Even Mummy Cries

This is an S3 post - I received these books for review purposes

For full details please see my disclosure policy

I saw a meme once that said "My only goal as a mother is to raise children that don't have to recover from their childhood" and it really resonated with me as I am in the continual process of recovering from mine.

I wish trauma wasn't part of my background, but knowing its far reaching effects first hand has guided my parenting choices for the better, in a "do almost every thing the opposite" kinda way. I don't think I'm at the point of being thankful for being fucked up, but I might get there one day. 

When I had my breakdown earlier this year I was conscious of not scaring (and scarring) the kids, but also letting them know what was happening. They're not stupid. Kids can tell something is up no matter how hard you try to hide it and it just makes everything uncomfortable; an elephant in the room that everyone is deathly afraid to mention. 

I let them see me cry a few times because what message am I sending them if I say its OK for them to cry but not me? We sheltered them from the big, ugly stuff, but I let them know that yeah, mum's sad right now.

I needed them to hear that it was nothing they did that made me sad, and that I was taking some medicine to help my brain the same way that Tricks takes medicine to help his lungs. They were allowed to ask me anything and I would answer as honestly (and age-appropriately) as possible. Tricky had some questions, but Bobbin is too young right now and was just happy with cuddles and tickles.

One of the resources I've used recently is the book Even Mummy Cries by Naomi Hunter (available through Empowering Resources). 

It is a great starting point for an important conversation. It alludes to mental illness, but never uses the specific words, so it could be helpful with a range of mental diagnoses (although Dr Glow is suspecting the mum in the book is bipolar). When it showed the Mum sleeping a lot, Tricks was all "that's what you did!". He was able to recognise the behaviours of the Mother and see himself in the children and I think it helped him to know that it wasn't just his mum acting all strange.

The book, with its beautiful illustrations by Karen Erasmus, will let you ease in to talking about big feelings and how they influence our lives, whether you experience mental illness or not. They'll be learning acceptance without even knowing it. It's the literary version of smuggling veggies in to spag bol. 

With these frequent, small discussions about mental illness I hope my kids grow up knowing it's nothing to be ashamed of, scared of, or hidden away. That they understand their Mum's mental illness, and that of others, is just as real as diabetes or broken bones. Basically I don't want them to grow up to be assholes who carry on the stigma. 

I believe that being open and honest with kids is important, so we have read the other books from Empowering Resources too, A Secret Safe To Tell a gentle story that covers body safety, and You're Different, Jemima that encourages kids to celebrate their differences. But Even Mummy Cries is the one that seems like it was written for us, so I have a soft spot for it. 

How do you approach the big conversations with your kids?

Of water phobias and crying poolside

TRIGGER WARNING: this post mentions child sexual assault and may be distressing to some readers.

Tricks has long been afraid of the water. In particular, having water on his face and head. I'm talking full blown phobia. Aquaphobia, to be precise. Not hydrophobia, that's a rabies thing.

Swimming was never on the cards, though occasionally he would paddle ankle deep, at the beach or pool as long as there was no splashing. The first time he got completely in a pool was January this year. It was a momentous occasion and I took about one hundred photographs. If he was splashed in the face, or water got on his hair it would be the end of the world, but THE KID WAS IN A POOL!

Even hair washing was highly traumatic (for both of us) until a few months ago. We tried every contraption, every technique, every "failproof-no-more-tears-this-worked-for-my-water-phobic-child" suggestion we heard. Nothing worked and I was always afraid that the police would be called when we washed his hair, such were the screams echoing down the street from our house.

Lights and sirens, a hard knock on the door and "Excuse me, ma'am, there's been a complaint made against you of child abuse" until Tricky walks out with only half the shampoo out of his hair and they go "Ahh, never mind, I had one of those kids, too".

We never knew the cause of his phobia. Sometimes I would think it was because of his craniosynostosis surgeries because it seemed head related: he would also panic at the hairdressers and very infrequent home haircuts with massive amounts of bribery were the only way forward for quite some time. But at other times I'd think it was just his personality. This introverted, slightly anxious, sweet and sensitive little boy just did not like the sensation.

When a note came around at school that swimming lessons were to start soon, I didn't quite know what to do. Excuse him from the lessons, or pay the money and hope that the combination of someone other than me telling him what to do and a little bit of peer pressure would work wonders? I consulted lots of other mums and they were all very helpful, ensuring me that the swim teachers are very gentle with the "dry heads".

The day before lessons started we headed to my bestie's house to have a swim in her pool with her boys. Tricks got in for a while, but began to panic when it got a little bit splashy. The fear was obvious as tears rolled down his face. He spent the rest of the time on the side, not even wanting to put his feet in.

With the previous day's tears fresh in my mind, I headed to the pool to watch his first lesson. My head was cloudy with an emotional hangover thanks to a horribly timed medication change. A few other mums were there and while we waited for the kids to arrive we talked about how mums cry at things like this.

I told them I've never been one to cry over my kids' milestones. I'm the type to fist pump, high five and happy dance (complete with spirit fingers, of course) but not shed a tear. Which is weird because I cry over bloody everything else. I'm the one smiling and cheering in a sea of wailing mums who appear to be the reason waterproof mascara was invented. They're just so damn happy and proud. It's beautiful.

"You know what?" I said to one of the mums, "If this goes well, I think I will cry".

In hindsight it probably wasn't great for me to head out to the pools when I was feeling low, but there was no way I was missing this lesson.

The bus load of eager little bodies arrived, draped in too-big towels, with goggles covering half their faces so you had to piece together gap-toothed smiles and hair colour to figure out who was who.

As they were led in to the pool in small groups, Tricks was standing bolt upright, making him easy to spot amongst the others who were relaxed and happily bobbing up and down to wet their whole bodies. The teacher, Danni*, knew he was scared and asked him to squat down so his shoulders were under water. He half followed her instructions and made it to chest height. As she spoke to the other kids she took his hand and started trickling water over his shoulders. She was paying him just the right amount of attention - the focus wasn't on him, but she was fully aware of his phobia the whole time, and never stopped easing him in to the water.

Slowly she moved to trickling the water over his head, and her own, laughing as she did it, making it a game. He was still standing stiff as a board, and I could see from the way he held his jaw he was holding back tears.

It came to blowing bubbles... simple enough, but a task that has previously been met with straight out refusal.

He touched his lips gingerly to the water, and stood up. He touched again and blew the tiniest bubble. And again, this time a few more.

I looked to the mums, "Yeah, gonna cry now" I squeaked out.

With the biggest smile on my face the tears started to fall. I was so proud you'd have thought my kid was winning Olympic gold for the 50m freestyle not blowing a few bubbles.

I was handed a tissue and for a moment there, I enjoyed those tears. Everyone knew how momentous this was for him, there was no judgement for crying, the other mums were happy for him, too.

I continued to watch and to my utter amazement, he dipped his whole head under water as they crawled around the shallows pretending to swim. A moment ago he'd never had water on his lips and now his entire face was submerged! He rose up and Danni gave him a little affectionate squeeze on the shoulder.

That was all it took. Watching her (completely innocent) physical contact with him while she smiled.

