Thursday, 30 January 2014

Mixed Herbs.

I met up with a beautiful woman recently. Met her fourteen years ago. She stood in the street and asked me how I was. Before I had a chance to answer she said,

"No, actually .... how are you really?"

So I told her all the things people usually keep private from each other.

I can't sleep. My heart aches. I'm angry. It feels like I've been fucked up my entire life - I'm just one big loser. I cannot stand myself. "I could've saved my brother and nobody can ever tell me otherwise."

We sat on a park bench as I told her how it felt when I was in the nuthouse twice last year after being diagnosed with bi-polar. That meetings are saving my arse right now because MAN could I use about a case of Coronas, some expensive whiskey, and a carton of Styvos right now. And blow. And hookers. And absolutely everything possible to take me as far away from myself as I can.

I need to talk to my grandmother. I don't believe in the afterlife anymore. I can lie in bed all day and eat chocolate. Sometimes I do. School's back and it's just me in the house again and it's relieving because I don't have to "perform" for anybody .... don't have to be that smiling mother and supportive wife. All that stuff about life goals and being the Best! Person! You! Can Be! .... seems BULLSHIT to me right now. If I cook dinner and make ok school lunches for the boys and manage to make the bed before Dave gets home, then I'm doing damn well enough. My mind screams, constantly. Universe keeps sending me feathers but fuck you, Universe. Fuck everything. Once I start crying there's just instant wail, which means I'm walking around with wail in me all the time. I'm grateful to anybody who has shared and expressed their grief to me. Thank you. I know I'm not alone and people must have been through worse than this but my god.

I do not know if I can "get through" this. Truth.

My friend didn't say a word. Just hugged me as I cried.

Can you believe that when he told me he was going to kill himself, then begged me to understand and accept it and do certain things for him .... I agreed? At the time it was hard to hear but I promised him I would do what needs to be done, that he could trust me with his final wishes. That's how much I loved him. He knew I would do anything for him. He KNEW I loved him. It wasn't enough.

At the back of my mind I thought, well, if he's talking so much about suicide, maybe it means he won't go through with it.


I should have driven down and sat on his doorstep until he let me in. What the fuck kind of sister lets her brother kill himself? And now it appears to be tearing me apart. His Ikea plates and bowls keep chipping, like he's telling me to fuck the crockery off and let him go. His t-shirt smells half of him, half of his BO. Still cannot wash it. I use his cooking oil, his egg flip, and his mixed herbs. His bones ashes are back on my bedside table. I kiss them a lot. Feels like I'm kissing him, something tangible of him.

Back in the morgue his face was slowly defrosting but I kissed it anyway. Worst kiss ever.

So there you have it - I hate everything, life has no meaning, and I'm sinking. I have no goals or dreams or yearnings for anything. Just getting through each day as they come. It's been three and a half months since he died, since I got that phone call and slid down into the grass in the backyard in shock.

Fuck time, fuck death, and fuck life.

I'm incredibly sorry for such a blurty blogpost but there it is. Hopefully if I just write it and publish it will help me let some stuff go.

How on earth does anyone get through this bullshit life?

Wednesday, 22 January 2014

Things You Don't Find In Parenting Books.

Rocco walked into my bedroom a while back when I was lying on my bed, mustering up some energy to take him to the park.

He was chatting to me for a while, and absent-mindedly opened my bedside table drawer. We both happened to look down at the exact same time. Sitting there on top of some books, without a care in the world, was his first tooth.

Everything happened in a spilt-second. I suddenly remembered throwing it in there in the middle of the night, thinking, "I must get that in the morning and put it in an envelope."

Obviously I did not do that, and here we both were, staring at his tooth. Roccos belief in the Tooth Fairy was dangerously in the balance. So I did what any other person would do in that moment - picked it up and quickly popped it in my mouth.

"Mmmmm. My mint."

He didn't believe it was a mint.


"Tooth? Oh no sweetheart that was my last mint. To keep my breath fresh."

He ordered me to open my mouth and show him. I said no. He was getting pissed. I started to taste the blood that was in his tooth because it'd started to die before he pulled it out.

"Ok CRUNCH it then."

Because I'm scared of my five year old, I grinded his first baby tooth against my tooth to give the illusion that I was eating a crunchy mint. NOM!

Can anybody guess what happened next? Yeah. I fake swallowed my toothy mint.

But accidentally swallowed my toothy mint.

I ate my childs first tooth. Felt it go all the way down.

"What's wrong mum?"

