Monthly Archives: May 2016
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Fuck You Too.
Urban Bliss. – RRSAHM
Urban Bliss.
I’m a little bit in love with the suburb we’re living in. It feels like all neighbourhood-like. We’re at the point where I’m singing Sesame Street melodies in my head whenever I leave the house on foot.
It’s just nice here. People are friendly. I smile and nod hello to everyone I pass. Old men say “Good morning Bella!” to my daughter as she cruises past them on her way to daycare (which is called ‘kindergarten’ in Victoria, I’ve discovered. And what was kindergarten is now called ‘Prep’. Colour me confused).
Walking to school, Melbourne-style. Which translates to ‘with an umbrella’.
This area is filled with young parents, and there’s that aura that is everywhere in Melbourne– we’re all in this together- and most strangers are defaulted with trust rather than suspicion. My son takes a spill on his bike, riding 10 metres ahead of me, and another mum picks him up and dusts him off. I find myself doing the same thing for a little boy who’s fallen from his scooter. And the cycle continues.
We’re within a healthy walking distance from main roads and trams. Tiny corner shops- bakeries, milk bars, the odd bizarrely placed speciality store- dot the streets surrounding us. My car hasn’t left the driveway in days and I’m saving a fortune on petrol alone.
I’m also healthier, and feeling it, after just two weeks of this new, suburb-specific lifestyle. So are my children. They’ve taken to riding their bikes to school and kindergarten every day while I keep up a brisk pace beside them. The majority of food in our house is healthy and simple, and the Most Amazing Man ensures I eat a proper meal every night. I’ve given up Coca-Cola (it’s day four. My head hurts.) and I’m drinking water instead.
I soak up the aesthetics of where we are living. Houses in this area of Melbourne all seem to have the same basic structure. High ceilings. Wooden floors. Ancient light switches and electricity meters. Ducted heating and oddly-shaped backyards. Despite their sameness, they’ve all been here long enough to be quirky and inherently different, with years of lives lived, and changes made, tacked onto them like their typical two room extensions.
I love walking around, soaking up the goings-on around me. There were a lot of shops along these roads once, it seems, small boxes with a house behind. And so many of their new owners here have incorporated both the shop and the house as a living space, designed around it rather than tearing it down. The concrete storefronts have become the back ends of houses, or airy front entrances hollowed out with a garden hidden between the front walls.
Clothes by Babytakesatrip.com.au. Not sponsored- I just adore them.
And the flowers. There are flowers everywhere here. People’s gardens are magnificent and diverse. Veggies grow in small front yards, daisies and roses are planted on nature strips. On the days the Bump and I walk to her kindergarten, we stop and admire everything in bloom, and I pass on to her what my Gran taught me. “These are hibiscus. These are geraniums.” And lilies and paper daisies and lavender and jonquils.
It’s difficult to miss the TinyTrainTown when I take full advantage of being where I am right now. I love it here. It’s all tiny lane-ways lined with blue stone, happy people and urban farmer’s markets. It’s diversity and it’s acceptance and it’s Melbourne.
This place, it speaks to something in my soul.
Previous post: Not Quite A Porno.
Next post: House Warming.
Free Fall. – RRSAHM
Free Fall.
Eventually, if you’re going fast enough, you are going smack straight into the wall.
I’ve run, and run… and here I am. There’s no further to run, from this point.
There is nowhere else to go.
I’ve left my life behind, and I have to start again.
This is just too fucking difficult, right now.
I’m exhausted. The reality of what has happened, what is happening, right now…. it’s sinking in.
I’ve never felt so alone, so afraid of the future, in my whole life.
What the hell am I doing here? The surreal quality of being here, of living in HomeTown again… it just adds to the vertigo.
Free falling. Life, as I knew it.. it’s over.
And while the rush of the free fall is exhilarating… it’s lonely out here, in the stratosphere.
What the fuck? How did this happen? Is this really me, living this… surely it has to be a bad dream?
I miss Tony so much, right now.. but it’s different, easier here. Easier to grieve for him. Easier to remember that he loved me, without a thousand people thinking he didn’t.
I’m a broken woman. I think of an adjective to describe myself right now… and ‘broken’ is the only one that comes to mind.
The adrenalin, the strength, the bravery… all that, I feel like I left behind at the Purple House that isn’t purple anymore. The reality of living here, in this tiny Cottage…
It’s beautiful, and relaxed. It’s a lovely place to live. We have kangaroos on our front lawn, and a handful of beaches to choose from. The kids and the dog adore it, having a big yard, and so much space. We have family just a few doors down.
But then there’s so much to do. Phone calls to make, mail to be redirected. Unpacking to finish. The Internet connection is slower than dial up, the TV reception is non-existent, and I don’t have a freaking dishwasher. I’ve moved the contents of a three bedroom, two storey house into a four bedroom, one story house, but no matter how much stuff I get rid of, it still refuses to fit in the storage space I have.
I know, petty, useless concerns, especially compared with what I’ve already been through. But I am so tired, so overwhelmed, so shell shocked by what’s happened- take away my creature comforts and you’ll floor me. I’m sick of being brave, being strong. I’m sick of getting on with it. I’m sick of having to make all the decisions, do all this stuff, when it was not so long that I had my big, strong husband here to help me, to do the hard stuff for me, to allow me to feel weak and vulnerable and miserable if I needed to.
I don’t really have that option right now.
And that’s all I want to do.
Curl up in a ball, and sob, and sob, with someone’s strong arms around me.
And wait for the bone crushing thud at the end of the free fall.
Leave a Comment
{ 55 comments… read them below or add one }
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March 31, 2011 at 10:41 pm -
Lori, you don't need the strong arms around you, they are attached to you. x
- March 30, 2011 at 8:54 pm
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Lori, hope your new house is helping you apply some much needed band aids to your broken heart.
I just read a post elsewhere where we are discussing media silence on suicide, and it contained this link. Maybe there is something there that will become meaningful for you, be it help for you, or help for their cause from you.
http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/features/its-time-to-talk/story-e6frg8h6-1226010786783
Take care of yourself, Chop and Bump.
Lots of love from us. - March 30, 2011 at 3:02 pm
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It might feel like 1000 people thought that about him (you). But it's only a very few, in reality. If there is annnnything I can impart that is useful at all to you today, please believe me when I say: focus on the scores of good people in your life – good readers, good family members, good friends and supporters – and not those very few. I know it feels like a thousand. And it will continue to feel like they are the majority ruling (when in reality they are not) unless you put them outta mind as much as they are now (mercifully) outta sight.
And, what Kellogsville said xxxx Love to you and a gentle hug.
- March 30, 2011 at 3:00 pm
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Just breathe, lovely girl.
As we talked about at AUSBLOGCON… I spend a lot of time in your new neck of the woods.
Want me to bring the boys down for a visit?
Fe xx
- March 30, 2011 at 7:22 am
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What watershedd said reminded me of something – you teach yoga right?? Try Viparita karani …..your adrenal system could probably do with the help. Geeta Iyengar says if she could get the western world to do any yoga pose it would be this one….
just a thought. hug
- March 29, 2011 at 9:20 pm
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Adrenalin is immensely draining. It keeps you going, but when it goes, you are exhausted. Being in hometown is good, somewhere that teh adrenalin is not needed so much, somewhere you stil have postiive feelings about. Sit there a while, where you ahve other who care for you all. The sea is amazingly healing. Wishing it brings you peace. Me and my GOFA.
- March 29, 2011 at 9:17 pm
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love just love Lori x
- March 29, 2011 at 8:57 pm
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leaving some love . . .
- March 29, 2011 at 8:07 pm
- March 29, 2011 at 7:39 pm
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hun, don't underestimate the impact of all those 'little' things – they are actually huge! and on top of all the awfulness you've been going through. Hugs. We're thinking of you…
- March 29, 2011 at 1:34 pm
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Slow down if you can now and just breathe. Hugs!!!
- March 29, 2011 at 1:26 pm
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*Sigh*. I have no words. Just virtual hugs.
- March 29, 2011 at 12:22 pm
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Nothing much to say here but really wanted to let you know that I am thinking of you.
- March 29, 2011 at 10:30 am
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Lori, I'm about to move, too. I'm driving about 4,500km, from the east coast of Canada to the west, and I've had to make the same decisions you did about 'things': do I pack them, do I donate them, do I store them, do I sell them? It's been the most stressful two weeks of my life.
And that's despite not having any children and not having grief and guilt and all the rest.
What you've done is extraordinary and you'll see that soon enough. Do not have any doubts about how hard your move is/was. You've done something that required remarkable strength.
- March 29, 2011 at 10:03 am
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Park the kids with the relies down the road…and go down to the beach and let go for a bit. Yell, scream, Cry, sob, then stand up and breath the ocean air, breath it in deep….arms out, chest up and shoulders back and breath deep, run around even, get dizzy, fall in a heap….just make sure you breath in ocean air.
If it makes you feel a bit better…then maybe find your inner silly crazy woman and run into the water fully clothed and get wet, or just park your bum in the dunes and stare at the ocean. Think of the timelessness of whales moving through the ocean. It's whale migration season soon. In a few months they will head up the coast. Probably they will head past your stretch of coast too.
Who cares what anyone thinks. You've done really well, making big decisions, putting it all into action, getting to home town, keeping on taking one step at a time….
You deserve to let it go for a bit!
Sending you a big hug.
- March 29, 2011 at 9:44 am
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Moving is stressful at the best of times, and this is of course far from the best of times. give yourself time, it doesn't matter if boxes lay unpacked for a while.
Thinking of you, sending you strength. In the meantime, maybe venture outside with those kiddies and dog, get some sunshine, some sand.
xox
- March 29, 2011 at 9:20 am
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When I moved from my small country town back to the coast, I was so homesick.
You have been through so much and worse and you are now in a new place. That place can and will become home, but go gently and give yourself time.
Sending huge love and hugs and support, even though you don't know me.
Leanne xo
- March 29, 2011 at 8:42 am
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Prayers and wishes to you. I hope Home Town gives you the peace, love & support you need right now. Take it slow and just be.
Lots of love
xxxx - March 29, 2011 at 8:06 am
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If I had one wish right now, it'd be for you to have those strong arms around you. Fall safely Lori, know that, even if it's a poor second, we're all here, willing you on and sending you love.
Gayle x - March 29, 2011 at 7:59 am
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Just say "FUCK IT" Lori. Fuck it all! And then just sit and breathe for a bit. It'll all wait for you when you are ready. Hope that feels a tiny bit better. xxx
- March 29, 2011 at 5:07 am
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Just stop still for a moment. Moving house is one of the most stressful things on the list of stressful things to do. Add that stress to your current stresses and it's gonna hurt really bad. Take the kids to the beach, ignore the boxes and the internet and stop trying to sort it all out. It doesn't have to all happen immediately, you don't have to prove you can do it all effortlessly because it's bloody hard work. Ripped knuckles and heavy boxes and out of routine kids and shops different, it's all hard. Take a timeout and you may find some inner strength to regroup and start again. Oh how we wish we could send you those wrap you up arms. Sending wrap you up prayers today and always xxx
- March 29, 2011 at 2:56 am
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*HUGS*
- March 29, 2011 at 2:51 am
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I've run into that before. How does my two bedroom apartment worth of stuff not fit in this three bedroom house? I ended up making a junk room out of one of the bedrooms that lasted over two years. I would go in and try to sort through stuff occasionally, and on a good day would clear two square feet of floor space. I finally made it through, but I wish I'd done it faster. Don't worry, even if you have to have a junk room, or junk something, it's ok. I kept having people tell me that at the end of a year if I hadn't used it then I should give it to Goodwill, and a lot of it did get donated. I have faith that you can clear your junk space faster than I did.
Love and prayers,
Cassondra - March 29, 2011 at 1:13 pm
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My thoughts about you, my best wishes for you, sending you cyber hugs. PS get that bike back ASAP.
- March 29, 2011 at 1:36 am
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If the children love it, and if you feel a little calmer, a little less on edge, a little more free to be *yourself*, that's a good thing.
The rest will fall into place, bit by bit. But if you can find at least *some* tranquility in Hometown, you can build on it. And I know you will.
Sending Love, Strength, and Peace,
xo Marianna - March 29, 2011 at 12:42 am
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Hey beautiful one, all I can say is to focus on what's in front of you …. next meal, next box to start unpacking, next bathtime and know that each step you take is a huge achievement and is supported by all of us here in blogworld. Remember to breathe, especially that healing salt air.
- March 29, 2011 at 12:20 am
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Oh honey, of COURSE you're crashing your body & brain have been in survival mode & now your instincts have got you somewhere safe, your system is letting the panic in. Ever has a relief migraine? Or known you were getting sick but somehow held it off until after some event? Same thing. Now you know you're in a safe, secure place & your babies are secure, your body is allowing everything that it's been staving off to come in.
But remember, this is happening because you ARE in the right place now. If you didn't instinctively know that, you'd still be in flight mode.
Love you awesome girl,
Sophie xxx - March 28, 2011 at 11:49 pm
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You don't have to cope or be strong all the time, especially now. Fall, be caught by the people who love you and you'll be on your way back up again in your own time. I'm no expert but I think that just getting out of bed every day is a win so soon after such a traumatic loss.
- March 28, 2011 at 11:47 pm
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The grief will catch up with you sooner or later… You just have to let it…. It's OK to stop being brave and let the grief wash over you. Get some time to yourself and let the tears flow and scream and shout and bang your fists on the floor. Eventually it will feel better… I don't know when, but it will… (((Hugs)))
- March 28, 2011 at 11:36 pm
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Oh this post is so heartbreakingly sad. Hang in there, dear girl. Moving is so hard – even under the best of circumstances. Hang in there – it will get better, that's for sure. Just hang in, hold on – one thing at a time.
- March 28, 2011 at 11:15 pm
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Hang in there Lori. you can do this. it will be hard. but you can do this.
take it slowly, be kind to yourself xx - March 28, 2011 at 11:12 pm
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<3
- March 28, 2011 at 10:29 pm
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Here's hoping that little cottage brings you lots of healing. xoxo
- March 28, 2011 at 10:23 pm
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Best wishes times infinity.
- March 28, 2011 at 10:20 pm
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I have nothing useful – just another voice among the masses, thinking of you still. Every day.
- March 28, 2011 at 9:42 pm
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No words…. but I'm really praying for you and thinking of you.
- March 28, 2011 at 9:33 pm
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You must be so exhausted Lori – all that adrenalin, all that coping, the packing up, moving in, caring for your babies, surviving. I hope the fresh air and the beaches and kangaroos on your lawn and family round the corner all conspire to give you a safe place to slowly, gently, little by little, mend.
- March 28, 2011 at 9:27 pm
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I want to come and visit. I want to make you laugh inappropriately again. I want to just sit with you, as your mood and aura changes from bright to dark to ok to black. To ok again.
And I won't even flinch. I want to reach back in time and give Tony a slap. I want to reach back in time and give Tony the biggest hug. I wish he poured his heart out to someone – anyone. It would have made all the difference in the world. In your world.
I want to reach forward into the future and look at your beautiful smile and see how it lights up your whole face. Then I'll know that you are ok.
You are ok.
That ridiculous saying … "God never gives you more than you can handle."
Well that may be true … but life certainly does. Life is an arsehole.
xoxox
PS When's your girls weekend up here? I'm waiting.
- March 28, 2011 at 9:27 pm
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You don't have to have everything perfect in one day, babe:) We moved in here a year ago, and still have a couple of boxes that need unpacking. Give yourself time.
