Oh, Fuck Knows…

I don’t know what to call this post.  I don’t know much of anything at the moment other than it’s ten to six am and I haven’t slept yet.  I can’t sleep.  It eludes me, and when it does come, usually in the afternoon hours, it is filled with dreams of things I’d rather not think about.  Or be reminded about.

Things have been shitty lately.  The year started off shitty, and only got worse.  And worse.  And then fucked us over completely.

We lost – our car, two computers, two back up drives, my eldest son’s sense of hope, and my fucking sanity.  We moved with one weeks notice, losing about $6.5k we weren’t expecting to have to lose this year in the process.

I had to ask the man who molested me as a child for a loan to pay for my kids school shit.  So much for empowerment.  That one stung big fucking time.

Three of us wish the kids school would burn down, but our youngest likes it there, and our eldest has now graduated.  So there’ll be no arson from us.  I’m not ruling out voodoo dolls for certain abusive teachers though.  And possibly the P and C.

I’ve begged and pleaded for scholarships and food hampers and any sort of help I can find to try and get us to the point where the kids can have some sort of normal life, but nada.  Nobody will help.  Fuck it.

Seriously, you have to laugh at this Shakespearean shit.  Some of the things I’ve seen would blow your mind.  Simply put – we can’t receive a lot of help because we are either too disabled, or too poor.  Like I said, Shakespearean shit.

My kid needs a new computer so he can participate not only in school (they need laptops for high school and while he has one, it’s way too old for the job these days), but also in a specialised coding class we managed to get him into.  Finding out about that class is the one good thing to have happened this year.

Perfect looking marriages are never perfect.

We can’t afford Christmas, and we missed out on the free Children’s Christmas Party (teacher didn’t ask for tickets until it was too late).  So that’s a whole fizzer all round this year.

The car my grandmother bought us a few months after our other one died is having serious issues, and our mechanic said he never would have given it a roadworthy…  Ugh.  If we want more than three gears (1st, 3rd and 5th), we have to find some money soon.

I’m going through a midlife crisis.  For my age, I’ve lived.  Actually, by the time I was 30, I had lived.  And then some by the time I was 37.  I’ve been molested, raped, nearly murdered (with only a minute or two at most saving my life).  I’ve had a knife put to my throat three times, and none of those times was when I was nearly murdered.  I’ve acted and sung and danced for audiences.  I’ve had a belly ring.  I’ve had half a dozen articles about me in the newspaper because I’m apparently that interesting – the earliest one I know of was when I was three or four (though that one was about my dad and just had me in it as well).  I’ve written articles that have been published, some by major publications.  I’ve been a guest on SBS Insight.  I’ve had federal front seat ministers become aware of who I am because I was just that much of a pain in the arse.  I’ve had ministers over for coffee (though less famous ones).  I’ve spoken to one of our most famous politicians on a plane, though I didn’t let on that I knew who she was.  That was cool.  I’ve met and talked with famous musicians.  

I’ve lived overseas.  And let me tell you – visiting cultures different from your own isn’t the same as living them for over a year.  I visited Korea – it was nice and I learned a lot, but living in Japan was a whole other thing.  Though I did visit Okinawa on a holiday.  There I went into castle ruins, and went swimming at a private beach.  Two of the guys and I swam over the shark nets to some nearby rock type formations in the ocean, and climbed them.  I joined an English writers group  and met a journalist who did an article on me in the Hiragana Times.  I became good friends with a girl who was in the Twin Towers when the planes hit.  I went to parties and shopped in all the Tokyo shopping districts and went on a cruise.  I bathed in public baths on Mount Fuji.  I went snowboarding.  And I moved there two days after 9/11 when people all thought I was nuts for travelling.  I didn’t care.  They often asked “how can you do this (travel)?” and I’d just reply “geography and physics”.  It probably helped that I didn’t care if I died or not – I just wanted to live.

