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Category: Self awareness

Confession time. I am going through what Brené Brown calls a midlife unravelling. No, it’s not a midlife crisis. It’s not a mental health collapse, either, although it feels like it. It’s an undoing. An uncontrolled and uncontrollable breakdown of what has been assumed and is assumed. What was certain is not. What seems to be reality is actually a foundation of quicksand. It’s a curious No Man’s Land of stripped back limbo where I’m questioning my decisions, and the preceding groundwork and reality on which I have based those decisions.

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Regular readers will know that my relationship with my mother was fraught, to say the least. It was characterised by restriction and control and violence. And fear. An overwhelming fear that I was not safe, would never be safe. And that I was not enough. Would never be enough. Of course, this is was from the perspective of a child but some 50 years later, I still bear the scars — scars that still weep with blood and tears in the right situation, which — usually and invariably — involves a man because attachment.

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There’s something really nice about being on the other side of fifty. You’ve seen it all and done it all (well, maybe not everything, but quite a lot) and you know that you don’t have too much tolerance (or time) for crap… your own or anyone else’s. You know what works for you, and conversely, what doesn’t. And if things fall into the “not working for you” camp, you can say without hesitation and without too much delay, I’m done. There’s a certain freedom that comes from knowing when you’re done, and calling it. It means you can walk away,

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On 31 December of each year, I do a review of the past year. I look at what I’ve learned, what went well, and what didn’t. I revisit what I know for sure. This year it’s a little later because of, well, stuff. And by stuff I mean life and all that that entails. It has been a jam-packed year, though. Moving to Vietnam does that to a girl. From nearly dying to reinventing myself as a writer to almost falling in love, there hasn’t been a dull moment. I’ve had the highest of highs and the lowest of lows.

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This is the 18th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice!  There’s nothing wrong with old age. ~ The Curious Case of Benjamin Button One of my favourite movies is The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. For

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This is the 12th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice!  I moved to Vietnam for three months. Or so I thought. But this wonderful country, and Hanoi—with its kind people, gorgeous food and easy lifestyle—has stolen my

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This is the 10th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice!  By Western standards, I am not a beauty. My face does not have those fine features nor the synchronicity that is apparently pleasing to the eye.

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Late to the party, I have become a huge fan of House of Cards. Just like Game of Thrones (of which I’m also a huge fan) HoC deals with the theme of power, and is an expose of what one couple would do to: a) gain (arguably) the most powerful political position in the world and b) retain this power. Murder, manipulation, corruption, lies, cover-ups, abuse of power: these actions are all in a day’s work for Francis and Claire Underwood. From where I sit—intrigued, I might add—they are clearly psychopaths. They are arrogant, callous people who are defined by their lack

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Photo by Tim Marshall via Unsplash. Used with permission. What can be better than a Bucket List? Bucket Lists have been done to death, pardon the pun. Anyone and everyone has been compiling lists of things to do and places to see before they kick the bucket, as it were. The underlying philosophy of the Bucket List is the notion that life is short and temporary and that one should make sure that one does and sees everything one can before one dies. Sorry about the queenly language there. I’ve never had a Bucket List as such, although I do have

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It’s a long-held tradition of mine to look back on the year that was, and examine it through the lens of lessons learned. I don’t do New Year resolutions, I do New Year revelations. I like to think about what went well. What didn’t. What I’d do differently. What I’d do again in a heartbeat. How can I keep moving forward? Striving? Am I living a rich (not as in money, but as in an abundance of experiences) life? 2015 is no exception. All-in-all, 2015 has been a turning point for me and as I step into the unknown that is

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My sister shared some sad news with me a couple of weeks ago. Her ex-partner and also the father of her daughter—my niece—has just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It’s spread and he’s been told has six months to live. She is deeply saddened by this news, and I felt for her, not least because I admire my sister and her relationship with her ex. Despite splitting more than 15 years ago in less than ideal circumstances, she has fought to maintain the connection with him because of her daughter. They live in different parts of Australia: he’s in far

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If you haven’t read Part 1 of The Ex-Files you should. It will give you some context as to why I’m taking this self-indulgent trip down memory lane. Nick I met Nick one night when I went out on my own, something I rarely did, even in my risk-embracing early 20s. I had moved to Adelaide from Naracoorte by this time—having been transferred by the bank for which I worked—and after one disastrous short-term house-sharing experience with a would-be biker, I ended up moving with my sister into an old  bungalow in Prospect. The bungalow was a half a house

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