Anxiety and being a mum.

Anxiety.  My life is full of anxiety, when I'm not on the right dose of my antidepressant medication.
 Instead of thinking that my friends are just busy, my anxiety sometimes whispers to me "everyone hates you and wishes you would never talk to them. In fact, they're all at a massive party together, talking and laughing about how much they hate you and how much fun they're having. You're never going to have enough friends. Everyone has more than you. You should just stay home and never talk to anyone, because they're only talking to you because they pity you.  You loser.  Stay at home. Eat more.  Complain on Facebook. If someone disagrees with you, it means they hate you.  You should yell at that person in the carpark.  Nobody struggles the way you do.  You're doing it all wrong.  Your children hate you.  You're a failure."

Over the past 16 months, my anxiety has increased.  I had terrible post natal depression after the birth of my son, which is good and bad.  Good, because I had lots of strategies in place.  Bad, because anything less than total crippling, disabling depression and anxiety, I viewed as just part and parcel of having kids.  I struggled a lot in the early days of having Alex, and so I just thought that it was normal to struggle having Steph, and to not really enjoy my life.  I was teary a lot, all I wanted to do was sleep, and I resented other people who either didn't have kids, or whose children were older than mine.  I thought that if she was older, then I'd feel better.  Freer.  But I had to resign myself to a grind.  It was so, so, so difficult.  I was scared of her dying. I was scared of Alex dying if I didn't say goodbye to him properly at school drop off. I was scared that I'd accidentally let go of the pram when I was pushing Stephanie. I was scared of being alone with her and scared of being by myself.

I could do it, but I was miserable a lot of the time.  But a lot of people with young kids are miserable, right?  It's ok.  I could do it, as long as I ate chocolate and stayed in the house and slept as much as possible.  I cried some more.  Stephanie wasn't sleeping through the night. In May this year, a friend's baby died and Stephanie had a cold. I became terrified that if I couldn't hear her breathe, then she would stop breathing. I started sleeping with her and I tossed and turned a fair bit. I have a chronic pain problem that my constant eating and lack of sleep was making worse. I took my painkillers, but my pain was getting worse because my stress was constant. I tried to make myself go for walks, but my weight was getting in the way. I couldn't get up from the ground without a three point turn style manoeuvre that was incredibly undignified. I felt so sorry for my husband. He didn't sign up for this sort of life, or wife.  But I was angry at him anyway. I was angry and upset a lot of the time.  Everything seemed too difficult, but a few extra challenges that we as a family have meant that health care professionals thought that it was reasonable for me to feel challenged, overwhelmed and emotional.

A little over a month ago, I went to a different GP at my medical practice, one who was well versed in mental issues and pain.  She told me that I could go up a higher level in my antidepressants, something I hadn't bothered doing because the psychiatrist that I'd seen in January had told me that I was on the highest level.  However, this GP told me that there was anecdotal evidence to suggest that going up a higher level could help.  I cried and cried in her room. I was used to that. I cried at just about every medical appointment I went to. I'd tried another antidepressant in September and it was dreadful. I felt anxious and couldn't sleep.  It was a disaster.  I felt like a zombie.

I saw the GP who told me to put the medicine up on Friday, and the next Monday I was headed for the O'Connell Family Centre with Steph to finally get to the bottom of these sleep issues.  I was skeptical about the increased medication helping, so I hadn't bothered taking an increased dose.  Last time I'd been horrifically depressed, nothing had really helped, and I just thought that coming off one antidepressant and going on another sounded horrific and something that I wasn't really up for.  I didn't have the mental resources.  My mum was coming to Shepparton to help Richard with Alex while I was away, and I mentioned to her the increased dose idea.  "Why don't you try it, Dee?" she said, and I couldn't think of a reason why not.  So I took two that morning.  Then drove to Melbourne. I was terrified. I'd spent a month in a mother and baby unit with Alex, in what had to be one of my most hellish times ever. (Even though I met two fabulous chicks there who I still dearly love today)

 I was terrified that I'd go backwards at this place, be unable to sleep and go completely crazy.  What happened, was that I faced myself.  I met women who were going through the same things that I was.  What did we have in common? A hatred of the sound of our children crying.  A fear that we were doing it wrong.  A desire to be a really good mum and a talent for being too hard on ourselves.  I cried and cried, and reached breaking point on the third day.  My phone smashed when I was trying to find something in the room....this was the last straw.  I was so angry at Stephanie, at how busy and active she is. I set off up the hill to the Telstra shop.  Stephanie was tired and grumpy and whined and I cried.  I fled back down the hill after making a fool of myself yelling at the Telstra guy.  I cried and yelled internally. I hated her.  Did I? No. I didn't.  I didn't hate her. I had a huge realisation that I didn't hate her.  I loved her. I loved her so much that it scared me. I loved her so much that I was scared it would take me over.  I loved her so much that I felt that I would never get myself back.  I cried and cried, but that was when I began to fall in love with her, and accept that I was a better mother than I thought, and that I had to stop grieving my old life.  It was gone, and I was missing my beautiful little girl.  I always knew that I had loved her, but I felt it now, purely and strongly for the first time.  I wasn't afraid.

The next day, I saw the psychiatrist at the centre, and he was so complimentary of me, as a person and as a mother.  He told me that I'd done an amazing thing. I'd gone from addiction and dysfunction and changed into a person who was no longer a victim.  Yes, the additional circumstances of my life could be a challenge, but that I had the resources, I had the wisdom, and I had the answers within me.
I came out of that session feeling like I was seeing my life with new eyes. I had a fantastic opportunity to live my life, and live it abundantly.  I didn't have to feel afraid any more.  And I suddenly realised that for the first time in sixteen months, that I wasn't afraid any more. I wasn't wishing my life away, and I wasn't grieving.  I felt like a dark cloud had lifted off me, I felt like an internal light had been switched on.  I started to feel human and happy and lucky.  I credit in particular the wonderful staff, and two ladies who I met at O'Connell who made me feel like I was a human being, a funny human being, instead of just the mum of a baby who wouldn't sleep.

I was able to see that I wasn't able to use my anti depression strategies very well, because I had been anxious and depressed.  I'd had post natal depression.  And the increase in antidepressant was turning the lights on in me again.  I was able to see that the arguments and bitterness and mistakes I had made while I was depressed wasn't real, but a product of my illness. I started to make amends to people who I had hurt, and felt a freedom and a peace that I haven't felt in a long time.

That doesn't mean that I don't screw up.  That's part of being human.  What's different is that today I try not to focus on it, and to live in the moment.  I am starting my quest towards fitness with the help of my fitbit buddies and mucho fruit and vegetables. One of my goals is to rise from the floor without the three point turn manouvre! The sunlight shines on me again.

I urge anyone who is suffering from any of these feelings to talk to your GP, beyond blue, lifeline or PANDA.  You shouldn't have to feel like this.  You should be living in the sunshine.

I am done

I hate it when I make mistakes. I hate it when I'm not approved of.

Three and a bit years ago, I built my self esteem on the fact that I'd lost a lot of weight, and that I was a weight watchers leader.  I was in denial that I was probably really quite honestly suffering from a bit of an eating disorder. That my son was (and still is) strong willed, and that I wasn't coping well with the thought of him going to school.  That my judgement of myself and others was at an all time high.  I couldn't meet another person without assessing them and wondering if I was bigger or smaller than them, what they thought of me, what I thought of them, and so on and so on. It was exhausting.

I also had to load my car up every time I worked with Weight Watchers products.  I had a child who just wanted to be around me. I had a chronic pain problem and I regularly binged on food at night, then ate just vegetables during the day so that I'd still be at the right weight for my job.  But even at my smallest, I still wasn't the right weight for my job. We had to report our weight to area managers every month, and obtain the weights of the weighers as well.  There was a woman in her sixties who had been doing the job forever, and I had to do her the ingratitude of asking for her weight every month, and being forced by management to suggest that she wasn't following the program.

I was appointed WW Leader because there was nobody else in the Shepparton area to do this, and because I was working towards a healthy weight. I had already lost 22 kilos, but my weight was not in the healthy weight range (it was 35 kilos lighter than I am today).  I was passionate and excited about the opportunity - I contacted a local media outlet to do an interview on the new venue we were moving to, and they wanted to do a story on us.  Only problem was, that because my BMI wasn't within a healthy range, I wasn't allowed to speak on camera.  I could only identify as a member, because I wasn't successful enough for them. But I was successful enough to run a meeting.  I started to become bitter.

At the time, I was friends with some people who I'd get together with and be extremely judgemental about everyone.  We'd spend hours on Facebook making fun of people and talking about boyfriends and friends and English humour.  I was just getting my identity back after having my son, who was 3 and very strong willed.  I liked being around these people because they represented me being approved of. Me being acceptable.  If we got together and made fun of other people, at least it wasn't me that was being made fun of.  It wasn't a very nice way to behave and yet it was addictive.  A large part of my identity was caught up in hanging out with these younger people.

So when they started to withdraw their friendship, I didn't see it coming.  I was distracted and bitter and angry and I just thought that they weren't available.  I thought they were busy.  But then I started to get the horrible feeling that I was being talked about the way we used to talk about other people.  That I had gone from the judger to the judged.  And I didn't want to let that go.  So I clung on.  Too tight.  I did silly stuff like delete people from Facebook and re-add them and then agonise over that. To message and to cry and to plead.  I was putting way too much pressure on myself in the job that I was in and in my parenting.  This was one part of my life that had to go right.  I had to make it go right.