"Nothing mate I ... ate too many mints."

I'm just going to leave this story here. It's been a while now, so I know that I don't have the tooth in my body anymore. It would have been dissolved or - something other? I'll have to save his second tooth in an envelope and pretend it's his first.

 Sweet, gorgeous Rocco. Thank you for forcing me into life. Even if it is to eat your teeth. GAG xx

Tuesday, 21 January 2014

When The Day Is Long. And The Night.

The veggie garden is going berserk. Must be about fifty cherry tomatoes already. Rocco waits until it's cool enough to water them all each evening. He makes me watch. He makes me do a lot of things.

I read somewhere that grief is born the moment your loved one dies. The first three months, exactly like a newborn baby, your grief needs constant care and attention and tending. It's been a bit over three months since my brother Cameron died. Getting out of bed, showering, going out in public .. are all really hard things. Sometimes I can't do them. I don't think grief is the price we pay for love - I think grief IS love. And the harder, most wholeheartedly we loved, the harder, most wholeheartedly we grieve.

I just always wanted to help him, be with him, teach him things. He was this blonde supernova running around our family room. He was so happy. He was so happy.

I'm bereft. Torn. Broken. Pulled apart. Recovery meetings and therapy appointments are saving my arse right now. And Dave, doing just the right thing at just the right time. Most of all, Max and Rocco. My obligations and love for them making me get up and do things and plan the day, plan the dinner. And just stay alive.

I'm back to sleeping with his bone ashes on my bedside table again. I swear they're getting heavier, like he's somewhere saying Eed, dude, let them go. Probably. My theory is that I'm so thick with grief and pain that if he is around me, I can't see him properly.

I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. Every time I saw him after I moved out of home I made a beeline. I think I'll always feel bad for leaving him - sometimes I was so caught up in my own shit I wouldn't talk to him for months. I hate myself for that, and apologised to him so many times afterwards.   I was at the beginning of a very fruitless and destructive drinking career, which took precedence over everything.

Mum and I went through some boxes of his stuff. Found his first lock of hair, his favourite Richard Scarry Book (Cars and Trucks and Things That Go.) His preschool pictures, his kindergarten writing. He couldn't spell for shit. He wrote about his dad with such an obvious love - it surprised me. I knew he was the apple of his dads eye. His dad would click his fingers and Cam would reach up to hold his hand. They were so alike. Huge intellects, smart, arrogant, big thinkers. Depressed.

Both gone, both from their own hand. But for eight solid years? For eight years they loved each other like any other father and son.

The older I get, the less I understand life. I don't know if love is worth the pain. I don't know anything, except when that corn is ready to be plucked the whole plant will be gone, leaving a bare space where it once stood. So we plant some other seeds, see if they take. We won't know what stays or what fades away.

Monday, 13 January 2014

Back Home With A Sigh.

Rocco and I walked into the house after weeks away to come face to face with a few huntsmen spiders who'd decided to take ownership of the place. Dave wasn't there to kill them for me so Rocco took GREAT glee in telling me all the spiders movements.

"Ok so mum the one in the kitchen doesn't move. The big one on the side of the house is going CRAZY! LOOK! MUM! LOOK!"

There was no way I was going to look. Rocco loved it way, way too much. Solemnly he walked up to me.

"Mum. The one near that painting? He's just gone."

Yeah that struck a terror so deep inside. We went out to the veggie garden for hopefully better news, we made sure it was watered every day we were away.


                                Beyond excited that his cherry tomatoes are ripening.

My Camellia died. Of course it did. Came home and it's brown and shrivelled, dead dead dead.

When I was away at the beach it was easy to masquerade my grief - long sleeps in the middle of the day, lounging on the hammock. Now I'm back I feel like I have to pull my socks up. (Problem is, I don't wear socks.)

Aunty Linda gave Rocco a Bingo set for Christmas. He and I had a few games then I upped the stakes by buying a few prizes and wrapping them up for the winner to choose from. I've basically taught my five-year old gambling is what I'm saying. He's completely obsessed.

Rocco and Max had a great Christmas, so that's all I care about. Packed away the tree and will donate it to Vinnies, won't use that one again. There's stuff to be done and little people to take care of. And huntsmen spiders to be found. Cherry tomatoes to be eaten.

Rocco calls them "cheery" tomatoes so I might eat a few myself.

Hope you guys got through your festive situations ok.

Monday, 6 January 2014

We Are Who We Are When We Think People Are Not Looking.

