An open letter to Bobbin's favourite day care educator

Dear T,

When I met you for the first time one year ago, I was in the throws of an enormous mental breakdown as I brought my youngest, Bobbin, to day care for the first time.

You knew I was low; it was quite literally written across my face in streaks of tears, red eyes, and a puffy nose. But you don't know that you're one of the people who helped save my life. 

I felt like I was getting "neglectful mother" stamped on my permanent record when I walked in there that day. Not because I was placing my child in to day care, but because my doctors and the government agreed I was so unwell that the public purse would pay for her to be cared for by someone else three days a week for six months. That it was in everyone's best interests; hers, mine, even the taxpayers.

As welcome as financial assistance is to a single income family in a low socio-economic area, qualifying for it under those circumstances was demoralising.

Parts of that time are a tear-stained blur to me, and others I can replay in my mind as if they happened yesterday. One of the things I do remember was that day care was a blessing, giving me time to attend appointments, go to therapy, and focus on recovery. I also clearly remember that you stood out amongst the staff. Not just to me, but to Bobbin. And I believe children are excellent judges of character. 

You were kind, relaxed, and soothed my fears in a way that didn't patronise. You swooped in, a smiling angel in hot pink, and made Bobbin feel safe and secure at a time when she really needed it. At a time when I couldn't do it as well as I'd like to.

The way you cared for her, and helped her transition to having more weekdays away from me than with me was invaluable. On good days you would chat, and on bad days you'd appear as if from nowhere with a cuddle for Bobbin to make the separation easier for us.

Some people might say that's your job, but it felt like so much more. 

Bobbin would come home and talk about you endlessly; telling me stories of painting, playing, and learning songs from you. You quickly learned what she liked and incorporated it in to the activities. I remember one day you made extra playdough in yellow, her favourite colour, because she'd told you it wasn't as fun when it wasn't yellow.  

On the days you weren’t there, the others were capable, but they weren't you. You always went that extra mile. You even swooped in to the kindy room a few times after she’d left your toddler area when you could see either she or I were having a rough drop off, and I can tell you that it didn’t go unnoticed.

Our chats were sometimes the only non-therapy adult conversations I’d have in the early days. To be treated like a decent human being helped me to realise that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t terrible after all.

As time wore on, those small chats became conversations full of laughs, and littered with our mutual obsession with all things Disney, wild hair colours, and tattoos. Drop off and pick up times got longer and longer as we shared stories. The drop and run was not on the cards when there was an Alice in Wonderland party to discuss! As I recovered and was able to step back in as a full time parent to Bobbin and she attended the centre less and less, the care you gave her continued, and drop offs got even longer as you'd excitedly explain a tattoo idea, or listen to my thoughts on Beauty and the Beast.

I’ve tried to tell you this in person a few times, but I keep faltering. Two words, thank you, just seem too small to convey the enormity of what you did and the depth of gratitude that I feel. You helped teach her the alphabet, got her back on the toilet training wagon, but more than anything you made her feel secure.

You raised my child when I couldn’t.

Your kindness shone brightly through the clouds of my dark days, and I will be forever thankful.

With more thanks than you'll ever know,

Glow x

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain

It's almost a year since my life got flipped-turned upside down.

But this isn't the Fresh Prince, and a stint in Bel Air wasn't what was needed. Unless Bel-Air is code for all expenses paid psych hospital. In which case, sign me up, baby.

If I could share one thing about this whole time, it is that while I may seem perfectly fine these days, there is a lot going on behind the scenes to make me appear that way. Like the old man standing behind the curtain, furiously pumping levers and spinning dials to keep up appearances as the Wizard of Oz, I'm behind my own curtain squashing down negative self-talk and assumptions that everyone hates me, that I don't deserve to live, to look somewhat 'normal'.


And I tell ya, all that behind the scenes work is fucking exhausting. It's a daily run uphill. Through quicksand. With concrete boots on. (My knack for hyperbole seems unaffected)

The 'spoonie' theory of chronic illness (which I'm well familiar with, thanks to a chronic pain condition I've had since primary school) can be applied to chronic mental illness, too. I only have so many spoons of energy to use on a particular day and some days, just existing takes up all of them.

