I channel hopped like a fiend this afternoon, trying to keep up with the US Election results. I sat in front of the damn TV with my laptop, glued to it all afternoon, not even doing homework. I despaired over lost states, rejoiced over the good ol’ blue areas, and cheered out loud when states converted. After several hours, I went to pick up the kids - reasoning that it would be at least an hour before the official result was announced - and by the time I got back, Obama had owned McCain.

I missed it. The most important moment of the entire election, and I missed it(1).

Despite that, I still cried when I found out. President Obama. It seems almost unreal to me, that the Americans learned from their mistakes and elected someone who appears to genuinely want change, someone who appears strong, decisive and capable. I don’t agree with all of Obama’s policies, but I agree with most of them. Perhaps more importantly, I agree with the messages he is sending, about the United States, about the world, about people. I believe in him.

Up until a few months ago, I didn’t really see a reason to care. I didn’t get it. Now, I do. I GET IT. I understand that each and every person who voted in this election helped bring about a change that will someday be in history books. I understand that although a lone voice can be easily silenced, when a large group of people speak at once, they are heard. I care, because Australia is the pampered bichon frise sitting on America’s knee. We need their firepower, their trade, their support - and America knows it.

So, I care about who extends the hand that feeds Australia. Not only that, but I suddenly care about who’s running my country, my state, my local council. I feel the need to inform myself, to learn about who exactly ‘they’ are, those nameless people who control my life, my freedom, my money. The 2008 US Presidential Election has finally awakened my interest in politics(2). I understand now why America is so caught up with patriotism. I was so proud, so happy, so relieved; politics really can bring people together.

Well done, America, and thanks for voting.

—–

(1) Thank god for cable TV, 24hr news channels, Twitter and YouTube.
(2) It’s actually all Sarah Palin’s fault. Really.

Twelve months ago today, I wrote out a list of things that I wanted to accomplish and sealed it in an envelope. On the back, I wrote: ‘I am going to change my life.’ Why did I choose Halloween to make my own personal statement about where I wanted my life to go? I have no idea; the action just struck me as a good idea. The most important things that I wrote down, in my opinion, were the following:

• I have the power to change things in my life.
• I am going to change the things in my life that I am not happy with.
• I will start living the life I want to live.

In the last twelve months, my life has changed in a number of ways. No matter how hard those ways seemed at the time, I believe now that they were for the best. I am physically healthy, and reasonably happy with my face, my body, my fitness. My mind is clear and sharp; I’m organised, more efficient than I was before. I’m learning to balance work and play, learning to work within a timeframe and to a deadline.

Emotionally, too, I am changed. Despite the recent months of - to put it bluntly - bullshit, I have managed to bounce back and get on top of things once again. My moods remain more or less stable, I’m finishing up the school year with good grades, and I only feel like crying all day sometimes. Definitely an improvement. And, just to put the cherry on top, I’m doing it unmedicated.

I didn’t mention it earlier (in part because I didn’t want to jinx it, and in in part because I just wasn’t blogging that often), but since early March, I’ve been off my anti-depressant medication. I’ve never been happy about being reliant on a little pill everyday. I didn’t think it made me weak, but I did feel as though it left me less in control of my life. I liked being able to live, but I wanted to do so independently.

It wasn’t explicitly stated in my Halloween wish-list, but it was there: learn to control my social phobia (which has always been a trigger for my depression) without the drugs. I’m not jumping to conclusions yet, but so far? So good. I’m not struggling to get through each day; I’m waking up with a list of things to do, an organised plan for the day and an optimism that surprises even myself.

Of course, I still have a million (okay, five) assignments to get done in an impossibly short amount of time. The difference is that this year I’m (over)confident in my ability to finish it all. I’m looking forward to next year, enjoying life as it happens and really settling into my skin, into who I am. I’m lucky, I know; some people take years longer than I have to reach this point in their lives.

I’m grateful for the last year, and hope the next is just as productive.

My life? It’s a great (if slightly nerdy) place to be.

When I was much, much younger than I am now (forgive the dramatic tone of that statement, but yesterday? I signed my eight year old sisters up for an online game that I have played, on and off, since I was ELEVEN. *gulp* The mortality? It frightens me.) I met a girl who could have – if I had been a sheep – lead me astray.

We were fourteen and I was on the outer with my usual group of friends (that’s a whole other post, and one day I hope I can write about it here), so instead of shying away from the strange girl with streaked hair and (oh my gosh!) piercings, I befriended her. It turned out to be the best friend-related decision I made that year.

Lyndsie and I have remained friends; close, despite the fact that we don’t speak more than every couple of months. She calls my Mum ‘mum’, and has never once looked down her nose at me or my family. It’s been years since we saw one another face to face, but I could still pick up the phone and tell her anything, everything.

For the last month and a half, I’ve been trying to get in touch with Lyndsie. I sent text messages, I e-mailed, I called. She never responded, and her phone was off, a lot. At first, I figured she was busy; I knew she had only just gotten a new job, and so I didn’t stress too much. Then, yesterday, I got a phone call:

“My mum and nephew were killed in a house fire.”

I expected a flamboyant, ridiculous excuse for her being busy. Like, eloping in Vegas. Falling pregnant. Moving to another country. Lyndsie is a crazy, impulsive person; she takes risks. Not once did I expect to hear her voice, detached and strangely robotic, telling me how her dad is barely coping, but she is, ‘all right’.

God, she really isn’t. Her voice cracked, and she struggled – sounded almost human – on the ‘all right’, and even over the phone my eyes burned with tears. She is not all right, or okay, or even coping right now. I can’t do anything to help except be here for her – and even then, only on her terms.

‘I’ll call you Monday,’ she told me, ‘when I can talk.’

I’d like to say that I rushed over to her place right away and sat with her for hours, talking in that silent way that friends – that Lyndsie and I - do. I didn’t, though. I won’t. She asked me to wait until Monday, until she’s ready to talk about it. Part of being a friend, part of supporting someone, is respecting their need for space.

Of course, mixed in with the concern for Lyndsie are my own selfish fears. My mother’s operation and the changes it effected have already made me acutely aware of how little time I could possibly have with her. To imagine going through what Lyndsie is, even being prepared (as I would be), touches and hurts me deeply.

When I was about fifteen, I remember hearing from a friend that a classmate’s mother had died. She fell asleep at the wheel while driving home from work; the tree she ran into was around the corner from her house. My friend’s father was a volunteer rescue worker, and he was called to the scene. She was his friend, too.

I couldn’t imagine being Kimberly (or her younger sister), losing their mother right as they began maturing into women. I understood that she was angry, that she missed her mother, but my mind refused to even imagine myself in her place. I simply clung tighter to my own mother, and tried to forget the incident.

Kimberly and I weren’t friends, really, so it almost worked.

But, I can’t forget this one. Lyndsie will never forget it; her mother, stuck in a wheelchair. Her nephew Malik, only three years old. Lyndsie will hurt, ache even, forever. And because I have to remember, for Lyndsie, I can’t brush off the possibility of losing my own mother anymore.

The last month has been a bad joke – the kind without a punch line.

(Before I launch straight back into my usual whining, I’d like to say THANK YOU, to everyone who commented/messaged/called/e-mailed me to wish my mother well.)

Mum is home. She is home, and in a lot of pain – even though it will have been a week tomorrow since her surgery – and I am doing my very best to make things easy for her. I mean, I’m cooking, guys. Seriously, I’m frying stuff and stirring things and pouring liquids and everything. It’s horrible, but I’ll manage somehow.

Stephen is also home. He’s basically spent a lot of time playing computer and watching movies, and every time I eye him, all, ‘You could go to school today.’ he whines about how sore his leg is. I had to help him in and out of the bath, which was pretty much as awkward as it sounds. Fifteen years olds are hilariously modest.

My nana hurt herself today; she fell over at the supermarket and cut her hand up pretty badly. It’s all stuck together with what basically amounts to doctor’s duct tape, and she has a pretty nasty bruise. I bet you’re all wishing you were part of my family right now, huh? Yeah, we get all the fun. Where FUN equals DOOM.

School is.. well. With the exception of Editing, I’m pretty much caught up with everything. Desktop Publishing and Editing will take a bit of hard work, but my teachers – especially my Editing teacher - are awesome. They actually remember having lives, and they know shit stuff happens. I should be caught up soon.

I’ve been having major issues lately with companies taking money without warning. 3 took the money for my phone bill even though it had already been paid, and before that? Foxtel charged me almost double the amount they were supposed to, and then refused to give the money back except as a credit on my account.

Never mind the fact that I didn’t even want the platinum package, and that they don’t even broadcast Channel Seven or even that they took the money out on the WRONG DAY without issuing me a bill! I mean, c’mon! It’s Foxtel! They don’t need any of that fancy-schmancy customer service crap stuff. Losers.

Anyway, every time one of those fuckers idiot companies take money when they’re not supposed to, my account is empty (or close to it, because really? I’m a student, what do you expect?) and so they overdraw it. Then my bank is all, ‘Yo man, we spotted you that money yesterday, so we’re taking thirty bucks extra.’

You know, for effort. Or something, I don’t know. It’s one of the ways they make money, I suppose. Although, truly? I shouldn’t really bitch complain about my bank, because they have been awesome. They reversed two of the three charges (That’s right, people. Three times!) with no fuss, and didn’t make me wait hours on hold.

Unlike some companies, who could really use some of those customer service skills.

Or not, because I feel bad about disappearing on certain people.

(This post deals with vomit, and may offend those with weak stomachs.)

Basically, I’ve been sick this week. Really, horribly sick, with some sort of virus that not only made me want to sleep all day and night, but gave me such a horrible headache when I was awake that I had to eat Advil like lollies. On top of the virus and all the sleeping, my asthma played up and I had a few attacks.

My family will probably be thinking right about now, that it was only ONE asthma attack, but they’re wrong. See, this virus thing has been threatening for over two weeks now, and that’s why I was taking my Ventolin – because I had already experienced a minor asthma attack, along with some shortness of breath.

Anyway. At first, I figured it was the awesomely cold weather we’d been having, and I just ignored it. Apparently that pissed the virus thing off, because last week it got a lot worse. I made it to one class, maybe two, and I had a bad night with my asthma, but I thought I’d be better by the weekend. Boy, was I wrong.

Although, honestly? The weekend wasn’t actually a problem. I just didn’t blog during that time because I was playing WoW pretty much constantly, and I COULDN’T log off for unimportant stuff like eating and blogging when I could level instead! Yeah. I play WoW, now. I know; I said I never would, but I have been converted.

That previous sentence really deserves it’s own post.

Anyway, it was Monday when I started to feel sick again. And then, basically, I got into my mother’s bed on Tuesday morning – when I came downstairs to say hello and let her know I was awake – and I climbed out on Friday afternoon. In between, well. I slept. I took unhealthy – for me - amounts of Advil. Also? I nearly died.

Late on Wednesday or Thursday night, I woke up and realised that I couldn’t breathe properly, or really at all. I was taking in short gulps of air, so I sounded like a dog panting. My head was throbbing, aching so badly that I wanted to cry, and no one else was awake. Fantastic. Luckily, I had an asthma pump right next to me.

I turned on the machine and held the mask to my face, and about five minutes later I could breathe somewhat easier. I was also coughing – or trying not to – and every time I shook, the pain in my head would shoot into my eyes. Ouch, in other words. So, I went to take some Advil. No hesitation, you notice; I was pretty damn sick.

In retrospect, I should have made sure that I was awake before I attempted to take it. I probably should have used the pump until I could actually breath properly, too. But, whatever. I didn’t, and so I staggered out of bed, grabbed the Advil and tossed one in my mouth. Then I took a swig of Powerade and swallowed.

And wouldn’t you know it? The little shit of a pill got STUCK.

As an aside, before we get to the funny part of this entry, I don’t like taking pills. Ignoring my dislike of medication itself for a minute, I physically despise swallowing pills, capsules, whatever. I actually gag and feel sick when I think about taking them, and afterwards I shudder. So, yep. Keep THAT in mind.

What happened, you see, is that I had a Powerade bottle. They have that stupid pop cap thing on the end, so my ‘swig’ ended up being less than a mouthful. The pill got stuck halfway down, and I started gagging, but I was also trying to swallow at the same time, until – of course – I lost the battle, and spewed. Everywhere.

As another aside, I had goulash and rice for dinner.

I projectile vomited across the floor at the foot of Mum’s bed. I actually managed to get some on my laptop, which was on the OTHER SIDE. Crap. I freaked out, because I couldn’t breathe already thanks to the asthma, and- SHIT. As I was looking around frantically for something to clean it up with, I vomited AGAIN.

God. I whimpered a bit, trying to wake Mum up, because I was sure that I was going to choke on my own vomit, or need to go to the hospital, but she snored away, blissfully unaware of my predicament. And that’s when my body decided to really go wild. I had just grabbed a towel to clean up when it happened.

My stomach revolted, and instead of holding on to the towel, and trying to catch the spew or something, I dropped it and cupped my hands together. And somewhere between then and vomiting, my body had tricked me, because I didn’t just throw up, oh no. It came out of my mouth AND my nose – straight into my hands.

I kid you not. I was so worried about getting it everywhere that I actually cupped my hands together, threw up, and then ran into the bathroom. Anyway, I spewed into the sink, and I was running the tap and trying to get my hands clean, and my hair out of my face, all the while gasping for breath. Classy, eh?

When I was finally done, I started blowing my nose, trying to clear it of the nasty crap that had gotten up there. I couldn’t even believe that vomit had come out of my nose; I was still trying to figure out HOW it had happened. Anyway, I was blowing my nose and suddenly I heard a little ‘POP!’ inside my head.

And when I looked down, there was rice in the tissue.

Doesn’t that make being horrendously sick for a week worth it? I laugh every time I remember the rice, really. Although, my Mum telling me there “should be someone in the dwarven city” to clean up my vomit was also a bright spot. Thankfully, I am no longer sick – and as you can see, NOT DEAD – and so I can laugh about it.

Some of you may have noticed that I didn’t update yesterday. Yeah, about that. Since I missed that day of updating when I was sick, I began looking back at all of my daily posts. A lot of them are rubbish, to be honest. Some of them are just filler, so that I can say ‘I’ve posted’ and others are memes, and overall I’m not happy with the record that I’m leaving.

I began this blog to write about my life, about things that were happening and how I felt about them. Since I started trying to blog once everyday for a whole year, I’ve lost sight of that. More and more often, I find myself turning to the memes, or rushing to get something - anything - posted before midnight. I stopped taking note of things and writing about my day; it became about the competition.

A little competition never hurt anyone, but from now on, I’m not actively trying to post everyday. I may not be attempting to win literary awards with my small corner of the internet, but I would like to post meaningful observations, thoughts and events from my day to day life. The competition is over, and I think I’ve taken what I can from it; the habit of writing everyday.

The ‘Daily’ category is gone! Forever!

Today my youngest brother turned fifteen. I can’t believe it, to be honest. He doesn’t act, look or think like a fifteen year old yet, but there you go. We had a fairly low-key celebration with mostly family, and Stephen got to see his Dad, as well. I had already given him my gift - on Friday, which will make sense in a second - so no one else got to see what I gave him, or his reaction.

Mind you, that’s probably a good thing, given that he screamed like a five year old girl when I handed him his copy of Nightfall; I doubt that his girlfriend would have found it very attractive. I gave it to him on Friday, in case you haven’t figured it out already, so that he could play it over the weekend. Otherwise he would have been facing a whole week of having the game but not having the time to play it.

It really was bad luck that Stephen’s birthday and my own are so close together. If Mum hadn’t had to put on my twenty-first a few weeks ago, she would have been able to give him a real party; had friends over, or gone to the movies, or something like that. I know that Stephen understood, and I’m sure he has big plans for his sixteenth next year, but it would have been nice for him to do that this year.

Despite his oddities, and the fact that he drives me completely up the wall most days, I do love him. I hope that this birthday - although small - was a good one, and I wish him many, many more. I have high hopes of him reaching adulthood and maturing into a man that I respect and like. If he can manage to curb THAT. BLOODY. SINGING. I’m sure he’ll make it to his next birthday without being throttled.