You'll get a little bit done each day, and in time, you'll be settled in. I'm glad you have at least a tiny bit of a relaxed vibe going on. Give yourself time to let that feeling grow.
Yep, you're still broken, but at least you have the freedom here to BE broken. Then, when you feel less broken, you can be something else next. You can be anything here. No one is judging you here.
- March 28, 2011 at 9:20 pm
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Hugs, big ones.
- March 28, 2011 at 9:09 pm
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Grief is such an unrelenting bitch. I'm just so sorry you are living this nightmare. Different to my nightmare, but so much of this I could relate to.
xo - March 28, 2011 at 8:47 pm
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I'm not surprised you're exhausted – all that and a house move too. Perhaps rock bottom is a good place to start from. Like a little seedling unfurling from the earth, tiny and delicate to begin with, and then – as the roots get stronger – so will your new, fresh, different life. I hope that, in time, you and your kids will be able to reach up to the sunshine and find the happiness you all deserve.
Thinking of you
xxxxx - March 28, 2011 at 8:42 pm
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Hugs and more hugs, honey.xxxxx
- March 28, 2011 at 8:33 pm
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Hugs and love to you and your children xo
- March 28, 2011 at 8:31 pm
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I keep thinking this is a bad dream and I'm not even involved, so I can understand how you feel like you're in a perpetual nightmare.
Everything you're doing now, especially the writing, is feathering the landing & creating a softer place for you to land – it will help reduce the bone crashing thud to a bone-jarring thud. - March 28, 2011 at 8:26 pm
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You're so brave Lori. I admire your strength and attitude. One day it will be okay, until that day it's just one breath at a time.
- March 28, 2011 at 8:22 pm
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Oh gosh. I just want to come and cuddle you and hold you and let you cry it all out. Let you draw strength from me.
Maybe the lack of internet and television is a good thing? Might give you time to just be.
How are you support wise? Are you ok? Is there anything that i can do? I'm happy to give you my number if you want someone to talk to, to listen. - March 28, 2011 at 8:22 pm
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I hear you.
My garage flooded last year. Repeatedly.
Greg had been dead for 7 months and I was doing OKish …as OKish as you can get in early widowhood …. and then the water came in again and again.
and it kept coming in every time it rained.
I spend the Christmas holidays sweeping water out of my house and resetting siphons and pumps every few hours. It was the flooding that drove me to the edge of sanity.
But.
Slowly I got on top of it. I called a friend who put in a big drain. I am in the process of fixing more stuff so water cannot come in again.
I'm doing OK now. Me, my kids and I.
….and I hope … if by nothing more than the sheer force of my will.. that given time and a few useful friends, you will be OK too. - March 28, 2011 at 8:21 pm
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Love and light Lori. It will get better. I posted this on my blog for a friend battling cancer – its my abbreviated version of an Irish blessing – you need it too. It's not a religious thing – its just a thing.
May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
And rains fall soft upon your fields.
May God hold you in the hollow of His hand. - March 28, 2011 at 8:21 pm
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You are going through some of the most worst stress inducing things possible for all of us. Death (suicide worst, me thinks) AND a MOVE!
Nothing worse!
Take small steps, and breathe… We are keeping you in our thoughts! - March 28, 2011 at 8:18 pm
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Oh babe. Get onto the property manager and get a dishwasher installed? I am skuppered to offer any real advice. Just know I am here if you need to talk. xx
- March 28, 2011 at 8:15 pm
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Love. xxx
- March 29, 2011 at 1:20 am
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Hi Lori,
It has been said beautifully but I just wanted to add another voice of support and tell you that you will get through this.
We are here for you.
- March 28, 2011 at 8:52 pm
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Seriously, this is a good move for you. Might not seem like it now, but I have a good feeling about this Lori. Look at me Lori! It is all going to be ok. But just not now xx
- March 28, 2011 at 8:36 pm
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*hugs* *more hugs*
There is a community around you, in Home Town. New people, maybe old, familiar faces. Draw them around you, don't do it all on your own.You are doing something amazingly hard. *hugs again*
Previous post: The Last Day of The Purple Life.
Next post: Perspective
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: So… now what?
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Milk
Rememories. – RRSAHM
Rememories.
My memory is shot.
The weeks before Tony died- and the weeks after- eight solid weeks, on each side,a liquid of colour and venue and sensation and phrase and song.
My son’s third birthday.. I don’t remember it at all.
Our last Christmas together, as a family… I remember bits, but it blurs with the other three Christmases we spent together… four, in all. The first, just the two of us, in Cowra, me working Christmas Day at the hospital. The second, three of us, me laced with post natal depression, so tired I sobbed when our baby woke at 6am. The third, our daughter was conceived. And the fourth was our last.
December, January…. I barely remember them at all. Only New Years Eve I remember in depth and detail… it was so much fun. And I remember sitting across from him, and one of our friends commented on how completely perfect we were together, how well we fit.
Ironically, the longer I’m here, in Paradise, and the more my Purple Life fades into such a non existence that I made have just dreamed it, if you don’t consider the exception of the Purple children that came from within; the more I remember, and the more vivid those memories are, of being young.
Of who I used to be.
Of who I started off being.
It’s returning to a child like state, I suppose… a more innocent, connected time of being.
Or maybe it’s the trauma.
I blame the trauma, for all those missing memories. Memory, I think, it’s like jelly… it’s created, then it sets.
All that trauma… my brain was far too hot, for memory to do any setting, and solidifying.
It was far too busy being surviving, primarily, on instinct, coiled in fright.
I’m sure those memories are still there… the brain is a limitless source of RAM, is it not? They are there, just not solidified… still in the working recesses, the basement of my cortex.
I’m almost sure of it.
Leave a Comment
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
- August 10, 2011 at 11:44 am
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Just discovered your blog today and I've had a quick read through and it's moved me to tears. You're a really strong and courageous woman and I admire you for it!
- August 9, 2011 at 4:26 am
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*HUGS* I believe that your memories will return when you are ready for them. I try to remember things about my mom, but my brain gets in the way, shouting, "NO, NO, NO!"…but slowly over time, I am able to think about some things, enjoy a few happy memories… carefully, always ready to retreat into the safety of the present. (She died in 1995, when I was 19, home from college for summer break, it was a shock for me, even though it was cancer…lots of unresolved mother-daughter arguments/fights)
- August 9, 2011 at 3:22 am
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Memory is such a strange thing, especially mine. I remember every single little thing…except for the car accident I had on March 27th of 2001, on a Tuesday. I remember driving, and the light was green, and the windshield cracking in super slow motion. What I don't remember is busting out of the car and making phone calls to the emergency services. The only thing I remember was walking out of the gas station and seeing the fire trucks and the ambulances, and my friend being put on a stretcher. (She was six months pregnant.) I had to rely on the testimony of others to fill in the gaps.
My last visit with my dad before he died. I used to remember the sounds and smells of the hospital, every single second, but now some of that day is fading. I think it's a defense mechanism to protect my heart. (It's a long story, and I'll share it sometime if you want.)
The brain sometimes pulls up the unimportant or even the uninvited memories. I remember every dream I've ever had, what everyone wore and where they wore it, characters on televisions shows, things like that.
I do have some theories on why your memories are not clear right now.
1. Your brain is trying to protect your heart (emotions, feelings).
2. Not enough time has really passed for your brain to process everything.
3. Your brain is on auto pilot, filled with routine information pertaining to survival.
4. All of the above, perhaps.
Just give it some time. Time really does heal all wounds.
I am praying for you, Lori.
- August 9, 2011 at 12:27 pm
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I wish i could bring them back to you, love, clearly labeled so that then they can be handed over in the right right way when you are ready for them. Oh so many things your friends wish we could do for you….just please know that we are here, wanting to, and i hope that helps even a small measure. Xoxox
- August 8, 2011 at 11:16 pm
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Lori, I lost memories of my father after watching him die in front of me for over a year….I couldn't remember (I was 15) his voice, his face, anything we had done together…just little snap-shots. All I could remember in vivid detail was every moment of him collapsing and dying…and the hospital….and nothing for about 24 hours after that. And then…again, just vague snippits of images for a long time.
Eventually, it was a smell that started to bring things back. It's not gone forever….which is good and bad.
I used to think it was incredibly cruel to lose someone, then lose everything about them in your mind on top of it. But it's not cruel. It's how you survive and keep breathing.
Hang in bunny….
- August 8, 2011 at 9:43 pm
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It's funny, I just finished writing about memory as well, after smelling soap that took me straight back to the delivery room with Amy. Things I thought I'd forgotten, often come back with a smell of something, or a piece of music.
I think we all try and forget the traumatic things. Our brains want to protect us, even when we'd prefer to remember.
xxx
- August 8, 2011 at 9:29 pm
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I agree with Kellogsville that sometimes you need another brain to help remember things – or just something that triggers your recall – one moment you don't remember then suddenly, you do. I think everything's there – it's just a matter of finding the right way to access it.
And try to remember you're still creating a lifetime of good memories for Bump and Chop right there in Paradise. - August 8, 2011 at 8:41 pm
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I was desperately trying to recall my daughters first birthday party the other day and failing. We had to have a number of discussions before fitting the pieces of memories together, some of the failed memories may be because you don't have Tony there to help you bounce the memories around into a solid thing that rebuild the moments for you.
- August 8, 2011 at 8:09 pm
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What Holly said. She is very wise. The harder you think, the harder the memories will be to access. They will come honey. xx
- August 9, 2011 at 5:40 am
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I'm sorry to hear your memories have been taken from you by this trauma, but I have to go with the others – I think that they will eventually come back to you. Something will act as a trigger (in the non-negative sense); a smell, a sight, a sound, and it'll be like a tractor clearing away the snow that's piled up, clearing a path back to that memory.
HUG!
- August 8, 2011 at 7:30 pm
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Maybe the memories are waiting to return when they know you are ready to relive them. They cant ever leave you for good, I'm sure xx
- August 8, 2011 at 4:49 pm
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The memories are there Lori, and they'll surface when you're ready for them.
- August 8, 2011 at 4:19 pm
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They may not be there and that is all right too. Our brain protects us from some memories for the sake of the greater entity-you. Your long-term survival matters more than remembering those days.
- August 8, 2011 at 4:13 pm
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they are there and you'll access it all when you need. when you are ready.
- August 8, 2011 at 5:32 pm
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They are there sweetie, and they will come to you. Perhaps your subconscious is keeping them tucked away, safe until you are ready to revisit them once more x
Rememories. – RRSAHM
Rememories.
My memory is shot.
The weeks before Tony died- and the weeks after- eight solid weeks, on each side,a liquid of colour and venue and sensation and phrase and song.
My son’s third birthday.. I don’t remember it at all.
Our last Christmas together, as a family… I remember bits, but it blurs with the other three Christmases we spent together… four, in all. The first, just the two of us, in Cowra, me working Christmas Day at the hospital. The second, three of us, me laced with post natal depression, so tired I sobbed when our baby woke at 6am. The third, our daughter was conceived. And the fourth was our last.
December, January…. I barely remember them at all. Only New Years Eve I remember in depth and detail… it was so much fun. And I remember sitting across from him, and one of our friends commented on how completely perfect we were together, how well we fit.
Ironically, the longer I’m here, in Paradise, and the more my Purple Life fades into such a non existence that I made have just dreamed it, if you don’t consider the exception of the Purple children that came from within; the more I remember, and the more vivid those memories are, of being young.
Of who I used to be.
Of who I started off being.
It’s returning to a child like state, I suppose… a more innocent, connected time of being.
Or maybe it’s the trauma.
I blame the trauma, for all those missing memories. Memory, I think, it’s like jelly… it’s created, then it sets.
All that trauma… my brain was far too hot, for memory to do any setting, and solidifying.
It was far too busy being surviving, primarily, on instinct, coiled in fright.
I’m sure those memories are still there… the brain is a limitless source of RAM, is it not? They are there, just not solidified… still in the working recesses, the basement of my cortex.
I’m almost sure of it.
Leave a Comment
{ 15 comments… read them below or add one }
- August 10, 2011 at 11:44 am
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Just discovered your blog today and I've had a quick read through and it's moved me to tears. You're a really strong and courageous woman and I admire you for it!
- August 9, 2011 at 4:26 am
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*HUGS* I believe that your memories will return when you are ready for them. I try to remember things about my mom, but my brain gets in the way, shouting, "NO, NO, NO!"…but slowly over time, I am able to think about some things, enjoy a few happy memories… carefully, always ready to retreat into the safety of the present. (She died in 1995, when I was 19, home from college for summer break, it was a shock for me, even though it was cancer…lots of unresolved mother-daughter arguments/fights)
- August 9, 2011 at 3:22 am
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Memory is such a strange thing, especially mine. I remember every single little thing…except for the car accident I had on March 27th of 2001, on a Tuesday. I remember driving, and the light was green, and the windshield cracking in super slow motion. What I don't remember is busting out of the car and making phone calls to the emergency services. The only thing I remember was walking out of the gas station and seeing the fire trucks and the ambulances, and my friend being put on a stretcher. (She was six months pregnant.) I had to rely on the testimony of others to fill in the gaps.
My last visit with my dad before he died. I used to remember the sounds and smells of the hospital, every single second, but now some of that day is fading. I think it's a defense mechanism to protect my heart. (It's a long story, and I'll share it sometime if you want.)
The brain sometimes pulls up the unimportant or even the uninvited memories. I remember every dream I've ever had, what everyone wore and where they wore it, characters on televisions shows, things like that.
I do have some theories on why your memories are not clear right now.
1. Your brain is trying to protect your heart (emotions, feelings).
2. Not enough time has really passed for your brain to process everything.
3. Your brain is on auto pilot, filled with routine information pertaining to survival.
4. All of the above, perhaps.
Just give it some time. Time really does heal all wounds.
I am praying for you, Lori.
- August 9, 2011 at 12:27 pm
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I wish i could bring them back to you, love, clearly labeled so that then they can be handed over in the right right way when you are ready for them. Oh so many things your friends wish we could do for you….just please know that we are here, wanting to, and i hope that helps even a small measure. Xoxox
- August 8, 2011 at 11:16 pm
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Lori, I lost memories of my father after watching him die in front of me for over a year….I couldn't remember (I was 15) his voice, his face, anything we had done together…just little snap-shots. All I could remember in vivid detail was every moment of him collapsing and dying…and the hospital….and nothing for about 24 hours after that. And then…again, just vague snippits of images for a long time.
Eventually, it was a smell that started to bring things back. It's not gone forever….which is good and bad.
I used to think it was incredibly cruel to lose someone, then lose everything about them in your mind on top of it. But it's not cruel. It's how you survive and keep breathing.
Hang in bunny….
- August 8, 2011 at 9:43 pm
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It's funny, I just finished writing about memory as well, after smelling soap that took me straight back to the delivery room with Amy. Things I thought I'd forgotten, often come back with a smell of something, or a piece of music.
I think we all try and forget the traumatic things. Our brains want to protect us, even when we'd prefer to remember.
xxx
- August 8, 2011 at 9:29 pm
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I agree with Kellogsville that sometimes you need another brain to help remember things – or just something that triggers your recall – one moment you don't remember then suddenly, you do. I think everything's there – it's just a matter of finding the right way to access it.
And try to remember you're still creating a lifetime of good memories for Bump and Chop right there in Paradise. - August 8, 2011 at 8:41 pm
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I was desperately trying to recall my daughters first birthday party the other day and failing. We had to have a number of discussions before fitting the pieces of memories together, some of the failed memories may be because you don't have Tony there to help you bounce the memories around into a solid thing that rebuild the moments for you.