But then it all went wrong.  We definitely weren't friends any more.  But I still kept in touch with what one girl was doing by reading her blog.  And when I read that she was suffering from depression and anxiety, I thought that contacting her would be the right thing to do.  To send forth a message of hope and encouragement.  I guess I'd forgotten about the crazy way I acted and thought that she would want to know my answers.  How incredibly arrogant of me.

I didn't think much of this until just recently, three years later, I saw this girl and she ignored me.  Just blanked me. Was angry that I tried to speak to her and walked away from me. And I know I'm 38 and a mother of two and all, but it still hurt to be rejected.  I don't get much rejection in my daily life.  I have rebuilt myself and realised that I had parts of me that needed fixing.  I have tried my best to make amends to those who I hurt when I was so lost.  I have sought help with my eating problems, my judgement problems, and I have tried to take my ego out of my parenting. To accept my children the way they are and love them in the way that they need, not that I want.

But my ex-friend doesn't know this.  I find this hard to realise, but it's true.  She doesn't want to speak to the angry, bitter, irrational woman that I was years ago, and on some level I understand that.  She doesn't know who I am today, and that I give my friends space and let them be who they are.  She doesn't know that I want to help her and say I'm sorry.

I suppose I will never get that chance.  Sometimes, you say sorry by leaving someone alone and letting them heal from your behaviour.  I never meant to hurt her, but I guess I did. And she doesn't want to talk to me, and I have to accept that.

I hate it when I make mistakes. I hate it when I'm not approved of.  But that is life, and I must accept it.

Eleven weeks

Eleven weeks.  That was always my goal.  Eleven weeks.  That was when it was diagnosed last time. When I had Alex, Eleven weeks was when everything started to go very wrong.

When Alex was born, I didn't know who I was. I had just stopped a rather nasty binge drinking habit and was two years in recovery. I loved Richard, but swapped excessive drinking for his approval. If he approved of me, then it meant that I was okay. I moved from a social city existence in Canberra to the role of a rural homemaker. People kept asking me how Richard liked his steak, his tea, his food. I was still learning. I was sure the one thing that would make me feel truly whole was having a baby. Getting married was great, and I loved Richard, but it didn't stop that feeling of creeping dread and anxiety inside of me.  I thought a baby would fix that. I focused hard on it, and when it was time to start trying, I was anxious to get this little baby as soon as possible. I went off my antidepressants to give baby the best start, and waited to feel happy.

The pregnancy hormones kicked in and I started to feel good. I went for long walks, but also had regular meltdowns about the house and having to do housework and look after myself. I guess I thought that once I was a mother I would somehow morph from my ratty selfish self into a selfless angel like my mama.  I had a support network, but apart from my mum and sister, most of my friends were Richard's mates wives.  I was trying hard to shoehorn myself into a conservative country gal, even if I had regular battles about Islam at Bible study and questioned women not being able to preach in the church.  I started wearing sensible shoes. I started dressing like a mum, instead of me.  I kinda lost me, or perhaps I didn't know who that really was.

When Alex was born, I was in shock.  I had enjoyed the world talking to me and my bump and asking questions about when it was due.  I imagined an idyllic existence of long walks, mothers group, bonding and a rosy glow around it all.  I so did not expect the horrendous pain that labour entails.  I so did not expect having my request for an epidural ignored and perhaps I didn't ask long enough. I tried too hard to be a good girl and didn't respect my body and the fact that I wasn't progressing and wasn't coping.  Twenty four hours after I had Alex, they needed my bed and I was sent to Finley hospital, an hour away by car, where they hadn't had a newborn for years and years, and Alex's cries echoed through the quiet ward.  There were no other new mums to bond with and I had no idea what to do with Alex.  After having everyone interested in how I was coping during birth, everyone disappeared and I was supposed to know how to look after this tiny little human. I felt waves of panic crash over me and the night lasted an eternity.  The responsibility started to shrink me.  I felt out of control and wanted to run away.

Taking Alex home, my milk hadn't come in. I hated the feeling of breastfeeding, hated the hurt as he latched on, or didn't....I tensed with anxiety every time I sat down to feed, he picked up on that and wouldn't latch on....he cried, I tensed, he cried, I cried, he didn't sleep, I didn't sleep.  I read books and wrote myself countless notes.  People kept telling me to follow my instincts. Those f$ckers? I'd been trying to ignore them for years. I had no idea who I was, and yet I was supposed to be a mother. I felt nothing like a mother. I felt like a fraud and a failure and the more anxious I got, the more he cried and cried and I couldn't settle him.  I stared at the clock. Time stood still.  Richard went back to work and Alex cried and I couldn't sleep.  I stared at the clock some more.  Richard left at 9 and the clock stayed still.  Years had passed with this crying baby and somehow it was only 9.05.  How was I ever going to make it through this day?  I watched the clock some more.  Alex cried some more. I walked the streets with Alex in his pram, singing "twinkle twinkle little star" and wishing I was somewhere else and someone else.

The anxiety grew and grew like some sort of monster in my head and chest, until the day when even if Alex was sleeping, I couldn't.  My stomach clenched in knots.  I had my six week check and my results were off the charts for anxiety.  I argued that I was just an anxious person and I refused help, thinking that I had to do this, that I had to clench my teeth and fight this monster and stop it  stop it stop it.  One morning, when Alex was eleven weeks old, I hadn't slept all night.  My stomach was churning and I thought I had gastro.  I took Alex and myself over to the doctor in Cobram and trembled with fear as I struggled with the Valco pram.  I sweated as I pulled tiny Alex out of the car, struggling with his carseat and hurriedly placing him in the pram. I was sure that everyone was watching me and thinking me a total failure as a mother.  I looked around at the other people and wished I was one of them. I wished I could run away. I wished I was a proper mother for this baby, who I could see was beautiful and wonderful, but who I couldn't seem to parent.

The doctor diagnosed me with Post Natal Depression, told me to put Alex on a bottle and go on antidepressants immediately.  I was free from the battle and agony of breastfeeding.  I was relieved.  I rang mum to get her to help me wean Alex.  I thought the tablets would fix the gaping hole in my soul.  They didn't.  My anxiety was too far gone, my depression too entrenched.  The antidepressants seemed to make me worse, as I battled with the darkness and the terrible fear.  It grew and grew until it became a six month battle that saw me spend much of Alex's first nine months in hospital, with suicidal thoughts for the first eighteen months of his life.  It blew my family apart, I blew my family apart and I made my family suffer. I hated myself for what I had done to them and felt constantly guilty for not being a mother to my beautiful boy.

When Alex was nearly two, I started seeing a psychiatrist who was incredibly tough but who gave me a diagnosis for the hole in my soul.  I started to recover and fill the hole with figuring out who I was not, so I could figure out who I was. I stopped trying to be who I thought you wanted me to be, and started to be truly me.  I was terrified of ever having another child and losing myself again for so long. I hated the thought of letting my family down and for hurting them again.

Last year, just when I was at a place where I had really started to enjoy the love affair of self acceptance, I decided to take another child off the table for ever.  I wanted to have my tubes tied so I could finally close that door.  I had been open to it as part of my healing, but it hadn't happened.  That was when I fell pregnant with Stephanie.  I had never been more scared, or excited.  I had to laugh.  Nice one, God, I thought, as I stared at the positive pregnancy test.

I am forever grateful to those who have worked with my during my pregnancy and beyond to ensure that I am well. My amazing mother, husband, sisters and friends, plus those care professionals who encouraged me to stay on antidepressants through my pregnancy and to see a psychiatrist regularly.  Part of my fear was for pain that would not end again in my labour.  So, I was able to choose an induction under full epidural cover at the Mercy Hospital.  I was still afraid, but the night before I was to give birth, a beautiful midwife told me her story of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after a horrendous labour experience, and gave me the truth that "it needn't be a disastrous labour to be traumatising for you, especially if you feel like you weren't listened to..", and "a positive labour experience this time around will wipe away and heal all the struggles of the past".

It did.  My labour was peaceful and pain free.  My baby was born and put on my chest and I looked at her and worried that I wouldn't love her, but I gave myself the freedom to feel how I felt. I talked to people and I told them my anxieties and my thoughts.  And because of that, they flew away.  The burden of fear released.  Stephanie has been a balm to my soul, a healing, and part of that for me was to bottle feed from birth.  I hated the sensation and I knew that not breastfeeding would make me feel more sane and less responsible for her.  I needed to feel like this was a joint venture and not a test I had to pass.  Choosing what was right for me meant that my confidence grew.  I followed the kernels of love I had for her.  I carefully explored my feelings and was relieved to find tiredness, worry and doubt, but in expressing those, an overwhelming love for my little girl and my beautiful boy.  It has been bittersweet to have such a positive experience, because it highlighted how terribly sad and bad my experience was the first time around.

My mum brought Alex up and we went off for walks around the Mercy Hospital, forming the first born club and cementing our relationship.  I began to be free of the guilt that I had always carried around not being there for Alex, and began to see that I didn't have to live out a punishment for that.  I began to see that the important thing was that I was here for him now, and had been for the past six years.  I began to see that I had changed my parenting to support him and that my patience had grown.  I trusted myself in the good parenting decisions that I'd made and forgave myself for the shouty mistakes when I was low on sleep.

