Friday, 18 August 2017

Hey - Remember The People In Your Neighbourhood?


What must it be like, to feel invisible in the world?

 

This was Mary and her niece, begging for money on the streets of downtown Manhattan. Pretty sure they don't like begging. I like their painted toes.

Steve is one of the critters who come out at night. Scavenging through the hundreds of dumpsters that line New York City.



At 5c a bottle, he can make $80 a day. He said he's happy. He lied.

Steve lives in a flat over in the Bronx, barely affording rent and food. "I'm my own boss ... if I need a day off I take it. I gotta listen to my body. It's hard work."


He knows he's doing an important job. "People don't care. They don't recycle." We shook elbows. Later I lay awake in my hotel bed with garbage air in my lungs. Thinking.



I loved that Dan was reading a book. A western. "It's a true story 'bout the Indians and how they got slaughtered. It's pretty sad." He isn't scared of living on the streets. Says the shelters are disgusting. "Full of crazy people!"

I said man, I wish I could do something for you Dan. He looked me square in the eyes.

"Take me with you back to Australia."




I wished I'd asked him back to our hotel room for a shower. Instead I ran back to give him more money. As I threw the second twenty in his cup, he didn't even care. Looked up briefly from his book with a "Thanks babe."

I like that he called me babe. With a shower, good feed, and a sleep? Homeless Dan could start reaching some of his potential. Get a job, probably pull some chicks. He has a spark, you know?

One night in Times Square we came across a guy taking a breather, sweat riveting down his face. I paid him for a photo and asked him not to pull his headpiece down. It's a "thing" for people to dress up in cheap polyester character costumes and pose for photos with tourists.


                    A picture really CAN speak a thousand words.

Maybe it's because I've walked around in such profound deep emotional pain for the past few weeks, or maybe it's just the travelling making me notice things more .... but man the invisible people were in rich abundance.

A dazed chick in a bikini top with her sign just saying "hungry" ...  would've been safer in a brothel.

The old guy outside our hotel every night. Every time he'd split the money with the person next to him. The attendant in Balthazar who wakes up every morning, puts on her uniform, and goes to work. In a toilet. Handing people paper towel, wiping their skid marks for the chance of a dollar.

Last night we walked past a tittie bar and this really angry, young drunk guy was refused entry and shouting at nobody. He was FURIOUS and I wondered if this is how mass-murderers are made, isolated and ignored.

This is Gloria. She cleaned our hotel room every day.



Gloria is from Jamaica. She's been a maid at that hotel for 24 years. If there's a power outage in the city, she walks from her place in Brooklyn to work midtown and back. She told Dave and I to have safe travels home. To keep talking to people. She said that some people were so lonely in the world with nobody to talk to, and I said I know, Gloria. I know.

"My sister - she die. My brother die ... and then my uncle? He die. They all die in the past few weeks."

We said we were sorry. That my dad died a few weeks ago, and then our dog died. Straight away she nods.

"Yes. When a dog dies in a family, it is to help guide the dead person across the way."

We walked off and had to put our sunglasses on quickly. When I get home I'll sign up to some kind of community thing to visit people. The people who have no people ... I'll take my boys in and watch strangers faces light up and Rocco will careen down the hallways and Max will sit and soak it all in.

This one person did me undone ... I didn't catch her name. Just walked passed her in the high end of town. Her hand was in a splint, sat there with a puny sign saying "Every little bit helps." Her face was stony. It only changed when she realised it wasn't one dollar I pressed into her hand, but twenty.

"Oh my god thank you so much, oh thank you." She cried from relief and I cried from something else. Told her to take care, told her that people care.

I walked off and imagined a tidal wave of water suddenly cascading through all the streets and fancy shops, sending clothes and shiny stuff swirling.

Cardboard signs getting ripped from grubby hands. Chanel earrings getting ripped from ears.

(This entry was first written in New York, August 2012.)




Tuesday, 8 August 2017

"The Power of Me."


"So I’m walking around Westmead by myself at 12am sorry mum and dad). As I was standing outside I saw two young men walking towards me and me being the scaredy cat I am ran towards the hospital back dock crouching behind a van and the first thing I though was “please God don’t let me be raped tonight my asshole couldn’t handle something like that”. I shit you not that was my first thought because that’s the first thing on my mind living with Crohn’s, whether my poor asshole could handle anymore trauma 😂"



Check out my cousin Morgans brand spanking new site.

