It’s eight years this week since I left my former life in my state’s capital and made my seachange. I still think it’s the best thing I’ve done but—as I’ve mentioned before—I probably didn’t realise how hard it was going to be to find employment here.
Without a doubt it’s been the main issue and I’ve only worked full-time for one year during that time, part time / contract for two to three years.
It’s a bit of a jolt to one’s self-esteem to feel unemployable, despite having a pretty decent CV.
It’s been a while between non-bookish posts and I hope to get back into more so thought I’d start with a bit of a status update. Anyone following me on social media will know I’ve been struggling with overwhelm these past few months.
It’s something I feel guilty about when many others have been grappling with far bigger issues. For me it’s been a combination of things.
One of my University subjects requires me to write a personal essay. All three subjects actually require ‘major’ assignments and I keep changing my mind about them. But drafts of two are now due in mere days, so I figure I need to stop friggin’ procrastinating and worrying that I’ve not chosen the perfect topic and just start writing.
I (eventually) decided my personal essay would be about my time in Africa. Long-time readers of my blog will recall I’ve often pondered the idea of writing some sort of factional account of my 18mths (or so) there in the mid 1990s.
One morning last week I happened upon a Facebook post by Liz Gilbert. I scrolled on and didn’t read it at the time, but the opening phrase stuck with me so I later went back to check on it.
The Bluffs is the debut novel by Kyle Perry and a lot of reviewers I know have loved this book. So… my thoughts deviate a little from the norm.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed the book. I read it in a sitting and (eventually) turned the pages quickly, keen to learn more.
But it took me a while to get to that point. In fact I almost put it aside (to read later) a few times in the first few chapters.
The structure confused me as did the obvious reference to Picnic at Hanging Rock. I adored Joan Lindsay’s novel but HATED the posthumous final chapter that leapt into the supernatural. So, talk of portals and other realms here almost had me running for the… (ahem) bluffs.
“Oh of course they’d need to leave time after we finish to sanitise the table and chairs for the next booking,” I said to a friend last weekend.
We were going for drinks and I was checking to see if our 2hr booking was for 5.15 or 5.30pm. It was the former, with the next ‘sitting’ at 7.30.
Popular restaurants and cafes have long had ‘sittings’ so they can fit as many as possible in each evening but of course, the term has taken on a whole new meaning during the coronavirus restrictions.
What disturbed me about the conversation with my friend was that it seemed so normal. “Oh yes, the disinfecting!” is like a no-brainer.
Last week I wrote about the overwhelm I was experiencing. I commented on the guilt I felt for being so exhausted when I was in such a position of privilege. Even saying “I want the world to pause so I can get off for a bit,” reeks of middle-aged white-personism.
A lot of messaging suggests we avoid social media, news or negativity… to preserve our own mental health. Our sanity.
It’s been a big year (or three). A lot of bad shit has gone down, some preventable. Some not.
