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?

The police knocked on my door...

Image via Creative Commons Rusty Stewart

... and I freaked out.

What makes it worse though is that I wasn't even home at the time. They left a business card in my door with a phone number to call.

I saw that little blue and white logo tucked in to my security door and started to panic slightly. Pathetic.

But wait, there's more. Yes, it gets even lamer: It wasn't even my name on the business card! It was some dude called Charles they were looking for. That's not his real name, I just didn't want to upset a man who might be a baddie by blogging about him.

Nevertheless, I was still anxious.

I immediately think I'm in trouble despite being a generally law abiding citizen (except for that time I went straight ahead from the turning lane and got a fucking $300 fine!).

I don't know if it is a left over Catholic guilt thing, a fear of authority, or just plain craziness, but I become tense any time I go through a speed camera, drive near a police car, have to call the po' po' or, as we've now established, get one of their business cards in my door. 

I rang the number provided and spoke to the detectives from the Major Crime Squad to learn they were investigating a homicide and they want to ask this dude Charlie some questions. Gulp. My address is his last known address. Double GULP.

They might want to talk to him as a witness, but straight away I think A MAN WHO LIVED HERE MURDERED SOMEONE. The police will want to search my house and yard. They'll find remnants from the dog's bone snacks and look at me all suspicious like. 

Then my head said: OMG WHAT IF THERE IS A BODY BURIED IN THE BACKYARD?!?! 

Because my brain is stupid. 

They'll shine a torch in my eyes and ask me where I was on the 5th of January ten years ago and I'll be all "I don't even know where I was last Tuesday, how am I meant to remember ten years?!" Then I'll do a nervous laugh and they'll be "why are you nervous?" and I'll say BECAUSE YOU'RE THE POLICE!!!!!!!!!!!

It makes sense. One of my dearest friends is a Detective. She was my bridesmaid! I'm not scared of her... much. 

Fuck, it's exhausting being me. 

Do you freak out for no reason a bit when you see police?

33: The year of ME

I have a love hate relationship with the number three.

I bet you didn't even know you could have a love hate relationship with a number, but you totally can.

Three is my favourite number. I pick it, and variations of it, whenever I have to choose a number. 333 would be the ultimate, but any number with a 3 in it is preferable over one without. If I'm in a pinch (ie. some bastard has taken all the tickets with a 3) then I'll pick 9 because MATHS. Hell, even my name kinda sounds like three in Italian.

But at times I loathe the number three because whenever I get anxious (usually on days that end in Y), my self soothing routine is to count in very specific patterns of three, usually by moving my fingers. Ohai, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. It's pretty discreet, most people don't notice and those that do just think I'm fidgety or maybe have an itch. 

1

12

123

123

12

1

123

12

1

1

12

123

123

12

1

1

12

123

1

12

123

123

12

1

That's my pattern. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. Typing it out makes it seem bizarre, and it is, really. 

I'm about to turn 33. Because two threes are better than one, I figure it's a good time to focus on myself in this year of the fave digits. I'd wait until I grabbed the trifecta 333, but alas, I don't think I'll last that long. 

So, the next twelve months I'm going to focus on me, or more specifically, my health and my goals. Why am I telling you this? Well, I have zero willpower and am highly distractable (oooh look, something shiny) so I'm hoping that having this here will give me a sense of accountability. I can let myself down over and over again but no one knows; if I put it out there publicly and say this is what I'm going to do, and then I don't? Well, I'd feel like a bit of a dick. Hooray for internet shame.  

My goals for the next twelve months:

Become more organized and procrastinate less - yeah, starting off with some that aren't really quantifiable, but meh. It could be summarized by: get off Facebook and DO SHIT!

Exercise three times a week - the shitty thing about chronic pain is that it makes it hard to exercise because PAIN. Yet exercise is meant to be the bestest thing ever to decrease the pain so I just gotta stop making excuses. I'm not talking about pushing through the pain to a point where I end up immobile, just consistent gentle exercise. Oh god I sound old. 

Focus on health - mental and physical. My pap smear was due last month and I still haven't made the appointment; I've been wanting to get advice on changing medications for aaaages and I still haven't made the appointment. It's the same story over and over again because it just hasn't been a priority. That has to change. That will change.

Don't eat in secret - I am a huge binge eater and it is the reason I have put on so much weight in the last year. It is totally embarrassing to admit, but I go through drive through and gorge myself if I'm alone. This year with Tricky at school and Bobbin being asleep half the time we're in the car it became so much more frequent. Tricky will be at school full time next year and the rhythmic rocking can still lull Bobbin to sleep sometimes so it will be hard, but it has to stop. Both my health and my wallet are suffering from this one. 

Blog more - I have taken the "slow blogger" approach out of necessity the past twelve months, but I want to get back to it. Consciously pulling back was what was needed at the time, and it's almost like it is a habit now to not blog whereas before I would think "I'm blogging the shit out of this" whenever I did anything. I'm out of practice!

