With so many fabulous writers on Medium, why would you bother following me?
In which I attempt to write an illuminating bio so that I can persuade you to follow me and read my various scribblings.
I’m in my 57th year on a rock hurtling around a star, and that question gets easier to answer the older I get. And tougher. Sometimes, I have to answer it by telling you who I’m not rather than who I am.
I’m no one’s wife because I’ve not married. I’m no one’s life partner because I don’t have one. I’m no one’s daughter because my parents are deceased. I’m no one’s employee because I don’t have…
It was 10 months before I realized the man I was dating wasn’t who he appeared to be.
My greatest fear is not that I won’t see him again, but that I will.
When I imagine an accidental encounter with him, my stomach tightens into a ball of acid, hot with negative anticipation. My heart is in my throat, beating like the wings of a tiny caged bird, afraid it will never be free. I shudder, repulsed.
On my motorcycle taxi, I scan the faces on Hanoi’s sidewalks, the humid heat of summer camouflaging my cold sweat of trepidation, wondering what I would do if I locked eyes with him. Would he be alone, or would he be…
I knew repatriating would be hard, but I didn’t realise how challenging it would be
I ’m missing Hanoi like crazy. So much so, that when I see pictures, I get quite teary. I have flashbacks where I see myself walking to the supermarket, cycling to Keep Hanoi Clean, strolling to my Vietnamese lessons at Oriberry, chilling in my apartment and waiting for my Vietnammm order while rain pours down in sheets, taking a Grab to the Old Quarter, going out to eat a cheap and cheerful vegan buffet with dear friends. I miss the conversations, the convenience, the connections. I miss the many things to do. That’s not to say that I’m not grateful…
The Prime Minister’s speech brought back memories of sexual assault I’d rather forget
Content warning: this essay talks about sexual assault. Mine. If you need help, contact the National Sexual Assault Hotline.
I’ve not thought about it often and when I do, it’s not for long, because I’ve buried it. And I want it to stay buried.
But now, at this time in Australia, where women are railing against the government in angry protests about sexual assaults in Parliament House and wider society, where our Prime Minister says women should be grateful they aren’t shot for protesting, I’ve been triggered. The memory is haunting me. It scars my days. Permeates my nights. A…
When what you are and what you have…
All the ingredients for love. Or maybe not.
And they remind me just to be
Diane Lee
Australian freelancer taking the scenic route through life. I write mainly about our relationships with each other: good, bad and ugly. Occasional poet. Virgo.