Some rare days, I have spoons to spare. Sometimes I'll save up all my spoons, and even do a sneaky borrow from the next day to have a night out. It means I will spend most of the next few days in bed, and parenting with the help of Netflix parental controls, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

If I talk to you and seem distracted, or I don't remember something you said a few days ago, it's because at the same time as trying to focus on you, I'm trying to ignore my own automatic thoughts that pop up. I'm working away behind the curtain. These shoulder devil thoughts intrude on the most mundane of conversations.

Chatting with a school mum about the weather:
"She doesn't really like you. She is just talking to you because she has nothing else to do."

Tricky or Bobbin become upset at something minor:
"You are a terrible mother. Your kids would be better off without you."

I forget to defrost meat for dinner:
"You suck. You are the worst person to have ever lived."

Filtering those messages out isn't easy, but I'm getting better at it. I do a quick fact check (all the while hoping I'm not missing too much of what you're saying): Does it matter if this person doesn't like me? Am I shit mum if my kids are fed, bathed and loved? Am I the worst person to have ever lived? Really? Have I considered genocide? No, then I'm not the worst person, let's move on.

I can feel myself coming back more and more in some areas, but not in others. The urge to write again has been stewing for a while, but so far every time I sit down and bang out a few sentences on the keyboard those intrusive thoughts come back.

"Why do you bother to write when no one will read?"

"This is terrible. You can't form a sentence."

"Just don't bother. You can't fuck up if you don't try."

And I've been listening to those thoughts a lot, as the dozens of half finished blog posts languishing in my drafts folder can attest.

But this shit is not linear. Just as everyone has ups and downs, so too does this recovery process. Don't say journey or I'll vomit.

So I keep trying. Pulling the levers. Spinning the tops. Pushing the buttons. Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, it's still me. I'm working hard.

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?

Is compassion a mental illness?

I was at the doctor's office the other day getting checked out for my unrelenting phone-sex-voice-inducing laryngitis. I usually don't go to the doctor for physical things so it wasn't surprising for my doc to move on to my mental health after she'd checked out my throat.

"How is your mood going?" she asked.

"It's pretty good, I've been having some really good days!" I replied excitedly. "But when I do have the awesome days, the effort I put in to seeming normal is exhausting and I'll often sleep all day after to recover, but on the whole, I'm soooo far from where I was!"

"Well that's moving in the right direction. What about your anxiety?" she added.

"It's not great. But my anxiety is mostly about actual things and it doesn't stop me doing things."

"Like...?"

"Well, the federal election, Brexit, Trump, violence toward the LGBT community. The world seems to be in such a state of upheaval and it worries me what is going to happen next."

"That shows me your state of mind is still out of whack. You live in Australia but are worried about shootings in America and xenophobia in England, it doesn't make sense.

I left feeling really strange. I quite like this doctor, she's been very helpful and gone above and beyond trying to help me through my recent breakdown. She's smart, caring, non judgemental, and genuinely kind. But I respectfully disagree with her on this one.

I don't think feeling upset over the state of the world is a sign of mental illness. It isn't stopping me going about my day at all, it doesn't negatively influence how I act, but it is on my mind.

We are global citizens. What happens overseas impacts Australians. It impacts my life and the lives of my children.

The flux of racial hatred from some pea brains in the UK who hadn't thought to read what Brexit actually was and assumed it was about shutting down borders and tossing out immigrants, gave power to others who share the same small-minded thoughts on immigration and refugees. Just look at #postrefracism on twitter for truly horrifying examples. And the amount of Australians who said we should be next was staggering.

The overseas cheers and congratulations from the homophobes after the Orlando shooting at Pulse nightclub spurred an outpouring of love worldwide, but not enough to drown out the cascade of hate. Overhearing people at my local shops condoning the attacks because of the sexual orientation of the deceased filled me with disgust.