- August 8, 2011 at 8:09 pm
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What Holly said. She is very wise. The harder you think, the harder the memories will be to access. They will come honey. xx
- August 9, 2011 at 5:40 am
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I'm sorry to hear your memories have been taken from you by this trauma, but I have to go with the others – I think that they will eventually come back to you. Something will act as a trigger (in the non-negative sense); a smell, a sight, a sound, and it'll be like a tractor clearing away the snow that's piled up, clearing a path back to that memory.
HUG!
- August 8, 2011 at 7:30 pm
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Maybe the memories are waiting to return when they know you are ready to relive them. They cant ever leave you for good, I'm sure xx
- August 8, 2011 at 4:49 pm
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The memories are there Lori, and they'll surface when you're ready for them.
- August 8, 2011 at 4:19 pm
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They may not be there and that is all right too. Our brain protects us from some memories for the sake of the greater entity-you. Your long-term survival matters more than remembering those days.
- August 8, 2011 at 4:13 pm
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they are there and you'll access it all when you need. when you are ready.
- August 8, 2011 at 5:32 pm
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They are there sweetie, and they will come to you. Perhaps your subconscious is keeping them tucked away, safe until you are ready to revisit them once more x
January 2011 – RRSAHM
January 2011
OK. Just to put everyone’s mind at ease- I have a network of awesome people supporting me, right now. It’s not enough- is it ever, in this situation, when I’m so anxious and need people so badly? I could have a thousand people who love me around, and I’d still be the loneliest I’ve ever been in my life.
But I have practical support, people who are holding me up. People I will always be grateful to. People who are making this easier.
And I am under the care of a psychiatrist (Liz, I love you). I have a mental health support team. Soon, hopefully very soon, I’ll have intensive bereavement support for myself and specialised care for my children, and clinical trauma care for myself.
OK? OK. Awesome.
Thing two- there’s a massive scope, a huge difference, especially in me, right now, between the rational and the emotional. Rationally, I know that Tony loved me. Rationally, I fucking know that there is nothing I could have done to prevent this, that if this didn’t happen things could be much worse right now.
I know, all those things and more. All the things I’m supposed to know, rationally, I know.
But it doesn’t fucking help. Not really. Not now.
Not when I have people, people who knew him, telling me how much he loved me. How he loved me like there was no one else in the entire world, the entire universe. Apparently, I was his everything.
It doesn’t help. It pulls me, digs at me. Because all I can remember is him, spitting in my face and calling me a slut. Telling me that everything was my fault, all of it, that I was the reason behind everything wrong in his life. That I was a bad mother, a bad wife.
Six months, of that.
And, days before he died- the root of the problem- that he wanted someone perfect. That I cooked, I cleaned, I fucking did his god damn ironing, for pity’s sake. I was a devoted mother to my children. I was smart, funny, beautiful, a bloody good handbag when he needed to impress. I was honest and trustworthy and didn’t spend too much of his money. I put up with him, with his shit, how often did he say that?
As perfect as I could possibly be. But still not enough. Not good enough. Not perfect enough. Because I smoke, I scream, I can be selfish and lazy.
Because, I think, I’m sure- there was something ugly about me, something fundamentally ugly and wrong and distateful about me, that makes people turn away.
I thought that, for years. From the ages of about fifteen to twenty four, I had that feeling. That no matter how perfect I was. there was something Wrong with me. Not something anyone could see as such, or articulate. But it was There, and it made people turn away. Made people not love me,not want to be near me. Made be chronically, compulsively Unlovable.
I’d forgotten, how it felt to feel like that.
I remember now. As time passes, events, emotions,the way Tony was, it all slides into perspective, slowly, and I get a better understanding of what went on here, what is going on here.
And my mind keeps coming back to that, logically. I know, somewhere deep inside that it’s irrational, but it seems so logical.
I had a part in killing my husband. If there wasn’t that something fundamentally Wrong with me, this wouldn’t have happened.
Something Wrong. Something bad. In my life Before, Before all of This, Before Tony, Before my Perfect Purple Life even existed, people knew, without really knowing, that the something Wrong was there.
It was almost like they could smell it.
And now, again. Tony, the person closest to me, he saw it properly. My imperfection. My something Wrong.
And he took steps to make sure everyone else could see it, too.
And know they can.
To show, everyone, what a terrible person I am.
Mission accomplished.
Everyone can see it now.
I’m stigmatised, stained, for the rest of my life.
The woman who’s husband hung himself, in front of her.
I’ll never be ashamed of it, as such, and I’ll never keep it quiet. Mental illness is a bitch of a thing, and needs to be talked about.
But emotionally, deep down, this happened because there of me. Because I am Not Perfect Enough. Not good enough.
Because there is Something Wrong with me.
And now, everyone knows it too.
And- this I’m ashamed of, and why am I putting it out here, where everyone can see it?
Because I don’t care. Because it might be pathetic, and wrong, and make me an even worse person than I am already.
But it’s my truth, and this it where it is spoken.
I want someone else.
Not a life partner, and certainly not a replacement, a father figure for my children.
But I want someone for me. A man, for me. Someone for me.
To hold me, while I cry. To make me smile, make tingle and look forward to later that day, which ever day that may be. To tell me I’m beautiful, I’m wonderful, that I’m amazing, that none of this is my fault. That I’m beautiful, that I’m awesome, that’s it’s OK to be small and weak and fragile for a little while because they will hold me up, and love me, and take me away from the world and all it’s ugliness, just for a little bit.
And I know, that’s so stupid, and selfish, and probably disrespectful, and no one will understand, but that’s OK.
And rationally, I know, that if I did actually get that, what I think I want, it would break me, and I couldn’t do it, and I turn away from whoever it was that was not Tony, because I all I really want is him back.
But this is my truth, and that’s how I feel.
Maybe it makes the Tony I didn’t know more correct, than incorrect (slut).
But I want. I want someone to erase, by loving me, just for a bit, all the horrible things my husband said to me in the last half hour, in the last six months. To make me feel like I’m worth something again. That one day, in the future, when I’m not so broken and ugly and traumatised and grieving and fucked up, someone might love me again. Maybe.
Just a tiny little bit.
***
I dreamt, last night, about my husband, my Tony. Lieing on his chest, kissing his neck, his stubble, the salt of his skin, the taste of him, the smell of him, deep and manly and so divine and I miss it so, so much. And I layed on him, enjoyed just being with him. Stroked his face.
“Careful, darl. I have rope burn on my neck.”
I wonder why I didn’t wake up screaming.
Edit- I just wanted to say, to make sure you all know, no one anyone has said online- apart from that dick on FormSpring- has made me more upset, or hurt me. Every comment, everything- it helps. Thank you.
{ 127 comments }
I’m going, this weekend, to spread Tony’s ashes. In a peaceful, beautiful place. the place he wanted to be.
I may a different person, again, when I return.
If you like, if you could, to remember The Man this weekend, have a look through the many posts The Man featured in.
Especially the first one I wrote about him. Great big dork that he was.
Right now, I’m not angry. Right now, my overwhelming emotion is simple.
I miss my best friend. I miss my soul mate. I miss the other half of me.
I pine for the one I love.
I miss my man. He made the world feel like a more wonderful place to be. And I don’t think I’ll ever get over it, missing that.
{ 87 comments }
Heya,
A few things, before we start.
Firstly, thank you. Any other words escapes me. I can’t eloquently express the gratitude I’m feeling toward my fellow blogger and Interwebbers at the moment. Every message, every email, every comment… they warm my heart. You guys are just… awesome.
Second, a few people have emailed me regarding advertising on my blog. I’ll get back to you soon as possible, promise.
And thirdly, this post is called ‘Ugly’ for a reason. This is real. This is serious. This is suicide. If you, like me, have that wretched thing called clinical trauma, this might be triggering.
But, if you ever considered hanging yourself, read this. Please.
To understand this story, from my perspective, there are some things you should know. About Tony. About our life.
He was a good bloke. That, I think, is the most important thing. Those of you who have been reading since the Before know that. A big, tattooed, Aussie bloke with a cheeky sense of humour, an amazing devotion to his family, direct and extended; and very much a man’s man.
He was awesome. I adored him. So please know, as you read this, that the man I’m talking about here,in the lead up to his death, was not the man I married.
Not himself, not at all.
I guess you also should know that there is, of course, a History here. And it’s not my history, it’s Tony’s, so I won’t tell you a lot of it. Suffice to say, I think, that Tony had demons that haunted him from a very young age. More recently, there were car troubles, money troubles, work stresses. Things he shared with no one. Some things that I’m only just finding out about now.
And Tony always kept everything to himself. He was the oldest, and only, male in his family, and he felt it was his job was to take care of everyone.
Tony didn’t believe in psychological help, or medication, especially for himself. But he never had a problem with me taking my meds. And he would never burden anyone with his problems, his stresses (“I’ve got it all covered, darl”). Especially not his wife, who suffers depression and anxiety as it is.
Did I ever think he was suicidal? Never. I had heard him say, as had his mum, sister and mates, that suicide is a cowards option, a dog’s way to go. And if you were to do it, make it look like an accident, where someone you know won’t find you.
Huh.
The week between New Years and the 6th of January, the day Tony hung himself, was awful. I don’t think there is too much detail needed. We argued, as couples do. But horribly. Round in circles. Without end. Continuously. My rock, the alkaline to my acid….. our roles had reversed. Where normally it was me, screaming at him to STAY AND TALK TO ME as he walked away, this time, it was me, pleading with him to leave. And him, coming at me, again, again, again. Bitter, spiteful words, intended to hurt me and make me snap and scream.
For some God unknown reason, I did not. And one of those days there, he hit me. My Man, who would never hurt a fly, had me in a headlock, one hand pushing my nose back into my skull, threatening to snap my neck. And I was terrified.
This was not the man I married.
The three days before this happened, things were worse. My stomach sunk as he walked though our back gate, diaphragm knotted in anxiety.
Twice, during those the three days Before, Tony threatened to hang himself. Once, he even told me where he would do it. And it was exactly where he did do it.
And I kick myself for that now. Three quarters of a degree in social work, I should know that when people have specific plans for suicide, things are bad.
Why did I ignore that?
My psychiatrist, an angel in a lanyard, tells me that she would have said, had I turned to her, that Tony was making idle threats. And maybe,in a way, he was.
We had plans. Australia Day, a wedding next month, a holiday in March. Suicidal people don’t make plans like that.
Do they?
The day before This Happened was Tony’s birthday. He turned 34. It was nice, quiet. Presents and ice cream cake with our kids. And I took photos, even though I was cranky at him.
I’m so glad I did.
The next day, The Last Day, was just a normal day for me. I was online, I think, on Twitter, only an hour before this happened.
Tony came home from work. Half past two, usual time, given that he started so early in the morning.
And he came to me. Hugged me. Kissed me. Told me he loved me.
If I’d known that would be that last time I hear it, would I have been more receptive? Of course. That doesn’t even require a question mark.
But I wasn’t receptive. I didn’t yell. but I was still angry, and I told him so.
And from there, all hell broke loose.
I remember, vaguely, in that next half hour, fragments of near-rational conversation. Where he told me he didn’t love me, then that he did, that he’d almost lost his job for me, given up everything for me.
But mostly I remember the fury of it. The look on his face. Things being thrown at me. Being spat at. Him, a finger over one nostril spitting snot onto me.
Like I was nothing. Less than nothing. Like he couldn’t think of anyone he hated more.
Threatening, to kill me, to take my kids, take the house, leave me on the street.
And then.
“I’m going to do something that shows everyone what a terrible person you are”.
And me, confused, scared, afraid. But it never even touched my mind that he was talking about this.
Into our back shed. Back again, with an ugly, bright piece of nylon orange rope.
A noose, already knotted in the end of it. When did he do that, how long has that been there for?
Me, standing in my back doorway, him in our backyard. Me, still thinking he’s bluffing, him, getting angrier and angrier at my lack of anger, lack of passion, why aren’t I screaming at him like I usually do?
“I’m going to fucking do it. I’m going to hang myself.”
“No, Tony, don’t be a dick, you can’t be fucking serious, your daughter is standing right here…”
A litany of words as I watch, so quickly, as he strings up over the beam of our outdoor shelter, and pulls over a chair
“TONY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
He kicks himself of the chair, lands feet on the ground. Slipped, or something. Not even force. Not violent enough.
All this, is the space of milliseconds.
He looks at me again, those beautiful brown eyes, the color of melted chocolate, so full of rage and hate for me.
Up onto the chair again, and jumps, with all his force.
Fuck. I grab my daughter, my baby. Stop fucking around, Tony, you’ve scared the shit out of me, I’m a fuckwit, I get it.
Shake him, with the hand not holding my little one. Slap him, hard as I can. His sunglasses fall off, smash on the ground. And, stupidly, that’s when I realise- he’s not mucking around. His eyes are bulged, rolled back in his head. He’s unconscious already, and he’s not fucking around. His feet are touching the fucking ground, but he’s unconscious and this is real.
And my life shattered.
I ran, screaming, hysterical, into my back lane, “Help me, help me, he’s hung himself.” My neighbors run, it seems like they’re there before I call them. One of them runs into my backyard, runs out again, shaking his head, saying “Call an ambulance” over my shoulder.
“Cut him down! Cut him down!”
Why didn’t I tell them, that he’d only just done it, then, in front of me, that I’d not found him like that? Would it have made any difference? Possibly. Possibly not. Cutting down a 110 kg man who is effectively already dead takes time.
And that’s the crut
ch of this post. There is more, obviously- 100 hours in the hell that is an Intensive Care Department, and the immediate aftermath of a street full of sirens and two small children oblivious to the fact that their world has just collapsed beneath them- but that’s another post. For another time.
Here’s the thing- have you ever wondered why hanging is considered such a violent method of suicide? I always did. Even though I studied mental health.
Because it’s just so fucking quick.
It’s nothing like on the movies. Most things aren’t, I suppose, but this especially. If you asphyxiate slowly through hanging, it will be painful and long and you’ll be conscious for a lot of it. And you won’t be able to lift your own body weight to relive the tension in the rope.
That isn’t what happened with Tony.
What happened with Tony is common in hanging. He managed to compress a nerve-the Vagal nerve,I believe, but I could be wrong. This nerve runs down both sides of your neck.
Compression of this nerve instantly renders you unconscious. The rope around your neck cuts off any remaining oxygen to your brain. Brain damage sets in after 30 second, with this type of injury. After 4 minutes, it’s permanent and irreparable.
So, God forbid, you live, you will be a vegetable.
There are no second chances, with hanging. There is no time, no leeway for someone to save you. I really don’t think Tony knew that. To hang himself in front of his wife and child, in broad daylight, with a whole neighborhood of people home who would come to our aid….. I think he thought he would have time.
He was wrong. Hanging is fast, and it’s pretty damn permanent.
I can only imagine how much he’s kicking himself now.
Dickhead.
{ 302 comments }
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Run, Run, As Fast As You Can….
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Hanging… On…In….There.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Falling Into Place
The Whispering Body – RRSAHM
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***
“Your body always whispers before it screams.”
Source unknown.
Now, in the after, I’m trying to teach myself to live more authentically. I guess, by osmosis, I’m teaching my children with me as I go.
I’m what I think they refer to in pop psychology as a Type A personality. I take things to excess. Those who know me will tell you, possibly shaking their heads as they do, that I drink too much caffeine, I smoke too many cigarettes, and I eat too much crap. I treat my body badly sometimes. And for some reason, it’s still nice to me.
I’m guessing that won’t last forever. I’m thirty now, after all. Isn’t that when they say the downward slide begins…?