I’ve visited London too, and again, I managed to do it the right way – as a backpacker.  I conned my way into acquiring a journalist pass at the British Library so I could research old books on witchcraft.  I had sex in a toilet with a butch lesbian.  I saw platform 9 3/4 at Kings Cross Station.  I went to Camden Markets and saw We Will Rock You at West End the night a girl yelled out “I love you” to the main male star, and the show went on, but then a guy yelled out “me too!” and the main character couldn’t hold character anymore and he burst out laughing for a good minute or two.  I stayed up drinking with other backpackers.  I met an online friend and went to Piccadilly Circus, and Trafalgar Square.

I’ve been a child care worker, a painter (both houses and art), and a door to door pest where I collapsed in a Sydney park and the police were called to see if I was ok.  After that, my boss dumped me in the middle of Blacktown without checking to see if I had enough money to get home.  I did.  With about $2 to spare.  And I had to get help from the cops to get to the bus, because I had no clue where the fuck I was.  I’ve worked in a bakery as a barista, and I’ve worked in a clothing store.  I’ve been a nanny, a kindergarten teacher, and an English teacher.  I’ve been a property manager and a book keeper, twice for both.  I’ve been a support worker.  I’ve volunteered in the SES, for a youth centre, a women’s centre, a multicultural university group, LandCare, blood bank, a gymnastics club, the Gympie Muster (oh, there are some stories there!!!), and for various schools (PandC secretary, book club organiser, that sort of shit, as well as teacher aide back in the days when you were allowed even if you had no children).

I have scars all over my arms – a road map of my internal pain.  Due to my EDS, some of them are “growing” apart, becoming wider and wider over time.  Once a doctor gave me stitches without pain relief to teach me a lesson.  She gave me quite the lecture too.  Though many many many doctors have given me lectures over the years – and not one of them knew what the fuck they were talking about.  I tried to give myself stitches once after I overheard two nurses laughing about how they had forgotten about me – both of them left for the night without reminding anyone.  So I checked the chart on the wall, found the correct type/size and went to a friends place to try and do it myself.  For the record, it’s really hard to do one handed.

I’ve cut my wrists, seriously, four times.  I keep going back to the same method because my mother used to talk about doing it that way when I was a kid and I used to worry about coming home and finding her.  I’ve been in two different psych wards in two different hospitals.  One of those has four different levels of security, and I’ve been a guest in each of them.

Apparently I’ll never stop thinking about suicide or cutting as options when shit gets too much.

I once went to the Gold Coast and swam out about a kilometre before I decided drowning is a terrible way to die, and so I swam back.

I started smoking at age 22.  I dabbled before that, but went full time at 22.  I was always the goody two shoes as a child and teen because I was too scared of my mother not to be.  One kid in high school yelled at me on the bus one day that people hated me because I was too nice.  I never understood that.  So once I was suicidal, and just didn’t give a flying fuck what my mother thought anymore, I started smoking.  It gave me power.  It said – I’m making my own decisions.  I’m being my own person.  I’m not meek anymore.  Watch this fucking space.  Plus, it’s fucking boring in hospital – even the psych nurses smoked!!!

I finally figured out I was a lesbian in my early twenties.  I thought I was at 13, but my mother convinced me it was a stage.  Plus, living in country towns doesn’t exactly give one the space to be who one is.  Not long after, I moved in and had children with my best friend – a hetero guy.  Damn his penis.  And lack of boobs.

I’m also a witch.  Though I don’t buy into the supernatural side of things.  Except for one thing – I’m on the fence when it comes to the moons gravity.  The rest though, I just consider tools to help our subconscious figure shit out, and the “looking after nature” side is obvious and something we should all be doing, witch or not.

I’ve been in a movie and a music video, though neither were produced in the end.

I’ve had a one night stand, and I’m a domestic violence survivor.  My father died when I was six, two years after my parents divorced.  I’ve had stalkers, plural.  A guy kept asking me out once and I kept saying no because something about him made me nervous.  He ended up being a serial rapist and when finally caught, burned himself to death in a car.  I’ve had my unit burgled.  I’ve been in the back of a police car in an official capacity (as in “you WILL come with us”), twice.

I’ve studied at TAFE and university, though have only finished a Diploma I can no longer use.