With my already emotional state, I was transported back to my own horrific swimming lessons where my teacher, Garry*, started off encouraging me with those same little affectionate squeezes, and ended up sexually assaulting me under the water while other children swam laps right next to us.

Garry taught the top class, level twelve, and it was the aim of every kid in the swim club to get to his lane. The furthest from the parents; from the admin; from eyes that could see what he was doing.

He would teach from the deep end where we couldn't stand and would "help us stay afloat" as he gave us instructions for our next lap. Though his idea of help and mine are quite different, with his fingers exploring where they shouldn't have, week after week, month after month.

I would kick away as soon as I could, embarrassed, ashamed, unsure.

I was 10.

When the term ended, I didn't go back. I never got my Bronze and everyone was really surprised that I'd just given up on something I had enjoyed so much and was doing pretty well at.

I look up and I'm watching Tricks again, only a few moments have passed and it is his turn to duck under the water again. He does it, and she squeezes his arm, this time it elicits the smallest of smiles from him.

I feel bile rise up in my throat, and the chlorine, which was fine until now, starts burning my nostrils. My thoughts are all over the place, racing wildly from motherly pride to thinking that I've put my child in harms way.

I excuse myself from the other mums, lying that I want a better view, and I exit the rear of the centre. I suck in fresh air like my life depends on it and flip my sunglasses down so that the others don't notice my happy tears have turned to acrid, trauma tears.

I move to the doors and keep my eyes on him. Trying desperately to focus on how well he's doing and the fact that the teacher is not stealing his innocence. My ears are buzzing and I'm light headed, but I keep staring; counting his kicks, the number of times he readjusts his goggles, anything to pull myself out of my own head, to stop this panic from turning in to a full blown anxiety attack.

Toward the end of the lesson, I regain my composure and rejoin the other mums. I text MG and tell him how well the Trickster is doing, that he has blown us all away with how hard he is trying. My bestie walks in to watch the next session, and I hurriedly tell her that OMG Tricky blew bubbles in the water, and knowing that it's a HUGE thing especially compared to just yesterday in her pool, she tears up, too.

The kids exit the pool and Tricky beams a mega watt smile at me. We high five. We knuckle bump. I tell him how proud I am of him, and I can see he is proud of himself, too. Within a minute they're back on the bus and on the way back to school, and I'm heading to the car.

I don't hold it together long. I drive away crying, amazed at how a shoulder squeeze combined with a bit of an unstable mood could set this off. I've been to pools before since it happened without much of a thought, but it dawns on me I've never sent my kid to swimming lessons before. Put him in the exact same situation that did so much damage to me. Triggers are a bitch and you don't always know where they'll be.

By the end of the week, my new meds had started to kick in and the withdrawal of the last lot has gone (halle-fuckin-lujah), so my mental state is returning to "normal" and I can visit the pool again feeling completely different. I can look at it for what it is for him, not what it was for me.

I watch my little guy float on his front, on his back, swim under four kick boards, duck dive down to retrieve a toy and ENJOY every bit of it. I marvel at how far he has come in five lessons and a tiny little happy tear forms in the corner of my eye.

I smile, the tear slides down my cheek, and I don't wipe it away. Now it's my turn to be so damn happy and proud, and beautiful.

*not their real names

The sword of (employment) Damocles

One of the reasons I'm in a funk lately - and not the cool kinda uptown funk you up, dancing with rollers in my hair kinda funk -  is because MapGuy's work is laying off around 300 people.

The sword of employment Damocles is hanging over my head
And I've got a feelin' someone's gonna be cuttin' the thread
Oh, woe is me!
My life is a misery
Oh, can't you see
That I'm at the start of a pretty big downer

But life isn't the Rocky Horror Picture Show and I'm not wearing gold hot pants, because sadly, I don't own any.

We first heard of the cuts just before we went on holiday. Our paid for months ago, non refundable holiday. I was optimistic, though, and didn't get overly worried.

We were about to head away when his bosses made sure he could check his work email on holiday because all staff had to know if they did or didn't have a job at the same time.

I panicked. Surely they'd only double check with you if you're one of the ones getting the chop, right? It sure put a dampener on the first few days of our time in Malaysia (which I still haven't blogged about because STRESS! SICKNESS! PROCRASTINATION!). Then, he checked his email on the day he was told and PHEW he still had a job to go to! Up until then I hadn't bought anything on holiday except food. I went clothes shopping for the kids after that!

On his return to work, the atmosphere was very different. Morale was very low. The first round of cuts had been done and dusted - people had already gone and MG never got a chance to say seeya.

I still have some confidence that he'll be fine in the second and third round of cuts, but there is this voice in the back of my head. It's a bitch of a voice, I tell ya. It's saying all sorts of awful things - made more awful by the fact that at least some of them are true. Not many though, because my brain makes up the vast majority of my problems.

It's a tough climate to get a job in. (true)

I'll have to sell my computer. (highly unlikely)

Not many companies are hiring. (true)

The kids won't get new clothes for summer. (umm, hello, grandparents!)

OMG the mortgage. (yes, you have one)

We'll starve. (no, don't be a dick)

If they got rid of the guy who had been there 13 years, MG with his 8 years doesn't stand a chance. (well, fuck)

We'll be fine. No, really. I honestly believe that (most of the time). But I just can't get these doubts out of my head. They swirl and flip and before I know it, it's 2am and I've been laying here for hours clenching my teeth so tight I need the jaws of life to open it up again.

My doctor asked me recently if I wanted to try coming off my anti anxiety meds. Normally, I'd be all for moving on up and seeing what happens. But right now? Nope! I will keep my little psychotropic security blanket snuggly tucked around me, thankyouverymuch.

So we wait. And hope for the best. And don't spend too much money. And take Ativan.

I was just trying to be nice, dammit!

On the tail end of #lungsbehavingbadly v2.0 that saw Tricks hospitalized for a couple of nights, Bobbin coughing her lungs up and me sucking back on a puffer every hour, our Ventolin stores were getting super low so I nipped out to the pharmacy while MapGuy was making dinner.

I walked all the way to the back of the store where the meds are, past the makeup, past the bath gels, past the nail polish on special and I did not deviate. Don't succumb to the specials! You can do it! It was like a little chant in my head. You don't need a hair brush, even if it is only $3.50 and guarantees no more tangles.

I grabbed my little blue life savers (as opposed to lifesavers which are much more delicious though less capable of actually saving a life) and headed back through what really has to be the most enormous pharmacy ever built. At the front of the store my resolve was tested. Kid's sunglasses marked down from $12.99 to $5.99. Oooh. They're cute. I'll just have a quick look.

I don't know what it is about kids in sunglasses, or glasses in general actually, but it hits me straight in the ovaries. Oomph. All the cute. I rummaged around and found some funky purple frames with white polka dots. Bobbin didn't neeeeed them, that's for sure, but at $6 I couldn't say no so I grabbed them and lined up at the checkout.

There was an old bloke, Paul, in front of me, counting out his coins, trying to pay for his script. He seemed quite confused and kept recounting. The checkout dude didn't help him, just kept saying he didn't have enough money.

