25

A FOREWARNING, this is a long one.

The year that’s been and gone has been confusing and relentless.

An unbelievable amount of tears were shed, paired with layers of vulnerability in transformative forms. Alongside the curiosity of constantly asking ‘what does this all mean?’. It was usually met with the grim realisation that you have to make up your own answers to philosophical questions such as these. I cut off all my hair to feel any ounce of control. I visited a life I once mourned and wished I’d never stepped foot back into. I questioned what anything in my life meant if I didn’t have my mama and took a leap of faith in new beginnings by moving to a whole new country, again.

So buckle up, 25 is jam-packed with a whole lot of irony, insanity and irreparable emotional turmoil (damage).

Throwback to August of last year when I wrote my first blog post about turning 25 and realised this passion I had for writing. Although I didn’t keep up with my goal of posting on here weekly, I stepped into the notion of reflection, chaptering and immortalising (in my notes app) how I felt, when I felt it was all too much. I was in a pretty low place in terms of how I felt about myself, including my vulnerability to admit to being in one of the lowest of low places. The thing I’m learning about myself is that I will refuse to admit defeat to myself, even in a state of complete desolation. I had lost touch with who I was, I put myself into situations that would inadvertently feed into this dull ache of emptiness that I began to know so well. I was so sad. It was a harsh wake-up call and I felt for the first time physically in my body, that my life wasn’t on track. It was like I’d stepped into this side quest of unequivocal misery. Alongside the stupid mistakes of letting people know a part of me they shouldn’t have had the privilege of knowing, I subjected myself to two retail jobs, seven days a week for ten months straight. All completely by my own doing. It’s like without admitting it to myself, I was trying to numb this obvious pain I was pretending to be oblivious to. Because admitting to the depths of despair was like admitting that I was wrong and that I didn’t know what I was doing with my life. And for the first time ever, this had never been more apparent to me.

Although I don’t like to admit ‘regret’ to anything in my life I regretted moving somewhere I thought was going to be transformative. The craziest part of it was that I grew up in that city, Melbourne. And I don’t know, there’s something quite uncustomary, moving back to somewhere you’ve grown up in that didn’t possess the most positive of memories. A part of you feels at home, the familiarity of knowing your way around, knowing the good coffee shops, and having dear friends built-in to rely on. But a part of you feels like it’s outgrown all of this. It’s a deja vu-esque reflection of a life you thought you’d left behind; when in reality nothing had changed back home. And while you’ve gone off and lived through extraordinary life lessons and unbelievable experiences and once-in-a-lifetime opportunities revelling in the outrageous and egregious; somehow life back home never stopped to admire your accomplishments as such. It’s a rude awakening of selfishness. A blatantly comforting thought, whilst also holding such vast sadness in its grip all in the same breath. How dare you not be applauded, not be recognised as this new person you’ve grown into, just to be placed back into the place that you felt was hindering you from becoming this person, moving forward and onwards only to be pushed 3 steps back. And while some people would find this ridiculous and absolutely not relatable at all, laughable even; I get it. To understand an ounce of it we have to start at the beginning. (For context my parents no longer lived in that state, so again it didn’t feel like home in the corresponding placement of the weight the word ‘home’ held.)

Me, growing up in Melbourne, I always wanted to leave. I was never someone who had oodles of friends, thus leading to the subject of ‘isolation and bullying’ because I didn’t care to fit in, I also disliked school because I felt like I was wasting my time, not ever learning anything valuable towards what I was wanting to do with my future (I was very grateful for my schooling, don’t get me wrong). I just had high ambitions that weren’t nurtured in my schooling environment by fellow peers and teachers. Not that it had to be, but I probably would’ve enjoyed myself more if it was treated as so. I was usually met with laughs when I would get up at school assemblies/talent shows, an amusement to (I’m guessing) their own inhibitions of not being able to fulfil their younger self’s dreams(at least that’s what my mama would tell me back then). But I don’t know, maybe I’m just being cynical. There’s just something about being treated as a laughing stock that can slowly widdle away at your self-worth. Especially when you’re at the age of 15/16. I had my first taste of ‘leaving’ when I was 16, and since then, I never looked back. And maybe somewhere deep down I relate my sense of unlikeness for Melbourne to my younger self’s experience, I feel as though that’s fair to admit.

