Monday, 15 March 2010


"I'm not the only one,
Staring at the sun.
Afraid of what you'd find
If you took a look inside
I'm not just deaf and dumb
Staring at the sun
Not the only one
Who's happy to go blind."

- U2, Staring at the Sun

I was asked how was the weedkiller going? And did I ever find a good therapist?

Good, and no.

But I need to stop putting it off. I rang two more therapists at the end of last year, neither could fit me in. So I put it off until this year, and now it's almost Easter. The weedkiller I am on has most definitely made a difference ... to my moods, and especially my anxiety. I can seem to take a step back, look at everything that went on the past few years, and get a bit of a grip on it. Instead of running around like Chicken Little, wailing about the sky falling.

The sky will fall again, one day. It falls for everyone. Life happens - the good and the bad. I'm in a holding pattern right now. I need to see a therapist so I can get some shit out. I don't like feeling dependant on medication to manage. I don't like the thought of taking a magic pill for the rest of my life. I feel like I'm cheating. But fuck me if I'm not *terrified* at the thought of stopping them. No bloody way.

So, here I am. Plodding on regardless. Supporting Dave through one of the hardest times in years. We are under a lot of pressure and bullshit financially - we'll be ok, but the gall of some people in this world is truly amazing. I leave Dave notes every night, for him to wake up to, to remember his Spirit first thing in the morning. I try to help guide Tim through his latest emotional minefields, regarding members of the opposite sex. I take Max to swimming lessons and hip hop class, and I marvel at him. This precious boy who grew up so quickly while I wasn't looking. I watch Rocco eat his first Easter egg, his eyes light up in amazement at such a delicious treat. "CHOCLIT BALL!"

And I try to keep my shit together. If I focus on others, I don't crumple to the floor in a self-obsessed wailing mess. Which is really conducive to a stable home life.

And it really helps when I find God in the strangest of places .... like a junkyard in the middle of Sydney.


  1. God, it's so easy to put off the kissing of frogs ... I mean the finding of therapists, isn't it?

    Hey, how about you find me one and I'll find you one. If it's for someone else, maybe we'll get it done. :)

    Glad the meds are good. Not that I know what I'm talking about, but it sounds like you are being too hard on yourself about them? Hostile chemistry is medical, right? It's got nothing to do with character? Something like that? I know I could use some meds myself ... all I have to do is look at my mother to believe there is a genetic/biological link. Like the therapist shopping, I just keep procrastinating. It's like some sick Catch 22, if I didn't need help, I wouldn't have trouble asking for it? Feh.

    Hope things get better for Dave soon. !! Enough stress and misery for you all. Enough.

    Love you, E.


    D. was here.

  2. Glad the weedkiller is making a difference. I know what you mean about the fear of stopping and having the awfulness come back. Good luck with the therapist.

  3. It's good you are still looking for someone even though things are stable because it's good to have help in the wings if you need it.

    This morning Rocco was my therapist and CHOCLIT BALL is my mantra.

  4. Eden, have your tried the hospital where Dave was treated ? There are therapists available to family and friends of cancer patients in your case ex patients. It doesn't have to be all about the cancer it can be about other stuff also. And best of all it's free. It may be worth a phone call at least ??? That is who I am accessing at the moment.

    I am totally with you on the weedkillers, it's nice that they just take the edge off.

    I hope all gets sorted out with Daves stuff.

    Keep being gorgeous! x

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  6. Weedkiller does the job, but you have to get in there and rake out the dead stuff too. Go find that therapist. Although, maybe supporting your family is a form of therapy...

    Hope Dave's situation improves.

  7. Good luck with this all. I think they should warn us in primary school about the sky falling on your head regularly throughout life and maybe prepare you ... but how do you prepare someone for the sky falling on your head? It sounds like you are doing a wonderful job for your family, keeping everyone going through their respective stages of life.

    Good luck finding a therapist. Strange things, they are. I was just thinking I should go and see mine. I wouldn't have any advice, it's tough emptying your mind in front of someone, but possibly useful in the long term.

  8. Spending money on a good therapist is the best thing you will ever do. And it one doesn't seem good, keep looking.

  9. I love you Eden -- and I've been reading faithfully and thinking of you tons even if I have been a shite commenter. (See, you're rubbing off on me -- I've appropriated shite AND arse)...

    I keep going backwards and deleting things I write -- telling you how awesome you are, which you are -- and wanting to say the very right thing but not quite getting to it -- because I've been struggling with so much old stuff right now -- and I follow your posts religiously -- the dead dad stuff and the family stuff --it all resonates so powerfully for me -- do you know the poem by Marie Howe called "What the Living Do?" -- I'll hijack your comments page here to copy it:

    Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
    And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

    waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
    It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

    the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.
    For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street the bag breaking,

    I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
    wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

    I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
    Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

    What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
    whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.

    But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
    say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep

    for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:

    I am living, I remember you.

    ~ Marie Howe ~

    I marvel at your strength and humor and beauty -- and talent -- I don't write enough here about how fan-fucking-tastic your writing is. You have a gift.

    I've made promises to myself to love myself -- and some days I fail miserably -- hard when we've been where we have.

    On another related note -- (this is why I should comment more often so I don't write NOVELS in your comment box) -- I realized that two of my dead dad's favorite songs that he sang to me -- Wild Colonial Boy AND Waltzing Matilda -- could I have missed that?

    See, it's all meant to be somehow in its twisty strange way -- we find who we're meant to find...

    Love to you my friend. Lots of love.



  10. I'm a do an amazing rendition of Chicken Not So Little. Brilliant!

    My therapist said we'll work on a plan to gather up all the pieces and shove them all together again. I just want a donut. A giant airy glazed fucking donut and some coffee, on a beach with a warm breeze and the world is on mute except for the gulls floating loftily in the air, the giggle of the boys playing in the sand and the rush of the waves as they wash away the tension that squeezes my chest and makes my eyes water.
    There are no warm beaches where I live. Stupid geography.

    I'm glad the weed killer is working while you sort it out. I hope you find a stellar therapist, they can work wonders if you find a good match.


Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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