Kingdom of Doom

Hello Sheeple! It's been a while.


The last four months have consisted mainly of learning how to teach. Which, like everything on the world, is a skill, that takes practice. It has taken quite a lot of time to get used to the post-teaching stress headaches. And also. Wow. I have a massive appreciation for well organised unit co-ordinators who take pride in their work. And finally, annoying students are annoying, in an eye watering, wall punching, head splitting kinda way.
So a brand new issue has come up for me. Above and beyond the usual weirdness that has tenancy in my headspace.
I'm going to get a breast reduction.
Why?
None of your fucking business.
No, this is the internet, and I am allowed to take up space on the internet to talk about myself, so I fucking will.
There are a number of reasons.

1. Pain. Lots of pain, all the time. I'm had a frozen left scapula for 3 years now, and I think it is being of bra straps pinching the nerve. I wake up with numb fingers. Sometime just breathing hurts. They're really really heavy.
2. Mobility. I haven't run since I was 14. I usually blame my flat feet, but there is a severe discomfort to having the front half of you trying to rip off with gravity.
3. Self Consciousness. I don't like contoured bras because they make you look bigger. But without them, nipples, especially downward pointing nipples, are an issue. Now anyone who knows me, knows that I generally don't give a shit about what other people think. But what other people that ACTUALLY DOES MATTER. I hate that it does, and I fight against it... which leads me it...
4. Increasing Privilege. I'm super sick of being overlooked. It makes me completely nauseous, that I bust a gut for an organisation for 18 months before I get a public acknowledgement. I go above and beyond, I work my ass off, I raise everyone's profile except my own. I don't blame my breasts for making me so invisible, I also blame my non-whiteness, and my refusal to adhere to normative beauty standards. But I am sure that it is part of it.
5. Clothes. I am really tired of trying things on and not being able to breath. Tailored clothes are expensive. Big breasted clothes are fucking ugly.
6. Gender. I am aware that my tolerance of my breasts until this point has been directly linked to the fact that they give me value as a woman. But my value as a woman is reduces on a daily basis with my advancing age. Hence this concept really needs to be discarded, and I intend that with it will go the six or so kilos of fat on my chest.

There you go. The reasons why a woman would reduce breast size. There are dilemmas though. And they've hit me like a truck today.

1. Is this an anti-woman thing to do? Is it the product of internalised misogyny? Do I hate aspects of my body because they're more feminine?
2. How small do I go? Do I go all out and get a double mastectomy? If I don't get the double mastectomy, then aren't I doing this for purely aesthetic reasons? Am I a hypocrite if I don't get a double mastectomy?
3. Can I get cosmetic surgery and still me a feminist?

Big questions.

I'm going to brew for a while, and I'm sure I will come up with some answers. I think perhaps after a nap.

(Also, I'm 36 in 7 days. Late thirties. I've been in my dirty thirties for 6 years, and had sex about four times in total. I'm pathetic. I haven't hit any of the milestones of the people I schooled with, or anyone I know really who is my age. And all I want to do is hide and stare at the ocean.)

Crazy Beat

So over the last 10 days I've been to hell and back.

I intend that the contents of this post will be dissected and prepared for publishing to somewhere with a wider audience.  I'm not sure how to do this while still maintaining the privacy of my brother, but I guess I'll have to think about that nice and hard.

Living with a family member with a mental illness is really difficult.  Especially when that illness is exacerbated by addiction.  Especially when the addictive substance causes psychotic episodes, and is legal and accessible in Victoria.  I want to wax lyrical about the dangers of synthetic cannabinoids, how fucking ridiculous it is that we haven't successfully made them universally illegal in this country, how they're readily available in most sex shops, and how cannabis is probably a far superior drug to have circulating and regulated.  But perhaps another time, and in the presence of people who can actually do something about the law.

Either way, cannabis and synthetic cannabinoids make my brother severely psychotic.  And he loves them.  They make him extroverted, generous, exacerbate his creativity, drive the energy behind his thoughts.  It also makes him completely uninhibited.  This is a long standing problem, and we have our experience of attempted suicides, financial blowouts, violence, traumatic emotional breakdowns.  My mother has experienced him swaddling himself in towels and sticking his thumb in his mouth, demanding to be returned to the womb.  My father has caught him as he tries to slash his wrists, and driven him to the emergency room, bleeding everywhere.  He has disappeared for four months, found sleeping under a bridge in New Zealand, with nothing but a burnt up passport and a bong.  His depressive phases are just as painful, where all he does is eat, sleep, and cry, for months at a time.  It has impacted on all of us in different ways.

My brother has been well since the start of 2013, and it has been a wonderful time in which he has returned to study full time, we have travelled to Malaysia together, and he has had a modicum of stable happiness.  About 3 months ago, he asked me to start managing his money, so that he didn't spend too much, and I have been metering out his cash to him on demand, no more than $100 at a time.  I thought not so much about it.

The last few weeks, however, my brother has progressively been becoming hypomanic.  He's been organising a film project for his course, which has expanded from a four minute scene of a film, to plans of a full movie length reshoot.  He bought a new camera, a new skateboard.  He flew to Hobart on a whim, and spent more than $2000 in 4 days.  I returned to my apartment one morning and found all the booze (I don't drink, I occasionally get bottles which I save to re-gift) in my apartment consumed, and all my clothes in my room stacked in a corner.  Sleep was evidently becoming scarce, his speech has been getting faster and hard to follow.  Vague magical thoughts emerged in his speech, where the number of missed calls to his phone were suddenly directly related to his fame and success.  Epiphanies of the future of film, where we might soon all wear 360 degree globes around our heads for a full 3D experience.

Saturday night, when he got back from Tasmania, at my folks house, I was going to work, and went to say good evening to him.  He was in the basement with the dogs, smoking a spliff.  He declared that the contents were damiana only, however when he showed me the pack, he tried to hide the packets of synthetic cannabinoid.  I called him out on it, and he gave me the packets, asking me to get rid of them.

He came over to my apartment the following evening, as he had class on Monday morning, bringing an old tube television and other props for his film shoot.  I woke early in the afternoon to spend time with a friend, and wanted another nap before my shift started at 9pm.  He arrived at 7pm, talking quickly, asking for a small amount of money to see some comedy in town.  I took him for some food, and left him with $40.