"The Power of Me,"

"My name is Morgan Taylor I'm 20 and I've been suffering from Crohn's disease since I was 12 years old. Ive decided to start writing my story because there isn't very much support for people out there living with ibd. I'm going to be open and raw with my writtng and tell the truth about what it's like living with this disease. I hope to break some boundaries and get people to talk about these kind of topics becasue let's face it, it's a part of life. I hope you stick around."

I'm so, so proud of my girl. So proud. We talk a lot about both physical and mental illnesses and the similarities between the two - especially when what you're battling is invisible. Morgs just got out of hospital (again) and sent me through her first blog post to check out.

Oh. My. God.

Laughing and crying in one paragraph, I read it and was so blown away I was speechless. "MORGIE IT IS INCREDIBLE YOU ARE INCREDIBLE." And I wasn't just saying that because she's my cousin I'm saying it because what this human has gone through is too much, not fair, ongoing .. and the way she handles it with extraordinary humour and grace. Rocco recently asked Morgan if he could see her bag? (Of course he did.) And Morgie showed him without hesitating. He was fascinated as she explained how an oestomy bag works. Maybe one day in the future he'll meet an amazing chick who happens to have a poo bag. And he really, really won't give a shit.


Monday, 31 July 2017

Siri Ghosted Me During Today's Breakdown - Like, There Was An Actual Ghost In My Siri.



All I wanted to do was show you my boots but Siri had other plans and now I'm going to leave myself over-exposed online oh dear like I've never done that before. WHEN will the big blackout come and erase all of the internet? I'm waiting. But before that, here's this .. the mustard boots on the left were bought on eBay about 12 years ago, wow time flies when you're not having fun. These mustard ones clop like there's no tomorrow. They're the heaviest boots I own when I need to be REALLY tough like stomp into the cancer ward demanding a bed for my stepdad. Who died in the bed I demanded him to be in. I also wore them the day I was discharged from the maternity ward and my sister drove me straight down to the cancer ward where my ex-husband was dealing with cancer so awful the doctor told him to put his affairs in order. Which he did, he's in Greece at the moment. What are these boots, fucking cancer boots?

The next ones are my red ones from New York and people always always comment on them, probably because of the lipstick red colour. They're my strength boots. They look sad in this pic because they're sad, still recovering from my friend Dans funeral whereupon I wore a black clingy dress showing my cleavage and I was all "Sorry Dan but today I'm #sluttypallbearer in a black dress and red boots with NO stockings." He would have approved. Especially when I walked his wife aka Megan down the long driveway following the stupid hearse. Hate the word hearse, too hearsey. There's still funeral in my red boots which I have to walk off. I will because they're one one of my favourites but they'll always remind me of that day we had to say friggen goodbye too early.


The ones next to my red ones are my poetry slam boots standing straight and tall waiting for my next poetry slam. I don't know how long they'll be waiting. I bought them in 2014, the year after my brother died and everybody close to me were scurrying to help but I ran away. Wish I could run back. His death took me away from everything safe.

Last ones on the right I have no idea where they came from they just appeared and feature in my blogheader. Jeff my photographer neighbour snapped that photo with my feet slung out my window defeated. Someone said to me "Eden you can tell you're off your face in that photo just not giving a fuck" and I said "Hey, I wasn't giving a fuck ... but I wasn't off my face! Just defeated." The boots are made from Mexican cowhide and I've trashed the toes I don't know how. I just trash shit.

There's a pair missing from this photo ... my beloved Africa boots I wore in Africa which had Africa dust on them. But I needed a new pair and have vowed to not keep getting pair after pair like Imelda because I've only got two fucking feet. So I sold them ... to a woman with the coolest style who came to my door and loved them instantly, took them away so you know what time it was? New boot time. Not just any old new boot time but NEW BOOT TIME I NEED NEW BOOTS IMMEDIATELY. I used the money from my Africa boots to buy these ... my favourite boots of all time, sorry all you other boots I'll still wear you! These babies are distressed black like me. Also featuring raised gold brocade with wings and crosses and silver stitching in there as well.


