medication irony

There’s been

Fluoxetine and Paroxetine

Citalopram and Clonazepam.

The Tricyclic, Notriptyline

And the Noradrenaline

Venlafaxine.

Then Naproxen and Nurofen

and Ibuprofen and Promethazine.

Don’t forget the Metoclopramide

and the Metamide.

The Diazepam and the Alprazolam,

the Lorazepam and the Oxazepam.

Then there’s the Dexamethasone and the Valdecoxib,

Meclofenamate and Metoclopramide Hydrochloride.

The Sertraline and the Parozetine,

The Benzodiazepine, Aprazolam

and Zopiclone.

Meclizine Hydrochloride, Antivert and Diphenhydramine,

not to mention Dopress too.

Then there’s Omeprazole and Paracetamol,

Varenicline and Allersooth.

Not forgetting the

Surmontil and Aropax.

And where I wonder are the things

I ‘self medicated’ with?

Well there’s abit of coke, and weed

Plenty of Tobacco and bourbon.

Beer, a few uppers and downers.

A couple of trips

And some red wine.

IRONY?

I thought so.

First Published on: Aug 27, 2015 @ 11:24 😉

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a word or two of remembrance to you counselors

If the help line counts as counseling of any type

Then you sucked ass.

I’m guessing you were trained for not much more

than answering a telephone.

Maybe you should stick to that,

but move to collecting stats.

 

Then there was little lady, Blondie Jane.

Your training included the then in thing,

“lets dig and recall”.

You seemed to know

and like what you were doing

You dug, and you informed.

 

The free dude from the good will place.

Used to working with more derelict types.

Not to condescending,

but definite boundary issues.

Funding ran out,

and I moved on.

 

Then there was the fill in lady:

brown hair, about 12 years old looking.

You were on the soft and mooshy tip.

You asked for a poem

to recollect my feelings.

And then you howled your eyes out.

You might need some more training

me thinks.

 

Then the dude, to fill in the fill in.

Brucey, think your name was.

Controlled and logical, methodical.

I got your jist and understood your logic.

You apparently felt uncomfortable though,

and thought I should go somewhere else.

‘Referred On’.

 

Then there was the Dutch catholic dude:

the child psychologist, he was.

You dug about and found Borderline Personality Disorder,

PTSD,

Depression.

Oh and Oppositional Defiance Disorder for my girl.

Whilst you were full of knowledge,

and way ahead of your time,

you didn’t ‘treat’.

You just, talked.

 

Then there was the psycho drama lady:

that smelt funny.

With big dolls and little dolls,

to talk to.

Think you were ahead of your time too.

But you wanted to dig around far too much.

Looking for stuff that just wasn’t

there.

 

Then the lady with the extremely hairy legs:

With the tapping technique.

You were more interested in marriage guidance.

I wasn’t interested in marriage though.

You said I was a runner,

wanting to be there, but not.

The essence of a sexual abuse victim, victim.

But then what?

 

Then theres the little pregnant lady from Germany:

Nice disposition,

not good at being blunt though.

You ‘discovered’ the panic and anxiety.

Then you became to busy,

and referred on to a Psychiatrist,

that didn’t happen.

 

Then came the short stumpy one:

You didn’t like being questioned,

as you believed your night course certificate

was all the information you needed.

Your theories aren’t real world honey.

Next.

 

Then the culturally appropriate lady:

who turned down her ass music

because it hurt my ears.

Thank you.

You had no theories. No logic really.

But you did realize you couldn’t help, and you were kind.

You referred on,

to a Psychiatrist or Psychologist.

That didn’t happen.

 

Eventually –

The Psychiatrist.

Short and sharp and straight to the $500 an hour point.

PTSD, post Borderline Personality Disorder, post Depression.

Heres some pills.

Next.

 

Eventually –

The Psychologist.

Honest:

as honest as your ethical centre will let you be.

Realistic:

I can appreciate that.

You get paid well for your knowledge though.

 

But what Now?

 

You all added to my knowledge.

You all added to my distrust in the mental health system.

All systems.

You all added to my experience.

 

The End.

First Publish on: Jul 28, 2015 @ 11:47 ❤

 

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Me: addressing … sadness?