"How much do you need?" I asked.

Paul couldn't tell me how much, just that he had to have this medicine before his operation on Monday. So I looked to rude dude. "He's 80c short".

Oh for fuck's sake. You can't let 80c slide for a confused old bugger?

I handed over a dollar coin.

"Oh, I think heaven has sent me an Angel!" Paul exclaimed.

It was sweet. Then he kept saying it and wanting to tell me all about his surgery he was about to have and I'm all smiling and lovely but inside I'm saying hurry up, Paul.

With his coins in order he then pulled out his key card for the rest of the payment... and it was rejected. He still didn't have enough money. For a $6.10 medication. It was sad.

I was just trying to be nice (but maybe I was also tired of waiting) so I told Paul I'd pay for his script. $6 script, $6 glasses. It wasn't going to break my budget, and this guy needed it more than me.

I placed the sunnies and the Ventolin on the counter while Paul professed to anyone within earshot that I was indeed sent from above.

The previously unconcerned checkout dude was impressed. Well I assume so, because his deadpan expression twitched for a moment. Then he blipped through the sunnies and they came up as $24.95.

"No, those sunglasses are from the sale tub just there" I pointed out. "They're all $5.99"

Checkout dude, who was by now completely over hearing Paul tell the world about his surgery and my fabulousness, just wanted it to be over, so he didn't even blink and started to override the price.

"I'll give you a discount" he said, and rung up a 25% discount on my ventolins. Score.

A face twitch and a discount. Naw, I melted his cold heart after all.

I paid, wished Paul all the best for his surgery that he was still talking about, and extracted myself from the store, feeling pretty damn good about myself to be honest. So damn good that I walked up to the bottle shop and grabbed a bottle of Maker's Mark as a reward. Forgoing the bag, I walked back out in to the centre with the bottle in my hand looking super classy, and glanced down at my receipt from the chemist.

I'd been charged $18.70 for the sunnies.

For fuck's sake.

I headed back to the pharmacy and lined up again.

The checkout dude had no recollection of our previous encounter a whole five minutes earlier, but I figure that when he applied the discount it must have wiped his override price.

He tried a few times to refund me but couldn't figure out how to do it so along came another equally enthusiastic employee with a similar level of job satisfaction who had a few goes.

She was stumped at why the sunnies were scanning at $24.95 yet I'd only paid $18.70.

"But why did she only pay $18.70?" she asked the dude. Silence. He shrugged his shoulders.

Jeezus, does it matter? Either way I was only meant to pay $6, who cares?! The man just stood there, he wasn't forthcoming with any information. Stunned silence. Perhaps he thought he'd get in trouble for an unauthorised discount? Either way, he was not talking.

"He gave me a discount because I'm awesome".

Holy shit, did I just say that? What a bitch. They looked at me blankly.

"Sorry, I was just trying to be nice".

She stared at me (possibly with undead eyes, I can't be sure) and tried again to figure out how to refund me the difference.

"Would it be easier if I returned them?" I asked, looking at my watch? It had been five minutes now and the line of people forming behind me were not pleased. All over a pair of cheap plastic sunnies.

They didn't respond and kept clicking away at the screen.

FINALLY, after three hours (OK, six minutes) I got the difference refunded.

I was just trying to be nice.

After the rigmarole that was their purchase I am now highly encouraging Bobbin to wear them at all times. I'm close to duct taping them to her head.

Gratefulness Vs Discharge guilt

I've been having a rough time of late.

There. I said it.

Um, there was supposed to be a massive weight lifted off my shoulders when I admitted it, wasn't there? Yet here I am, struggling to stand upright under the pressure. The pressure of what, I'm not entirely sure. Motherhood? Life? My white, middle class privilege?

I can pinpoint exactly where it all started. It was in Princess Margaret Hospital with Bobbin and Tricky.

Hospital is never a nice place to be, particularly a childrens' hospital. While it makes the kids better, it seems to simultaneously suck the life out of the parents and school them in how to count your blessings.

We were there for two weeks, which in the scheme of things is such a short time. For an otherwise healthy kid, though, two weeks is forever to be requiring oxygen. Every day they'd come and check her and say "maybe tomorrow", and every day we moved further past our 'estimated date of discharge' written on Bobbin's name board.

It was only on the eleventh day that they decided to refer us to the respiratory team after I'd begged for days to let us go home with an oxygen tank, just so we could get out there. The respiratory doctor came in and took charge, she made a plan of action to start antibiotics for atypical pneumonia, a blood test to confirm, and had a back up plan of a chest CT and bronchioscope if the meds didn't start working (there was a thought that Bobbin had perhaps aspirated some food in to her lungs).

 

The improvement was noticeable that afternoon and within 24 hours she was able to come off oxygen for the first time in twelve days and we could go home after two weeks. The original medical team came in and APOLOGIZED for not referring us sooner. I couldn't believe it. But it's my child, so of course she was atypical. She even had an atypical presentation of atypical (mycoplasma) pneumonia. No wonder the med team missed it.

So off we went home, and that should have been that. Apart from a residual cough, everything was fine for Bobbin.

But it didn't stop there for me. I can't stop thinking of the other families; the other kids.

Like the gorgeous boy who made Bobbin light up every time he whizzed in to the room on his bright red wheelchair (which was a lot!), who had been in for six months. He was so fun. They played monster trucks together and when Tricky visited, the boys would go off to the play room together for a while. It was a bit confusing for him when Tricky was admitted, but he just saw it as an opportunity to spend more time with fellow car aficionados. Ejected from a car that was crashed by his drunken dad, he has years of rehab in front of him.

Or the sweet girl who was having hundreds of seizures a day thanks to a degenerative disorder. She had lovely get well soon cards from her class at school, flowers, balloons, you name it, to brighten her corner of the ward and make relearning to walk, talk and eat more bearable.

Or the eleven week old boy who was in the cot next to Bobbin with blunt force trauma to the head; two skull fractures; a massive bleed to the brain. The Child Protection Unit coming and going; the wee babe going for all sorts of tests; the parents contacting their lawyer; turning over furniture looking for listening devices.

You can hear absolutely everything going on in the next cot a metre away, those curtains aren't known for their sound deadening properties, after all. The parents talked loudly on the phone to make sure we all heard them, but at one point they whispered to each other. I could still hear them. He was telling her what to say when questioned, that the bleed was caused by his most recent vaccination, that the (new) skull fractures occurred during his birth.

We stayed in a room with them for three days before we were moved for our safety. Part of me wanted to stay in there, writing down everything they said so someone could stand up for this little guy, and another part of me wanted to run as far away as I could, hands over ears, la la la I'm not listening, this doesn't really happen to innocent babes.

But it does. It did. And though this whole experience has made me hold my munchkins tighter, love on them even more, and be eternally grateful for them and their health, it has also crushed a little part of my soul, too. And I'm having a lot of trouble moving past it. I'm hoping that by writing it down; getting it out of my head, that I'll be able to.

Lost: One Mojo

Um, help?