Volunteer - I used to volunteer for Look Good, Feel Better but I stopped when Tricky was born. I loved doing it. It is such an everybody wins situation. It's hard to organize babysitting for little ones, but now that Bobbin can go for hours between breastfeeds, it will be easier to have her looked after by someone else. 

I'm sure there are more things. But I got distracted by making a crappy button. See? Procrastination Queen.

I won't wait until my birthday to kick this off, because why delay? 

How do you make yourself accountable?

Where's Where's My Glow??

I have a pet hate in the blogosphere. It almost trumps undisclosed sponsored content and a lack of spell check. Almost. It's when Bloggers go away for a bit for whatever reason and then apologize for being away.

What are you apologizing for? Having a life? For having multiple interests and responsibilities? Tell me what you've been doing, I'm interested, but if you start it off with a sorry my first reaction is to roll my eyes.

So. I've been away for a while. Not sorry. Just busy.

I'm not busy doing. I'm busy being. And right now, it is exactly what I need to be doing. Err, being. Whatever. Confused yet? I am.

I'm focusing on having two kids, which, suprise, surprise, takes up more time than I imagined now that both are mobile. I had visions of doing a quick tidy up when Bobbin sleeps, or popping on a load of nappies. HA! That's Tricky time. Or me time. Or buy bread time.We've all been struggling to adjust to the different amounts of attention being received and everything else comes second to family. Everything.

My mood continues to lift. I catch myself singing and noticing a beautiful flower or gorgeous weather. It's been a long time since I've wanted to crank up the stereo and dance along, and I find myself doing it a few times a week now. Perhaps it is the reason behind Tricky saying he would prefer they sung Macklemore at kindy instead of Incy Wincy.

My anxiety is still an issue and all my OCD tendencies are coming back with some new ones thrown in for shits and giggles (hello, CLEANING AT MIDNIGHT). I've never been anxious without being low so this is new territory for me. Sometimes I scream at my head "YOU'RE HAPPY, YOUR LIFE IS PERFECT, WHY ARE YOU STILL TERRIFIED?" And it replies "Dude, you know you're talking to yourself right now, yeah?". Good point, mind, let's pretend this never happened.

A friend who noticed I hadn't been blogging asked how I expected my blog to expand if I wasn't "doing" any more. I haven't tried to expand this blog for a couple years now; I like to plod along without a specific purpose other than oversharing and recording memories I can embarrass my children with at their 21st birthday parties. It's not an unmanageable empire, it's not a full time job, it's a hobby, and a bloody fun one at that.

But, just being feels pretty damn awesome right now. And if I keep doing it, remember to actually take my meds, and keep going to therapy (oh therapy, I love you), then I think this being thing will do me good.

Are you a do-er or a be-er?

The Quiet Blogger and the Anxious Social Butterfly

The quiet blogger? Well that seems like a bit of an oxymoron. Can quiet and blogger even be used in the same sentence without setting in to motion a sad, slow, social media death? Let's see, shall we?

I'm quiet right now in my online space. I'm scribbling drafts but not hitting publish. I'm uploading a few pictures and statuses to Facebook but I've practically forgotten what Twitter is. And I don't apologize.

I took on "slow blogging" when Bobbin was born because PRIORITIES. But that word could very easily be swapped out for renovations, stress, PND, anxiety, life and even meh sometimes. But if I say priorities it makes me look better.

I do miss this little community, though. I miss the purging of thoughts. And I miss reading the anecdotes you share.

As an extrovert, I need to be around people and usually, whenever I'm feeling depressed or anxious I retreat in to a shell, let the real world go by without me and tuck myself in to this virtual space where it is safe and warm and there is Buzzfeed. I always feel worse but the effort to actually get out there and do something about it has seemed too great. Plus, ya know, Buzzfeed.

This time though, getting out and being with people is almost at the top of my priority list because the knock on effect is beneficial for all of us, though perhaps not for my waist line. Coffee date, anyone? So I find myself with play dates, morning teas, girls nights and meetings coming out my ears. And I'm loving it. I'm anxious as all hell, with nails bitten down to the nubs, but a full social calendar. The anxious and socially awkward social butterfly. Who knew?!

With the added OMG PEOPLE WILL JUDGE ME that comes with going out (yes, even with my friends because I'm loopy and lacking confidence and LOVE ME, DAMMIT!), and staying "in character" (read: in clothes that aren't jimjams) for so many hours a day, by the time I come home I am utterly exhausted, both physically and mentally.

When I finish putting the kids to bed, organizing the next days activities and have a shower, I'm so far past knackered that I have sore, swollen feet that I swear are just one hot day away from being cankles. On the few nights I feel like I have an iota of energy left, my old friend OCD gatecrashes my party and I must clean ALL TEH THINGS.

So this corner of the Blogosphere is quiet as my priorities shift and my life settles. And that is OK. A few years ago the lack of a new post would have had me sweating, but now, it feels good. It feels right to step back a little. I'm still here, just breathing, getting my shit together and trying to be a better person.

