Friday, 7 December 2018

"It's Often the Last Key in the Bunch That Opens the Lock."

Hey you guys I'm really sorry it's just I've been really, really scared. Fear eats us from the inside and I'm not just tired but soultired and sweaty from going from one place to another (like, the living room to the bathroom.) Maybe the sweaty is from menopause I'm not sure.

One thing's for sure is that I owe you my words and my worlds and my swirls but - I can't write what's happening until it's over. (It's not over, for the everlasting gobstopper of hell.)

Hey you know how I was brought up strict Catholic like eating the jesus wafers and everything .. well yesterday morning I was so abjectly terrified. (ABJECT - such a dramatic word!!) I was near-hyperventilating because I couldn't pray. It's hard to explain ... at the risk of sounding entirely nutsack crazy (TOO LATE) ... I felt like I was being prevented from praying properly? Or my prayer wasn't strong enough? Or have I prayed too stupidly that I'm pushed to the back of the prayer queue I don't know. I know that prayer is powerful. I also know that prayer is especially powerful when one is strong, and righteous. I'm currently a meek sheep who wouldn't say boo to a goose. I've also been facing lengthy hospitalisation for a few errant brain malfunctions lately but finally what I've been saying for years is true: they ran out of label makers for all of my labels. (The latest being Borderline Personality Disorder and I really, really didn't want that one UGH!)

FUCK. Why can't I just BE BETTER and be done with it and then talk about it freely in public discourse. You know - all that suicide awareness bullshit. I could tag my coattails onto that lucrative business. Government grants for mental health initiatives are BOOMING! I'll talk about it once I've come good! I'd be onstage with shiny sleek hair, my words punctuated by meaningful gestures, tissues at the ready. Finally able to walk in stilettos! A little like how Biggest Loser Trainer Michelle Bridges is an Ambassador for the Black Dog Institute ... one day last year she was going to a fancy black tie dinner event to promote the cause. She instagrammed a photo of herself with the caption "I just LOVE having conversations about mental health!" Then in her post she tagged the boutiques and brands of the beautiful dress and shoes and jewellery and makeup she was wearing. Feeling particularly trollish I commented on her pic with "Hi Michelle, you look really stunning. I was just wondering what kinds of conversations you love having about mental health? I'd be really interested. Unfortunately my brother died from suicide, I'd really love for these dreadful Aussie suicide statistics to improve."

I never got a response from Michelle. In another magazine she was talking about the huge benefits of exercise when you're feeling depressed, how you just "get up and do it!" I had to turn my phone off lest I unabashedly unleashed on her account.

Ok where was I? I didn't know I was going to write about that, best laid plans, etc. Hey - can I just say I feel better already, just writing to you? I really do feel less alone, like we're all in this together. Which we are. And I feel fiercely protective of you, reading this. You are the readers, which makes me the readee? I don't know. I just adore you people and I really am holding a get-together in the shiny new year, before we've made any fuckups yet. I'm thinking the location will be on the rug on my living room floor SURELY it can fit us all on? It's magic.

Oh crap hang on I almost forgot to finish my story. I had to call a taxi yesterday to take me to the mechanics to pick my car up .. for the past two weeks the front passenger rear mirror was just all broken and hanging from its cord. Finally it was fixed yesterday (I HATE being female in these situations #markup)

So grateful to be able to afford getting my mirror fixed ... especially grateful I could get a cab to take me there so I could pick up my son from school. I paid the cabbie then he looks embarrassed but said it anyway. "Eden - wow, great name - so Eden sometimes I pray with my customers. Do you mind if we have a quick prayer together?" I said of course, inwardly I was gobsmacked. The cabbie's name is Grahame and his prayer was so good and short and uncomfortable but WAY COOL. We said amen at the same time.

When I got out of the cab we said our goodbyes ... and now I know how to pray again. And this is how the world works if you are brave to get messily honest enough. People crop up right when you need them. Things happen at the EXACT right time. You get a funny tingly feeling. Life shouldn't be centred around not feeling fear but what we can do in spite of it. Despite it.

AMEN!!!

(Sorry I can't remember why I called this post why I did but I kind of like it? I'll be back real soon. Nite you guys xxxxx)


Tuesday, 27 November 2018

You Never Know.



Somebody stuck a "BROKE" sticker on this Royal typewriter and put it up for sale for four dollars.

I took it home like a lost puppy. She was ceremoniously placed on my sideboard - that's not my sideboard in the photo that's the blanket box in the laundry that I emergencially dumped her on after I dropped her on my foot I KNEW words were heavy.

By the way just like boats, typewriters are female. (I just made that up but it seems true don't you think?)

It's not broke it's just not working at the moment .. imagine what's already been typed on it ever, in its lifetime? Newspaper articles by a top reporter. Dictation by an angry silent secretary dreaming of bigger things. Earnest writings by Ernest himself .. you never know! Rejection letters by publishing houses. Maybe nothing was ever typed on her at all, she just sat on the desk of a Very Distinctive Person who used it as a talking piece or just to look good. Probably the latter.

LETTERS oh my what if beautiful dreamy descriptive love letters were typed on this very Royal by maybe even a Royal. You never know. Imagine all the letters that have been typed on this beauty ... letters that still exist to this day, tucked inside old envelopes in the back of an old dresser that will eventually be thrown away by some, kept as priceless mementos by us more sentimental ones.

I've been thinking lately about how it's not other peoples duty to stay in connection with broken people .. especially the very very broken and lost and hurt and sad. It's hard work. Maybe people cut themselves off because it's too taxing or draining for them .. maybe that's ok and it's up to us broken to "find our own tribe" or some such shit. It must feel warm to be in a tribe I want to be in a tribe so what's that saying - build it yourself? I'll try. Broken people trying is the biggest trying of all especially when we pull it off and think to ourselves ha, who's broken now?

Before I start a tribe I want to get this typewriter fixed back to her original glory, considering all she's been through. What if her keys are keys to words not written yet?

GOD I hope I get her fixed. I'm a bit wobbly all over the place lately so I probably just need to believe in the typewriter if I can't believe in myself enough. If typewriters think then she'd be having a field day. "Oh hello what do we have here? A broken human pfffft .. no such thing!" Imagine how relieved she felt when I pulled her stickers off.

What of the fact that maybe her greatest works haven't been written yet?

Wow. You never know.




Sunday, 25 November 2018

One Fine Day.


Today we went to Echo Point in Katoomba with about a thousand tourists. My photos are very blurry lately .. but we're not. We're really clear. I took him to probably my favourite tree in the world .. it just holds on no matter what.



I walked until my hips weren't achy anymore. He ran, hid, hopped, said he needed sunglasses, got thirsty, and laughed a lot. We went with one of his mates who had a sleepover last night .. this morning they woke at 6am. And they were LOUD. And having the best time. Tomorrow is changeover days .. we don't like changeover days. I worry that going back and forth between two houses every second week is damaging him. I worry too much but I swear this is true: it's easier when they are babies. You have more control. You always know where they are. They don't know what the internet is. It's hard work but as they approach adulthood holy hell you're in for a bumpy ride. Make sure your arms and legs stay inside the carriage at all times.


