me for rambling on with this one!  I guess what I’m trying to say is, write it down.  In the end, it really does help.                

                            

     

   

Visiting my old friend Lizzie and her gorgeous new boy!

Katie and the Great Dimmies Debacle

I could sing the praises of Footscray till the cows come home.  It’s one of dwindling few suburbs where you can get an awesome feed for five dollars, and if you’re still hungry after that you can mosey on over to the donut stand and experience a piping hot, oozy jam pastry that’s bordering on a religious experience.  Yes, I reckon this place is pretty rad, but not when it comes to the basics.  There is no supermarket here.  They closed the Coles the day I moved in, and took the Kmart with it.  Several times I’ve found myself traipsing despairingly around Footscray on a doomed hunt for vegemite, fuelled only by my wit and leaking donut.

So I knew I was in desperate territory yesterday when I locked myself out of the house an hour before work.  Tom and I had nipped out for coffee in our morning ensembles of trackies and ugg boots, only to find ourselves on one side of the door, and our work attire on the other. 

‘What the fuck are we going to dooooo!’  Was my constructive response to the situation.  ‘I can’t go to work in this!’ 

Possessing slightly more reason than me on this particular occasion, Tom suggested we drive to West Footscray and locate ourselves a clothing store.  With no time to lose, we bumbled back into the car and commenced the expedition. 

‘WHERE IS THE KMART?  THERE IS NO KMART!’  I observed as we drove in.  At the ‘plaza shopping centre’ there were two tyre and auto places, several indiscriminate shops that looked like they hadn’t been open since 1982, and a Dimmies.  My heart sank as my fate dawned on me.

Running around the isles of Dimmies like a demented trashbag, I was able to locate the following:        

One giant smock slightly resembling a shirt, correct colour.

One pair of pants in my size- apparently from the pre-war era, with a ridiculously high waist band and ample room for Monroe-esque thighs.

Two types of shoes to choose from!  Oh joy.  Wait, no.  Just one type, because the work shoes were all for left feet.  One pair of imitation Converse, to add a touch of cool to my Dimmies get-up.

Grim determination on my face, I bought the disgusting outfit, clamoured into the car, and began pulling off my clothes before realising I needed a bra.  I sighed, told Tom to turn around, and ran back into Dimmies, semi naked in tracksuit pants and ratty singlet top, screaming ‘I STILL NEED A BRA!’

The shop attendants, who by this stage had decided just to do what I said, lest some unidentifiable fate befall them, hurried me to the dismal underwear selection.  Grabbing the first bra I saw, I bolted back to the car, almost completely de-robed by the time I closed the door.  Tom didn’t say anything, as I set about yanking on the ill fitting attire.  He seemed to have adopted the same wary resignation as the shop attendants, and simply drove, eyes trained on the road.

We got to the Restaurant two minutes late.  I couldn’t run inside because the fake Converse bit around the heels.  So I half limped, half jogged into work, swearing under my breath all the while. 

‘Katie?’  Asked Tina, my manager, apparently unsure as to whether the dishevelled mess before her was indeed her employee.

And wasn’t I.  Standing there panting, almost swallowed by my wrinkled shirt, I wondered why on Earth I’d come to work at all.  Then I sucked in a deep breath, forced myself to look at my manager, and explained my ordeal.  By the time I got to the bit about the bra, Tina was in stiches, and congratulating me whole-heartedly on my resolve. 

She also suggested I get dressed for my morning coffee run from now on.  But I don’t think it should be my responsibility to account for Footscray’s short comings.  Footscray, I love you, but open a damn clothes store!                 

The World of the Waiter

I’ve been writing solidly for months now.  Pushing my words on all who will indulge me, and many who won’t.  In this time I’ve made enough money to purchase myself a shiny new cheeseburger from McDonalds, which places me in the upper echelons of the Australian artist set, but doesn’t cover luxuries.  Like rent.  And soap.  My predicament led me last week down a path well trodden by struggling artists, a path to the local Restaurant, where I now hold the enviable title of Section Waiter.  

Waiters are odd sorts.  The other day, while lunching in Brunswick, my mustard-keen server inquired as to the quality of my experience a record breaking 3 times before I had even received my salad.  

‘Everything alright here?’

‘Still yes.’  

When she did put down my meal, she proceeded to peer at it in disgust before regaining composure and suggesting, ‘Would you like some minced lamb with that?’         

We’ve all had interactions like this.  Exchanges that leave you wondering if your server has just insuffilated an enormous line of ketamine.   So, now that I’ve rejoined the fold, I thought I would take the opportunity to clear a few things up for you.  Behold, the world of the waiter.      

Waiters don’t have a fucking clue what they’re talking about.

You:  ‘What’s the Waipara Hills like?’

Me:  (Not the faintest idea what the Waipara Hills is like.)  ‘It’s got lovely citrusy notes, with a nice long finish, and quite a floral bouquet.  You’ll love it.’  

Never once in my embarrassingly long hospitality career has someone called me over and complained that I’ve mislead them on the aroma of their wine.  The wordy-yet-vague explanation is a technique known to all waiters, applicable to a wide range of questions, and a great time saver when you’re trying to do the work of six people because your tight arse boss refuses to staff the restaurant properly.

It’s a tad annoying when you hail us, taxi style, while we’re carrying an Everest sized stack of plates back to the kitchen.

Offending customers hold the belief that as soon as one adorns the apron, one is no longer subject to the laws of physiques.  They can carry infinite loads for indefinite periods of time whilst simultaneously penning an urgent coffee order.  I’m not an aggressive person, but when a diner gestures for me to come over while I’m clearly straining in pain under the weight of greasy crockery, I kind of want to kick their face.  Because my hands are occupied.  

We top up your water so we can spy on you.

Ever wondered why your waiter insists on topping up your nearly full water glass while gawking awkwardly at the table, trance like stare on their face?  Water top ups are a handy excuse to survey where you’re at.  Its pretty hard to tell whether your coffee cup is empty from a meter away.

If you are a tiny girl, you probably shouldn't order a steak equal to a large portion of your body weight.

The Restaurant I currently work at serves steaks that could take a trucker out.  They are not for the faint hearted, and certainly not for you if the steak is larger than the entire width of your abdomen.  For some reason, tiny people believe that their presence in a restaurant gives them magical powers, allowing them to consume five times what they normally would.  It’s so sad having to shovel huge chunks of food into the bin.

Some waiters are just shit.   

Most waiters are employed by bitter bosses who have been sucked dry by the competition an overheads, leaving about 4 cents to pay the staff.  These meager offerings don’t exactly attract Melbourne’s finest, creating a skill vacuum at your local pizza place.  Some people try really hard but just can’t get it right, like miss spiced lamb.  Others just don’t give a rats, meaning obsessive people like me can’t help but do their work for them, all the while cursing loudly at the Gods that brought upon them this lowly existence.  So, basically, if it seems like your waiter is a bit shit, that’s because they are.