It hurts my heart to see so much hatred. So much fear. And I have genuine concern for the world my children are going to inherit. I don't think that makes me mentally ill. It influences my vote, who I am friends with, who I choose to spend time with, what charities I support, and how I raise my kids, but it doesn't make me huddle in a ball afraid to leave the house. However I am a person with mental illness so perhaps I'm not the one to make the call on what is or isn't bat shit crazy.

When did caring what happens to other people, being compassionate, wanting for a better world, become mental illness? 

Heartache and help

I have this heart condition.

I've had it for years but it's been pretty good for such a long time now that I don't see anyone for it. I was discharged about 18 months ago from from my follow up program because I was doing so well. Hooray for me.

Except recently, this heart condition flared up.

I was really ill.

So I did what I was always told to do when I felt like my heart was going to give out and headed to my GP for a referral to a specialist. 

My 'emergency referral' got me an appointment a MONTH away.

I knew I wouldn't be able to last a month with my heart like this. Doing it's own thing, getting sicker by the day. I'd be dead in a week. The specialist said go to the emergency department in the meantime.

A friend took me to the ED on a Monday night and I was assessed. Yes, my heart was just about to give out, but since I had kids they didn't think it would give out any time soon. 

I didn't understand. What does having kids have to do with it? No medication was started, the nurse said it was because I might have an anaphylactic reaction to it and they didn't want to be responsible for that. Um, OK?

I was left by myself for a while, then discharged alone at midnight having been promised that a referral to Hospital in the Home (HITH) had been made, and that it was HITH that would take care of my heart with medication. 

At home my heart got sicker, but I waited, thinking HITH would come and help me soon. We got referrals to three private heart hospitals and two public, putting our eggs in as many baskets as we could. Hoping there would be space somewhere. That someone would help my poor heart.

We learned that the private heart hospital would charge us $420 per day for me to stay there, after my private health had paid. And that that wouldn't cover specialist fees or medications. You have to be rich to be sick, it would seem, even in Australia. 

MG had two weeks off work to look after me and the kids because I couldn't get out of bed let alone be an actual parent. I've been absent from school drop offs and using the last of my energy to do a few fun things with the kids, wondering all the while if today would be the day that my heart would give out totally. If today would be the day I left my kids without a mother.

MG made a stack of phone calls to the hospital and was put through to all sorts of departments. Some had no record of me, some said the referral was pending, others said it had never been sent. There were no straight answers and we could never speak to the same person twice. 

Finally, at the end of the week MG got through to the correct person by pure chance and we learned that the HITH referral had gone through and been rejected as they didn't have any room.

I'd been desperately waiting for this "virtual bed" and no one had told us it wasn't available, and they hadn't referred on to another service like they should have.

So me and my heart were just left to fend for ourselves, desperate for medication, clinging on for dear life, back to square one as if we hadn't asked for help at all. 

I took another trip to the ED the following Monday as my heart had become much, much worse. I was finally seen by the heart team who noticed that they hadn't been called to see me last time when they should have been. They were so lovely. They said they had a bed upstairs on the heart ward for me and even gave me a starting dose of medication and had no idea why the previous nurse told me I couldn't have it.

But then, as quickly as it was given, the bed upstairs was taken away. Someone else needed it. There are lots of broken hearts, all needing help.

And as quickly as the bed upstairs was taken, so was my cubicle in emergency. I was now on a stretcher in the corridor.

Hours passed. A nurse checked on me once to find my heart was in a very bad way, I told them it hurt more than I could ever remember it hurting. He called over to another nurse and a passing doctor rolled his eyes and said "ugh, of course her heart hurts" then, trying to imitate my voice said "somebody pay attention to me".

I broke down. I couldn't believe I was being mocked for asking for help. 

I was informed that they'd stopped looking for a bed for me since all the receptionists would stop work in an hour, and that they would try again tomorrow... that I could spend the night on the stretcher in the corridor and try to get some sleep.