I'll be his pillow. I'll be whatever he needs me to be. Same with Max. With six years between them the age difference is really obvious but as they grow up together I think they'll be best mates. They've been through a hell of a lot together. Siblings are special like that .. they have the unique bond of growing up together. My two have had to sometimes be soldiers and just push through when it got too hard. Neither have middle names but if they did they'd both have the same one: grit.


Everything we do starts with that first step. Sometimes we're lucky enough to have some do-over steps and get to start afresh in the morning. I wasn't anxious or jumpy or scared or anything yucky today! At all! I credit you guys. And my two guys who both grew in my BELLY like that is INSANE when you think about it! Our wombs are time-travelling portals, delivering humans from one dimension to the next.

I think weird.

For the two hours we were there Rocco BEGGED me to climb over the fence so he could walk on the "proper side." Oh my boys are shining lights. Doesn't matter where we live, we're each others home.

I never thought I could have children. I can't imagine my life without them. I'm raising two thoughtful, kind, empathetic, incredibly capable males who respect themselves, other people, their possessions. Most of all - women. I'm a loud-mouth opinionated dangerous chick who has seen and done some STUFF! #stillhere #proudmama

This wasn't the post I expected to write today but it wasn't the day I expected to have today. It ended in a whopper roast lamb stuffed with garlic cloves slow-cooked in the oven. It's demolished. Rocco asked for the chicken bone. Max was HANGRY while carving it. (Rocco has gone one step further than angry. He calls it "sangry" ... sad because he's angry and hungry.)

My sons make up words .. I started teaching them young that they're allowed to do much more than they get told they can. It's hard for them to have me as their mum, I know that. I also know they're strong enough to handle it.

Love you my Max and Rocco - hey never forget that love is real. It's REAL.


Saturday, 24 November 2018

A Bad Case Of Toska

To get straight to it:
 I have never received so much hate emails, bile and backlash in my life. The shame I feel is so overwhelming I thought seriously about deleting this whole site and all of my social media accounts.

I asked for some help and I received help - enough to be months ahead in my rent. My gas didn't get cut off. I bought steaks. Some people out there haven't agreed with what I did, how I went about it and so I just froze. More about that in a little bit in the meantime I've had a medication change to deal with ... it's going great! Here's a selfie:


It's not going great at all. A professor, two psychiatrists, my counsellor, the hospital visit I had last week. I haven't been able to do things. I took my frustrations out on a case worker and I made one of the doctors at the hospital cry why? Because I let it all out and loose and wept like REALLY wept in his office and I don't know him very well but what a man .. to be affected by a patients pain like that. Except in those fifteen minutes I wasn't just another patient I was a fellow human being in so much pain I could hardly talk. At first I thought he kept touching his nose but no, he was wiping his eyes.

I talk with strangers much better than I talk with people I know.


I'm not grateful for my pain but I'd like to be. And there's SO MANY people going through worse stuff than I am!


This post is quote-heavy because I've still lost my words they must have fell out of my pocket while I was trying to explain to people that I am who I say I am but that made them more angry until today I finally realised nobody can hate me more than me and I really do know who I am. And through all that muck I was emailed by a 16 year old girl who begged me to write again so here I am, Elsie. Here I am.

I've been writing I just haven't been publishing. Never have I felt such doubt about my writing but I'm going to push past that even though I feel like a sack of shit. It appears ten years of writing online has meant a lot to a lot of people so I'm pushing past it like Eminem continues to. Em and I were born in the same year SNAP and twinning and how can I manage to meet him next February?

See that- next February. It' important to have something to look forward to in life and it doesn't have to be Eminem it can be chocolate brownie ice cream.


I want this to be true. I want my greatest life's work to be in front of me. I'm scared and sad and full of self doubt and my brain got diagnosed with TWO MORE disorders for the love!!! How much can a koala bear? Both my sons are here with me and have been for some time and all that goes around in my head is how I've fucked them up. I should have played with them more, listened to them more, not taken them for granted. I should have been more. To the people who gave to me ... tracking some of you down is proving tricky but I'll get there. You saved me. I'll tell you about it one time.

To the people who hate me: blow me. I forgot who I was for a while. Fuck you, fuck off, you're not invited to the get-together I'm planning in the new year for people with wonky brains, personality disorders, suicidal tendencies and all-round general mental malaise.

To the people who love me and understand me and have given me patience and grace: you saved me.

I'll write my wrongs from here on in. Tomorrows post is sorted and the day after that and the day after that. Please don't give up on me - I'm sorry. I love you and hear you and need you.

If I just lay here would you lie with me and just forget the world? I hope so, readers and dreamers and lovers. All of us confused fucked awesome sad hopeful ones.




Tuesday, 13 November 2018

If All The Lonely People Came Together Then We Wouldn't Be Lonely Anymore Don't You Think?

Ever realised how SO uncool to admit how lonely you are? I'm lonely! And yes I'm embarrassed at being lonely but it's the truth.

If I ever ask someone if they get lonely they say no .. why is that? Is it such an embarrassment? I get lonely as HELL .. especially at night when I want to just, watch tv or netflix with somebody. At night time in bed I'd just like to spoon to make me feel .. connected or loved or something. I'm not talking one iota about sex, just the thing of someone shouting out "do you want parmesan on your spaghetti" during the ad of some dumb show that does nothing to improve anyones minds. Not every moment has to be all spiritual and shit, or Einsteiny. Just the act of doing mindless stuff with another person instead of by yourself ... helps the sound of the world crying.

I feast on meaningful stuff too, yesterday my mum reminded me it was six years ago exactly that I flew to India for World Vision  (I truly need to get my comment system back up and working .. I only paused it because of negative and mean comments which I could not care less about anymore, ever.)



This was meeting our family's sponsor child, Rashni. She was three here, back in 2012 - now she's ten. Exactly the same as Rocco - they were born three days apart and I purposely chose a girl the same age as him, watching his face as he read her progress report last week was just .. humbling. He had so many questions and he really wants to meet her too.


This pic was taken back in 2014 - after my brother died but before everything in my family's life imploded oh my god look at my sons. Look at them #truelove


Me and Rocco the other night after the HUGE house inspection. Which the owner attended. Roc (otherwise known as vacuumer of the century) has weaned himself off Fortnite and I'm so proud. We've gone back to playing Dumb Ways to Die together on my phone at bedtime, thing is I get really, really offended when he laughs at my poor playing skills. So then he's trying extra-hard not to laugh. It's so hard for me to not laugh at him trying not to laugh.


I'M TRYING SO HARD. ALL THIS TIME AND I DIDN'T GIVE UP! I *know* I have work to do and I pray, a lot. I don't pray for help - I pray for the strength to be given to me for what I need to do. Despite being brought up Catholic I still believe in truth and good, love and BRIGHT LIGHT. Laugh at the devil and he shall flee. Ha.


Ok I don't know WHY my photos have suddenly gone all blurry on here lately but this is me today.  Hopefully I look ok. I hope I continually believe I'll get through (because of you, oh so grateful .. S0 grateful I'm not sure you understand. Yes I will email you if I haven't already. You changed my life.)