The furtherest I've worn these boots so far is out on my balcony to take this photo. Do these boots know I'll be ok anyway? Do they know where they'll take me, who I'll meet, and what I'll be doing in them? Are they magic? (Yes.) Do they make me feel .... something better? (Yes.) I haven't walked up to the bakery in these boots or gotten up to no good in these boots or walked in Athens in these boots or run across the road during a red light light in these boots. I don't think I'll be arrested in them, these boots for they mean no harm. They're good boots. Protective and hugging my massive feet, whispering me on, telling me they don't even NEED spurs they're that good already.

So that's my boot story but today didn't end there, today still hasn't ended. This afternoon is better than this morning when I posted this on instagram stories because so help me GOD I can't pretend and will rabbit on until the great big blackout how important it is to share our shit pain on social media too, not just our good/fun/holidays/newclothes/happyhappyjoyjoy




IMPORTANT NOTE: I have washed the sad out of my hair since that video a couple hours ago. I wish I didn't feel so deeply but I do, my mood has incrementally gone up about two degrees but I'm fucked. There's no mo in my jo, my get up and go got up and left, let's start a conversation around mental health OK KIDS AND THEN WHAT PEOPLE ARE WAITING. (I'm so going to regret posting that vid so I'll say I don't give a shit but I really do. Sucks to be but I'd hate to be you.)

Ever ask Siri stupid shit? Like:

"Siri are you happy."
"Siri what time is love."
"Siri what's the point of existence."
"Siri I'm so sad what are my options."
"Siri what are you thinking."
"Siri I'd like to speak to the person in charge."

This morning I said "Siri I miss my sons." Because my sons are in Greece with their dad and his girlfriend and her three kids. But Siri kept replying that she doesn't understand "Siri I miss my songs." I kept saying "Siri I miss my SONS" and three times she said said she didn't understand "songs" until I yelled at her "SONS!!! SIRI I MISS MY SONS NOT MY SONGS YOU STUPID FUCKHEAD ROBOT YOU WOULDN'T KNOW WHAT MISSING YOUR SONS EVEN FEELS LIKE."

She must have sensed my ire because she finally got it even though she still asked if she could search the web for "missing my sons."




Immediately, IMMEDIATELY after Siri answered with the above, a random son (omg best typo ever) started playing on my phone. I didn't recognise the song. But the song was playing, I didn't ask Siri to play the song but the song? Was amazing to hear right in that moment with the lyrics oh my goodness. I cocked my head to one side (cock lol) and kind of acknowledged who or what put the song on. Because it wasn't me and it wasn't Siri. There was a ghost in the machine .. I wondered which ghost put the song on there's a lot to choose from. (Ghosts, not songs. Siri, I have too many ghosts what to do.)

Hey before I tell you what song it was I need to take this juncture to say: thank you and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not replying to messages in all social media areas, particularly email. I'm sorry if you're waiting for a poem that will come to you - it was nearly worth a lot of money there at one point. I'm sorry for not replying to your thank you's and your pain and everything anyone has ever said it's just I haven't been waving I've been drowning. With boots on. And thank you for resonating and seeing you when you see me. Most times I am the biggest ghost in the machine of all. I don't like social media anymore but some of us have to show our fuckedness - it's important.

The song was "Gotta Be Better" by Shelby Lynne, with such lyrics like: "Been chasing my tail for years Flying by running from terror and fear Time to think clearly for the place I've been holding out for My feet are getting wetter It's gotta be better over there."




"Press home to unlock" Ha. Exactly. Help. Go away. Where's my person. Where's home. Where do I take a flat tyre. I'm scared .. aren't you if not why? I've never ever heard this song in my life until this morning so thanks Siri, thanks new boots, thanks Instagram people, thanks this life will not go on forever, thanks for the day I see my sons again, thanks for the kettle and the cup of tea, wish I was better but for now I'm just me.

Off to do writing on My Other Writing Thing because these posts are just snippets, I've held most things in my life back on here but now they're pouring out. The most frightening filthy raw awful beautiful sublime keep-walking-in-your-fucking-boots writing ever. So embarrassing. So needed.

I know you hate new music but seriously, turn this shit UP. It ghosted me, maybe it wants to ghost you too.




