A difficult child

My parents considered me a difficult child.

Sometimes I stole stuff.  Sometimes I lied and made up stories.

Sometimes I wouldn’t talk to them.

Sometimes I was defiant.

Sometimes I wouldn’t help out.

Sometimes I was angry and resentful.

Sometimes I pushed their boundaries.

Sometimes I was lonely.

Sometimes I felt invisible and irrelevant.

Sometimes I felt like the little I asked for was deemed too much.

Sometimes I just wanted to be seen.

Sometimes the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

And sometimes it’s cast aside, not worth the trouble.


Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me.

Self harm is an interesting beast.  It bubbles up from nowhere parading itself as suicidal ideation, when in reality it is a sometimes more insidious beast.

Self harm wants us to strip down to our bones, to flay our skin, to twist and pinch and punch and slap.  It wants us to feel crazy, then sated by the sight of our own blood, our own pain.

It’s a thing we hide.  Shameful.  We wear long sleeves to cover our own bruises from loved ones, and remain silent when our hairdresser notices large clumps of our hair is missing – like it’s been pulled out.  It has been.  I did this.

We feel childish and half finished, because we can’t find the words, can’t make ourselves heard.  We can’t get through life like grownups do.  Instead we punish ourselves and cry for help in secret.

Judge me if you must, but see by my bruises, my cuts and blood, that I already judge myself more harshly than you ever could.

Self harm is a whisper.  Please help me.  Please hear me.  Please.

Existential bullshit.

My life has always been fraught, stretched thin – me holding on for dear life.  Often I sense I am squeezing all the joy out of every tiny moment, so fixated on being one with myself and the Universe.  Sometimes I can’t get out of my own way.  I want so desperately to live a full and content life.

I beg the Universe for guidance.  I follow the phases of the moon, read my horoscope, diagnose my own personality disorders.  All with the hope of understanding and bettering who I am.
Someone once describe me as being tightly coiled like a spring – like one day I might finally snap.  I don’t feel like someone who might go on a shooting rampage.  But then the older I get the less I feel I know about myself.
I try to be chill.  But even when I’m listening to music (which I’ve only recently given myself permission to do again) or reading a book, I worry that I’m just escaping, disappearing so I don’t have to face the reality of my reality.
I’m stuck between eternal navel gazing and tapping out of my own life.
I can’t seem to find a balance.
As a child I learnt that feelings and expressing them were an inconvenience.  They made other people uncomfortable.
So instead I turned my discomfort into actions.
I became a human doing.

Birth – Part Two

On the day I was born, the room was heavy with student doctors.  Young men in white coats all peering at my young mother’s area, observing her like a curiosity.

They spoke about her, not too her.  An object to be discussed and critiqued.

As my crowning moment arrived, Dr Khan stepped in the room, resplendent in an expensive cream coloured suit.  The room watched on in awe as he snapped on his gloves and gave my mum a knowing tap on the leg.  He smiled briefly over is shoulder to the student cohort.  His face said it all – “Watch the master do his thing”

My mother strained, clutching her own mothers hand and blood from my birth gushed from her opening.  And as the young students watched on, Dr Khan’s suit was spattered with bright red blood.  Not a spot, not a drop, but a gout of blood – like a cut throat.

Exhausted and clutching her precious daughter, her legs still spread from the exertion my mother lay there as Dr Khan, with beautiful coffee coloured skin, screamed at her.
“I’m sending you the dry cleaning bill for this!”  Then turning on his heel, stalked out of the room, leaving it’s occupants in stunned silence.

This is the story of how I came to be.  A baby born.  A baby that from its very first breath on earth, refused to be ignored.  Refused to be an object.
A baby who grew to be a person who struggled every day to feel worthy.

It’s been almost 44 years since.  And that dry cleaning bill remains unsent.  Unpaid.







So you married a narcissist…

If there’s one thing guaranteed to fuck you up mentally, it’s being in a emotionally abusive relationship.  And if like me, you’re someone who’d rather push your feelings down instead of feeling them, you could find yourself in a very dark, very dangerous place.
Narcissists are master manipulators.  They twist situations, memories and words to their advantage.  They lie without conscience and will sabotage even the most important of people for their own gains.  Narcs have no insight into their own behaviour, and no intention of ever changing, no matter how many crocodile tears they spill.