When I got home on Monday morning, after working in critical care nursing all night, I found my one bedroom apartment trashed.  The flat screen television had been kicked in, there was washing powder from one end of the apartment to the other.  My fridge and freezer were empty, there was a pot on the stove with 3 litres of muck; in his inspiration, he had made "curry soup".  He was passed out, half on the couch, mouth open, snoring loudly, with nothing on below the waist.  I admit to usually being quite untidy, my living space generally has some level of clutter, textbooks, notepads everywhere, and a chronic inability to work out how other people keep tidy systems in place.  But this was something else.  Clothes, electrical equipment everywhere.  There was some evidence that he had attempted to clean up after himself.  The vacuum cleaner was out.  He had hidden the flat screen behind my shoes and unhung paintings.

I woke him up, but he kept drifting back off to sleep.  Clearly something was wrong.  I rang his private psychiatrist and left a message.  I rang my parents.  I rang the emergency services and asked for the police and an ambulance.  I double locked the back door so that the only escape was through the front, and through me.  I waited on the front step.

The police arrived first.  My brother woke up, and presented as very reasonable.  He admitted to taking 10mg of Olanzapine yesterday evening, then 20mg an hour before I got home.  He put some pants on, and I showed the police the damage.  They seemed unconvinced that there was a significant problem, and asked if I wanted to cancel the ambulance.  I stated that under no condition should they cancel the ambulance.

The ambulance arrived next.  The paramedics have a great deal more training, and my brother started to get mildly verbally abusive.  I promised him that I would be at his side 100 per cent of the time, because I know that he just needs to get through this current phase.  When we piled into the ambulance, he became very verbally abusive, upset that I was intentionally about to ruin his life.  We were warned that the emergency room was "busy".  I had been looking at the waiting room at my place of employment not 2 hours earlier, and I knew that the EDs were quiet, as our cubicles were more than 50 per cent empty.  I asked that he be taken to that hospital, but the paramedic declined, citing that their obligation is to take patients to the nearest hospital not on bypass.  We arrived.  They kept him out in the ambulance waiting bay, I completed the paperwork at the triage desk, and my parents arrived, looking exhausted.  My mum had also worked the previous night shift, and was supposed to be celebrating the commencement of four months of long service leave.

The private psychiatrist called back, and I gave him a run down.  When told he had taken 30mg of Olanzapine, Doc asked if he was trying to kill himself.  He agreed that my brother was probably requiring hospitalisation, and intensive psychiatric care.  We arranged an appointment for Wednesday evening.  That left from Monday morning until Wednesday evening to find alternative support in the public system.  Doc stated that he would do everything to get bro into private hospital sooner, and asked for regular updates.

My brother was seen by the emergency registrar, who brought him out and queried the location of his place of residence.  Because if he lived in suburbs with my parents, he was another suburban health system's problem.  Or if he lived in his privately owned property, he belonged to the Country District Catchment.  He certainly did not live in the catchment of the City Hospital, and should be discharged into the community to seek care at a more suitable location.

I put my foot down.  My brother lives with me five days a week during semester, well within the boundaries of the City Hospital's catchment.  He clearly currently needs care, he needs to be seen by the psychiatric team.  Neither my parents nor myself were willing or able to take him home and ensure that he is safe.  To be discharged at this juncture would be a breach of their duty of care.

It was 10am on Monday morning, and I had been awake for 18 hours.  I thoroughly lawyered the shit out of them.

They nodded and grumbled and headed back into the ED, stating he would be seen in due course.  My brother curled up on the chairs in the waiting room and fell asleep.  He woke up and demanded cigarettes, of which there were none.  I ran to the local shops and got him a pack, some ginger ale, and a breakfast energy drink for myself.  I hadn't eaten since midnight, and sleep wasn't on the horizon.  My brother spat some more abuse at me, completely ignored my parents, had a cigarette and went back to sleep.  My mother left in disgust (and has not spoken to my brother yet since).  My dad had some chest pain, resolving with comfort and a couple of cups of water.   The waiting room became completely empty.  The registrar arrived about an hour later, looking a little sheepish, saying his consultant had told him to treat.  My brother was taken into the cubicles, where he again very promptly passed out.  We had spent four hours in the waiting room, waiting for treatment.

Having frequently worked in ED, I knew that my brother was safe and unable to abscond without a proper struggle.  I cried with exhaustion, joy, and grief.  My poor father only ever sees me depressed cry over my failed attempt to have an actual law career, so the hysterical anxious sobs were something that he had previously never experienced.  We took the tram back to my apartment, surveyed the damage, found where my brother had parked my dad's ute, parked it somewhere more legal, and went to a local cafe for coffee and food.

It gets patchy after this because my recollection of events after being awake for 20 hours is always hazy.

I was keen for my father to go home.  We didn't know what was about to happen, but I needed to sleep.  I called the hospital, and got put onto a rather hostile mental health nurse.  He was pleased that I called, and started to collect a history from me.  I remember at one point, I mentioned the words "mood disorder", to which he asked "why do you think that he has a mood disorder"?  This somewhat shocked me.  I had previously stated that I was a registered nurse working in critical care, with experience in mental health nursing; to have my authority questioned, after 21 hours awake, seemed entirely unnecessary.  He told me that my brother is sleeping, and wouldn't be discharged any time soon.  I hung up, sent my dad home, and went to bed.

I later found out that he had yelled at, and hung up on my mother when she told him that she felt unsafe taking him into her care in the suburbs.  How very professional.

I slept from 3 to 4:30pm.  I woke to the phone, the mental health nurse telling me that they were ready to discharge him.  He told me that my brother was not sick enough to section (administrative detention under the Mental Health Act), and I agreed with this assessment.  I asked him to call back, so that I could review the situation with my parents.  I called the folks, and they seemed ambivalent either way.  So I spoke again to the mental health nurse, and agreed to accept my brother, on the condition that he be reviewed by the local Crisis Assessment Treatment (CAT) team that evening, and have his anti-psychotic medication supervised twice per day.  He agreed that this was an appropriate discharge plan, and that it would be in place when I collected my brother.

I arrived at the ED at 6:30pm, and the mental health nurse told me that the CAT team was too busy, and gave my brother his evening dose of anti-psychotic.  I shrugged this off as the overloaded healthcare system, and was given assurance that he would be seen in the morning.  I took my brother home.  To my horror, he mentioned that his overtiredness was probably due to taking 300mg of slow release Quetiapine.   I ate his awful curry soup with him, put on a movie on his shitty old television, and he fell asleep.   I went to bed at 9:30pm.