I guess that's it for now, beautiful people. I did say a post a day but going through a medication change for the first time in a LONG TIME does not make a great blog post every single day OR maybe it does, hahahaha!!!! (You'd call the men in white coats immediately and fuck that - I'll get through this. I been through worse. I been through better. Why does life seem easier for others there's no answer Eden stop asking that question.)

In conclusion if you want to go out on a date or something email me edenriley@gmail.com KIDDING, OBVIOUSLY!!! Heh.

No come on we've all got this, living in a hard scary world run by dictators. I applaud you for still being here! And guess what we don't even have to be lonely anymore ....  ready?





 Goodnight beautiful people. I love you. And I mean it. xxxx


Friday, 9 November 2018

Laughter, and Other Medicines.

Hey when I was a kid I used to get chocolate eclairs from the bakery ...  sometimes I'd mix it up because I do like a baked good but often I'd walk up to the counter and say:

"Hello, may I please have a chocolate eclair."

All of those years I had it wrong and nobody noticed that I was actually saying:

"Hello, may I please have a chocolaty Clare." 

I'm telling you this story because I was telling it to somebody yesterday and we just basically collapsed with laughing. Literally, standing outside on the forecourt down from Katoomba Library next to Big Beet Cafe we laughed so hard. We were just laughing so hard.  We scared all the pigeons away ... my friend had to find a seat to sit on while she laughed or she would have ended up on the concrete and all I'll say about me is that I finally understand the need for pelvic floor exercises, thank good I was wearing black leggings. Wow.

We had other people laughing just because we were laughing. They didn't even know the story, they were just laughing at us laughing because they knew we couldn't stop and mainly because laughing contagious.

Chocolaty Clares .. who knew? Maybe I thought they were invented by somebody called Clare but the point here is that it wasn't just that we were laughing at ... prior to the Clare story my friend and I had been catching up on each others lives not just a shallow glib five minute job it was a full-on nitty gritty hard heavy shit conversation, we hadn't seen each other in years. We met in Westmount Rehab back in 1998 - TWENTY years ago. She didn't even know Rocco existed, I didn't know shed been to jail then fully straightened out her life. So proud when people conquear themselves - hey what's that saying:

"It is better to conquer yourself than win a thousand battles." - Buddha (I just googled it.)

Here's a truth - I've been too scared to write here. What am I supposed to say, after what you've done for me? How can I possibly, ever ever repay you? I'm going through and writing thank-you's, slower than I would like but they're real proper thank-you's like I mean it because I MEAN IT like how can you just give and save me like that? You have - you've saved me. I'm so far ahead in my rent. I'm in negotiations with my energy provider. I don't dread opening the mail, I've stopped crying walking down the street and as embarrassing, mortifying, shameful it was for me to ask you for help I really was stuck in a dark place which I'd still be (or worse) .. had you not heeded my call for help. Did I use the word "heed" in the proper context? Probably - I won't check I'll trust myself because I usually get it instinctively right with words - words are my jam but the past week and a bit they're not my jam they been my bread and butter and I've never ever felt so humbled, grateful, blessed, uncomfortable, amazed in my whole life.

Some of you have sent me messages that just ... I had no idea you loved (and needed) to read my words so much. That's a huge call and that's when I became so overwhelmed by thinking I needed to write incredibly grand, meaningful, deep blog posts all the time every day but thing is ... I CAN'T! This is just me and this is how I say stuff which is probably what grew it anyway. Goddamn that laugh yesterday was just ... a massive circuit breaker. Laughter really is medicine. I laughed all the dark and heavy and the worry away - very especially needed, right in the middle of med-change week UGGHHH.

I'm still very, very scared .. I still wake up crying. Or if I don't, I start crying on my stumble into the kitchen to turn the kettle on. Still crying as I'm doing my morning wee - when I wash my face I never look into the mirror.

BUT: you have taken the biggest weight off my shoulders. Your emails and help have made me release how far and wide my words have gone like it's own little breadcrumb trail except this time, you've fed me. Thanks for replacing my apathy with inspiration, my dark for light ...  my yuck for some heartshine.

For the first time in years - and years - you circled your wagons and for the first time in years - and years - you've reminded me of who I am. I'm ok. I'm not a pathetic loser because I'm still trying.

What a gift. I just an't say thank you enough and from here on in I'll just keep writing here the way I always have. With irreverence, humour, glimpses of dark (but not too much to scare you!) the odd swear word, anger, pain, joy .. all of it I guess. All those real human things that we've all got deep down inside all of us.


Tuesday, 6 November 2018

Carrie Fisher: Our Beloved Patron Saint of Bipolar (and Just General Mental Fuckedness.)



One of the best things I have ever read is Carrie Fisher saying this in one of her memoirs called "Wishful Drinking."

“I thought I would inaugurate a Bipolar Pride Day. You know, with floats and parades and stuff! On the floats we would get the depressives, and they wouldn’t even have to leave their beds - we’d just roll their beds out of their houses, and they could continue staring off miserably into space. And then for the manics, we’d have the manic marching band with manics laughing and talking and shopping and fucking and making bad judgment calls.” 

Heavens above I MISS her! Irreplaceable. I'm pretty sure she meant having a Bipolar Pride Day like that ... I'd much prefer being manic than depressive but that's the thing with us folk, you don't get to choose. Just his morning I woke up absolutely full crying, which keeps happening more times lately than I'd like to admit.

Often the sound of my weeping wakes me up in the middle of the night. It's so awful and has never happened to me before EVER and it's going to keep happening until ... it won't happen any more.

That's what I'm holding out for and thats exactly what's going to happen, especially with the help of trailblazers like Carrie Fisher

Life is still going to be hard but after my med changes and consistently seeing my trauma therapist then yes. Things can only get better,

The more I still read about Carrie and her legacy, the more I realise she was a very, very rare Soul. Talking about things we're not supposed to talk about saves our lives. Period.







Monday, 5 November 2018

Richer Than We Think.




There's millions more good souls than bad souls in the world, the bad ones just tend to get all the press. Apparently the planet is going through huge turmoil but hasn't it always? One thing is true - more and more people (especially young people) - are becoming woke.

The Urban Dictionary's definition of woke:
Although an incorrect tense of awake, "woke" is a reference to how people should be aware in current affairs. 
"While you are obsessing with the Kardashians, there are millions of homeless in the world. STAY WOKE."

My sons are woke #proudmummymoment

Rocco arrived safely back from camp last Friday - he only lost his toothbrush, hat, sleeping bag cover, thongs, and pyjamas. I'll call that a win - not even kidding. He was beyond tired that before we'd even got into the car we had an altercation. He wanted his friend to sleep over NOW. I said "Mate I've already got one cranky, tired and hungry guy who needs a shower. Why would I want two?" (It was a very quiet trip home.)

Back to his dads today - hate changeover days but just like my Uncle Stevie says, it is what it is. Frankly I'm a bit relieved Roc won't be here this week because I'm getting my bipolar meds changed up for the first time in THREE YEARS. I don't want to but I have to - I need to.

