some days I wage war with myself
some days I wage war with others.
today, i’m on ‘others’.
some days I wage war with myself
some days I wage war with others.
today, i’m on ‘others’.
After my usual expel-lations, ablutions and logging ins, in the morning, I have another little routine.
I do the rounds.
I check to see if my mama is awake to tell her I love her and I hope she has a lovely day.
I check to see if my babies are alright.
I wave to my neighbour Jim.
I check in on Kara to make sure she hasn’t damaged herself or another(s) 😉
I check AJ to make sure her world is alright ❤
Then Me and my coffee peruse ‘the news’. I try and make that as balanced as possible, depending on my mood.
Sounds well socialised and friendly doesn’t it – although it’s all done online.
This is my new Normal.
This is my ‘freedom’ and contact with the ‘outside’ world.
In the ‘old normal’ I’d be called a recluse. But I’m aight with that now. In fact I tend to embrace that bitch now.
This is Me doing Me the best way I am able, with what I have.
Does it piss Me off that my partner can jump in the car and take off for a 24 hour catch up with his mates? Does it piss Me off that an event I’d like to go to takes 3 weeks to prepare for and usually ends up more work than its worth; thusly cancelling likeable event? Does it annoy the living fuck out of Me that the eye ball roll I get when I ask if we can go for a drive to get an ice-cream is enough to put Me off going all together? Does it piss my fucking edges that I am A Lone most of the time and that sometimes, just sometimes, I want a friend like Minnie from “The Help”?
No. Not at all.
I am what I am For Now. That may change tomorrow or not at all.
Today I am grateful for the friendships I have, the internet, my coffee supply, my reading glasses, the 2 minutes of rain we had and my pyjamas.
Yes. Yes I do.
I wonder sometimes if I was a middle to upper class white guy, how much different my world would look right now.
Bare with Me.
Would the pts(d) have gone undiagnosed for so long? … No.
Because as a middle to upper class white guy, I would have had access to some dam fine resources; both personally and professionally.
Would a middle to upper class white guy had his bank insurance denied because of a ‘pre-existing condition’, that was not diagnosed by a ‘professional’? …. No.
Because he just wouldn’t have! Thats why! And technically speaking, refer to the above reasons.
Professionally speaking, as a middle to upper class white guy, would a “medical discharge” from my profession been my only available option? … Also No.
a. There would have been another ‘niche’ for Me to fill that required ball sacks only. b. There would have been professional avenues extended to Me as an ‘executive’ with ‘formal qualifications’. c. The doors of opportunity would have been thrust open, using my ‘incapabilities’ as an avenue for ‘climbing the ladder’.
As a person with a lack of ball sacks, were these things offered? … No.
Instead, motherhood was a ‘hinderance’ and stifled my ladder climbing abilities apparently.
Although aptly qualified, those became ‘over’ qualifications.
And although security and safety were sadly lacking at my place of employment, and probably led to the re-awakening of pts(d) panic fucks; I was instead asked about my hormones … whether I was having issues at home … whether I was to ‘small’ to work in this environment … and whether my dress code was in need of de-sexualising.
I worked in a kiddy prison for boys aged 14-17, for 4 years and if I had’ve known I had pts(d) prior to working there, I would have re-thought my strategy. Instead I walked in blind, to a patriarchal, systemically misogynistic and racist system, that I was unprepared for.
And here I am.
Qualifications still framed on the wall; breathing deeply so the anxiety doesn’t become unbearable … typing away, so I don’t dwell on this shit all day … trying to figure out how on earth I’m going to pay for my tooth to be pulled out … and looking down the barrel of Christmas, again, as a 40+ year old biological woman, whose hormones are fluctuating like fuckery, who owns virtually nothing but the computer gifted to her by her shrink; holes in her undies a massive headache and sweet fuck all to offer ‘the world’.
And … I can’t even say “At least I have my health”.
Days like today … I really do think that being a middle to upper class white guy would’ve been nice.
Please Note: No middle to upper class white guys were harmed during the writing of this post.
What does one do when you have no money and no insurance …
and you’re sick?
we have choices you know:
Welcome to 2017 where the healthcare is as fucked as it was is 1817.
Good one NZ.
When they happen they happen viciously. Of course there’s the build-up that can be managed a lot of the time. But then there’s the seemingly out-of-no-where bitches, that leave you gasping for breath and pretty much floored for the rest of the day.
I had one of those bastards yesterday.
Oh … Panic attack, is what I’m referring too. A good old pts(d), kick you in the vag and leave you winded, panic attack.