The next morning I woke at 5am, and my brother was already awake.  We walked through inner suberbs, about 8km, having breakfast at a nice cafe, taking photos.  It was hard rubbish week, and I had to work hard to stop my brother from picking up every shiny thing we came across.  My brother explained the night before, saying that he had "just gone crazy", and couldn't explain away the chaos.  He had smashed the television, thrown around the washing powder, then gone to a city pub to do a stand-up comedy set.  He had come home and made the soup, then had a bath.  He had tried to inhale the mousse in my bathroom in an attempt to get high.  He had used the $40 to get more synthetic cannabinoid, and it had made him crazy, and he desperately wanted more.  I spoke with my father, who had a medical appointment down the coast, planning to tag along from midday, and spend the afternoon at the beach.  We were home before 9am, and waited for the CAT to arrive.  They didn't.

My brother started watching YouTube videos.  He was smoking spliffs.  He moved to another room, playing music at top volume.  He turned on the old tube television.  Noise from every direction, completely chaotic.

I called the relevant mental health treatment team around 11am, stating my name, my brother's name, and asking what was happening.  They seemed to have no idea who he was.  They asked me to take him into their office so that they could assess him.

We arrived at the clinic at 11:30.  A psychiatrist and a mental health nurse came to assess my brother, first asking to speak to me, without him present in the room.  I again gave them a full run down of the situation, as well as a brief history of his illness.  I again asked specifically for a team to assess my brother and supervise the administration of his medications twice per day.  They then assessed my brother, who looked paranoid and asked that I leave the room.  20 minutes later, they emerged, stating that they were happy for my brother to continue on the anti-psychotics prescribed, gave him a script, and planned to send him home with no supervision.  I became angry and asked to speak with the psychiatrist individually.  I asked the psychiatrist if my brother was not unwell.  He stated that my brother was clearly unwell, but all he needed was the medications.  I drilled down and stated that I was unwilling to take him home without the assessments and supervision from the CAT, as promised by the team at the emergency room.  I stated that this was an unethical and inappropriate plan, especially given to someone clearly in a psychotic crisis.  The psychiatrist agreed, and disappeared, sending back the mental health nurse to discuss further.  I cried at the mental health nurse, stating that I have the full intention of making a complaint at the low standard of care.  He told me that they were going to make contact in the late afternoon and complete the assessment at that time.  I remain unconvinced.  He gave me the complaints information.

We had missed the trip to the country, so I took him back to my apartment, where he continued to smoke spliffs and watch YouTube.  I was tired, and napped on and off.  We went into JB HiFi, and he was horrified to find out that the replacement television would cost more than $800.  The CAT turned up and supervised his medications.  We went out for dinner, though I cannot remember where.  Again we threw a film on the tube television, and he fell asleep.  I threw a blanket over him and went to bed.

The next morning I again woke at 5am, and he was already awake.  It was pouring with rain.  He had been up since 3am editing a project for class.  I called my mother to give her an update, to tell her that everything is okay.  She told me that my brother is not welcome at her house, that I must start to charge him rent, and that effectively he is my problem from now on.  She directed me to tell him this.  I did, and it didn't seem to sink in; he changed topic to something much more unrealistic and optimistic.  He announced that he intended on attending class all day.  I agreed, and took him into his university.  His class started at 9:30am, I dropped him off in the classroom, where they were watching a film with a closed door, and went to get a coffee and make some phone calls.

The first person I called was the psychiatrist's office.  I spoke with the receptionist, asking when a bed would be ready for my brother at the private hospital.  She stated that he would not get a bed until he was assessed by the psychiatrist.  The full weight of being completely devoid of hope that help would arrive started to sink in.  I started anxious crying.  I told her that I wasn't coping, and that the hospital could soon expect two admissions rather than one.  She said that she would call back shortly, and I hung up.  I cried for 20 minutes, put an awful cry-for-help post on Facebook and Twitter, ordered a coffee, and cried for another hour into that coffee.  Finally the psychiatrist's office called back with the news that there was a bed available, giving me hope and a path out of the mire of helplessness.  Knowing that he must consent to being admitted, I pulled myself together and went back to his classroom.  A couple of friends called, and I felt a little better.

My brother went into the private hospital without any struggle.

I have complained to the hospital in question, the Mental Health Complaints Commissioner, and the Chief Psychiatrist.  I have only heard back briefly from the hospital, and the complaint is being heard by the MHCC.

He is better now, his bipolar is being treated, he is addressing his addiction problems, and he is keen to get back into the world.  His discharge will be tomorrow.  He is sad that he cannot take the drugs, but has a wonderful psychiatrist that has incorporated him in his own care every step of the way.   Mental health care in the public system seems to allow for, nay, encourage patients to fall through the cracks at every step of the way.  I am grateful that he is being treated in the private system now, and will endeavour to ensure that he stays under the care of this psychiatrist.  We are optimistic that this is a glitch, and as long as he can stay sober, this will not spin into the regular shitty manic fuelled hellish avalanche of psychosis and bridge burning.

(It's was not a glitch, he has since been admitted to a much better public health service, and is getting the care that he needs.)

Under The Westway

The Australian Financial Review went off-brand today when they published an article entitled 'Women should challenge men emotionally 'without whimpering or ball-breaking' and oh boy I am not impressed.  

A 'psychotherapist' by the name of 'Dr' Patricia Morris wrote a book called Love & Sex - 50 Therapy Lessons. (Google searches have yielded no results as to whether this woman is who she says she is, however, the book is easily found on Amazon with customer commentary.)

A summary of the article; feminism has fucked up relationships.

The section that really riled me up, to the point I had to put it away and read something Kanye had tweeted to calm me down, lies under the heading 'Paradox of Feminism.'  This section tells me that even though I'm a feminist chick with her shit together (sort of) that I will still submit to men, even want to, whether I like it or not.

No. I don't think so.

Morris writes, "Afterwards, she will analyse the significance of his every phrase. She will hurt if he shows insufficient interest in her, as if her preoccupation with him legitimises her expectation that he respond in kind"

Let me tell you something I've learnt from years of dating. That's bullshit. Men say what they mean, they do what they mean to do. That meme he just posted online has nothing to do with you.  It's pretty simple and best of all it will save you a lot of time.

It will also save me a lot of grief from listening to the beer garden analysts dissecting their latest romantic interactions.  It sounds selfish I know but I'm tired of repeating myself.

For the last time, there are no hidden messages!

The next paragraph is a killer; "Paradoxically, despite describing herself as the equal of men, she will be offended or even feel threatened if a man leers at her. Violence and manhandling aside, she will be outraged, even hurt, if he directs at her his antediluvian sexism. These responses are incompatible with self-assured equality with men."