I aways put if off because when I first got properly diagnosed back in 2012, the psychiatrists were changing my meds every second week, sometimes every week. It fucked with my already-fucked head SO BADLY it seemed the world was upside down. At that time I took anything they told me to, no questions asked. I put on so much weight that people would routinely ask my due date. YEAH that really went down well with me .. I'd literally pull up my top, squish my fat fatty flesh with my fingers and tell them oh no I was't pregnant I was straight out of the psych ward and the meds have made me look like I'm having triplets! I did this to make fun of it but mainly to shame the person who asked because YOU NEVER ASK A WOMAN IF SHE'S PREGNANT unless you can see the baby's head crowning.

My weekend was spent a tad more anxious than I'd like, lots of pacing, head-racing. I'd like to point out at this juncture that no matter how badly I feel ... both of my sons are looked after impeccably. To the point where one of them said "Wow mum, you really make me feel special." Told him he IS special. I called my other guy in for dinner, he said he felt like a King.

                                                     I told him he IS a King.

    I had to get a new cupcake tin because ....  I haven't baked muffins (or hardly anything) since 2014.

My famous half-baked choc-chip cookies so they remain chewy ... Max's mates are blown away by them #stillgotit


                             We all like our chops well-done so no, I didn't burn them!


Ok beautiful lovers, back to emailing my thank-you's oh lord I am so grateful and feel protected!!

(Guess what I just proof-read this post because my fake nails make my typing gibberish lately .. and in it I've just casually mentioned bipolar medication, psych wards, cupcakes and parenting. All in there together, like, it's normal or something?!) #fuckstigma

Hey I wish I could cook for you. A huge vat of that paella stuff - I've never made it but it always looks like it could feed hundreds of people. I'd cook it at a get-together at Wentworth Falls lake and serve it with iced lemon, lime, and bitters. All of us sitting on the #magicrug .. which is magic so obviously it'd fit us all on.

No toy (or human) gets left behind.



Friday, 2 November 2018

You Could Always Touch A Stranger But Not In A Creepy Way

I don't have anything to write about because what I've truthfully got to write about is too much, too dark and too scary. Even for me. I'm scared. Just really really scared, even with my emergency Valium which I rarely get. My GP knows that when I need Valium, I really need the hell out of that Valium. I've never, ever abused it either. When I go for like, 5 months without it .. my GP is just as proud as  am.

When I walk into my emergency appointment that I've begged for (usually on a Friday, for some reason it always seems to be a Friday.) I'm a jittery, shaking, choke-crying clothes-worn-every-day for probs three days in a row but still I'm PROUD of myself for not asking for those relieving little benzos for a whole five months! My GP and I both know that I live with chronic utterly raging horrendous anxiety and mostly get through those "attacks" without the Vals.

BUT: when I need them, I know I need them now.

I've never doctor-shopped even though I'm a very convincing straighty-one-eighty with the glasses and intelligence to boot. The last time I took drugs was horrendous and I really hope it's the last time I take drugs ever ever. There but for the grace. Just for today. The only reason I would at this point would be to make the pain go away but like the song says, the drugs don't work they just make you worse so you wake up the next day feeling WORSE than you did before you took the drugs. And the lying and the hiding and dishonesty I can't do anymore. Plus I have people to be the best I can be for.

I've been alone/lonely before but not like this. I'm not even going to describe it which obviously I could, pretty well. Human beings aren't rocks or islands and we shouldn't be left alone very much at all. It's frustrating, not being able to talk to people when I see them. Declining invitations and just .. not engage socially. Sometimes for a very long time. Tumbleweeds run through my heart, the ache that other people and their kinship and laughter could only fill. Telling people straight up "I have difficulty maintaining friendships" and they say it's ok, they understand and they won't give up then - they give up and the "blame" of that lies on me. I'm too much, I get it. But still - owie.

I don't always walk around the house with a crumpled face and bereft everything ... sometimes I do it in supermarkets too HA! I've had complete strangers walk up to me and ask if I need a hug, no shit. And we've just weirdly hugged as if it's not weird and I tell them thanks and we move on in our respective lives most likely to never cross paths again .... but that four second awkward change with another human being? Strangely soothing.

The last time someone touched me (except for when I hug and kiss my kids) was the lady who did my nails a few weeks ago. She was having problems with this one articular pinky of mine and she kind of massaged it or something and I just remembered thinking jeez that feels nice. Just that human contact.

I've had a handful of "interludes" with a few guys in the past few years and every single one of them - every, single, one ... have been arrogant, entitled, overbearing and controlling.

No, no, no, and no. Never again.

::

Considering the complete outpouring of love and kindness I have received this past week with a LOT of people helping me, sending me love (and meaning it, wow.) People whose names I don't recognise but you have all pitched in, and helped me, given me actual peace of min, oh I am slowly getting through contacting and thanking every body for the help they have given me - it's too important not to. My rent is so very paid well in advance. My bills got paid and we had lamb cutlets. Yes it was one of the most embarrassing things I've ever had to do in my life but SO many of you made me feel ok about asking, like that book that was recommended, Amanda Palmer's "The Art of Asking." You right there reading me for years gave me the one biggest most precious and important thing I've ever received in my life:

You reminded me who I am.

YOU REMINDED ME OF WHO I AM.

Now that is something I can never repay to you - except maybe some of you who've read this tonight and might be just as lonely as me so I've made you feel not alone and if I've done that, well, I'm not alone either. There's a darkness in a lot of us earthlings that want to make us isolated, alone, misunderstood, mortified with shyness. How do you deal with it? (Mental note - fix my comment system so you beauties can comment again.)

I deal with it by hugging strangers who feel sorry for me when I'm crying in the cleaning products at the shops.

Hey - it's a start. I have no time or energy to be proud anymore.

Nite. xxx




Thursday, 1 November 2018

His First Camp, My Last Camp.


My youngest set off to camp yesterday!




We packed literally at the eleventh hour the night before (well, I did.) He crashed out legs askew on the couch after two episodes of Fresh Prince of Bel Air, the latest Netflix show we watch together. I've never see it before, it's quite funny - nice and clean and innocent, you know? No swearing or overt sexuality ... these days you see your kids watching a cartoon and think ok that's cool and then find out how utterly filthy it is. I'm not even being a prude, these shows make Southpark look like the Brady Bunch. I was a fan of Ren and Stimpy back in the day (remember one of them fell in love with their fart and wanted to marry it - yes that was a bit off but nothing like now.)

Rocco and his friends are *right* on the cusp of wanting to get facebook and instagram, makes my heart sink a little because they're still young and fresh and innocent when it comes to memes and hashtags and the cluttered debris of the internet. It changes them, I've seen it happen with all my kids as they grow up. It's overloading and too big for little humans minds.

Yeah the internet is great for information and knowledge, the speed of news, education, etc ... but it scares the absolute shit out of me so I choose to still stay on the internet. In it.. like a silent subversive hall monitor. Until the big blackout comes and everybody buys walkie talkies, cases of water, grabs their dogs and kids and go live someplace quiet and beautiful, plant things, live off the land.

Maybe that's how we are supposed to live all along.

I'm standing there at Rocco's school early yesterday morning  and there were excited little faces every direction you turned. It's a rite-of-passage, your first school camp. Mine was back in 1983 at Bundeena where I full pashed a boy for the first time. It was so disgusting I spent the rest of the camp ignoring him. So much spit! Sorry Rodney.

