One Sentence at a Time: Brain Dumps, Childhood Trauma, and Why I Love Lamy

I tried doing this the “normal” way and I just couldn’t. So here is my life and a love for a pen that you’ll probably never quite get — but I’m going to write it down for you anyway.

I struggled to find the perfect angle to capture the feelings and experiences behind this. Like most of my thoughts, it came to me in waves throughout the day. Eventually, I sat down and wrote what you’re about to read. Technically, it’s a product review. Realistically, it’s a very honest story about my life. You might laugh while I expose myself. You might end it slightly confused. That feels accurate.

2 0 0 3: The License

I don’t remember much about school. I hated 99.9% of my life until about 2012 and I wouldn’t go back for anything. School was a time of not knowing what I was or why I felt so bad for just being me. The kids didn’t like me, and I desperately wanted to fit in, not yet understanding that being someone who likes being alone is actually okay.

But one memory is burned into me.

I was in Grade 3 and about to be the lucky kid who got to “upgrade” from pencil to pen. I wasn’t going for a basic orange BIC. We went to CNA at Cresta in my mom’s blue A-Class Mercedes and I chose a Parker. Dark blue plastic, silver metal on top, in a see-through box. It felt serious.

Of course, I made it an experience. I wrapped it in ribbon like a present because I was getting my “license,” after all. The next day I got called up and received my pen license. I click-clacked my way through that classroom without having to sharpen a pencil at the teacher’s desk — who, by the way, was my only friend. We wrote each other letters. It was special, okay?

I opened that pen and I felt something. Was I bullied for it? Probably. Did I care? Of course I did. But I still did it for me. A pen is one of maybe three childhood memories I actually have from school.

The Rituals We Keep

I still do the same thing.

I wrap my own birthday presents. I buy myself a balloon and a card and leave them for Stephan to bring to me in the morning. Sometimes I order something and pretend I don’t know what it is when it arrives. I’m still waiting for a Christmas present I ordered that turned into a birthday present and has now moved into the “surprise me if it ever actually arrives” category.

Weird? Maybe. But I didn’t ask for anything for my birthday. If I’m honest, a card is usually all I expect because I love them. I have a box next to my bed filled with what I call “cards of happy.”

This year Stephan got me something I really wanted. He even took me to buy it because I had a better Vitality discount on fitness watches than he did. Obviously, we used it. I carried the bag around so he wouldn’t leave it somewhere. I was about to turn it on immediately when he grabbed it and told me no. So I bought myself a card for him to write in and a helium balloon. At 05:00 on my birthday, I acted completely surprised while he was shouting at Uber drivers as we got ready for a coffee event.

Thirty-two years old. Nervous system: lit. Burnout doesn’t really leave.

The BMW Incident

When I met Stephan, I didn’t realise how hard to crack I was, which caused friction early on. We had been dating for about three minutes when he let me drive his silver BMW. I felt rebellious as the gates opened to “Mercedes territory” and I, the black sheep, drove the competition in to stay the night.

I drove into the garage and… GWAAAAAH. I hit a step that wasn’t visible. All I could say was, “Merc parking sensors come on automatically! I’m so sorry.” I was completely shook. The car wasn’t even scratched — just a slightly bent number plate — but the guilt was intense. I went back to check on that car three times that night.

“Relax, Max… go to bed.” I closed the garage door and… GOOOOPHFF. This BMW didn’t fit. I closed the door right onto the boot. No damage again, just a full nervous system meltdown. I lay wide-eyed all night reliving it.

The difference? The Mercedes-Benzes I grew up with had front and rear sensors that beeped automatically. Why would I need to push a button to turn a sensor on? I still don’t understand. A 2004 C-Class had electric seats and PDC, but this fancy BMW didn’t? I remain unconvinced.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Months into living together, Stephan still had no real idea what I did all day. I was sitting in the office, MacBook open, writing notes with what I now know is my “lethal focus face.” I recently watched a day-in-the-life video and realised I look like the angriest person alive. Where is my broom?

He walked in, burst out laughing, and said, “What the hell are you doing?”

I was writing the same sentence over and over with different pens, trying to find the right one.

He was horrified. I was confused by his confusion.

The pen needs to write on the paper perfectly. You don’t just pick up a pen and hope it works. The weight matters. The glide matters. The way it hits the page matters. For years he told people he found me “working” like that. But I was working. I was trying to find the pen that makes my brain settle.

The Bag Lady

He calls me a bag lady.

My car has six bags in the cubby hole, one in the armrest, and a crate in the boot. You need something? Deodorant, perfume, vape, charger, spare iPhone? Help yourself. My pencil bag is perfectly stocked. I have more notebooks than Stephan has owned in his life. I have pouches for cables, bags for my iPad, my laptop, everything.

When I go to bed, the bag comes with me. Glasses, Kindle, charger, AirPods, vape, lip ice. I throw my Longchamp onto the duvet and he looks at me like I’ve lost it.

“You’re a bag lady. This bag doesn’t need to go to bed with you.”

But what if I need eye drops at 02:00? What if I need to write something down? What if something happens?

“I’m going to Woolworths, want to come?” Yes. Bag in the car. “The bag doesn’t need to come.” But my wallet? Exactly.

In that bag are always two Lamy pens.

Minimum.

Why the Lamy Matters

All of this exposure is to tell you one thing: I like my life and I like my things. It might not be a big deal to you, but it is to me. You don’t need to understand it.

I love a pen. I love a book. Not any pen, not any book. When I find my match, I make it my personality.

Lamy. I have four on me at all times. Same pen, different colours. Because every pen writes differently. It irritates me that brain dumping is trendy now because someone said you should do it. I was doing it long before it was cool, and people thought it was ridiculous.

It’s not.

I write all day. The feeling of a good pen hitting a good notebook page makes me feel like the world finally gets me. When I was handed a bag of Lamy items to experience, it felt like that Grade 3 moment all over again.

I used to find the fountain pen stressful. Too messy. Too dramatic. Now I can’t get enough of it. It forces you to slow down. It demands intention. You can’t rush it the way you rush a thought on your phone.

The white fountain pen feels like discipline. The red pen is bold and slightly unhinged. The pencil is forgiving. The blue ballpoint is the responsible adult. Every colour matters. Every nib matters.

Because to you, it might just be stationery. To me, it’s regulation. It’s ritual. It’s control in a world where my nervous system sometimes decides to host its own afterparty at 02:00.

When the world feels loud, the scratch of nib on paper is quiet.

Stephan finally understands why there are always two Lamy pens in my bag. They are not “just pens.”

They are anchors.

We’re all a little odd in the ways that keep us steady. Mine just happens to be ink.