The internal monologue of the anxious chick at the PR event

This is a C2 post

For full details please see my disclosure policy

Last week I went an awesome PR event. A cake decorating class (with no obligation to blog, I might add) to help celebrate Appliances Online’s 8th birthday and help spread the word about their cake decorating competition (you decorate an appliance themed cake and hashtag it #AOLbirthday to win awesome appliances – ends this week so spit spot).

Now we all know I’m fond of appliances. When this renovation malarkey is finished I will have an entire cupboard space dedicated to them. It will be like a shrine and I will worship at the alter of convenient and fast food preparation. So I said yes. Then the whole “OMG I HAVE TO INTERACT WITH PEOPLE WHEN I FEEL LIKE CRAP” thing hit me and I wondered why the hell I was doing it.

Cake. Cake is why I was doing it.

So here’s how it went…

8:15am OK. Nappy bag? Check. Phone? Check. Child looking adorable in cutest outfit? Check. Go, go, go. Do NOT be late. Everyone will stare at you and think you’re rude. I repeat, do NOT be late. If you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re late. Don’t forget to pick up Georgia.

8:45am Sweet, Georgia is on time. Could not handle being late. Oh wow, she has a present for Bobbin. I feel bad. I don’t have anything for her. I didn’t get her anything when her kids were born. I didn’t know her when her kids were born but that is beside the point. Set GPS and drive. Do NOT be late.

9:30am Where the fuck am I? This is a house, not a cake shop. I followed the GPS and it has taken me to the wrong spot. OH SHIT. It autocorrected the address. We’ve come 20 minutes out of our way. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiit! I’m the biggest dickhead in the world. Who doesn’t check the address? What moron named two streets so similar? If I find him I’m gonna smack him upside the head. Fuuuuuck It’s OK. It’s OK. Go now and you will still be on time. WHY THE FUCK IS THERE A TRUCK DRIVING SO SLOW IN FRONT OF US?!

9:40am Bobbin please stop crying. Is it drive slow in front of Glow day? FECK!

9:45am Bobbin pleeeeeeaaaaase stop crying.

9:50am OK. Baby has milk. Baby is more important than being on time. People will understand, surely. When the kid is hungry, you have to feed it. They’ll understand. Should I tweet them?

10:01am YOU’RE LATE!!!!!!!!!! Go home. Just go. Drop Georgia and go. Pick her up after. Make an excuse. Oh god I’m so dizzy.

10:05am OK, they haven’t started. It will be OK. Who are these people? Repeat their names so you don’t forget. Woo, Bobbin is best buffer ever. Yes, let’s all talk about the baby.

10:10am Walk out, the baby is crying. People don’t like crying babies. Boob. Yes, boob. Boob fixes everything. Go back in. Oh shit, what did I miss? Who is that talking? I shouldn’t have come. I wonder if I should take a tablet to calm down? Oh they have free delivery. Cool.

10:30am Everyone is being nice. This could work. Stay with Georgia. Stay with Georgia. Stay with Georgia. Smile. Nod. Smile more. Talk. ACT NATURAL.

10:35am Baby smells, excuse yourself. Oh bloody hell, it’s leaked on to her clothes!!! Wardrobe malfunction!!! ABORT!!! ABORT!!! Will they notice she’s changed outfit? They’ll all know it went everywhere. Oh shit, is it on my clothes?!

10:40am I don’t think they noticed. PHEW! Do some of the cake thing. You came for cake. Do it. It looks like you’re not having fun. Talk to people. Smile. Laugh.

11:00am You’ve done cake decorating, why are you not getting in there and doing it? Baby is no excuse, she’s in the hugabub, she’s fine. Take a photo. Put it on Instagram.

11:30am Is it rude to just offload my kid on to these people? They keep offering. They seem to really want to cuddle her. Do it. Oh, she likes them. Look at her smile. Wow, I love her smile. Happiest baby ever.

11:40am Make a Santa? I can do that! You’ve done this before, all is well. Oh baby stinks again. Wow, the staff are so nice, I’m so glad I made a point to remember her name… shit. What’s her name?

11:50am It’s OK to breastfeed in a commercial kitchen, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. Of course it is. Just do it. Excellent. Sit back and relax for a bit. No, keep doing the Santa. Everyone will think it sucks. Try harder. Wait, don’t try so hard, you look like a… try hard. Smile. Make a joke.

12:00pm So tired. Don’t let anyone see you yawn, they’ll think you’re bored. Being “on” is exhausting.

12:20pm Sweet jesus I get to take home an appliance? Duuude! I was coming for cake! Awesome.

12:30pm Talk to camera or you look like a selfish bitch. I bet I look ugly and fat on that video. Say thank you. Say it again. Once more, for good measure. Thank the other girl. Oh crap what was her name again? They are such lovely people.

12:40pm Get in the car. Don’t hit the pole while everyone is watching. Go, drive. Oh shit, wrong way. Um, fuck. Where am I? Fuckity, fuck. Oh god. It’s coming. The panic is coming. Stop moving your hands like that. Calm down. It’s not safe to drive when you’re like this, you need to calm the fuck down NOW. YOU’RE AN EMBARASSMENT! Apologize to Georgia. Profusely. She’ll never want to come out with you again now for sure. Shit. Stop apologizing now, you sound like a tool.