There's this other thing I've done since all my children have gone through their schools. I wait at assembly, or look around at concerts or special days ands look at all those precious kids doing what they do: jostling, faux fighting, laughing at things that aren't funny but then I always look past that, try to read their faces if they are ok. How's things at home? Is there violence, are they getting enough food and attention and love. I worry about and for them, if they're dragging their feet or running carefree. Sounds weird but I do say a prayer for them (in my mind not out loud, ha.)

Like one of my own sons said to me back when he was in year 6, "Mum I would HATE to be gay."

When I asked why he said that, he simply answered with such a truth it made me tear up. "Because you'h have to hide it."

Can't wake to pick him up tomorrow afternoon. They're all going to be a huge bunch of overtired, stinky, possibly a bit sunburnt bunch of beautiful children, pouring off the bus with legendary camp stories. They've tasted freedom from their parents for possibly the first time in their lives, instead experiencing living with their peers for three days in a row. No funny GIPH or newest You Tube video or choosing a new team in Fortnite ... just real and good and funny old-fashioned FUN.




Sunday, 28 October 2018

Still Not Dead.


There's my brother Cam.

In the morgue. I took a photo.

He's still beautiful. Please try not spin out!

In the olden days people used to take photos of their deceased loved ones all the time. I cropped it for you so it wouldn't scare you too much. Originally I didn't want to even go into the morgue to see him, too terrified but everyone else in my immediate family did and I wasn't going to sit by myself next to the annoying white lilies so I went in. Didn't touch him until the next day when my mum and I went back together ... it was so strangely beautiful and comforting. But still ... he was kind of defrosting. I used push my baby brother up in the stroller to Mt. Riverview shops to buy king rat jelly lollies. He died when he was 33. In his suicide note wrote how disgusted in himself he was and he didn't want the stigma of getting help. The last meal he ever ate was prawn pasta. He always loved prawns.

His death destroyed me - like I'm still alive here to write about it but my family broke up. My family of 17 years that I worked SO HARD and SO CONSISTENTLY for ... it brokeded all up. I want it back but that'll never happen. How can people be so predatory? Write me beautiful supportive emails then nek minute take the dream holiday with my sons and ex to Greece and Turkey that we planned for years? I don't get it. I'm not sinking in self pity but I don't get it and maybe I'm glad I don't because I'm not like that.



More important than anything and the very best sacred holy things that have ever happened in my life ... my sons Max and Rocco. Nobody knows the depth of love I have for them except .. hopefully them. They grew in my uterus oh their kicks .. very few people in my life believed I could be a "good" mother at that time.

I never called them horrible names, growing up. I never crushed their souls. Made them hate themselves. I never made them believe they were nothing and I never, ever hit them and woke them up drunk in the middle of the night and made them weep with confusion. I kept a coupon from Womans Day Magazine under my bed with a cubic zirconia ring for $19.95 ....if I just bought that ring, THEN I would be loved!


Hey check this out. I cleaned my bedroom by myself for the first time in two years ... fairy lights. I deserve fairy lights. Cleaned it all by myself - such a basic thing but it was really hard. So hard. People don't understand.

My mental health and diagnoses and all that shit has taken its toll on every single person in my life. I wish I could change it. Some people say their bipolar is the best thing that ever happened to them - no fucking way. Not for me. Right now in my life it prevents me from doing so, SO much.


This baby would be five years old now. I was and still am an ambassador for World Vision. My caring heart will never just "go." I was born with it .. a few people I met just last weekend were confused by me and couldn't work me out until and I said hey you guys I can't work me out either. Chill.

One thing I know is that I'm not malevolent. Or fake .. I'm me. Ask me anything I got nothing to hide.


See this beautiful rug? Last week I put it up for sale for $120 on facebook and instagram because I was facing eviction from my house. Still am. I've signed rights away for something, they don't seem to be going ahead with it so I'm stuck until the allotted time runs out and it's mine again.

It's absolutely terrifying and I haven't slept for more than a month - all I need is a house for my two sons so they feel safe and secure with their mum. That's all ... this house is all that and more.

The "settlement" of a 17 year marriage took place more than a year ago. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually.... I fought a big fight but my sons were used as pawns and I wish I signed straight away to save all of the damage it did. In the year 2000 I worked at the Parakeet Cafe Katoomba and had more than 1k savings in my account to go to Scotland but I got caught up in a relationship, doing taxes from a shoebox. Fast forward till a few years ago and I waived my right to 6 houses and a lot of other things just so my boys would stop suffering. This is ugly awful things to put out here on the net but I just put my name down for public housing. Who wants to admit that?

Nobody.


If you're a long-time reader of me then you know me because I've never held back ... except for recently.

Recently I wake up every night crying. I'm so lonely I can hardy bear it, and terrified of not being able to support myself or pay my bills or rent. Frankly I can't and have had to get assistance from government agencies, especially with my gas through this winter.

I'm still alive. Like a mantra in my head says that ... but don't my sons deserve more? THIS is what people mean when they say suicide has a ripple effect. My brothers death was the writing on the wall - I lost everything, I want my family back, I want my sons and their father and me to all be together again. Its not going to happen and it's destroyed us all. Did I let it go or did it get stolen? I aways thought it'd be a little break. I was wrong.

Living with a person who has narcissistic personality disorder has just...god I don't know. There's no words to describe. I just want my life force back.

Ever second week my sons aren't here I barely exist. It's not ok nor sustainable to feel the pain I feel. The only thing I loathe more than falling asleep is waking up. Never knew such loneliness. Ever.

This is me when I'm pretending to be ok:



And this is me when I just can't pretend I'm ok:



I don't want to get evicted. I'm so, so scared. I need consistency for my sons. Everything's all business in this world so if you choose to drop a few dollars then I promise to write a blog post every single day in November. NEVER have I doubted my writing but if Eminem can release Kamikaze then I can do this. Shit yes I can - and not crap posts, either. Big posts .. the ones that make people feel uncomfortable and piss people off.

I'm currently in the middle of thanking every single person who has helped me last week by putting money in my bank account and PayPal. (I'M NOT EVICTED!) I'm not used to being helped and I can't actually thank you enough. A woman called Stacey saved me right in the middle of a huge mess I was in at about one in the morning. I'll repay her but oh my goodness .. Angels are alive and well, people. Believe.

Just believe. It's not that hard.

You know why I haven't written here properly for so long? Fear. But I'm not scared anymore - of anything or anyone. Dangerous. I'm still alive what a surprise, sorry! (Not sorry.)

So uncomfortable saying this but I'm pretty sure the world hasn't finished with me yet. Maybe you haven't either and lord KNOWS my sons need their mother.

I don't know what's going to become of me. Please be a part of it with me. I've no intention of giving up or I would have killed myself years ago. If you want to be a part of it with me, lets go. (The only reason I blog at this point is to put God in the machine. Sounds fucken weird but its true. I don't lie ... you guys who've been reading for a while already know me. Please believe me.

Ready for a big truth? You don't have to swallow yet I'm just making you aware .. darkness has dragged me down for a while because I'm one of the brightest lights that planet earth has ever seen.

But beautiful humans guess what? I'm back. And strong. Let's dive into this together .. the hell else are we going to do?