Just had too lol.
Sometimes My way of describing things cracks my shit up.
So as I’m going through my old posts and re-categorising etc, I happened upon this beauty lol. Turns out, I still agree with my own insightful wisdom 😉 and with the newly donned label of mdd to add to the shortlist, I find myself once again, in this predicament – to medicate or not to medicate. And guess what … if I get all medicated up and shit, the ‘professionals’ tick the ‘she’s complied with treatment’ box. Doesn’t mean I get paid more. Also doesn’t mean they offer more or different assistance. Doesn’t mean the fluffy pts(d) and mdd fairies come and wave some wand to make me feel all a wee bit better …. Nope.

meptsdandallthefuckedupshitinbetween

I’ve been ruminating on this for a while … I’ve written about it a few times in the past; from my point of view of course.

I’m at it again, because there is a disturbance in the (my) Force and it’ll come tumbling out all slightly messed up as usual … but oh well 😉

We’ve had a few more suicide attempts within the family; a couple of deaths; couple near misses; the earth (Paptuanuku) has been flexing her muscles which sends unease throughout the masses;  … Theres grief and perplexity abounding all round. Not obvious; but it’s there.

So as the Suicide Hotline numbers are topic 1 on the family Newsfeeds at the moment, and there’s an outpouring of “I’m here if you want to talk … anytime” sentiment tagged onto these Hotline messages; and Topic 2 is Depression and what you should do if you think your depressed…

View original post 992 more words

Me: addressing … sadness?

I’ve been ruminating on this for a while … I’ve written about it a few times in the past; from my point of view of course.

I’m at it again, because there is a disturbance in the (my) Force and it’ll come tumbling out all slightly messed up as usual … but oh well 😉

We’ve had a few more suicide attempts within the family; a couple of deaths; couple near misses; the earth (Paptuanuku) has been flexing her muscles which sends unease throughout the masses;  … Theres grief and perplexity abounding all round. Not obvious; but it’s there.

So as the Suicide Hotline numbers are topic 1 on the family Newsfeeds at the moment, and there’s an outpouring of “I’m here if you want to talk … anytime” sentiment tagged onto these Hotline messages; and Topic 2 is Depression and what you should do if you think your depressed  … *not feel ashamed *talk to someone *get help … being the top 3 suggestions            …. I am left wondering the following:

  1. If we really gave a shit about people / family / those in grief / those struggling; why do we offer assistance only after the fact?
  2. Why is the go to anecdote have to do with how sad we once felt and how we ‘chinned’ up and ‘soldiered on’?
  3. Why is the reason to anything we don’t really understand, to do with sadness, have to be labelled as “Depression”?
  4. Does the title Depression make Us feel more comfortable, rather than Sadness?

Don’t get me wrong, Depressive Disorder / Depression in any sense of the word / label is a bitch, no doubt. I was raised around plenty of depressives … I get it.

What I wonder though .. is, were they really depressed? Or is that just the clinical term given to those who then have a legitimate reason to be drugged? By labelling them as such, do we then get to tuck them all neatly away in the corner, drugged up, still rocking … but labelled, so at least we know what ‘that’ is?

From my own groove; I’ve been given more drugs for Depression than I care to remember. No-one actually did a blood test and said … Yes, your whats’its are low and a good dose of this shit will increase those whats’its and you should be all tip top again in at least a decade. No, they questioned me. They ticked a few boxes and because I ticked the ‘depressive’ category, they prescribed.

The problem with questions, from one perspective, or an ‘anti-wholistic’ perspective – is they only ‘fit’ a generalised populace. And generally, that populace, depending on what it is … is white, mid age, mid class … not, indigenous, not sensitive, not artistic, not unique. Generalised, is just that. Unfortunately, generalised is not really the ‘norm’.

So, back to the drugging aspect of this all … the drugs ‘they’ have prescribed for me over the years include most on Wikipedias List of Antidepressants excluding those that aren’t available in NZ and Lithium.

Fast forward to 2016, and after nearly 2 decades on, some clever fucker decides to look a little wider, noticing that there might be more to this than meets the naked eye … that Me doesn’t display all the A Typical symptoms of Depression / Depressive Disorder …. Whoa … brilliant … we label this one with PTS(D) instead. Now lets try medicating this bitch with other shit …

Hold the fuck up I say … No more medication.