Stephanie has healed a part of myself that I thought was forever broken after my PND experience.  My guilt is gone and in its place, pure love.  I didn't lose myself, because this time around I knew who I was.  The most amazing people have been put in my path and I have learnt to trust myself. Part of that is a relationship with a higher power, who I choose to call God, and who is also my inner truth. I am sometimes searingly honest about myself, and that is a scary place to be, but it is also fantastic, because it frees others to be honest about themselves, and brings my sort of people closer to me.  Life with a newborn isn't easy, and every day is different, juggling two kids can be exhausting.  But, I know when to ask for help, I try to accept it and I celebrate and forgive myself.  I'm still always gonna be a little highly strung....but that's me. As Popeye said, "I yam who I yam".

Eleven weeks.  I made it. I'm free.

The last minute baby

I keep singing that silly song from Lazytown, even though we named our beautiful baby girl after the spunky main female character in "Short Circuit".  We're going to enjoy saying "beautiful Stephanie" and "no disassemble, Stephanie" in a Number 5 voice for the rest of her life! hehe

So, as most of you know, I had horrendous Post Natal Depression after the birth of my son Alex.  This was not a little bit of feeling sad.  This was whack you over the head, take your personality and life away, death would be a blessing kind of a feeling. I suffered for a year with suicidal thoughts and feeling not like me.  It took me until Alex was 2 or 3 to start to feel like myself again, and to feel like I had hope and a future.  I read a lot about what happened to me and I realised that I had a total nervous breakdown.  It's not a fun place to be.

I had pretty much resigned myself to never having any more children, and I was pleased about that.  I thought about having another child with the horror that most people would reserve for having the bubonic plague.  I didn't like babies much, they scared me.  I preferred them once they hit about six months, and I didn't like the fact that just because I possessed a pair of ovaries, people would give their babies to me for a hold, like my femaleness made me instantly clucky.  I wasn't.  I frequently posted memes that said I would never have another baby.  I had trouble taking hormone based contraception, it basically made me into a mad woman, and even though we weren't using anything, it had been five years, and no babies were coming.  I imagined that God and I had made some sort of deal, where he just didn't want me to be pregnant.  I frequently told those who enquired about Alex getting a sibling that "I think the factory is closed".  I thought I was inching towards menopause.

I decided that even though I was probably infertile and menopausal (my brain spins a lot of fiction, and tends to go to extremes!), I would get off the rollercoaster that happened in my brain whenever my period was late, which it was, frequently. I'd done a couple of pregnancy tests a year when my ovaries were misbehaving and they were all negative.  Booking in to have my tubes tied seemed like the best idea, so I could stop my errant brain going down that crazy path. I booked in for January to end the madness!!

However, my body had other ideas.  My period was due in early December, and I was chatting to a friend of mine online when I joked that "wouldn't it be hilarious if I got pregnant, because this is the last possible moment!!"
I couldn't get the idea out of my head, and even though I was only just due, I decided to go and buy a test.  Knowing that it was probably negative. I was so sure that it was negative, I didn't even tell Richard, who had long since tired of my obsessive brain.....once I got the idea of a pregnancy in my head, it was stuck on a loop until my period arrived or the pregnancy test was negative.  Every time I went to the bathroom, I thought about it.  It didn't worry me any more, cause I'd come to accept that I am just one of those people who thinks too much and it's much easier to accept yourself than to wish you were something else.  I'd love to be one of those people who can put things out of their mind for ten days while they get on with life.  It just doesn't work that way in my neural pathways. So be it.

So, I glanced at the test indicator strip.  Yep, negative.  No....hang on.....two lines were forming.  Holy crap.  I rang Richard and told him in a high pitched voice that I was pregnant.  He was out fixing headers and I am very grateful that he didn't drop a piece of machinery on his head.  We're talking 5 x 365 days of coming to terms with the fact that even without using contraception, we didn't seem to be getting pregnant.  And now, at the last moment, this!

I struggled with the news early on.  I'd just come to terms with leaving a job that I loved and committing to being a full time mother, as after school care didn't seem to suit Alex. I laughed when I saw the test results, and said "nice one, God!".  I did a lot of work through the pregnancy and worked through my fears of losing myself and my identity when I had this baby and I must admit that I wished her away on more than one occasion.  Through no fault of my own, however, she grew healthily and even though I struggled with crippling morning sickness and back pain, each one of her scans was excellent and she was a very active baby in utero.

I realised that a lot of my fears were ill-founded.  I realised that God had given me the gift of this baby and that he didn't bring me this far to suffer more.  I realised that I had done a lot of work on myself, and on knowing me. I knew who I was and had certain caveats that would support me.  First of all, I wanted an epidural, as I didn't get one with Alex's labour and I felt certain that I had a little dash of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder added to my depression.  I know every woman struggles with the pain of labour, but for me, it was horrendous and never ending and the people who were supposed to help me seemed to keep leaving the room and telling me I could do it without pain relief.  I felt let down and angry for a long time until I learned that I had a part in that. I didn't persist with letting them know that I was in pain. I wanted to be a "good girl" and get through my labour doing what they said. I didn't listen to my body and fought it and wanted to leave it.  I resented the midwives for a long time and could hardly even drive past the GV Hospital without feeling venom.  I worked through my fears and anger with my sponsor and came to see that they had done the best they could for me, that everyone who is in labour is in pain, and that I need to be my own advocate when I am uncomfortable or not coping.

My second caveat was that I was not going to breastfeed.  Having learnt a lot about Aspergers and sensory issues, I became aware that I really really hated breastfeeding.  I hated the feeling of it, I hated my breasts being constantly on call for Alex, I hated the soreness, the running milk and the feeling that I alone was solely responsible for nourishing Alex and feeding him.  The clock became my enemy, as I didn't produce enough milk and he would sometimes feed for an hour and a half and then still scream, as he wasn't getting enough food.  I look at pictures of him and he looks so sad.  Poor little monkey.  But, how was I to know that I wouldn't enjoy breastfeeding or have enough milk until I tried?  By the time I stopped, the damage was done. I was so anxious about feeding him that every time I sat down to feed, I would be full of fear and resentment.  I passed those feelings on to Alex, and he cried and cried and cried.  The more he cried, the more anxious I felt, and so on and so on it went, until the madness set in and I totally lost myself in a nervous breakdown.  This time around, I was going to solely bottle feed.  Again, I was going to be my advocate and stand up for what was right for my body and my sanity.

Stay tuned for part 2 - the labour, early days and recovery.

Mama's got a job to do

Ah, yes. Work. The job we do. At the moment, my job is a domestic engineer and grower of a small human.

But I have a not so well kept secret. I miss my job. I miss getting dressed up and being a working woman. I miss coworkers, I miss my awesome boss Sarah, I miss the sense of a job well done and getting to complete tasks, not like the laundry pile or the dishes, jobs which are only noticed when they are not done.  I miss a disposable income, I miss contributing, I miss being able to drop a casual twenty or fifty bucks on something cute in Sportsgirl.

It's always been a bit of a struggle getting me to work. Since Alex was born, and Richard went back to work, he's been my responsibility. Richard has a full time job that he can earn lots more than I ever could.  Plus, we have a conservative type of relationship, where the woman stays at home and the man goes to work.   Early on, I was so consumed by my Post Natal Depression and the challenges of being a mother, that I didn't try to work.  I left my job as a hotel receptionist in Barooga, and by the time I looked around and thought I might want to work, we were living in Shepparton.

So I dipped my toe back into the workforce.  I started doing temp work for two of the agencies around town, but there was always a problem.  Alex gets asthma when it's cold, he gets sick easily and has always seemed to pick up whatever's going in the daycare room.  Plus, he had terrible, terrible separation anxiety.  I hated the way that the carers had to peel him off me with him yelling "NO MUM, I WANT YOU!!"  I hated driving to a job, crying, imagining him sad and lonely, wanting his mum.  I was the mum who rang up to find out if he was ok, and was always assured with "yes, he settled down right away, he's playing happily now.".  I wanted to work, but most of the part time jobs were taken, and so I had two choices....temp work, or full time work.  Temp work was fantastic, and I really enjoyed going into different organisations, meeting new people and completing the tasks that they'd set.  But, Alex kept getting sick, and he never wanted to go to daycare.   I hated the constant guilt surrounding dropping him off for care.  I hated seeing kids during the day and thinking about him and missing him.  But I wanted to work, I wanted to be in the workforce.  So I pressed on.

I had a couple of terrible goes at working full time.  Either Alex got sick, or I did.  I ended up with pneumonia and Alex kept getting colds, chest infections, ear infections, school sores, conjunctivitis, scarlet fever, you name it, he got it.  Plus, the never ending fight to get him to daycare or over to a friend's place whilst I worked.  He never wanted to go, and as I'm a sensitive soul, I found that difficult.  It stressed me out, and I brought a lot of that stress into workplaces.  I felt constantly fearful that I'd get in trouble for having a child and wanting to look after him, even though most of the workplaces were child friendly and I'm sure they understood.  I remember a crazy, crazy, Saturday morning at Weight Watchers when Richard had to work and I took Alex along.  I brought enough entertainment paraphernalia to sink a battleship, but he was three and didn't like Mum paying attention to strange ladies and not listening to him.  He coloured briefly, he looked at his movie a bit, but mostly he made farty noises, whined and distracted me from my job.  I was almost apoplectic with rage afterwards and looking back, I see that I expected way too much from him and myself.  I wanted to work though, I wanted to show up and do a perfect job, but I also wanted to be the perfect mother. That's a lot of perfection, and of course, as often happens in my life, the resentment and fear combined until I had a spectacular meltdown and lost not only my job, but two very dear friends as well.