And what bought this one on?
Maybe a week or twos worth of ‘unknown’ anxieties?
Maybe the weather?
Maybe being tired?
What triggered the hair raiser though?
A digger being moved up the neighbours driveway ffs!
I’m pretty attuned to the noises around Me, and I’ve spoken about my super sensitive spidey hearing and sense of smell before … which btw seems to go into ultra super sensitive mode whilst in panic mode. I know … awesome alright!
So what does that mean?
It means everything becomes incredibly loud and extremely pitchy (imagine finger nails on a chalk board type pitchy). Then comes the sensitivity to movement and then my eyes start squinting and doing weird criss-crossy things … oh, and throw in an accelerated heart rate, sweaty palms, pits and other bits, and you have yourself a good old-fashioned panic fuck.
The digger doing its thing next door was a surprise attack (literally) which meant I was not prepared. I scrambled for my ear phones and music and couldn’t get it all fast enough … I scoffed a half a tab but it was too late. I ended up doing what I havent done in a while, which is dropping tabs till I feel ok, forgetting that they don’t work like a shot of tequila! Not Cool!
I was in tears within 15 minutes.
It was at this point I realised something pertinent … for Me anyways.
I realised that I was scared.
Not a little ‘fearful’; or over excited from the noises … No. I was, hide-under-the-bed, kiddy-type, scared shitless … and I couldn’t shake it. No amount of self soothing music of self talk was working. And the drugs weren’t kicking in fast enough.
Just as well .. (in hindsight) in realising that I was scared as opposed to the adult version aka ‘panicked’ … I knew what to do … because I had done it for my mokos.
I grabbed my fluffy pillow and howled like a scared child, into that pillow, for about 10 minutes!!! It was fucking exhausting!!
But it took the edge off …
Then I made Me a cup of tea and was able to gather my senses after that. The twats next door didn’t stop – but as the anxiety gods would have it, their digger broke down! Hah!
I rang my mama later and told her my sordid tale and she came and had a cuppa with Me … which was lovely … and distracting 🙂
Today the digger twats started up again and I got my partner to stay home with Me. I’ve been fucked most of the day and am only just coming right. We figured out the vibration of the digger isn’t so bad when I’m outside … and I watched them doing some of their shizz so I could get a visual of what the haps were. It all helped.
Tonight we’re going ‘out’ for dinner … down to our Beach ❤
And then it’s an early night for Me.
I hate panic attacks and I hate feeling scared but I’m kind of pleased I had this one though. Because, now I know it’s ‘fear’: and that requires a cuddle and chocolate … not freaking meditation 😉
Fears a bitch. But fear is also god dam Normal ❤
i can feel a narrative rewrite coming on;
When I was particularly depleted, aka sick as fuck … there were long portions of time, where I thought I might never ‘get up’ again. But even in those times, I was looking for a way to manage my shizz whilst flat on my face. And while I’m not a lover of that ‘down but not out’ shit, this is my version of that.
The way I see it, we are all dealing with shit, and thats usually made harder by the train of thought, or pressure, put on Us to ‘get better’, ‘be better’ … To get ‘Normal’, again. I’ve certainly had my fair share of this thinking process … and still struggle with it occasionally.
But by in large, my struggle is more with the practicalities of how to re-shape my world so I can manage it. Not re-shape it to fit what someone else thinks it, or I, should look like.
And throughout all of that, I’m finding Me.
This years biggest struggle, although there has been a few, has been with my father. Theres many a post on Me trying to understand, process, analyze, let go, summarise and respond to the relationship that has and hasn’t been, between us.
Strangely and quite poetically I suppose, the last of my ‘letting go’ process with him, came out within my art. My art actually helped Me fill in the missing pieces and unfold a few other bits and pieces and let go of the last of it.
Which is why I ended up with 13 pieces for the exhibition. It’s also why the exhibition itself, became so important for Me to attend. It’s also why I posted the names and meanings of each piece over the last month. It’s also why I refer to it all again here.
I discovered, that my persistance for self honesty and transparency … a light soul pretty much … is part of what drives Me. It’s not money, or status, or importance, or intelligence …. or any of those surface bullshit things …
It’s living ‘light’.
I don’t do well with a heavy soul … and mine is somewhat naturally heavy and leans to the things that are heavier. But can be made even heavier whenever ‘unreal’ bullshit is taken on.
So this last little round-up of photos from the exhibition – while they may not be the finest looking filtered photographs – they are Real.
They are Me.
Today, I high-five Me.
I’m one righteous individual ❤