While living in Toowoomba, I once went for a drive around the block and ended up in Sydney.  I was asked for my hand in marriage while there, by an Egyptian guy who wanted to talk me to Cairo to meet Mum and Dad.  I’m not sure if he was crazy or thought I was that desperate.  I had been sitting in the park most of the day, so probably the latter.

I’ve had sex in the backseat of my car (and been busted by a family of five, including grandma), in a backpackers hostel toilet (we took a doona in!), at the beach and in a park.  I’ve broken out of psych wards, and then broken back in again.  I’ve done 175km on country roads, and only stopped there because my car was old and started shaking so much I thought it was going to fall apart (it was a straight flat road where you could see if anyone was around – the only life I put in danger was my own).  I’ve danced all night, and on a bar in Tokyo in front of a crowd, Coyote Ugly style.

Of all the things, I think I miss dancing the most.

Did I mention yet that I have a husband and two children?  By far, my biggest dreams come true.

The problems I mentioned at the start of this are just the tip of the iceberg.  I haven’t been on FaceBook lately and a friend noticed and asked if I was ok, and said I could message her if I wanted to talk…  but I can’t because I can’t put my shit in writing.  It either involves the kids and I’ve got no business putting it “out there”, or it’s just too fucking complicated or depressing for words.

Suffice it to say, there’s just too much going on at the moment, and I’m really not coping.  And in the middle of it all, I’m having a midlife crisis where I feel like I’m not living.

Given how much I’ve lived thus far, honestly, having a break isn’t so bad right?  Though I think the base problem is not that I’m not living right now, but that I feel like I’ll never live again.

I can’t talk to anyone other than my support worker.  People just piss me off at the moment.  No one knows what I’m going through, but everyone wants to think they do.  And while I know it mostly comes from a place of “lean on me, I know what you’re going through”, it just comes off as offensive and/or minimising.  Of course, it doesn’t help that I can’t tell anyone the full story of what is going on for us at the moment.  Honestly – not even my husband fucking knows everything going on in my head.

It’s easier to just not talk to anyone.  Then I can be sure not to offend them by yelling “you have no fucking clue!!!” when I reach my breaking point.  Plus no one understands and that gets frustrating.  I wish I had someone to talk to.  I really fucking miss my old psychologist.  She understood me.  Or at least, she was really good at pretending to.

Odds are I’m not going to see retirement age.  Odds are I’m not going to see 50 even.  I’m about to turn 39.  I’m pretty sure I can hang on another ten years, but after that, it’s a crap shoot.  And I’ve dealt with that.  I’ve made my peace.  Mostly.  Still – if that is indeed how it is, and there are all these things I still want to do, and I just can’t do any of them and it’s really pissing me off to the point where I’m not even sure why I’m bothering to hang around another ten years.  Don’t worry – I’m not suicidal, just pensive.

I feel like I’ve done nothing with my life, but I’ve done more than most my age right???  So why do I feel like I’m going to die without achieving anything???  Dying I can handle.  Living a pointless and empty life, I can’t handle at all.  And I feel like I have, even though I’ve accomplished a lot of my dreams and desires.

And no, I’m not one of those people for whom raising children is enough.

So as well as everything substantial fucking up our lives at the moment, I have this midlife headfuck going on too.

Head. Meet. Wall.

Fuck it all.

So that’s it.  Well, it’s about a tenth of it, but it’s all you’re getting.


Disability consumer and activist since 2010. Mad as a hatter since way before that.

Posted in Personal
2 comments on “Oh, Fuck Knows…
  1. Chrissie says:

    It’s been a few months. How’s things? Same shit different day?

    • Hmm – a bit same shit different day. Some shit is worse (12 medical appointments this month alone!), but some things are better!!! School issues, while not gone completely, have calmed down substantially, and we have even had some wins!!! I’m working on creating a bedroom for myself in the lounge, where I can do my art etc in my own space. Things are fairly organised. There’s hope, you know?

      Thanks for asking!!! ❤

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Pissed off since 1995. Mad as a hatter since way before that.

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