I did bits and pieces in Alex's first year of school, a friend put in a good word for me in a servo fast food place, and that went well until Alex got sick again and I became unable to balance the demands of working and his first year of school.  He went on the waiting list for a tonsillectomy and grommets, when it became clear that his illnesses were slightly beyond regular kids.  He missed 51 days of school that first year due to coughs, colds and infection.  I had a long break from work, until I thought I'd found the answer.....catalogue delivery! I only lasted a month, the process of folding and delivering was long and arduous, and it became easier to quit when I totaled my time spent, divided it by my paycheque, and realised that I was making about 50 cents an hour.

At the end of that year, a friend of a friend recommended me for a part time admin job.  The boss was awesome, the work challenging and varied, and the only fly in the ointment was that Alex had to go to after school care three days a week.  I didn't really see a problem, he'd been asking to go along and it was only three days a week.  The other two, I was free to pick him up.  I didn't start til midday, so I could do a little bit of housework and then go to work. I could do it all.  And it worked for a little while, until he started to get coughs and colds again.  He was having some attentional and learning problems that had started in Prep, so I was investigating those with the help of his amazing teacher, Rita S, and our paediatrician.  He was having sleep problems and was generally a bit of worrier.  Can't think where he gets it from!

My boss was amazing, and we arranged to each work a week of the school holidays.  That seemed like a good idea, but in reality, sucked hard, as Alex just wanted to chill out, relax and spend time at home. He'd had enough of other kids during the 9-5.30pm days he was doing, three days a week during school time.  He didn't want to go along and colour in, have a BBQ at Emerald Bank, dress up as a footy player.  We had a lot of tantrums in the carpark, and I had a lot of tears.  I was resentful and angry that I couldn't go to work as I wanted to.  I wished that I could just fly away, I wished that we had family closer, I wished that I could just leave the house like Richard did in the mornings.

Alex has a bit of a delicate constitution, and eventually became so run down by the long days in after school care, that he started getting sick every school holidays, for at least a week.  He hated after school care in the end and used to beg me not to have to go there, even though he had fun when he went.  My boss told me that they really needed someone full time and that the job was being retitled as full time.  I knew I couldn't do it, part time was enough of a struggle, and Richard had come to the party by taking a day off here and there to look after Alex...but his job was a full time job and it really wasn't feasible long term.

So, grudgingly, I made my decision to resign.  I just couldn't do full time and Alex needed me more than part time hours, so I didn't want to look for another job.  I resigned myself to my fate of housewife-hood, and started to plan some volunteer work or being the world's best stay at home mum.  And then, in December last year, I discovered that I was pregnant, and most of my plans went out the window.  This was so not part of my plan.  I started to see my career slipping further and further away from me, and most days, I'm ok with that.  I don't miss the guilt and the struggle and having five million things to do... I don't miss being torn in two different directions and being unable to be there for my son, or have to let my workplace down.  But I miss my working life.  I miss my profession.  It did feel strange when I went to work and left Richard at home with Alex.  I kept wanting to ring them up and make sure that he was ok.  I wondered if Richard felt the guilt and the struggle the way I did, but he didn't seem to.  He just did his thing with Alex, and then went to work the next day.

So, this is my fate.  A domestic engineer.  And most of me wants it that way, I love my boy so so so so much, and I want to be with him and be there for him.... but I miss having an identity outside of Alex's mum and Richard's wife.  Yes, I know that I am Deborah Hay, that I don't have to be defined by external means, and that I'm lucky to have the option to stay at home, when there are many many women and men struggling with the role of being sole providers, or having no choice but to work to meet financial demands.  I know I'm lucky, and most days I feel it.  But some days, I miss my job.  I grieve over being a stay at home mum.  I miss my cute outfits.  But happiness is about acceptance and just for today, I try to accept, and find the joy in the job I have now. I get to go to all of Alex's school things, I get to hear about his day and help him with his schooling journey.  I am lucky.  I am blessed. Mama's got a job to do.

There's a hole in the budget, dear Liza...

So, I imagine that most of us are in a similar position this time of year.  Christmas has been and gone, the Boxing Day sales, and now...the wasteland that is January.  The rates are due, the car rego is due, and I could easily spend stacks of money keeping Alex and myself amused during the holidays.

Finances are often a source of consternation in our household, with me sure that I am not contributing to our rapidly dwindling resources.  I am sure that I live frugally. I am sure that I live to a budget, even if it's not written down.  I am a frugal gal.  Ahh, who am I kidding.  Actually ,my attitude towards money is kinda like my attitude to cake.  I think that I'm impervious to cake, that I should be able to eat whatever I like, whenever I like...and that there should be no consequences.  I'm always flabbergasted when I put on weight.....there is actual incredulity when I step onto the scales and they've moved upwards.  Like, what? I should be able to eat whatever I like and never put on weight.

Well, this is similar.  I think I should be able to spend whatever I like and the finances should still be the same.  There should be an endless supply of money that I should be able to fling about with wild abandon, and still have plenty of money to pay the bills.  After all, I'm a princess. Rules don't apply to me. I am a special snowflake.  I shouldn't get sick, and if I do, I feel worse than anyone has ever felt in the entire history of illness (you may recall hearing about my morning sickness recently?)

Anyhoo, we rejigged our finances recently, and I cut up my card to the joint account and allowed myself a small allowance fortnightly.  Heaps of money.  Should be able to live on it easily.  So, it's kinda shocking and appalling to realise that I can't throw a Kinder Surprise Egg and a Bottle of water in every time I fill up with petrol.  I'm not entitled to a new shirt from the Op Shop every time I have a shitty day. Alex doesn't always need to be compensated for making it through the school day with a little treat.  I may feel that a Diet Coke or a piping hot cappuccino from Degani should be my right, any morning that I choose.  A pretty nail polish or a magazine should be mine whenever I feel the urge.  After all, I get through the day, don't I?  Yes, like every other human being on the planet.  But, somehow, due to my belief that I'm secretly an enchanted princess......when I do it, there should be either a parade, flowers, applause, or appropriate financial compensation.

So, there was a hole in the budget, dear Liza.  I'm a dirty rotten spender and I spend every cent in my possession.  I was wrong, Richard dearest, it was me.  The hole in the budget is me!!  And you want to know the really shocking thing? When I told Richard of my findings, he was completely unsurprised.  Seems he may have known all along that I am a Spendy McSpendpants.  The only one in denial was me!!

Thankfully, there are lots of things that come for free.  Smiles.  Love. Contentment.  The groceries are done and none of us are going without.  And I might slip back into denial again, but just for today, I see my part.

:)

Gossip makes me a bitch

Gosh, I love a good gossip, a good salacious slander of someone else.  But it's terribly terribly toxic for me and it's something that I just can't indulge in today.

Thing is, I have way more to lose these days. I have self respect, I like who I am, I'm in a good relationship. I have a son and an unborn child on the way. My family and friends have been gracious enough to let me attempt to repair the damage that my years of oblivion have done.  I have a purpose today that is directed by God.

But what trap have I fallen into more often than not in my recovery? Gossip. And it's so bloody addictive, and it's so so so so bad for me.  The more I judge you, the more I judge me, the more uncomfortable I am in my life and the more I reach out for answers that seek to numb that judgement.  I gossip enough, and I find that I don't want to have conscious contact with a Higher Power, I don't want to do the right thing. I want to lay in my bed, sending gossipy texts about how I hate everyone,and "did you see what she was wearing!?!" surrounded by copious amounts of drugs, food, magazines and alcohol and numb the heck out of myself.  That's where my disease takes me... sometimes my emotions are too much for me to handle and I fall back into old ways of self medicating.

I always feel like crap, though, and it's funny how my friendships with those I gossip with tend to end badly.  I made friends with a pair of besties a couple of years ago,and I was thrilled to be invited into their funny, fashionable, bitchy, gossipy circle.  They were both younger than me, and we would complain about other people, and how mundane and crap they were, how wonderful we were and how they should just get it/stop using incorrect grammar/stop wearing bad fashion/stop being a bitch.  We loved sending little pithy text messages and emails with new and interesting ways to insult the idiots who dared to be less fabulous than us.  It was horrendous, but it was wonderful.  I was in a lonely place in my life, where the fog of Post Natal Depression had lifted, and I felt better, but I'd yet to find myself a new place in the town where I was living. So I let myself be defined as fabulous by the company I kept. They are both very talented people, and I felt kinda important by association.

Can you guess what happened? I couldn't have predicted it, but I fell out of favour. I started not getting the invites to the after parties.  I started to be too needy in pursuing their friendship and started meeting a brick wall in response.  I felt a sense of slowly mounting fear, because I knew what would happen to those who weren't invited to the post-event McDonald's sessions. They'd be seriously torn to shreds by witty gossip.  I knew that was going to be happening to me.  I felt afraid and cast adrift, and in that madness, I clung onto my friends.  It ended badly.  I cried and begged in a way that no self-respecting thirty-something woman should do. But, it ended.  I had to respect their silence and that my repeated attempts to contact them were just digging my own grave of loser-dom.

You know what, though? I ran into one of them the other day.  It had been years since I saw her, and three years ago, we were closer than close. It was nothing for us to text each other several times a day. She made me a series of mix tapes when she moved away for uni.... but running into her in the shopping centre, it couldn't be more clear that she found me repulsive.  I was surprised to see her and said "Hey!!"  She didn't even glance up from her phone, and uttered a disgusted "hey".  I was shocked and surprised and struggled for words.  "how are you?", I trembled out..... Her phone received another few scrolls, and then she deigned to answer me with a muttered "good".  I stood stock still, not sure what to do, then I realised that the best thing to do was to walk on.  It really was over. I couldn't win her back with a funny aside or a bitchy comment.  The casket of our friendship had slammed shut while I was still trying to ressuciate it.  Time to let it go.

