You want to know, what darkness is?

You want to hear how much I’m fucking hurting?

If I say it’s my fault, all my fault, if I accept that; if I acknowledge what a terrible, terrible person I am, will that make everyone feel better? Is that going to bring him back? (Please..?)

Darkness is this.

Darkness is having to walk past that spot in your backyard, every day. And see him, slipping a rope around and his neck. (“To show everyone what a terrible person you are”)

It’s remembering begging him, please don’t do this. Your daughter is right here. Please.

It’s being alone. So very, very alone.

You wanted me to reconnect me with my children? OK. Done. Now the rest of the world can fuck off. I only have enough room for so much connection.

My kids are fine, relishing in having their mother back.

It’s me who’s drowning.

But I don’t want to ask for any help, I don’t need any help.

This is all I’m worth now. Worthless, except as a mother. Now everyone knows what a terrible person I am. And, I guess, eventually, my kids will know it too.

I killed my best friend. I had the most perfect, happy, purple life. And I fucked it. I ruined it. It could have gone on forever if I were better.

As I’ve been told, repeatedly, my best is not good enough.

So. I’m a husk, a shell of a person. Any identity I thought I was rebuilding is kind of.. gone.

And that’s probably a good thing.

When I was feeling strong, and stable, and as positive as could be.

But no one cares about me. My children are everyone’s main concern. As they should be.

It’s been less than six weeks. If I’d had a cesarean section, I wouldn’t even be allowed to drive yet. To lift a basket of washing.

I wish this pain, it were visible. A tumour on my skin. Something infectious. Something ugly ans horrid and disfiguring, to suit how I feel inside.

Ugly.

Like the worst person in the entire world.

Dark is knowing that everyone that knew him, blames you. Feels this is your fault.

And dark is the startling, painful realisation that they are right.

Darkness is hearing cars come home, and thinking they were his. Darkness is three piles of washing, not four.

Darkness is hating yourself, hating what your life has become.

Darkness is surviving,only because your children need you. (But what kind of mother can I be, if I killed my husband?)

Darkness is a little boy who asks you, twice a day, as you cuddle him before he sleeps, if his daddy misses him.

And answering yes, he does, but thinking “But he doesn’t miss mummy…”

And darkness is sitting in your garage, smoking, sobbing, talking to a ghost. Telling him his daughter has learnt a new word today.

And that you miss him, more than you thought were possible.

OK sweetie Tweeties,

It has happened.

My best attempts at resistance proved mercilessly fruitless.

Not even a week ago I was saying how much the Big Blue twitter Bird scares me.

Now, it seems, I’ve had a change of tune. Or Tweet. As the case may be.

How could I ever be afraid of this little dude?

Now, no one panic. I know what you’re thinking. I’ve been possessed. Sarah has performed some kind of hoodoo on me, with Brenda’s help. They are manipulating my every key stroke using tiny little Lori shaped voodoo dolls.

That’s pretty close to how it happened anyway.

In reality, Sarah sent me a message on FaceBook. People were talking. On. Twitter. About. Me.

Well, two people, anyway.

I am so freaking up myself. That’s all it took.

So, here I am. Follow me, follow me. You know you want to.

It’s safe, I promise. I Googled Twitter etiquette. I know not to start Tweets with “is yadda yadda yadda..”. I know not to tweet about food. I know that Following celebrities is the thing to do.

The only celebrity I can find so far is God. That’s cool with me. He’s everywhere, after all.

So, Twitter me this, blogoroonies. Follow me and pander to my slightly bruised ego. Heaven knows it needs it.

I don’t want to be bitter.

I’ve known people, I think we all have, who are consumed by an acidic bitterness at life that has become so ingrained in them they can’t shake it. They can’t see past it, or through it. That sense of unfairness, of invalidated entitlement- it casts a shadow through everything they do, as if it’s grown over their vision like a toxic moss.

The last few weeks– roughly since being thrown back into the shifting suds of PTSD at 3am one morning– that bitter, desiccated person has been me.

“I find it hard to keep reading about you…I feel like a passive observer watching a car slowly crash”. Reading that comment, left for me last week, all I could think was… “I know. I feel that way too.”

And fuck it, I’m the one who’s driving.

I can feel it. It’s been in everything the last few weeks. It’s been here, on my blog. It’s been in the traces of friendship that remain in my life. It’s been my own self pity, my own screaming pain, the way I’ve been emotionally manipulative and weak.

I’ve become resentful, of everything. My children. Every person in my life who won’t help me when I need them. Resentful every time I see two people together, happy, enjoying themselves. Spitting with ugly jealously at anyone in love.

I willingly bat away the well-meant philosophy of others. People attempt to balm my pain with complicit cliches and truths told to us as teenagers with the purpose of ballooning fragile self esteem– love yourself and others will love you. It will happen when you stop looking for it. You have to be happy with yourself.