A few weeks ago I had motivation in spades. Instead of doing 20 minutes of exercise, I'd do 60, and I felt brilliant for it. My rest days were "active rest" and I was making awesome choices when it came to food.

I was smashing my goals. 

It was hurting, but it was "I've exercised" pain, not "My body is fucked" pain. But then it switched and I entered a pain flare. In the scheme of things it wasn't even a bad one. Then, I got a little bit sick.

Every time I ate something, I'd spend hours wanting to bring it back up. Major nausea, all long weekend. In addition to that, I was bone tired, and heading to bed at 8:30pm even after TWO naps a day. Map Guy said I was acting like I was pregnant, so I spent 24 hours freaking out and religiously researching the chances of getting preggers with an Implanon implant (extremely low, phew!).

I'm in a funk. And not a cool, treadmill dancing up town funky wunk.

A proper, why bother, this is stupid, I'm worthless, might as well eat a whole damn cheesecake to myself, FUNK. 

My old coping mechanisms have come rushing back. Secret binge eating, being the top one. 

I haven't exercised in a week, and yeah, I get how pathetic that sounds, "oh a week? get over yourself, arsehole", but in that week I have completely lost my mojo. There is no desire there at all. When people wondered why I wasn't having a full rest day, THIS IS WHY. If I stop, I won't start again. I'm such an all or nothing person.

Yesterday I got in to my workout gear. Felt stupid. Looked fat. Got back in to jeans and stole one of Bobbin's Easter eggs. Because on top of being unhealthy and unfit, I'm mother of the year, obviously. 

I'm pissed off at myself. I've just hit the half way mark of Get Commando Fit and I've gone from doing so well, to being a couch potato in the space of seven days... and I don't know how to turn it around. I've been looking up inspirational women on Instagram and YouTube; mamas who have worked hard to get fit and I want to be like them so much... but there is something stopping me. I'm using the Commando forums, but only to read because I feel like a dick for even thinking this way. I'm at a loss, and I just don't know how to get my mojo back.

Help? Please? 

The reunion

Estrangement is a strange thing. It's right there, in the middle of the word so you don't miss it, and can't possibly forget.

E-strange-ment. 

I am not privvy to all the circumstances that led to the fracturing of my family, though, over the years, I have heard a few stories. Stories that have been, no doubt, warped by the passage of time in a Chinese Whisper that led to us all missing out on precious time together.

He said. She said. This happened. That happened.

None of it involved me. I didn't even know it was happening; kept in the dark, I was the last to find out anything. All I knew is that my Uncle Buck, as we called him, was no longer at any family events and was only spoken of in hushed tones.

When you have a tiny little family like I do, one person missing is really obvious. Especially someone as funny and larger than life as him.

A year ago I wrote how I would send him a birthday message every year, and the lengths that I had gone to to make contact with him. Creating new email addresses to bypass filters, using contact forms for his office, and even straight out emotional blackmail by including beautiful pictures of us from my wedding day. Anything to trigger a response. Some recognition. Proof of life, if you will. I had decided that last year I wouldn't send him another one because it was too heartbreaking to be met with silence yet again.

Then, this year, his birthday fell just a few short weeks after my Aunty Steffi (his sister) had run in to him (chased him down is more appropriate) and was working hard to reconnect, so I wondered if maybe the lines of communication were starting to open? Perhaps I could try again even though I was opening myself up to pain and disappointment. I decided to send him a birthday message.

I sent it after I knew he would have turned his phone off for the night, crossing my fingers he kept the same habit as he did five years prior. I wanted to send it and just forget, rather than sit by my phone all day, jumping every time it bleeped at me and getting disappointed if it wasn't him.

I woke up the next morning and my plan had worked because I had genuinely forgotten that I had sent it.

Then my phone bleeped.

It was him.

The first contact in over five years.

I was shaking and crying as I read his response over and over and over again. I must have read it fifty times. "Darling Glow, you can see me anytime you wish. So make it soon. I'm not getting any younger. Love, Uncle Buck x"

He called me darling! He said love! He put a kiss! 

A few weeks passed and we arranged to meet. I was sick with anticipation. I had googled him countless times and seen his most recent picture, but what would he look like in the flesh? Would he still sound the same? Would he still make me laugh the way only he could?

I was so afraid that I would be unable to speak and just spend the whole time crying. I played out scenarios in my head, acted them out in front of the mirror, and rehearsed in the bath. Nothing sounded right so I gave up and decided to wing it.

We pulled up in our respective cars at the same time, and greeted with a kiss on the cheek like nothing had happened, right there on the side of the road.

I had so many questions for him.

Where have you been? Why didn't you reply to my emails? My texts? Did you read any of them or just delete them straight away? Do you know I'm a mother now? I've had two children since you last saw me. Did you not like me? Did you not want to see me? Were you wanting to but didn't know how? Do you know it's been FIVE FUCKING YEARS?

But I didn't ask any of them.

Not a single one.

Because the answers, in all honesty, just don't matter. 

The only thing that is important is that we are together now, as a family, moving forward.

We chatted, Uncle Buck, Aunty Steffi, Aunty Penny (lotta aunties there - Penny's my sister), and I, for a couple of hours. Sometimes Bobbin joined in, too. She was a fabulous buffer, as all babies are.

I didn't cry while he was there, much to everyone's amazement including my own, probably because I'd rehearsed this scene for the last four and a half years. But I did cry after he'd gone. A mixture of relief, happiness to see him and a lingering sadness from missing out on five years.

Where it goes to next, I don't know. But I hope one day it can be like it was. For now, I just keep going back to this photo we took the other day and smiling.

So good to have you back, Uncle Buck x

Slightly fuzzy photo because we were moving. It's OK, I look photoshopped :)

Ending therapy. Alternatively titled: Can I do this without professional help?

Over the years I have had many different therapists who have each approached me in different ways, using various and sometimes contradictory methods.

One thing that has always been the same though, no matter who I was seeing at the time, is that on leaving a session, I've always felt worse. Without fail. Because talking about shitty things sucks big hairy balls sometimes. I would always be left with a sense that I was a complete basket case (which may be true, but let’s not rub that in) who would never ever not need help. Until I met this latest guy; let's call him Brad, because that's his name.

I've only worked with Brad for about nine months after the original therapist I was seeing through the maternity hospital reached the end of her contract. I hate changing therapists. The whole rehashing of why you’re so fucked up is painful. Old wounds that were just starting to scab over are picked at. Fresh blood drops breaking the surface, and I’m right back there when it all happened. But other than the first session, where we were both getting to know how each other operated, I’ve always left feeling OK. Not necessarily like I could take on the world, but that everything would be alright. Even after sessions that were heavy. For the first time ever I found a sense of hope.

We worked on all number of issues, but no matter what, I felt I could be myself. Which might sound stupid because, duh, aren’t you always meant to be yourself with your therapist? See, you are, but I, err, haven’t always been. Because HELPFUL. I know, I know, I’m an idiot. Previously I’ve lied to avoid the conversations I didn’t feel ready to have. Very helpful, Glow, very helpful.

Working through my all-encompassing guilt and shame after forgetting Bobbin, I was more truthful than I thought I could be, and I didn’t feel judged. I know that’s his job, but I’ve seen so many therapists that just aren’t good at it, so to have a good one at a time when I really needed it was great.