My real father was a genius who worked at IBM in the 80s, he drank himself to death. My stepfather of 11 years killed himself. My second stepdad died of cancer, my beloved brother Cameron killed himself in 2013 I grew up severely bullied, abused, treated like a piece of shit. My 20's were a shocker of rehabs and rapes and other unsavoury things but I fell pregnant with my first son Max and the whole Universe realigned. Love is the strongest force on the planet.

I'm not a begger but writing this - I guess I am. Need a roof over my head for my sons .. and me. It's easy to change the world. The hardest thing is changing ourselves.

(Thank you so much. Mortified.)

Eden Riley
BSB 112879
038996341

PAYPAL
edenriley@gmail.com

Friday, 17 August 2018

I Accidentally Sold My Favourite Cowboy Boots For $33.

I listed a pair of my cowboy boots up for sale on a facebook group for $40 but I meant to put $140. Didn't realise my error until I was inundated, swarmed with YES PLS! SOLD! I CAN COME TO YOU RIGHT NOW? Plus quite a few dodgy DM's saying they'd pay more.

I thought what the hell is going on .... ooooohhhh shit. See I have this thing where if I really want a new pair of cowboy boots I have to sell a pair I already own except you know - NOT SELL THEM FOR FORTY BUCKS.

For some inexplicable reason I stood by my sale. I could easily have just said "Sold, sorry" and nobody would have known except me except I live with as much integrity as I very can .. it's integral. And it just feels good. So this chick (nervously) rang and said she was on her way over after getting the money out of the bank. She was the very first person to respond to the ad. I said $40, so she was coming over with $40. I wanted to cancel so bad! These boots have history. A lot happened when I was wearing these boots.

But I couldn't cancel, just couldn't do it to her. She sounded so excited ... even though these boots are the most expensive boots out of any I owned and the cost of postage from America to Australia basically doubled the price. I remember the day they got delivered to me by a courier back in 2014 and I was so defeated by my brothers suicide a few months beforehand that I didn't even open the package for a week until one of my sons said mum you gonna open these? I let him open them and just holy shit they were special.

I instantly named them my Poetry Performing Boots and at that point I hadn't even written a slam yet let alone perform one. But I did perform in them and I did it really well. Considering.

                Performing "Strong Bones" at the 2014 Australian Poetry Slam NSW Final

       Performing "Fuck That Tupperware" at the 2015 Imperfect Womens Conference, Brisbane.




They were magic boots, these grieving redemptive slammin' stompy brown and aqua babies. And I was letting them go for a song. WWHHHYYYYY?? Why? Because when the lady came to pick them up she told me she was going to get MARRIED in these boots. I teared up and hugged her and told her how special they were and now she was going to make them even MORE special. I told her I accidentally wrote $40 instead of $140. She told me she might base her entire wedding colour theme around these boots. I told her it was a sign, they were MEANT to go to her and she agreed and when she was digging around in the coin section of her purse I asked her how much did she have so far - she said $33 and I said that's cool, she can have them for thirty three bucks. She hugged me so hard and we talked for a bit and then she left.

I stood there on my front verandah thinking about how 33 is a special number, it's the age my brother was when he died. Last year I had one hell of a terrible scary nervous breakdown when I was in Glasgow. Went for a walk one night (wearing these boots) and found myself in a casino. Do you casino? I do NOT casino. It's boring.

I was at the roulette wheel and so paranoid and nervous I immediately had to leave ...  so put all the rest of my money on number 33. Everyone's like WHOAAA BIG SPENDER!! I wasn't even watching when the ball came to a stop and there was this massive commotion and people were congratulating me.

The ball had landed on 33.

I said "Oh my god I don't even PLAY blackjack!" And someone said it's not blackjack it's roulette. The manager was so cranky that I'd won he checked my passport three times. He asked what I was drinking (coke) .. he tried to get me to stay but I was OUTTA there.

With the money I was able to buy an emergency ticket home - the relief! Thank GOD I was able to get my bipolar broken self the hell out of Scotland.

So thats the story of the boots. Obviously they were born to be special. Life's pretty magical if you let it.

(I haven't bought another pair yet but when I do, imagine where they'll take me?)





Tuesday, 24 July 2018

“Have a great day boys and remember: don’t rape any women!”


On the weekend my ten-year old son and I were walking down the street and I noticed him glaring and looking back at a man who’d walked past us.

What’s up mate?”
“That guy was PERVING AT YOU.”

He said it really loudly so the guy would hear him. Mr Perver was about 50 years old so basically what we have here is a young child calling a much older male out on his behaviour. I’m so proud of my son .. proud of ALL of my sons because here’s the thing: through all this public discourse about men’s violence towards women, a lot of the time the conversation ends with “.. we need to teach our sons not to rape.”

Ok so .. how do we do that? 

I can only go on the way I’ve brought my sons up .. I’ve called bullshit on everything since day dot. A tv ad comes on with a woman sexily biting into an ice cream cone and I’ve pointed it out. “Hey guys see her pout and skimpy clothes .. the whole ad is designed for the woman to act all ridiculously sexual to get you to buy the ice cream.”

Whenever any inappropriate magazines featuring women wearing lingerie or a bikini on the cover: straight to the recycling bin.

Somebody gave my then-eight year old son a pack of cards featuring topless females: in the BIN. (Seriously!?)

I’m outspoken and cranky about a lot of things in the world, which means my sons have grown up with me giving a running commentary on anything. I’ve told all of them that one day they’ll be at parties and if there’s drunk girls there .. to be the guy who makes sure the girls get home safely. That other guys might want to take advantage of the girls in that state. All of my sons nodding furiously. “Of course, mum!”

There’s only a limited time when our children are growing up to impart our knowledge and wisdom into them. I’ve used every available opportunity I can to teach my boys to have respect for women. Told them (and showed them) that women are STRONG. We’re not less-than. We’re not the weaker sex. As they’ve gotten older and started dating it’s been heartening when they’ve told me about a new girlfriend because they’ve often said: “Actually, she’s a lot like you!” (Silent fistpump.)

In no way am I anti-male .. how could I be? All of my sons are sensitive, empathetic, caring, funny and bright young men. The reasons behind my brothers suicide taught me that the patriarchy damages men, too. There’s a LOT of expectations for males - to be the provider, don’t admit weakness, earn money, be a MAN. 

I was taking about this to my 16 year old son yesterday, his views and opinions were such a welcome relief. He thinks the current state of music has a lot to answer for. A lot of it is all “Get bitches make money.” .. with video clips to match. The vacuous and empty lyrics of hip-hop nowadays makes me despair .. it’s supposed to mean something! I believe if you’re an artist of any kind and you have a fan base or following or platform .. you have to use it wisely.

Lately I’ve been despondent and scared at the relentless violence, murders and rapes of women. Is it getting worse? It seems to be everywhere .. and anywhere. I just don’t know.


What I do know is that on the weekend a young boy defended his mums honour as she was being leered at while walking down the street. *That* makes me so, so proud. It gives me hope for our future. 

Thursday, 21 June 2018

The World is Desperately Hurting, Traumatised and Fucked Up.

We need our artists - it’s an emergency. We need the kind of people who always save the world right in the nick of time, by giving us hope.

