Narratives by Marta Skrabacz

I tried to put something together for the Black Inc. callout for Growing Up Queer in Australia, I really did. But I didn't grow up queer in Australia—I only realised there was something non-straight/linear with me recently, realising it was a non-binary disagreement I had with the world. I like existing in this limbo, it feels better to be nondefinite about what I want myself to be. I feel comfortable. I don't want to talk about it. Did I inherit it? I am still talking about it. I think that's okay, not to have an established or set narrative to tell. It's still fluid. I’m still talking about it.

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Fruit Tarts by Marta Skrabacz

It is a coping mechanism: to throw yourself into work when you aren’t well. To try and control one aspect of your life, to thrive it, to celebrate something. My manager seems to do this quite a bit; I tend to be kinder, more empathetic towards her when I start to receive emails posted at 1 o’clock in the morning. I think of myself as high-functioning but I'm far likely to be erratic: my weekdays range from reading four books a week to barely consuming half a paragraph. Sometimes writing an essay-length newsletter, then letting four months go by without a word. Sometimes I've accomplished six impossible things by breakfast but my laundry hasn't been done for two weeks. I'm behind on two deadlines, and I've just pitched a third book review. I’m surprised that I have been legible at all in any form for some weeks. 

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