When I'm by myself I eat cold leftovers that run down my face, one leg propped up on the kitchen sink. I pluck chinhairs. Talk to the world and wait for it to talk back. Remember all the bad shit I've done and wince.

When I'm by myself I punch pillows, eat a family block of chocolate, check the mail and wave to the neighbours with the very same hand I've just brought myself to climax with. Swear. Cry. Ruminate, despair, and light a candle all in ten minutes. Sit on the couch with my legs spread so far apart you'd swear I was a gymnast.

The other day I took Rocco to the movies but didn't book ahead and it was all sold out. So I took him to the indoor kids playcentre in the middle of the shopping centre. I sat down with all the other parents. Before he took off he gleefully told me that he ALWAYS makes friends here. How easy it is to make friends when you're little! An exchange of looks and bam, best mates for a whole hour.

I felt like lying down on the bench, simply out of mental exhaustion. But I was out in society so had to act accordingly. I sat up straight and played on my phone, for ages. Rocco could take as long as he wanted to - there was no rush. I'm always rushing. An hour went by. Rocco came up to me red-faced for drinks of water then ran off again. Until, suddenly ..... all of the kids came screaming out, all at once. Rocco yelled in my ear, hardly containing his excitement.


I had to check out this poo for myself. Yep - on the stairs leading up to the tunnel lay a glistening brown turd. Some unaware kids wanted to get through and I was all - oh no, no, you can't, there's a poo there see? And then more kids came, and more kids. I found myself on poo patrol. I didn't want these kids to get this poo on them because as a parent I know there's only one thing worse than cleaning up your own kids poo ... and that's cleaning up ANOTHER kids poo.

I stood there telling kids, warning them. A lot of the parents still didn't know so finally I walked over and addressed them all. Even cupped my hands.


A lot of them did, grateful and thanking me. Who was I to them? I was the Poo Police that's who. Thing is, some parents didn't listen to me and so their kids kept playing and I kept telling them to stop because of the poo. Until I realised, there was no poo on my kid. I came and got Rocco and we walked off. I did what I could - my work there was done.

We met Dave, Max and Tim, came back to the beach house. I had a sleep because that's all I ever want to do lately. Dave ordered a pizza while I drove down to the servo to get milk. When I came back to my car, a man was there talking to himself. Great. Then I realised he was talking to me, he was just too shy to look at me. He wanted to ask me a question but his accent was so thick I couldn't understand. He needed directions but I couldn't make out where so he bowed and started to walk away.

"No, you tell me, I listen. Where?"

"Ahhhhh, is Morriset?" 

FINALLY. I took him back in the servo and asked the lady how to get to Morriset. When she told me the directions my mind went blank. I don't understand any direction, ever. I said thanks and asked the man if he had a map and he said yes so we walked over to his car except it wasn't his car - we kept walking and there his wife stood on the side of the road with ten plastic shopping bags. They'd taken a bus from Lakemba and the driver just dropped them here, with Morriset a half hour away. What to do! I told the man that I just call my husband, wait a minute.

Dave answered and told me the pizza was there. I told him the predicament. He said hon, this is not really our problem. And I said I know hon - but if you were here, I KNOW you'd drive them too. And he would - he's more generous than me.

I went back to them and said, "I drive you." They came over to my car and put all the bags in the back. The husband told the wife to sit in the front next to me .... she had a beautiful silk dress and head covering on. I keyed in the address and just really felt like an arsehole, with my brand new car and fancy SAT-NAV. I felt really white.

We drove in silence, which I tried to break with talk but they couldn't quite get what I was saying so I stopped. Pretty sure she said they were from Somalia. Pretty sure the husband wasn't going to bash me in the head from behind with a brick and leave me in a ditch raped and murdered.

So many people have helped me, along my way. Once I stood in a dark, bad place in the middle of the night and listened as people talked about ripping the gold necklace straight off my neck. Literally out of nowhere, these Christians arrived. I started talking to them and they drove me all the way home. "We just really felt like you needed help, Eden."

So much shit has happened to me, especially when I was young and stupid and reckless with my life.

The couple in my car knew nothing of that ... of how much an arsehole I've been, the bad shit I've done, the people I've hurt. I was their hero. I'll always be their hero. Finally I stopped and we all got out and the man made a move with his wallet to pay me.

"Oh no, no money no money." I waved him away. Their gratitude was embarrassing, they kept bowing so I bowed back. Got in my car and drove off. Just some woman on the way home to eat pizza.

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