Tuesday, 18 July 2017

"Eden You Should Blog Like You Used To." OK YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME TWICE



Recently I defended someone who was about to be bashed up, this person didn't deserve to be bashed up so I inserted myself in the middle of the mayhem and got threatened with a steel pole, wasn't til later I noticed the knife stuck on the end with masking tape lol. How the fuck am I supposed to tell people that?  I can't. Anyway luckily I escaped unharmed but I just don't like injustice in the world, always root for the underdog even when it's not my circus not my monkeys.

My sons are going overseas soon for a holiday to Turkey, Singapore, then Greece. Apparently I mean who cares about telling "the mother" the exact flight itinerary? All I'm saying is I've wanted to go to Greece for a year now for the express purpose of sussing out the Syrian refugee issue over there. Whatever. I think "Jeez I need a holiday too" so I google "volunteer in orphanages overseas" or some shit but that's not a holiday. That'd sap my life-force ffs why do I still think I can save the world at this point? Side-note: if my sons get killed in a terrorist attack in the name of allah or jesus or zeuss I will rain down vengeance. I'll fly over there, buy a gun on the black market, stick it up my pussy and kill any motherfucker who kills my children.

My mental health is Down. The. Toilet. Realising that maybe this is good as it gets like Jack said. My head keeps gravitating towards all the things that broke me and it's not healthy.

I got contacted by the filthy piece of shit who blackmailed me two years ago and if he contacts me again I will go to the police do you understand arsehole? I'll take you down. Not in the mood. You stole so much from me but thank you for making me aware of the fact that there are people in the world who ACTIVELY MANIPULATE OTHER PEOPLE. I didn't know this. Now I do.

I got sentenced to two years jail but it got suspended and if I do one, one thing wrong I will go directly to jail not stopping at go. Am seeing my parole officer today and she's told me I must comply with seeing my therapist but at this point - no. I've been in therapy since I was 19 it either has worked or hasn't worked. My therapists get this weird fascination with me and I don't like it, sometimes I feel like offering them popcorn as they listen to the explosive shocking details of my life. No. I'm not going.

I miss my brother, I miss my friend Dan, my father and two stepfathers are DED and sometimes it all overwhelms me in my brain and it feels like I'm on a roller coaster of death horror. Yesterday I was getting refills of all my prescriptions and I told my GP my new motto is "What would Carrie Fisher do?" He laughed, so did I, but it's true. Carrie Fisher is my higher power.

Like Eminem says it's apparent I shouldn't have been a parent but mistakes were made. Uncle Stevie said to me last night "Look your sons will grow up and just go yep ... I had a tripper mum." #asgoodasitgets

In conclusion, I'd prefer mania than the filth down down I been feeling for a few years now. I worry that when I'm manic people think I'm on drugs, I'm not, I'm just bipolar manic. I used to think a bipolar diagnosis was a crock of shit, not any more. Yesterday I took Rocco to the hospital to get all of my medical records pertaining to all the mental health admissions I've had IT IS HIGHLY EMBARRASSING TO BE THIS FUCKED UP. We walked into the mental health ward, it felt good to be a visitor. Rocco wanted to play the ping pong table, I had to say no.

Life is so lifey. I don't get it. Maybe one day when we die we'll be all AHHHHHH, I GET IT NOW. Maybe we won't. It's a wild world out there .. it's seems to be getting real uncertain and scary. But don't kill yourselves, we'll reach the end eventually. Besides you'll miss out on your ending and it might be a really good ending so you have to stick around to find out.



BEST LYRICS EVER. Harley Quinn is me, I am her. 

 (Comments off.)

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

Laundromats Are The New Therapy.

My favourite librarian Megan came up to the mountains with her girls, get away from Brisbane for a while. Hey Megan I found the best photo of us together!



Out of all the local landmarks and parks and places we went, Megan's new best thing in the world was the local laundromat. Said it soothed her soul, she just felt so organised and at home in there with the machines whirring and cable TV and free wi-fi. She is the Not-So-Merry Widow and I am the Gay Divorcee. It's been just two months since Dan died. We're still in shock about it and sometimes lately I feel really scared, think it was C.S. Lewis who said that he never knew that grief felt so much like fear.