As a woman amongst many with experiences in sexual assault, domestic violence and sexual harassment, this 'doctor' can get fucked.  Antediluvian sexism is the main reason we don't have equality and we need to call that crap out whenever we see it.  All of us deserve the freedom to walk down the street without being reduced to a sex object.  

I am equal to men, a lot of them just don't know it, yet. 

Morris' totally lacking in scientific research theory continues into the bedroom, Apparently sex triggers a woman's biology into taking possession and being possessed by her man.  A woman will compromise herself in the bedroom in order to gain his affection or approval.  In this extract I come to realise Morris is promoting internalised misogyny. I think she actually approves of the patriarchy.

This whole article stinks of pre-women's liberation how to be a good housewife etiquette.  

That time is over.  Rather than telling women to behave as the men expect them to, we need to honestly tell ourselves, our friends, to dump the demanding, needy bastard and move on.  I have no time for patriarchally conditioned men.  Equality will remain a struggle as long as they live.  

There are men out there who have risen to equality.  I've seen them in action, they're happy, their families are happy and they're still men.  They are far too rare though.

Psychotherapists like Morris are a scab on the equality movement.  She'll give you an itch every now and then, leave an unsightly mark but in a few weeks will drop off into obscurity and be forgotten forever.

It's women like her who pander to men and the men produced by the patriarchy that make me a very happy single lady indeed.  

So, in summary;

• Don't try to analyse the man, he's a simple communicator.
• Call out sexism constantly
• Don't settle for one who won't work with you
• Keep an eye out for unicorns

Finally, a word for the 'doctor'

The Magic Whip

I'm back in that wondrous conundrum of writers block, so it's time to unblock.  Today I'm going to talk about death.  How fantastically lighthearted of you Shannon!  You are such a joy to be around!

Trigger warning: discussion of death.

Death is a taboo topic, that some of us have more knowledge and experience of than others.  I feel like I have a unique perspective, hence the decision to write about it.  I have previously identified as a nihilist.  For much of my youth, like many young women, I was preoccupied with death, and had ongoing, invasive, and all consuming thoughts about suicide.  This started when I was in primary school, and only stopped when I was around 22 years old, after intensive psychotherapy.  I acknowledge the psychotherapy is the product of wealth and privilege.  I wonder what would have happened if we didn't have the wealth to support my rehabilitation.  I somewhat suspect that much of my illness (12 years of dysthymia) would not have been severe if I had not been private school educated.  I also suspect that dysthymia is a disorder that is only common among the very privileged.  The sadness stunted my emotional growth, and I am still find it difficult to adjust to social situations where others bemoan their little problems.  I don't know how to pursue relationships, I don't like to ask for anything.  I have confidence where I feel confident, but I can't hide uncertainty when I'm unsure of my skills/knowledge.  I have panic attacks, but only when there are great expectations.  I hate authority, not only because the powers that be ignored my illness as a child, not only because I really hate unconstructive feedback, but also because I feel like people who are in positions of authority are only there for the feeling of power.

Needless to say, the illness left a hangover of delayed success, obsessions with rock idols, and a persistent curiosity about how the world works.

I have also studied philosophy, and in my BA, I took 12 units of mainly epistemology based subjects.  I have a good understanding of the limits of the human experience, as dry philosophy and logic explains it.  I like being reductive, and realising that humans are just a combination of sense data, emotions, and physical presence, well...

While in my earlier, formative years, besides studying a whole lot of disparate things, and seeing a whole lot of rock music, I funded it all with working as an unskilled assistant in hospitals.  Some of this involved hanging out in the morgue.  And doing the wash before taking peeps to the morgue.  I didn't get training for this, this was the late 90s and the turn of the century.  I remember when a nurse asked me to help with the wash, I freaked out, and I was told to suck it up and do my job.  I remember reading an article that told me that brain synapses continue to fire up to 4 hours after the heart stops beating.  I also saw the Linklater movie Waking Life.  I used to talk and sing to the corpses as they went to the morgue, because in my head it would be the last thing those human people would ever hear.

I then went and trained as a Registered Nurse.  Now this has been one of the bigger awakenings for me.  I now know a whole lot of dead people.  The thing about chronic diseases, especially ones which involve whole systems of waste disposal, tends to end in the person being dead.  Especially if they're old.  You get to know these wonderful human beings, and they struggle with their condition, and their lives are horrible, because everything is based on the 5 hours on a machine 3 times a week... but you can bring them joy.  Like Nick, with his hardcore Christian values, and his anti-euthanasia, anti-organ transplant opinions, who would light up because I'd take as much time out from my shift to sit and chat with him.  He died.  I went to his (very Catholic) funeral, and bawled my eyes out.  Or Ross, who was over 160kg, and half of his heart was dead muscle, and the day he stopped being able to play golf was the day his metaphorical heart broke, and he'd pass out on the train on the way home and wake up 4 hours later in the same seat having ridden the line from end to end 3 times, he died, and his funeral was beautiful, and his boyfriend gave me a hug and fed us lunch.  Or Michael.  Oh Michael, I still miss you.  How could you die on me?  I knew you would.  There are some people that I cannot help but love.  I got in trouble for saying that I loved you.  Nurses aren't supposed to love their patients, not even in a matey, respectful, you're a gay man in your late fifties and I'm a woman in my twenties kind of way.

And then there is the death of people that I didn't care about quite as much, but still made me go home and weep myself to sleep.  We waited for Annie to die, we knew that she had because her family started to wail and panic.  And then we waited some more, because there is a sense that families really should have as much time with the freshly dead as possible.  And then I wrapped you, and closed your eyes, and said my own goodbye.  And there is Freddie and Cathy, who suffered the indignity of having their heart stop on the machines, and then the CPR and the crash as the ribs all break, and the relief when you get a rhythm back and set them towards ICU, only to find out they died an hour later.  Freddy had gotten the latest model smartphone like 3 days earlier.  He lived a wonderful life, giggled far too much, and absolutely violently ripped into nurses on a very regular basis.  Oh and then there was another Michael, who decided to die on my last shift.  If I had a bigger ego at the time, I would have though that he chose to die because I wasn't going to be there to sit and chat with him about his grandchildren, or the war, or hold his hand and wait for him to get his breath back.  I gave him the very best of deaths, the sheer relief that he had when the morphine took over and he stopped gasping for air.  20 minutes before he died, he thanked me, and told me to change the world.  Once the family went to sort out the shroud, I took my tea break with him, and had a long sad cry.