1:00pm OK. Blood pressure returning to normal. You can do this. Georgia is so nice. It’s awesome to have fun friends.

1:30pm You’re alone now. You did OK. Hopefully they didn’t notice you were ready to snap. Maybe they think you’re just aloof and not a total bitch. You can let go of that fart now.

Anxiety is exhausting. I needed a two hour nap when I got home to recover. These meds better kick in quick.

Do you freak out?

So close and yet so far

I did it. I cracked the shits and moved out of the dustbowl. We're now living with my parents five minutes down the round.

I'm pretty sure my mum and dad's neighbours think I've left Map Guy. They saw me single handedly (MG was at work) hauling a couple of suitcases, kids, a still limping dog, a scooter and a computer in to the house, with tears threatening to roll down my face at any moment. Because the crazy is just under the surface right now and it bubbles up to the top for all to see a couple of times a day.

We are so close to being finished with the dusty, dirty side of the renos - quite possibly only a week or two left - but I just couldn't handle it any longer. Walking around with all our belongings piled up in corners, feeling grit under foot and seeing a fresh layer of dust over everything at the end of each day despite drop sheets and high powered professional vacuums to reduce it all.

Brick dust gets fucking everywhere. I think I hate it more than the sand and that is really saying something. At least with sand I can sweep or vacuum it up myself - this shit needs a professional vacuum or it explodes the motor. I don't even want to think about what it is doing to my kids' lungs if it can fuck up German engineering.

The other day our only livable space outside of the master bedroom became off limits as a new wall went up. Tricky's bed, which had been a mattress on the floor by night, then up against the wall by day so there was at least some room to move, now doesn't fit in the space. What will be the play room is currently looking like an op shop with all the furniture crammed in there. I was climbing over a coffee table and tripping over a block trolley to get the kids clothes every morning. And when you're as anxious as I am right now, it doesn't make for the best start to the day. Plus it smells like cement and is covered in bloody brick dust.

Dusty and old (with blue rectangle of doom)

But amongst the woe is me attitude there is always time to stop and think of those less fortunate. Like the people who lived there when that wall was blue. We moved the aircon unit the other day and the thought on everyone's mind was who the hell chose that blue? Oh right, probably my dad. 

So we really had no choice but to leave for this last part. Because dust and a rectangle of horrid blue means the place isn't fit for human habitation right now.

Instead of living in grime we've chosen the lesser of two evils and are now living out of suitcases. And even though it is my parents house and I can help myself to food, have my kids looked after and even get my washing done if I want (and I do want), I still can't relax. I'm itching to get home even though when we get there it will still need painting, a floor and furniture. But at least I'll be able to walk around in my undies if I want (and I do want), without worrying that the neighbours are going to see me.

Shiny and new!

It's the biggest first world problem around, but bloody hell, I'm really struggling with all of this. The bookies wouldn't take your bet on whether I'll end up in the loony bin because it is almost a sure thing. But whilst in said loony bin you can bet I'd be wagging therapy to check out Pinterest to figure out how to decorate my new lounge room. Because PRIORITIES.

I'm clicking my heels together and chanting that there's no place like home but so far all that has happened is that my shoes are showing signs of wear and I'm tripping over my own feet (related: must buy new shoes). I'm hoping that taking a step away these last few weeks will stop me tipping completely over the edge. Now if only Tricky would stop being so sad that we're not seeing our builders daily.

To sleep, perchance to... fuck it, just sleep will be fine

CC: Stevie.Gill

I've never been a good sleeper. Insomnia has been a rather constant and unwelcome bedfellow of mine. It has plagued me since my teenage years and until relatively recently I was getting about five hours of interrupted sleep a night. Interrupted because a certain toddler likes calling out then crawling in to our bed for cuddles then kicking me in the back until 6am when "Mum you wanna play cars?" is whispered in to my ear.

I do love his early morning enthusiasm, but I would love it a whole lot more after 8am.

For the past two weeks I've only been getting, on average, two to three hours sleep a night. No sleep makes Glow go something something, get out old typewriters, sit in giant unoccupied hotels talking to ghosts and write crappy blog posts.

The problem is that my brain will just not switch off. It takes hours for me to wind down and any minor disturbance like a dog barking, Tricky crying out mid-dream, a thump or kick from Bobbin, or my teeny tiny pregnant woman bladder making itself known and the whole process starts again from the beginning meaning some nights I don't actually end up falling asleep at all before it is time to get up and start the day. Those days are chock full of iParenting and Vegemite sandwiches.

It has gotten so bad that last week I fell asleep at the wheel momentarily on the way home from Pilates and a few nights later, as I lay in bed attempting to meditate, I started hallucinating. The whole room was filled with flashing white, red and orange lights as if hundreds of cars were passing by... on our dead end street that gets zero traffic. Well, either I was hallucinating or I was having my very own Close Encounters experience. Insert iconic five note melody and Richard Dreyfuss reference here. Actually, come to think of it, my mash potato did look kinda like a mountain last night...