The most frustrating part of this move was that it was rooted in ‘opportunity’. I wanted to give myself a belief in the Australian acting industry again. I moved back to Melbourne thinking it would bring an abundance of hope within that space. But it was just a brash reminder that I had ‘too high of ambitions’. My agents weren’t overly helpful, stating the above. I would ask for opportunities of tapings knowing full well friends of mine were auditioning for these roles just to be met with ‘wishy-washy’ statements of the truth. ‘They are casting diverse for this one’, ‘they’re only auditioning named actors’, ‘they haven’t asked for you to tape’. All of the excuses whether they were true or not started to weigh on me mentally. How are you even supposed to get the opportunity to be an actress and showcase yourself if you can’t even get an audition from your agency which should be advocating for you? How am I supposed to get into these casting offices without having to pay hundreds of dollars for classes that were filled with people who’d never stepped foot into a casting office (true story I went along to a class that was advertised for advanced actors only to be placed in a group of people who’d never even stepped foot in a casting office, let alone had any experience with acting at all; the other ‘masterclass’ I paid for was over $1500 and I flew to Sydney for it…the outcome being that I should keep acting) It started to feel like a cruel, sick joke. I had gone from auditioning for lead roles in network TV shows in the US and creating relationships with casting directors I’d looked up to for years, just to be made to feel like I was as small and insignificant in my own country’s industry with nothing to give and show for it. And in turn, it made me cynical and hard. Hard on the world, hard on my opinions and hard on my own self-belief. Hard on this industry and hateful towards what I thought I was meant to be doing to help myself. And yeah, okay, maybe to some degree I could’ve done more. Somehow created more opportunities for myself, but amongst this pursuit of staying afloat financially and mentally, the attempts and failures of these experiences were just more reminders of feeling like I was doing everything in my power, for nothing in return.

A big old pity party of despair that was, apologies. (Issy editing this at a later date - my god all I did was complain, but I didn’t want to remove any of this because clearly I felt like this was something at the time, that I was feeling and we love honesty here even if it sounds like whining and ungratefulness).

The moral of this story (ignoring the acting industry blah) is that even though you’ve grown up in a place that was your first experience of home, and your first experience of belonging, doesn’t mean you have to call it home or feel as though you belong there again. Over this past year, I’ve realised that ‘home’ can truly be wherever you want it to be. For me, it’s where my mama is. That’s home to me. I don’t necessarily think home is a physical place, it’s where it holds what’s most precious to me. And of course someday in the future, I hope to acquire a roof over my head that is mine and I can begin to create a physical reflection of what a home is (in this economy it’s not overly viable but here’s to hoping?). And you can bet your bottom dollar ‘The Holiday’ will be on at all times of the day, every day.

“I would state that the round-up of this year has been full of mourning.”

After a tumultuous ten months of working seven days a week at my two retail jobs, I quit them both and flew off to la la land to revisit my old stomping ground and the friends I hadn’t seen in over three years (clearly attempting to somehow revitalise a version of myself I longed to get back to).

LA held such an important place in my heart and the friends I’d made there were those I considered once in a lifetime. Some were living completely different lifestyles, whilst others had moved back to their respective cities they swore they’d never return to. Funnily enough those three weeks that I thought would be undoubtedly heartwrenching and make me want to never leave again, had the complete opposite effect. I’d never wanted to leave a place quicker in my life. And although I loved revisiting my old stomping grounds and thrifting at crossroads, I just began to feel like I didn’t fit in here anymore. Whether I had just been out of the ‘LA bubble’ for too long or I’d just genuinely matured beyond this person that I once was when I lived there. It was all a big ‘Aha’ moment, one that I hadn’t had to face yet in my life. Then, two and a half weeks in I got a call from my mum saying that Charlie, the love of my life in dog form, had a tumour that was needing to be operated on. It was the most unfortunate timing. He went in for the operation only for them to realise the tumour was attached to all of his vital organs and he only had a week if not days, to live.

I remember the call, I’d just found the most perfect pair of vintage Stuart Weitzman heels whilst thrifting in Studio City, standing on Ventura Blvd being told the news, crying my eyes out in front of many a person enjoying their salt and straw ice cream. The timing was insanely lined up by fate. I was flying home the next day, that had been the plan all along. I left on Monday (LA time) and arrived back on Wednesday in Melbourne. I then flew down to Tasmania a few hours later. Mum was sending me updates throughout the day and I left Melbourne assuming I’d be able to spend a little bit of time with him before things could potentially take a turn for the worst. But as soon as I arrived in Tassie, things had already turned. Running through the door and not being met with an onslaught of jumping jacks and sloppy kisses was an immediate tear-jerker. I came to find him in the living room where he wouldn’t even look at me. I wept and attempted to calm him with coo’s of ‘Charlie it’s Issy’ to which I saw a quick ounce of recognition from him, turning around to give me a kiss, but immediately turning away due to the state of pain he was in. I felt as though he had hung on for this long, with reminders from my mum of’ Issy’s coming home’ for me to be able to say goodbye. Because immediately after I saw him, we were on our way to the vet to help him go in peace. I still remember the car trip so vividly. He sat half on my lap and I hugged him the tightest I’ve ever held him. He was dying, going in and out of consciousness, very obviously distressed and I was just trying my best to take in everything, to remember how his coat felt, how warm he was and how he smelt.

The tragic realisation of loss is slowly forgetting the small mundane things. And although I hadn’t been at home with Charlie for those past ten months, he’d been there for me during covid. For two and a half years he was my bestest little friend. Rudely awakening me at ridiculous times of the morning by placing his full weight on me and scratching at the blankets to let me know that he’s awake so I must also be awake to cuddle him. He was always next to you no matter what task you undertook (mum referred to him as a little shadow), bothering you just to have you hold his paw in your hand. Pestering you for attention, always being the best source of comedic entertainment and alleviating any feelings of sadness by just looking at his little face. I swear it was one of the hardest goodbyes I’ve ever had to do.

But just when I thought that was the most difficult and unfair part of my year, three days later my mum suffered from a brain bleed, which led to the discovery of a brain clot in a seperate part of her brain. What she had was called a ‘Subdural Hematoma’. A life threatening stroke that I wasn’t quite sure she would make it out of. It’s a rare case to have both a bleed and a clot in two seperate parts of the brain. Either one alone is tragic enough, let alone both at the same time.

I’d have never imagined at 25 having to process the possibility of life without her. I sat in the emergency room by her side as she fluctuated in and out of consciousness, constantly staring down her vitals. I held her left hand in mine and rubbed my right hand gently along her forehead. Consistently asking ‘are you okay?’ And due to this I truly don’t think she got as much rest as she probably needed as I pestered her with my concerns. Because at that stage I truly had no idea if she was going to be okay. Doctors/nurses would come in and out and explain to me these foreign medical terms that held so much weight in their statements, alongside what their next moves would involve. All I know is that in that moment I held onto her hand like I was five years old again. My entire emotional state was stripped to an age of innocence, an age of only knowing your mothers love in the most purest form. The only way I can explain it was like when you were younger and you’re at a supermarket or a shopping mall and you lose sight of your mum for a split second, you immediately panic because she was just there but now she could be anywhere, that state of this unknown, the feeling of never seeing her again. I felt so panicked, so helpless. And whilst on the inside I was a child crying for her mama to just come back to her, I was outwardly the most assertive and authoritative version of myself I’d ever been in my life. Something about someone you love being in such a vulnerable position and you not having the tools or knowledge or ability to ‘fix’ it alters your fight or flight mode. Eventually after a tumultuous 48 hours (and me refusing to leave her side) she was placed in the ICU and then choppered down to Hobart where she stayed in the neurology ward for two weeks. She was placed there in case the blood thinning medication they were using to break down the clot caused an exacerbation in the bleed leading to surgical intervention. After 10 days she thankfully didn’t need to have surgery and she was progressing well. The bleed had disappeared and her clot was being treated with the intention of it breaking down (within the next six months). I still don’t think I’ve fully recovered from how traumatic the entire situation was. I don’t think it’s something you ever really come to terms with. That panic and constant fear of something happening out of the blue, lives deep down in your subconscious now just waiting to implode. But I guess the lesson here (if there was to be one) is the importance of prioritising what matters. Being practical and realising that all that shit we worry about and can’t control is so fucking stupid. Like who gives a shit if someone who was your friend treated you a bit shit, if I don’t have my mama to call or hug or hold, it’s not important. It also made me realise my capabilities. As a chronic push over and people pleaser, I didn’t know how to be anything but that until I was placed in a circumstance where it was quite literally life or death.

I moved myself back to Launceston, Tasmania. I didn’t care what was to be put on hold and for how long. All that mattered to me, was being able to be there with mum and spend time with her and make sure she would be able to rest. And with time, eventually, she’d get back to feeling capable of whatever her heart desired (with reason). In those months between April and July, I booked a few commercials in Melbourne (ironic that once I left Melbourne, I got the most commercial work in Melbourne). Which eventually led me to begin my application for my UK visa. It was all approved and ready to go by the 15th of July. It didn’t quite hit me that I would be booking flights and moving to the other side of the world, after everything, until I started looking at these flights and these dates i’d planned to fly out by started creeping up one me. I kept putting off booking them with excuses of I’m not quite ready yet’s. It’s not that I was scared of moving or scared of flying (maybe just a little) or how far away I would be from home (a little bit of that too). It was mostly the fear of leaving my mama. After everything that we’d been through together this year I was terrified of not being there for her, or the worry of something happening whilst being SO far away. And what’s funny is that in the end, she was the one who made me book my flights. I sat there in front of her crying my eyes out refusing whole heartedly to click the confirmation button. She is the one who encouraged me and gave me that push that I so needed. She stated that even though she loves me and want’s me to stick around more than anything, I need to go and live my life. And that wasn’t going to happen in Launie. And I knew that. I think that sometimes you can slip into a place of comfortability (especially after something quite traumatising) and it’s hard to come out of it without the push from the person you care about the most. She’s the reason I came to London, she’s the reason I am brave enough to be doing this. She’s the bravest woman I know, I get it all from her.

So here I am on my 26th birthday in London. I had a wonderful catch up with my theatre teacher Matschoss, who I fondly remember laughing with in the courtyard at school, gossiping about teachers and students alike and how all of this school bullshit doesn’t matter. Tears were shed over weak coffee, as I spoke upon my fondness of our memories that we share and how much he helped with my confidence in acting. I then wandered up to the SOHO theatre surrounded by creatives typing, laughing and conversing with such complexity. Where I sat and wrote this lengthy ode to my 25th year. Now I’m off to buy bedding for a sublease that I moved into this morning with my new and incredibly lovely friend Lilly, a fellow Aussie who has just moved to London too.

Here’s to 26. Whatever happens, I feel as though with each year that passes I’m more capable of handling it one way or another. I guess that’s just the way the cookie crumbles.