Another Asian person sat next to me on the bus. Now people probably think he’s my dad.

So said Rebelspy on First-World Problems, when I checked the web to see what other awful, so awful first-world problems people are suffering out there.  For alas, Subbers, my mac is STILL in the repair shop – since Wednesday lunch time:  can you believe this?  HOW is one meant to write a novel?   What, with a fountain pen??!    !??       No, see, my problem here is that the novel is in the mac and I reread where I last left us, to walk the next steps up the path in recall/emotional recoil. 

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I wanted to let Rebelspy and the first-world problem share launchpad know I’ve quoted them, but they’re on the Tumble-thing and I couldn’t leave comment (trying to avoid the T word being hyperlinked here, for MY newfound first-world problem is Big Bro hyperlinking what I scribe, to point to her advertising foundations out there).

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Bollocks

…which reminds me:  thanks Johnny for your  email with linked suggestions on how to fix my mac.   I forwarded it to the repair guys (deleting identifiers). They had an open mind, and I appreciate that – they said they’d read what you suggested.

“I want to enjoy my beer in the garden, but the wifi doesn’t work out there.”

First-world proflem sufferer LoveIsEveryone (no link available)

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So I read that problem of Rebelspy’s and thought, ‘Oh mercy, I hope my son Daniel has never “SUFFERED” such a thing – Asian dude sitting next to him on the bus and people thinking the dude is his dad’ ‘!!!   - for as you know, Daniel is Polish-Irish, Indonesian-Chinese Australian. 

Tha, in turn reminded me of – which I think I may have expressed in my draft(?) – when Daniel’s father thought to reassure me, “Don’t worry; Daniel will look more like you as he gets older.”   I was stupefied by Chris’ comment, completely did not comprehend where he was coming from, and it only served to demonstrate – again – he did not know the person with whom he had lain, sweat over and come upon, his lifetime.  

I do not need my child to look like me, think like me or be like me for me to love him, let alone respect and see with what wonder I do, the individual that he is.

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So not having the mac which holds my novel, alongside a comment by Willow and others, some in sympathy, butwhich sympathy had me realise how ridiculous is my ”problem – all that inspired the first-world problem theme of this post/update

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I took out my detachable hard drive to see how much of the novel I had saved , and got to reading my old diaries – my earlier life as a teen, hiding under my bed as my father stomps into my room, or writing under a tree in Wattle Park, writing my heart out as I had no-one to turn to in my existence, writing thoughts dark,  including thoughts of that girl, a year or two up, who was raped…

Excerpt from my teen diary:

“We were locked in gaze, I don’t know for how long, when Zorran made a move. I could not have escaped if I wanted to,  for I was held entirely by the energy of the moment, was hooked on the life of it.

As Zorran approached me, I watched in awe the advance of man.

My eyes never left him as he tread the bridge of our energy, across the room.

Zorran then knelt before me, placed a hand on each of my knees, and slowly opened them. I resisted at first, I guess by reflex, but then surrendered as he opened them wide, so very wide. My legs open to receive Zorran into their fold, he crept forward, and soon he was before me, eyes directly before me, energy and body 100% before me.

I was wholly, wholly taken.“

Doh! Soz (as my son would txt) – wrong moment in my teen diary…

” ‘You’re not going through Wattle Park now, are you?” Kathy’s mother asks, and I have learned to say no, of course not to the seemingly caring adults, but Wattle Park is just outside Kathy’s door and it doesn’t make sense to walk around it.

I feel the nervousness returning and feel in a rush to get “home” so as to lie in bed under the musty blankets with the stray cat. I hope with all my heart that dad and his rage will bypass me tonight, going straight to the RSL.

A girl 2 years up from my class was raped in Wattle Park by a man known as the Silver Gun Rapist.  I wonder how often she walked through the park because I walk it twice a day.  I feel he should have chosen me, but have mixed feelings about that. I just want someone to handle me, that’s all, someone to touch, to want me desperately, because all I can see is my father’s foaming loth of me, and no-one ever touches me.   Yet they say that rapists don’t care about their victim; they just rip them from their path, destroy them, leave them for dead. I know I am wrong in this brief deluded fantasy, know that the rapist does not want you – he hates you, and that would just mean two men hating me instead of just one.

When I look at that girl’s eyes now, although everyone’s trying not to stare, I know that rapist took something which cannot be restored and I feel such immense anger that I choke in rage, silent though it is, sitting still as I am on the outskirts of the playground.

I want to cut his dick off, look him in the eyes, say, ‘How the fuck dare you change this girl’s whole outlook, how the fuck dare you alter her so’.   I am so enraged on her behalf and she has no idea because she just looks away from me, another person staring, trying not to stare.

When I get to our place it is dark.  I put my hand through the broken glass at the front, unlatch the window, climb through. I  stand in the darkness, moonlight on the scabby old furniture, all quiet but the hum of the fridge.“

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Those were the yesterdays of my life, the years which brought me to this moment; the times alone, wagging school and writing under a tree in Wattle Park, or visiting my sister in the locked ward at Willismere Mental Hospital… to face teachers the next day and their irritation, sigh, that ‘Noeleen has missed MORE classes’ and she just may not remember – on the occasion in my life it becomes essential to recall – that the Battle of Hastings happened in 1066.

“I cant find the right balance between my fan and my electric blanket.”

First-world problem victim ConnorMackenzie

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How irrelevant school was to me, when I needed more to speak through my pen, to be unhassled by humans/alone, to try not to contemplate suicide so habitually.   So, so bad I willed to die – right up until 2011 when I finally in a fit faced that fantasy, and nearly succeeded…thrice.

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Subbers, by way of update:   today Saturday has dawned no opoortunity with my mac, therefore secret and stolen moments on my son’s desktop.  But obviously, first-world problems and ”suffer” them I may, I will survive..

I count my blessings, even the most simple basic one of all:  I no longer will to die.

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The novel will continue upon return of my mac, but in the meantime I wish you all so well, sun, prosperity of heart and life. 

Whatever the problem is you’re experiencing today, or these days:  all storms pass, as you know, but not before you pass through them.  I wish you wellness to weather whatever storms are in your life right now.

*** Hope you all have an AWESOME day  

(I would say ‘life’, but that sounds like we’re breaking up…) ***

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And for your viewing pleasure (ha ha – don’t you just love my sense of humour?) a wee video I did upon a time, once, a few years ago..

Copyright, Noeleen