Awkwardly adulting

(I'm trying my best)

Nice to meet you *firm handshake*

The title of this post is how I greet new people that I meet. Many of them are a little taken aback by the formality of it especially if they are only my age. A hug or a friendly wave would be considered more appropriate in many cases. I didn’t get into the whole hugging people you’ve only just met thing, until I moved to New Zealand alone at age eighteen. It seems to be the done thing in this country. I feel people express their emotions more here than where I grew up in Ireland, in particular when it comes to how they feel about you. If they love your personality they will tell you, and if they seem annoyed by you it means they are.

When you move to the other side of the world the only people you meet are ‘new’. Since I’ve been living here for just over a year now, the people in my life are no longer new but have taken on a new meaning for me. They tell me I’m positive, outgoing, and crazy. Their support is the reason I continue to awkwardly adult on my own. If I ever doubt myself they will always remind me about the 18,628 kilometers I have traveled to be here. Thank you to all you wonderful people who have influenced my choices and experiences so far. It’s a privilege to have you all in my life!

My goal was not clear at the start. It was all a blur really, a gap year I had talked about taking for so long that people didn’t believe it was really going to happen. Suddenly I was sitting on a plane, traveling to Dubai with a man sitting next to me who was educating me on the mountains in the desert as you fly into Dubai. When I hit land again I was greeted by palm trees, stunning sea views, huge motorways, all manner of high rise buildings and SO MUCH TRAFFIC. I was alone, everything was new, a tad homesick; but overall I was happy.

Travelling, going to music festivals, and just meeting people on the street opened my eyes to a whole new adventure that was mine to take. So I did.

I do a lot of things on impulse and other people may call these decisions mistakes, but I don’t see them that way. I see these irrational experiences as part of me just like my smile or my eye colour. This blog is basically my attempt to share my funny/crazy experiences with anyone who is interested.

Hope you enjoy 🙂

Featured post

A Woman’s Condition

White blonde hair hiding black roots,

An injected smile is her typical greeting card,

Her face painted with premium product

Pushing profits to their peak,

She will never hear them say “Age is beauty”

Because old can almost never be sold,

Conditioned to gaze through false lashes,

Removing her eyebrows before bed,

And wondering “Am I beautiful yet?”.

Vulnerability & Sunbeams

The sky coloured my mood that day:

Exclusively grey,

If it was blue I couldn’t have noticed.

Voiceless claps of thunder crashed in my ears,

The veil of tears shadowing my face could easily be brushed off as a trick of the light,

My skin stung with vulnerability as if it had never shone with serendipity before,

And after everything went black that night;

I awoke to sunbeams joyously dancing on my cheek.

I love you

I love you for all the weaving paths you walked;

streams you crossed, mountains you climbed;

and sludge you trudged through on your way to meet me.


I love you for becoming a beacon guiding me through my darkest hours;

for building brilliant bridges enabling me to cross the most fearsome rapids;

and for telling me to look up when the sun is shining on me and noticing when it is not.


I love you for all the adventures we have yet to embark on,

and for the miles that may separate us but never drive us apart.


She walks at the back of the group,  hearing jokes later than everyone else and never being sure of herself.

She pushes her way to the front, but the others purposefully trail behind.

She walks slower and they tell her to hurry up, then laugh when they trod on her heels from behind.

They are her friends.

The people who never said anything nice about her.

The ones who never saved her a seat ay lunch or on the bus.

The girls she cried over, because their actions made her feel worthless.

Once she left, she never felt that way again.


A piece of paper begs to be written on,

A heart begs to be loved,

A sigh longs to be heard,

A dance longs to be learned,

The world is full of wanting which never stops

although supply never really meets demand.

A Summer Day


Bodies glisten beneath harsh afternoon sun-beams,

Aware of the soothing safety shade offers

But refusing to relent,

Instead: running, dancing, throwing, kicking, catching, spinning, turning, jumping, singing, shouting, playing and burning,

Taking action against adulthood,

With skin on fire a trail blazed by childish happiness follows their footsteps into tomorrow.

Lifeless without love

Tears feel like blood

dripping from anonymous wounds,

unidentifiable and terrorising causes of pain.

Pain without words,

a physical nameless ache rules her mind,

It appears to have always been there and feels like it always will be,

but really there’s no proof.


Shaking with stifling heavy angry breaths

a sickly sight held in strong arms,

Arms full of love, showing no fear,

muscles tensing, breathing life back into her quivering body.


Lifeless only without love.

“Other Opportunities”

Thinking there would always be more,

More than what’s on offer right now,

more choice, other opportunities,

a fall back plan, something to rely on.

How many once in a lifetimes have I missed

By filling my idle mind with ideas before action,

Guaranteeing myself second chances that didn’t exist and never will,

The only thing time guarantees is unreliability.