I can't concentrate, my mood is slipping fast, the anxiety has come galloping in and I'm quick(er) to snap. All in all, I'm bloody fabulous to be around right now. Add the bags under the eyes and constant wide mouth yawning and I'm totally hot, too.

I've got appointments with my midwives and GP coming up this week and next but until then I'm running out of ideas that don't involve being smacked in the head with a bat (apparently concussion and sleep aren't the same thing. Who knew?!). I'm starting to worry because what the hell am I meant to do once I give birth? I have visions of falling asleep breastfeeding and crushing Bobbin with my massive boobs - the though of which, surprise surprise, KEEPS ME AWAKE AT NIGHT! 

So tell me, are you a fellow insomniac? Got a miracle cure for me? Or should I expect the little green men to be making more regular appearances in my boudoir from now on?

How to handle a toddler tantrum - a pictorial tutorial

Some days, I stand with my chest puffed out and survey my surroundings thinking maaan I'm good at this parenting gig and that I deserve a freakin medal. Actually scratch that, I don't want a medal, I'll just have a sleep in.

And other days, I stand with my shoulders slumped and peer out from behind my hair thinking maaan I suck at this parenting thing. I get angry and frustrated at all the goddamn crumbs on the floor, I spend too much time telling Tricky "just one more minute" when I'm tweeting working and not doing housework. Dishes go undone and the piles of clean washing on my floordrobe are getting so high that I've started telling visitors it's actually a work of modern art meant to make a statement about consumerism. Strangely, no one believes me.

But I digress.

It is always on these days that Tricky throws a tantrum. Something about him picking up my anxious vibes, I'm told. I think it's that and a little helping of Murphy's law. Murphy is a fuckwit. If I ever meet him I'm going to knee him in the nuts. 

So, since I'm obviously mediocre at this parenting caper I thought I'd selflessly share what I've learned about toddler tantrums and how to de-stress after them, in picture form. You're welcome.

Sometimes your child will crack the shits for no good reason:

They may give you attitude when you serve them nutritious, organic food that you've made from scratch:

Or maybe they've decided to not eat your food at all and just pull faces at you:

They'll throw themselves on the floor, kicking and screaming so loud that people in neighbouring suburbs will wander outside expecting to find a cat being strangled on their doorstep. A toddler's ear piercing screams carry. Very well.

In all of these cases, you may very well become ultra stabby and look like this:

Because that mongrel Murphy is still around you will see someone you know as you give your tantruming devil-spawn the evil eye and threaten them with no food/toy/TV if they don't stop being silly and quit embarrassing you (because it's ALL about YOU). Now if parenting forums are anything to go by, all mothers are complete bitches who talk behind their friends' backs so this little tid bit of information will go around, probably on Facebook, until the whole world knows YOU ARE A BAD MOTHER WHO CAN'T CONTROL HER FERAL CHILD.

So in order to avoid (another) complete mental breakdown, now that the world's been told you're not SuperMum, the best way to chill out is to ensure you have a few key tools on hand at all times.

Alcohol. This is for you, not the child. I would consider giving it to the child like they used to do, but that would mean less for me and I do not share my wine. I recommend a hip flask so you can have some on hand at all times.

A bath tub to soak in, with optional candles and smelly, bubbly stuff too. Hard to carry around in your pocket, I know, but I've found those clam shell sand/water pits work almost as well. Pour in some bubbly stuff then simply drop your toddler in while they're tantruming and they will thrash around so much and agitate the water enough to foam up the bath. When the desired amount of bubbles are reached, handball the child to the nearest grandparent and jump in.

If all else fails or there is a distinct lack of alcohol and bubble baths, grab a dummy and sulk on Twitter where everyone else will tell you their parenting fails so you don't feel so bad.

Now that you're sufficiently whingey, pruney and tipsy, go to bed. Remember that tomorrow, when you wake up, it's a whole new day and it might just be fabulous.

How do you de-stress after a toddler tantrum?

The little things

Oh look! It's a non-emo post! Hooray!

I try to see the good in life. I really do.

But when the black cloud of mental illness is hanging low, threatening to not just rain but to unleash a vicious cyclone, it can be hard to see anything but the negative. WAIT! Don't click away, I said this wasn't another fucking emo post and I will keep my word... trust me.

Short of singing "Ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive" and wanting to stab my own eardrums out with a skewer, I try to catch myself in the moment and find something, anything, that is good. Call it mindfulness, call it finding the silver lining, call it clutching at the last fragile straws of sanity. Or call it a telepathic parakeet with a mohawk, I don't care, it's your brain, I won't judge.

Whatever you want to call it, it's about not getting so bogged down in your own head. I fail at it 90% of the time, but the other 10% is great. No, really.

The little things matter sometimes. Some of them will elicit a beaming (gummy) smile, others just a slight turning up of the corners of the mouth. But no matter what, it's catching those moments that make the black seem like it won't last forever.

