Dear Mr Latham

Dear Mr Latham,

I only knew of you as 'second best' to our past Prime Minister, John Howard. I have no interest in politics - I'm pretty blind to the happenings in Parliament - and I like it that way. You caught my eye a few years back when you weren't afraid of showing your inner bitch with fellow politicians, calling them names and acting all gangsta-like with Mr Howard. You had me back then at 'arselicker' and calling them 'a conga line of suckholes'. You won my vote.

But then you had to go firing off your ignorant, sexist and uneducated mouth and belittle the women of Australia (sorry, no - not just Australia - the world) with your malignant and antiquated comments about mothers with a mental illness. What an awesome role model you must be to your sons.

I didn't choose to have depression, or anxiety, or psychosis. I haven't made it up to avoid the responsibilities of motherhood. Before having my first child nearly 15 years ago, the signs were there. Circumstances, combined with the chemical imbalance in my brain, led to my illness. I didn't ask for this. I didn't give myself a mental illness or three for the fun of it. Or for the attention. Or for the periodical feelings that make me question my need to breathe.

Did you choose to become a prick, Mr Latham, or did it just come naturally? Maybe it came to you as naturally as motherhood should come to every woman? There's yet to be a medication to treat being a bastard. I know, I checked. However, antidepressants might help you. How about some anti-psychotic medications to relieve you of your sense of grandeur and misogyny?

Your article (which I will call Mark's Guide to Raising Women In The 1950s: A Dickhead's Perspective) must make your mum proud. You suggest that women who need 'neurological assistance' in order to raise children is sad. You suggest that women 'like this' should not have children, and that these children will suffer knowing they were the reason behind their mother's 'pill-popping'. I know I do not and will not stand alone when I say to you that my 'pill-popping' bad habit is the reason why my children still have a mother today.

I have to admit Mr Latham, that I was doing really well before reading your article. I have learned to manage my illness well after 14 years, to know the warning signs, to put in place strategies I have worked hard at to cope with the everyday demands of being a stay at home mum of five kids with a husband who works very long hours. But today, I took your words to heart. You made me feel sick and selfish and guilty for wanting to have children even though I knew I wasn't well. You made me question whether I should return to the workplace. You made me feel wrong for wanting some time away from my children for me. And you are actually right about one of the comments you made - I did choose to have my children. I knew I may have difficult times ahead raising them with this illness, just like thousands of others with their own challenging medical (non-mental) issues. 

I'm damn proud of my children. Damn proud of myself for staying at home and raising them the best I can. And I'll be damn proud of them when they grow up better off for having been taught that mental illness should not be feared nor condemned. That everyone has a story. That with society's support and less people like you in the public eye spewing your offensive and damaging opinions, more people like me will find their voice to shout from the rooftops "I'm crazy and perfectly normal!"

Mr Latham, I'm not angered by reading your comments. I'm disheartened and sad. It's not us mums with mental illnesses who should feel ashamed, but you.

Yours in craziness,

Cut My Milk

The How & Why of Why I Write

Last week, I received an email from my friend over at 40YrOldDad inviting me to join in a blog hop about my writing process. This is how the conversation went:

40YrOldDad: Hey Lisa, I'd love for you join in a blog hop about writing because I think you're so hilarious and I want to the world to recognise your immense blogging talent.

Me: You are awesome.

40YrOldDad: No, you are awesomer.

Me: Ok. True. I'll do it.

That may not have been the exact words, but the answer remained the same. My answer was "I'll do it." 

A week later, and I'm still struggling to think of what to tell you about my 'writing process'. What the hell is my writing process? Do I even have a writing process? I think you may now suspect that I don't.

I'm not a writer. Never have been and never will be. I just like to blog. And whilst blogging and writing are kinda intertwined (because they're like, words and shit) I see them as kissing cousins of the literature family. And it's because of definitions like this that I will never be seen as a writer.

                          Flickr: Scott Beale

What am I working on?

At this very minute? I'm working on a very smooth bottle of Moscato, with its slight musk aromas and fruity flavours of peach, pear and apple and finishes with a light fizz. Now that's writing.

In terms of writing/blogging, I'm not working on very much (read 'nothing') except this. I'd love to be working on something - anything - but having nearly-five-if-they're-lucky twins, a clingy two year old and socially busy teenagers,  I don't get much time to work on even having a shower. 

Having said that, I work on my Facebook page Cut My Milk more than I probably should.

How does my writing differ from others in my genre?
This is a tough one. I'm not sure if it does differ from others of a similar category. Maybe it's the imperfection and disfunction of my family, the swearing, the creative wordmakiness, the taking the piss out of myself - I don't know. I don't try to teach or preach. I may be one of the few people who write from the mouth, rather than the heart or the brain. It's quicker and stupider.