Bullshit, I spit at them, lies. I already did all of that. I already did the hard stuff but I’ve lost my trophy and I’d like a consolation prize now, please. I don’t really think I deserve another trophy and besides, I’m tired– I don’t want to do all that again.

“It must be difficult”, comments my shrink. “Not to get bitter. Not to be bitter. I have clients who have dealt with less than you and they are bitter, they can’t help it.”

And it is. It’s easier to just go with the drumbeat that has percolated my thoughts of late– this is unfair, I don’t deserve this, no one loves me and life is hard, I didn’t sign up for this and everyone is so lucky and they don’t even realize it and I hate all of you.

That’s easy. Buts it nasty and black and makes any kind of happiness difficult to find, and even harder to hold on to.

The flip side is… choosing to be happy. Looking at what I’ve it, not what I haven’t got. Keeping hope and optimism and that soulful, earthy piece of me that gets satisfaction from making and healing and growing and being productive. Being fucking terrified of the rest of my life… but having the quiet confidence that, having done what I’ve done, there will be very few things in my future that will be that heartbreaking ever again. (Bullshit, says that bitterness. Some people just have hard lives and you might go through a million more heartaches before its over with no pleasure in between, cause that’s just life for some people and there’s nothing you can do about it. Life’s a bitch and being a good person makes no difference. And I take a deep breath and tell it to fuck off.)

Letting that bitterness win, it does no good to anyone. It’s no revenge, no spite, no payback, because the people who can’t care now, won’t care then. The only people it will effect is me and my kids. I don’t want to be the mother I see reflected in their eyes of late. That’s not me.

That bitterness, that’s not me either, and I can’t let it win. It’s a matter of replacing that dark, sniping bitch in my mind with something that speaks of hope and dignity and happiness. And making that happy voice louder than the one that’s pulling me down.

It’s easy to be bitter. But fuck that. No one is going to save me, except me. It’s time to start being a bit nicer to myself, to change the internal dialogue. Ive been waiting for someone to come along and tell me what I’m waiting to hear… that I’m beautiful, perfect, worth something, worth more than what I’ve been through lately.

I think the person I need to hear it from is me.

Ding,

As you can clearly see, she’s just trying to make me jealous….

I’m not quite sure when this happened – somewhere between Busy Career Girl me and Stay-at-Home-Mum me, I guess.

But my cookbook collection used to look like this:

And now it looks more like this:

Somewhere along the way, I turned into a baking queen (or a cookbook snob, perhaps).

While I used to struggle to even make dinner, now I actually choose to spend time in the kitchen (I know!). Recently, I’ve uncovered the secrets to awesome scones, baked amazingly fluffy and high-rising soufflés, I make my own jam and will whip up a cheesecake or a batch of cookies or brownies on request.

I’ve successfully roasted a duck, made my own gnocchi and went to a class to master the ancient art of pasta-making.

Sponge cake is a new triumph, filled with homemade raspberry jam. The best part of a day was spent baking, prodding, tasting, throwing out, researching and trying again, until I mastered the perfect fluffy sponge. And so help those who do not think to comment on how good it is. They will each be asked at various points during a gathering, followed by the incessant query: ‘Are you sure? You don’t have to just say that, you can be honest with me’. Really, they would be better off just learning to marvel at the wonder of its greatness at the first mouthful. This would save a lot of time and subtle eye rolling.

But seriously, why has this happened? Why do I now talk in the language of scones, sponges and soufflés?

I think I took a trip back in time to the 1950s when I gave birth.

Ding,

As you can clearly see, she’s just trying to make me jealous….

I’m not quite sure when this happened – somewhere between Busy Career Girl me and Stay-at-Home-Mum me, I guess.

But my cookbook collection used to look like this:

And now it looks more like this:

Somewhere along the way, I turned into a baking queen (or a cookbook snob, perhaps).

While I used to struggle to even make dinner, now I actually choose to spend time in the kitchen (I know!). Recently, I’ve uncovered the secrets to awesome scones, baked amazingly fluffy and high-rising soufflés, I make my own jam and will whip up a cheesecake or a batch of cookies or brownies on request.

I’ve successfully roasted a duck, made my own gnocchi and went to a class to master the ancient art of pasta-making.

Sponge cake is a new triumph, filled with homemade raspberry jam. The best part of a day was spent baking, prodding, tasting, throwing out, researching and trying again, until I mastered the perfect fluffy sponge. And so help those who do not think to comment on how good it is. They will each be asked at various points during a gathering, followed by the incessant query: ‘Are you sure? You don’t have to just say that, you can be honest with me’. Really, they would be better off just learning to marvel at the wonder of its greatness at the first mouthful. This would save a lot of time and subtle eye rolling.

But seriously, why has this happened? Why do I now talk in the language of scones, sponges and soufflés?

I think I took a trip back in time to the 1950s when I gave birth.

Some days there just doesn’t seem much point to this.

The future looks very bleak. There’s not much to look forward to.