Have you ever been on stretcher in a emergency department corridor? Sleep is not really forthcoming. There were five or six empty bays that we could see from that corner of the corridor, but I wasn't allowed one of them, they were for "sick people" who would come in through the night, not for those with sore hearts.

MG and I decided I would be better in my own bed and tried to discharge but the doctor wouldn't let us. He kept saying "you're in a bed in a hospital" whenever MG or I mentioned the words stretcher or corridor.

We asked to talk to someone higher up. A few nurses (all lovely) came by to try and convince me to stay, but we again requested to leave. Being surrounded by so much trauma was making my heart hurt even more at this stage.

Finally, a nice doctor came to us and agreed that a corridor stretcher wasn't really ideal and said that it was likely I'd be waiting on that stretcher for four to five days for a bed to become available in the heart ward, and it might be better if I went home to wait it out.

I signed the forms and was discharged.

At home over the coming days we chased more referrals. The hospital had actually sent the referral this time (hooray), but to the wrong centre (groan), so MG, acting as both nurse and personal assistant, kept calling as many places as he could. 

Most said call again later, or that they'd get back to us. Two weeks later we've only heard from one of those places (to say no), the rest still haven't returned our calls.

Finally, we decided that it was worth a shot showing up at the local community heart clinic, without a referral, to beg for help.

I almost wept with relief when they said they would fit me in.

An amazing nurse (are you sensing a theme here? nurses are awesome) took me through and my heart was examined. It was really, really sick, but I had gotten there just in time. He recommended a course of treatment, got it written up by the doctor, and let me know which additional services he was referring me to... and then actually referred me to them. 

He said that my case is far from uncommon and recommended I never go to that particular emergency room ever again. 

He referred me to HITH again so now I am in the community clinic and the Hospital in the Home - where nurses and doctors visit me daily to make sure my heart is OK and that the medication is kicking in. 

It took two weeks of begging, being told that I was an attention seeker, being discharged without care, two emergency room visits, four GP visits, endless phonecalls, the tireless work of MG and that one amazing nurse to get medication started; to get the care that I needed.

As I see how much effort it took to get medical care I can't help but think that everyday people like you and me would find this delay in treating a heart condition appalling. 

But go back and change "heart" to mental illness, and this is exactly what is happening. What happened to me these past few weeks. And it's happening everywhere and we just accept it. 

The stigma of mental illness in the community is greatly reducing, but it remains high in the hospital, the very place we are meant to go for help. Medical professionals not taking it seriously; mocking patients; not bothering to put in referrals; providing a lower standard of care than they would someone with a physical condition. 

It's time to stop accepting that this is just the way it is. It's time to stop punishing those with mental illness. It's time we realised that mental illness is just as real as a heart condition, diabetes, or a broken leg. 

An open letter to the 2014 Perth Royal Show

Dear Royal Agricultural Society of WA,

I have enjoyed going to the Royal Show for as long as I can remember. I have such amazing memories of getting up early, heading to the bank to withdraw the money we had saved all year in those Dolomite accounts, and making our way in. Before the train, we'd park in the same person's yard every year - we never knew their name and they never knew ours, but each year we'd drive in, pay our money and say hello. The first time I didn't go to the show, I was ten - it was literally the first year since I was born that I had missed it - I was in Disneyland at the time and I was DISAPPOINTED that I wasn't at the Show. Only for a minute, but still.

Show bags full of chocolate and stupid inflatable things, the baby animal nursery, fairy floss, the giant slide, the sheep dogs, the show animals, staying up sooooo far past bed time to watch the fireworks and so much more. Ah, sugar coated bliss.

But this year, I'm really disappointed in you.

You were going to have a ride this year called "Bethlem Sanatorium" that depicted an open ward with 20 actors pretending to be patients. The Bethlem Sanatorium was and is a real place - the oldest psychiatric hospital in the world (though now it goes by Bethlem Royal Hospital) and it was known for its cruel treatment of mentally ill patients in the distant past. In fact, one of the most disturbing facts was that Bethlem allowed the public to come and view the "bedlam" (which gets its name from the hospital) and the madness for themselves, making a mockery out of the suffering of the patients who were subjected to cruelty and violence on a daily basis. 