If they misdiagnosed, mis-medicated for nearly 2 decades; like fuck will I let them continue doing that! Because somehow they got brighter and smarter over the last 20 years?? Well, thats what the last lot said.

Now, I’m not bashing the medical System (well, not completely) … my point is …

I know ME … if I’m left to figure it out … I know ME. Therefore I know what I need.

Which brings me to where I’m at now.

But slightly of track with the rest of my ramble …

Back to the Newsfeed Depressives and Suicide peeps.

Whether they’re truly depressed or not, I’m uncertain. I know they’re sad; that much is clear. So they toodle off to the doctors who prescribes one of a trillion possible anti-depressants. ‘Go home, take these .. back to work Monday’. Couple years later, after a dozen or more ‘trials’ of medication have unfolded … but they’re still living a ‘productive’ life … they try and Top themselves … and we all sit back and go, Fuck … didn’t see that coming … ???!!!

Why? How? How did we not see that coming?

I believe medication isn’t designed to cure us, just placate us. If it placates us, where does everything that caused the sadness go??

It got me wondering, what my tipuna (ancestors) did, pre-colonial days, when someone was ‘sad’.

And heres what I found out:

When someone was deemed to be sad, or depressed … unable to engage or talk … they were taken into the whare or community house … where everyone worked and met and talked … the ‘sad’ person, was able to rest / sleep, on a mat in the centre … they were surrounded by their loved ones, who continued to go about their daily business … but would also feed the person, touch them, tell them stories, laugh, cry … love them. And this went on for as long as it needed to. It went on for as long as the ‘sad’ person needed it to.

And you know what … I dig that way of doing things! And i guess, it’s what I’m doing for myself now.

….. Lastly, the suicide topic … ….

Why?

I don’t think i agree with suicide, but I get it. Been there, done that and I get it. Is it preventable?

Fuck yes.

Most of Us want the fight to be over … we want the sadness to be over … we want acceptance … just to be left to be who and what we are … what ever that form may be.

The only way I can see for any of us to find that … is to create it for ourselves.

I’m still pissed at those that have left me; taken their own lives … but I get it! And those that have tried and been ‘unsuccessful’ and look like they are getting better but are just actually waiting for an opportunity to try again … I get that too … and I can see it on You.

To those that I love … If you do, I hope you find peace. For those that don’t, I hope you also find peace.

There … think I’m finished that for now …

For now 😉

to day … is the ‘294th’ ‘real’ reason to smile?

the 294 reasons to smile post was scheduled … it is what it is. appropriate really .. for today … not really.

in my world … today … is the stark realisation that my sister is dead. has died. died. the night of the 18th october. that she leaves behind her girls, her moko.

theres no reason to smile. or so i thought.

the reason to smile … came from a strange place indeed.

you see, she is my sister … my blood. my fathers daughter. younger than me.

i have spent time with her not more than half a dozen times in our life time. i met her when i was 7. had a few holidays with her and her family … my fathers family.

their lives were not anything i had experienced that intensely, up until that time. my father .. to my disappointment and disbelief .. was a violent rogue drunk .. who intimidated, belittled and controlled his little family.

and my sister.

my sister tried to manage their temperature; their moods; lessen the violence; pacify the situations before they escalated. she, even at 5, was compliant, docile .. she tried to please and pacify and console her mother.

she was equipped to deal with the nastiness and bitterness that would ooze from my fathers drunken pores.

i wasn’t.

the violence i had encountered previous to this man; my father … was violence borne out of pain, from a man i knew the heart of; whom i loved. and while he frightened me sometimes; i knew he loved me. a passionate man. but not viewed as such by his wife at the time.

my ‘good’ uncles violence was different from the bitterness turned nastiness that my drunken father poured out on his family. my sister. his was alcohol fuelled deep seated rage.

and i didn’t know or understand his pain…

my sister endured him.

alone.

she endured her mothers weakness.

alone.

and when she could, she left.

still compliant and ever willing to please.

and when i met her again – saw her again, 20 odd years later, she had babies .. .2 beautiful babies. and she was softly spoken. pleasant. … on the surface.

i talked to her on the phone a few times. and then nothing. from either of us.

we could not be close. not like little girls, way back then. hiding from, running from … pretending to be something different.