My sessions at the hospital were to last up until one year post-partum… with Bobbin turning one last month I knew our time was going to be up sooner rather than later. They don’t toss you out on the kerb if you’re in need of care, but because my sessions were maintenance and skill building for the most part rather than crisis management, it would be time to say goodbye.

Our final session was bittersweet. We decided it would be ending now, and I was happy with that, feeling that I had been part of the decision making process, that this was the right time for it to conclude. But then I started to cry just a little.

It was an uneasy feeling and I wasn’t entirely sure why I was crying. Was it because my safety net would be gone? Or that I’d miss the “debrief” that therapy allows? Would I miss Brad and this lopsided relationship we had going on where I knew nothing about him and he knew so much about how screwed up I feel sometimes yet never made me feel like a freak? The answer is probably a combination of all of that and then some.

We joked I was now sane and that he should really invest in a stamp ala The Simpsons so I could prove it to my friends. We summed up the three most important people in my life, my rocks, my happy place; I laughed that the things that make Bobbin (who came to the majority of sessions) full on now, are the exact things I love about her because they'll make her an awesome woman; marveled at Tricky's massive increase in confidence in the last six months; and swooned over MapGuy, who we always called Mr Perfect in our fortnightly meetings.

The session was much shorter than usual, or at least it felt that way. He said he’d enjoyed our time together, that he’d see my name on his calendar and smile, and I believed him. Because we always had great conversations (combined with a somewhat similar sense of humour) that would seem to go in all sorts of directions but always with an underlying theme of “Glow isn’t as crazy as she thinks she is” with a side of “Glow needs to chill out a bit”. I shook his hand and thanked him most ineloquently for everything he had done for me. The words didn’t seem enough, so, announcing it was probably breaking some rule, I gave him the quickest of hugs and walked out without looking back. Because if I’d look back I’d probably start proper, ugly crying. How do you adequately thank someone for returning a sense of hope to your life?

I don’t think I’ll be getting a new therapist any time soon, instead I'll fly solo for a while. The idea of rehashing my past isn’t attractive, and I feel like I’m in a good place right now, and if those introductory sessions aren’t handled well, it can cause a spiral down with the “I’m more fucked up than I thought, I’m going to be insane forever” thing. But don't panic, I'm still medicated for your convenience.

Birthdays and memories

For the past few years, on January 7th I send a text, or an email, or sometimes both, to someone to say happy birthday.

Every year there is no reply.

And every year I am crushed just a little bit more.

I didn't know it was possible for someone to hate me so much purely for being related to someone else.

I sent emails and pictures of Tricky when he was born and they too, went unanswered. I created new email addresses just in case he has mine blocked and I have even used the contact form on his work's website, to no avail.


When Bobbin was born, I couldn't bring myself to send another email, another picture, because the lack of response kills me a little bit more each time.

Today, as soon as I opened my eyes I started crying. I miss him more on days like today. I miss him more every time Tricky gets a postcard and I remember fondly how he used to send me postcards from all over the world when I was little. They would always be so funny. Once he wrote "I'm writing this slowly because I know you can't read fast yet". I always looked forward to seeing him when he flew home, and when he moved back permanently I thought it was brilliant. I worshipped him.

I've realized that the feelings I have for him now are more akin to mourning than anything else, yet he is still very much alive and works only a suburb away. I drive past his work most days and wonder which car is his. I haven't dared to go in, because as much as I long to see him, I think if he told me to go away to my face that I would crumble and I wouldn't want to compromise his professionalism with my tears.

A few years ago, in one of the many emails I have sent, I included my blog details, just in case he wanted to see how we were going but couldn't bring himself to make contact. I wonder all the time if he has ever looked it up. Seen the pictures, followed the stories, thought nice things about us and smiled.

L, if you are reading this, happy birthday. I miss you, I love you. x

Shove your stigma

Back in May I wrote about all the red flags on my file for post natal depression as part of the One Million Mums in May movement by PANDA for The Shake. If this weird brain of mine was in a graduating highschool class it would be voted "brain most likely to have a breakdown" so when I'd felt a little off for a few weeks during my pregnancy I made sure my midwife knew and I went and spoke to a counsellor to have a plan in place should I need it.

I copped a bit of flack for that article. I was told that "some people" thought I was speaking about things that should remain private. Funnily, those "some people" wouldn't say this to my face and got others to do the dirty work for them.

If it is taboo to talk about the possibility of needing help for mental illness and creating a preventative mental health plan, then what hope do those who do need help have? How much longer will it carry such shame that there are those that would warn you off talking about it?

These last few weeks, those thoughts have been racing through my head. Do I appease the "some", keep my mouth shut and feel like a fake, or, do I just put it out there, knowing that there are others who can relate. Others who may have been in the same boat and can offer a word of support; others who are there now, and need that little push to ask for help.

So I'll say it. I have post natal depression. There. Did it.

This isn't the most appropriate way to let my family know, but I just couldn't find the words to say it to them face to face. How do I even start that conversation when on the outside everything looks so fine? Oh hey, this slice is delicious, you must give me the recipe, and by the way I'm looking in to inpatient treatment for my mental illness.

So I'll sit behind my computer screen, safe behind the keyboard that lets me say these things and not have to see your face. Or let you see mine. Because mine is tear streaked and seems to have more wrinkles on it than ever before. I look old. I feel old.

I've been struggling. Really struggling. There is a lot going on in my life right now and I suppose I'm a bit stupid for taking so much on, but there isn't much I can do about it now.

A few weeks ago it became glaringly obvious this was more than just a temporary low mood.

Because crying for hours after the kids are in bed because you think your latest blog post was a bit shit isn't normal.

Because not being able to turn your brain off until 1am and then waking at 4am is not normal.

Because breaking down in to tears and becoming mute when someone asks you to make a simple decision (what you want for lunch?) and you just don't know isn't normal.

Because standing in front of the fridge and eating two blocks of chocolate without taking a breath isn't normal.

Because falling to the floor in a sobbing heap when you have a bad day care drop off isn't normal.

Because shaking like a leaf and crying at a loud noise isn't normal.

My nerves are shattered. I feel like I have ants under my skin. The pressure is building and I can't seem to find that release valve. So I called for help. And I'm getting it.

Having worked tirelessly to get off medication, I find myself a little disappointed to be back on it after all these years and find it hard to admit that I'm not as strong as I thought I was. And I'm so sad that it means I can no longer donate my milk to the prems.

But here I am, medicated and back in therapy. It is helping me sleep, which is good because I'm just so tired. The lethargy goes right the way through to my bones. Map Guy has been given carers leave so that I can just chill out for a week to try and keep from needing inpatient treatment.

I've been trying to keep going out, seeing friends, doing normal things. All the things that I really don't want to do but I know I should. And I'm so lucky to have friends that could tell something was up and have been checking in on me. 

