Category Archives: stuff

me

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5

I had my breast reconstruction on valentine’s day 2008. So, it’s different for me now. Today 4 years ago I was given me back. Well, a slightly different version of me. A forever physically altered version of me. The me they could sort of bring back. A patched up me. The other old me is gone forever. And I don’t mean that in a sad way. I loved that me then but I love this me now. It’s taken me a while to realise that. That was then and this is now.  But then, I didn’t get it. I honestly thought if I got my breast back, I would be whole again. I could wipe my hands on my jeans, that’s that and it would all be gone. If I could have two grateful posts today, and no I can’t because those are my rules, this would be my second. I am grateful to my wonderful plastic surgeon, Dr Gereth Edwards, who knew me better than I knew myself and who didn’t put up with my crap. The world is poorer for him no longer practising due to an unexpected stroke. And especially because his priority was not people like me, but people who couldn’t pay, who had no hope. He was a saint. He was a young saint.  He didn’t say what I wanted to hear. He was so brutally honest, I hated him at first. But he made sure I understood I would never ever look like that me again. He knew I simply couldn’t comprehend the enormity of it all. Of my disease. I fought so hard and he never let me win. And then I surrendered to him. And here I am. Scarred, but me. A new improved me, who loves her new patched together breasts. If I didn’t think some of you might be offended, and my family mortified I would have shared a pic of my man made breast and my recreated nipple from my tummy, with you.  My previous breasts have been bared on all the best beaches in the world, on a chesterfield with some of my agency colleagues (did I mention I can’t resisit a dare) and breastfed my precious children. I miss them. I shared them. I took them for granted. But these new ones, I am even more proud to share. And eternally grateful to Dr Edwards for. Mostly because I know now, I am so much more than the physical me.

drama

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2

No-one said it was going to be easy. To be the mother of a teenager. And I am keeping it in perspective. I am.  But this was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. And exactly what I knew was going to happen.  And exactly what I told myself I had to step back from and let happen. My baby being hurt and let down by some little prick. I know she believed he was more than he was capable of being right now, but he should never have let her believe it. I do have compassion for this boy, because he is going through some serious stuff right now. Far too heavy for a boy of his age, let alone a girl of Kate’s age and sensitivity to be dealing with.  I think he gets this and wants to protect her from it but is incapable of treating her with the respect she deserves. Well, I hope he gets this. Or of understanding how much true compassion and empathy she has.  He couldn’t have wished to have a more perfect angel at his side right now, but he has no idea how broad and beautiful her wings are. He has no idea how to lean on her.  And nor does she know truly what she has. But I see it, fuck do I see it.  Maybe I should thank him for not forcing her to find out just yet. She gave him chance after chance after chance to be the man I think he is down deep inside.To be the person she saw he was, or is going to be. He made her happy, but he also made her sad. So very very sad. And for that I’d like to wring his neck. And mine and B’s, for knowing we were right to forbid it, but didn’t, because we knew it was her choice to make.

grey

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1

I did beat myself up at 3 am this morning when the alcohol I imbibed woke me up. Pathetic. Embarrassing. Well, that’s that, because after all I’m an all or nothing kind of girl. So at 3 am this morning I gave myself permission to accept my failings and no longer do this silly alcohol fast for the month of feb. But at 7.30 am when I finally gave up wrestling with my interrupted sleep patterns, I realised I always prided myself on being grey, but was horrified to realise I’m actually black and white. There are simply too many absolutes in my world. Like the fact that you only get one chance with me. There is an invisible line that only I know and once that’s crossed, that’s it. So, instead today I gave myself permission to forgive. Me for my silly glass or two or three of wine and you for letting me down. And so it continues. One gracious step at a time.

wobble

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7

This control thing is bothering me a bit.  Especially because The Happiness Code Jo gave me says that being a control freak is a sign of a vulnerable self esteem. Apparently the better you feel about yourself the less you need to control everything around you. Hmmm. I actually think there is quite a bit of truth in that. And vulnerable works for me. As opposed to low. I think I do have a vulnerable self esteem. It wobbles a bit from time to time. Hence my constant need for validation. Which is apparently linked to over achieving… the more I achieve, the more I’ll be validated, and the better I’ll feel about myself. Despite this mild epiphany if i”m really honest, it’s something I’ve always known, but the ripple effect of my wobbling from time to time is what’s got me worried. All I’ve ever wanted to do for my girls is help them develop a strong sense of self and self worth. To believe they are good enough.  But controlling everything the way I do, or trying to, is probably doing the opposite. I am not letting them make their own mistakes, not letting them learn enough about how much they really are capable of.  How they are good enough. And I’m not talking about school work here, but life. Living here has definitely helped me be better at this. I am finally accepting that I am good enough. But sometimes I wobble. Like we all do.  I am wobbling less and less and learning to let go more and more. I am.  Except maybe of the packing of the dishwasher. They just don’t do it right.

freak

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What is it with my need for things to be a certain way. Jay chuckled when I moved the yellow 4kg weight at gym this am off the blue 2kg row, where someone had put it, back to the row of yellow weights, where it so obviously belonged. It was amusing. But he had absolutely no idea how much it really did bother me. And don’t get the wrong impression, I am not a neatness freak. It’s not that. My cupboards are an abomination. Another word I love. But I do like to feel in control, and maybe that’s why I focus on the things I can control, like the damn weights, because there is so much I can’t.