my father liked to disappear, and he disappeared with my sister and her mother a couple of years after we met. no forwarding address. no reasons. just gone.

we didn’t grow up together. we could never be close.

and when we could .. as adults .. we couldn’t.

i didn’t realise until yesterday though .. . that she had her own inner turmoil … that was finding its way out … finally … she was moving out of compliance and docility. that our sisterhood was never meant to be more than it was … in passing. there wasn’t enough of her to go around. there wasn’t enough of me to go around.

but what mothers we have made!

her daughters are compassionate, loving, strong willed, strong minded, dripping in humanity. and she, my sister, facilitated that for her girls .. just as i did for mine. for her, it cost her her life in the end; as her heart gave way. for me, it cost me my existence … as my life gave way.

and now we can wave to each other from different shore lines. nodding at each others strengths. acknowledging who we are.

instead of wishing we were something more, something different …

and as i cried yesterday, wondering why; knowing it was sad – logically -but not understanding that there was a connection with her even though there wasn’t a connection with her … as i cried, wondering what these awful feelings, emotions, were about .. but knowing not to calculate to hard .. i realised …

i could feel.

in a situation like this, i could feel. and it sucked. but i was ok. i knew it would pass. that i would forever be different; changed .. but it’d be ok.

that i am made out of some amazingly resilient shit. but that i could also have emotion, feeling … and would survive.

as i was wavering in the morning; tears coming for no apparent reason i thought … my mama came … my daughter and son-in-law and mokos came … my partner patted my hand; placed his head on my forehead … no words … and my other daughter and moko came … my brother rang to talk …

and they sat with me … not speaking .. . but just being themselves …

they let me be me.

all day, and all night.

they cooked and made cups of tea … still yelling at the kids and swearing at each other …

they didn’t walk on egg shells … fake sincerity …

they were themselves, and let me be me.

they still laughed and shed their own tears as we learned that my sister; their aunty, wouldnt be coming back to this country to be laid to rest – that she would stay where her babies are. we cried because while the others wouldn’t say it … they disapproved … but this is where we knew she should be.

they listened to me talk, shed a tear with me but not for me … hearing my hurt … that no-one had remembered i was her sister, and she, my only sister. no-one. not one.

they didn’t agree with my hurt; pacify my hurt; console my hurt. they just let me be me.

and when the day has been done … been gone .. .i am still here …

and i am eternally grateful for my little family … borne of grit … who know me and love me.

and i am eternally grateful that i have known a sister; have a sister; that she has peace; that she passed her love and determination for something better, on to her babies.

and i wave to my beloved sister from my shoreline … to her on her shoreline. i tilt my head to her in acknowledgment of all that she endured silently … all that she accomplished silently.

i wave to my beloved sister.

know i love you .. in my own way .. in my own time ..

blood of my blood … flesh of my flesh … bone of my bone

good bye for now

addiction cloud…2010

Sometimes I wonder how the fuck I’m still here! But I am … and stronger for it I do believe 😉

meptsdandallthefuckedupshitinbetween

The BPPV didn’t go away, it got worse. I saw a neurologist and had a CT scan which showed up nuddah. The neurologist suggested I had some kind of CHVS, Chronic Hyperventilation Syndrome, and sent me packing. I was having panic attacks 3-4 times a day, but at this stage they weren’t diagnosed as that. Brilliant doctors decided I had Major Depressive Disorder, and tried to medicate accordingly.

What was interesting about this turn of events is that I had spent about 10 years ‘clean’…not taking any mind altering substances; not drinking and maintaining a pretty descent diet. And their first thought was to pump me full of medication. By this time though, I was so wobbly on my feet, I think I would have kissed a frogs ass if they said it would help. I tried yoga and breathing exercises to help with the dizziness…aka undiagnosed anxiety! No one thought to…

View original post 747 more words

looking back…

I know I’m making personal progress even though most of the time I’m second guessing myself. I guess it’s one of those ‘flaws’ that I’ll figure how to make into something spectacular one day.

But just so I remember…how far it is that I have actually come…

March 2014 we moved to my beach heaven – the 3 years previous had been filled with unexplained anxiety, sickness, increased weight, depression, increasing medication, pain, emotional distress, very little sleep, nightmares, sensory overload, not driving, decreased travel in a car, not working and eventually not leaving the house.