My most recent little things:

• Going to the shopping centre and getting a parking spot undercover, and then getting a trolley that has all four wheels willing to travel in the same direction at the same time
• Finding $20 in a coat pocket from last winter... and the coat still fits
• Finding paper towels that fit my paper towel holder so that I don't have to rip out the centre and try to stuff it all down again
• Tricky coming up and giving me a kiss and a hug for no reason
• Making up a recipe and finding that it just works so well
• Running in to a friend at the shops I've been thinking about... and actually look nice for once with washed hair and non-stained clothing that I don't feel I have to try and hide behind the fresh produce
• Checking my bank balance and seeing that there is more money in there than I thought
• Map Guy bringing home chocolate for me that he was given at a conference, that he has had in his bag all day, not eating, because he thought I'd enjoy it more than him
• A perfectly timed, witty comeback
• Getting a funny text from a good friend, late at night, when we're the only two people still awake
• A simple, cheap and cheerful dinner out at the boat harbour at sunset with my family 

Sometimes, the little things are all you have. So we have to cherish them.

What are your little things?

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

The Vlog About Nothing

Kinda like Seinfeld, but, you know, not at all.

The Perfect Mother: The Perfect Fraud

I went to my friend's funeral yesterday. She was 29. But I can't say it without thinking twenty-fucking-nine. I'm 29. A beautiful, bright light has gone out and  my head is all over the place so forgive my emo rambles.

You know, I've never been a fan of posts that are scarily similar to what someone else has written. It's happened to me too often to believe it's just some cosmic coincidence that words I've written or images I have created just pop up elsewhere ever so slightly tweaked. Not actually plagiarism but just a half a baby step away.

And then I read part of a post that looks so much like something I have written. Contains almost an identical sentence... but I have not yet published it... and I freak out a bit. Can I now not say what I was going to say? Will they think I've copied them? If the shoe was on the other foot I would think that. So I scrapped it and I'm just going to start again, referencing Her Edenness because she said it first. Bitch.

I read New Eyes at Edenland the other day and it smacked me hard in the face. So hard I felt that tingle before the pain registers. Is it strange that I can physically feel words? I wonder if anyone else can? I've never asked.

There were, of course, major differences between what Eden wrote in her first few lines and what I had sitting here, unpublished, lurking behind the scenes. For starters she can actually write whereas I just blog. But self depreciation aside, that reconnecting she spoke about, without even knowing she was missing. Yeah that.

I knew I wasn't being a great mother to Tricky. I knew I was distant and just not fully present the way I should have been. You wouldn't have seen it, though. I still did everything I was meant to do... and I did it so bloody well that it didn't just fool you, it fooled me too. Now that I'm coming back though, I can see that I was so much farther away than I thought.

I was the perfect mother; babywearing, breastfeeding, homecooking, reading, singing, teaching. I was the perfect fraud.

When he would cry I would pick him up, cuddle him and say it would all be OK but on the inside, more often than not, I was screaming "FUCKING SHUT UP! I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE!" And no one would have ever guessed. Not Map Guy (who knew, but didn't know just how deep it went). Not even Tricky who would still smile at me with bright, loving eyes.

When you keep everything on the inside, with Oscar-worthy acting, no one knows. No one knows you don't want to be there. That you don't want to spend time with your child. That you immerse yourself in social media in an effort to distract yourself from how much you truly despise yourself and your inability to connect with your son.

I was so far from being a 'good' mother that I didn't even quite make mediocre... and I can only see that now as the veil of anxiety lifts thanks to going back on medication.

I feel terrible for not having really been there for him. I tried many times in the proceeding months to go back on medication but the crippling anxiety stopped me from picking up the phone and making the appointment. Even now, I've not been back for my follow up... I cannot make the call. Not yet. Ahh irony, you are a bitch.

It rips my heart apart that I really don't know how long I've subjected him to such pathetic parenting... in a haze of sleep deprivation (we had a few months of sleeping through but not any more) this is all I remember. But it couldn't have been long... could it? How many months? Was I ever there? I just don't know. I am so used to pretending that the lines of reality have blurred.

We're connecting now, though. He seems the same but my smiles are genuine now. My patience is real and without sighs. My cuddles, once obligatory are now fierce and protective and I try to hold them longer until he squirms to go and do more important things like play blocks. I'm no longer just going through the motions. I want to be with him so much that I've been sneaking in to watch him sleep. I'm not feeling fantastic, but I'm feeling. And that has to be a good thing.

Comments are off for this emo post. Sorry.

R U OK? R U On Time?

This morning I was meant to attend the Perth R U OK? Day event at Gloria Jeans and live blog it, but there was a slight problem (other than me not prepared to share the ins and outs of my own story)...

According to the event invite I was sent, the whole thing was starting at 6:30am and there was buckley's chance I was going to get there that early so I checked if it would be OK if I could get there around 8:30-9:00am. Yes that's fine, they said, but could you please be available til it ends? No problems. Let's rock and roll.

It took me a whole hour to get there so I was ten minutes later than I expected. Being late is one of my major fears. I pride myself on being reliable and on time, so if I'm late for anything (including flights) I freak out. I walked in to find the dregs of a crowd milling round and having a chat. It was all over. Panic stations.