Do you know the funny thing, though? I still miss them. I still miss their amazingly witty sense of humour, I miss the warm glow of their talent, I miss their fashion and style.  But, I don't miss the gossip. Much as I want to run after them and assure them that I'm still cool, I know it's healthier for me to pursue friendships where I don't talk about others.  Sometimes it's quiet and lonely when I don't talk about other people...and I've realised that is what gossip gives us...a sense of belonging...a sense that other people don't belong and don't get it, but we do.  It's a false belonging, though.  Our belonging rests on others not belonging, and that is no belonging at all.  Today, I belong in that I am true to myself.  I belong in that I try to be the best me that I can, and support and applaud you for being the best me that you can.  :)

Up the duff

I have one child, who is 7.  He's an amazing, busy boy and I am finally adjusting to parenting and still being me, not having to be a cookie cutter mama who wears sensible clothes and doesn't swear.  I'm not saying I'm a badass, but I like fashion, philosophy, relationships.  I like me today. I'm happy with my life.

The second child thing.....well, there was a fleeting thought from both of us, usually at different times, and not strong enough to do anything about it.  So, I thought the factory must be closed, the shop is shut....the assembly line produced one boy and said "that's it!".  I made my peace with it, and also made an appointment to have my tubes tied.

That appointment was on Monday, but I'm not going through with it.  I'm not, because at the eleventh hour, at the last possible moment, a teeny miracle has occurred inside of me and I'm somehow pregnant at 37.  Not something I envisaged.

I was shocked but thrilled, in a state of disbelief.  Over Christmas and New Year, the reality has sunk in and I've figured out I'm scared.  Why? Well, not long after I had Alex, a double decker bus of Post Natal Depression drove through my life and the lives of all of those around me.  I wanted to hard to do it right, that I sucked all the joy and life out of being a parent.  I was terrified of something happening to him.  And that fear took on a life of its own, mainly because I wouldn't, or couldn't, admit what I was going through.  I became severely depressed.  I suffered what is known as a nervous breakdown.  It's not as much fun as it sounds.  It involves hospital stays, suicide attempts, overdoses, ECT (shock therapy), multiple medication changes, and intense strain on the lives of those around me as they helped me pick up the pieces of my shattered psyche.

I finished my last hospital stay when Alex was 9 months old, and started trying to pretend to be his mother.  I felt suicidal and desperate each day, for most of the day, and had to learn how to fake it til I made it.  And eventually I made it, the fog cleared, I found a great psychiatrist and started repairing myself.

And I was pretty happy with the job that God and I had done, until my biggest fear loomed large. A baby. A pregnancy.  The fear.  For a long time I tried to deny that I was afraid of this baby.  I told everyone "It'll be different this time  - I'm older and more together.  It won't happen again".

But I'm still a little afraid.  And do you know what helps? Admitting that I'm afraid.  That's something that I never did the first time around.  I said "I'm fine" for so long, until I wasn't fine.  My fears and feelings only have power over me if I keep them secret.  They say in twelve step programs that you're only as sick as the secrets you keep, and that's so true.

The more I say "I'm afraid", the less power that fear has over me.  The more I talk to professionals and put things in place to help me work through why I'm afraid, the better I feel.  The more I see that my feelings are not facts and they can only hurt me if I let them.....the better and stronger I feel.  Acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today.  Not denial.  Denial is what makes me sick.  Acceptance, makes me better.

Like Bonnie Tyler said - "I need a hero"!

"Let's face it, every woman wants to be rescued", I stated with supreme confidence to a collection of my shocked female friends.

Let me explain.  I'd spent many, many years looking for love in all the wrong places (Mooseheads Canberra, I'm looking at you), and in a series of unfortunate events, completely caused by me, I had crashed my car, joined AA and met the love of my life.  He was trustworthy, honest, loving and he was my Prince Charming.  I thought that I deserved a little rescuing after what I'd been through and he didn't seem to mind.

The real problems started when I needed rescuing on a daily basis.  I was in early recovery, and after removing the substance that had been my hero for a decade, I needed someone or something to become addicted to.  My husband became that, and I read a lot of books about the fairytale and how to keep it alive.

Hence me being in Melbourne, catching up with a group of girlfriends and lecturing them on what being married was like. I was painful. I was horrible.  But I moved to a small country town and stopped wearing high heels, joined a bible study and quickly learnt how my husband liked his everything, because the other wives kept asking me and I didn't have a clue.

There were cracks forming, though...I'd stopped swearing and laughing at rude jokes, I tried to force myself into the square peg of a doting, conservative wifey.  I did all the housework and forced myself to join craft groups.  This would have been ok for a while, but we had a child.  As the famous quote goes, "A child is a landmine thrown into a relationship", and ours was more shattering than most.

Suffering from undiagnosed Borderline Personality Disorder, I had no idea who I really was, and when people kept telling me to trust my instincts with the baby...I couldn't cope.  Trust my instincts? My inner voice?  I'd been trying to shut that bastard up for years with drink, drugs, food and impersonating what I thought other people wanted of me.  I couldn't cope. I couldn't find me and I became lost in a prison of 2 years of suicidal thoughts and crippling depression.

Coming out of this, I was angry. I had suffered. I was miserable to be around. I spent a lot of time in blame, but the diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder opened my eyes to the fact that I could get better.  I'd already swallowed and digested some big chunks of truth about myself, and I was set to chow down on several more.

This year, as my child turns seven, I am finally beginning to find myself. I mean, for the first time ever.  I am starting to ride the wave of my emotions and feelings, to surf instead of being dumped by a big wave. I can see that I am the only one who can fix me.  Nobody else can walk this for me.  I've found this through the strength of 12 step programs.  I've let go of the anger in me about life not being fair, started to grow up and see that I can be my own hero.

And my relationship? I don't need rescuing. You gals were right. I try to accept and love myself for who I am. I try to do that for my husband. I try to ask for that in return...even though it's easier to get mad about the things he didn't do that I didn't ask him to do.  Asking for what I want has been scary, but people aren't mind readers.

If I look to anyone to rescue me from what is, I don't deal with my feelings and emotions.  If I look to my parents, my friends, my family or relationships to rescue me, I deny myself the chance to sit with my feelings and get to know myself.  I'm starting to fall in love, with me. I show up, I say sorry when I'm wrong, I tell people if I don't understand things or don't get the joke.  I try to accept when people don't like me and realise I can't change the people who take exception to me.  I try not to panic when things don't work out...because if I understood God, I would be God. No point in pretending....and every time I am true to myself, my self esteem grows, and I become who I was put on this earth to be.  The hero starts with me.

Grammar nazi no more.

It's been said that I was reading books when I was 4.  I was the eldest of three girls, and loved to read, I loved words, spelling, English. I loved comprehension exercises. I loved reading the dictionary and finding new, cool words. I started school at 4 and 9 months and I loved the work....even if I was terrified of the kids.

Some of my favourite words are "nebulous", "ephemeral", "zeitgeist","supercilious" and "cathartic".  When I was 12, we moved to a much smaller town, and I struggled to fit in.  I didn't really enjoy puberty and resented having to try to fit in again, so I escaped to a world of books and language and daydreams.

I might not have been the prettiest girl, I might not have been popular, I might have been terrified of boys, but by heck, could I spell. I loved to punctuate, and considered a sign with a misused possessive apostrophe an abomination. I considered a boycott of the local shop that advertised "Pizza's", or "Video's".

No, no, no. You're wrong. And I can hide in my ivory tower of correctness and judge you. I can make it be about the words, and use them to make me more and you less.  I judge you when you use poor grammar. I can actually remember just about having a panic attack if I ever sent out  an email that was incorrect.  It was a lofty standard to live up, and judgement breeds fear.  I was always looking for ways to prove that you were wrong and I was right.  

I didn't think I'd ever be able to consider someone who couldn't spell or punctuate a friend or boyfriend. How shallow and misguided I was.

I met my husband, who is smart, funny, honest and loving.  And you know what? He is much more of a do-er than a writer.  And I love the heck out of him. 

However, I didn't really begin to see the error of my ways until my beautiful, beautiful, amazing son Alex started school.  In the middle of his first year at school, his caring teacher alerted us to some potential problems with his learning.  We needed to help him more and we had his learning assessed.  I'm not going to go into too much detail, because that is Alex's story to tell, not mine - but the upshot of it was, that he will have to work a lot harder to have a level of learning that some kids find second nature.  The reading and learning that I found so easy, he will probably always struggle with.  And at first, I took that hard.  I didn't want my boy to struggle, I wanted him to find life easy... but I quickly realised that my job as a parent is not to wrap him in cotton wool and protect him from circumstances...but to build in him resilience and the ability to face tough things piece by piece, and without running from challenges.

Sure, I may have found learning easy, but there are many life skills that I struggle with. Seeing Alex learn, and the hard work that he puts in to every concept that he learns, makes me realise that this is just the way his brain works.  Accepting him for who he is and how he learns has been paramount to helping him.  I can't make him a different child any more than he can make me a different mum.  And I wouldn't want to make him different to the beautiful boy that he is.  The strength and resilience that he has shown in the past eighteen months make me realise that he is building character, and that triumph over his circumstances has made him grow a lot more than shielding him from troubles ever would.

