Last night I dreamt that I was on the NYC subway completely naked. At rush hour. When I got off the train I ran through the streets trying to find some clothes. The perfect analogy of this blog.
I left the nuthouse with constipation, a urinary tract infection, hairy armpits, and the huge sense of impending doom that I've had my whole life. Dave brought me home and he'd taken the rest of the afternoon off. I love him. Opie ran round and around .... puppies! Everybody in the world needs puppies. Ukraine and Russia need puppies. Every person who get discharged from mental health should be issued a puppy. It is impossible to be sad while you're holding one. I picked him up and went up to meet Max at the bus stop. He got off and didn't see me at first. When he looked up he smiled, then looked down again. When he came up he just said:
"You out for good mum?"
I told him yes.
Rocco got home and played around the house like a tornado before noticing me.
"OH HI MUM!"
And bolted off to turn the trampoline on its side.
I was exhausted. And felt absolutely completely shit. Still do.The only reason I'm posting is my therapist just rang me up out of concern and after some big conversations he told me I must write a blog post before bed. But who wants to hear about how bad I feel? Not me. I'm completely over myself. So here's a photo of Opie when he fell asleep in my car the other day.
I KNOW
And, I baked a banana cake from scratch. The recipe called for one banana but I used three. Dave was BESIDE himself.
It feels odd to be in the world again, drive around, buy groceries, and be all normal. When I feel so Abbie Normal. I used the gum ball machine for Rocco and got him four gumballs.
Aaaaand I ate them all at once, waiting for the bell to ring at school.
My mum has been on a huge workshop all week that I think may have changed her life. She's 67 years old. She's one tough motherfucker and I'm so proud of her.
Rocco cut some pictures out for homework and when I saw this I said, WHAT THE HELL?
And he said well, it's immunisation, mum.
I had to buy a whole lot of things for my bladder and my bowels and anything else gross.
I studied the dates. It reminded me of the time Cam lived with me a few years back, I was on a health kick and eating dates at the speed of light. We were chatting, chatting away on the front deck. About anything. And I go,
"I wonder why they call them dates?"
At that moment, we both look down at the date in my hand.
We fucking pissed ourselves laughing, and laughing, and laughing. Sticky, brown, puckered up arseholes. That's why they call them dates.
The first thing I did when I got home was smell Cams T-shirt. It smells so good. He's right there, his sweat and aftershave and B.O. I don't care if it takes me twenty years - if I need to small that shirt every day I will. I'm learning a bit about grief - how it never ends, it just changes shape like a shapeshifter.
It's hard to stop judging my insides by other peoples outsides. You know that feeling where everyone, EVERYONE around you has it all together but you? I hate feeling desolate. I hate being on meds. I hate how I feel every day. I hate that I can't call him, hear his voice. I hate feeling like a freak. I hate the uncertainty of how I will get through this. I'm entering a writing competition for people living with a mental illness. I want to win.
I love all my boys and the puppy and cake and gumballs. And I'd never thought I'd say it - but I'm happy it's autumn. The summer was too hot, was all wrong. I want to be cold and wear boots to feel tough and lose weight.
And grieve less. At the moment I can't see how that's possible.
When we were little, Cam and I always had a bath together and when he got out he'd turn around for me to tie his towel like a cape.
"SUPERMAN!"
He'd go bolting down the stairs and run around the house naked except for his cape. Every night we did that. Every night. Mum always had his pjs waiting in the family room.
I fell over when he died. It will take some time to get back up again.
I left the nuthouse with constipation, a urinary tract infection, hairy armpits, and the huge sense of impending doom that I've had my whole life. Dave brought me home and he'd taken the rest of the afternoon off. I love him. Opie ran round and around .... puppies! Everybody in the world needs puppies. Ukraine and Russia need puppies. Every person who get discharged from mental health should be issued a puppy. It is impossible to be sad while you're holding one. I picked him up and went up to meet Max at the bus stop. He got off and didn't see me at first. When he looked up he smiled, then looked down again. When he came up he just said:
"You out for good mum?"
I told him yes.
Rocco got home and played around the house like a tornado before noticing me.
"OH HI MUM!"
And bolted off to turn the trampoline on its side.
I was exhausted. And felt absolutely completely shit. Still do.The only reason I'm posting is my therapist just rang me up out of concern and after some big conversations he told me I must write a blog post before bed. But who wants to hear about how bad I feel? Not me. I'm completely over myself. So here's a photo of Opie when he fell asleep in my car the other day.
And, I baked a banana cake from scratch. The recipe called for one banana but I used three. Dave was BESIDE himself.
My mum has been on a huge workshop all week that I think may have changed her life. She's 67 years old. She's one tough motherfucker and I'm so proud of her.
Rocco cut some pictures out for homework and when I saw this I said, WHAT THE HELL?
And he said well, it's immunisation, mum.
I had to buy a whole lot of things for my bladder and my bowels and anything else gross.
I studied the dates. It reminded me of the time Cam lived with me a few years back, I was on a health kick and eating dates at the speed of light. We were chatting, chatting away on the front deck. About anything. And I go,
"I wonder why they call them dates?"
At that moment, we both look down at the date in my hand.
We fucking pissed ourselves laughing, and laughing, and laughing. Sticky, brown, puckered up arseholes. That's why they call them dates.
The first thing I did when I got home was smell Cams T-shirt. It smells so good. He's right there, his sweat and aftershave and B.O. I don't care if it takes me twenty years - if I need to small that shirt every day I will. I'm learning a bit about grief - how it never ends, it just changes shape like a shapeshifter.
It's hard to stop judging my insides by other peoples outsides. You know that feeling where everyone, EVERYONE around you has it all together but you? I hate feeling desolate. I hate being on meds. I hate how I feel every day. I hate that I can't call him, hear his voice. I hate feeling like a freak. I hate the uncertainty of how I will get through this. I'm entering a writing competition for people living with a mental illness. I want to win.
I love all my boys and the puppy and cake and gumballs. And I'd never thought I'd say it - but I'm happy it's autumn. The summer was too hot, was all wrong. I want to be cold and wear boots to feel tough and lose weight.
And grieve less. At the moment I can't see how that's possible.
When we were little, Cam and I always had a bath together and when he got out he'd turn around for me to tie his towel like a cape.
"SUPERMAN!"
He'd go bolting down the stairs and run around the house naked except for his cape. Every night we did that. Every night. Mum always had his pjs waiting in the family room.
I fell over when he died. It will take some time to get back up again.
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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell