My Month of Mess

Four short stories dedicated to friendship and letting go of who I thought I was

RAIN SOUNDS

Tonight I sat on the couch with my friends, the three of us hip to hip, knees over thighs and arms slung sloppily over shoulders. We had crashed loudly into my tiny apartment with the arrogance of those still awake and out after midnight, the music ringing in our ears from the night’s festivities deafening our self-awareness. Shoes grimy with spilled vodka sodas and discarded lime wedges were scuffed over my freshly mopped floors, old wine was poured down the sink- the glasses left somewhere half full and stained with lipstick in my driveway, protein bars were unwrapped with sticky fingers and cereal was poured into a strange goo of diet custard before being attacked three ways. Earlier in the evening we had danced and screamed to one of the most universally nostalgic bands, but despite my yelling, rough jokes and shimmying in my frilly little shorts my brave facade was finally shattered when Wake Me Up When September Ends was played into Good Riddance.

So take the photographs and still frames in your mind
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good time
Tattoos of memories, and dead skin on trial
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while

My best friend’s arms enveloped me, and behind her, another set of arms holding us together- I leaned back, letting myself be held as grief finally over took me and sobbed silently.

It's something unpredictable
But in the end, it's right
I hope you had the time of your life

Funny how songs take on whole new meanings dependant on the context of your life. Some time later and still clutching to one another, fingers intertwined we laughed at the mascara running down our faces and the absurdity of our lives. The floor was packed now, plastic cups littered the space and voices becoming louder, hoarser, given lucidity by hard liquor in sugary cans. Swimming amongst bodies in the dark a hand reached out to pull me to the surface and with little choice I was propelled up and onto a man's shoulders- he was insistent that I see the stage for such a beautiful song. As I looked around at the twinkling lights of the crowd my tears dropping like rain onto the people below me, all I could think with this unfamiliar set of shoulders beneath me was: it should have been you. Three songs left and we started to plan our escape- we had the grit and determination of seasoned veterans, knowing that transport would be bottle-necked with half of Melbourne: we were going to walk. It took us hours to get home, our knees screaming to sit down. Then finally we were home. Sweaty, grinning and utterly content in our exhaustion we agreed that this was a family no one could come between. Recounting the night with our strange concoction of macro friendly snacks we revelled in the joys of gluten free meat pies, hot chips and dancing; we laughed about nutrition labels, gains and useless Uber drivers, and debated the importance of training calves and why cake is after all a health food. We bickered like siblings and my tears fell into my teeth, caught somewhere between a smile and a sob. At 1:09am I closed my eyes and leant into them and felt the fear of the last five years, of not belonging, finally loosen its grip. How strange the taste of grief can be. There is so much grace in letting yourself be seen.

DETRITUS

It's 2am and I am sat on the edge of my bathtub inspecting this evening’s battle wounds- a rather large blister rising on both of my heels and one bruised and bloody toe from an unworn pair of Doc Martens. They are platform, black and bolster my 5’4 self up to the eye level of my elegantly tall friends- who lovingly call me things like pebble, crumpet and pocket-sized, the shoes are absolutely fabulous but I am unconvinced the savagery of their stiff leather is worth the extra height. My bathroom hums and whirs with the rattling old exhaust fan- I too am exhausted. My little apartment closely resembles Carrie Bradshaw's wardrobe if a bomb had gone off inside; there are handbags on the door handles, stilettos strewn across the floor and clothes on every surface they can find landing. My house is a mess, my skin is tired and I look like I haven't slept in days- and perhaps I haven't. And as much as I despise the mess- or detritus as my friends and I called it, giggling as we exploded in a frenzy of lace, ribbons and broken eyeshadow palettes whilst getting ready for the evening, for the first time in weeks my house has begun to feel like a home again. Like life has once again been injected into its veins via the constant drip of loved ones passing through its rooms, leaving crumbs between my linen sheets, worn thin and soft from years of tossing and turning; fingerprints on my mirror next to a stray smudge of mascara; the lingering scent of my friends’ perfumes, cologne and foreign laundry soaps; discarded punnets of blueberries and work uniforms forgotten and left behind. There are love notes stuck to my walls and my heart is beating again. I could learn to love this mess.