In the Before it was so easy to ignore my body. I was tired, always tired, but happy most of the time and not stressed, so my body simply went along for the ride. Now, it’s different… grief and stress and the physical work of taking care of two small people has begun to take its toll on my body. I’m having to start to listen to it more closely.
My body gives me warning signs if it’s being over worked, over used or abused. I get thrush in places it’s probably best not to talk about, and other things reoccur that I won’t mention either. My mouth breaks out in ulcers, my lips get sore and dry. I get pimples and styes and any tiny scratch becomes an infected welt. My body tells me- enough is enough.
And I know well enough what I need. Generally it’s food… sometimes I’ll read the menu when eating out and my mouth will involuntary salivate as I glance past the listing of steaks, imaging a steak so cooked it’s charcoal. I need iron. My skin is dry and feels scratchy and I can’t quite slow down and catch my breath- I’m dehydrated and badly need water. I’m cranky and short tempered with my children, I need a break, to do some yoga and meditate, switch off from the world for a bit. My muscles are sore and aching, my shoulders feel tight and clenched; that means I need exercise, to walk for a few days in a row so my muscles stretch out… spending so much time at he computer will have that effect.
And sleep, I always need to sleep. I know as my body gets weaker and reacts more to everything, as I get crankier and less able to concentrate that I need sleep, more than the six hours I usually spare myself.
And I try to teach my children that perspective too. Listen to your body, it is telling you things. I ask my son, do you notice how you feel good after you spend the day running around, but your grumpy if you watch TV all day? And I watch him think about it, process it, weigh it up… I watch him realise that his well being is integrated with what he does with himself, how he treats himself pyshically as well as mentally.
I’ve amended my habits so I suck on a bottle of water all day, rather than a can of cola, and I encourage my children to do the same- water or milk are the liquids of choice here, with juice and lemonade being ‘sometimes drinks’. Fruit and yoghurt are encouraged as snacks, and carbohydrates fill in where they won’t eat protein.
I don’t know much about all of this, and that scares me sometimes. How am I supposed to raise two people to take good care of their bodies, when I take such terrible care of myself? Which I why, I suppose, I’m trying to give them a sense of awareness of themselves and mindfulness of their bodies; the knowledge of what is going to feed them physically and spiritually and what is not.
It’s an important skill to have, and one so many of us are missing as our bodies become more and more like shells that we exist in… the art of learning to listen to the whispers of your body, to hear it before it needs to scream.
***
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to kill you to have an enormous impact on you and your family. You CAN
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Leave a Comment
{ 6 comments… read them below or add one }
- November 11, 2011 at 2:21 am
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Lori, I love that you are writing all this out — your concerns, fears, thoughts. I think that is such a huge and important step in making changes, both mentally and physically. You have been through SO much. You have assimilated SO much change. And yet you are looking at making more changes, big ones. So much respect for you, my love.
And yay, the Speak Out button looks so sexy on your sidebar. Thanks, xoxo
- November 10, 2011 at 11:32 pm
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It's so hard to juggle the needs of the kids, work, chores … finally, somewhere the needs of my own body get neglected. I finally made a conscious choice to put the needs of my body on my radar. Working out, eating healthy, and yoga, and boy-oh-boy has it made a big difference. It's tough to stick with it (everyone else's needs always seem so much more important) but I'm trying – and it's worth the effort.
You deserve to feel better and be healthy. - November 10, 2011 at 2:31 pm
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Take care, Lori. Although I do recommend a vino at 5pm everyday. For the anti-oxidants.
- November 10, 2011 at 1:04 pm
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take care lori. take some iron supplements, they'll do wonders for giving you some more energy. xo
- November 10, 2011 at 9:05 am
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If I gave my body the same respect and care that I give my son's – I'd be a walking health campaign.
His body is sunscreened, fed, rested and loved before mine gets clothed most days!!!
Fantastic post, Lori.
- November 10, 2011 at 8:30 am
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I love this.
It's so so so true.
I've been getting headaches, really painful headaches at the same time every day since Sunday, and for once water isn't shifting them. Usually it does (with headaches being a sign of dehydration), but not this week.I have never clicked being in physical pain as to needing some excercise though. Maybe it's my extreme avoidance of it? But glad you mentioned it, because it might make me push myself to do it some more!
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75252 (Working Title) – RRSAHM
75252 (Working Title)
“Take it from me, I’m a disorderly, and you’d be off better…. writing someone else a love letter.”
Is it possible to miss someone you’ve never met?
How can you ache for someone’s touch if you can’t even visualize their hands…?
I have a case of skin hunger so intense that the concept of touch seems to have taken on it’s own scent, it’s own taste.
My own need terrifies me, how badly I want someone to adore me, to think I’m wonderful, to actually care about me in the tiny ways that count- to wonder what I’m doing, whether I’ve eaten that day, to hear songs and want to share them with me because you think I may just understand them the way you do.
My mind, and the sucking black hole of need that influences and stains every close relationship I have now in the after; my fractured mind and that consuming need will take any little thing and run with it.
I want to weep for myself, watching myself cling to every tiny interaction, watching my mind weave it into a thousand possibilities. I feel pathetic, and it’s quite possible that I smell of it patheticism too… it’s an unattractive scent that people can’t identify, but it effects them the same way pheromones do, only to push them away from it’s source rather than draw them toward it.
Biological self-protection.
The best parts of my days right now happen over crackly connections to somewhere half a world away. I spend hours I didn’t know I could find lost in the best type of conversation– where you plan topics to speak about, and three hours later are still trying to find a finishing point where the conversation winds up naturally.
I’m not even sure what I’m doing here, playing with fire all over again… but how far can you fall when the grounds just an illusion, it’s not even real? I take bits of happy, piecemeal, as they come, and I can’t bear to push them away. Happy- simple laughing, sparkling happy– is scarce and fleeting. That much I know now, for sure.
And there are so few people that I know that I am myself with… where I let pieces hang out and trail, where I’m not as together and OK as I pretend to be.
A soft place to fall, perhaps…but it’s half a world away. A voice through a data connection that makes me feel at home.
I’ll take what I get, when I can get it.
And there’s things I need to tell him, still… that underwear with a split in the knee and rosary beads are kind of the same thing, really; that John Safran had a fatwa put on a man, and that man’s wife died young, from cancer, just a few years later; that I totally busted him, and he was fibbing when he said he didn’t have a thing for Britney Spears.
Unimportant, insignificant blips on life; facts that mean nothing at all. The very kind of things I want someone to be jumping from their skin to tell me- relationships are, if nothing else, sharing the insignificances of life.
***
The best love stories, my favorite kind of romances… they always end badly. Tess of the D’Ubervilles, Romeo and Juliet, Wuthering Heights. Brenda and Dylan. Buffy and her vampire without a soul. Shane and Angel. (They met at a Frente concert. Anyone…? Aussie Gen Xers…?) There’s a new Stephen King book out just recently, set in Fort Worth; and that Southern man sacrifices a potential lifetime with the woman he loves to save humanity, and settles for one dance instead.
And he knows she heard his name, his voice, his laugh; her whole life, in her dreams.
I thought, for a little while, that the concept of love being tragic was a made up one, something gothic and romantic and not quite real.
More and more, I think I was wrong. Love is as tragic as life itself.
***
If you wrote a love letter, the kind you had your best friend pass to a boy who who teased you mercilessly in primary school; but to someone you’ve never seen, someone you may never meet, someone who might even be a voice attached to a figment of your imagination attached to a place in you that wants to be loved so badly it sobs for it…what is there to say?
“I think you’re perfect. I adore you. You are one of the strongest, most soulful people I know; and I hope you remember that.”
And I think that’s all.
***
And although she knows the ground below is only a figment of her imagination- it can’t hurt if it’s not real to begin with- that vulnerable five year old girl in my head still trips and falls. She skins her knee and her pride is hurt and she stares at the person who happens to be closest to her and sobs “You hurt me! How dare you?!”… when it was her own two feet she tripped over to begin with.
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{ 13 comments… read them below or add one }
- March 12, 2012 at 11:46 am
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-xxx-
- March 12, 2012 at 6:56 am
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Good heavens, this post. I felt it, Lori, is best how I can describe it. It's like I was feeling this with you. Unbelievable.
- March 11, 2012 at 9:20 pm
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Yes, I have loved and missed people I've never met, quite a few times. The love I had for them was so deep. And it came at such a cost.
Best wishes to you Lori. - March 11, 2012 at 9:13 pm
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This was worth another read. It reveals so little, yet says so much Lori.
My arms are outstretched to catch you, just in case.
Hugs xx - March 10, 2012 at 3:46 pm
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Been there, done that.
When things were tough between me and Doug, I started talking to someone who I thought was a friend, from church, and we fell deeply for each other. I fell in love with his words. He was always there, and his words always comforted me. We were like a couple of teenagers. One night, we typed out the entire Monty Python's Quest for the Holy Grail movie because we were stupid like that! *lol*
Things began to get deeper, and we took it to texting. He came by and brought me gifts once a week. He knew I loved peanut butter fudge.
Long story short, I fell asleep during a text messaging session, and Doug found out and questioned me. He wasn't angry with me as he was with the other guy and himself because he realized that he wasn't and hadn't been there for me for six months. He felt like the guy should have known better than to sweep in when I was vulnerable, posing as a friend, from church even, and taking advantage of me. I tried to tell Doug that I knew what I was doing also and took responsibility for my actions.
Lori, a guy who really loves and adores you will come along. Don't settle for Mr. Right Now. Wait for Mr. Right. Believe me, it's worth it.
- March 10, 2012 at 2:59 pm
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Ordinary people, it's ok. We're not watching anyway
- March 10, 2012 at 3:09 am
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Once again, the way you show your heart humbles me. Beautiful words.
UncleChilliMan (Brad) Hugs & love Lori - March 10, 2012 at 2:50 am
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So many HUGS! I feel you are looking so hard outside yourself for peace that you're forgetting that it's within you already. Don't forget to being peaceful inside yourself will bring to you exactly who you need when you need them.
- March 10, 2012 at 12:50 am
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"I want to weep for myself, watching myself cling to every tiny interaction, watching my mind weave it into a thousand possibilities" – an absolutely beautifully written post.
I went to Sweden as an exchange student in 1999. I'm still here… We weren't meant to fall in love, I mean, we really weren't meant to fall in love. I never thought I would be able to fall in love with someone whom I would have to explain who Pat the Rat was or that Puberty Blues was a film, not a state of mind. But it turns out that the only reference points we needed were ourselves and a big fat whopping belief in ourselves.
- March 9, 2012 at 11:06 pm
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Accidentally Kelly Street, where friends and strangers sometimes meet!
Love that song…..thanks for the earworm!
- March 9, 2012 at 7:32 pm
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Im in love with a man who will never be mine, and hes in love with me. Ill never his. He is so close and yet so far. His voice his laugh his lame jokes make me smile, and he will never be mine. So many people would be hurt, and even with a love like we have I'm not willing to take the chance, and nor is he.
- March 9, 2012 at 6:38 pm
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Beautifully written as always … And yes I am a gen x-er to whom the frente reference makes perfect sense
Loved loved loved Stephen King's most recent book too, after not being able to get into his last book, MY Stephen is back
Xx
Cass - March 9, 2012 at 8:56 am
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I fell in love with someone half a world away.
I'm in Los Angeles. He lives an hour outside Melbourne.
We met. I fell harder.
I stayed for months instead of weeks. But my own life, my life here in LA, was insisting that I must return.
We still talk. We still love. We still say things like, "Someday…"
And maybe someday never comes. But someone, somewhere, loved me once. Still loves me. His voice still helps me sleep through the night.
And a piece of him will always be a part of me.
Previous post: The Tallest Poppy
Next post: Succubi
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Soul Cancer.
Operation: Dummy Drop. Epic Fail. – RRSAHM
Operation: Dummy Drop. Epic Fail.
Greetings,
You may have read me philosophising the other day on the subject on my son’s dummy (dodie/pacifier/paci/soother/nuk/noing/binkie. And I actually don’t know why we call it a dummy in Aussie Land, remind me to consult with the Google God. Edit– Google God knows nothing. Anyone else?).
Well, the magical, mystical dummy fairy visited the Purple House that very afternoon. She invisibly deposited one super cool kid’s tool set, complete with the obligatory hammer, pliers and …erm… angle grinder; and three Kinder Surprise eggs (nicely done Man, that’s lateral thinking for you!) to the kitchen table.
The Chop was ecstatic. Tools are his thing. As you can see, he uses them to fix his car.
So, while Chop was getting his grease monkey vibes going on, the Dummy Fairy floated up the stairs to the Chop’s room and removed every single last dummy. Eight of them in all. Huzzah!
Later that night…..
“Dodie! Want dodie! Need dodie!”
“No, the dummy fairy took it, remember? She bought you tools.”
20 minutes later, I creep back up the stairs. the child is curled up, snug in his bed, surrounded by plastic tools and bolts. He is wearing the safety goggles that came with the tool kit. (No, I didn’t get a photo of that, more’s the pity. I was creeping, remember? A camera flash may have given the game away..)
I creep back downstairs. Victorious. Congratulating myself, slapping myself on the back to ring out my good fortune. I even joyfully announce on FaceBook that Operation Dummy Drop has been a total success.
And that’s when I hear laughter. Victorious, joyful laughter. Coming from the direction of my lovely little Chop’s room.
I creep apprehensively up the stairs. Only to be met by the Chop, is his doorway, dummy in his outstretched hand.
“Dodie!!”
As it turns out, our Dummy Fairy is in roughly the same caliber as our cleaning fairy. Useless. She forgot to do a thorough inspection the Chop’s entire room. And missed a dummy, tucked away in the back of a Little Tykes semi trailer.
I’ll admit, I was a little bit… relieved. I’ve never had a problem with his dummy. And it is just the last little part of him left that still the tiny baby that used to fit in the crook of my arm. (Apart from, ya know, the toilet training, but I’m not quite so sentimental about that).
So, it’s back to square one. At least we’ve reduced the dummy-load from nine to just one. I have the other eight furtively tucked away in our Harry Potter cupboard (that’s the one under the stairs). I can’t bring myself to throw them away, just in case of an emergency. Like the last dummy standing going AWOL. Yep, I’m a coward like that.
Whatever. The dummy fairy will be making another appearance in the Purple House very, very soon, armed with tooth rot and cheap, singing, whirring plastic stuff, to take the last of the dodies to a little baby who needs it. Because the Chop is a big boy now. Right….?
We’ll see. I’m hoping the agency sends us a more competent fairy this time. Kinda. They really better get a handle of their quality of staffing soon, or imagine what our tooth fairy is going to be like.
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{ 19 comments… read them below or add one }
- August 4, 2010 at 3:57 pm
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Oh boy..doesn't it figure one was missing. lol All three of mine were thumb suckers (the 4yr old still is)…not so easy to take away.
- August 3, 2010 at 9:36 pm
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It took us a few goes to get the dummy to stay gone. We tried giving it to a friends new baby, fail.
We talked about the fairies, and our daughter said yes, she would give them to the fairy… and she did, she dropped one out the window, "here are fairies! I a big girl now…" She gave it to the beach fairy, the mountain fairy, the rainbow fairy… I went to the GP and she very rationally said 'You don't see any uni students walking around with dummies… she'll grow out of it."
I was worried, I was sick of the comments from strangers… but slowly, over time, she gave it up… in the end she put it in the freezer (her own idea). I told her it was there if she needed it, but it would be very cold!
I kept it in there for months, just in case. But it never came out again. I guess in the end, the gentle nudges from us helped her make the decision herself.