We need our painters and writers and sculptors. Knitters and dreamers and gardeners and volunteers and nurses and teachers. We need our first responders .. we need people who give to other people. We need creators of all kinds, which is everybody. I once wrote a slam-poem that ended with the words:

“If there is a god
And he is a creator
Who made us in his image ..
That means we are creators
And if that dude’s a prophet then man,
You’re a prophet too.”

It’s time for me to get back to slams. I’ve known it for a while and my mum said it to me just the other day. I can do this again now .. but more. I’m writing big again now. Why?

Because I cleaned my bedroom.

I have a clean, uncluttered yet slightly askew, opulent, fancy, soothing bedroom for the first time in .... ever. EVER. This means everything. I just found out the Katoomba Heat for the Australian Poetry Slam is on at the library tonight and if you were allowed props I’d be performing with bells on.
... and I haven’t even written the piece I’ll be performing tonight. So far it’s just an idea embryo, so fragile. I must handle her with care as I bring her to life.

That’s what I do - I bring words to life. Make them dance, and show us their magic.

I’ve  never done this but I’m doing it now fuck it: I can write. It was in me all along .. I’ve won awards and competitions and received praise from high but what if I told you I haven’t even tried yet? I write my way into people’s souls and hearts. I put God in the machine .. I’ve been in the computer for over a decade now, since before the internet turned into a monster. It’s terrifying but I stay here on purpose, it needs people like me. It needs ME. I had to sort through a lot of Edens to get to this Eden. So many incarnations of ourselves we could be. Years ago I’d skite that I was “the best version of myself I could be.” Which was probably true it’s just that I didn’t realise I could fall so fast and so hard.

When you read me I don’t use breadcrumbs so you can find me I use pieces of my Soul. My hair is fucking fire. When you read me you often recognise yourself. Or you learn a truth - or you feel something you can’t quite name. In a lot of ways it’s got nothing to do with me - the statue was there all along he just carved it out from the block of marble. If you’re bold and righteous and tell the truth? Kaboom.

Some blog posts I’ve written have stopped people from killing themselves that day and I often hope and wonder if they’re still alive.

Nobody cut a path for me. I’m one of the ones who cuts the path. I’ve always been a wolf foundling. Wild. There’s something terribly wrong with me which according to Newton means there’s something terrible right with me. I’ve gotten through things that would have killed most others years ago. I’m stronger than any man I’ve ever met .. even my hair is fire. When my light shines it shines so bright it shines darkness straight out of people standing in front of me. But not all because the darkest dark swallows the lightest light. It’s been a battle, I won, now let’s keep moving we got shut to do before we sleep.

You with me? Sometimes I lose people, sorry. (The people in the psych wards were always with me. They understood everything .. I understood them. Beautiful shiny broken people. Sticky tape and staplers and blue tak .. whatever it takes to get through.

I’ve wanted to delete this blog so many times until I’ve realised it wasn’t my blog I wanted to delete. I wanted to delete ME. I’m glad I didn’t delete it, even though it’s embarrassing as shit because I’ve overshared my real and messy and crazy in an airbrushed, carefully coiffed, curated, beige, safe, bullshit fakey fake from fakeland world.
I write things you’re not supposed to write because ... it’s just so satisfying. Shock people out of their safe havens. Heh. I’ve written here about searching three cemeteries in one day to find my stepfathers grave so I could piss on it. I didn’t find it but hey guess what: if I found it now I wouldn’t piss on it! Evolution, baby.

I’ve written about Peaches Geldoffs drug addiction. I’ve written about going to my brothers flat the day after he killed himself and his belongings were either half packed or half unpacked .. guess we’ll never know. I’ve put up photos of my hairy nostrils, tuck shop arms, fat stomach. I wrote about using my nose hair trimmer to trim my chin hair. I google-earthed a photo of the flat in Batemans Bay that my real father died in and put it up on my blog and said “here’s the flat my father drank himself to death in!Did I write here about that copper who wanted to get into my pants so bad he let me hold his Glock? Whoops I’ve written it now mistakes were made. I still want to go do confession with the local catholic priest just to write about it here - it’ll make you laugh. “Bless me Father for I have sinned it has been thirty years since my last confession.” Buckle up while I take YOU to hell for a change, Father.

The love jumps off the computer screen when I write about my sons. You can’t blog about your children when they enter their teens but I was never a mummyblogger anyway I was masquerading all along, often dumbing myself down. I like flying under the radar and I love not being taken seriously.

I don’t know if I’ve written here about accidentally discovering women can have orgasms too but I tell you what, I was 14 and hardly left my bedroom all weekend. All that magic in a secret button.

I’ve led a Big Life which needs to be properly told. I’ve just found out that the book deal I had for my memoir has fallen through. WEEP. I hadn’t even mentioned my book deal here yet because it was early stages and I didn’t want to jinx it! The publishers are SO disappointed, so am I. But I just refuse to be disheartened, right when I’ve found this amazing ledge in life I’ve never reached before. So I’m doing something I hate: asking for help. Can somebody please help me keep moving forward with this? Who knows of a person who knows a person who can hook me up with a book deal? Out of all the Edens I’ve been I’ve never been this kind of an Eden before and I really like who I am. My email is edenriley@gmail.com so if somebody could help me get my book out that’d be great. For some reason it’s really important and it’s not for my ego - it’s for other people. Which sounds so fucken wanky but I’ve so many stories .. there’s so many ways we can make it through. And not just gritting our teeth make it through but shedding skin dancing in front of bonfires made it through. My brothers suicide has taken me a long, long time to process. And grieve, and make it through. And I couldn’t save him, I thought I could but I couldn’t. Which means I can’t save anybody else either but Jesus lord if there’s anybody who can be the funnest best most inappropriate cheerleader life coach who swears, vacuums the breadboard and do life a bit wrong then I can.

Holy crap I now have ONE HOUR to write the piece I’m performing tonight. Gotta go, almost at the bridge so how DO I get this shit out?? Dear me I just spent three hours typing this whole post on my phone, my back hurts, I can’t spellcheck it and it won’t let me insert Jack Johnson’s song “The News.” You should google it, very fitting.






Thursday, 31 May 2018

.. So Then God Spaketh: "Let's give the poor bitch bipolar too!"

There's a bipolar tree in my backyard. She goes ok.


Recently she turned a deep crimson red and didn't really know why, she chalked it up to embarrassment at being so different from the other trees. It was when her leaves turned yellow then a crinkly brown then started to fall to the ground when she got really worried and quite mortified.

Why was she so different? Why couldn't she be the same like all the other trees standing tall, evergreen, not changing?

Having bipolar is one of the most terrifying things a person can go through. I think I've always had it, the mania, the terrible lows, the creative frenzies, the feeling of being invincible. Then awful .. all of the adjectives, all of the feelings, all of the time.

Bipolar 2 has the highest rate of suicide than any other mentally problematic issues. (I hate saying mental illness.)


This beautiful guy and his brother are shaping up to be strong mental health advocates. I adore them.




Here's what I wash down the hatch every day: Prozac, Lamotrigine, fish oil, magnesium, vitamin B. Colourful!

The past few months have been pretty bipolary and I just can't write about it as I'm going through it - it scares the shit out of me so it'd probably scare the shit out of people who care.