They say: “There’ll always be other opportunities”

I say: “Bullshit.”

Just another junkie

The prick of the needle no longer had any effect on me. The strap tightened just above my elbow. My blue veins visible and pulsing beneath my transparent skin no longer repulsed me, now I relished the sight of them. Watching the blood flow steadily through your body reminds you that you are alive. It seems to be the only thing that does for me, these days. The tingling sensation in my arm as my salvation spread through my inviting veins and took over my body was what I lived for now.


Heroin, my old friend. My heart beat so ferociously that my hands hugged my ribs to keep them from unhinging. I flopped backwards onto the stained mattress. Pupils dilated and completely comatose, I lay there alone. I no longer bothered to ensure that when I lay down I was on my side. If I overdosed I probably wouldn’t even be accounted for in the statistics of drug abusers. I had tried many other drugs as well but none had ever taken hold of me the way this did. Even ketamine didn’t give me the same kick. Heroin took me to a whole new level and I wanted to stay there. If I died, at least I would go out on a high.


People must take one look at me and think: “Just another junkie.”. They never see past the cuts and bruises; malnourished body; rotting teeth and matted hair to think “At one time she was beautiful and had a future, and maybe she could again.” At one time I was beautiful and I had a bright future ahead of me. I didn’t grow up in a rough area where drugs and dealing were part of everyday life. I came from a wealthy, wholesome, american-dream type family. My older brother was prom-king and my younger brother ended up getting a top honours degree in medicine. My father is a lawyer and my mother is a nurse. I have no contact with any of them anymore. The last time I spoke to my family was five years ago, the day I dropped out of college.


I was in my final year with only two months left until I became a fully qualified business woman. Of course at this stage I was already an entrepreneur selling specialised goods such as cocaine, ecstasy, and marijuana. My parents knew I had experimented with drugs in high school. They swept this history under the carpet in order to maintain their perfect family image. As a result my growing fascination with and addiction to drugs festered and stayed with me. Had the problem been confronted properly when it all began perhaps things would have turned out differently. Then again perhaps not, because teenagers are stubborn and don’t listen to anyone, least of all their parents.


Dropping out was my decision and it felt right at the time. When a dodgy guy promises you his heart and you have no self-worth you will believe him. He filled my head with drug-fueled fantasies of our non-existent future together. He was in it for the discounted drugs and sex, and I was trying to fill some deep void by means other than substance abuse. Neither of our intentions were good and I should have known the relationship was inevitably destructive.


The hardest time of my life was after we separated. I gave up my whole future and career for a hopeless, unrealistic, drug-induced dream. The only reason I didn’t end up living on the streets was because I got caught. Prison was a terrifying place, but if I had been on the streets I would be dead now. There were rehabilitation services offered but they were pointless, because prison is possibly the easiest place to find any drug you need. Prisoners can be walking pharmacies. During the six month sentence I served I did not make or receive a single phone call, and there was no point hoping for a visitor. I doubt my family even felt guilty. In their minds I had always been a burden and they believed they had done their best to help me. They thought that my marginalising me as an exception to the strong and reliable family unit, and sending me to counselling alone every week I would suddenly be miraculously cured of my addiction. The real cure would have been their acceptance and love. But deprivation of these things meant they were helping in their minds. The burden of guilt lies with me instead. I am guilty for causing pain to every family member. I am guilty for hating those who tried to love me the most. I am most guilty for destroying any chance I may have had at forgiveness.


After my time in prison I decided to stop dealing because I did not want to end up there again. I wanted to patch up the broken pieces of my life and move on. I thought I could stick myself back together without the help of anyone else. How wrong was I! My philosophy was that if I shut myself off from other people and blocked out the rest of the world I would never be tempted to take drugs again. Since adopting that philosophy almost four and a half years ago I have always been pretty much alone. I lasted two and a half years without touching any narcotics, with the exception of marijuana which doesn’t really count. My sobriety only taught me one thing: That drugs had always been better friends to me than people, and I needed a friend, so I began again. By keeping to myself during my brief period of sobriety I observed human nature in all its ugly glory. I knew I never wanted to let people back into my life having seen and encountered an infinite amount of verbal and physical abuse.


Now I lie here in my dilapidated apartment with the sound of sirens blaring, people screaming in the streets, and the smell of some building somewhere burning. I had many chances to change the direction my life was going in, but I didn’t take any of them. My life is one of billions so why does it matter to anyone else how I choose to live it? As an addict I know that death is coming sooner rather than later. Every time my small metal friend enters my arm I know it could be the last night I am alive, and sometimes I wish it is. I feel the vomit filling my throat and mouth. I cough and splutter once or twice.


In the middle of a city inhabited by millions, the body of a young, broken-hearted woman is sprawled on a stained mattress waiting to be pronounced dead.



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