Narcissists are incapable of love.  They are cheaters and thieves of time.  They are two faced, inappropriate and have no regard for other people’s space or belongings.
Narcissists do this, narcs do that.  It’s a complicated personality disorder and one I’ve gone round and round in my head about.

You see, I was married to one.  For a very long time.  For so long I thought I might be losing my mind.

In fact the narcs abuse is what prompted this whole renewed blogging journey (I’ve blogged before you know).

Because whilst I can see how damaging he is (I’m triggered by notifications on my phone, and the mere thought of having to speak to him can have me panicked for days), it’s how easy it was for him to control me that is really most interesting.
Don’t get me wrong.  I hated that fucker.  I wanted to smash his stupid face in.  He was cruel and dismissive and abusive.  He treated me like a piece of meat.  A handy piece of meat who could do every little thing he ever wanted, but also was a stupid bitch.

But I wanted to be in a good and happy marriage. I wanted the dream.  I wanted to be married to the man I thought he was.
So maybe if I was good, and did his bidding, he would see me.  Maybe he could love me.
Personally I see a pattern here.  A pattern of always trying to be for everyone else.  And never giving me a chance to be me.
You see, as a kid growing up, being caught out being yourself was pretty much the most humiliating thing that could happen to a person.

So, you become an empty shell.  And if you’re really unlucky one day you meet someone who sees that emptiness as an opportunity.  An opportunity to swallow you whole.

And before you know it, you’ve well and truly vanished.




I’m a middle aged schizoid

I’ve started therapy.  Not for the first time either.

The first was with my ex-husband.  Marriage counselling they called it.  I like to refer to it as “that time I sat in a room and poured every drop of pain out of my aching heart to a complete stranger. Oh and also the counselor”  This lasted approximately 10 sessions and resulted in several guilt driven shopping sprees courtesy of my ex husband’s credit card.
I got a lotta pairs of boots.

The second was counselling on my own.  Maybe I could fix me while still being in a broken relationship.  That’s do-able right?   We tackled CBT and how I needed to be more vulnerable with my husband.  Oh yeah and also while we’re talking about doing insane stuff, why not stick your head right in the lion’s mouth!!

The third time was more marriage counselling, but this time with a different husband.  A better husband.   I was scared by now as I started to suspect that the problem really was me.  In fact I knew it was and I was terrified my husband was going to throw me under the bus big time.
He didn’t.  Instead he held my hand.

This time, I’m hoping to prevent my own self -immolation.  There just seems to be very little space in my head.  No space for activities.  It’s mostly a buzzing of worry and anxiety and an endless attempt to be a good person.

My therapist (lets call him Hippy RF) says I have problems with emotional regulation.
And that’s the truth.  Also I will kill that son of a bitch and burn his house down!!


I came into the world under a cloud of fear and shame and rejection.

Conceived to an unwed mother and a married man (whose wife just didn’t understand him) in 1970’s Australia, the world was a place of control and disapproval.

Babies were taken from mothers deemed unfit.  Women and girls left hospitals, their breast full and their arms empty, passing corridors of crying babies.

And the men who created bastards were often let off with barely a slap on the wrist.  They went back to the pub and their roast Sunday dinners.   They watched the news on the T.V. every night and raised families that were fractured without ever knowing it.

You see, it was ok for an older man to seduce a very much younger woman/girl.  It was ok that he was worldly and she was not.  It was ok because he paid for dinner and the motel room.  It was ok because it was her first time.

It was ok for him to call her a slut when the seed was sown.  It was ok for her to be alone.

And so a baby grew, inside a heartbroken terrified womb.
There were arguments.  Shouting from her parents about a man who would never be seen again.  A man who denied the very existence of a life he created.

It’s almost impossible not to be affected by that kind of rejection.  That even as a tiny unborn soul, that kind of hurt must scar.

It seeps into your DNA, marking you like dark indelible ink, directing who you are and what you do forever more.

That’s what I think.