Worn Bare

And trying to find sense in the world

2026.05.17

Today was a difficult day. Heart, body, soul. I woke to headache, the headache that remains, the body-ache that overpowers.

I overdid it yesterday, got a lot of admin done. Worked, concentrated as I haven’t for a while, communicating with clients I’ve been avoiding till my head is set right. Yesterday, it was set as right as it could be. I’m handing off my work to a friend, another editor, someone with far more headspace than I currently have.

I had eight conversations, long conversations, yesterday. Several the day before. And reached out to far more people, gathering photos to go up on my wall. Reconnecting with friends, family, loved ones all. I’m giving up on the awkwardness following no contact for ages. I’m giving up on not telling people what is obvious to me but remains unsaid: I am passionate in what they do because it is them that does it. I want to know about it, hear about it; am enlivened by it.

It begins with a simple message. Formulaic, in my clipboard. And I’m sorry to the people who thought this was personal - the personal aspect is that I am reaching out directly. I have tried group posts; I have tried general requests for contact - both of which garnered some response, and forced some clarification. If we are connected on facebook, have met each other in person, or have been engaged in deep discussion, online, I consider you a friend. That is the finite of my qualifier. I have only ever ended two friendships, purposefully. Others, which have faded, naturally, I consider on hiatus.

If I haven’t reached out yet, this may be a judgement, but is more likely to be an attempt not to overreach myself again. As I said, it begins with a simple message, but it does not end there. That is the icebreaker from which conversation can blossom.

The message, tailored against people’s interactions with my other posts or what I know of their lives currently, is this:

“Hi [add name here], hope you’re well.

I’m putting together a collage of family and friends photos for my wall while I’m in Victoria getting treatment for cancer. Do you have any I could add into the mix?”

Know, please, that I have purpose in admitting that this is a formulaic message.

In recent years, I have delved into, expanded my knowledge and understanding of the various traits present within the neurodivergent frameworks I find myself in - the crossroads of Autism and ADHD. I have taken it on as a Special Interest, both because I have oft found myself at odds with ‘normal’ human interaction, and because of the feedback I have received about what I write in long or poetical form. Feedback, from friends, from strangers, Which seems to indicate I have a unique perspective or a way of phrasing things that is helpful to others.

This led to self-examination, to neurodivergent investigation and, finally, to self-contentment. Yet in that process I began to analyse every interaction I have and hopefully change myself for the better. Become a better communicator, become a better person and ultimately be able to better spread hope.

Or at least that was my intent. It took the cancer to sprout the realisation that I was doing this solely online and not for the people around me that matter. I write hope into poetry with intent. I speak it aloud, and hope it may be shared. That I might light a candle to help burn away the dark.

This writing, now, will form part of a further extension of that goal. From my first communications with Cancer Council and other social support services, I have offered my future website as a resource for people going through cancer. This and much of my other writing on Facebook and elsewhere will be present on that site. It will be a journal of my struggles through life, of living and of hoping that my words may help whomever comes next.

If I am to have a unique perspective, if I do have a unique perspective, then there is responsibility inherent within that that I will not shy away from. This is my intent.

What I forgot was this burning drive overpowers me even so. Overwhelms me or has the potential to. That I hurt today, hurt all of today, no matter the activity, is a fine reminder that in order to continue on this course, I must also care for myself.

So let me tell you of today.

Of my self.

I woke in pain with the dawn. Forced myself out of bed, upright; had breakfast with mum and her partner, Dave. On their advice, I took painkillers. I burnt yet more energy tidying the chaos that had become my room, which mum calls Narnia. Burning off mania, so that later I might be able to drive into Wangaratta. Which I did, though it was a slow drive for the roads were wet and the idiots out in force.

I took osteo Panadol before I left, a slow-release version that helps with bone pain. I suppose it helped. I made it to Wangaratta, parked down by the river, listened to the newly written and recorded song a friend sent me from just that morning. I wrote response. A poem. An homage.

I caught up with a friend and we wandered, sharing conversation, art forms, company. Companionship, for we’re each in a place that needs support, and sharing any burden is worthwhile. In the cool, brusque air along the Owens River we breathed. Met cows and fairies, and returned with wet shoes.

Then I headed south to my sister’s dairy and to my nieces, joyful in their play. Peace. Keeping an eye on them, keeping cogent, I was still able, somewhat, to doze. And doze I did. Then rose to make conversation, stitch another couple of lines of coloured thread through a very, very grey jumper, now less bland.

Back to the doze then, until my sister’s partner came in from milking, and we conversed upon my treatment. Wound our way through photo albums of our childhood I had found at mum’s. Delighting in photos from ages past and attempting to identify all the characters therein. We don’t really become ourselves, become the people we have grown to be, until we get hair. And the baby fat starts to slip away.

Now? Now I am laying in a cabin by myself. Solace. Solitude. A chance to reflect without being surrounded, ever, by people. Here, if anywhere, I can relax.

Here I can forget about intention, the force as drives me to create resources for those that follow. Poetry. Here, I can breathe.

Dwell in the pain that is ever, and let it wash through and away. Follow my stream of consciousness as it wends through words I did not intend to write but have. Let my voice speak, and see the vision of all I have spoken appear on the screen. Not to be edited, just to exist.

Words that I will cast out into the ether, come what may.

All in the hope, in the hope… In hope.

In hope that whatever I write may be of help. That is the all I can do.

So I go to sleep, now. And on the morrow?

On the morrow I will be with family. Relaxing. Replying to conversations garnered and continuing. And at the evening, will drive back to Mum’s.

I have… I have many appointments in the coming week. A friend is coming to visit. And then I travel away. It is two weeks now until my next round of chemo, and I do not, not intend to waste a day.

I hope, now, I have learned to factor in relaxation. Believe me, I am taking on that lesson, adding it into my self-examination; my automatic self-analytical perspective.

As drives my aims, my hope. Empowers my coping. And above all hopes that you, whomever you are, does not take offence at formulaic messaging.

Signing off now.

Goodnight.