So, if someone misspells a word or uses grammar incorrectly, I try not to judge them. We all have different talents and abilities, and for some, language comes easier than others. Do I judge you when you use poor grammar? No.  I celebrate that you are using language, I try to accept you and I hope you will do the same for me.  These days, I see that we are all a work in progress...no better than, no less than.  On a good day, I try not to judge at all.

Love,

Deb :)

I didn't regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it.

I did it - I went to my 20 year highschool reunion.

I didn't go to the 10 year reunion, as I'd just met Richard, and I was living in Canberra, he was living in Finley, and the reunion was in Taree. Love of your life versus awkward chit chat? Of course, I took off to Finley and spent the weekend in a love haze.

This one was different, though, 20 years had gone by.  I got an invitation to the Facebook group last year, and was undecided whether I'd go.... my best friend Jennie was moving back to Wingham some time soon, so I knew that we could hang out.  I'd also reconnected with a lovely girl called Shauna, who I was never friends with in school (we both thought the other hated us!) but have become firm friends with her over shared experiences and thoughts on Facey.  I was hoping that Kristy, Liz, Renae and Richard M would come, as they were part of our posse in Year 11 and 12, but the distance was too great for them.  There were lots of lovely people there that it was great to see.

It's hard for me to talk about my schooling without mentioning that I was seriously depressed and anxious for a lot of it. I suffered terribly from low self esteem, and I didn't know who I was, or who I wanted to be.  The most I thought I could hope for was to be a housewife - I knew how to do housework and I felt sure that I couldn't fail at that. I was terrified of trying new things, terrified of seeming silly and wrong, terrified of myself and sure that other people had the answers that I was lacking.

I wouldn't say that I took part in much of my schooling - I'd say that I was an observer.  I have the keenest memories of all the events that happened in school, probably because I was so aware of others and watching what they did. I thought other people had the answers, and watched how they interacted and talked and joked.  If my friends were away, it wasn't uncommon for me to spend the entire day not talking to anyone.  Yet, the moment that I came home from school, I'd come alive, I'd start performing.  I'd laugh and joke and talk and express. I had so, so many feelings and thoughts, but I somehow thought that they were too intense and too much to share with other people.  I was furiously angry at popular people, thought they were sheep, and clung to disdain of those who dared to be happy.

I can't imagine why I didn't get invited to more parties.

In the 20 years since then, I've grown into myself.  I've become more me and less me at the same time.  I'm aware of my boundaries and my limits.  That is such a good and healthy thing.  The times when I say "no, I'm sorry, I need help", empower both me and the person I am asking for help.  I alone can do it, but I don't have to do it alone.  There have been many many wonderful and amazing people who have shared my journey of self discovery and my quest for the prize of contentment.

I was surprised when people recognised me at the reunion, because the girl that I was at that school is someone who I don't feel like. Apart from the red hair, brown eyes and tall frame, I feel like I have little in common with her.
She agonised over what she said - I mostly let it go.
She was terrified of what people thought of her - I realise that I can't control what others think
She was angry at the cards fate had dealt - I realise that gratitude and acceptance are the only things I need to make sense of life
She didn't know who she was, but was sure it was wrong - I know exactly who I am, and I know that I am enough.
She hated people because she hated herself - I love people today (imperfectly), because I love and cherish myself.
She thought life wasn't fair - I know that life is what you make of the things that happen.
She hated Taree because coming there had ruined her life - I saw that Taree is a beautiful town, with beaches and lush green valleys. I saw that the sadness that was in me was what had ruined my outlook.

I know I've still got a long way to go, but just for today, I am happy in the journey, and contented in who and where I am.

There is a passage in one of my favourite books, where it says "We will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it" - and that's exactly how I felt.  No, I didn't feel the need to stick around.  It was nice to see people and hear some stories of what they were up to..but there were no lightning bolt moments that resolved any deep seated issues.  I realised that, as always, the answer is not in other people. It never is.  Other people don't have my answers.  My answers come from deep with in me, in a higher consciousness that I choose to call God.  I carry this with me at all times, and wherever I go...there I am.  And I like that.

I broke up with dieting...because it was making me crazy

What goes around, comes around.

This time about 4 years ago, I weighed 122kg.  I hated myself.  I felt revolting and inadequate, like I didn't have any value.  It was hard to get around, I didn't have much energy, my size was 20....my self esteem was minus one thousand.  I felt ugly and unattractive and that I was taking up way too much space. I felt that whenever anyone interacted with me, they'd whisper "you fat cow", under their breath.  I was totally paranoid about my size.

So then, I decided to go to Weight Watchers.  I embraced it with all the control freakery that is in me.  I weighed and measured and counted points. I walked and thought and lived for my weigh in. I set up a reward list for when I lost the weight.  I felt that people were more interested in me as I shrank.  I became an inspiration. A thinspiration.  And I kept it up, for a good year.  In that time, I lost 24 kilos.  I was, if not a shadow of my former self, looking pretty good.  My friends and husband told me how great I looked.  The doors of chain stores were open to me.  I could wear Cotton On, Target,Sportsgirl and I was in a size 14, sometimes size 12.  I was winning at life.

I lived and breathed Weight Watchers, I saw lives changed in those rooms as we shared our worries and our challenges about the week coming.  We heard inspirational stories, we talked about strategies like filling up on vegetables so we wouldn't overeat.  We exercised so that we could eat.  Or, perhaps only I did.

I started working as a WW volunteer, handing out cards and helping.  The next thing you know, I'd asked for, and received, a job as a weigher.  Slight problem.  Although I felt reasonably good about my weight, I was still 12 kilos outside my healthy weight range.  People were coming through the doors at my height, wanting to lose 5kg, weighing less than I did as a weigher.  I felt totally inadequate and that I should be at my goal weight if I wanted to take this shit seriously and become a leader.  Which I totally did. I have a background in amateur theatrics (both on and off stage), and love the thrill of being in front of an audience.

So, because there was no manager in the area at the time, and as the other leader had quit, I got through as a Leader on a technicality.  As long as I was committed to losing weight, I could become a leader.  I had to submit to monthly weigh ins, as I did as a weigher.  No worries, thought I.  I've got this in the bag.  I'm good at losing weight.  Or so I thought.  Until I had to.

My journey had stopped being about me and started being about numbers.  I put a lot into my meetings, and would think about the clients and ways to help them.  It was seductive to think that I had the capacity to help other people with their problems.  Me, who only 4 years prior, had been suffering from crippling Post Natal Depression/Nervous Breakdown.  I was useful.  I had a function, other than mother, which often, I thought I did a pretty bad job.  Sure, I love Alex, but I wanted something for me.

So, a couple of things happened.  I started doing a lot of extra work to get my meetings going.  I had to receive and count stock, and store boxes upon boxes upon boxes of stock in my spare room, and transport it to and from the meetings.  I had to manage staff.  I was really really crap at managing staff. I wanted them to just know what I was thinking and would feel annoyed if they didn't do things the "right" way, but felt unable to tell them, as by then, they were my friends.  Awkward.

I had been struggling with my weight for a while.  At 181cm, my goal weight is between 64-82kgs.  At my lightest with WW, I reached 93kg.  Still a way to go....and so I set about it.  Only, I was a bit sick of counting so much.  I was sick of being organised.  Of weighing and measuring and counting and converting.  My brain was full with so much information about food.  And meetings, and ways to encourage people, the sales targets that I had as a leader, the information talk that I had to give to the new people, and what the product of the week was.  I gained and lost the same 4kg many times.  The leaders meetings that we had every second month became painful, when all my staff were at goal weight, and I wasn't.  Worse still, the very thinnest, prettiest one of them all had decided that she would train as a leader.  I was very supportive of her, but noticed that she had started to bring me up on some of the procedures that I wasn't doing properly.  I should have talked to her about it, but I didn't know how to.  I didnt' want to admit that I was jealous of her and her figure.  She was getting married and I was jealous of that. Marriage is amazing and life changing, but at times it can be a slow plod, especially with young kids.  I knew my husband loved me and that I loved him, but we were far from lovebirds, especially with my brain so full of weight watchers and points.

My son Alex was starting school and I was full of anxiety about him leaving me. He had been bullied at his kinder(preschool) and I was worried that the same thing would happen.  School was not a pleasant place for me, and I couldn't help but project some of my fears onto him.

In short, my brain was too full and too busy.  On top of that, I was a recovering alcoholic who hadn't been to an AA meeting in over a year.  I had a nasty little secret too.  After my sleeping tablets were ceased in 2008, I rediscovered my old friend codeine.  I'd hurt my back and noticed that after I took the tablets, I was much more able to sleep.  I filed that away for future reference. 

In the midst of all this cray cray, mid 2011, I'd developed a horrible sinus infection, with a crippling headache. I started taking aspirin/neurofen based codeine painkillers along with panadol based codeine painkillers.  I only took them 2 at a time, because that's what it said on the packet, but I totally ignored the part where it said "no more than 6 in 24 hours" and "do not take for more than a week at a time", and especially not "WARNING: Codeine is addictive". I was washing the painkillers down with lashings of Diet Coke and Skinny cappuccino, and hating myself for not losing more weight.

I told my coworkers at WW everything.  Warts and all. (oh, except about the painkillers!!) I told them the things that I should have revealed only to other AAs, things about my past and my present and behaviours that I had that were far from healthy.   I didn't really know much about appropriate conversations. 