I once heard a saying that nurses carry the souls of the dead with us.  I feel like I do.

And then I moved to the Territory for a bit.  Life is short in the Territory.  And people came to the hospital to die, a lot.  I remember walking back to quarters from the clinic one day, and there was a car pulled into the Emergency Room driveway, with a dead body sitting on the back seat, covered by a towel drenched in blood.  It was the wife of one of patients, who was the brother of Peter, both Jungarai from Utopia. I went to church the next day, and it was strange because there was leadership and deference to the brothers. Alison died the next week. Alison didn't want to have treatment because she was in a bad mood and didn't want to inflict it on the nurses. It killed her.  Johnny and Gladys died within a month of me leaving.  They both had beautiful faces.  Johnny was just so so abusive, and knew me only by Nangala.  I was more than pleased with this, because he never bothered learning any of the other nurse's names.  Gladys was one of the kindest hearts I have ever met.  I would paint her nails every Tuesday.

I've been told that taking death personally is not a good thing for any person to do, especially if you're around it as much as you are with nursing.  I absolutely reject this.  I remember every patient that I know that has died.  I feel like forgetting and minimising death is the point at which life becomes meaningless.  There is so much policing of how nurses are supposed to feel.  I guess if there wasn't some level of uniformity of how to manage the human condition, especially the ultra sad stuff, else whole wards would be unstaffed for days at a time.  I have no idea how hospitals manage to maintain staff, there is so little care for those that care for the dying.  I consider myself an extremely resilient human, and yet I have had weeks where I haven't been able to stop crying.  Yes, my own sense of authenticity means that I am unable to discharge all of the sadness from every death, or suppress it, or externalise it.

Saying this, I am pleased that I have touched death, over and over again.  As part of the limit of the human condition, death is something that happens to other people, to be ignored and denied and forgotten.  I am more scared of death now that I ever have been; experience of death does not make it any less terrifying.  But I am also familiar with it.

That is something, isn't it?

Anyway, it's late, and I don't want to write about this anymore.
Shannon Out.

Post script: I no longer need to worry so much about writers block.  I've (ostensibly?) finished my legal course work, meaning that I don't necessarily need to write an essay ever again.  I will, but I don't have to...

1992

I thought I'd compile a best of 2015.  I think these things come in handy in future years.  And I must remember to be grateful, because despite the horrific lows of this year, there have been some super awesome highs.

Best Moment:

Dancing and singing Parklife on stage with Blur.  That was just... the best.  I don't remember any high that has been quite as good as that high.  I sang the chorus with my arms around Damon and Graham.  I think.  I still can't watch the video.  The high lasted actual weeks.




The whole Blur tour was a mindblowingly happy time.  I blew off Uni for a week.  We drove to Sydney.  We were excited from the freedom, jubilated from the re-ignited friendship, I personally felt like I was getting in touch with my authentic self, after a couple of years of stuffing myself into a box that I don't feel like I actually fit into.  If only life was one long road trip.  Oh, the energy, the sleep deprivation!  And then I couldn't let it end, so I flew to Perth to do it all again.

Best Album:

This has to be the new Libertines album, "Anthems for Doomed Youths".  I have listened to it maybe 800 times.  I love putting it on full blast in the car, and singing harmonies with Pete and Carl.  It *sounds* like a Libertines album, but with deliciously modern recording sensibilities.  Moreover, the themes within are reminiscent of a time long past of rambling afternoon tea sessions with beautiful people, late night wanderings through the city, infatuations with rock bands... 

Our youth has been lost, yet the memories linger, and invoked in a celebration of perfect English pop. 

So a massive thank you to The Libertines.  Thank you for reforming.  I just hope that Pete can get his visa sorted, so that we can see you in your whole-ness later in the year.

I also loved the new Blur album, "The Magic Whip".  It's very very good, go Graham for such awesome production values.  I still don't particularly like Morrissey's new thing, "World Peace is None of your Business", despite the epic title, and seeing him play four awesome shows at the Sydney Opera House.  I can't shake the feeling that he needed to focus more on his lyrics, and less on his terrible writings.

Best Media:

This year seems to have been the year that dialogue changed around women and film.

The film that stood out was Mad Max: Fury Road.  It was fucking fantastic.  I loved everything.  The dialogue was natural and unstilted, the set design was immaculate, the representation of characters was flawless.

There were a number of TV shows which provided compulsive viewing.  The once I ended up watching in as close to single sessions as my time would allow were: Jessica Jones, Master of None, and (it took a while!) Please Like Me.  It seems that I like the theme of the underdog, those that experience the world a little differently, diversion away from the dominant culture.  Man, episode seven on Master of None had my wriggling with joy.

I also just want to say yay! to the female protagonists of the last 12 months.  Yay for Rey!

Best People:

This year has been a time of reformations, of reconciliation, of re-tempering the ego back into the box in which it belongs.  I suspect that every law student goes through a certain process in law school.  It's like a sweat shop for people with massively insecurities.  I admit that I am no exception.  Anyhow.

I had the most humble, most sincere, apology from M, and reconstruction of a friendship that I feel like can now withhold the test of life.  I am so impressed by the almost-overnight development of becoming an compassionate, caring, awesome human being.  I love you and I want us to be friends forever.

And then there is Jax.  What can I say... I blame the patriarchy for the disintegration of our friendship in the past.  I internalised that feeling of inferiority that I felt around you, and it made me feel like shit.  I've recently been told that my feminism is a burden; I refuse to take this on as true.  A wonderful side effect of experiences of inferiority has been understanding that none of this is the effect of who I am.  Rather it is all my experience within a structure that will never accept me in my individual state.  I shouldn't hate you, just because you're the beneficiary of a system that accepts you more.  I also understand that your experience of the system is, in some ways, vastly worse than my own.  I am so so sorry for the hurt I imparted on you, and I am delighted that we have re-ignited our friendship.

There are other friends that I have made and consolidated this year.  I celebrate all of you.

Best Achievement:

Well, I could list a bunch of things, from the prizes I picked up at law school, to the 15/23 HD's so far achieved... but that's kind of boring and just speaks to my ability to suck up to lecturers and predict what is going to be on exams.