Why do I write what I do?

For many years, I saw many therapists. Psychiatrists, psychologists, counsellors, cognitive behavioural therapists, all to help me with depression, psychosis, anxiety & panic. I'd come out of these sessions worse off emotionally and financially. So, I turned to blogging about my experiences for the world to see. I try to be as honest and candid as possible in the hope that someone with similar experiences, who may be silently reading my blog, can feel less alone. And it has certainly helped me to realise I'm far from alone. And if I can make you giggle or snort wine out your nose at the same time, that's a bonus.

Oh, that and attention seeking. Exhibitionism at its finest.

How Does Your Writing Process Work?

I rely on my kids being idiots and doing stupid stuff as inspiration. 

When I get the urge, I just write. I'm not a planner. I don't write rough drafts. I just go for it. It's very hit-and-miss. But to do this I need the all-important time thingy. When I start to write, it must be finished and published the same night. My post box is filled with draft versions awaiting completion. Like that's gonna happen.

I like to write as though I'm having a conversation with someone. I find it easier to write as I would speak. Evidently, I'm not great with the talking words shit either.

But I need to want to write something. I need to feel passionate about something, or to vent. Maybe my blogging has slowed down because I'm actually feeling… well… feeling good at the moment.

One thing I have learned about my writing process through joining in this little blog hop event is that I can't seem to write if I'm asked to write. Bloody hell, this was harder than I thought. Visions of being underprepared for my Year 12 English exam… going to my happy place now, happy place.

And now my empty bottle of wine signifies the end of my so-called writing process. But before I swill the last dregs from my glass, I'll introduce you to three of my bloggy friends who will hop along to the next blog hop (sorry, that was the wine talking, it's such a dumbass).

Tegan

Musings of the Misguided

Tegan blogs at Musings of the Misguided where she writes about parenting, mental illness and everything in between.  She started her blog as a place to put on her comfy ranty pants but it's turned into a place to share her experiences with the mental health system and how she copes with a child who loves to avoid sleep.  When she's not faffing around on the internet she can be found spending time with the two main men in her life, her 4 year old and a partner with the patience of a 1000 saints.

Beck

This Is Beck

Well, the name of my blog kind of explains it really. It's about me, muddling through each day with my handyman hubs, 2 adorable little munchkins, two super spoiled dogs, a crazy kitten and an assortment of farm animals… My brain runs on caffeine, my kids' cuddles, love, wine, giggles and books. I make mistakes. I swear too much. I bake awesome cupcakes. I can't stand dishonesty. I love animals. I piss people off sometimes. I try to be the kind of person I want my kids to grow up to be. Most days I fail miserably, but I'm working on it.

Lauren

Gold Coast Mum

Just over 4 years ago I was rubbing shoulders with celebs on a day-to-day basis (shared a building with the studio of an Aussie TV show & would often be crammed in the lift with some Aussie stars) & had my finger on the pulse as an award-winning-journalist in the big smoke. Now living on the Gold Coast with 4 children under 4 (8-month-old twin girls, a 2yo boy & 4yo girl) at home, I'm a social media (& chocolate) addict & enjoy reading/sharing anything & everything from celeb goss/baby news to pregnancy/parenting topics & trends, general news or trashy TV. I blog (when I get a chance) at Gold Coast Mum & enjoy being social on my Gold Coast Mum Facebook page. I love getting out & about enjoying everything the Gold Coast has to offer (& maybe even to avoid dealing with the bottomless pile of laundry that needs putting away at home).

**And don't forget to pop over to always Josefa where it all started!**

Preoccupied

I've been neglecting you all lately, haven't I?

I'm sorry.

I kinda lost my drive to look at the humour in things around me lately and instead I sat in my kiddie pool of self pity and misery. This shit happens sometimes. It just creeps up out of the blue and kicks you in the vagina so hard that it knocks you to the ground. Sometimes, it's just easier to stay lying there.

To be honest, I've been a little preoccupied with things at home. But I think I'm ready now to share my personal revelation on this very public forum. 

I lost my dad.

I didn't lose him to death. I didn't misplace him. I lost the dad I thought I had for the past 41, nearly 42 years.

In a sense, I guess he has died inside me. A tad melodramatic, I know, but that's how I feel.

Around the time of my 18th birthday, I found my mum collapsed on the lounge room floor wailing in what I thought was pain. My dad had just left. He didn't say anything to me, or my brother or 11 year old sister. He just walked out.

Apparently, it was for the best. Apparently, it was because he was having trouble living with post-traumatic stress from being sent to Vietnam. Apparently, it was because he sat in his shed with his pre-amnesty army gun thinking of taking us out. 

So he left and moved into a 'Men's House', where other like-minded men lived. He would visit Mum weekly as if nothing was different. My mum also accepted these visits as if nothing was different. A married couple living apart while the husband sought the help he needed. The Vietnam War did this to some men.