So that is that. I'm sure I should be feeling empowered, but I don't. All I want to do is just go to bed and snuggle with my family. To feel MG's arms around me and tell me it will be OK, to hear Tricky talk about cars and tell me a fart joke, see Bobbin smile and hear her giggle when I kiss her scrummy neck. Those three people are my lifeline and stopping me from going over the edge. For them, and for me, I will stand up and ask for help.

And I flat out refuse to believe that talking about this is shameful.

Shove your stigma.

I'm a rageaholic. I'm addicted to rageahol.

I have become The Incredible Glow-Hulk. Or Glulk, if you will. I know, it sounds pretty shit, but Ima run with it. Run with it as far as a crappy photoshop job complete with sea-sick green wash and popping veins will take me.

 
Last pregnancy I was earth mother. Well, as earth mother as I can get. I'd never felt calmer or more secure in myself. I even managed to come completely off medications that had gotten me through what I like to deem the "straight jacket years". It was all rose coloured glasses& chirping birds on window sills, not unlike a scene from a Disney movie.

This pregnancy could not be further from that. Earth mother? Hell no. Rage mother is more like it. My default emotion right now is anger. Pure, bubbling, oh-the-injustice, how-dare-you anger!

Everything, EVERYTHING, is making me angry.

Take for example the age old phenomenon of males leaving the toilet seat up. This has never annoyed me before - I'm of the opinion that if we both use the facilities why must it be left how I like it? What makes me so special that I can't put it down? But a few nights ago, when I unceremoniously fell in to the toilet in the middle of the night, I was ready to declare war and the words I muttered under my breath to describe MG's actions were, well, colorful to say the least.

It doesn't matter how tiny the issue is, I'll be cranky.

Shops due to open at 9am and according to my no doubt fast watch they didn't open til 9:01.... UNACCEPTABLE! RAGE!!! WHERE IS THE COMPLAINT FORM?!

Leftovers eaten by someone else even though I hadn't declared I wanted them? OFF WITH HIS HEAD!!! THAT WAS MY FUCKING PIZZA!!

Stub my toe on a shoe that I have left in the way? THE WORLD IS AT FAULT! ALL SHOES IN THE BIN!!

The rose coloured glasses have been smashed under foot for their mocking rosiness. The birds on the windowsill, clever little bastards that they are, are long gone, no doubt fearful I would fashion a ging out of some bobby pins and hair elastics MacGyver style, and take them out one by one.

As much as I can see it happening and am trying my hardest to control it (by swearing on the inside and developing facial tics), Poor MapGuy is suffering. From his proximity, he is the one who has witnessed this more than anyone. And by witness I obviously mean felt the brunt of. 

It truly is one of the most unattractive of things to see your preggo wife stroke her swelling bump then look up, shoot daggers and say "stop doing that or I will cut you".

At times like this I find it helpful to remember the positives... that I am not an elephant and this state will not last for two years, merely another four and a half months.

Were you a rageaholic when up the duff? How did you stop from killing people?

The numbers game

In the last two and a half weeks I feel like all I've done is worry and count, count and worry.

Count the number of puffs, doses, hours, admissions and the number of times I've been close to losing the plot (I'd need to count higher than ten for that, so it's off the list).

Worry about whether I'm up to being this parent which is so far removed from my bordering on neglect "he'll be right" attitude.

One - the number of times we've needed an ambulance for Tricky

Two - the number of asthma attacks he's had

Three - the number of hospital admissions he's had

Four - the number of hours between ventolin when you're allowed home from hospital

Five - the number of times I've called the specialist only to get the answering machine

Six - the number of puffs of ventolin required every 20 minutes for three hours to stabilize him

Seven - the number of times he screams when woken up for medicine over night

Eight -the number of chips, dropped off to the hospital by a good friend, I can stuff in to my mouth when Tricky is finally asleep

Nine - the number of times per day I felt sorry for myself

Ten - the number of times per day I shook it off and thought how truly lucky we are

All in two and a half weeks. Ugh.

Tricky giving the thumbs up for feeling better!

The genetic trifecta

The Trickster and I don't look anything alike. When my blonde haired, blue eyed boy was born it appeared he must have actually been a clone of Map Guy and received no genetic material from me at all... this past week we've discovered that he shares more in common with me than we thought. Which means it's been a pretty shit week. 

It started on Tuesday (well the week didn't start on Tuesday, the shit did) in the form of Tricky having an anaphylaxis reaction to cashew nuts and needing a trip to the emergency room for adrenaline and a night in the observation ward.

It finished with a trip back to that same emergency room and a weekend stay on the ward, when Tricky couldn't breathe on Friday night.

Breaking my heart

He was a little bit sniffley through the day but it wasn't until night time when he really started to become unwell - he was clingy, pale, couldn't sleep, threw up some rather toxic looking green bile and struggled with his breathing. He was working so hard to breathe, with his little tummy sucking right in, that he couldn't do anything else and sat motionless in my arms as we entered the emergency room.

On arrival we again went straight through although this time he was triaged as a level two (emergency - could become life threatening), not a level one (life threatening) like it was on Tuesday... and in my unparalleled ability to clutch at straws I'm chalking that up as a win. I took my child to hospital before he died, yay me!

He needed nebulizers every twenty minutes for the first two hours, and since it takes fifteen minutes to have it, it meant he was off the drugs for only five minutes before needing more, and in those five minutes he was on oxygen or his saturation would plummet to the mid 70s. Scary, scary stuff.

I'm not sure if it was because of the toxic green vomit, which could have been a sign of an infection, or just because there was space, but we got our own isolation room which meant a private bathroom, enough room for a fold-a-bed, and a door to close and block out the cries of the rest of the poor sick kids on our ward.

New jimjams are a perquisite for hospital stays

He was the perfect patient. He let them poke and prod, he left the mask on his face and the pulseoximeter on his toe. Well, he did... until it was almost 9pm when he'd finally gone to sleep and his oxygen levels kept crashing. Putting the mask on him woke not only him but the entire bloody ward.

The nurses resorted to nasal prongs and bandaging his hands to stop him pulling them off. Thanks to crappy medical dramas, I always associate nasal prongs with people who are dying, so it's safe to say I went pretty emo around then.

I was sure nothing could perk me up until an awesome friend organized a delivery of snacks for us. It's amazing just how much a kind gesture can buoy your spirits, especially when that gesture involves chips and Coke. But even full sugar soft drink can't keep you happy when your little boy is laying in hospital.

I settled in to my bed, which almost collapsed every time I breathed, and tried to get a little bit of sleep because I knew it was going to be a long night... and I wasn't wrong.

Overnight, he needed medication every two hours, and every two hours he would scream and violently thrash around... so every two hours I would hold him down as he protested and sing to him through my tears as my heart shattered in to a thousand pieces.

Then, like magic, as soon as the sun rose and he had a breastfeed he was back to being a model patient. I suppose I can't blame him - I don't like to be woken up either.

Feeling much happier

Normally the powers that be don't give a diagnosis of asthma for a first attack... because there is no way of knowing if it will happen again. When he was discharged on Sunday, the doctors took one look at his Tuesday admission, his eczema and the fact that I was hospitalized a dozen times or so with asthma as a kid and chalked him up as asthmatic immediately.