Try not to stress too much, he'll get rid of it when he's ready. - August 3, 2010 at 8:48 pm
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Zander got rid of his just after Juliette was born, at almost 3.5 years old. That said it was only ever for bedtime, he had to leave it in bed during the day.
I told him we would go to the shops & buy a present if he didn't have it for three days. The first night was fine until about midnight when he started crying, he didn't know why but kept telling me he couldn't get to sleep. I caved!
The next day he asked for his present & I explained three days & he promptly picked up his dummy & threw it in the bin & asked "present now?" and that was it, no more dummy.
He'll get rid of it when he's ready, don't stress.
- August 3, 2010 at 7:43 pm
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I'm smiling at this post. I can remember throwing mine in the fire & my mother saying 'I'm not buying you another one!' I coped *takes thumb out of mouth*!
- August 3, 2010 at 12:55 pm
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Awwww clever little munchkin (your boy, not that slack fairy). I only just last week threw out the two dummies I had stashed A YEAR AGO… just in case. It thankfully never eventuated.
- August 3, 2010 at 11:36 am
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My oldest wasn't too happy to give up her "binkie" either. Just when I thought I had her off it, along came her brother and she started stealing his. Luckily, her stealing his led to him never becoming attached, so I only had to take it away from one of the two kids.
- August 3, 2010 at 9:01 am
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What a tricky little trickster! And dont you simultaneously love and hate that little " ha ha, i beat you! " laugh ? Its too cute but then…they've beat you.
Chop – 1
Mummy/Dummy Fairy – 0 - August 3, 2010 at 5:54 am
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So cute! I bet he was so excited to find his Dodie!
- August 3, 2010 at 4:43 am
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I left a comment on your link you gave me for your first post! Thanks! My son wouldn't take a dummy – even though we seriously wanted him to. Thought it could stop his crying, but no, he just wanted to cry.
- August 3, 2010 at 3:30 am
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Too funny! I think he knew it was there all along. He probably hid it from the dummy fairy!
- August 3, 2010 at 12:51 am
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Ha! He outsmarted all of you!
- August 2, 2010 at 11:39 pm
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I hope the second fairy comes with a guarantee!
- August 2, 2010 at 10:36 pm
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Oh so close! I'll be tuning back in to see how the second fairy goes; we'll be looking to use their services soon.
- August 2, 2010 at 9:22 pm
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Stoopid fairies! Why can't they be all uber clever like Tink and her posse.; )
- August 2, 2010 at 8:38 pm
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Oh you better watch that tooth fairy, she'll be leaving teeth and taking money!
- August 2, 2010 at 8:16 pm
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Haha I facebooked about this last week too! I have a 20 mnth old who seems to be getting very attached to the dummy. I also bailed on Operation Bye Bye Dummy after 1 night.
Its now ONLY for nap and sleep times.
Good luck, if you find some magical way of making them forget we ever stuck one in their gob pleaseeee send it my way ; ) - August 2, 2010 at 8:11 pm
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Dummy – ie shop dummy = fake person = dummy = fake nipple? Dunno?
- August 2, 2010 at 10:49 pm
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I still don't think the dummy is a bad thing; it's a comfort to the little one, and when they no longer need it, they'll get rid of it on their own. I have yet to hear of one kid who took his to college with him! lol
- August 2, 2010 at 9:21 pm
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Haha, I made my 2YO (now 4YO) throw his in the garbage bin as the garbage truck was coming up the road…he watched as the truck tipped them up and took them away…replaced with small Thomas Tank trains he took to bed instead. He was pretty upset for a few days..harsh Mummy. Couldn't care less with the second kid. Poor 1st child was test case.
Previous post: Me and Lady B
Next post: What’s Your Favorite Time of Day?
Women who take their clothes off for money. – RRSAHM
Women who take their clothes off for money.
This one is, quite obviously, a post from The Before, that I wrote back in November last year. I was having a look at my draftsfolder and felt this was worth publidhing, perhaps.
I know it won’t sit well with some people (but what’s new, on this blog..?) and I am quite possibly setting the cause of feminism back a good twenty years. As usual, I don’t give a damn.
****
Everything I though I ‘knew’ about why women become strippers, the deep sociological reasons behind it all- I chose to forget that, for one night, and try and experience a strip club through the eyes of a man. Impossible. Enjoy.
I’m a respectable, married, educated mother of two children, with a mortgage and a big all wheel drive.
I went to a strip club the other night.
I’m really struggling to write this without worrying what you will all think of me. Mu husband tells me I shouldn’t say it’s a strip club, I should say a “gentleman’s club”. Because that’s makes it all sound so much better.
This club was Mens Gallery, in the heart of the Sydney CBD, and apparently it’s one of the classier strip venues available. And I will admit, it was far more.. well… tasteful, than I expected.
I’ve always wanted to go to a strip club. Why, I’m not sure. Something about them being the secretive male domains that they are, the place where men go to look at women far more groomed and attractive than I. Women I just don’t understand, can’t fathom. Women who take their clothes off for money.
We had an argument, my husband and I, just weeks before our wedding, and, of course, it involved his bucks night and a strip club and his wife-to-be, afraid of what I didn’t understand and had never experienced. We argued, he went anyway. And I’m glad he did. The guilt would have crippled me, had he not.
But that incident, more than anything, fueled my curiosity and my stubborn insistence to experience this situation, this tableaux, that men find so appealing but is so taboo to their wives and girlfriends.
If you can’t beat them, join them. So, one night recently, very, very late, under the protection of my large, tattooed husband, I went entered the Men’s Gallery. I forgot my ID, the bouncer let me in anyway. It was intimidating, scary. I’m not generally a fearful person- I’m happy to walk the streets of the city at 2am, alone, searching for a taxi- but at that point, walking down carpeted stairs into a warm, noisy den, powered with the beat of music and the rise of male voices and the feeling of lust and testosterone in the air; I almost cut and run. Had it not been for my husband’s hand on the small of my back, and the teetering heels I was wearing, I most certainly would have.
The worst moment, the point I felt the most vulnerable and raw and so very visible- making our way to two spare seats at a table near the main stage, jostling and bumping through a crowd packed with men. I was the only woman in the place not working there. Wearing jeans and long sleeves, I was most definitely the most covered up.
So why did I feel so naked?
What was I expecting, from the women here? Sluts, whores, bitches. I expected to be jealous of their beauty, be slightly disgusted by what they were doing, to feel smugly superior in my clothed state. I expected these women to look back at me, with distaste, with a certain wistful jealousy.
Easy money. How many times have I thought that, about strippers? What easy money it would be, for such a simple, slutty thing to do. Smile, gyrate, remove clothing, gyrate more. And the feminist in me, screaming at me, at how wrong this is, these woman were being degraded and I was contributing to it. That this was no better than abuse. The social worker in me, searching for track marks, bruises, searching for pain in the eyes of these women..
I think I was wrong. About most of that.
Nothing about these women were making was easy. Just walking into that place, feeling the pull of the men, the rampant tribal heat of them, their eyes flickering and unkempt by the usual social electric fences of manners and propriety… there was nothing easy about that. At moments, it felt like a seething, rabid pack of erections, only just restrained by bouncers and their “You touch, you go” policy. It felt like finely balanced calamity, barely repressed anarchy, sticky with alcohol and the drumbeat of drunken hedonism.
I can’t imagine, now, how I though that would be easy. Taking your clothes in front of all those eyes, all those expectations. All that blatant, unchecked desire.
It’s such a bizarre place, a strip club. On one hand, you have the seething, frightening darkness of a crowd full of men, waiting, expecting, drunk and searching. On the other hand, you have the women.
It should be degrading for them, these women, these strippers. Every feminist, social worker bone in my body tells me that. But somehow, it wasn’t.
Strip Tease Technicolor by Kyleacharisse
on RedBubble.
on RedBubble.
There were a few moments that almost shocked with their tacky poignancy, moments where reality seemed to shatter the reflections in the mirrors behind the stage. Moments that reminded me that these were women, just like me. Women who probably dress in tracksuit pants on Sundays, and drink Boost juices, and slept with their cat curled up at the foot of their bed. Moments that made them seem less like blow up dolls, and-devastatingly- more like real people.
Such as the only dark-skinned stripper cleaning the poles. That’s not a euphemism, she quite literally got out the Spray and Wipe, and, nude except for a g-sting, polished off the dancing poles.
Or when one beautiful, tall, smiling stripper, who had made a point of waving to me when she saw me in the audience, in the friendliest fashion possible- bizarrely, she made me feel comfortable, sitting there, watching her, nude. She must be fantastic at her job. Her spot on the main stage finished. And I watched as she picked up a lambs wool rug off the ground. A lambs wool, that would use to line a baby’s pram. She’d been sitting on it for half her show, I guess to keep herself comfortable and warm. As she walked down the steps from the mirrored platform she was on, she was holding that lamb’s wool to cover her breasts. The entire room had just been looking at her, nude, for twenty minutes, but as soon as her spot finished, she covered up. The sight of it made me sad. But I also know that feeling- her costume is her
body. I’m an extrovert in a costume, but can be quiet and introverted in a social situation where I am not being paid to work the crowd.
For the most part, any illusion I had of strippers being degraded women with no self esteem was shattered that night, sitting in a gentleman’s club with my husband. These women didn’t seem to be subjugated. These women appeared in control. These women were earning more money than some men do in a week. These women were the very picture of confident sexy sluttiness and made the men feeding them money look somewhat pathetic. The atmosphere was one of respect- we saw a guy turfed for being drunk, another kicked out for daring to rub his hand across the fabric of a strippers g-string on his was to slipping some Monopoly money in her garter.
The women here, they were in control of this situation weren’t they? They were making money, in the position of power, had every man in the place eating out of their hand. And most of them looked like they were having a fabulous time.
The men, is comparison….? They were the ones being degraded here. If anyone was being made to look ridiculous here, it was the blokes- they were the ones salivating and silly enough to pay a woman $50 for doing nothing but smiling at them and gyrating their hips against a pole.
And then, there was a bizarre feeling of a sisterhood. I had almost expected an icy bitchiness from these women, being another woman- a more ‘respectable’ woman?- on their turf, in their domain. But I felt none of that. Strippers, waitresses, the wandering masseuse- they smiled at me and made me feel welcome. It was like a relief in their eyes, a natural smile for me, a kinship- another woman in their midst.
A while back now, some bloggers were discussing the concept of Feminist or Floozy– is a woman who sleeps around before marriage a slut or a suffragette, a whore or a feminist? It’s a concept that’s fascinated me for years. Why do we label a woman who chooses to be promiscuous a slut? Why do we assume there is something physiologically, fundamentally wrong with her? Not so long ago, promiscuity in women was widely recognized as a trait of a serious physiological disorder. And often, in some conversations, in some thoughts in my head, it seems that not much as changed.
Sex is something used against women, continually. It has been for years and it remains to be so. Any teenage girl who has grown up in a small town can tell you that sex, girls engaging in sexual activities, is at the root of most rumors and most hatred. When I met my husband, I found myself suddenly forced into a small, closed social circle of people who had grown up together. There were stories I heard, about girls I was meeting for the first time, the things they’d supposedly done. Recounted by smug, bitchy women, and incredulous men.
I choose to believe none of these stories. Simply for the fact that if the situation were reversed, if these people were coming into my hometown, into the social whirlpool I was lucky enough to break free from years ago, they would have heard the same rumors, the same innuendo, about me. Any woman, especially any young women, who chooses to engage in any kind of sexual activity- or is even in the general vicinity when it happens- leaves herself open to that kind of hatred, that kind of poisonous, dripping gossip..
Why do we do it to one another…? Sometimes, it’s men who do it. But a lot of the time, it’s women. We do this to one another. We bitch, we talk, we allow rumors and stories to grow and seethe. We use our own insecurities, our own fears, as missiles against other women, gilded with sex and lies and guilt
And that’s just what I was prepared to do, the night I walked into Mens Gallery, my husband guiding me along, a point of fascination for every person in there. A respectable, sweet looking women, watching strippers with her husband.
I’m glad I did it. I’m glad I went. I’d happily go again. It was such an experience, such a shock. It blew away everything I thought about these women, as sluts, as whores, a worthless. Now, in the aftermath of this experience, the uneducated feminist with me tussles with a concept I’m not sure I believe in.
I couldn’t do what they do. Smile, laugh, chat, dance, let men slip paper money under the piece of elastic on my thigh, all while I’m naked bar for a tiny piece of fabric attached to a length of string.
Could you?
I wouldn’t want to do what they do. But I’m no longer going to assume that these women are powerless, or repressed, or that what they are doing must be painful, or forced, or out of necessity. There’s a part of me that thinks, perhaps, that’s part of the problem her. The assumption that because it should be, it must- maybe that’s the part that’s degrading. That concept only serves to take from them the power of what they are doing. It dismisses the choices they’ve made for themselves, and the work they put in to be the best of the best at their chosen profession. I can only imagine how insulting it must be. The chicks were hot, kicking arse at their profession and making a whole lot of cash. And in control? Maybe. Quite possibly.
More power to you, ladies.
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{ 51 comments… read them below or add one }
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June 4, 2013 at 11:09 am -
May 20, 2013 at 3:47 am -
Hi Lori,
I am a respectable and educated stripper, working in the club that you wrote about.
I well could have been the girl on stage waving and smiling at you in a friendly manner. Not because I was excited to see you, but because I thought you might come and give me a tip for entertaining you. Or getting you to go to a private show with me later. Which I hope you did.And the girl who was cleaning the pole with a spray and a towel? She needed to make sure there’s no body lotions or self tanning products on the pole so she can perform without slipping and hurting herself. I hope you tipped her for those amazing pole tricks she pulled off too. Oh, and don’t feel sad for me for covering up my breasts after finishing my stage show; it is against the rules to walk on the floor topless so better to cover up!
I am very sorry that you would walk in to my work place thinking of me as a worthless slut. I probably sensed that you were slightly disgusted by me when I came over to talk to you after and excused myself from your table rather quickly. (Us strippers are very skilled at figuring out what the patron’s true feelings are.) I think I can talk on the behalf of all the strippers in the club: I certainly did not think of you as a respectable, sweet looking woman at all. Women come to the club with their husbands all the time, and more often than not say or do something disrespectful.
I understand a strip club can be a very intimidating place for a female patron. Sometimes even I feel intimidated by the other dancer’s sexiness. On a bad day I want to call some of the girls sluts for dancing in a more provocative way than I do. Then I realize that this urge has nothing to do with said dancers, but only reflects my own, less than perfect, self esteem. I always keep the words to myself.
I am happy that you had somewhat of a positive experience though. Hopefully you won’t go around thinking of us as sluts anymore (I wouldn’t mind if you stopped using that word altogether) and accept the fact that women (as men) have the right and the ability to choose what they want to do with their naked bodies.
– Karolina
- April 27, 2011 at 8:43 am
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Really glad you had the guts to actually go in and experience it. And respect for being able to write objectively on a subject that you had prior adversion to.
I am 24 and a stripper, I've been doing it for about a year and a half now. I actually work just up the street from Men's Gallery, at Pure Platinum.
We often get women in and most of the time, they have a great experience, it's always fun to sit down and chat with them and generally, they get to ask us all the questions they've ever wanted answers to regarding the industry. Sometimes though, we do get women who are offending by the whole thing and become angry at their partners for making them go. Makes me quite sad when this happens as it can be a rally enjoyable experience if you're a little open to it.