For years, I felt sorry for him. I thought Mum was better off without him, but I did feel sad and angry that this is what the war did to our family. My sister was so young - the same age as my daughter is now - and I can't even imagine what it would feel like inside a young girl's mind when this sort of thing happens. A young girl whose role as 'Daddy's Princess' was abruptly cut short. I on the other hand, was a bitchy 18 year old.

My dad would continue to visit Mum weekly and even took her for the occasional weekend away. She would return home optimistic that things were getting better and that he may come home. He visited more frequently when she was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and had a short time to live.

I was given Dad's phone number at the Men's House with instructions not to call unless in an absolute emergency, and then to ask for him by name, not 'Dad', to never say it was 'his daughter' calling, and never leave a message. It was just easier while he lived their with so many other men, he said.

When Mum died, he was the grieving widower. 

Seven years after her death, we learned, by pure accident, that he had a lady-friend. 

10 years after her death, we learned that he had been living with this lady-friend for more than 20 years.

There was never a 'Men's House'. 

He never intended to come home to his wife.

Two weeks ago, I learned that the 'joke' my sister and I shared about him having another family somewhere was, in fact, true.

My dad had given me a copy of his Will. 

Just a standard stock Will. Nothing important in there really, he had said. Nothing to pass on. Only written instructions about the funeral, he had said. Wouldn't even bother looking at it. Just file it away until I fall off my perch.

I decided two weeks ago, as I was reaching up to stow it in My Cupboard Of Things That Need To Be Filed Eventually cupboard, I would have a look at this Will.

Some words caught me off guard. 

Spouse

Step Children

He was right. There really wasn't much for him to leave behind. But this is not my issue. I seriously don't care. Seriously.

I had realised at that very moment that this man I had called 'Dad' was little more than a stranger. An imposter. A fraud.

I felt sick thinking I was a part of a game. The winner had already been decided and the rules manipulated to suit just this one person.

Humiliated. Deceived. Manipulated. Betrayed. Abandoned.

The 'Men's House' was her house.
The other people at this house were her kids.

Looking back on the past 20...30...actually 40 years, some things are suddenly clearer. Some of the stories are now pricked with holes. My mum went to her grave not knowing a thing.

I have learned that in the eyes of this other family, the eyes of his spouse and of his step children, we are not nice people. We only go to him for financial help, never invite their family over to our family's festivities, never want to visit them at their home, and have never accepted them into our lives in all these years. Or at least, that's what they've been told.

Years ago, my Dad told a lie, and had to tell more lies to hide the first one. 

As I stare blankly at this computer screen I feel stupid. My entire world as I knew it feels very different today. I had backed this man up millions of times, defended his actions, his early departures, his depression, put the gaps in his anecdotes down to ageing and memory loss, and saw this man's life as one of the consequences of being conscripted to the Vietnam War.

Stupid.

This is not the whole story. Not by a long shot. But it's the part I want to share for now.

So I have been a bit preoccupied with this revelation and my thoughts of how to handle this situation. And I think it is unfair that I have to. I'm angry and hurt and I'm mourning the loss of another parent.

Blogtag

Okey doke, I've been asked to join in a game of Blogtag, by a fellow blogger, Tamara at tzookeeperswife.blogspot.com. The idea is simple - answer the following questions for my peeps to learn more about me, then I tag ten other bloggers to do the same. Unfortunately, I'm such a noob in the bloggy world that I only know a handful of bloggers. I've popped their links below. Have a perve into their world, I'm sure they won't mind new stalkers.

1.  Where were you born?  I was born in a small hospital in bayside Mordialloc - a southern suburb of Melbourne, Australia. I haven't gone far. I live in the next suburb. Boring! 

2.  Were you named after someone? My parents would never admit it, but you've got to see the coincidental link of the thousands of little Lisa Marie's born from 1968 to the early 1970's. Sure, they liked Elvis Presley, but not enough to spell it the same way. I'm Lisa Maree, distinctively different, ok? You ask your friends named 'Lisa' who were born back then and I'll betcha their middle name is Marie. I'll stake my kids lives on that.

3.  If you have children, how many do you have?  God help me, I have 5. I have a 13 year old boy, an 11 year old girl, 3 year old twin girls and a 9 month old pink surprise.

Jasper the Wonderdog.

4.  How many pets do you have?  Currently, we have 3 cats and a dog. I say currently because if that bloody dog keeps digging up my garden he can keep digging the hole for himself. Not long ago we had guinea pigs but they met with a very unfortunate (and unintentional) demise. I felt bad for ages. I didn't mean it. 