The car ride to our beach was the first ‘long’ trip I had taken in a very long time. For the first 4 weeks I think it was, I didn’t leave the house at all. I freaked out when the neighbours tried to be neighbourly. I’d have a panic attack in the backyard because it was too far from the actual house and I didn’t venture past the mailbox without medication.

It took about 3 months to feel some kind of relaxed feeling. I started feeling more familiar with my surroundings and not so on edge. There is something quite peaceful about hearing the ocean roar all the time. It was soothing. For the mind and the soul. It still is.

I eventually got past the mailbox and tried to walk to the beach. I failed, lots; and freaked myself out numerous times. It was plenty discouraging!

I finally got a diagnosis of PTSD about 6 months after moving out here. While it was painful to hear; it made sense. Everything made more sense. But it pissed me off. I waited about another 6 months for any type of treatment…the wheels of ‘health’ move way to slowly in this country.

The first session with the psychologist was awful…for her and me. She ended up coming to me instead. We’ve had about 6 months of her coming to me.

Anything I did…the shop, the beach, family celebrations, family coming to visit…were hard work. It’d take days to recover.

I struggled with sleeping and the more I became anxious about it the harder it was to sleep. The nightmares were hell-a-scary for ages, and waking up sweating and shaking and crying, were pretty horribly normal.

We are now in November 2015…and I am not where I was five years ago; a couple years ago or even a few months ago. I have made progress.

More than anything, I’ve learnt…well learning, to accept my little quirks as just me. Not necessarily a part of PTSD…but just the way I’m wired. And as long as it’s not hurting me, then its OK.

I can socialise now…not like the partner does; but in my own funky way 🙂

I can talk on the phone now…I still don’t like it; but it doesn’t freak me out 🙂

I can walk to the shop…by myself…making sure I always return home with a brownie 🙂

I can do family…I love doing family…I love having the kids here; the mokos here…I don’t find them draining like I used too 🙂

I’ve figured size is just a number and don’t really give a shit about my weight…it’ll decrease when its ready I reckon…and I’m OK with it…so much so, I’m going to buy a bikini for summer 🙂

I can sleep up to 6 hours on a quarter sleeping tablet…there are less nightmares…and I know what to do when I do wake up from them 🙂

I have made progress…I need to remember that, and congratulate myself regularly. I know I’ve forgotten some of my mean achievements, but these will do for now 🙂

Rock on you funky thing you 😉 Let’s tick some more stuff off that list of yours…

side effect irony

ulcers and headaches

anxiety and depression

vertigo and hair loss

nausea and vomiting

night terrors and tremors

‘addiction’ and suicidality

don’t forget the panic attacks

and ptsd

Lets medicate and see what happens…

dizziness and diarrhoea

anxiousness and drowsiness

a dry mouth

agitation and nausea

chest pain and sweating

insomnia and chills

a cough and difficulty breathing

forgetfulness and tiredness

sad and shaky

unsteadiness when walking

faintness and nightmares

hyperventilation and nervousness

light headedness and confusion

blurred vision and heart palpitations

sleepiness and disturbed coordination

epigastric distress and hypersensitivity

photosensitivity and shortness of breath

rash and hives

bleeding and mood changes

vomiting and trembling

headaches and panic

suicidality and restlessness.

Hmmm

Think yous was better off

at the beginning of that trip!

seasons for everything…2005

We started a new year in a new place, and a small town…me and my little girl; when I say little…11 years old :). She caught the bus into town, early in the morning and I’d drive 40 minutes south to catch the train, to travel another hour or so to University. I was doing my major papers by this time, and I’d switched my focus to Criminology. I also started a Security Course…being the ever practical me, Criminology in theory was all good…but how was that going to out work in the real world…and there was no way I was joining the police force…the poupou , along with most other government departments, weren’t my favourite types of establishments; and I wanted some practicality to what we were learning in Crim. However, there was no cross over really…Crim theory is just that. How it translates into real world is…well, unrealistic, I think. As far as research goes, its awesome. But research on its own is pointless if it doesn’t translate into the ‘doing’.