I walked up to the roped off area and was looked up and down by the manager. I smiled nervously. She completely ignored me and continued talking to who ever it was that was standing next to her. I asked if I could please get through and she looked at me like I was just there to try and score a free coffee, and took a half step to the side so I could squeeze through.

The few people left were chatting in their own little groups so I stood there alone feeling like a third wheel. I started having a bit of a panic attack. People with R U OK? Day shirts looked at me and with my body language and face saying "help me", they quickly looked away. Did I have something on my face? Was there spinach in my teeth or something?

Standing there, very obviously not OK at an R U OK? Day event and no one gave a shit, too consumed in their own conversations. The irony is not lost on me.

Only one person came up to me - Will, a Gloria Jeans employee. He asked if he could help me and after telling him I was late and I'd missed it he asked if I'd like a drink. I considered asking for vodka but settled on a hot chocolate which he went and got for me. One bloody person spoke to me because they were being paid to.

I was really aware that I'd said I would be there and blog it and that I was letting people down. So I sat down, drank my hot chocolate while blinking away my tears (sending texts to Map Guy telling him what was happening) and calmed myself down before asking a volunteer why it was over so early. She said that it was always going to be 8:00-9:00am. Right.

So why was I told turning up at 9:00-11:00am would be fine? I was no longer sad... I was angry. I organized a babysitter and drove for an hour to do this. All for nothing.

I decided to get proof that I'd at least gone so I had a paparazzi moment and a quick chat with Hockeyroo Rachael Lynch who was lovely and not only knew what a blog was but has one herself and asked what I blogged about.

Rachael Lynch looking gorgeous and me with puffy eyes from nearly crying

I looked around and everyone was packing up so I saw no point in staying around any longer so I left. I'd been there fifteen minutes. So much for an 11:00am finish.

Overall, I was really disappointed. If you want someone to live blog your event an accurate time would be helpful. And if you see someone trying not to cry at your event about depression, maybe you could start practicing what you preach.

My bad experience aside, I still believe whole heartedly in the concept and the meaning behind the day, even if it is somewhat lacking in tangible ways to finish or continue the conversation they're asking us to start. So ask someone. Start that conversation. Do it today and keep doing it.

EDIT: I'm thinking that they never received my email checking that I could come at 8:30-9:00am and only the original one when I was talking about arriving at 8:00am. I have to believe that. Otherwise I feel too let down. Still would have been nice to know that an event with a four hour time span according to the invite was actually only one hour.

What is OK, anyway?

With R U OK Day just around the corner the blogosphere is exploding with posts about mental illness. I was approached to blog and tweet the Perth launch thanks to the ever wonderful Madam Bipolar passing on my details to people in the right places, and such is my ability to over commit, I said yes... but before that, I wasn't planning on writing anything. But now I feel obliged to share at least something...

I have resisted writing anything so far because it makes me uneasy. Words and images spiral around my head a thousand times making me dizzy. My chest tightens, my vision blurs, my stomach churns and my hands go numb. Do you know how hard it is to type with numb hands?

See, things have not been so good lately, and I am most definitely not OK. There are a number of factors, but the cumulative effects of a year of stress: watching my precious Tricky have two lots of surgery, my Dad having major open heart surgery (that has fixed only one of his heart problems) and seeing my grandfather get sick and watching him die a few weeks ago have contributed. That's three of the four major male players in my life. I tell Map Guy he should watch his back, he's the only one who has been fine. So last week, after two years drug free, I started taking medication again.




Surely, someone like me, who has spoken, albeit briefly and not in any detail, about having a mental illness, would be jumping on the bandwagon straight away, right? Sharing my tales of woe and recurrent hospitalizations and then the subsequent triumph, the survival. Beating my drum about how the stigma of mental illness needs to be torn down brick by brick with great celebration. Quite possibly even involving David Hasslehoff singing on the sidelines. But I just can't.

I applaud those who have been courageous enough to share their stories, but I must confess I have trouble reading them. Their words bring it all back for me so vividly I can taste the desperation that was my constant bed fellow for so long.

The brain is a funny thing, you see. Especially in someone as broken as I am.

One of my peculiar quirks is the inability to have any sort of closure. Every emotion for every significant event is just under the surface, despite years and years of therapy to try and "get over" things, it all remains there, waiting, just below the surface.

For me, talking about any of my trauma is like picking a fresh scab. The moment I think about it, the mouth of the wound will yawn open and fresh blood will pour out. There is no toughened scar tissue yet, and unless you count my Red Hot Chilli Peppers CD, there probably never will be.

My story, even though the biggest, scariest chapters are a few years old, is still too fresh. The wounds too raw... and, they will always be that way.

So no, I'm not OK, and I never will be... and that's OK (but what is OK anyway?). Don't feel sorry for me, I have accepted that this is what my life is. Therapy, medication and having to be constantly vigilant for triggers. Sometimes I succeed at this, sometimes I don't.

I hypocritically encourage you to share your stories though, ask R U OK? and to answer honestly when someone asks it of you, even though I can't.

R U OK?