5.  What was your worst injury? Which one should I pick? I'm naturally accident and illness prone. I guess the worst one was when I was being a suckhole in my high school trampolining class trying to get an A++. I had a great routine - bounce, pike, tuck, twist, front, back, backflip onto neck. I had landed too close to the not-so-bouncy edge and couldn't get enough lift to finish the flip and ended up sandwiching my legs to my torso splintering my L4 and L5 vertebra. I remember the other girls' laughter being overshadowed by a panicky teacher who saw my lips turn blue on my limp body. Ambulances must not have been invented then, because in her wisdom my teacher carried me off the trampoline, lay me in the back of her station wagon and drove me to the hospital. I was immobilised for a week, started walking gingerly the next and was sent home with only a month off school. Not bad considering my mum was told to prepare for the worst. 

6.  Do you have a special talent?  Uuummmm. No.

7.  What's your favourite thing to bake?  You mean other than rip open a frozen packet of something or empty a jar and throw it in the microwave? Occasionally, I get to make a lasagne. Baking this reminds me of my mum. And it's something that all my kids will eat without complaining. I also make a mean raspberry and white chocolate muffin. Del-lish.

8.  What is your favourite fast food?  Nothing's faster than a Duramine tablet. But when I've actually eaten, I love pizza. That's been my problem. I love pizza. And McDonald's. And KFC Zingers and chips. And a Whopper with cheese. And a souvlaki. See what I'm sayin'?

9.  Would you bungee jump?  Nope. I've seen the When Crazy Shit Goes Wrong TV shows. And besides, when I fall to the end of the rope, my boobs would keep going down and it would get ugly. Then I'd end up on Tosh.0. No thanks. I have my dignity to hold onto, no matter how small it is.

10.  What is the first thing you notice about people? Eyes and smiles. I think you can read a lot about people by looking in their eyes. Sincerity, sadness, secrets...

11.  When was the last time you cried?  I just wrote a blog post about my history with depression and this brought up many things I'd not thought about in a long time. Beautiful responses made me cry with a feeling that I am loved.

12.  Any current worries?  I worry about stupid little things. I worry about my kids at school - the amount of homework they get, problems with peers, etc. I worry that one of my twins may be turning into a psychopath at age 3. I worry that I need to nip that in the bud quick smart. I worry about my family in general. I worry about what people think of me. Stupid little things.

13.  Name three drinks that you drink regularly.  You've caught me in a transitional phase. Two weeks ago, I would have said Pepsi, Moscato and Margaritas. I'm trying to be really good and now I would say mineral water, water and Margaritas.

14.  What is your favourite book?  I don't get much time to read - other than children's books and the serial sagas that are on Facebook. I really like 'Little Children' by Tom Perrotta and 'The Lovely Bones' by Alice Sebold.

15.  Would you like to be a pirate? I don't know...I think they'd all smell like Russell Brand looks.

16.  What are you favourite smells?  A baby fresh from a bath, newborn baby breath (it's like jelly beans), mandarins and passionfruit, Christmas - everything about it, from the roast pork cooking to the plastic trees.

17.  Why do you blog?  I use my blog Cut My Milk as a form of therapy. A friend had told me my kids do too much funny shit to not write about it. I thought they they were just annoying. Writing down what the kids have done and how I'm feeling actually makes the event not as stressful.

18.  What song do you want played at your funeral?  U2's 'One'. That or Taylor Swift's 'We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.'

19.  What is your least favourite thing about yourself?  I have a mean temper. I need a label that warns people: 'Keep away from naked flame, unreasonable children, garden digging dogs and bitches.' I'm also very self critical. Combined, I usually have tantrums about something stupid I have done.

20.  What is your favourite hobby?  I like making sock monkeys. Can Facebook be considered a hobby? God I'm boring.

21.  What do you look for in a friend? They must be uglier and stupider than I am. Actually, my friends are my friends because of their sincerity, humour, honesty, generosity and their inner and outer beauty. And they know how to drink. That's what I would look for.

22.  Name something you've done that you never thought you'd do? I had five kids. I was told I wouldn't have any, and now I have five. I never thought I'd become obese.

23.  What are your favourite things to do?  I love to sleep. I love getting lost in a great movie.

24.  Any pet peeves?  I hate hearing people crunch food with an open mouth - it's like fingernails down a chalkboard. Cupboard doors not being shut. Toothpaste in the bathroom sink. Glasses not being stacked the 'correct' (my) way in the cupboard. I'm not only boring - I'm anal.

Gus & Scarlett, just before she went
all Alice Cooper on him.

25.  What's the last thing that made you laugh?  My baby Scarlett trying to fit the cat's head in her mouth but coming away with a mouthful of black fur. It was more the cat's reaction that made me laugh. He just lay there and let her, but had his eyes on me the entire time. I don't have smart pets.