Snuggles at home

So it turns out he did get some genes from me. The allergy, eczema and asthma genes - a rather shitty genetic trifecta.

What did your kids inherit from you that you wish they hadn't?

ANZAC & PTSD: Acronyms that go together in my world

There are some things I don't handle very well. ANZAC Day is one of them. I've been in a pretty bad place lately (hence the rather quiet blog), and having this day fall right when I'm at a low point is doing my head in. It's panic attack central here and I've spent five hours in bed today trying to avoid the world. It didn't really work, when I got up the world was right there waiting for me. Bastard.

The internet, television and newspapers are full of stories today - of the men and women who fought for our country, of those that never came back, and those that waited at home for them, thinking every time the phone rang it was going to be that call.

What you don't hear too much of, is the stories of after the war. What happens to those highly trained soldiers who have seen battle when they come back home and try to fit in to a society that doesn't always understand them? What happens to their family? Their kids?

For me, ANZAC Day is a giant flag, waved in front of my face to mock me, to remind me how fucked up the children of soldiers can be, how hard life as the daughter of a soldier who served in the Vietnam War was and still is.

I'm not trying to over generalize, but it's a widely known fact that a lot of soldiers tend to come home rather damaged. Really, how could you not? Fighting on the front lines, seeing limbs blown off, holding your friend as he takes his last breath. That damages. Right to the core. Often beyond repair.

I was part of a counseling group specifically for children of Vietnam Veterans a few years back and even though we were from such varied backgrounds; different socioeconomic groups, different religions, different ages... we all had identical stories.

From the shoes so highly polished you could see your reflection in them to the nightmares and the trauma.

From the school shirts ironed to within an inch of their life to the constant yelling, violence and alcoholism.

From the regimented schedule to the constant walking on eggshells, unsure of what was going to happen next.

Growing up like that? That damages. Right to the core. Often beyond repair. 

We were all the same. We were all living in dysfunctional households and we were all fucked up because of it, having all been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from living under such conditions for so long.

You can leave certain things behind when you leave your parents' house; dolls, posters of teenage crushes, school reports and the like. You can't leave your PTSD behind though. That shit comes with you everywhere.

So here I sit, many years later, with PTSD still slumping my shoulders and dictating my daily life, watching the footage of our war heroes. I thank them for their service, for all they did... and then I cry for their kids... and, I'm loath to admit, I cry a little bit for myself, too.

Do you wish you could leave behind something when you left home?

I feel I should add that in the last few years my Dad, who was spat at on his return from the Vietnam War, where he fought on behalf of all of us in a war nobody supported, has healed immensely and we now, thankfully, have a very good relationship. However, it doesn't detract from the fact that for the first 28 years of my life I lived in constant fear of him. I love him, more than words can say. He is, by far, Tricky's favourite person and I firmly believe kids have excellent judgement.

Do not assume

Do not assume that because I am an atheist that I have no morals or faith.

Do not assume that because I dislike confrontation that I will not stick up for myself.

Do not assume that because I am smiling that I am happy.

Do not assume that because I share a lot through social media that I have no secrets.

Do not assume that because I am broken that I will let you treat me like a door mat.

Do not assume that because I am a mother that I have no interest in anything other than child rearing.

Do not assume that because I wear makeup that I am vain.

Do not assume that because I am a SAHM that I spend all day colouring in and going out for coffee.

Do not assume that because I am pro-breastfeeding that I am anti-formula.

Do not assume that because I have lots of friends that I'm not lonely.

Do not assume that because I am outgoing that I am not insanely anxious.

What do people assume about you?

Grieving

Grief is a strange beast. It sneaks up on you. Sometimes, when you think it has weakened with the passing of the years you turn to find it just as ferocious as ever. Just when it appears that it's grown old and frail like the person you are grieving never could, it catches you unawares and leaves you struggling to breathe and see through a burning sea of tears...

Today marks thirty years since my parents laid to rest their second born daughter, Jo-Anne. She was just shy of 18 months old when she passed away and I still grieve for her fiercely, despite the fact that I don't remember her, having only being a couple of months old when she died. Many a therapist have tried to find out why I have such a strong connection to her, and they have all, after a while, shook their heads and placed me in the too hard basket.

How can you grieve for someone you didn't know? How can it hurt so much and feel like something is missing when you never really knew what it was like to have it in the first place?

I spoke to my dad about her today. Though as a family we never not spoke of her, my Dad and I have spoken more about her in the last two years than all the other times put together and I've learned more about her and who she was as a child as opposed to my previous, childhood thoughts of her just being "the dead sister".

"I've been thinking about Jo-Anne a lot lately, would you mind if I wrote about her?"

"Of course you can, baby, she was your sister. I've been thinking about her a lot lately too... you know it's been thirty years?" he says as his eyes go glossy and he swallows hard.

As my dad has marveled over each of Tricky's milestones, when we're alone there is always an underlying melancholy of "Jo-Anne never did that" (I can only assume that the experience wasn't the same when I was a baby because he was too consumed by his grief to be noticing what I was doing). He tells me, like he has before, that she never learned to walk, never really talked, and only weighed a little bit more than newborn-me when she passed away... but that she had the most beautiful, infectious giggle. 

I break down and sob on his shoulder. He hugs me tight. I'm sure though, that he likes when I ask about her, even though it always ends this way. That he finds comfort in the fact that I still think of her.

My grief has changed over the years from a selfish young girl's want to have another sister to play with, to a mother's empathy and compassion. My grief now is just as much for the loss of my sister as it is an overwhelming heartache for the loss of my parents' daughter and the loss of any chance of a normal life for them.

There are some things that I think you can't fully understand and appreciate about parenting until you become one yourself... and then there are some things, awful things like this, that become so much harder to grasp when you finally have that insider knowledge.

I cannot fathom how hard it must have been for my parents when Jo-Anne went in to heart failure when I was three days old. How difficult it would have been to leave their newborn to focus on their fragile second born and take her overseas for life saving surgery. How earth shattering it was for them to watch her die on the plane ride there and bring her home in a goddamn box in the cargo hold instead of safe in their arms.

My mind cannot cope with the thought of that much pain and suffering.

So tonight, I hug Tricky a little closer and a little longer than usual. I look past the screaming, tantrum filled evening of a child exerting his independence and testing boundaries, and take solace in this amazing gift that is a healthy, happy child, knowing full well that there are some people who would give anything, truly anything, to experience this frustration.

A very rare photo of Jo-Anne, me and Aunty Penny on my
Christening day, a week before Jo-Jo passed away
(cropped to remove people who don't wish to be blogged about)

5 Things Emo Blogging Has Taught Me

I'm getting kinda bogged down in the emo posts lately... every day I write them, and (almost) every day I relegate it to my drafts folder and flick up a recipe or a pointless vlog to keep the happy happy shiney going.

I choose to fake it til I make it... and will continue to do so until I'm either happy or in a straight jacket. So what have my more emo posts taught me???

1. That Michael Jackson was right when he sung "You are not alone" (I am here with yoooou, though we're far apaaaaaart, you're always in my heaaaaaaart). There is always someone in the same boat as you, experiencing something similar and together you can bitch and moan and not feel so isolated, particularly if you're a SAHM and don't get out much.