If you're experiencing a mental health crisis at the moment
contact Lifeline on 13 11 14

My Mars Bar Angel and Other Assorted Angels

Yesterday I mentioned in my wrap up of Blogopolis that I nearly missed my flight home. It meant I had a Full. Blown. Panic. Attack. I haven't had one in years and was completely floored by how intense it was and I was so embarrassed  So naturally I'm posting it on the blog:

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

I hate it when people are late for a flight. I've always wondered what they could be doing that is so important that they have to run to the check in counter five minutes before the flight closes all puffed and red faced. Apparently shopping for a cheap pair of ballet flats to soothe your tired swollen feet is one of those really important things *ahem*.

I was shoe shopping with who else but Kelley from Magneto Bold Too and checked my watch. Just after 10:00am. Perfect, I'll grab the shoes, walk back to the hotel and then catch the SkyBus. No problemo. Then Shae comes in and asked me did I realize it was 12:10pm? And didn't my flight leave at 1:30pm? Right, so I didn't adjust my watch for the time difference. Clever. My Time Keeper Angel, your awesome ability to look at a watch correctly, an ability I obviously don't have, put all this in to motion. I would have been hours late if not for you, thank you so much.

I kept my cool and casually asked if Toushka would mind driving me to the airport. Or at least that's what I should have done... Instead I panicked and many expletives were forthcoming.

As our group (Shae, Toushka, Fi, Kelley and her daughter Moo who had joined us for breakfast) quickly made our way back from Bourke St to our hotel on Lonsdale St to grab my bags I was barely holding it together. I swung from hyperactive giggling to body numbing anxiety.

I grabbed my bags when we got there and it was time to say goodbye. I clung to Kelley, my protector over the whole weekend (over a few months now actually) and sobbed. I wanted to stay there, wrapped in her arms for hours. The woman knows me back to front, inside and out, better than I know myself, and she has a way of making everything all better... and we've only physically met twice. My Mama Angel, you have calmed my anxiety this past weekend better than any medication could with your warmth, care and understanding. I cannot articulate how much you mean to me, thank you.

But there was no time for prolonged goodbyes so I jumped in the car with rally championship driver Toushka and navigator Fi. We somehow survived Melbourne traffic. What the fuck is with all that weird lane stuff near the hospital? I suppose the roads department in all their infinite wisdom put it near the hospital so when everyone crashes they don't have far to go. We got the airport just in time. My Driver Angel, the pathetic $10 I had on me that I stuffed in your drink holder as thanks is no where near enough. You have my eternal devotion and I will sponsor your car at the next Rally Australia.

We pulled up to the terminal and Fi and I jumped out and I started to hyperventilate. My eyes wouldn't focus and I couldn't even see where I was meant to go... I couldn't even distinguish the bloody colour differences of the desks to know which was which. Fi pointed and we rushed forward. I opened my mouth and only a choking sound came out; I couldn't even form words so she spoke for me.

Image Credit

With under two minutes left on the clock I was checked in. And only then did she leave my side to run back to Toushka waiting in the car. My Check In Angel, you have my eternal gratitude. If you hadn't insisted on running inside with me, carrying my massive bloody bag, I would have gotten as far as the front doors and crumpled. Thank you so much.

I ran to the gate. Even though I was checked in, I just had to get there and see for myself that the plane had not left without me. I don't run. Especially not after a night of dancing in heels and when there are no pain meds. The pain was intense and I was still hyperventilating so I sat down by the gate and tried to calm down a bit. The vending machine called to me, because when the shit hits the fan, chocolate fixes everything, right?

I put my money in, the little thing twirled around and I thought to myself if that bastard Mars Bar doesn't drop down I might as well just die on the spot because I cannot handle one more thing going wrong... and whaddya know, that fucker didn't move an inch. The tears pricked at my eyes again; I was crying over a bloody chocolate.

A young woman sitting nearby saw it happen and gave me one of those soft, sorry smiles, and I wanted to shrug, smile back and flippantly say "just one of those days" but instead my face crumpled and I pathetically lost the fight against the tears that had been welling in my eyes and they slid silently down my red cheeks.

A grown woman sitting in the airport getting upset over the loss of her last $3 and a stupid snack. I buried myself down in to my jacket and started playing with my phone, embarrassed the woman, this stranger, had seen me cry.

And then, a few minutes later she walked over to me, smiled and handed me a Mars Bar.

I completely lost it. I cried giant heaving sobs and when I tried to say thank you, no words would come out. They got stuck in my throat only emerged as a squeak.

Everyone was staring. I started hyperventilating again and the room spun.

When I had managed to calm down (from banshee like wailing to just normal tears) a little while later, I went over and thanked her and told her I would write about her.

So, Lauren, my Mars Bar Angel, if you ever read this, I cannot thank you enough. You have restored my faith in the kindness of strangers and lifted my spirits at a moment when I needed it most. You have given me so much more than an overpriced chocolate bar. You have reminded me, with your confidence to walk over in front of a room full of strangers to hand the crazy crying woman a Mars Bar, that there is good in the world. Thank you. Thank you so very, very much.