I guess people, mostly women, need to realise that alot of the time we do have a choice. I do this job for many reasons; night work suits me, I'v been a dancer almost my whole life and I love performing, 80% of the men I meet are genuine, intelligent people and I have gained good friends from spending time with them and it allows me to travel more than anyone else I know. On top of that, I have a boyfriend who lives in Darwin and I am able to go up there and work on a regular basis so we can spend time together.
At the end of the day, what we all need to understand is that this profession of selling sex or, as we see it "the fantasy" because it really is a much more rounded experience than just plain getting naked, has been around for many, many hundreds of years and will continue to do so because there will always be a place for it.
Hopefully, as time goes on, more women will feel comfortable enough to come visit and have a good time with us.
- March 10, 2011 at 1:48 pm
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I'm on some of the parenting forums you are, but I had a secret side before having my child – doing much more than stripping. And I certainly felt pretty in control of it all. Not forced into it at all. And yes, feeling a bit that the men were the ones being used. My "secret" blog is here if you ever fell like a peak behind the scenes…
http://www.forloversofcurves.blogspot.com/
Start at the oldest post for a complete read though.
- March 10, 2011 at 8:09 am
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I am about as far removed from feminism as it is possible to get, but I would love to be a stripper. I've been to strip club and loved it, the girls were lovely, chatty and totally in control. I think they are proof that men are the ones being "used" because they're paying for it.
And for that matter, why are strip clubs seen in the way you say but women going to see Chipendales or having a male stripper is fine?! - March 10, 2011 at 1:33 am
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A few things:
1. One, great post. I say more power to them! I've been to one strip club (high class kind) and found the women to be confident and in charge. At this particular place, most of the men didn't seem to take it too seriously, so I didn't get the feeling that they were being taken advantage of (with a few exceptions). It all seemed like a simple business transaction between individuals.
2. In a related note, I have a male friend who hates "booth babes" (do you have those in Australia? The scantilly-clad women hawking products at trade shows) because he feels exploited by the women & the vendor. He wants to know about the product and insulted that they are trying to appeal to his penis to sell to him.
3. I have an ex (who I think is pretty effed in the head on a lot of views), who finds strippers and the people who go to them are "souless." I pointed out that he in one night dropped $1,500 on strippers in Vegas. He responded that "that was Before." I also pointed out that his sister, whom he loves very much and has a great relationship, was a stripper before. He didn't really have a response for that.
- March 10, 2011 at 8:32 am
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I used to be a stripper and you've hit the nail on the head – it is the men who get mugged off. The dancers generally have great comradeship, obviously you get a little jealousy and a few clashes, particularly in the bigger clubs. But it is mostly a great sisterhood, I had some fantastic times and wouldnt change it for the world.
The only thing i did notice was that many women had been sexually abused to a certain degree in the past. But then, sexual abuse of women is more common than you'd expect anyway. I think this kind of experience forces a detachment of the body/brain so makes it all easier than it would be for the average person.
The only men i had respect for in those clubs were the ones who had been dragged there on their stag night and refused a dance. i think there were two or three in my whole time.
A great stripper is a great actress.
- March 9, 2011 at 12:49 pm
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Hi Lori – glad to see you thinking other thoughts…
Strip clubs exist on many socio-economic levels. I've been to the nice ones, and felt the camaraderie and admired the beauty and confidence and talent. I've also been to the cheaper, not-so-nice ones, where women, not-so-pretty, shuffle around the stage with the half-lidded eyes of the heroin addict, and then they go out the back and give blow jobs for drug money to not-so-nice men.
And, if you watch the regulars watching the women, it's hard not to feel sorry for the ones who will never know what a loving, sexual, sexy, relationship feels like.
love to you, and continued progress as you make your way down this most sad and difficult path.
- March 9, 2011 at 11:28 am
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I've always hated strip clubs. Problem is, I guess, I've never been.
I have, however, been to a few bachelorette parties in which male stripper were present and I hated that just as much. It's just about the overall social ojectification – male or female.
But your post has made me think, and maybe I shouldn't be so damn quick to judge. Bravo!
BTW, doing this (and posting about it) is just another example of how courageous and wise you truly are!
Marianna
- March 9, 2011 at 10:02 am
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Lori,
So beautifully written – "rampant tribal heat" – you have such a fabulous turn of phrase.
We all have our stories. I love reading yours.
Sarah xxx
- March 9, 2011 at 8:58 am
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You are such an amazing story-teller, Lori. I've never been to a strip club, but I felt like I was sitting there beside you, your descriptions are so vivid.
- March 9, 2011 at 7:41 am
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Excellent thought provoking post Lori.
- March 9, 2011 at 4:21 am
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thought it was time for a man's point of view.
I've been about a bit and have visited a few of these places you mention, all over the world, time and time again and frankly I don't really like them…
no really, joking aside I went because 'that's what you do' I never really felt comfortable. Don't get me wrong – I didn't exactly sit there with my eyes shut, 'the blood flowed in the right places' as they say… but I just felt a bit dirty and used and I never really liked it. I felt embarrassed.
As for the women well to a point you are bang on, in the better places the women will be doing very nicely out of it and absolutely have the upper hand. For sure I do believe there are plenty of examples showing how women are entirely gaining by using us men in this way. However, you have to face facts, for every one of these high class strip bars with genuinely happy women in, there are 10 that tell a much sorrier tale (I've certainly visited those ones).
Not all women strip through choice, and I don't just mean because they are broke – I mean they have no choice and I can tell you now the men going to see them couldn't give a toss about that (most men).Now that I'm a bit older and more confident in making my own choices, I usually say no when 'the lads' are heading that way and leave them to it.
usually
- March 9, 2011 at 2:30 pm
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Maybe I'm just a dirty old pervert but I love strippers!
- March 9, 2011 at 3:17 am
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Nice!
Been there, done that too like you Lori. Enjoyed it if only to see the look of drunken happiness on my husband's and his friends' faces when I paid for lap dances for each of them. My poor husband was too confused and gobsmacked to even muster up an erection with me there! LOL! I didn't get the impression the girls were particularly happy though. Some smiled and worked it, others were seemingly on auto-pilot. It was an eye opener for me too in a similar way though to your experience.
I don't think I'd go back. My curiosity has been satisfied now. - March 9, 2011 at 12:56 am
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Thanks for the interesting insight. I've never been to one, myself. When it comes to females stripping, I have more of a problem with the men who go to watch it, than the women stripping, and always have. I find it hard to put into words why that is.
- March 9, 2011 at 10:23 am
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Hi Lori
I've been lurking for a while, not knowing how to introduce myself because of what you've been going through. I'm so glad WA worked some magic on you!I've been naked in front of a crowd, but in a very different way — as a life model. It's still a very odd experience, and the reason I'm writing is because a few things struck me as being quite similar. Like the fact that the drawing group, (especially the men, but also the women) would chat happily to me when I was naked & posed, but as soon as I put on my clothes, they would get shy and avoid me. The dynamic of being on/off the job? or just a dropping of barriers, so to speak?
Heh, Love that moment when you were waved at.
Keep up the good work, hang in there. FWIW, things do get better, thanks to the anaesthetic qualities of time, but the pain just sinks, doesn't leave. You'll get there.
- March 8, 2011 at 11:19 pm
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I hate strip clubs. I have long thought that the way men's sexuality is treated by society is degrading to them. In a strip club the women (or more particularly the owners/managers) have the power and the men make fools of themselves. Reinforces the message that men are insatiable creatures of lust who just can't say no. Not true. Plus it objectiies women.
I find them depressing and sad places. Sex is awesome. Fun, exciting, etc. Strip clubs strip all the true joy out of it. I don't expect people to agree – its just my opinion.
- March 8, 2011 at 10:20 pm
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I worked in a brothel as a receptionist (ahem I hear you say…sure sure) but true. It was an eyeopener to say the very least.
The ladies that worked there were friendly, kind, funny, confident women, each of them in a unique situation, with their own story. The women always treated eachother with respect and were a great support to each other in the workplace, unlike any other workplace I had been in.
…as the saying goes – Never judge a book by its cover…
The men – from the clients to the creepy maintenance man, to the owner and his cronies well thats a story for another time.
Nice post Lori…sorry to be anon on this one xxx - March 8, 2011 at 9:16 pm
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Interesting post for many reasons for me.
first off, I feel like in most countries in Europe, sex workers (not only the strippers!) have been accepted into society (anything else would be an illusion) and are now seen as more than only as victims or mindless sluts (although some certainly still are). I find all kinds of people interesting, and I went to a strip club at 18, then also went to see a live sex show. It was interesting and I have been back since.
I always am a bit taken aback about attitudes and language here in Australia (Qld..) about related subjects.. I see your post as part of the maturity process many people still have to go through in that context. Some are medivial!
It's a great post indeed for int.womens day too!
And let's not forget, many of these women are mothers too.. There's a thought.
On the other hand, I wonder if Lori, who has seen the dark would be as impressed now by the dark and velvety strip club as you were back then. I find that extreme situations make us more open minded to accept other extremes.
Life has all sort of colours. And some women still shine in dark places. I can live with that. All the best to you Lori.x - March 8, 2011 at 8:45 pm
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I love how unbelievably well written this piece is Lori. So eloquent, and i think it sums up most of what i always assumed about professional strippers. The only difference is i never thought it would be easy… i'm fine with taking my clothes off for my fiance but no way would i be able to turn on the seduction and do it front of anyone else…
- March 8, 2011 at 8:33 pm
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I was going to comment on the feminist aspect on this, but I realised I'm probably talking out my arse, and I don't have a set opinion, except, as we say, on having the choice in the first place, and not being exploited.
Haven't studied feminism and maybe read 2 books on it ever . . . but I wanted to mention about whether the women were well-paid from this, and who is actually 'management' – is that another woman or is it a man? And should this matter? If a man makes money from naked dancing ladies?But as people said above – strippers have bought a house, used it while advancing in some other way, used it as a stop-gap measure to achieve something.
I'm weird about being looked at, whether clothed or unclothed. Have considered life-modelling (for about 30 seconds), which might be of a similar ilk, although can hide as being 'arty'.Good thought-provoking post, as I tend to find here
- March 8, 2011 at 8:30 pm
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Power to you.
Sometimes i feel like the only person in Sydney who has never been to Kings Cross, i'd like to go but honestly i'm FAR too chicken. Maybe with a group of girls, but the men in those places? Men going there to watch that? That's what disgusts me.
And yeah, i feel intimidated by those women, more than disgusted, but maybe i'd have a good experience like you? If i ever grow the balls to actually go there
- March 8, 2011 at 8:13 pm
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I have had two friends work for the Mens Gallery in Melbourne. One was a flatmate, who did work as a stripper there for a while, and bought her house with the money she made, and another who worked as a waitress, and met her husband there (he also worked there). She tells a different story to what you witnessed – which makes me think that like any business, it really does depend on the individual involved. Friend one lost her confidence and her sense of self definately changed. Friend 2, as a spectator, had a different experience. I think it takes a particular kind of strength to come out of that work environment and not be affected by the complexity of it. Some women do fine, and have the control you talk of, others are badly affected, and lost some part of themselves.
Thanks for the post, I've always wanted to go, but ..so far hasn't happened.
- March 8, 2011 at 8:09 pm
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Having been to both, I would totally choose a "gentlemans club" over a male revue. I went along with my boyfriend when I was about 20… basically to see what the big deal is.
I felt weird but didn't have the threatening male testosterone feeling that you did. I was waiting for one of the girls to get "threatened" by an outsider on her turf.
After going, I was nevver phased when "the boys" went for whatever reason, bucks nights or a Saturday lunch.
I wouldn't do it myself, for 2 reasons. Mainly, my bod is not that of a dancer. But 2) I would be too scared of someone I knew coming in. Give me the body and guarantee that noone of my old friends or worse, one of my family could walk in and I would be there!
- March 8, 2011 at 5:17 pm
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Lori, you are such an amazing writer! Thanks for such an inspiring peice about women, for women, on international womens day! You rock!
- March 8, 2011 at 3:59 pm
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My best friend works at the Mens Gallery in Sydney
(also I'm anon for this one, because she probably wouldn't like me to be talking about her)
- March 8, 2011 at 3:53 pm
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That's such a great post for International Women's Day. Yay for you.
- March 8, 2011 at 3:50 pm
- March 8, 2011 at 3:48 pm
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- March 8, 2011 at 3:14 pm
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I used to be friends with a stripper. She was really nice. She had no qualms about her body and she just looked at it like it was a good way to make money. Some people don't care if they are naked. Look at nudist beaches.
- March 8, 2011 at 3:03 pm
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What a fascinating post. My opinion? I see stripping as a business transaction, especially in a controlled establishment like that. Those women know what they are doing, like you said they are in control of the situation. They are providing a service & being paid for it. The men want to see their bodies & holy hell, if I had a good bod maybe I would even consider it for the $$!
- March 8, 2011 at 2:41 pm
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I LOVE this post! So well written! I feel the same mostly, although I have been to a strip club where I did see the hurt and low self esteem in their eyes. I think thats the deiiference between a dive and a high class place.
- March 8, 2011 at 2:33 pm
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I think what interests me about feminism is the lack of choices it tends to give women. If you stay at home with your kids you can't be a feminist, nor can you if you have sex or strip for money and you sure as hell can't be a feminist if you "rent" out your uterus to give another couple a child.
When in fact, these are choices we get to make as women and choosing to do one of them to support ourselves and our family doesn't make as weak or anti feminist, it simply means we have a choice and that we're able to make it.
- March 9, 2011 at 1:14 am
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Fabulous post. I remember going to a strip club in Paris when I was in my very early 20s. Your post took me back there, and though I could not describe my experience quite so eloquently as you have, I had very similar thoughts and feelings as you've described
- March 8, 2011 at 1:41 pm
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Thought-provoking post, Lori.
- March 8, 2011 at 1:26 pm
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I agree, although I have seen the other side of it where the women were powerless…visit some not so nice "gentlemans clubs" and you will find that. But I think for the most part these women are not slutty, worthless whores. They are just women, making a living like everyone else.
- March 8, 2011 at 12:53 pm
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Wonderful post Lori. I too have been to such a venue. And came away with a total different perspective and respect.
- March 8, 2011 at 12:39 pm
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I have always had stripping in the back of my mind as Plan Z should I ever get into serious financial trouble. I am quietly confident I could turn myself off to the "degredation", make enough money to save myself and return to a normal happy sparkly life.
Having said that, I've never been to a strip club. But hearing your view on it gave me more confidence that I could do it – but only out of neccesity!
Sx - March 8, 2011 at 12:38 pm
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great post, has given me lots to think about
- March 8, 2011 at 12:36 pm
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What an utterly brilliant post! I have been to strip clubs with my husband and his mates before and got a similar feeling. I really do think you need to go to one to make your own conclusion though. Great post!
- March 8, 2011 at 12:36 pm
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I couldn't take my clothes off for a living – party because I think people would be more inclined to pay me to put them back on. I have two friends who are strippers (they don't call themselves exotic dancers, they say strippers/pole dancers) and they are the most confident, savvy women I've ever met.
As for going in to a strip club? My hens night I figured if MapGuy was going to one, so was I – and I regard myself a fierce feminist, even studied it at uni. - March 8, 2011 at 10:10 pm
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I'm sorry like all things not all strippers are equal there are some not so lucky to be in control but still it’s a very thought provoking post, Lori
- March 8, 2011 at 8:57 pm
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I've always wanted to go to a strip club too. And beautiful post! We (at least women I know and I) so frequently expect bitchiness from other women and pre-emptively launch it against them — who knows what friends we could have had? I love that the best stripper covered up after her show and waved at you. That is one confident woman.