2. That when you go totally emo and write all about all the deep, dark, festery secrets inside, your stats will go crazy. Just like rubber neckers passing a car crash, people can't help but have a look... but it's not because they're just masochists (well, some are), it's because people can relate to it and are drawn to it.

3. That when you turn comments off in an effort to not look like you're a comment whore phishing for compliments or reassurance that people will find another way to connect with you. Your twitter feed will explode and you'll get texts and emails pouring in that you want to run away from because you can't handle people being so nice. But then you stop and think how amazing it is that people, some you've never met, care enough to offer support.

4. That whilst writing it out is cathartic, pressing publish is terrifying. You'll wonder if it was the right thing to as you realize that your immediate family, inlaws, friends and old school pals and that PR person you gave your business card to in an effort to get them to notice your blog, now know everything.

5. That it all blows over within a few days and people forget. The next person has their crisis or triumph and the blogosphere moves on to them and takes the (self-inflicted) heat off of you... at which point you'll watch your stats drop back to normal and think "You only love me for my drama, you bastards!"

Do you emo blog? What has it taught you?

I hate

I hate that I ruined an otherwise perfect day

I hate that something that seemed so small and insignificant was, in fact, a major trigger and set me spiraling out of control

I hate that you saw past the facade and met the real, twisted me; the me I have worked tirelessly to keep hidden

I hate that I couldn't control my breathing, let alone my thoughts, and wanted to run out in to traffic to make it all stop

I hate that, in that very moment, it was the only way I could see out, so clouded was my head with white noise, fear and pain that being alive was pure agony

I hate that I was so afraid to ask for help from the person who understands me and can, within a few moments, direct me to safety, that I didn't call her, didn't text her, just sent her a DM on Twitter that I knew she might not get, so terrified I was of inconveniencing her

I hate that afterwards I found out she'd had a shit of a day and I felt even worse for asking for help

I hate that I see things so black and white while you see things in wonderful shades of grey and brilliant colour that I can only dream of

I hate that you had a glimpse in to my mind and how it works, how fucked up it really is

I hate that you saw how quickly I go from seemingly normal to psychotic and in need of urgent care when faced with a triggering situation

I hate that you saw me at my most vulnerable, slumped on the pavement, my body heaving with sobs and guttural moans, looking anything but Glowing

But most of all, I hate that you told me to snap out of it and stop crying

I hate that when I tried to explain, you said I just wanted to be molly coddled when what I needed was validation and a chance to calm down in a safe environment

I hate that when I begged and pleaded with you to stop saying it you ignored me and said I needed to hear it


That is more painful than anything else

Holiday Home Hell

Map Guy decided he wanted to stay in a beach shack for a week for his birthday. A week away from the world where my main decision was beach or nap? Hrmmm, lemme think. Hells yes!

A bloke at his work rents out his house in Jurien Bay, about two hours north of Perth. A holiday house where you have to bring your own linen and food but cutlery and crockery is provided. I can manage that.

The problems started as soon as we arrived today. We’d asked if we could take our dog and the bloke said sure thing. Now I don’t know about you, but when someone says that yes, the property allows dogs, it does tend to make me think that the property is actually suitable for dogs.

Nup.

We get here to find there is no fucking fence. Are you kidding me? We can bring our dog but you have a giant open yard. Gee, thanks for letting us know.

A quick trip to the hardware store for bright orange plastic fencing and yellow star pickets and now the house looks like a cross between a danger zone and roadworks. All I need is for the bloke next door to lean on the fence with a smoke and a stop go lollipop and you could hardly tell the difference.

So we grab our stuff and head on inside to find, even after a day of cleaning (my inlaws got there the day before) the place is utterly repulsive. Um, I thought this was a holiday house?? Apparently we’re the first people to use it as such – it’s normally a place where they stay when they come up on fishing weekends. A bunch of blokes + fishing + beer = vomitus.

I cannot describe how disgusting this place is… it is covered in mouse poo. On the floor, on the beds, all through the shower, all over the plates, pots, pans and cutlery. Even after a day of being aired out, it stinks like mouse wee – I didn’t even know what mouse wee smelled like until today! The grime on the floor is so thick that you must wear your shoes at all times – you could try to clean it – we did – but there is no point. Years of neglect mean the filth is practically stuck down. I have visions of CSI people coming here and finding all sorts of nasty shit.

Window sill in our bedroom - that's all mouse shit

Shitty cutlery... literally

I opened the oven door and quickly closed it. I’m pretty sure there is something living in there. There is a lot of fur, so maybe it’s a rogue possum? I’d guess it’s a mid 90s model and I don’t think it’s ever been cleaned. How am I meant to cook this week? The whole point of getting a holiday house rather than a hotel was because it would be a home away from home.

The white stuff is all furry - so maybe an albino rogue possum

And now, that night has fallen? There are flying bugs and cockroaches coming out of every nook.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Not the Hilton, but at least something that doesn’t leave your feet black after walking across the room. Something where I don’t feel the need to dip my entire body in bleach after being inside for 10 minutes. Something that, oh, I dunno, isn’t a biological fucking hazard.

Luckily some loser left these behind they have "provided" these

I just want to cry. But, seeing as my inlaws are sitting right next to me, and I will no doubt hyperventilate if I break the flood gates, I will keep it together and instead scull my wine. Because we all know that being shit faced is way classier than red nosed, snotty, ugly crying.

At this point I’m not really sure what is going to happen. A beautiful, generous friend, who’s family also has a house up here has offered it to us, free of charge, to save our little holiday - I just have to convince the others, who are quite used to camping and roughing it, that we need to leave. I’m overwhelmed by the generosity of my friend, who even started a #saveglowsholiday hash tag… but tonight? Tonight I have to put my sheets on the crusty mouse poo mattress and cry in to my pillow.

To be continued… unless the mice eat me in the middle of the night.

Dear Glowless

Dear Glowless,

Happy Valentine's Day!

A little bird told me (no, not Twitter, though it could've been, you're on there so much) that you're feeling a bit down at the moment so I just wanted to tell you that you are amazing. Awesome, even.

You don't believe me, I know. But it's true.

I'm so proud of you for going out and enrolling in the cake decorating course you've been eyeing off for over ten years. You finally took the first step and I know it took a lot of guts because you're so afraid to fail. You're petrified the gorgeous creations in your head won't be interpreted by your hands and the finished result will look lame... and that people will think less of you.

But you know what? Even if it's not perfect, it'll be great. Because you tried when you didn't know what the result would be, and for you, that's a big thing. HUGE.

And that's what I love about you... well, about me. Because if you haven't guessed, we're the same person. Confused yet? Yeah me too. I love that even when you are so afraid and so anxious you can barely breathe, that you'll push through and do it anyway to try and get yourself out of a slump.

So, Miss Glowless, when you're unsure of the path ahead, take small steps, one foot in front of the other, and feel your way... fuck knows you can't even see where you're going right now so it's the only way to get there. And you will get there.

Go gently,

Love Glow xxx

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