My little girl enjoyed her school…still doing the bilingual thing…and culturally she thrived in this type of environment. I was kind of dreading taking her out and putting her into a mainstream school, which I knew I needed to by the time she hit college. Because she wasn’t a fluent Maori speaker, and neither was I, she was unable to be integrated into an all Maori school. Those rules are changing slightly now…but for then, it sucked ass. But we did the best with what we had. I had decided to move her into a high decile school…not sure if that was a smart thing in hindsight…but at the time, the reasoning was that she had her culture down packed; her language was good and she would continue that in college…and then she could learn the Pakeha ways. I thought she needed too because this country is predominantly run as a Pakeha nation. They like to believe it is multi or bi cultural…but its not. It has a token element…but we are definitely not partners in the running of this nation, as was stipulated in the Treaty. So I thought it was important for her to learn…how to be Pakeha too. Or how to survive it anyway.

My little girl could quote the treaty in parts; I had made sure I taught them as much as I was learning. She knew her Articles and the essence of each. She came home one day, and a girl on the bus had said all the Maori should go back to where they came from, that this country was theirs (European). Apparently this midget of mine, stood up in the bus aisle and let rip the history of our nation…when Maori had migrated here, when Pakeha had come and what diseases they brought with them, annihilating over 2/3rds of our population…the articles of the treaty and that it was in fact her that should be going back to where she came from. Apparently all the Maori kids on the bus were grinning from ear to ear, hearing this half pint spit her history without a hiccup. Needless to say, her opponent didn’t have anything else to say other than…shut up…not the best come back.

I found studying our history had made me seething-ly angry. It’s hard to figure out what to do with that kind of anger…so I started painting. And I painted and painted. And the thing I discovered with art…is that its not only cathartic, but that its received better by the viewing public, than if I had delivered a speech on equality and righting the cultural genocide that Maori had endured. Instead peeps looked, tilted their heads a little…stood back, looked again, tilted the other way…hmmm ed…then would usually say…beautiful 🙂

I met my current partner during this year. It’s not often you feel…well I feel…a connection with someone almost immediately. But I did with him. That’s not to say we haven’t had conflict…but we’ve always gone back to when we met…just to see and feel, if that connection is still there. So far, it has been.

One devastating event occurred this year…that changed the face of our family…my Nan died.

Nan was old school…obviously. And she had a ton of flaws…but who doesn’t…I can say that now, that she’s gone…but there was a long time when I just didn’t get her. Now…I get her…and I wish I had showed her I loved her more, when she was here. But I guess, she knows now.

Nan had the most beautiful flower garden…it was the talk and admiration of the whole town :). She taught herself how to do flower arranging and she’d volunteer her services for virtually anyone who needed flowers to be done. She also taught herself how to do hairdressing and set up a salon at the back of their house and she’d see to the community’s hair needs. Quite the entrepreneur my Nan.

But that was the era too. Post World War 2…lived through the Depression…and just got on with shit. They were a hard old bunch. Their wounds seeped in a different way than ours presently do.

Her and Grandad married after the war and went on to have 3 living children. She carried 6 times though, I think.

Nan just had the most beautiful way about her…caring…empathetic…intuitive. She’d pat your hand as you spoke about what was ailing you…then she’d come up with some smart solution…or quote…followed by the cup of tea that ‘fixes everything’ and a piece of sponge cake.

Nan endured a pretty horrendous life of suffering…rape, neglect, incest, abandonment…and she worked hard…found solutions…ended up depressed, medicated, shock treatment…she worked hard…found solutions…watched us all make stupendous mistakes…cried, grieved, cried some more…worked hard…found solutions. She was, is, a truly beautiful soul.

And when she died…well…that era…it cracked. Nan and Grandad were, always there. Always the place to go…to sleep…to be heard…cuddled. For me it was some type of security. Sure there was other bad memories that came with their place…but I loved the 5am start…you’d hear Nan’s vacuum cleaner doing the rounds at half five and by the time we got up…8ish…the washing had been done, hung out and was on its way in 🙂 There was 1030am cup of tea and biscuit time, 12 noon lunch…on the dot. 330 afternoon tea time…5pm bath time, dinner time and then the news. You could set your watch to that routine…and I loved that.

When she died, Grandad carried on with that routine. I get now that he was grieving in his own way…but it seemed cold and callous. We weren’t allowed to take her home…to her bed…to her cat…so we stayed at the funeral home with her.