Now, keeping in mind that this is considered by many to be the most scandalous aspect of the history of this psychiatric facility, how on earth did you think it appropriate to approve it as a ride? And have it featured in the "Kids & Family" section of your website?

Have we not come anywhere between the 1400s and now? Are the mentally ill still a freak show? Roll up, roll up, come and see the crazies! Witness the insanity for yourself for just $15! Lunatics galore!

Then we can all point and laugh. Ha ha ha, isn't being sick just hilarious? How about next year you have a childrens cancer ward? We can all laugh at their bald heads! Oh I know, how about a few people with physical differences, too? Because not looking like a model is shameful and we need to make sure they know just how much we won't tolerate anything but beauty in our community.

The stigma surrounding mental illness remains extreme despite one in five Australians experiencing it. A 2006 study found that almost a quarter of people thought mental illness was caused by a personal weakness, and one in five would not tell anyone if they had depression.

The biggest killer of 15-44 year olds is suicide. Perhaps some of those deaths could be prevented if asking for help wasn't considered by some to be weak and shameful. If they didn't worry that they'd never get another job. If they didn't believe they would be ostracized by friends, family and the wider community. If it didn't make them feel like they were in a freak show.

I've been in a few psychiatric facilities in my time. My stays have ranged from a couple of days to a couple of months. I remember vividly the first time I went. I was petrified thanks to, in part, the way mental health facilities are portrayed in the movies. I expected "bedlam". I expected people walking around muttering to themselves. Screaming, crying and moaning coming from every room. Shared showers covered in grime and horrid nurses hovering over you.

But it was nothing like that. It looked more like a hotel, with my own private bedroom and bathroom. Most of the time I would be in the smokers courtyard talking to other patients. We would chain smoke, tell stories, support each other and laugh. The best therapy I ever had in those places took part in the courtyard. Being around people. People who understood you weren't feeling so great and wouldn't mind if you cried. In fact, they'd probably bring you a cuppa and offer to listen, then ten minutes later you're all smiling again.

I have met some amazing people during my times as an inpatient, and I'm still friends with quite a few of them to this day. Fabulous, hard working, interesting, smart, funny, articulate, caring, down to earth people. Who happen to have had mental health issues. Wanna drop by some time so you can point at us and laugh?

After the Bethlem Royal Hospital and other advocacy groups campaigned for you to pull the attraction you held a meeting. I left a message on your Facebook page:

I thought it was pretty respectful. Polite, even. But you hid it so only my friends could see it. You replied to the people asking about bunnies and stables but my comment was left to languish. From this I can only conclude that you couldn't care less about it. You didn't reply to my tweets either.

Then, this afternoon, when I heard that you had changed the ride I was relieved and thought you must have come to your senses. Hurrah! Common sense prevails and human decency can be relied upon once more... but then I read your statement. A classic fauxpology:

While the attraction was not designed to cause offense, "clearly some members of the public did not feel it was appropriate".

Oh please. Shifting the blame, much? Take some responsibility! You messed up by thinking charging people to walk around an attraction while actors pretended to have severe mental illnesses was just peachy.

I had been looking forward to introducing my kids to the Perth Royal Show this year, but not any more. Instead, I'll use my time to promote the messages of Mental Health Week which starts the day after the Show ends, and work to challenge the stigma.

Sincerely,

Glow

If you need help call Lifeline on 13 11 14

I will be a better mother

Recently I was told "You're a much better mother than we thought you'd be", and sadly, it wasn't the first time it's been said to me.

Both times I was a little dumbfounded and I think I managed an "Umm... thanks... I think?" in response.

Nothing quite like a backhanded compliment, is there?

But really, I can't get too angry about it because, well, I agree. I think I'm a much better mother than I thought I'd be.

For as long as I could remember I had vowed never to have children because I knew I would fuck them up. In my mind, it was guaranteed. I’d read all about it, and seen it with my own eyes. Kids of people like me just didn’t turn out well. I thought it would be the ultimate act of selfishness to have a child knowing what I knew.

