Why did the universe make it so hard for me to leave Australia?
And why does it have to hurt so much?
I’m sitting on a plane now, really hoping I don’t die. I bought the ticket several months ago but this time yesterday I wasn’t actually going to use it. I was sure the universe was telling me not to go and I’m still kind of sure the universe was telling me not to go. But I’m hoping it’s just because I made a bad decision leaving the person I love rather than impending death.
It started on Friday night when I was showing off and went to lift my fuller-figured dog (we try not to harm her self-esteem with the word ‘fat’). Earlier that day I had minimised my weights at the gym because I knew my back had been carrying on but I didn’t think twice about dead lifting 30kg worth of canine. The moment I tried to stand up cradling the stinky Labrador, a viscous pain shot through my lower back rendering me unmovable. I had to get my friend to lift me down off the step so I could go inside and suffer a horrendous night of pain and fainting. I thought there’s no way I can get on a plane on Monday, the universe is telling me something.
But then I won my bid for business class and the anti-inflammatories seemed to work, so I thought it should be okay. I started to accept that the ongoing-emotional-rollercoaster that is my love life was not going to subside until I got the hell out of town, and I had this fear of letting down my loved ones if I wimped out. So I decided to go.
But then I went to apply for my Indian visa yesterday, only to discover it takes four working days for Australian applications to be approved. Which not only made me feel like an unorganised wally but a presumptuous privileged passport holder too. I thought, well fuck the universe knows better than I do, I guess I need to stay. So I casually missed my ride to Sydney that afternoon and continued my Sunday.
NEK MINUTE. Visa granted. It was 8pm and I had my visa but I was stuck four hours away from Sydney airport. I had to scoop out 200 bucks to catch a poor excuse for a plane the next morning. It was a tin can with paddle pop sticks glued to it. There wasn’t even a door to the cockpit and watching how much a plane sways from the front was the thing of nightmares.
I arrived at the Mudgee airport shed for my 8.25am flight and after emotionally bidding farewell to my dad and dog I was told the fog had delayed my flight by two hours. Oh my God, Universe. (Something weird about the word God and Universe being so close to each other?)
I had to wait there crying my eyes out on the phone to my ex-boyfriend while sending invoices for dismal amounts, and eating sickly vending machine junk.
THREE WAYS the universe was telling me to just bloody stay.
But I punched the universe in the nose because I didn’t know what else to do with my life in that moment and cried my way on board. I’m now sitting here on my fifth wine, in a version of business class that can only be described as an expensive premium economy, texting the people in places I’d rather be and hoping the plane doesn’t crash.
I’m feeling totally vulnerable leaving home again; no job, no house, not really a great deal of cash in my bank account. It’s all very messed up and to be honest I’m quite tipsy now.
I’m thinking I may even be so bold as to not edit this post and just post it as a train of thought from here on out. No creative thought put into the writing from about the fifth paragraph onward, just a stream of emotional drunken content. I actually wrote a similar piece before I went to Afghanistan. I drank a lot of gin at my farewell party and stomped off upstairs to write about how no one understands me. Fuck I’m a loser.
Anyway, I’m on the plane now. Drunk and sad and consumed by emotions. But living with a consciousness that observes my behaviours to ensure no crazy gets out. I sound drunk. I’m committed to posting this edit free, so I’m going to stop right now.