- March 8, 2011 at 4:19 pm
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I went to a 'Ladies Only' strip show once, and I was horrified. The guys taking their clothes off were pretty arrogant but given the way the female audience was carrying on, I'm not surprised.
They were definitely the ones who were degraded by the whole experience, altho most of them were so drunk I doubt they would realise it.
I also went to a show which was mostly for men, and got chatting to one of the performers in the loos. She was a nice girl, very smart, working her way through uni, with a boyfriend and big dreams.
She said most of the girls were like her, and that it's usually only the ones who're using drugs that end up in trouble. - March 8, 2011 at 1:59 pm
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Great post, Lori. I have often wondered why women can be so bitchy to and almost competitive with other women. I really try not to judge others until I've walked in their shoes…although I'm not entirely sure I would be able to walk in some of the stripper shoes I've seen!
- March 8, 2011 at 1:25 pm
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There's a really good book called "the business of sex" it completely changed my veiw of the sex work industry. I can now see it as that – work. These womeen wouldn't be in these positions if the opportunity wasn't there.
I really recommend the book to you, especially if you're still curious about the whole feminist part of it all =]
- March 8, 2011 at 1:12 pm
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seems quite a few of us have been to a strip cub! I went along wth my fiancae at the time and ended up talking about babies and shoes with one of the girls, she had little ones at home I was pregnant. I wish I could be that comfortble sitting in my underwear after two kids!
- March 8, 2011 at 1:08 pm
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I've never been to a strip club, ever. Maybe I should now.
- March 8, 2011 at 1:04 pm
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I run against the crowd – strip clubs and lingerie bars were a big part of my youth.
I may have to tell my story one day too.
Well written, thought provoking, good to see you back a little.
- March 8, 2011 at 12:38 pm
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Tell ya what Lori if i had the bod and the time to spend waxing that thang up every week, well id be up and down a stripper pole quicker than you could say home baked scones, cause well, look at how much cash they make! Yay! Go girls, dance for the cash. Do whatever works for you.
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: Steamy Windows
Random Ramblings of a SAHM: FlogYoBlog Friday*.
December 2012 – RRSAHM
December 2012
Sometimes, for all my self awareness and ability to look things in the face… avoidance is the only way to cope.
I don’t even realize I’m avoiding Christmas until it’s right on top of me, suffocating me with it’s false pretense of family and happy. The Road Trip helped immensely– rushing around at a hundred clicks an hour is fantastic for ignoring whatever happens to be bothering you. Our Christmas tree goes up on our return, half–heartedly and just one week before Christmas Day, and I begin stripping it down again on Boxing Day. For every decoration I remove, I feel lighter– thank God this over, thank God I survived, thank God it happened before I realized it hurt so badly.
’Wrap presents’ has been top of my to–do list for the last month, and every day I’ve found myself some reason not to do it, some reason to put it off for another day. And again, while I tell myself it’s a matter of not having time, always a lack of precious time; I know that’s a lie. But not until its done and over. Not until I’ve cleared the boxes of a years worth of piled up gifts.
I think that part may finally be over now, too– I won’t have to repeat that process, exactly, ever again. The last of the stock of presents that Tony bought for our kids before he died have been wrapped and unwrapped again, added to the pile of listless stuff that people begin collecting in early childhood and very few of us ever give up completely.
I wrap two toy Ferraris and a packet of Thomas flash cards, all purchased by Tony and put away by me, for when our son was older. Never, ever imagining that Tony would not be here to give to him.
It takes me until the night of the 23rd to begin wrapping, and I’m fifteen minutes in before I realize that I have a three storey wooden dollhouse to assemble… sh*t. It takes me an hour just to get the frame together, and I cry and curse sole parenting and my husband and my life in general. Then something clicks– a screw slides into place where before it just kept threading itself– and the rest of the flat–packed panels shunt together smoothly. It’s 5am by the time I’m finished, and I write sleep off for the night.
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| Dollhouse. May we never speak of it again. |
I wonder, later that night, if that’s my subconscious practicing guerrilla warfare on my cotton–wool wrapped psyche. I am so tired from my all night Elfing, I sleep right through Christmas dinner at my Mum’s. I wake for long enough to drive home; to bath, book and bed my kids; play Santa. I even remember to leave out an empty glass of milk and a plat of cookie crumbs– the poor reindeer got nothing, though, I’m sad to say. Then I crash again; a deep, warm slumber plucked straight from a year or so ago. I wake again at six am, still tired and bleary–eyed but conscious enough to construct gifts, referee sibling fisticuffs and point out those cookie crumbs. The kidlets way–layed with new gifts and DVD’s and a definitive parental–enforced absence of elf–delivered sugar; I return to my comatose state on the lounge.
My children are picked up by their maternal grandmother Christmas afternoon. It’s the first time in six years I’ve spent any kind of time by myself on Christmas Day. I’m sad for all of five minutes. Then the delusional satisfaction of a long, hot, uninterrupted shower washes that sadness, and most of the guilt, away; and I thoroughly enjoy the quiet stillness of my house.
Christmas dinner at my my mum’s is quiet and low key– Christmas Day would have been my Gran’s 81st birthday, and it’s strange to feel the absence of a birthday cake on Xmas Day. I miss the ritual of slipping her a second present, wrapped in birthday paper, with a card attached– a tradition I’d begun for myself ten years earlier, when she told me how awful it was as a child, being born on Christmas Day and only ever getting one present for both, where everyone else got two gifts a year.
I return home early and sleep again on the lounge, reading longform articles on my phone until I can no longer keep my eyes open. I wake twelve hours later, my mind swirling with strange half dreams where I mend the lingering loose ends in my life, attend to things I should be doing. It takes me an hour or two to wake completely and when I do it’s with another light relief– Christmas is over. I feel as though I’ve run a huge stretch through waist deep water, flailing in big strokes with my arms to get as much of this behind me as quickly as possible, eyes shut tight for most of the way, only opening them when it’s desperately necessary to adjust my course.
It’s over. But I feel like sh*t. I haven’t taken a single photograph. We did not do Carols by Candlelight, or Santa photos… I even forgot a carrot for Rudolph. I am that mother– the one who hates Lego because it’s too much effort. The one who sleeps through most of Christmas Day. The one with a lopsided, half hearted Xmas tree without a single string of blinking lights. The one who doesn’t bother attaching all those tiny stickers that come with every toy, all the printed line markings and shop signs and other details– why they can’t just put the bloody things on in the factory is beyond me.
I hate being the mother who just survives, instead of the one who does all the right things, the one who makes every single Christmas with her kids one to enjoy. After all, there is not that many of these Christmases left, with my children tiny and still very much in belief of the fat man with the red suit and the warm white gloves and big, bushy beard.
But, really… f*ck it. It’s the second Christmas in a row where, against the screaming centre of my mind’s better judgment, I have not been committed to the local psych hospital. That’s something.
And I think I can take stock of what I have done– right now, there’s two little children watching cartoons on the lounge. Both of them are happy, both of them still believe. They have been screaming at each other all afternoon– that, if nothing else, tells me they are as normal as children come. And, against all odds, sitting in our playroom right now there’s a three storey, pastel–decored little girl’s dream house I constructed all by myself, like a lonely elf the night before Christmas. Because Santa promised my Bump a dollhouse for Christmas Day. And, come high water or sleep deprivation, adult temper tantrums or 4am; she got one.
None of that is much at all, really; compared to most peo
ple’s celebrations- compared to my own past festivities- it’s nothing consequential. But it will do, for now. Christmas number two of the Strange Unpurple After is over… and all of us survived.
{ 9 comments }
I amaze myself sometimes. The Lori I used to be spends a fair it of quite time sitting in my mind, legs tucked in to herself, crouching against a wall. Shaking her head, a small smile on her face. Unable to believe to what she is seeing, this brave, bold person she’s become.Thanks to the awesome people from RedBalloon, I jumped out an areoplane on Tuesday, at 14 000 feet, and free-fell for almost a minute, rushing through the air at a speed of 220 km’s an hour. Then I floated, strapped to tandem instructor, suspended by a thin weave of nylon against the buffering, rushing air, for almost six minutes.
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| Tandem skydives with RedBalloon |
The free-fall was an uncomfortable, bursting spit of adrenaline; ears exploding with pressure, wind chafing and tearing against skin, the salt from the ocean below us stripping all the moisture from your pores. It seemed to go forever. You’ve been told that fall will only last for sixty seconds, just one minute of plummeting toward the surface of the earth. But my tandem instructor– the madman who does this for a living– tells me that if the chute fails to open, it’s just ninety seconds- a minute and a half- before we hit the ground. The last few seconds of free-fall– the roaring density of the air pressure as you tear through it making any verbal communication impossible– are excruciating, the discernible absence of a time keeping device allowing a deep, primal panic setting in. ‘This has taken too long, this has to have been more than a minute, and the chute has not opened, and we are going to die‘.
And then, of course, we don’t die– the instructor pulls the golf ball attached to the rip cord, and the roar is replaced with the most intense inertia. Your body is a rag doll, limbs flailing as you suddenly change direction from down to up, and it takes a moment for your velocity–addled mind to adjust.
As per my status quo when I’m caught up in that greasy mix of trailing adrenaline and sickening relief, I swear like a truck driver at the person who appears to be directly responsible for the overkill of chemical cocktails– the instructor I’m strapped to. While he laughs hysterically as if this is his favorite part of the profession. Which it probably is.
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| Free-fall. |
The float down is amazing, incredible… ecstasy. It’s the most incredible view I’ve ever seen, presented with the full tableaux of its surroundings. Sounds, scents, the movement of a populace below you… it’s intensely real. I’m sharply aware of feeling alive right now… just. It’s alarming what it takes to break through the numbness.
My instructor is gorgeous, tall and tanned with sun bleached hair. His American accent causes him to naturally pronounce my name ’Law–ree’. He walks up to me, shakes my hand and introduces himself. “My name’s Tony.” I stare at him for a second. Life, serendipity… these things rarely surprise me anymore. “Of course it is.” I answer bluntly, and the instructor looks at me oddly. As he should.
But Tony is good fun, thinks of himself as a comedian; and it all just adds to the feeling I’ve had since this sky dive was tentatively booked for December. This is a cleansing, something ritualistic. My husband is here with me… but something about floating down through the clouds, through a whole level of stratosphere… it’s leaving him there, too.
My Tony had been skydiving just a few months before we met, and desperately wanted to go again. I meant to, planned to, send him on another jump for a future birthday. One of those dozens I was positive he had left, we had left.
But I swore blind I’d never, ever go with him. F*ck that. Jumping out of a plane, not my style at all.
I’m a different person, now. I confused myself with how zen I was on Tuesday, strapped to a different Tony, climbing through the air in a tiny plane. Reality only really kicked when the roller door slid open and I took my eyes off it for just a few seconds… only to look back and discover that half the people who had been on plane were already gone, silently flinging themselves into the atmosphere below.
 |
| A tiny tin can full of people. |
Halfway into our floating, heavenly descent– once I’ve stopped flinging obscenities into the wide blue sky sky around us– Tony hands me the loops attached to the parachute canopy and shows me how to steer. Pull one down toward your waist, bank left; tug at the other and you veer to the right. Pull both evenly down in front of you and suddenly you stop, a sense of quickly buffered, blunted air pressure caught in fabric above you. And, just for a moment, you are suspended in mid air, crystallized above the earth, a perfect sense of nothingness and nowhereness.
It was the most amazing, weightless, almost celestial feeling I’ve ever experienced. Forget trapeze– this is flying. It almost– almost– made that initial free-fall through the blistering cold worth it.
Minute after we’ve left the plane we’re cruising toward the drop zone, and theground rushes up to meet us alarmingly quickly. I use neglected core muscles to pull my legs upwards, lift my heels as high off the ground as possible in order to land safely. And I laugh, exuberant, almost ready to kiss the
ground I’m standing upon. Proud of myself, but in an oddly muted way I know all too well- aware that I’m using this experience to feel alive, rather than enhance the essence of living.
 |
| The most amazing view |
But it’s something, and that’s better than nothing. In terms of a whole body experience that crackles with adrenaline and exhilaration, what they say is true– you really cannot get anything more intense than a skydive. Guaranteed, this is something you will remember until you are old and grey and surrounded by granbabies, should you be blessed enough to exist for that span of time.
The lovely Iznaya commented, via BookFace, “You just keep happening to life.”, and I take that as the highest possible compliment. It even feels that way, sometimes– as though I’m repeatedly smacking life in the face, again and again. Just when it expects me to go quietly.
Just when it expects me to lay down and rest.
The totally unflattering ’Lori SkyDives’ video blog, coming soon to YouTube.
***
Thanks to the team at Digital Parents
Collective for inviting
me to be a part of the RedBalloon Experience Program. Stay tuned- more awesomeness over the next few months. As
always, all opinions are my own (because no one else would want them…?) however the experiences are
complimentary.
And, to assist you even further,
there’s a special offer for RRSAHM readers- Spend $79 or more on any RedBalloon experience, and receive $20 off.
To redeem: Visit www.redballoon.com.au and enter the promo code
REDBLOG14 at the checkout to receive your discount.
Terms and Conditions: Offer valid until 30/06/2014. Promotional Code can
only be used once
per person. All purchases are subject to Red Balloon T’s and C’s.
per person. All purchases are subject to Red Balloon T’s and C’s.
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”You never know what you’ll find on the Putty Road.”
I know, I keep saying that… but really, that’s what lies at the truth of the matter. Mention that you’re driving up there, tell a story of some odd sight you’ve seen amongst the winding roads, tiny creeks and sandstone caves; and I can almost guarantee you that someone will chime into the conversation with that very sentiment– “You never know what you’ll find on the Putty Road.” Which will be accompanied, probably, with a small bemused smile and a slight shake of their head. This long, lonesome drive was the route we built our Brilliant Road Trip around.
There is just over one hundred kilometers of the main stretch of road, no mobile phone reception, no service stations. Houses are very few and far between– the numbers on letter boxes seem to jump from 340 to 8769 with alarming lengths of isolation between them. The Grey Gum Cafe (last food for 66 km’s, or so the sign says) boasts not only air conditioning that barely tempers the 35 degree heat, (and I say a small prayer of thanks for the air efficient iciness) but also wifi. Which apparently hasn’t been working for a week or so now. And I find myself thinking “How do you live up here…?”
At the same time, I get it. The air is crisp and clean, the sky seems to stretch for miles. Craggy bush rock cliffs are dotted with precariously perched gum trees clinging to sandy soil with an astonishing persistence. The rocky cliffs are pocked with caves, large and small. One huge cliff we cruise past sports dozens of them, room for a bustling community of hidden rock people, and I, so briefly I barely realize it, wish my son years older so stopping the car and facing uncharted bushland on a trek to find a network of natural caves was yet another bizarre activity his mum could strong arm him into. Low topography and lush greenery provide visual markers for the veins and rivulets that make up the Wollemi’s knotted river system; and we pass over rickety bridges with signage that announce the names of tiny creeks, only to be unable to see any water– just a deep, green crevice that winds and swirls back across paddocks or bends out of sight behind lichen–coated canyons. (The infamous Wollemi pine was, they say, discovered quite by chance by someone who happened to be… canyoning. The bravery)
The thing about the Putty Road is, it takes you completely by surprise every few kilometers. While you’re still marveling over the last oddity– an overgrown, abandoned junkyard,perhaps, or the vibrant Batman symbol painted on corrugated iron and attached to tree on a bend in the road, not a driveway or property to be seen nearby– you’ll suddenly spot something else by the roadside, a licker of oddity at one hundred clicks. The remains of a an ancient house, only the chimneys and foundations surviving; a face painted onto a tree; a set of massive brick and stained glass gates adorned with pristine white crucifixes and flanked by acres of manicured lawn.
