phrank-is-tired

[phrank-is-tired]

Play School - Carla Geneve

I just re-read that masterpiece i wrote on the 16th of August 2022. What has happened to me since then?

Well, i did that appointment, the strange man decided he COULD diagnose me with gender dysphoria, but he didn't. He also made a note that i fit the criteria for BPD, but didn't bother to diagnose me or follow up on that. Bastard. I broke up with that boyfriend, after over a year. Most of me thinks it was a waste of time, but it was a certain amount of fun I suppose. He then slept with my best friend's partner, making it much, much easier to let that part of my life dissolve, so thank you for that. Glad i got my grey hoodie back though.

Graduated high school. Moved to the city. No worries little Frankie, I know you've always wanted this, and I am happy (no matter how bitter i feel in this moment) that we made it this far. You're away from that stepmother, you're going to buy a car, and you can fuck anyone you want to from the comfort of your own bed. Speaking of, Little Frankie, you're dating someone 2 years older than you, you little minx. The only issue is that she isn't quite the exquisite, intellectual creator you once and continue to crave. Yes of course she is smart in ways you are not, she is a new form of creativity, and she is certainly one of a kind. But dear Little Frankie, you must utterly destroy this perfect character to love, because you'll never get what you want in a world where you sabotage your every opportunity of happiness. I am so fucking melodramatic. Life is good, easy, simple. Tomorrow I might sleep in, do nothing. Or I might get on an early train and surprise that girl you're dating. or is she a woman? when doth the girl becometh The Woman? I don't think I'll ever become The Woman, unless I decide that this lack of gender is too hard, and I keel over from sheer exhaustion, shoot me then Amber.

But hey Little Frankie! You've got some exciting employment opportunities (there's a better word for what i wish to convey, but alas, it alludes me) PROSPECTS. (that's the word) Oh, and you've been half-way accepted to a degree majoring in creative writing, so you can write the Great Australian Novel, if you ever gain the courage to try, the resilience to try after being squashed, or the motivation to begin trying.

What a joke. Half-assed poetry, can't even spell. Hey, writing's not that easy... but Grammarly can help. this sentence is grammatically fucked, but never more than you are, Bigger Frankie.

Still don't know what to do tomorrow. See the girl, surprise the girl. Run the risk that she doesn't want to see you. Stay at home, rot away, binge the L word, Shane will never know I exist. Why waste my money, time, and energy in my bed, when I could do it in hers?

[phrank-is-tired]

I could’ve helped

Today you fell:

nothing bad, just

scrapes and bruises.

Sat alone in the grass,

per chance, in the shade.

If I were there,

I could’ve helped.

How can I leave now?

A few years ago,

(when did a decade become a few?)

she felt wrong.

Dad tried to help,

but as he made the bed,

her heart came to stop.

I was away that morning,

a sleepover with cousins.

If I were there,

I could’ve helped.

I didn’t sleep away from home for months.

When I began high school,

it came back.

It took her energy, her hair,

warmth, smile, passion.

Now every time I go past

that goddamn hotel,

I remember the goodbye visit.

Dad told me that her boys were there

when the cancer won.

But none the less,

I could’ve held her hand,

I could’ve helped.

Before you started falling,

you were the one to catch Pa John.

We were all too far away.

So you held him in the shower

until the ambulance parked under the oak,

and the cops came to take him away.

Your place is a five-minute drive,

I could’ve been there,

I could’ve helped.

Yet every time someone falls,

I am struck with that fear again.

At the mention of cancer,

I turn bitter toward my memories.

Every new person in my life

must learn about mum.

It is harder than coming out, harder than anything.

-

A few days ago,

Carl and Dave got married.

Carls’s biopsy is soon,

they wanted to do it just in case

the mass is something more,

and Carl becomes something less.

‘Everyone is mortal’,

you said just before.

You think I don’t know?

‘I have lost more in 18 years

than I have grown!’

But, I don’t know anything,

because your mortality

shook me to the core.

 I should have known,

by now, at the very least.

It would’ve helped.

[phrank-is-tired]

Mediocre at best - Eaglemont

Dear diary,

whats up dawg. I don’t have any radical content for you today so here is a sexy ass list. 

Books to read to someone who wont read the books you suggest:

a beginners guide to the books that formed me, in no particular order.

by me.

and your mum.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Richard Bach

A short story that celebrates and explores what it means to be outside the main group. Heartbreaking/warming, inspiring/terrifying. Set on the rough coast of the ocean, you find yourself immersed in the most unlikely of stories. 

I’ll Give You The Sun, Jandy Nelson

Young adult romance/coming of age. Pivotal in my self discovery journey. Two stories following popularity, queerness, grief, acceptance and art. Another coastal setting. 

If I Tell You, Alicia Tuckerman

A book that ripped out my heart. Romance and grief, running from time and creating a time where you have the opportunity to explore and find yourself. Australian Queer Young Adult, hard to find and easy to relate to. 

All the Bright Places, Jennifer Niven 

Mental illness, fear around being given a label, running away from yourself, the pain of loving someone who leaves. Recovery and re-destruction. Sad, beautiful, inspiring, leaves you with a desire to find beauty in the well-known. 