Where they were living at the time, the funeral home there, was used to Maori practice that sometimes doesn’t quite fit with Pakeha practice, so they were used to having people stay with the family at the funeral home. It had a kitchen and lounge room, similar to a Marae.

Someone stayed with Nan all the time.

And we cried…grieved…told storied…sang abit…grieved.

She’s still hugely missed. She was such, is such, an integral part of all our lives one way or another.

My big girl lived with her for a while, and while I had issues at the time with her not being with me…now, I can see that my girl is better…richer…for having lived with my Nan. She shares her caring and compassionate streak.

It was a heart-breaking time…and I remember the moment she left this earth. I was on my way back from University on the train. I didn’t usually fall asleep. This night I did. And when I was waking…I felt her go. Then my phone rang…and I didn’t answer. I knew she’d gone, but I hoped I was wrong.

When I got home, I rang my mother…who said Nan had been flown to the hospital in another town…and mid flight, she had died. Same time as I woke up.

What was cool…was Nan loved the thought of flying but had never been on a plane…it was her final ride 🙂

xxoo

in pain…1996

The thing about pain, internal, gnawing, soul tearing pain…is that no one can see it. Surprisingly enough too, no one really wants to talk about it, let alone acknowledge it. It makes people uncomfortable.

The unseen.

Now I’m not an expert on physical pain, but I have a partner who has had back issues, for the last 5 years. He tore something (angular tear I think they call it) while lifting concrete. He’s pretty stubborn and when he feels it twinge, he usually ignores it and carries on with what he’s doing. Anyway…I’ve watched him try to get help for the last few years, and it’s not that much different from my process. Except that when they prod him, they can see where it hurts. But ultimately they don’t listen to him and try to say its all in his head even though they can see him twitching like a itch…their latest hypothesis is that his ‘filter’ is broken…here take these pills.

And his can be seen. The pain anyway.

Our injuries are similar in that they can’t be seen. Not without further examination.

The thing about being drunk all the time, is that you really don’t give a fuck. Not about yourself, not about those around you, and not about your pain. They call it self medicating…pretty sure ‘they’ve’ never self medicated though.

I drank to keep from being angry. To keep from being upset. To keep from feeling irrational. To keep from feeling sad. To keep from…feeling.

I stayed out of it to keep from feeling the disappointment. To keep from facing my girls. To keep from feeling their disappointment, especially my eldest.

I stayed drunk and out of it to keep from feeling afraid. It’s amazing how brave you feel when you are filthy rotten drunk all the time. And I made a good drunk. I wasn’t a violent or crying drunk. I was a happy drunk. A free drunk. And a reasonably controlled drunk. I never really lost my sense of having to be alert and in control for quite a few years.

I stayed with my mother after I left the husband. Got the eldest girl settled in school…a Christian school. How ironic. I wanted her to be safe, and even though I didn’t really have any distinct idea on how to do that, it was a pressing motivator for how I parented her. The husband had wanted to keep my youngest girl, his biological daughter, and let me keep the eldest, my biological daughter, not his. But I wasn’t having a bar of that shit…they were sisters and as far as I was concerned they were not to separated or treated any differently. I tried to get a house but we had nothing at that stage. And it was extremely hard going from Mrs someone, to Ms waiting to be divorced. ‘Did he beat you? Did he screw around on you? Was he drunk? Was he drug fucked?’. If I had have replied to yes to any of those things, I might have received some help. But the fact that he was an employed, well spoken, tidy, creative fuckwit, just made me look like more of a bitch than ever. I applied for houses, but had no ‘security’ so was denied. I ended up on a benefit, which I detested, because short of having a pap smear in the office, they wanted to know everything…everything. An extremely humiliating experience which I had hoped I’d never have to face again, but found myself there…again.

Things at my mothers were becoming strained…our lives…beliefs…were at odds with each other again. I ended up going to live with my ‘showed up the day before I was due to kill myself’  friend. Me and my youngest went and my eldest stayed with her grandmother so she could stay at school. Again…I think I just wanted her to be alright and I figured not being with me was better than with me. Anyway, we went out to my friends to save some money for a house, furniture, clothes etc. I’m not sure how long we stayed there for, but I made some choices whilst living with her, that she didn’t like. And fair enough too…she is a dear friend and I lied to her…that hurt her…so she asked us to leave. I love her for being straight with me…but it left us hanging…but that’s the consequences of shit ay.