At Dan's funeral, people were handed bookmarks. When she was here Megan set up a little vignette of some children loss/grieverly books she has, next to one of the bookmarks and my first pair of baby shoes. She'd found out that day was International Widow's Day. Oh my poor poor one, doing the best she can. I try make her laugh. I ask her how many people have told her she is so brave and inspirational today because we've always laughed at how people tell me that and she knows the truth of how fucked I actually am. One day she got six #inspirationals and four #sobraves. Told her we're in a competition now except we're not, I'm only competitive in board games, not death losses and how they change us UGH. FUCK. I text her the other day:

"Everybody we love keeps dying."

She text back:

"Yep."


Pretty sure Rocco downed his Magnum before George even got her wrapper off - our kids get on SO WELL.

"Hey Megan oh my god imagine if one day we are grandmothers to the same baby!!!"

All the kids heard and went, what? How?? Megan just walked off, so rude.



Ava has started calling me Aunty Eden. One of us did the hugest fart and we laughed SO HARD it reminded me of all the times her dad would send me his fart recordings until finally I sent him one back. When he could finally talk he rang me and told me he was proud even though I said it wasn't my best work. Dan never had a female friend like me. One morning here I went into Megan's bed and just laid like a puppy at her feet and cried .. it was the first time I've broken down in front of her because #sostrong and I said it was selfish of me to say but I miss him so much!! So so much - she told me it wasn't selfish. She asked me to cry for her too, so I did. Mad crying skillz, bruise. And when I cry it's also for her and her girls and the ripped-offness of what's happened. Then we look around and scratch the surface and see that everybody is going through hard things.

            EDEN YOU ARE REVOLTING STICK YOUR TONGUE OUT SO I CAN TAKE A PHOTO

We went to Leura Lolly Shop and made ourselves so sick, Megan was groaning telling me to never let her eat that much again. Later that night we had to go for a walk, shake off the sugar. The kids found a stray cat so I checked its tag: "Please Don't Feed Me." Told Megan she needs one of those tags. The next day we ate lollies again.

Told a friend the other day that I'd lost count of the number of funerals I'd been to by the time I was in my twenties .. he'd said he'd been to ONE in his life so far. I had to stop going to funerals because every funeral would have a cumulative effect triggering all the other funerals. I've been to a few these past years and I'm scared of going to any more .. you love people and they can die ugh. Terrifying.

Wrote a piece once about how you should live life every day as if you've just been to a funeral:

AWAKE AT A WAKE

Also wrote a post asking people what their funeral songs were, it was fascinating seeing all the song choices everybody made, also hilarious. "Burn Baby Burn!"

TELL ME YOUR FUNERAL SONG

Have decided we probably should all write our own funeral plans, it'd help because doing a funeral for somebody is exhausting. A list of handy hints, e.g. Cremation or bury? Which photo do you want on your casket? What songs? Any particular quotes? Do you care about the cheapest coffins? Who do you want to say your eulogy? Pallbearers? Any particular motif for your pamphlets? Do you need bouncers at your funeral to prevent hypocritical cocksuckers from attending? (Ok that one is just for me.)

Joan Rivers had it all planned out in style:


So this is spectacularly cheery but it's the stuff that litters our daily conversations. I miss Megan and the girls - my flat is way too quiet and empty when I'm the only one here. Which is why I've been blasting the hell out of my latest choice of funeral songs. Also dancing because the downstairs neighbours suddenly moved out so I can be real noisy for a while. They were a couple, been together for years, the other night he gets down on bended knee, produced a ring, asked her to marry him.

She said no. He was hurt and quite angry, I asked him what was he going to do now?

"I've already quit my job - flying to Budapest. On my own."

I said mate that's the fucken spirit, living the hell out of life before you die!!! He agreed.

I really wanted this song played at the end of Danno's funeral but it wasn't catholic enough. (Sorry man, I tried.)






Monday, 19 June 2017

I'm pretty sure Jeanswest has photoshopped my face into their latest campaign without my permission? And now they owe me half a million dollars.

Ok so ... apparently I'm in the new Jeanswest ad? Except I don't remember the photoshoot, maybe I was in a drunken blackout at the time except I don't drink? Or I have a doppleganger like Lindsay Lohan in Parent Trap when she was cute and adorable before the drugs took hold?

Call me crazy (ha because I am but that's beside the point lol dot com) ... but is this me? Bottom left hand corner? Complete with stupid pout and finger pose?