Nah my happiest achievement has been to get the dialogue around feminism going at law school.  It has been the source of much discussion and debate.  It has forced my growth (see above), and has been helpful to me as an individual, especially in taking the pressure off my own insecurities and inadequacies.  While it is helpful to understand that the system is just not designed to accommodate my personal style of oddness, I find it incredibly frustrating that I am unable to pick out the incongruences, and adjust my behaviour to allow for greater acceptance.  So it is a work in progress.  In the meantime, I facilitated the opportunity for a more understanding within especially the female students at my school to be able to see themselves within the greater picture of patriarchy.  Some feedback tells me that the style of dialogue was the best experience that certain students have experienced within the school.  I am incredibly proud of being able to have given that experience to my colleagues.

Furthermore to this, the louder discussion of feminism enabled me to realise more things about myself.  I was told repeatedly that I experience and interact with the world as a non-white person.  I had no idea that this was going on!  I thought my natural inclination for understanding that every person takes a different perspective on the world because of their lived experiences as an individual, diverting from the dominant culture in which ever way that they do, was intuitive!  It seems that people belonging to the dominant culture (read: white men) think that every person's experience and interaction with the world is similar.  I actually can't understand their perspective.  It's strange, two different types of people living in the same society, one that instinctively carries the burden of empathy, and the other that just takes everything for granted.

Resolutions:

Now I don't want to get too deep into this.  But there are a number of rules that I want to make, that I might actually stick to.

I want to overcome that horrific fear of rejection, the crushing panic and anxiety that comes with rejection, and just apply for lots of jobs.  I know that the chances of me actually securing a decent entry law job are zero to none, but I have got an exceptional transcript, I'm motivated, I am a good person with a reasonable reputation.  I must continue to give myself every opportunity for my legal career to actually leave the runway.  I will not sabotage myself with negative talk and shitty overreactions to shitty rejections.

I also want to reestablish my stance against negative body talk in my presence.  Just don't shame yourself in front of me, okay?  We all know that overall fitness, regular exercise, good frequent positive mental health dialogue, and a positive happy attitude to the world, contributes far more to physical attractiveness then whether you're a size 6 or a size 18.  And it's fucking selfish.  You might hate your body, but I don't hate my body.  Negative body talk breeds more negative body talk, it's infectious, I just don't fucking WANT TO HEAR IT, okay?

*deep breath*

Okay.

Finally, my last resolution is: I will not being taken advantage of again.  Or I will vastly reduce the number of times that I am taken advantage of.  Or I will notice when people are taking the piss, and reduce it's impact.  Or I'll just take the path of least resistance, as usual.  No seriously, I need to put my foot down harder.  I will not allow a filthy hippy to live on my floor for $100/week (inc bills), whilst complaining it would be cheaper to live in a proper share house, undermining my academic achievements, and using all my bog roll.  I will not do entire group assignments, and allow other people to take credit for my work.  I WILL NOT be the dumping ground for other people's emotional bullshit baggage, ignoring my own needs, being generally shat upon, over and over and over again.

Lets add one more resolution.

I will be braver this year.

I think that's important.

Okay, so that took a really long time to write, and with some kind of luck, I'll be able to get on with my thesis now.

Shannon out.

November Has Come

I had an experience recently and I want to record it, and share it, and be damn proud of myself for a change.

At the end of July I went on a date with a guy I'd met via a website a month earlier.  We'd been texting for a while.  He accidentally sent me a link to a conspiracy theory page and the next thing we're in a nerd off before we'd even met.  Promising.  Good conversation was going to flow.  It did.

We met for a drink.  He marvelled at my chai whiskey creation and we talked non-stop for several hours.  We even high fived each other for having an awesome first date.

And good lord is he hot, better looking than I expected.  Like ridiculously good looking.  He has a bottom lip I could spend hours, even days, gently nibbling or sucking on, despite the Ned Kelly beard.  Such a cute lip.  Such a lovely shade of pink.

Those who know me, know I have a thing for unusual noses.  I don't know why but I like a prominent and strong beak.  His is wide and long, like an overgrown mushroom.  And those of you who know my nose theory, he had another wide and long quality...

So I hit the aesthetically pleasing jackpot!  About time.

But then, he's clever, and funny, and sarcastic, and geeky.  I swoon, this is not good.  I've been dating to keep in practice while I get over my little broken heart.  I'm here to not fall in love but to hang out and maintain my dazzling charm.

But he's my exact Myers-Briggs opposite, and he knows what that is!

Then I realise he's also my equal, a good job, pays well, we both have mortgages.  Finally someone who is good on paper.  Mum and Dad will be proud.

Holy shit Jax, do not fall for this guy...

Just one catch...

He's about to be divorced and has a two year old son.

That's not a big problem for me.  I'm 34 and I accept we have lived long enough for these things to have happened in life.  One of my younger former colleagues is now twice divorced.  Like it's no big deal right?

It's a problem for him.  He's heartbroken and from what I can infer, he's playing the field.

Why shouldn't he?  I would.  I have.  I did.

He enjoyed my company, and I his.  I decided to leave it at that.  Then I realised I'd left very expensive headphones at his far eastern suburban home.  I'd have to see him again.

And I was going to have fun doing it.

We had our last date on a Friday night, still getting to know each other, I could see him surprised (gladly) by my little quirks that were so similar to his.  He said after dinner, "I wish I had floss on me."  I reached into my bag and rummaged around before announcing I'd left it at home.  The man stopped dead in his tracks, "you carry around floss too?"

It was a cute moment.  I'd already made up mind, it was over, whether it was days or weeks, we're not going anywhere.  The dude is too fucked up.  A shame but what do you do?

Early Saturday morning, as he left he told me he couldn't wait to see me again.  I smiled and said see ya later.  He was on his way to pick up his kid, any of the romance we'd shared would dissipate while he was chasing his child around a park.

Saturday night, late, while I was on a date, (I kept my options open. We had no exclusivity agreement) I received a text;

Hi jax (sic),
I am in a bit of a weird place... I had a big fucking fight with my ex today... and I don't really feel right about seeing anyone.
I had an amazing time with you but I'm a bit too much of a mess at the moment I think. :(
I don't know what to say. I've been having panic attacks about accidental pregnancy and I'm worried about my son and more fighting with my ex and I'm just a bit freaked. I'm really sorry to drop this on you so suddenly. Like wtf Graeme* I know. My life has a bit too much drama and I don't want to drag anyone else into it. Fucking blah. Everything might be different in a few weeks but for now I need to try and sort some of this drama out.

*Name changed, of course.  I'm not a bitch and this isn't about him being a dick, because he's not being a dick.

My reply, because on Viber people see when you read messages, so I thought I'd best reply;

Hey dude I'm out at the moment. I'm ok I'll respond more coherently tomorrow. I know what you mean.