Auntie Mickey pulls the Elantra over as we spot, a few hundred metres ahead, what seems to be a whole abandoned village, there are so many buildings set at varying depths back from the road, but too clustered together to have been even the smallest of towns. One of my BookFace likers suggested that perhaps it was abandoned camp, and the first two or three buildings– those closest to the road– do look like dormitories, rectangular and squat with rows of doors on one side. One structure seems to have been, maybe, a store at some point in the past, a tiny one like the Grey Gum, with ice creams and milkshakes and friendly staff who know all the truck drivers and tradies that take this road on a regular basis.
But the further in I venture, through knee high bracken fern spring from sandy, gritty soil (snakes… it’s so hot today, and my God I hate snakes with a seething, slinking disgust), the more out of sync the ruins become. A tiny house, a low lying shed. A car with its paint still intact, but huge clumps of moss growing from the windows rotted rubber seals. A rusted out bus– not the one we’ve set out looking for– is flanked by occasional piles of metal oddments rusted a deep ocher red, stark contrasts to the oceanic fields of short, scratchy green ferns. Beyond the bus, over a rise, is what appears to be a bunker, next to rusted out water tank on creaky, rotting wooden stilts. There’s another tiny cottage, and this one seems older again, a small verandah off it’s one room, climbing ivy threaded through the unboarded window. Leading past the tiny house (someone’s first home, quite possibly, the home someone’s first baby was bought into the world in) is a corridor through the scrub and pitted piles of metal debris. It leads to a graveyard, an elephant ceremony full of rust–ridden, disintegrating cars. Every make and model, vans and sedans and old steel cruisers in varying faded shades of original paint, only the tiniest sparkling tinkles of chrome left among them.
Returning to the car and looking back into this deserted camp–place, everything appears green– the moss and lichens and moulds coating the walls of each building are almost the same murky color of pond water brimming with tadpoles as the bushland that’s slowly eating them. It’s as if the entire place is trying to camouflage itself, to disappear back into the foothills of the Yengo National Park that it’s set in.
There’s a payphone close to the road, next to the car with my sleeping child inside. Taped to the payphone’s perspex outer wall it is a hand written missing persons poster, with a photo of a man about the same age as me. Last seem a few weeks ago, somewhere on the Putty Road.
“He’s not missing,” says Auntie Mickey, and I know her well enough to know she’s only half joking, “he’s somewhere in there.” She nods towards to the maze of overgrown life I’ve just returned from, and I shiver involuntarily. She may just have a point.
Back to the car.
 |
| The Wo-Man. |
It’s maybe another twenty minutes of driving before we turn a corner and, entirely unannounced, a massive, ,gleaming silver sculpture comes into view. “Oh wooooowwwwwww…..” breathes the Chop from his backseat view, just woken up and totally entranced by this completely bizarre spectacle, exactly the way I hoped he would be. This is the relatively new pinnacle of the Putty Road drive– the burnt out Halway RoadHouse, now home to the Wo–Man. And the rather eccentric bloke named Dave who built the steel him. Her. It. Whatever.
The HalfWay RoadHouse was, only ten years ago, the only petrol station on the Putty Road and– oddly enough for a structure that houses litres upon litres of fuel beneath it– the skeletons of not only the roadhouse but even the bowsers remain. The front facade of the building and the covered petrol filling area remain, as do most of the interior walls. But the roof is entirely missing, and the edges of everything that does remain are charred and blackened, one large room missing almost it’s entire wooden floor.
 |
| The RoadHouse, from the inside, with the Wo-Man in the background. |
Not that Dave seems to mind. He bought this place two years ago, he tells us, and is gradually, slowly fixing it up as he goes. For now, he mans a small shelter tucked into the side of the roadhouse. He’s got an Esky full of cold drinks for a dollar a pop. And he sells sausage sandwiches and bacon and egg rolls that he cooks, as you watch, on the barbecue he has welded himself from scrap metals. The barbecue has a horse head for a chimney.
There’s more metal creatures and sculptures dotting the picnic grounds next to Dave’s barbecue and the ghost of the roadhouse– a massive spider, twin Futurama Benders, a family of emus with a plaque that reads ’emulation’. Beyond the picnic ground is a huge field that Dave tells us is filled with roos on dusk. He also points out his house, a tiny one room shanty shed. And his boat– a massive, sixty foot sail boat dry docked at the top of a mountain, behind a burnt down building.
 |
| ‘Emulation.‘ |
We chat and take photos and Chop examines an exquisitely crafted metal hand and a troop of squat, welded Ned Kelly’s, their bellies and helmets made from cut down LPG tanks. As we’re leaving– really, once you’ve taken in the brilliance of a fifty wo–man gleaming silver in the afternoon sunshine, there’s not much to do here but relax and shoot the breeze–Dave hugs us goodbye and reminds us to pass the word on, to tell people about his metal artwork and his business atop the Putty Road. “And, if you know any ladies who’d fancy coming to live out here… let them know, too”. And with that sentence I get a funny pang. It’s the first time the dusky, ethereal, weirdly romantic cataract is removed from my mind’s eye since our car pulled to a stop here. The whole place suddenly seems just a bit lonely, like clouds coming over to chill a warm summer’s day. It tugs at me, desolate and sad.
 |
| The Chop in Dave’s backyard, with the giant sail boat behind him. |
Before we hit the road again, I make inquiries of Dave regarding this bus, the one I know is down here somewhere. The one were looking for, an urbexing holy grail road tripping. Dave, with the knowledge of a local who enjoys a chat, gives us directions that are accurate almost to the metre. A woman lived there, he tells me, Up until just a few years ago. She had a life set up in that stationery bus, a virtual paradise by a tiny creek. She was ninety four years old when she passed away, and they found her body in the creek that runs just metres from the vehicle in which she lived. The bus has sat there, unclaimed, on what is, I suppose, essentially unowned land, ever since. I’d spotted it, just a flicker of it, as a pillion passenger on the Black Dog Ride… I think. But the bus I remember seeing was pale yellow, not blue like this, and it was parked much closer to the road. Maybe it was a different bus, broken down by a different creek and towed out of the gully by now, six months on from the last time I came through here. Or maybe human memory is just a funny monkey thing, substituting images from it’s stock footage to fill gaps in the internal sequence.
We would have missed this bus entirely, passed by without even knowing it was it was there, especially travelling North as we were. After doing a quick u–turn the mammoth, unmoving was easier to spot… but still barely more than a flash of blue and white in the greenery as you passed by.
 |
| The bus. |
This bus been vandalized, this funny, almost cheerful vehicle secluded in place where no one lives now on this land that no one really owns. The contents and furnishings of the bus, left behind when their owner died, have been spread across the grassy plateau behind where the bus sits. The ground seems it drop away in levels– the first the road. Parked on the second step down is the bus itself and what was once the small, and seemingly w
ell tended, courtyard that framed it’s two doorways. Another drop in levels, a steeper and higher slide down across damp soil rooted with low–growing foliage and the occasional biting stinging nettle– all three of us cop sharp, sudden burning lashes on our ankles (”Why do they sting?!” Asks my little man through his tears, “Because, honey, it’s to protect themselves. So animals won’t eat them.” “But we weren’t going to eat them!!” “The nettles didn’t know that, baby…”)– and you find yourself at a creek, a trickle of clear water to the left that gathers into a tiny, crystal millpool on the right. I can’t help but wonder where they found her, the lady who was here, and exactly what she would think of her possessions, scattered and scorched and laying about on the ground, with the lush cold climate growth slowly gathering them as its own. I wonder, too, what happened to the dog she must have kept as a pet, the animal who’s dish and bowl still sit on the edge of the vandal’s leftovers. I do hope someone took him home with them.
It’s almost always fascinating, seeing what’s left of something’s life that stopped, one way or another, not long ago. The bus is gutted. It’s traditional fittings– seats, steering wheel and so forth– were, I suspect, pulled out by it’s rightful owner before she installed her own creature comforts, the ones that now lay abused and disrecpted over what once was her space, her tiny garden. We spot a mattress, a microwave, a chest of drawers, glass bottles, a radio. The remains of a small portable pool, mostly stil intact but the walls sagging sadly inward– it still has a hose running into it, and it’s only later, after we’ve driven away, that it occurs to me that we didn’t look to where exactly the other end of the hose was connected– surely, there was no running water to this makeshift caravan in the middle of nowhere…?
Looking back at the bus from a distance, my imagination fills in the blanks, sorts the visual clues, to spot where a veggie patch once resided– a metal trellis for climbing beans and snow peas still exists, suspended between the trunks of two close together gum trees. And the bus itself was a permanent fixture here– it wasn’t intended to be moved, it seems for quite a while. There’s a concrete step at the front door, it’s formation also, oddly, still intact. The back door also features a concrete step, but not so conventionally made– this step is not molded carefully like its fraternal twin. This step simply three bags of concrete mix stacked atop each other. They’ve been here so long, exposed to so many freezing Hunter winters and so much run–off from torrential rain pour being pulled down toward the creek, that they’ve solidified completely, still in their original bagged shape.
There’s even a car here, in this unofficial allotment, parked a little while up from the bus, on a concrete slab to prevent it becoming bogged in the same heavy wash–off rains that sent the concrete solid. Nothing it a rusted out body atop a chassis remains. It’s obviously been parked here much longer than the bus. I stare at it, entranced, realising there is a set of rusted number plates still attached.
I try to imagine a woman, ninety four years of age living here, tucked away next to a creek on the border of a national park. No phone, to connection to the outside world. A pool and a creek and a dog and a veggie patch. A little slice of earthly heaven that must have cost her just cents a day to keep functional. There’s nothing eerie or creep about the vibe here– she was, by the feel of it, a very happy woman, who lived out the last years of her life in chosen, contented isolation.
We hop back in the Elantra, even the Chop (blessedly) silent for a little as we continue our cruise along the Putty Road. This isn’t the last time I’m going to be doing this drive, I’m sure of that… I know that before we even turn off onto the New England Highway. There are so many more places to explore here. I’m to even sure why, but this road is a very strange place. It’s got so many secrets to be found.
And here’s our super cool, completed road trip map…
View Lori @ RRSAHM #BrilliantRoadTrip in a larger map
***
For those who happened to be following the adventures of Bob the #BrilliantRoadTripBear on Instagram and wondered how he’s coping, being back home… he’s not, really.
Bob was last seen at a payphone close to the start of the F3. It appears he really, really liked Scone, or the Putty Road or… something.
Any information on his whereabouts much appreciated. There’s no telling where he’ll show up next.
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When I said I was only doing cool giveaways from now on… this is one of those. Because, as we know- I love music. Music-ness brings happiness. Or something. And concerts are good for everything that ails you.
And sometimes awesome stuff shows up on my doorstep. Like this…
Why yes, those are bottles of juice that have been grown to the strains of different types of music. Check it out. We’ve got…
Blue Suede Juice– made with Elvis, Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly and all those groovers.
Baby I Was Grown This Way– serenaded by Lady Gaga, Madonna, Katy Perry and various other popettes.
And, my personal favorite– Tastes Like Teen Spirit. Influenced by the Seattle sounds– Pearl Jam, Nirvana, The Pixies and so on.
Why, you ask…? Well. They’re all Made By MOG, Telstra’s new music streaming service. There’s this theory that plants who are played music make better, tastier fruit, and therefore better, tastier juice.
I’m a big believer in all that hippy stuff, as we know. Music and moods make the world go round. Little thoughts can have big effects. There’s a whole school of thought and experimentation called ‘ecosonics’- music for your plants. Which ties in beautifully with the concept of ‘Noetics’ based on research that suggests that the collective thoughts of people actually produce enough physical energy to cause identifiable effects on their environment. They have online experiments you can participate in– its one of those things on my “I’m gonna do this, eventually” list.
The jury’s still out as to whether or not playing MOG music has had any effect on the taste of the juice itself. And I’ve even got control samples for this experiment– Cedar Creek Orchard, where the apples were serenaded, is an institution in TinyTrainTown. It’s just up the road. So close, in fact, I even got you a photo to prove it.
Anyway. Taste aside, the juice certainly looks happy. And that’s what counts. Although, having said that, free juice– and a $100 admin fee to write this post– certainly contributes to both musicality and happiness. Or… something.
In honour of music being awesome, I’ve got the following stuff to be won, just for you, my jellybeans…
Ten x 1 month MOG subscriptions.
One x $100 TicketMaster voucher.
To win, I want to know– if you could flavour a beverage with music, what music would you choose? What song, do you think, would taste good?
Go in the draw to win by filling in the form below- if you can’t see the form, click here. Answers that particularly tickle my pickle at the time of drawing the prizes win. Entries close midnight AEST on the 10th April, 2013. Winners will be contacted by email and have 48 hours to respond before their prize is redrawn. My decision is final and no bitching, whinging or circle-jerking shall be entered into.
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That’s me hooting and cheering in the background. Go Melbourne, go every little positive thing in the post ‘after’.
That’s great, sounds like the kind of place I’d like to live. Are you making friends?
Welcome to Melbourne, Lori.
I hope you love it, and stay here forever.
Only thing……sorry about the weather! Freezing today.
So i can officially call ya a Melbournite gal! LOL Glad your happy hon .
Glad your living here now should have coffee soon (wink) xxx
It’s my Wurundjeri Country, no matter where I end up
Suck the life out of Melbourne, she’ll always put back xxx
Whilst I don’t live near the train lines, I can relate to all you are saying, I adore our little suburb and all that it brings too. Sometimes on a day to day basis you forget how good you’ve got it going on. Thank you for the reminder of how bloody lucky I am to be raising my family here in such a beautiful city.
Mandy recently posted…Giveaway : The Little Mermaid on DVD
So awesome to hear you’re loving it, and to hear you so happy!
It’s nice to have you here in Melbourne xox
Amanda recently posted…So It Seems
Sounds fantastic , love hearing your news and your wonderful happy new life …x
Glad it’s all going so well. x
Emily recently posted…Respect (without the side serving of disrespect and hypocrisy)
It sounds beautiful. And… like home.
Lys recently posted…“Exogenesis – Symphony Part 2 (Cross-Pollination)” – Muse
Ah, see, this is why we need to be in Melbourne ASAP! Been dreaming for years of exactly what you’re talking about! So glad to hear the move was an all around success, absolutely awesome!
How wonderful! I love Melbourne too, it has such life in it. It sounds like a good place for your family. x
sarahkreece recently posted…Storms at Sea
I loved reading this today. It’s something special to feel that much at ease with life.
Sounds like you’ve chosen a lovely place in inner Melbourne to live. Not all of it is quite as lovely, but it is all pretty good (and I think the weather keeps things interesting. And spring is beautiful – enjoy discovering our lovely city (and isn’t it great to be able to walk to kindy and school? – that’s what I love too!
Great to hear Lori. You describe it beautifully!
SO pleased you’re enjoying things in Melbourne so far Lori! I haven’t lived anywhere else in Australia, only ever Melbourne so don’t know how different it feels but love the way you describe it!
Kate @ Our Little Sins recently posted…Keeping it alive!
I love Melbourne! I understand that distinct ‘Melbourne-ness’ you speak of, even though I have only been there three times for far-too-short stays. It’s a whole world away from Sydney (or the coast where I am living now) and I wonder why I keep at this whole NSW-thing when I know it could be better…
So happy to hear that things are falling into a new normal. Smell the flowers and say hi to your neighbours for me!
Whoa, Molly recently posted…The Cultural Wasteland and Why I Came Back To It