stuff I don’t think you want to read anyway


by Lori Dwyer on November 13, 2013 · 4 comments

I spend Monday combing, combing, combing. My daughter and I have a rampant case of head lice. I’ve never had them before, and find the tiny crawling bugs to be just about the ickiest thing I’ve ever encountered. The Bump is grimly fascinated with the concept of having eggs in her hair.

I spend Tuesday night in the dodgiest hotel on earth.

That might be a slight exaggeration. but only by a little bit. Albury is not known for its glamour.

The kidlets and I are driving to Sydney, for my brother’s engagement party. It’s a long haul– eight hours. But cheaper, marginally, to drive rather than fly, even with two night’s accommodation tacked on top of petrol costs. So that is what we do.

The reception office at this hotel is locked. Checking in requires walking the kidlets through a grotty, dingy pub, and presenting ourselves at the bar. It smells like cigarette smoke and footy. It’s an old scent, ground into the grungy carpet. It’s as old as the barflys themselves.

I take my kids out to eat Maccas for dinner and burn off some of that accumulated energy from sitting in the car for hours. They are good travellers, both of them. It’s one of those parenting oxymorons– three hours in the car leaves me exhausted, but them wired.

Our hotel room is tiny, three beds crammed into one room. A bar fridge and kettle hidden in a cupboard. A bathroom with the very basics. A letter from the local police constable, reminding us to lock up our car and hotel room and keep the blinds drawn, is tucked into the hotel service book. The Foxtel channels don’t work, nor does the wifi. The three of us curl into the double bed and watch movies on my iPad.

I’m tired, so so tired. I have pimples on my face, my hair needs a good dye job. I’d underestimated how easy I had it, in TinyTrainTown. This full time parenting gig is hard slog.

But I’m loving my kids so hard right now. They are such a comfort, a balm to anxiety and adult fears. Right here, between them, their sleepy blonde heads on my lap… this is where I’m supposed to be.




by Lori Dwyer on November 8, 2013 · 6 comments

I read this post on Eden’s blog

Once. Only once. I’m not sure I can read it again. It’s everything I’m afraid of, written down and real and happening to someone else’s family right now.

All I can think of is my boy. My sweet, precious, innocent, serious little boy. My son, and all that’s ahead of him.

We’re in a somewhat ‘pleasant’ lull of life right now, in comparison to what has been and what will be. Chop hasn’t asked the question, not yet, of how daddy died. He will. But I’m in no hurry to begin explaining, to begin building foundations and framework for what he will eventually need to understand. 

I mourn for Eden’s brother, her Cam. I mourn for her and her sisters and this shitty reality they’ve had to face. Again and again and again.

It doesn’t end. It’s just taking your pain and transferring it on. It’s a chemical reaction, and the catalyst is a rope. A running car.

It doesn’t stop, it doesn’t stop, it doesn’t stop. The actions of one person who’s not here to see the repercussions just flow on and on.

It keeps hurting, even after you’re gone.



Back To Black.

by Lori Dwyer on October 30, 2013 · 18 comments

I think the only bonus to being prone to depression is that you can recognise it quickly when it happens. Even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself. Or to your partner. Or to the people who love you, a thousand kilometres away.

I woke up yesterday morning crying. It’s not just a matter of being tired, of waking up to my daughter six or seven times every night. It’s not just being sick, having gastro, and the sinus infections seep into our house like small, unwanted vermin. It’s not just this Melbourne weather, being cold all the time, and never knowing when it will rain. It’s not just being broke and worried about money. It’s not just missing my mum, missing my friends. It’s not just feeling as though I’m never on top of things, like I’m always behind and disorganised.

It’s all of that… and none of it. It’s this black dog that nips at my heels, that eats happiness as though it’s scraps of food thrown out too early.

I have this whole new life, and it’s supposed to be okay. It’s supposed to be easy.

It’s not easy, and I’m not coping. And I hate myself for feeling like this. I hate myself for hating myself, and then I hate myself some more. The meds reach the outer boundary of their effectiveness- they make it so I’m able to feel nothing at all. But not so much that they can conjure up happiness, not so much that they can shed light on this kind of darkness.

I give up on cleaning the house, give up on showering, stop walking the kids to school and choose the easier option of driving them instead. I cant write. I haven’t been laughing at anything much. My sex drive is non-existent. I don’t bother putting on make up, or wearing anything other than jeans and black t-shirts. I have strange dreams. I wander round in a foggy half state, not thinking about anything much– my consciousness is stuck in past tense, events from years ago swirling through my brain with such thickness nothing new gets through. I am a ghost of myself, haunting my New House that doesn’t really feel like mine at all.

I don’t look forward to anything much, right now. Looking forward to things would mean I’d have to feel something, and I’m not sure I’m capable of feeling anything right now.

I have a doctor’s appointment today. They can’t up my medication any higher than what it currently is… but I’m telling myself that, surely, a good shrink is going to help.