Who's a damn ace chick?  Me!

So what does he say?

Thank you xx

Yeah, that's right.  Double x me.

And then I wrote the full reply, this is the part where I'm proud of myself, because I'm rare.  I have epic amounts of empathy in me.  This is why I'm single?  Nah.

Prepare thyself for the coherent response.

What you're going through is a big life event. Divorce, it's right up there with birth, deaths & marriages, although I don't think it's given the same level of respect. It should be. I understand the disbelief you must feel at the betrayal done to you. I remember the first time my heart was broken, really broken. The emotional pain was so strong that I felt it physically; a knife twisting in my chest, hands wrapped around my throat & constant nausea. It'll sound conceited but I was so shocked that someone could toss me aside. Like I'm the one who does the breaking. I'm the awesome, amazing 'catch' in this equation. This isn't meant to offend but I see that same level of narcissism in you. You must have been horrified that your partner chose someone else. That's the wrong choice! How could anyone compare to you? To love oneself is a good thing! I haven't known you long but this is what I see.

A broken heart is a difficult thing to overcome, it can take months or years. For me it took years. I realised something this year that helps. It may sound silly but here it is...there's no such thing as a failed relationship,  instead it's another life experience & with each experience comes a lesson. Once I figure out what my lesson is I can really start to heal and move on. E.g. it took me 4 years to get over someone because the lesson wasn't clear until I realised that it was me holding myself back, not letting anyone know the real me and not letting myself accept his feelings for me. With my recent ex I was 100% me all the time & he loved me for me. It wasn't my fault we broke up, it was his. The lesson I learnt there is that I attract and am attracted to mental health issues! I gotta break the cycle cos I'm enough crazy for 2 :P

You'll figure out your lesson, add it to your timeline (he's into timelines) and move on. Be patient it will happen. In the meantime you have a beautiful son. Sometimes it may feel like a curse because you can't completely break free but he is a gift you're blessed to have.

When I saw you in your home I could see what you're doing. You were with one person for a long time from a young age. Now is the time to rack up the notches on your bedpost. I know dude I've done it myself. It's not going to make the pain go away but it's fun to get it out of your system!

Yes I know I've written an essay here and it's an odd thing for a woman you hardly know to do but I feel like I have to give this to you, that you need it. We may never cross paths again & that's fine.  Sometimes these friendships are mean to be short but intense. I do like seeing you and I enjoy your company. I'm an easy going and empathetic chick so feel free to call me anytime whether weeks or months have passed. I won't judge. Take care G-banger (my nickname for you) xx

Did he respond?

Of course he did!

Haha I AM a g-banger! I may look you up in future, you never know. Really appreciate your coolness with my messiness x

Yeah he's fucked up and he likes me.  It's what I get.

So of course I respond...I was on a bus with nothing to do.

I know right! Yeah I'm like the coolest chick on the planet. One day I'll be recognised for it. Then I shall become a GOD! x

Did I tell you about how we bonded over Star Wars and Buffy?

Invite me to the celebrations ;)

My reply; I doubt you'll miss it. It'll be a party like the galaxy saw when the empire was destroyed!

P.S your ex is a total cow for ruining a perfectly good ISTJ x

He said; She knows it... And give me the Endor tree party any day x

I like to have a final word...

One more thing...High five for the best break up ever. Go us!

His last message: Haha you're awesome xx

Doesn't matter if I hear from him again or not.  He came into my life so I could finally grasp the concepts I ended up sharing with him.  I hope I helped him.  I feel like I did.

Seven High

ONWARDS AND UPWARDS...!

So I appear to have written 15,000 words in the last fortnight.  Yeah I did.  Totally on the home stretch.  An exam, a paper on takeovers, a summer dissertation, and I've got the last undergrad degree that I'm going to do (promise!).

Before I get started...

Warning: I once did a philosophy degree, and this blog post discusses some of the ideas that I have developed from those ideas learned...  I might get bogged down, wish me luck...

As a background to today's post, I'll talk about me for a minute.

I recently turned 35.  Big deal?  Well, if I'm honest, this birthday has been more difficult than any other so far.  I'm single, I've rejected my first career and I haven't made it in my second (yet), I'm broke, and I still don't want children.  I also, for some bizarre reason, seem to spend most of my time with people in their mid twenties, who can only be described as Gen Y, distinct for their constant lack of perceptiveness.  I have more than cognitive dissonance; there is a near complete obfuscation of my identity, because much of the time, my identity (as a rock nerd, as a musician, a nurse, a cynic, a nihilist...) is eroded into their neuroses.  I counter this with escaping from the city very frequently, to spend time by myself near the ocean.  By myself.  Yes, I am in a position of immense privilege to be able to do this.  I remain very, very lucky.

A dear friend visited me here at my ocean nest last week.  Her comment, and I found this to be incredibly flattering, was 'I need to be drama-less, and you are drama-less'.  I realise that I like to minimise the drama in my life.  I blame a great deal of my clear thinking on the fact that I ... have very little drama in my life.

**I have had rather a lot of drama this weekend, which I have tacked onto the end of this post as an after thought, rather than distract from the actual point of this post...

Okay, today I want to talk about happiness

Not because it is something that eludes me, or because I want to tell YOU how to be happy.

I am curious about happiness.  I'm one of those wankers that runs with the mantra that happiness cannot be found or achieved; instead it just is.  Ergo, nothing that you do or say can have any impact on your state of happiness, so you may as well not try.

That is not quite true.  I'm not a fan of the concept of free will.  I think it is misleading to say that we can control our actions, and it is more than misleading to say that we should control our emotions or thoughts.  There is a more abstract concept, however, of primary and secondary desires.  We cannot control our primary desires, such as whether I am going to have one of those chocolates sitting over there, or if I am going to keep reading my evidence notes right now (as opposed to writing this).  We can, however, control our secondary desires.  These are such things as broad decisions over our lives, such as whether we eat meat, or what goals are reasonable and rational to set.  So I might decide to set a goal, and then change the structures in my life to achieve that goal.  This way my primary desires are unlikely to be incongruent with my secondary desires.

These secondary desires, while we can 'control them', are driven by environmental factors.  Such as core beliefs instilled at childhood (like religion), inherited understandings of the world (like arachnophobia), and experiences of systems.  They are also driven by internally driven, so called genetic factors, such as cognitive functions, intellect, attention span.

Well that got a bit complex suddenly.  What I'm getting at is: we don't really have free will, because at both levels of desire, we are driven by what we are.