LETTERS FROM THE YOGHURT AISLE

I think contentment is learning to love Sundays. For as long as I can recall I have had a strange fear of the last day of the week; the anxiety of completing another and having to battle through five more days just to get to Friday made me feel a little seasick. And they would stretch on for hours, Sundays. At around 3pm, with all my washing done, meals prepped, obligatory phone calls made, a sense of impending dread and doom would creep in as I realised I was to spend yet another Sunday night alone, and god forbid, go to work the next day. But lately, Sunday’s have become my most treasured day of the week. It starts as all days do, with breakfast, coffee- just enough to induce mild heart palpitations, but never anything more; a call with a loved one on the way to the gym, and the frantic rush home to shower and throw on an outfit that can last the remainder of the day. This is when the fun begins, I meet my treasured friends for cake and coffee at a local cafe (not really local to any of us, but the cake is gluten-free- and often free, and we love the owner). We will spread out with an obnoxious assuredness that we develop like armour when together; our laptops and handbags strewn across the table under the guise of ‘working.’ Hours worth of chatting and far too much sugar later we will often visit a bookshop and dream of our futures wrapped up in electric blue, vivid pinks and heavy gsm paper. Then its home again for dinner with my other family; the kind that you can show up in any state with and know that you will be accepted with open arms. We laugh our way down the aisles of Woolworths and debate which brand of yoghurt and wraps to get for that evening’s dish. And in the lamplight of one of our apartments (to always be treated as your own home) we talk about the sacrifices we make for love and how those sacrifices lead us to the greatest gift and growth a human can ever experience- that we gain so much more than we lose should we just allow ourselves to step past the fear. We talk of religion, community and the importance of connection. We talk of letting go, and loss. We talk of pain. I listen intently as my friends tell me to never be ashamed of my needs and to never forget who I am. There is so much to be said for watching others love and be loved; and I cannot contain my gratitude that I get to witness the most tender of loves between my two friends- and gush to tell them so. They teach me of the softness and the acceptance that comes with true devotion, and hush my fears of anything that is not hard and harsh. They teach me that it is okay to be gentle, and to be fearless and proud in my love. They teach me that it is okay to have a melting heart. So Sunday’s have taught me patience, and the art of slowing down to speed up- now, I am not so scared of the end of each week.

OBSERVATION

It's Saturday night and my best-friend is cross-legged on my stained Moroccan rug- worn down from footsteps, cups of tea spilt and bodies tumbling upon its once soft now scratchy orange and white tufts, she is searching for her ID; we are going out. I am in the bathroom putting on a final coat of blue mascara- naked so I don't sweat through my outfit before the night begins, and call out to reassure her that she will get in, we are no longer rimmed with the eager halo of youth; no one will question our age. I put on my tiniest shorts- soft, black, and my biggest coat- all laced up in leather and bleach. 10pm and we tumble into the car, unsure of where we are headed and under strict orders from a new friend that we are to have fun. We arrive at the venue far too sober and quickly down a sufficient amount of tequila so that we are socially coherent. An enthusiastic group nearby introduce themselves to us under the speckled flash of a disco ball suspended above us- we follow them outside. A cigarette is passed around and I squat down on the gravel, the soft leather of my boots straining to balance me. Someone is asked a question and stands up towards us and presents his answer with flair; it begins to rain. Inside again and we are dancing, laughing at our own witty quips on the crowd around us. Later, we come up for air and I sit quietly swinging my legs on an old barstool and admire my friend as she expertly carries conversation with a man whose name neither of us remember. How thankful I am for her. When the novelty of dancing wears off and the high gets quiet enough for us to hear the music again we run downstairs and busy ourselves with leaving; except I promised another friend my unwavering attention for the full evening, so I let them convince me to stay. I send my best-friend home with a kiss, interlace my fingers with hers and squeeze- I'll be okay. In the aggressively lit stairwell this new friend holds my hand and walks me back into the darkness of the crowd not quite still yet not entirely moving- a seizure like dance with more desperate momentum than any real rhythm. An hour later, or maybe three, I am not sure if time is even passing in this strange jungle of a room, I find my friend and hold their face in my hands and yell, I'm going home. I am exhausted and despite my subdue; like icing sugar soft, sweet and subtle, my lower back is screaming to change position. I shrug my coat over my now sticky body, frowning in a way women often do when cutting through a venue alone, to sway down the steps and into the eerie quiet of 3:50am. In the alleyway my new friend messages me- I don't reply. And at 4:15am I stand under the scalding water in my shower, absentmindedly splashing water against the tub and call my best friend. Alone in bed, skin scrubbed clean of its sickly fake tan and confusion I dream of brown eyes and hands bigger than my own searching for the skin at my lowest set of ribs. Even in sleep I still only have eyes for you. I wonder where you are.

The end.

Thank you for reading. I write because my heart cannot contain all that it holds, and not because I expect an outcome; however, if my words resonated with you and you feel like sharing the love, consider using the button below to support my work- it all counts, and is greatly appreciated. If you feel called to re-sharing my work, I would love to see it, so please tag me on Instagram (I sporadically check the app, so if I do not respond immediately, please do not take offence) find me here