It will sound cliché, but after dating Map Guy for only a few short months everything changed. He believed in me. I was an obese, chain smoking, mentally unstable gal on a disability pension. What a catch! Re reow! But, as he tells it, he saw something in me that I didn’t.

His belief filtered through the dark, jagged forest of my thoughts on gossamer wings. It’s amazing what happens when someone believes in you and actually tells you so… firstly you think they’re quite obviously mentally unhinged and you consider sharing your anti-psychotic meds with them, but after a while, bit by bit, you start to believe it too. For the first time in my life I could see a future that was not all black clouds and hospital stays. I could see the real me underneath that he had seen all along. I could see love and joy and life. New life. Babies. 

I worked hard, bloody hard, determined to not be the mother that everyone else, including me, just assumed I was going to be. Instead of letting that red flag with “people like you are bad mothers” written on it bring me down, I used it to make me a stronger, better mother, determined not to let the cycle repeat in my own house.

This is not some rose coloured glasses bullshit. I’m still pretty sure he will still end up having "issues". It is me mothering him after all. But instead of ones that will land him in juvenile detention, I’m now thinking more along the lines of this:

I think I’m a good mother. My kid is fed, clothed, kept warm and loved more than I ever knew was possible. But I could be better. I don’t want perfection. I don’t want Carol Brady. Hell, even she must have known heartache and sorrow before she got to her happily ever after. Divorced? Widowed? They never actually mention why her first marriage ended. Emotional baggage like that can't be wrapped up within a half hour show. Instead, all that baggage comes out in the day to day living of life. In the way we deal with public tantrums, the refusals to lay down for a nappy change and pain in the ass bedtime routines.

I’m joining the Parent Manifesto twelve week online course to become the mother I want to be. I've read the book and I liked how it wasn't a "you must do this and the world will be rainbows and lollipops" set of instructions, that you could pick and choose what to implement in a way that suited your own family. The course, I'm hoping, will cement it further and help me put it all in to practice.

So what do I want to get out of this opportunity? I want to learn how to stop mumbling “for fuck’s sake” under my breath when Tricky throws a tantrum at 4:00am like he did the other morning (don’t ask, it’s a long story punctuated with many tears). I want to learn how to handle a toddler who is pushing boundaries left, right and centre but is just too little to fully reason with. Basically, I want to enjoy my wine after bedtime, not resort to it.

If you’d like to join me, the online course starts on the 10th of September, runs for 12 weeks and costs $127. That’s just over $10 a week to become a better parent. You can register by clicking here or the image below. If you enter the codeword 'FRIEND' (cos y'all are my friends, right?) you'll get a $20 discount.

A few times over the next three months I’ll be checking in and letting you know how I’m going. A no-holds-barred look at my parenting skills or lack thereof. This will be an interesting ride.

12 Week Online Program



$127.00 inc. GST

Do you want to be a better parent? If you could change one thing about your parenting, what would it be?

This is not a sponsored post but does contain affiliate links. My participation in the course is complimentary and as always all opinions are my own and completely truthful.

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.

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.

Get your shit together

I really need to get my shit together, I'm 30 now, no excuses.

In the last few weeks days I've gone totally emo. I've been eating everything in sight and taking mopey, arty farty self-portraits. I've even been posting attention seeking, pathetic tweets in the hope that someone would say "you're not a completely worthless person". I phished for compliments... I hate it when people do that. Loathe it. Get over yourself, I think, see a bloody therapist and stop filling up my Twitter stream with your emo ramblings.

I am nothing if not a grade A hypocrite.

I am extroverted, in the true sense of the word. It doesn't necessarily mean a bright and bubbly, outgoing person, though I can be (Oscar worthy acting, remember? Meryl Streep took lessons from me), it means I rely on the energy of those around me. Being alone with my thoughts sends me in to a tailspin. I don't like my own company, never have. Perhaps it's why when I retreat, it's to Twitter... you're never alone when you have Twitter (spoken like a true geek).