Maybe you know too much about me now. Maybe you're questioning whether you want to come play in my sandpit after all. I hope you do. Toodle pip.

tzookeeperswife.blogspot.com.au

sewensow.blogspot.com

vegetarianmamma.com

losingmylemons.com

marmaladestationery.blogspot.com

Just smile & get over it.

And then I got all serious...

There is nothing funny about depression. You won't be laughing with this story.

Some of you will feel uncomfortable. Some of you may not like what I am about to write. Some of you were there from the beginning. Some of you have gone through it with me. I write this so you will understand my story, not to feel sorry for me or worry about me. Just to understand. Too many of us go through this, and no story is exactly the same. This is mine.

I haven't been feeling too well lately. In the head, that is. I know it will pass, as it usually does. I am now able to tell myself that.

Only a few years ago, telling myself that a bad moment was only a temporary setback did not happen. It was a hell of a lot easier to succumb to the negativity that began to eat away all the good stuff in my life. People have asked me why I couldn't just cheer up, think happy thoughts, smile, get over it. For far too long, I did just that. To some extent, I still do.

It takes a lot of energy to combat the negativity that can enter your head, and without experiencing it first hand it can be difficult to fully comprehend just how tough it can be. Depression is not just a sadness. It can manifest in so many different ways in everyone. 'Sad' people don't necessarily have depression. There is no 'one-size-fits-all', which is a shame, coz if it did maybe I could have dodged that bullet. But depression doesn't seem to give a rat's fat arse if you are fat or skinny, male or female, black, white or from Mars, blonde, brunette, tall, short, high achiever or full of stupid. 

With me, I get anxious, angry and physically unwell. Easily. The world becomes a heavy, dark, scary and confusing place. 

Geez, this is not my usual happy and sarcastic blog. 

I think I now recognise some of the thought processes that go through my head when I'm becoming overwhelmed by 'it'. I thought, for your enjoyment, you'd like to come visit me in my mind and look around. Stay for a wine. Mind the wet paint.

I've had depression for a good 13 and a half years. I've been on antidepressants, antipsychotics, anti-anxiety pills, pills to make me sleep and relax, pills to make me get up and go. I've missed out on enjoying my babies. I've missed out on enjoying my marriage. I've missed out on enjoying my life. Damn you, Depression.

Being such an invisible illness, I have bluffed my way through much of the past 13 years, until I decided recently that I will not let this define me. I will treat it like any other illness that needs management.

Having said that... 

At this very moment, all of what I said above is total bullshit. Depression found me again and is trying it's hardest to fuck me over. It could be the interaction with the Duramine I have started taking to become the sexy bitch I'd like to be, or it could just be that my kids share a brain between them and I am struggling to keep my shiz together. Either way, it is sending me back to Crazyville.

In this mood, I want help with everything, but I don't want help. In this mood, whatever you say to me will be taken as a punch, even the nicest sincerest thing may be taken completely out of context and be implying I am a failure. Don't talk to me, and I will see it as avoidance. Look at me, and I will become self conscious. I know it's a confusing place for me, but I also know how confusing and frustrating it is for you. Really, I do know.

It was first suspected I may have depression when Campbell was about 2 months old. I was breastfeeding. All the other mums in my mother's group were breastfeeding. I hated breastfeeding. It hurt, and my baby was never satisfied. I would cry every time he woke up knowing I would have to go through this torture again. I began rocking in a corner of the spare room. I always thought that the image of a nutbag rocking in foetal position was made up just for movies. It's actually not. My Maternal and Child Health nurse insisted that breast milk is best for my baby and that I should keep doing it for at least another year. Some mums breastfeed for two years. I told her how I cried. I told her how it hurt. I was told "Welcome to motherhood".

That was the day I decided would be Campbell and my last day.

I drove in the rain, Campbell screaming for a boob. I would drive straight at the next bend. The next bend. The next bend. I chickened out and turned the car around. I didn't want to come back to the house, but I did. In my eyes, I had failed again. 

The next day, I took Campbell to the doctor's as he had a sniffle. I was at the doctor's every couple of days. Campbell's wee was a funny colour. His poo smelled funny. He squinted his eyes too much. He slept for eight hours straight. If it were not for this visit to the GP on this particular day, at this particular moment in my time...well, I owe this doctor a huge amount of gratitude. My frequent visits to her office had her ask, "Are you ok?" I told her I hated my baby because he wanted breast milk. She simply said, "Then stop." While being in a two month state as the living dead, I had no idea there were other options. Wouldn't I be a bad mum though? Her answer: No such thing as a bad mum, but a happy mum is essential. She put me on antidepressants. That was 13 and a half years ago.