And so, it all came to a head.  One Saturday morning in January 2012, all the hate and fear and anger that I felt towards my body, for not losing weight, my mind, for obsessing over how fat/thin I was, and how I compared to those around me, all the nasty, black, disgusting thoughts and feelings I had, erupted.  A couple of things happened.  I felt that the Thin and Pretty Leader in Training was disrespecting me.  I felt that she wasn't listening to me.  I felt jealous and horrible and ugly and fat and stupid, and I unleashed all of that on her.  And she fled the room.  The other girl looked at me in horror and said "This changes everything". I was still angry, so justified myself.  Then a trickle of fear crept in.  I went into the bathroom, where Thin and Pretty had fled to....and found her with a nosebleed, weeping in the aftermath of my vicious attack.  I apologised, and we hugged.  We all went out for a rather subdued coffee.  Oh.  And it was her birthday.  Happy birthday - sorry for the verbal abuse, let me pay for your coffee.

Are you surprised to hear that they never spoke to me again?  Are you surprised to hear that I was fired?  They cut me loose and I was angry.  I was embarrassed and ashamed and felt awful.

But, at least I could eat what I wanted now.  Or could I?  I pushed so much crap into my body in the next few days, that I almost immediately put on 3 kilos.  Didn't worry about them too much. As long as I could still fit into my cool clothes, I was golden.

February came around, and I was anxious and twitchy at home.  One of my friends got me a job at a fast food cafe.  This was good news for the bank balance, but very bad news for my food. We were allowed to eat whatever we liked from the Bain Marie....  and so I did.  The habits that I'd picked up over 2 years of WW were still ingrained and I binged on fruit and vegetables, but ate quite a few burgers from the shop, as well as the enormous fatty fries that tasted like heaven.

I joined a gym, because my pants were starting to get tight.  This was April.  My weight had hit 102kg and I was a little worried, because it wasn't coming off like it used to.  I started drinking protein shakes from the gym and still eating crap.  It didn't work.  By the time I quit the cafe, in May, I weighed 105kg and was busting out of my size 16 pants.  I had to go and buy a few size 18s. I couldn't fit into my size 12 or 14 tops any more.  I started to feel paranoid about my size.

In June, I stopped going to the gym, and decided to go back to what had worked for me.  Weight Watchers.  I signed up for three months of online tracking so I could get back to tracking my points.  But something was wrong. I couldn't control myself any more.  I resented having to stop eating.  I kept bingeing.  I even threw up.   The painkiller usage had continued on, with my headaches and backaches a part of everyday life.  I had a hole in my tooth, so sometimes used that as an excuse for buying the daily painkillers.  I started visiting different chemists after a chemist asked me "Have you been to the doctor for this? You've had a lot of painkillers recently!".  I was full of fear, and self-righteous anger.  He had no idea how I suffered! (Yeah, right).

Weight Watchers wasn't working.  I took a couple of kilos off, but they'd keep coming back on.  I started going back to AA meetings, as well as a new fellowship to help with some of my emotional problems.  I quit another temping job, as Alex had got Scarlet Fever.  I wanted to be at home looking after him, but I was resentful at having to give up my life for him. I felt trapped.  Food, and painkillers, were my reward.

In September, I started Tony Ferguson.  I was now up to 107kg, I hadn't been able to lose any weight long term with Weight Watchers.  I decided that I needed a quick loss in time for Christmas, and that this would help me.  It didn't.  I was 107kg in the bathroom at home, but 110kg when I weighed in at TF.  I managed to get back down to 108 on their scales, but as soon as I had a week where I put on weight, I decided that it wasn't working and stopped.  I had a friend who was doing intuitive eating, where you listen to your body and eat whatever you like, as long as you are hungry.

I decided to start doing this, however, I kinda skipped the "as long as you're hungry" part.  I was full of fear about my weight, and my brain was constantly telling me that I was revolting and disgusting.  I stepped on the scales one day and saw 113kg.  Disaster.  I had a friend who was doing Jenny Craig, so I decided to go there.   They were absolutely lovely and talked me through everything.  I started doing all the things that I'd done with WW, and binged on vegetables and fruit.  Even when I wasn't hungry, in case I got hungry.  But for every 500g I lost, I put 600g on.  I was getting bigger and bigger.  When, after a particularly bad weekend, I saw the figure "115kg", I became fearful. 

Over Christmas, I restricted what I ate and took a bag of snow peas with me everywhere.  I hardly ate any chocolate.  I went back to JC and I had put on 300g.

This was the point that I went...you know what? This is just not working for me.  I read a friend's book about intuitive eating, again, and embraced the part about "only when I am hungry".  What good is bingeing on lots and lots of vegetables when you are hungry for a bowl of popcorn?  Why am I fighting my body so much?  So I decided to stop fighting.  I broke up with dieting.  I'd love to tell you that I lost lots and lots of weight, and have the answers to all your questions.  But I don't. I only have my journey.  I have my body and my appetite and I have to honour that.  I have to accept the way that I feel about my body.  At the moment, I am a size 18, and I don't like that.  I feel unacceptable. I saw myself on a video that my husband took today and my first thought was "My goodness, I'm fat!!".  And I accepted that.  I am practicing listening to my body....because when I was a little girl, I was skinny.  Before the emotional minefield that was puberty, I listened to my body. I ran, I walked, I jumped and I ate.  I didn't think about what to eat or when to eat, I just did it.  And I was healthy.  I wish I was smaller, but I have to accept that I don't know what is good or bad for my body.

I'd get so angry before weigh ins, when I'd eaten loads of vegetables and they wouldn't clear out.  I became obsessed with my colon and because of all the codeine had blocked me up, I would take laxatives.  I wouldn't drink or eat before weighing in, and I'd wear the lightest clothes I could find.  It was no way to live long term - I'm surprised I lasted as long as I did.

So, I've broken up with dieting. My weight may not have changed much, but I am still adjusting to the "eat when you're hungry" thing. I still eat a lot when I'm not hungry, but it's getting less. I am practicing being loving and tolerant of myself and I think that when I feel that I am not going to be deprived of eating, that perhaps I will begin to have a regular relationship with food.  I've done it a few times, not eaten til I was hungry, and the food, the food is so much nicer.  So much more delicious on an empty stomach, than force feeding more comfort into a body that is already stuffed with the meal before.

My codeine addiction is quite common, especially among those with addictive personalities.  There's a reason why it says "WARNING: CODEINE IS ADDICTIVE". Cause it blummen well is!  I went to see my doctor to get some help with it, and have been slowly coming off it.  In a week, I will be totally painkiller free.  I realised that I couldn't tell if I was hungry or not if I was constantly fuzzy from painkillers.  I thought I was in genuine pain....turns out the neck pain can be fixed by a hot shower, dencorub or a wheat bag.  The headache - that was a rebound headache from taking too many painkillers - a sign that my body was dependent on them.  I feel clear, happy and free.  I had a lot of fear around giving them up and whether I would be able to sleep or not...and although it hasn't been the best week of sleep that I've ever had in my life, I accept that I am an anxious type of person and I need to do things like writing and exercising and talking to other AA members about my addictive personality, in order to sleep peacefully. 

My mind is emptied of fat, kj, points, propoints, fats, grains, etc etc.  I practice trying to love and accept myself.  I soothe the voice in my head that tells me I am a fat loser and nobody wants to be my friend.  I tell it that I am doing the best that I can and I am worthy.  I have come so far. I know that the damaged, skeptical, addictive part of me still wants the Duromine that another doctor offered me, but the well, sane part of me, just wants me to be me.  I am practicing loving myself back to health.  How can I stay overweight if I eat only when I am hungry?  It is a scary journey, but one that I am sort of excited about being on.

When I'm fully off the codeine, I will be picking another sobriety date.  And instead of thinking that I've lost nearly 10 years of sobriety and being hard on myself, I will see that not drinking, one day at a time, for nearly 10 years, is an achievement....and that this is another phase of my recovery. Instead of thinking that I've lost and then regained 16kg, and that I am a failure, I see that I have learnt a lot through my weight loss journey. I was just as obsessed and crazy at 93kg when I was dieting.  I didn't focus on life - I focused on food.  It was my obsession and all I wanted was to be thinner, because perhaps then I would feel worthwhile. I am no better or worse than anyone who has an addictive nature.  I am no better or worse than anyone who has ever struggled to lose weight and hated themselves because of it.  I'm moving away from judging other people, because it makes me judge myself too, and I don't like that.  I am no better or worse. I'm just me. Becoming Deborah.

My six year old son wants a six pack

My beautiful son is in his first year of Primary school, and he is changing.

You see, my son is becoming his own person. He spends a lot of his time with his teacher and his friends at school, he has thoughts and experiences that I know nothing about. I can't limit his world any more (nor would I want to), and he has stories to tell me about the schoolyard that sometimes leave me in slack-jawed disbelief.

It all started last weekend, at a birthday party for one of his schoolmates.  One of the ladies was telling us that her son, who has an older brother who is 14, goes into his room of a night and does sit ups and push ups so that he can get a six pack. I was amazed that a six year old would be so concerned with his body, but thought it was harmless enough.  I mean, there's nothing wrong with a bit of hero worship and wanting to be healthy, right?  Well....the conversation quickly continued about the boys in the playground ALL wanting six packs, with the boys deciding that those who had the six packs  were good, and anyone who didn't was bad.

There is a bit of a gym culture at our school among the parents, but that's not unusual, and healthy as long as not taken to excess, right?  I mean, I try to stay fit but I'm never going to be a gym junkie. Shopping is my cardio, and my beautiful hubby has a full on manual job, which means he doesn't have the time or the inclination to go to the gym.

Yesterday, my son came home and dragged the scales out of the bathroom.  "Mum", he said "I need to see if I am fit or not.  Am I fat?"  What the actual heck?  I thought that this was a conversation I would just not need to have with him, especially at the tender age of six!  He pulled up his shirt and said "I don't have a six pack, it's good to have a six pack mum".  I whipped out the laptop and fired up the Height and Weight charts for six year olds - and showed him that he was in the 100th percentile for height and the 75th percentile for weight.  "You know what this means, mate - you are just right.  Your weight is exactly what it should be for being healthy.".

I think I reassured him, but I was still confused by our conversation - so I brought it up with one of my friends at the school concert last night.  She told me that her son had taken Christmas beads into his bed with him and was sleeping on them.  She told him that it was dangerous to sleep with beads, and he said "But mum!! If I sleep on these beads they will go into my skin and in the morning I'll have a six pack".  She was horrified!

Seriously? Is this a thing? If this is happening to the boys, what are the girls saying to each other?  I guess there's a lot more images of physical perfection in the media and society as a whole feels a lot more compelled to be fit and chiseled.  When I was six, all I can remember is running fast and playing with my friends. I certainly didn't worry about whether I was fat or not. All I can do is reassure my son that his body is strong and healthy. Are we too obsessed with bodily perfection?  I don't know what the answer is.....but I'm fairly certain that it doesn't involve a six pack on a six year old.

Christianity and Halloween

So, Halloween has got me thinking about what I believe…and whether I have to justify it or not.  I’m a Christian, but I think my sub-category is radical/liberal.  Identifying as having a faith is a bit of a minefield these days.  So, yes….. I’m always going to be one of the first to say that I am a bit of a radical – that my Christianity is kinda left field.  I believe in Marriage Equality, I am pro choice, and I recently - *gasp* - took my son and a friend trick or treating.  In some people’s eyes, that makes me a Christian in name only.  Really?

I’d understand this attitude if I took to the streets with a sign saying “the Devil ROOLS OK!” and was dressed in a devils suit.  I wasn’t. I had black on, with funny glasses, and my son and his friend were dressed as ninjas.  Because we haven’t gone trick or treating before, I took a huge bag of lollies for the neighbours to give the kids…. For me, it was more about the lollies and having fun.  I understand that life is serious, and that there is evil lurking.  But, must we imbue every fun childhood tradition with EVIL and SATAN where there is really only a bit ‘o’ fun?  For me, the important thing about Christianity is that Jesus was a dude who loved us sooooo much, that he died for us and the rest of the world, so that we would have everlasting evidence of how much God loves us.  It was all planned.  It’s something that sustains me when crappy things happen.  God’s love…it’s strong.  It’s a lot stronger than a pair of devil’s horns and a plastic bucket with a pumpkin on it.

So much of what’s wrong with faith these days is making judgements about how we worship the big guy in the sky, or if we believe in him at all.  My gorgeous mum knows how much I struggle with the attitude of “you must believe or it’s the fiery furnace for you” – she says that only God knows what is in a person’s heart and what their relationship with him is.  That makes me feel better – God is the one who is in control – not me. It’s not my place or anyone else’s to judge where God fits into another person’s life…or to dictate what they believe or the choices that they make. 

A couple of years ago, my husband Richard and I attended the funeral of a loving, kind, Christian woman who lived a gorgeous life of love for others, regardless of their faith.  A perfect opportunity to tell the non-believers there more about the God who helped her live such an amazing life. ….But unfortunately, one of the members of that congregation used the opportunity to address the captive audience about the small matter of their un-savedness.  Fiery furnaces and eternal damnation were mentioned, along with a sprinkling of saliva as the fervent and fired up speaker doused this dear lady’s memory with lashings of guilt and judgement.  I don’t think many of those people will return to church.  To me, that’s not what God is all about.  God is love!

I recently wrote in my blog about my two younger sisters and their approaches to their personal walk with Jesus.  The upshot of it is that our views are vastly different – but we haven’t yet come to blows over the Christmas dinner table.  Despite our differences, or perhaps because of them, we all still worship the same God. We believe that God has his hand on our lives, that he sent his son Jesus to die for our sins, and that he is the way to have a relationship with God. Same God, but very different people. So, please don't switch off when you hear that we're Christians. We may have the same core beliefs, but there are many different flavours.

 

Different flavours of Christianity

So - once upon a time, there were three sisters.  The eldest had red hair and was prone to anxiety.  The middle sister also had red hair, and was very private.  The youngest had blonde hair and was a happy girl, with a touch of worrying.

These three girls are my sisters and I - we are 36, 34 and 33 respectively.  We are all Christians, although we are all very different Christians, with very different lives.  I was thinking about Christianity and how a lot of times, it gets a bad rap for hate, scandal and greed.  I wanted to let you in on how it's possible to worship Jesus and God in a way that is genuine and honest to you, and yet to be very very different in the ways that you approach your faith.

Let's start with me, because let's face it - talking about me is one of my favourite things to do.  I had a lot of years away from the church - where I was out living the party life, drinking and kissing boys and getting myself into terrible trouble.  During times of terrible trouble, I'd turn to God and start going back to church. I'd try to repent and to stop making rude jokes, to help out with the youth group and stop binge drinking.  I lived a bit of a double life, advising the girls to wait for their true love, then going home and getting changed into lurid outfits and hitting the town.  I had a spiritual awakening about nine years ago, when I realised that I had to stop living a double life.  I'd been praying for a husband and yet my younger sister was the one who got engaged first.  I was terribly angry with God, but didn't realise that my partner in the bridal party would go on to be my husband.  It was like God said to me "huh, do you think I'd leave you all alone to make this decision? Here he is, the one you were waiting for - I had it planned all along.  Why didn't you just trust me?"

So, I've learned to trust God and during the time when I had intense and severe Post Natal Depression, my faith developed. I realised that God had a plan and a purpose for my life, and that I had to stop thinking that I could know what was best for me - that I had to trust him and just do my best - learn to stop trying to control everything...to surrender and let go absolutely.

These days, I attend church with my hubs and son, teach Sunday school, support gay marriage, am pro choice, love dirty jokes and movies with Kirsten Wiig in them.  I've learnt that I don't have to say goodbye to my racy sense of humour - God gave it to me for a reason....but that I do need to learn where to unleash it. I am very open to other religions, and have seen lots of people have spiritual experiences that don't involve Jesus.  I struggle with the idea of one true faith, but I know that I can't not believe in Jesus.

The next sister had a period of illness in her early teens, where she suffered terribly with Chronic Fatigue.  During those dark times, her faith developed, and she was one of those well balanced girls, who concentrated more on her books and her faith than boys. Our mother's faith was also an amazing example to her, as it has been to all of us.  She got her license before I did, and had a wide circle of friends.  She was always interested in other cultures, and wanted to travel.  Funnily enough, as the one who didn't really care about boyfriends, she ended up with the most interest.  Perhaps it was because she wasn't interested? Perhaps because she trusted God with the outcome? She studied hard, became a vet, and whilst she studied, she traveled the world, had lots of adventures and lived in America for a year. 

These days, she lives in a small country town, and attends church with her husband and five children, was the first of us to be married and have a baby. Although she's settled down, she has by no means settled, she took her first born to Japan and is always scheming the latest trip to visit friends far and wide.  She supports a number of organisations that ensure the rights of unborn children, mothers in need and those who have had terminations and who need counselling.  She's loving and giving and prays endlessly for the members of our family.  She holds a bible study in her home and sends her children to a Christian school.  Her husband preaches in their church and they frequently discuss the bible and how to better follow God.  They don't observe the traditions of Santa, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy, and have requested that the family not give their children any characters that could be seen to have magic at their core.  No Power Rangers, No Ben 10, No Fairies. 

I don't always agree with all their decisions, and they don't always agree with mine, but our Venn Diagram of faith overlaps in many areas, and we are able to respect the other's opinion, even though we may not agree with it.

Moving on to youngest sister.  She and the middle sister attended many christian camps and workshops in their teen years.  Youngest sis is a very talented cook, and catered for many church camps, and was happy and cheery and loved organising her friends into races and active things.  She got her drivers license earlier than I did, and was often the designated driver to parties.  She was more social than middle sister, but still studious.  She studied hard and excelled at Uni.  Her faith developed during a difficult time, when she was the only child left at home and things were very busy in the family business.  She would probably have liked a boyfriend, but I think the cautionary tale of my unhappiness with chasing boys and her faith made her content with what she had.

These days, she is an Assistant Minister at an Anglican church in Sydney.  She's an accomplished cook and is a very caring lady.   She wears the full frock and collar (when necessary), but when she was ordained, she wore a pink shirt and high heels, when everyone else was in black.  She is moderate, and believes that life is hard but that God is grace.  She is a big fan of Harry Potter, Dr Who, The Big Bang Theory and Legally Blonde.  She often runs 14km a day, lost 40kg over two years and is addicted to the bustle of city life.  She loves technology and is incredibly funny.  She has a black cat, Max, who she adores, and lives with two very cool flatmates.  She is infectiously happy and loves "Miranda" more than I do.

Despite our differences, or perhaps because of them, we all still worship the same God. We believe that God has his hand on our lives, that he sent his son Jesus to die for our sins, and that he is the way to have a relationship with God. Same God, but very different people.  So, please don't switch off when you hear that we're Christians.  We may have the same core beliefs, but there are many different flavours.

What is your experience of Christianity?