dare

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9

I dare you. If you knew me when I was younger you would know that was all it took to make me do things I probably shouldn’t have. That’s the reason I hold the dubious honour of doing a bungee jump at the Rand Easter Show. Not at some fabulous waterfall, or bridge or river …. over a slab of concrete. At a tacky annual agricultural and exhibition show. And I really shouldn’t mention the car my friends and I borrowed and crashed at 15. The car belonging to my friend’s father. That I drove into a restaurant wall. And only because the boys in class said we’d never dare. I realised today that those three words still do it for me.  Sneaky B took this of me this am. And no I’m not meditating Jo. Some of you won’t get the humour, but those who shared a boardroom table with me, you will. And those of you who like me, until I came to Australia, have never ever cleaned your own kitchen floor on your hands and knees, you will. Those of you who know I value honesty above most things, but still seem to need to keep up appearances, you will.  B never thought I’d share this. Not exactly a good look. The I dare you was implied. Damn I am a sucker.  But, you should see my floor.

liar

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9

I lied to my sister in law and best friend yesterday. Or actually maybe I lied to myself. If letting others yourself included believe you’ve got it sorted is a lie, that is. I lied that I was okay with not working.  I lied that being available to my girls made up for my loss of self, of self worth and independence. I lied by making it sound like when Jem told me how much it meant to her to have me just there, that was all I needed. I lied, because that isn’t all I need. I wish it was. I need more. But I need more to feed that place inside me that for some reason feels not quite good enough. Not for mental stimulation. I am stimulated, by my reading, my learnings, my friends, my lessons, by B and through B, by my daughters, by my teachers. It’s that damn need for acknowledgement. For validation. And is much more than just financial. I thought I was over the woman at the dinner party who writes you off on hearing you no longer work. Who turns to someone else, who she believes has more to offer.  Even though she has no idea of who you are, who you were and where you’ve been. I no longer introduce myself as I used to be yadda yadda. So, there is progress. I am ok with who I am. But, I can’t lie anymore. I can’t pretend it doesn’t still make my toes curl. The disdain that is.  I realised today thinking about my conversation with Lynn that I have been lying to myself.  I remembered how I felt  a couple of nights ago, when a well meaning working acquaintance, or at least I think she was well meaning, asked that question. That bloody question. So, what have you been doing with yourself? Fuck. I felt myself panic. Shit, what have I been doing. So much but nothing at all. Nothing that anyone values. (But actually the only ones that matter do) Fuck fuck fuck. Who am I, what am I, what is this all about, what was it all about, is this all that there is, is it all over for me. It all came back. Then, I breathed. Truly. And smiled and said. I’ve been existing. I did. She was happy with that answer. Lynn, soon I will be too. But I lied, I’m not there yet.

honest

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6

This was my card from B. The small print says…But I really love you all of the time. Happy Birthday. Me. X. I won’t pretend it didn’t piss me off at first. It did. But actually, it was the perfect card. We have both been pissing each other off the last couple of days, just normal couple crap. And it is normal. To have crap I mean. This is the world we live in. Not in the other world that many only share. The world that makes you look at your normal relationship filled with good and crap and wonder what’s wrong with you. Why can’t you be so in love and nauseatingly happy all the time too. Nothing is wrong with you. As long as you are honest. So, if any of you have felt envious of B and I because we have the most fabulous of relationships. Don’t. We don’t and I honestly don’t believe they exist. Not if you are truly honest with yourselves and the real world. But, if you want to envy our honesty. You can. Because of that I am proud. It is what it is. Life is what it is. I wish people would just stop pretending. So, I love my card. It is honest.  A schmaltzy we are so fabulous aren’t we and you are the best person on the planet card, would not have been.  I don’t like B some of the time either, but I do love him, yes, all of the time.

time

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1

A friend of mine who has only just started the journey we have been on for the past three years and eight months (I’ve finally stopped counting the days, hours, minutes and seconds) is struggling. She knows why it is right to be here away from family, friends and the familiar. So many of the same fucked up reasons we all share. I tried to reassure her that it does get better, that change is essential for growth, that her girls will love her for the resilience she is instilling in them without even realising it, that people who matter will always be there, and those that don’t will disappear, which will make it even easier to be here. And not there. But to be honest, the only thing that makes it get better, is the only thing she doesn’t have yet. Time. Time brings new shared experiences. Time enables you to find the friends who get you. Time makes you realise you don’t have to be polite anymore to be accepted. Those that matter will get you, even if like me, you have a potty mouth (the best birthday card ever, Susie, reminded me of the card the advertising agency I worked for did for me when I was going on maternity leave to have Katie … the headline was “Fuck, my mother’s in advertising!” Yip, I’ve always had a potty mouth). Time makes you realise things might not be the same here as at home, but often they can be better. You can be better. So, my friend, hang in, keep your heart open, but your eyes too, take one step at a time, don’t look back and you too will find friends that get you, here. The new you, ready for the adventure of the unknown.

dammit

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1

Isn’t it annoying when we do things expecting a certain response and we get a different one. So many positive preachers (and I mean this not in the biblical sense, and with a slight touch of sarcasm as in, do what I say not as I do) out there, myself included, offer the advice of have no expectations. Noble.  But that’s what most of us do. We have expectations. And it bloody messes thing up. Things just don’t turn out the way we wanted. We expect people to think they way we do, to behave the way we do, to understand what we do, to share the same sense of humour, the same values, the same beliefs. Even though we say we don’t. In fact, I find it very offensive when people do assume I think like they do. So, why do I expect others to think like me? To share my views and values. To understand my motives. Every single interaction we have with anyone is affected by the stuff we and they carry around with us. As we intend it, is often not how it is heard.  Sometimes it pisses me off that I can’t make everyone think like me. I can’t make them respond the way I want them to. But, they don’t. And I can’t. And, I may not always like it, but I do respect it. And I learn from it every single day.