The most disturbing thing about this photo is that my phone battery is on a mere ten percent, giving me a high alert panic station ... but let's zoom in, SHALL WE??


It's me I mean who else has such a cauliflower nose? Frankly I want to take the pic to a hairdresser and get my hair done like that because it's kind of awesome but that's not the real issue here. So, Jeanswest ... I'm putting you on notice and issuing you an ultimatum. Prove that that red-haired woman with the tuckshop fat arm kind of squished like that .. is not me. Show me a picture of the model who posed for that photo - but I don't think you can because YOU HAVE APPEARED TO PHOTOSHOP ME INTO THE PICTURE. Thank you to sharp-eyed reader Emma who found this pic on Insta and sent to me. Congratulating me on the photoshoot I never participated in. There's a few things to consider here:

1) I'm giving you free publicity.

2) I have four repeat four lawyers phone numbers in my handy dandy mobile phone because I've been in a LOT of legal issues the past few years but one of those numbers is a shit-hot criminal lawyer in Sydney who I'm pretty sure will take on the case even though last time we spoke I yelled at him and hung up because I am an angry angry woman.

3) The world doesn't like angry angry women. I'm not angry about this I'm finding it quite amusing but come on. You've erased the moles from my face, I've grown those moles for 45 years. You've hurt my moles feelings.

4) My fee for appearing in your ad is half a million dollars. Also I demand the clothes I'm apparently wearing in the pic because I DO like that jumper but did you have to put the pinky finger up to my face like Austin fricken Powers?


5) As well as my half a million dollars fee you owe me another half a million dollars for damages. Ok I'm already damaged but you have allegedly used my likeness without permission.

6) For many years now, my shit has been ripped off - my ideas, my blog posts, etc. A woman from a very well known news outlet once accidentally cc'd me into an email which went a little something like this:

"Follow Eden's blog writing closely, monitor what she writes. Lift her ideas and re-write them as our own." I did reply to this woman who never replied back even though my reply was hilarious because I don't really care especially at the moment I'm just trying to stay alive and hopeful in a hopeless world.

7) Please respond to this website entry by close of business today or you're going to owe me ANOTHER half a million dollars just for the hell of it. And I technically have no business hours because I'm not a business but let's make it 10pm. Ok midnight.

My son Rocco doesn't think this is a pic of me but I do and I've now pulled out the big guns by sending the pics to my mother for verification. My mum knows what's up, she gave birth to that face as well as the rest of my body. So Jeanswest, I've dobbed on you to my mum omg you guys are in so much trouble if you can't prove this isn't me.

Lastly, here's me right now on the morning of 19th June 2017 recreating the dumb pose. Pic taken by my 9yro son who STILL doesn't believe it's me, whose side are you on, ROCCO?!

                                                THE REAL SLIM SHADY

                              THE ALLEGED PHOTOSHOPPED FAKE SLIM SHADY

Nobody puts photoshopped Eden in a corner. Balls in your court, Jeanswest. (Balls lol.) This is not a joke. Eagerly awaiting your response to this utter travesty of justice. (Serious I want money for this shit because I've been threatened with eviction quite a few times this past year and I need cold hard cash. Hard lol.)




Monday, 29 May 2017

"Mum ... can't you just poo your bipolar out?"

My youngest son asked me if I could just poo my bipolar out. I told him if only it were that easy .. because having manic depression is pretty shit. We'd just spent a while talking about our brains, our moods, depression, the vital importance of talking about how we feel to the people who love us. And bipolar - man did we talk about bipolar. As per usual, he had a lot of questions.

"So, it's a disease in your brain?"
"Does that mean I'll get it?"
"When will it stop?"
"But doesn't the tablets you take for it cure you?"
"Didn't hospital fix you?"
"Did Uncle Cam have it, is that why he killed his self?"
"Wow. Uncle Cam killed his self. I thought he was smart."
"Seriously mum when will you finish having the bipolar?"

So many beautifully innocent and curious questions. Such few proper answers. He asked to see the medications I take in the morning so I showed him. He asked if I'd had bipolar my whole life, I said I think so but big major sad things that happen in life can make bipolar worse. He asked if I could just poo it out, oh my god we laughed so hard. How cool would it be if we could just literally expel the shit parts of ourselves? Some people say that having bipolar is one of the best things about them and they wouldn't trade their bipolar even if they could.