But anyways, these secondary desires seem pretty interesting...

I sometimes wonder if it is dissonance at the secondary desire level that causes drama.  When these desires become the unattainable, or are driving towards something that is out of your control, then you position yourself in a situation where happiness is impossible.  Well, not necessarily impossible, but certainly improbable.

In other words, if your prime directive in life is to be loved unconditionally by a handsome man, then your happiness is directly correlated with how successful you are at achieving this goal.  Also, when you are not successfully on the path to succeeding this goal, you will also be unhappy.  If you have some doubt as to the quality of the love you are receiving, your happiness is conditional on these thoughts, and you delay happiness until you get a resolution.  If you believe that your happiness is reliant on your complicity with a 'happily ever after' scenario, then you are more likely to tolerate terrible attacks on your body and soul from an abusive partner, because being with someone who loves you is better than being alone.

I clearly subscribe to a different school of thought.  I enjoy delayed gratification, but I will not delay my happiness.  When I was a teenager, I saw that young women (I was private school educated, and didn't have much access to young men, so women is all I know) were delaying their happiness to after they lost that weight and fit into that dress, or after that exam, or after school finished.  While I was generally one of the most miserable humans on the planet during my adolescence (one day I'll blog about this), I still understood that thinking this way is a product of oppression.  I also realised that this extended to all people in society, from my mother and her chronic inferiority complex over the car that she drove, to every advert ever trying to convince us not to be happy without their product.

Don't delay happiness.  Take it.

This is why I am single, and I do not want to look for a relationship.  Because I know that my net happiness is not dependent on the presence of a person in my life.  I also know that my net happiness is not in any way influenced by being 'in love'.  Further, when I am heartbroken, it takes me a really really long time to get over it, and this has a negative impact on my net happiness.  The gamble of relationships just doesn't pay off.   Working and getting paid? A no brainer.  Getting super high marks at Uni, now that is a gamble that pays off.

Getting romantically involved, where the other person might want to also get involved, but there is a chance that they will rip your heart out and stomp on on, but also, you have to make sure you keep menstruating because abortions are expensive, and also have to expend the emotional energy to make sure that person is okay all the fucking time, and let them know what you're doing, and be careful don't hurt their feelings, and are they loyal?  do they love me?  do they watch porn?  is that my problem?

No.

Saying all this, I don't think that a relationship is something that I will always live without.  Some people... well primary desires come into play.  When certain people come along, it is like the stars align, and it is just easy.  These people are so so few and far between; there have been two people that I've met since CB that fit this category, and neither have been particularly available for one reason or other.  It is random.  It is not something that you can find through sheer willpower, or via trolling through every man on Tinder or OkCupid...

So, I choose happiness.  I choose serenity, I choose exerting all my efforts into doing what I do really really well, and have my little fan club of sycophants.  I will continue bulldozing my way through a world that doesn't fit me anyway, pointing out when people try to oppress me into adopting their secondary desires, in my hedonistic journey into oblivion.

NOW! AS PROMISED!

A spray about Jessup Moot, and moots generally

So.  There is this thing that happens at Law School called 'mooting'.  It's pretty much fake court.  You pretend to be a lawyer, you do the research, you write up a court document, you stand up and you give submissions in front of a judge.  I do ultimately want to use by legal training to be a barrister, and this is the sort of practice that you need to get ready for the bar.  It's horrible, but sometimes fun, and great training.  Also, I hate public speaking; my heart goes into VT, my arms and legs go numb, I feel dizzy, and my brain doesn't work.  Saying that, there is a wonderful thing called beta blockers that happily address this problem.  I've done 3 moots, had a bit of public advocacy training, but because of the way that I have done my legal training, I haven't really had time to commit to it in a big way.  I did win the first moot that I competed in.  There were 23 other teams.  That felt good.  Not that it led to any opportunities.  But this is not about that.

So, with my interest in public law, and international law, and public international law, I decided to apply to be on the team for the public international law moot.  I'm about to graduate from law school, I have a relatively light load over the summer, and I really want to consolidate my knowledge of public international law.  Also, I've done the subject.

And I haven't been chosen for the team.  Which makes me really really angry.

I am angry because:

• I was specifically asked to complete an application to compete in this competition;
• There was only six applications for a five person team, which means that I was perceived as the worst applicant out of the six students;
• I am the only final year student who applied, and who doesn't have the opportunity to do the moot next year;
• I was the only applicant who had done the public international law subject;
• I was also the only applicant who has completed all the core public law subjects;
• A first year student has been accepted onto the team, they have 3 more years to apply for this competition;
• Another student was asked to do the moot by one of the mooting committee, and has no interested whatsoever in public international law; in fact, 3 of the chosen students have displayed no interested whatever in public law;
• When it became obvious that it seemed that there was going to be some extended discussion over who would be on the team, I offered to withdraw from the selection.  I did this, while maintaining my keen commitment and desire to compete, but I did this in order to maintain my relationship with the woman organising the competition.  She declined to utilise this route;
• I was informed at 4:57pm on a Friday afternoon before a long weekend, by email, with no explanation; and
• This is not the first time I have been overlooked for younger, whiter students.

I am, allegedly, one of the best students in the law school.  I have 3 Most Outstanding Student Awards, and I was a finalist in the competition identifying the best all around student at the university.  I can write the shit out of any memorandum, my research skills are unsurpassed, I am someone that turns up all the time.  I have done all this in a ridiculously short space of time.  I work really really hard, all of the time.

If the overarching goal was to win the competition, the people making the decision as to team members should have been to put me at the top of the list.  From my perspective, they should be begging me to compete.  I am clearly and definitively the single most qualified student at the university to compete in the competition.  Without my structural knowledge of the law, I cannot see how the team can possibly gain any advantage over the law schools with *actual* interest in public international law.  Without my writing skills, the magic I have at putting together law and fact, the team is seriously fucked.

There is no rational reason that I can see to deny me this opportunity.  All I can do is put it down to bias and dislike, and while some people might perceive this as arrogant, I cannot see any other reason for this decision.  But also, giving me the news, without the opportunity to hear the reasons for the decision, in the middle of fucking swotvac, is just fucking unprofessional.  I cried for two days straight.  Rejection is like being stabbed in the guts, repeated rejection completely wears out the soul.

I don't know what I'm going to do about this, and I'd like to get to the point where I can rise above, and move on.  In saying that... well... my pride is bruised, and my soul just needs time to stop bleeding.

Shannon out.