Things went from shit to fucked again when I was pregnant with Ella. I was so certain I was destroying Campbell with my lack of parenting skills, I decided I couldn't bring another child into this family. I got a towel and my sewing scissors and lay down behind my bed. I was determined to cut this thing out of me. As I lay there holding the point to my tummy, I thought I couldn't do this. How could I even think this? My scissors would get blunt and I would get blood all over our new carpet. Laying there, realising the stupidity of my reasons why I couldn't do it, I laughed hysterically and cried until I fell asleep.

When Ella was born, I could see and smell things. They were very real and I told nobody. I thought everyone else could see and smell them, too. I would often hunt around in the middle of the night sniffing power outlets convinced something was smouldering away inside the wall and we would all burn alive.  My eyes and mind played tricks on me. I watched Campbell hover above me in bed and then run through the closed door. Ella stared at me with judging baby eyes. People looked at me oddly, like they knew some hilarious secret about me or that I was dressed wrongly. I would glance in the windows of shops to see if I had my clothes on backwards or I had forgotten to put on my pants, but I couldn't see me in the reflection. I wasn't there. Odd tall thin grey men were looking back at me instead. Their faces like those theatre masks. Contorted. Smiling with their own secrets about me. Everyone would know I was a fraud.

I drew this when I wasn't too well.

These odd tall grey men often wafted up from the tiles in the kitchen towards the end of the day. At first, they just lingered, following me about while I prepared dinner. Soon, they began to whisper to each other, then whisper to me, on top of each other, until I couldn't hear anything else happening in the house. They would tell me things. Truths. Ella was sent to kill me. Look at her eyes. Campbell will help her. Ella is the devil and Campbell was an alien. Ella's eyes were wrong. They were piercing. They were knowing. I could no longer look people in the eyes. Eyes were terrifying. Mirrors reflected confusion.

I'm not crazy, I'm just a little unwell...

After my new Maternal and Child Health nurse came to visit and discovered a display home of apparent artificial control, and after learning I had spent the night prior to her visit cleaning the inside of the toaster and hand cleaning the toothbrushes to their former glory, she said she thought I needed some help. Hospital help. I don't remember how, but suddenly I was in the kitchen with my suitcase packed waiting for my mum to come and watch my children. I remember Campbell, now 20 months old, peeling a banana and dropping the skin on the floor. I cried. I cried with fear and a profound sadness I cannot explain. Years later, I learnt from his therapist that Campbell believed I cried because of that banana skin he let fall. I had hurt my boy. 

Ella and I were 'voluntary' guests of the Mother Baby Unit for five weeks. I met wonderful mums, one of whom became a great friend. I was improving until I watched the breaking news of New York's World Trade Centre being attacked. I cried believing if I were there, I could have replaced a life lost. My stay in the hospital became longer. I had learnt to cheat the staff there, too. I had them believe I was perfectly well. I didn't tell them I could smell smoke. I didn't tell them that I believed another mum on the ward was sent from the odd tall thin grey men to watch me. I was sad few people came to visit me. I don't blame them. I was sad that my mum had to see me this way, and that Tim, struggling with sudden 'single' parenthood and a new job, was sad that he couldn't help me. I was sad I had to eventually come home to 'normality' eventually.

I will not hide from this past. I will not let this define me.

But I'm finding this single moment a hard hard moment.

I still smell smoke. I still have problems with eyes and mirrors. My reflection is still all wrong. But I am here, with five beautiful children who drive me to the edge of insanity and back, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

In a way, I'm glad I've experienced these things. Experiencing these things. 

Gotta go. The microwave is talking to me.

Counting My Blessings

My five often unruly, often psychotic, children are occasionally mentioned in my bloggy rants. But the events of late have made me regard them in a different light. Don't get me wrong - they are still ever present in their annoying way and not just a bad dream my impaired mind has conjured up. It's just at this moment I want to ignore their little (little - ha!) irritating behaviours and hug them a little tighter, look at them a little longer and tolerate their little tantrums. 

I don't want to overdo the conversation or trivialise the horrific event that recently occurred in Connecticut. I see my son at six. I see my daughter at seven. Their innocence and simplicity. The event may have happened thousands of kilometres across the seas, but it may as well have happened here at our local primary school. It has touched us deeply.

When the Twin Towers fell in 2001, I was in the Mother-Baby Unit at Melbourne's Monash Hospital. Ella was 7 weeks old. I was tired, confused, anxious, intensely sad, floating on a cocktail of medication and couldn't think clearly. I watched the news report as it unfolded, watched the second tower being hit and thought this was the end of the world. I thought that if I had been there I could have saved a life. In my pyjamas in Melbourne I blamed myself for a life taken overseas. I was scared that if I thought too much about New York, I might make it happen here in Melbourne. I panicked for my husband who worked in the Rialto, Melbourne's tallest building of the day.