About a Girl, Joanne Horniman 

Australian Queer Young Adult, escaping what you know and submerging yourself in independence, love, music, literature and a life after school. Everything I’m dreaming of. Beautifully written, feels like home. 

Sophie’s World, Jostein Gaarder

A mystery around philosophy and the world we know, I never finished it, but it has stuck with me. Read in small doses. 

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee

Famous work of literature (and well deserved), through a queer critical analyses, the novel holds the story of a girl born in the wrong time, learning about injustices and the way of human behaviour. A book to grow up alongside and learn lessons from. 

Wild Pork and Watercress, Barry Crump

A beautiful journey of escape from the real world and living off the land, a story of unlikely friendship and growth. 

How It Feels To Float, Helena Fox

A journey of grief, illness, sexuality and Australian made, this book describes connections with those who need them, something read in a sitting, no matter how many hours it takes. Gentle and harsh at the same time, giving emphasis to the ebb and flow of coping. 

Light Bulb, Nevo Zisin (a short story from Kindred, 12 Queer #LoveOzYA stories)

Beautiful. Find yourself, explore the darkness. Haunting. Important. 

[phrank-is-tired]

I Don’t Want To - Mal Bum

Dear diary,

Suck my dick.

This is a last ditch attempt at creativity and expressing my emotions. Something to read in place of a eulogy perhaps. Journaling, recording my emotions, writing songs, telling people how I really feel; all things I've been recommended by counsellors, psychologists, friends and trusted adults. SO, here we are, more than a year since the beginning of my downfall, as i love to refer it to, and i'm having another good ol' crack at solving this mystery. Apologies for any obscenities, Mum.

Its Monday afternoon, probably about 3.00pm when I decide to write things down.

I'm lying on my side in bed. Empty chocolate wrappers stolen from my stepmom lay amongst the ones i haven't eaten yet. Maltesers, a MilkyWay, Freddo Frogs. How did I get here? What an arrogant question, how dare I presume I am an individual with their own unique arrival experience. Such a profound yet cliché question should be reserved for those academically inclined and prosperous. I don't deserve to ponder such a question.

Stop. Rewind. Listen to the otherworldly wrong-way-round words. Play.

Now that I've overcome my internal monologue that ridicules each and every thought and action of mine, we can unpack the question. How did I get here? Well, I decided maybe 34 minutes ago to remove myself from the couch and transport myself to my bed, but that only followed my late lunch of instant noodles and serotonin-boosting messages from my boyfriend. And those agenda items only followed my viewing of the third Harry Potter movie, viewed out of order because The Prisoner of Azkaban is inarguably the best book of the series, and the movie provides a way to relive the story without using my brain. As you can tell, the later part of my day has been successful, or unsuccessful, this is truly up to your interpretation really. After all, who am i, the writer, to manipulate your observance of this holy chicken scratch piece of literature?

Now that you understand the basis of my day, I suppose I had better introduce myself as the narrator. My name is Francesca, a name which is obviously a red flag.  I go by Frankie to my peers, Aggie to my intermediate family, Franks to those closest to me, and Phrankie as an attempt to differentiate myself from the huge masses of other Frankies in my rural hometown, home to probably four thousand desperate citizens.

Desperate for what you may ask? I'm unsure too, as the only thing I'm desperate for is a way to leave, and maybe a cigarette.

Another thing you should know about me, is that I'm regularly found going off on an adventurous tangent. My thoughts never run in a clear direction, and my 'train of thought' would be better described as 'the battle between an unimaginable amount of hopeless forces'. I also consider myself to be full of shit, better than everyone i know, and absolutely hilarious.

Once a gifted student and a pleasure to have in class, i am now the high school student teachers awake from their desk, reprimand for uniform violations for and compromise the assignment for, due to its overdue nature. Some days, I combat our curriculum with self-stated 'witty' banter, and other days you could compare my consciousness to that of a kangaroo who has met an unfortunate fate, naturally induced by a log truck.

As what i view to be a normal human being, I spend my time chasing after what leaves me happy and breathing, leaving all important things, and a set of confused adults to look after whatever happens to be left in my wake. This is detrimental to both parties. It's a cycle I cannot seem to escape, though I presume will be resolved with a good old psychiatry appointment.

Initially my  psychiatrists appointment was set for sometime early June. Following an unprecedented amount of days and stress, my new date was set for the 20th of July. Damn those other  mentally ill children, likely in more need of a diagnoses than I. Following a common trajectory of mine, I couldn't possibly wrap my head around ACTUALLY filling forms and writing a letter to my doctor, and then submitting it. So, as  you, my highly intelligent reader may have guessed, my appointment date was pushed back another. 2. Weeks. Entirely my fault, but isn't that  part of the reason I'm after the dreaded appointment? To put an end to this system of self sabotage?

Anyways, back to the  point. It's now been almost two weeks, and I email the appropriate person for the details of the online telehealth call that is coming up in two days. The response slides into my inbox, for me to discover  that my doctor is unfortunately ill with a specific disease that has been throughout the media for the past 2, 3 maybe even 4 years now. Now its two weeks after that, and I'm wondering where my information is for my appointment and too afraid to send another email.

For someone who avoided this whole dairy idea for over a year, i certainly haven't failed to put words on  a page. I'm sick of this now, Goodnight.