And I’m just so exhausted. And sad. And awfully sick of thinking.

Honestly, it would be such a pleasure to just… sleep.

It’s not I want to die. I don’t, particularly.

But living isn’t much right now, either.

The only thing that keeps me here, are my children. And not because I enjoy their company so very much- although i do, but every time I look at them, it reminds me of what I’ve lost- but simply because it would be so unfair. So chronically, unbelievably unfair on them.

They never asked for this, any more than I did. And I won’t burden them with more than they already have.

And,if I’m honest- and I am, here, always- I’ve considered taking them with me. So I could go, I could die, and not have to worry about what would happen to them…

We could all be a family again.

But such gorgeous little people, who enjoy their days so much.. how could I deny the world the chance to have them in it?

That would be unfair, a travesty to society. Because they are brilliant people, and will do amazing things.

So.. I discount trees and walls when driving, ignore them rather then turning the wheel toward to them. I walk straight past coils of sinister orange nylon rope at the hardware store, without stroking them longingly. Without even looking back.

I don’t want to die.

I just want to be with Tony again.

Stupid.

What do you do, when you think you have a light at the end of the tunnel… and then it goes out?

Things change. In the very flicker of an eye. Don’t I know that.

I’ve made the decision, to sell my house, but I have no idea, now, where I’m going.
Perth..? It seemed like such a nice idea. But can I really do that, when reality hits?

Probably not.

Reality’s a bitch.

And I’m probably not even brave enough.

It seems two months of stress is about all the human mind can handle. Let’s call this one, for lack of a better euphemism, the straw the broke the camel’s back. Or, alternatively, the very last thing my mind could take before it shattered into a million pieces.

It feels shattered, right now. This isn’t the worse I’ve been- certainly not- but I think it is the most alone and adrift I’ve felt. To give myself some kind of hope… stupid.

Happy endings, fresh starts, that’s fairytale stuff. And we already know reality is a very, very fucking different thing. Fairies don’t exist here. Or maybe they do. I used to be one, remember…?

That seems like such a long time ago.

In real life, little fairies like me, they get stomped on.

I feel it so much, the tiny psychicality of myself. The slightness of my arms, all 47 kilos of me, all five feet two inches. Maybe it was because Tony was so big..? But I feel so very fragile, at times. Like when I’m dragging crap out of the garage, or trying to wrestle with my boy the way his Daddy would have.

But I’m a tough cookie. Do not ever doubt that. I may look little, and I do some stupid things, but I am as strong as they come. Whatever you throw at me, it seems…. I get back up.

I was chatting to my lovely friend the Kitten the other day. Telling her how, at some points, people telling me I’m strong and brave makes me cranky, because what other fucking option do I have? There is none.

But, the Kitten explained, this is a choice. So far, my choice has been to keep going. Every step of the way, to keep pushing through it. I’ve gotten out of bed every day. I’m not in the pysch ward.

Fuck it, I’m not dead. And more than anything else in the world, that is what I want right now. To just close my eyes and sleep for a very, very long time. Because this is too hard.

But I can’t do that to my kids. It’s just not fair. But they’re so young, and resilient, and if this is how life is going to be and I’ll always be tainted by this and I’ll see it every time I close my eyes and no one will ever love me again… then maybe it’s better to do it now, while they’re young, too young to understand. If you are to lose a parent, very young is the best way to do it. I’m guessing the same applies, if you must lose both. And some days I feel like they must, because I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t live with my own mind anymore.

So… this is it. I’m making a very conscious choice here. It’s either a whole fucking packet of sleeping pills… a long stay in the psych ward… or a trip back home. To the place where I first was me. The place where I grew up.

And, so fucking reluctantly, I choose the place where I grew up. I’ll take my children there, for only the second time, and take them to the places I used to play.


The last time I went back, standing on the side of the river with Tony and our son. Tony telling him that “This is where Mummy played, when she was little…”

I choose to keep going. I don’t fucking want to.

But I am choosing to. Rather than crumple, sob, quite literally die…. I keep going.

Maybe I am brave.

But stupid.

Not just me.

Life.

All of it.

Happiness, especially.

It always just gets taken away again.

 ***

I’ve left anonymous comments on so far because I wanted to keep an open flow of discussion happening on the topic of mental health-sometimes anonymity is a very useful thing.

But, rather freaking ironically, I’ve decided to turn anon comments off. Thanks to a few really spineless losers who, apparently, know me in real life, but certainly haven’t contacted me in real life; and feel they can pass anonymous judgment on me venting my emotions via my blog.

As I’ve said before, if you don’t like it, please fuck off. I write what I like. Yep, I have plenty of people to talk to. You ain’t one of them. And I still prefer to write.


(Sit down, shut up, and be a good girl, Lori.)

Anyway. You can’t say things to me In Real Life anonymously. And now you can’t so it on my blog, either. You have something to say, put your goddamn name to it.

I am.

Are you brave enough for that?