We finally got house. We all moved in. The husband was still playing his games…he’s coming at 7pm on a Friday night to pick up the girls and didn’t show up until Sunday afternoon. Those games. And in amongst all that he’d bail me up in the corner of my new house and whisper how the girls were going to hate me, they were going to find out what kind of person I was…what a slut I was…and they’d want to leave me and go and live with him…what a shit mother. I’d stand there and cry…should’ve just punched him in the mug and been done with it, but I didn’t have enough juice for that at that stage.

So, I drank…more.

My mother offered to take the girls for a year while ‘I got my shit together’…again. I figured they were better off with her and to tell truth…I didn’t really know how to get my shit together. Or what that even was. Everyone in my life had a different version and it didn’t look anything like the version I pictured.

My version still looked pretty. It looked happy and tidy and sweet. Where I was cared for and the girls were happy and cared for. And…and I didn’t really know what the rest should look like at all.

So I drank more…and more…and I fucked a little…and I drank some more.

Now this is the era that I have always felt guilty for. The time that I abandoned my children and went away to have a little nervous breakdown. I probably was depressed and suicidal and displaying borderline personality disorder and ptsd. Technically speaking, that’s what it was. Personally speaking, I was in pain. A whole wide world of pain. And I was over it. All. I would have never killed myself…I couldn’t protect my girls from hell. That was my reasoning.

I learnt fast, how to play the psychologist, counselor, doctor game. I show up at the appointments, they blabber on, I nod, I answer the questions, they give me the pills and sign me off…I leave, crush the pills, snort those bastards, sell the rest and drink!

While trying ‘to get my shit together’ I moved houses a few times and ended up with ‘unsavoury characters’. Your options kind of slim down when you have no money and no motivation for making money. I paid my child support and did what I was expected to, financially, for my girls. I wasn’t present for them though. But I hadn’t been present for a very long time, really.

I utilized my resources. Me. And I learnt how to hustle pretty fucking fast.

I fucked my way into a new place to live. Not prostitution. Maybe I should have, it would have been quicker. I flatted with what I affectionately called, ‘the critters’, for about a year or two. The critters were Cripps. Blue. Well that’s what they thought anyway. Compared to Americas version of the Cripps these guys would have been pussy. But they had what I needed. Lots of alcohol. Lots of drugs. Free money. And a place to live.

It’s here I learnt how to break and enter, kitty cat style. I learnt how to lift things and steal the gold out of your back teeth while you slept. I had morals still, surprisingly, and there was a code of ethics that I adhered to. Those idiots didn’t, which is why they always got caught. I liked crime. I liked the rush it gave me. I liked planning and analyzing situations, people. I was particularly good at revenge or pay backs. Usually for a slight against myself or those around me. I was also good at dealing. First rule of that, is don’t partake of the goods. That choice minimized my drug intake. Positive I thought.

I still had my girls on the weekends. And during that time, it was a critter free, alcohol free, drug free zone. I was still lucid enough to know what I didn’t want around those two precious souls.

My drinking was scheduled. I drank Tuesday through to Sunday, 2-3pm to 6-7am, or when I passed out. I didn’t want to sleep. When I did sleep I made sure I was drunk or out of it enough to not dream. My dreams were disturbing. Lots of puss filled blood drenched dreams around this era.

Near the end of this year, when I really realized ‘getting my shit together’ was not working, at all…I decided to ask the girl’s father if he wanted to take them. For good. My mother was getting tired. Which in hindsight, was fair e-fucking-nough. He said yes.

He came and got them on a Saturday afternoon. My eldest girl cried and cried. She was so heartbroken. She didn’t understand me. Neither did I. She was so hurt. My heart broke for her. And I was so ashamed and broken for her. I had failed her on every single level and felt like utter fucking shit. My poor girl. I just thought, with what was left of my mind, that she deserved so much better. They both did. And I couldn’t expect them to wait till ‘I had my shit together’. They deserved a life…a proper one. Away from me. And if their fuckwit father could provide that for them; then so be it. I’d suck it up, swallow what was left of my pride and let them go.

They left.

My heart cracked. I literally heard it crack.

And I drank. And cried. And smoked. And stopped eating. And drank.

And it kept cracking. And so did I.