I'm scared that if I allow myself to think and grieve for these little angels, I might get lost in it again. I mean no disrespect - it truly is a parent's worst nightmare. I will hold my five young ferals close to me and count my blessings each and every single day.

Love to you all xx

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Sweating the Small Stuff

I am in the middle of re-rereading "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff" by Richard Carlson and trying oh so very hard to not let things get the better of me at the moment. I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed by the fast-paced period of long queues, end of the school year, perfect present buying, socialising, extra expenses and cooking for break-up and Christmas parties. I know I'm not alone. Of course I'm not. But somedays Zoloft can only do so much.

Today was one of those days when you wish your kids could live at the North Pole - the furthest place I can think of that has a guaranteed return date of December 25. I don't wish them away for ever. Just long enough to let my heart beat return to it's normal rate, and allow me to think without the constant stereo of screaming twins, the demands and bickering of the older two who should know better and the ever-present velcro koala attached to my left hip.

Today, I ditched the idea of a shopping centre and battling it out with the masses, and headed to a nearby suburban shopping strip. I'd like to say that with all my education I'm a pretty smart person, but today proved that I am far from it. A simple exercise of pushing a pram with a 3 year old twin on each side was not as simple as I would have thought. And Lily was not in a good mood from the time she woke up. I should have taken that as a big warning sign that the day was not going to get any better than it was at half past 7. Still, I had things that I needed to achieve today to avoid a snowball effect of Christmas catastrophes. 

Don't be fooled by her cute exterior.

The greatest warning sign that it wasn't going to be an easy shopping trip was Lily crying in the car that her right knee was cold. Turning the air vent to face the window, her hair was now too cold and her knee was now too hot. 

"Don't look at me!" she growled at me. "Every day I tell you you not look at me!" 

5, 4, 3, 2, 1, exhale. "Ok, Lil."

"You not talk a me, too."

At the carpark, I turned to the girls and gave them the run-down. "Will we run around and scream in the shop?"

"No."

"Will we play hide and seek under the fruit and vegie tables in the supermarket?"

"No."

"Will you smack each other on the head and say rude words?"

"No."

Lily sighed. "Then what can we do?"

"We can walk nicely and safely and use our lovely manners and listen to Mummy."

"Yes," says Gracie.

"Lily?"

"I told you not you look and not you talk a me. Dickhead."

And, breathe...

This is where I should have known better than to take them out of the car. But I did.

Crossing the road at a very difficult intersection, Lily refused to hold the pram. Finally, an opportunity to safely cross arose and I headed out, Lily next to us. I looked at her and praised her. "Good girl! Keep going."

Down she dropped, in the middle of the road, her pink princess dress fluffing out around her. "You look at me! Don't look at me!" and lay with her head in her hands on the asphalt. Pulling at her arm to get up, she lashed out kicking and flinging her arms around wildly, as I tried desperately to drag her possessed body from the centre of what was now a very crowded street.

This isn't the first time this sort of thing has happened to me with one of my errant children. When Ella was the same age, she refused to hold my hand as we crossed a busy road, and as I held on tightly to her little wrist Ella dropped - her body a dead weight under my grip, and I felt it click (or was it crack?) from somewhere in that tiny 3 year old arm. Several hours later in the hospital, after xrays and extensive questioning from the triage nurses ("Mummy hurt my arm coz I was naughty on the road") it was deemed to be an unfortunate dislocation of the elbow due to chronic naughtiness.

And here I am. I survived to blog another day. I'm hanging onto a thread of tranquillity though. But I will try very very hard to remind myself not to sweat the small stuff, because it is all small stuff, no matter how obnoxious my small stuff can be.

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Fatty fatty-boom-bah

I'm determined not to pick on any of my family members in this blog, so they are relatively safe. For now. 

In light of a comment made by a 'well-meaning' friend who suggested, as he regarded me from head to toe, that 'life must be treating me well - a little bit too well', I thought I would lay part of my heart that hasn't yet turned black on your computer screen.

Yes, I am a big fat podgy butter-ball fatty-boom-bah fatso. Thanks soooo much for pointing that out. I don't know how I missed it.

Yes, I do know I've become a little more than Rubenesque. 

Rubens, Venus at a Mirror, c1615
If only my arse was this small. 

No, I didn't actually set out to put on weight.

And no, again, I'm not happy about that.

But for the last few years, I have been constantly thinking of food.

The more I think of dieting, the more I think of food. 

I never had this problem when I was younger. 
I was fit, sporty and fashionable (well...I thought so, anyway) and food was just the thing Mum put on a plate at the end of the day and you ate it whether you liked it or not.

Up until 13 years ago, I was playing competition tennis in Melbourne and country Victoria. I wore my little white tennis skirt and didn't think twice about putting on a tight top. I shopped in cool shops with other cool customers while cool sales staff were more than happy to take my money. 

