Sometimes, I just think I want to completely give up.
Not die—nothing like that. Not suicide. Just... give up. Give up the ideas, the plans, the volunteer work, the study, the travel dreams. Trade it all in for something quiet, predictable. A stable government job—maybe on a switchboard in some mundane department like the Environment Protection Authority. Just be content with my lot in life. Stop dreaming. Settle down in a cosy little unit somewhere. Watch Ancient Aliens, drink wine, and maybe even take up smoking again.
I haven’t smoked in years, and I swore I never would again. But sometimes I wonder—what if it didn’t matter? I’m going to die anyway. Why not go down doing something that feels good?
Even still, I know I’ll never go back to smoking. I’ve dreamt about it—those vivid dreams where I’m smoking like I never quit—but I don’t truly want it. Friends who’ve met me since I quit say they can’t believe I ever smoked; it doesn’t fit who I am. And they’re right. I was never the inconsiderate smoker—never around children. But it was still a revolting habit. These days, when I pass someone smoking, the smell makes me feel sick. And that’s good. Because I can joke about it, but I have no real desire to start again.
So why this urge to give up on life? I’ve talked in this blog before about how I gained a whole stack of weight—and about how I dream of being skinny again. It’s something I want, something I look forward to. But then a strange thought creeps in: What happens when I’ve done it? When the dream is fulfilled, what’s left to want? Will I feel empty, now that the thing I’ve looked forward to is no longer a future state?
But deep down, I know this much: if I give up now—before I’ve really even begun—I’ll regret it. In ten years, it’ll be harder to return to study than it is now. It’s already hard. I feel like Adam Sandler in Billy Madison, back at school as an adult, surrounded by judgy young people.
And I know the last time I wrote here, I said I was going to study 3D modelling and VFX at TAFE. But I’ve changed my mind—I’ve decided to do it at uni instead. And yes, that’s where all the young ones are. But I think if I walk in with my head held high and remind myself, I really don’t give a fuck what you think of me, I’ll be just fine. Uni starts in July which is just a couple of months away.
So I’ve decided: I’m not giving up. I’m going full steam ahead.
What that looks like for me actually isn’t so different from a quiet, predictable government job—just more colourful. I want to write things, make things, and travel. That’s the life I want. And the way I see it unfolding is this: for the next six years, I’ll rock the world of visual effects, neon bending, gilding, and every form of art I’ve loved from the sidelines but never fully pursued. And then—when I turn fifty—I’ll write. Blogs, articles, books. Just write.
I hope I can earn enough through writing to fund my travel. And no, I don’t have a backup plan. I know backup plans are probably wise, but sometimes I think they give you permission not to try quite as hard at the thing you really want.
All I want is a peaceful, creative life. A simple one. In between the art, the writing, and the travelling, I want to keep volunteering—both for the Red Cross and the human rights organisation I’m involved with.
That’s it. That’s the dream. And I’m going after it with everything I’ve got.
Before today, I hadn’t spoken to Rebecca in over a month. But this afternoon, she messaged me to ask how I was. I replied, and she told me she’s been in the Adelaide Clinic—for around four weeks now.
I don’t want to make it all about me, but I also can’t ignore the possibility that the fracture in our relationship caused her some distress. Maybe it even played a part in her ending up there. And knowing that... I decided to let everything go.
I didn’t think I wanted to be friends with her anymore. But the truth is, she’s Nanny’s granddaughter. And I want to be there for her. I want to look after her where I can—and I’m going to do just that.
We’ve arranged to go out for dinner next weekend, and Mum’s going to come along too. It might take a little time to rebuild what we had, but I don’t think it will take long. I've known the girl all my life.
I’ve been thinking about the letter I wrote to The Advertiser regarding the pro-Palestinian protesters being labelled a “security threat.” I stand by every word of it—I still feel deeply passionate about the language I used and the truth it held. But I’ve also come to realise that there’s no way a Murdoch paper would ever publish something like that.
So, I reworked the letter. You can read the revised version below.
Dear The Editor,
The recent coverage of the pro-Palestinian protest outside the election debate referred to the demonstration as a “security threat.” I find this language deeply troubling.
These were not violent agitators—they were citizens exercising their democratic right to speak out about a real security threat: the humanitarian crisis in Gaza, which has taken the lives of tens of thousands of civilians, many of them children.
Framing peaceful protesters as a threat risks silencing vital public discourse and sets a dangerous precedent. It suggests that disagreement—especially when it challenges foreign policy or questions the actions of a state ally—is something to be feared rather than heard.
The world is watching horrific scenes unfold in Gaza: hospitals destroyed, aid blockaded, civilians caught in the crossfire. You don’t have to agree with every protester’s sign or slogan to understand why people are speaking out.
We must stop vilifying the voices calling for justice. They are not the problem. The problem is our silence in the face of unspeakable human suffering.
Sincerely,
Me
When I sent it to them, I wrote a note saying that I realised my first letter might not be appropriate for the Advertiser and I rewrote it to something more suitable. I then said that I leave it up to their judgement. I really hope they publish it, I think it is a very valid point.
I taped the entire series of Married at First Sight which just finished it's run. There are 40 episodes in total—and I’ve just started watching. I’m really getting into it. Honestly, it’s exactly what I need right now.
Sometimes you just need a bit of trash TV to keep your mind occupied—enough noise to quiet the overthinking and make space for your gut to speak up. That’s how I know whether I’m really doing the right thing.
So, I’m off to spend the night watching MAFS.
Till next time.