I am not one of those people.

Having a diagnosis of bipolar was all, hooray, now we know what's wrong! But that was just the beginning of balancing the meds, mood stabilisers, putting on a shitload of weight, trying so hard to be as capable as what I used to be years ago. It was very, very hard. I don't like it. I don't like feeling the lows, much prefer the highs. When I'm "manic" I talk fast and have all these grandiose ideas - some of which even come to fruition. Bipolar depression is so fucked I can't even be bothered to explain it except for saying it's just fucked. Trying to work out which are my character traits, which are my mental health traits, which are all my other traits ... I can't. It's all mixed into one big trait under a big heading of LOONEY TUNE.

Holding down a job is nigh impossible. Some days I conquer the world, other days I have a shower and eat well and parent well and like Jack Nicholson says, this is as good as it gets.

People with Bipolar 2 have the largest suicide rate of all other mental illnesses. How can I talk about being and feeling suicidal most of my life without worrying that my children will think I don't love them? I can't. I just face each day as they come. They come thick and fast and some days I don't believe all the constant inspirational bullshit platitudes. Some days I just get by, pretending I'm part of the couch and if I don't move then I'm not doing anything bad or wrong I'm just existing and maybe that's good enough? I'm crying as I write this, I cry a lot. Watching people on tv and on social media living seemingly wonderful lives annoys the fucking crap out of me so badly. Tell me your dark, too. Balance it out, perfect people. It's dangerous for us sad and fucked up people to imagine everybody but them has their shit together.

Going in to a psych ward doesn't cut it for me anymore. It's just a daycare for crazy people. I have med check-ups and changes. I see a GP, a professor, a counsellor (sometimes). I've been in big trouble with the law this past few years .. still don't know if was due to bipolar rage or just dealing with shitty people around me who get away with being shitty people. Arseholes be arseholes, Eden. Live and let karma take care of the rest, amirite? So easy for me to not be taken seriously. I've had my mental health been used against me in court proceedings, custody issues - you name it. All of the things. Stigma is alive and well. I hear over 50 million dollars has been recently released to businesses and companies for the oft-spruiked SUICIDE AWARENESS. We're aware of it, so where to from here?

A dear friend of mine recently died and I was pallbearer at his funeral. Didn't even know chicks were allowed to be pallbearers, but we are. I did a magnificent job because I'm strong, inside and out. I carried him along a long driveway past all of the people. I had a straight back but now I want my friend back and life doesn't work that way. The inevitable crash and burn from that has arrived like I knew it would. Bunkering down for a while, taking it easy on myself, blah blah fucken blah. This shit just sucks. I'd pay to not have it but mental health fuckdom is prevalent on both sides of my family so I've won the genetic bonanza of being whatever the hell I am. I will always abhor labels but obviously we need to know what we got so we can work with it. People in developing countries don't have access to medications and help the way I do, guess that makes people like me lucky.

I hate this shit. I hate how it's affected my life so very much. I hate that I got it and most of the time I hate who I am. I'm also very empathetic and real and kind and smart so there's all that.

Here is a very apt and accurate re-enactment of what entering a psych ward is like .. I too have sat there with a doctor while he has literally googled me right there in his office and found my website and become engrossed in it while I'm sitting there all beige on his worn chair, waiting for him to come up with some answers to treat me. It's tricky to be so accomplished and so, so fucked at the same time but some of us have got to do it to make all you big achievers with great lives feel good! Ha. I'm an arsehole but at least I'm an HONEST arsehole.





Suffering from head problems is exactly that - suffering. When I'm good I'm good. When I'm not ... well, I'm not. I'm so very far not.

In conclusion, I will answer any question any of my kids ask me and I pull no punches in my replies because I will not pussyfoot around with such serious shit. And it's very serious. Which is why I do stupid things to make myself and others laugh because life is stupid and dumb and I'm just not that enamoured. I said something to my friend Dan a while back when he was going through a hard time with his chronic back pain. "Mate, one day we'll all be dead. And none of this stuff will matter."

We both agreed that it made us feel better. And it's true. And life is still hard and now Dan is not here but I am here. And so are you.


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