For me, having bipolar is living in a permanent state of confusion. A hard thing is opening up my eyes in the morning wondering how I'm going to FEEEEL that day. I wish I didn't feel so much, I feel too much. My feeling gland is too enlarged for my liking. Talking about this shit is still embarrassing, still full pf stigma, still silences so many voices out there for fear of being judged. (We judge ourselves the hardest.)




My personal relationships are hard to maintain, a lot of people don't understand the trickery and confusion of bipolar and frankly either do I. How can I explain it to people when I don't even know myself?

The biggest two catchphrases to do with mental health that I utterly abhor:

"Just get help!"
"Mental health awareness."

Awareness my arsehole - we are all pretty much aware at this point. What practical things are happening for people silently suffering? And the "just get help" phrase ... it's hard to get help when there's waiting lists and panic and depression and not being in your right mind. Wonder what the suicide rates are for people waiting to just get help. My brother was booked in to a facility to get help on the day he took his own life far, far away.

Fucking tragedy.

Anyway obviously I'm here, writing, feeling ok. Praise be.


 ... little things like this make me very, very happy. A teeny yellow porcelain rhino candle holder, up on my mantlepiece. When I'm drawing the curtains at night time I light a candle and pop it inside him and it just gives me comfort. Maybe that's the thing - finding comfort whenever and wherever we can, whatever it may be. As long as it's not hurting ourselves or other people. I love the friends in my life because they've stayed with me and are still in my life. I'm a hard person to be friends with but when you got me as a friend you got me for life no returns.


The only mask I wear these days is a facemask for my skin. This guy turned ten last week, double digits. A huge deal. HUGE.

So back to her, standing there in the backyard, full of shame at her fallen leaves. Wishing she was anything but herself .. comparing herself, hating and judging herself.


Yeah she'll be standing there all winter, naked, uncertain, sad, getting rained on, lonely, not knowing what the hell is going on. She doesn't know that she's going to grow back. Greener and beautiful and fresh and new, while all the other trees still have the same old leaves.

She has no idea how magnificent she is and definitely no idea exactly how other people see her because guess what she leaves with her leaves ...


... myriads of different coloured natures confetti, each as varied and opposite and strange and beautiful as her moods and feelings and thoughts.

Pretty cool shit right there,






(Comments off.)

Friday, 6 April 2018

Street Talk: The Icehead And Beau.

I broke up a fight in Katoomba Street because I'm a tough cunt but let me backtrack and tell you the story.

So I was in the waiting room waiting to see my new GP who is actually quite fucking awesome and knows that bipolar and mental health shit IS REAL. I didn't want to be there - I never want to be there when my brain is so broken but it's my only option and I had to be there because it was my only option.

"Get help" they say. Orly?? Getting help is bullshit hard and I'll write about that later when I'm not in the throes of hideous cPTSD and chronic clinical depression and all the other wonderful, wonderful labels.

Anyway I ripped a poster off the wall because it offended me because I'm just that kind of person but I'll write about that in other post. Fuck that poster to hell.

Exhibit A: me waiting in the GP's waiting room getting LEERED AT BY MEN AM I NOT TO OLD FOR THIS SHIT APPARENTLY NOT.



Yeah I was all Eminem on this shit you know how Em wears his cap and then a hoodie over it?

So I go into my appointment, my god I love my GP: referrals, blood tests, advice, tissues when I started crying.

Drove off into Katoomba, down Katoomba Street to see a PUNCH UP taking place. Full-blown punches thrown. I parked down the road, got out of my car, and walked to where the punch-up was because I'm a concerned citizen of the world and yeah I could have gotten hurt but I'm already hurt so what's a bit more hurt. I could sense something very unfair taking place.

In a nutshell: this ice ragey toolbag was throwing punches at the local proprieters of a very nice local Thai food restaurant. I second-guessed myself like "Eden this aint your circus and aint your monkeys" but fuck that. As soon as I saw angry ragehead ice guy go to throw a punch at the female manager? All bets OFF.

I went into chameleon mode and walked up to icehead and his girlfriend, stood in between the punching, turned and asked icehead if he was ok. Why? To gain his trust. To pretend I was one of him. I told him the coppers were coming (they weren't, slow clap for Katoomba police who couldn't be BOTHERED to track me down in October 2013 the day my brother died because you know, probably too hard #donuts)

He replied to me with "FUCKEN GOOKS I'M GONNA COME BACK AND FUCK THEM UP" and I said ok but seriously the police are up the road. He retreated and walked back.

I walked up the street, followed the shellshocked people who were walking back to their restaurant. I walked into the restaurant and they were so scared of me! I asked the woman if she was ok. She was crying. She told me later she thought I was a friend of iceman - told her I wasn't I was just trying to break the fight up because I saw him go in to hit her and I ABHOR VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN. I took off my sunnies, my hoodie, and my hat. I said Beau, I'm way too old for this shit I just wanted to make sure you were ok. She literally collapsed into my arms thanking me, offering me a glass of water, free meal - anything. I said no sweetheart I just saw that there were so many people watching but nobody was doing anything to help. (Memo to people: HELP WHEN YOU CAN.)

I walked out, down to the mental health team in Katoomba showing them my referral to see a psych because I think I need a medication tweak even though I LOATHE pharmaceuticals but I'm desperate at this point I am a barnacle and will not go the way of my brother. They said a referral didn't cut it and fobbed me off to the crisis team phone number who only deal with acute cases and it's not cute because I will NOT end up in a psych ward again, the last time I did a guy with face tattoos scuttled into my room in the middle of the night and stuck his dick into my face but that's not the real issue here.

The real issue here is: help your fellow humans on the planet. Even when it's scary. If I can do it with a raging fucked up brain, then you can too.

::

Previous Street Talks:




1. Noelene the Young
2. Megan the Mouse
3. Harpal the Australian
4. Darren the Artist
5. Jo the Interesting
6. John the Telstra Guy
7. Michael the Photographer
8. Peg the Lady
9. Jeff the Preacher Man
10. Andres the Cobbler
11. Honey the Prostitute
12. Mark the Masseur
13. You the Blog Reader
14. Jo the Podiatrist
15. Casey the Uni Student
16. Dream the Horse and Carriage Driver
17. Tamas the Hungarian Accordionist
18. The Dignified Trolley Ladies
19. Alex With The Studded Hot Pink Belt
20. Leaf The Fallen
21. Bel Of The Library
22. Jay And His Big Issue
23. Emma The Adult Shop Cashier
24. Teena, Saver Of Dogs
25. The Luna Park Face
26. Gary The Missing
27. Kristen at the Elephant Bean Cafe
28. Uncle Paul
29. Jess The Mama
30. The Two People At The Checkout
31. Alfie The Pourer
32. Breaking The Rules With Captain Starlight!
33. The Woman In Line At The Bakery A Few Weekends Ago
34. Dog The Dog
35. Julia Gillard The Person
36. Nancy The Badass
37. Bruce From The Psych Ward
38. Jeremy The Costumeless
39. The Women in the Morgue
40. The Lady Whose Name I Didn't Quite Catch.
41. Eden
42. William the Worldchanger
43. Thelma, The Best Neighbour That I Never Had.





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