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.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Monday, January 20, 2014
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.
:)
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.
:)
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
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. :)
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. :)
Friday, January 3, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
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.
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.
Friday, June 14, 2013
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 :)
Thursday, June 13, 2013
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 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.
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