I don't just take on the positive energy of those around me, but the negative as well. I soak in their emotions, like a warm bath, until I'm pruney, overwhelmed and feeling utterly hopeless. Their issues become my problems. Their loss becomes my heartache. Their desperation becomes my depression.

Part of myself that I hate, is the inability to compartmentalize and differentiate between myself and others. I don't just take on someone's emotions but I take on their personality as well. If I'm around you long enough, I start being you. That freaks the fuck out of a lot of people (not that I blame them, it would freak me out too), so, as a result, I keep my distance. Which means I'm back to my own, warped thoughts to keep me company.

It's a morose not-so-merry-go-round of trying to be near people then running away so I don't get too close. A tightrope balancing act that I'm yet to master, and there's no bloody net underneath to catch me. I'm sure there's a few more circus metaphors in there but I can't think of them right now.

Alcohol and twitter have become my crutch. Don't like your own thoughts? Go and read someone elses or drink until your own thoughts slur and you can no longer understand them. My saving grace is that Tricky is still breastfeeding and I know he'll be awake and wanting milk bright and early the next morning... but it kinda freaks me out that that is the only thing stopping me from completely annihilating myself some nights.

I've been actively encouraging him to wean lately, and it's partly so I can have my body back and put in it whatever I want, whenever I want to excessive levels. Who does that? Seriously. Sorry, kid, you can't have this nutritious, antibody filled liquid gold any more cos mama needs to get trashed.

So no, I don't have my shit together, not by a long shot. But, if I put edible glitter in my wine, then at least my shit sparkles. I'm like a goddamn unicorn or something.

 

Don't panic. Tomorrow I'll post a recipe and we can forget this ever happened. As you were.

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

Would The Real Glowless Please Stand Up

Before last weekend I could count on one hand the number of people (other than friends and family) who knew the person behind the blog. Who knew my name. Who knew Map Guy and Tricky's names and what we looked like.

Now, there are what can only be described as lots, and for reasons I'm yet to fully understand, it scares the shit outta me.

I'm not so completely full of myself that I think anyone I met even noticed my name tag or could recall my name five seconds after meeting me (to the vast majority I'm still nameless) and I'm not so vain to think that anyone besides me actually gives a shit.

So why am I still struggling? I should feel liberated, shouldn't I?

This blog was my cocoon. I was safe inside here; growing; developing. In to what, I'm not sure. The word 'writer' gets bandied about quite a bit on the Blogosphere but I'm definitely not one of those or I could have thought of something a little more descriptive than 'lots'.

Being anonymous meant there was little chance of any repercussions. If no one knew me, I couldn't get hurt. I could divulge my deepest secrets and it wouldn't matter.

I was Glowless; a persona; a character. Sure the real me was there, she came out in glimpses; but she was hidden under many layers like a Bloggy Babushka.

As Glowless I stood at the top of my Blog mountain, shouted "I'm a nutter" and was applauded for helping to break down the stigma of mental illness. Now that I'm 'out' though, I'm afraid to write. I'm shying away; censoring myself. I'm scared to say what is really there.

My friends, who are already familiar with the many skeletons in my closet, have stood by me in spite of them. Maybe because of them. But the newer friends? The ones that don't know my sordid past? Will they run if they see it here? The real me?

If they know how broken I really am, surely they will leave; relegate me to the 'Too Hard' basket and be on their merry way, perhaps looking back once to cast a pitying glance at the chaos that is my life and shake their head in disgust at the girl who can't get her shit together.

I know that people who leave when it gets hard aren't real friends. Part of me wants to be the bigger person; let them walk away. Even give them the finger and say good riddance. But there is that other part of me, the part that I wish wasn't there; that little corner of my soul that still yearns to be accepted. To be liked.


I have the words "be authentic" ringing in my ears. But how authentic? Where is the line between moderation and censoring? Between privacy and secrecy?

This shit just got real and I have no idea what to do.

___________________________________________________

Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

HealthyChart and Baby Goes Retro and Simply Colors