I remember thinking if I ever went up a dress size how devastated I would be.

A baby and 26 extra kilos put me up more than a dress size. 
Baby number 2 and 20 extra kilos increased that (do you see a pattern here?)
I still ate like I was pregnant during my eight year baby hiatus until I was pregnant with the Wondertwins. I didn't eat for 3. I ate for 10.

             

With twins

   

With Scarlett

I'm more than a dress size bigger.

Now I hate with a passion shopping for clothes, and shopping for food.

And I hate myself for all the times I looked at a larger person and thought 'Why aren't they doing something about that?'

Now that I am that larger person, I think about being a larger person constantly. That and food. Bloody hell. Now I'm thinking of the left overs in the fridge. Excuse me for a moment...

So, in case you're reading this, and still don't get why I haven't just got off my fat arse and done something about it, here are some things I know and you don't have to tell me:

I know I am twice the size I should be.
I know I am at risk for heart disease, heart attack, diabetes, early death.
I know I am not a good role model for my children.
I know I need to lose weight.
I would like to be around for many many more years so that my feral children can continue with their constant and unrealistic demands on my sanity.

I recently went to my doctor to talk to him about losing weight. I went there already with a chip on my shoulder (mmmm chips...) and was prepared to shove my souvlaki up deep within him where the sun doesn't shine if he suggested I should simply eat less and exercise more. My last doctor would at least pump me full of a higher dose of fluid retaining antidepressants so I couldn't care less about my increasing girth. But, to my surprise, my 'new' doctor was great. He looked at my lifestyle, my husband's long work hours, my eating habits, my psychological health, my support network. We talked about the idea of eating less and exercising more and the possibility of gastric banding, and related my food addiction to the notion of telling an alcoholic to only have a sip of a drink three times a day. In other words - it ain't gonna happen.

Despite the self-loathing and desperation to lose the weight, I still have that ever-present magnetic pull to food.

When I was in the Mother-Baby Unit with depression, we shared the ward with people with eating disorders. I couldn't understand how some of the girls believed that you could get fat by looking at food or touching it's packaging. Sometimes I think I can't add anymore weight if I finish off my kids' meals. After all, if I didn't ask for it, then it doesn't count, right?

I've stepped into many different people's shoes, shoes I never in a million years thought I'd wear. Shoes of people who have walked through depression, IVF, infertility, weight gain, miscarriage and death. I've learned a lot and cursed the universe for involving me in these lessons. Dammit. I'm tired.

Under this thick pudding skin is a hot sexy MILF screaming to paint on some skintight jeans, pull on her knee high boots, flash a bit of boob and head out to the kindergarten with her designer nappy bag.

Until then, I'll do a few laps in this tub of ice-cream.

Rant over.
x

PS: I promise not to deviate again from my usual rantings of life with my five precious evil children in the future.


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Mental

To celebrate Mental Health Day yesterday I went out with my kids. We didn't go far. They're mental.

I find the biggest challenge living with a mental illness is living with a mental illness. 

I was diagnosed with severe postnatal depression when Campbell was born 12 years ago and with postpartum psychosis, much like schizophrenia, when Ella was born a year and a half later. It will surprise you to learn that when the twins arrived I was the sanest I've ever been. At least while they couldn't walk and talk. Now that they can walk fast and talk back, and I have my new little gummy bear permanently attached to my left hip, the world has again become mental.

I joined a mother's group when Cam was but a wee ball of butter and was told to put on a smile, get over it and don't go telling people I had a problem. These were mums who loved being a mum, thought breast feeding was the only way you'd bond with your baby and who swore they would never give their child dairy, gluten, egg, artificial colours, sugar and flavour. I hated being a mum, bottle fed my baby and gave him his first Happy Meal at 10 months of age (don't judge me, he was a hungry baby). Campbell loves his mummy.

Feeling under stress and overwhelmed with the whole mother deal lately, I booked the hotel where all seven of us will be staying on our Queensland holiday in a few weeks time. Each year, when my husband takes a couple of weeks off work, we head off on a family holiday to unwind, recharge and make some wonderful family memories. A few years ago, when the Wonder Twins were 15 months old, we loaded up the Grand Carnival and headed off on the three day trek across the Nullabor to visit family in Perth.

We stopped for a much needed brew in Glenelg, SA.
Lily wasn't driving.

A couple of thousand kilometres later, and after a brilliant time spent with my aunt, uncle and cousins, we set off home to Melbourne vowing we would never speak of the holiday again.

Traveling to Perth

Traveling from Perth

But now, in the hazy memory of that long, long, long drive across Australia with young kids, we've decided to play in the enormous theme park that is Queensland. I can't wait to walk around them with Scarlett and overtired overstimulated twins for 4 days. 

Unwound and recharged? Pffft. 

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