Headfuck

I want…

by Veronica on January 17, 2010

in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck

I want to run myself a bath.

Slip under the water and feel it swirl around me.

I want to lay there, in the warmth and day dream, imaginary conversations between me and people I’ll never meet. I want to let my imagination run wild and emerge, warmed through and ready to write something, anything.

But, it’s the middle of the day and Isaac has just woken from a nap. Amy is asking for food and Isaac is laughing at me.

There is no peace, not for baths. Not for daydreaming or imaginary conversations.

***

Everyone is talking about Haiti.

And I want to ignore it.

Because after getting emotionally involved with Black Saturday, with Hurricane Katrina, with the Tsunamis, with everything, I just can’t.

It comes on the news and I purposely zone out.

I can’t think about it, I just can’t.

I need to protect my emotional integrity, in order to have enough for myself.

I can’t take on board the suffering of hundreds of thousands of strangers.

Not this time.

***

It’s been almost 7 months since Nan died and I miss her more every day.

But it’s been 7 months and it’s harder to say that I miss her when I’m having a bad day.

It’s not an excuse.

It just is.

It’s also the reason I can’t look too hard at the eyes of the Haiti victims.

Because I need my emotions for myself.

And I’m sorry.

***

I thought I was over the bitterness that trying and failing to conceive brought out in me.

I thought I had lanced that wound with the successful birth of a healthy baby boy, who seems to have made it unscathed to his first birthday (more on that tomorrow).

I’m not though.

The announcement of a pregnancy this last week, from a girl who I will say should not be pregnant again, has me bitter all over again.

That poor child.

The mother, and the baby to be.

She sounds pleased about it.

I can think of people who would better deserve a child.

And I’m a bitch to think that, I know.

Who am I to say that she shouldn’t have a baby? Who I am to judge?

I’m no one.

I don’t get a say.

But I still think it.

And I discovered, from this, that having trouble conceiving a baby leaves wounds.

It leaves wounds, that while they might disappear under the surface, they never really heal.

So I can safely say, that while I am happy now, I can still be bitter.

I want to not be bitter.

I want to read her pregnancy announcement and be simply happy for her and not terrified about what it means for everyone else. About what it means for a system already clogged with women like her, babies like hers.

It’s a horrible thing to admit.

***

I want to curl into a ball, and hibernate for a while. I want time to be sad, to be bitter, to ignore the world for a while.

There is no time, not for me.

Eventually.

Maybe.

I’ll be less busy.

I’ll have more time.

***

There will be a doctors appointment soon, where I discuss my panic attacks and hopefully, get something done about them.

Because they’re crippling.

And horrible.

But I have a tendency to be matter of fact about things.

And doctors don’t take matter of fact seriously.

‘Oh that? I just dislocated my shoulder. I’ll be okay.’

‘It’s just my knee. Hang on, I’ll put it right.’

‘Meh, it will be okay.’

I want to say –

I hurt and

I keep panicking

and I’m not sure it’s normal to wake up at 3am and not be able to breathe because you have something sitting on your chest.

But meh.

I’ll be okay.

I just won’t look the Haiti victims in the eyes.

At least,

not until I’ve got my head back together.

***

Isaac turns ONE tomorrow and I will certainly have a post celebrating that. We had a good day today, with my parents coming over to visit and gift him with a wooden train. It was a good afternoon. I’m just a little flat this evening.

If you want to donate to Haiti you can click here to donate through the Red Cross. Just because I can’t watch them, doesn’t mean they don’t need helping.

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Dear Facebook:

by Veronica on January 12, 2010

in Headfuck, Soapbox

Dear People of Facebook:

If all your photos are of you (topless) with your mates (also topless) I’m going to start to wonder if you’ve become a male stripper. Please, stop my wondering and fill out the Work part of your profile. I don’t care if you’re working for Manpower, I just need to know whether or not to avoid Manpower shows.

Also you? Yes, you. Your breasts are lovely. I’m not offended, although I didn’t really need to see them. I’ve got photos of my breasts up too, of course, my breasts had a baby attached to them, but whatever. You know what made me want to stab my eyes out? The terrible photoshopping job that was done on your ‘model’ pictures. Please, have a look at your legs and then look at the way the reflection is sitting. The angle is all wrong and it’s making me stabby. Ask your photographer to either a) photoshop well or b) don’t photoshop a reflection in. The photos are of you, a bad job of them looks bad for your portfolio. And makes me want to stab things.

You there! Group creator! Stop using the word ‘retard’ as an insult. It is offensive and it makes me cringe inside. Stop it, or I’ll start flagging you as offensive. Actually, I’m going to do that anyway.

Right, now, the one who writes EvErYtHiNg LiKe ThIs, doesn’t it take 10 times as long to type a simple sentence? It makes your words indecipherable, not cool or smart. You don’t look awesome for doing it. You look like a fucking jackass who doesn’t know how to use a shift key. You could be talking french for all I know and it would still shit me. Stop it.

Stop Capitalising Every Word Of Your Status Updates. It’s not a giant long fucking title, it’s a status update. Type it like a regular sentence.

You! I went to high school with you. I KNOW you know basic grammar and spelling, use it. Apostrophes are your friend. So are commas and full stops.

Text speak is for TEXTS. Not for status updates. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a qwerty keyboard in front of you (and if you’re updating FB from your phone, I will forgive you. a little) so USE IT. I’m not trying to learn another language, I’m trying to read through my timeline. If I friended you, likely I care about what you’re up to. Make it easy for me, please? Plus, it makes you look stupid, when everything lks lik dis, lolz epic fail /jk.

Photos!!! Learn a basic fucking edit. If the photo is blurry, delete it. Sure your kid might be cute, but I can’t tell when it’s the doorway 4 metres behind him that’s in focus. On the same rant, if you’ve got 20 photos of the same thing, maybe you ought to only upload one? I don’t care that in this one you’ve got one eye squinted and in that one you’re looking to the left. EDIT. DELETE. UPLOAD ONE. I’ll care more if I’m not wading through 10 photos of you with your eyes crossed.

For people with kids, I want to see the photo updates. I don’t want to click on an album and find 200 photos in it. My cousins wife has the right idea, she uploads photos in 1-2 month albums. It means that each album gets 20-30 photos and I actually look at them and CARE. (It helps that their son is a little younger than Isaac, actual family and rather cute.)

Phew!

I think I feel better now. Of course, feel free to add to my rather venty list.

***

Disclaimer: Cos I need one otherwise people will whine at me about this: If you think this is about you, it isn’t. I know most of the FB friends who read here (they’ve either emailed or commented before) and they don’t annoy me. I will forgive a typo, I make them all the time. I will forgive a slight grammatical slip, although if you’re confusing your and you’re or their, there and they’re, I might get stabby. Fuck, I will forgive most things. Just please, at least pretend that you know how to craft a sentence? I’m pretty sure you can speak well enough, why can’t you write it too?

Sigh.

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Writing from a corner, where I’ve hidden.

by Veronica on October 7, 2009

in Food-Issues, Headfuck

We’re a week into our gluten challenge.

And.

Can I quit now? Please?

It’s been insane. So insane that I no longer think people are joking when they talk about climbing the walls. Because I think I’ve broken all my fingernails trying to climb mine.

She’s been … insane. It’s horrible. I want my daughter back.

I locked myself in the bathroom this morning, in order to shower alone. When Amy discovered that I’d locked the door, she had a tantrum.

Then, she climbed back into the kitchen and pulled every single key off my laptop keyboard. I got out of the shower to find a little girl, holding my laptop, surrounded in little black keys.

Now, before you yell, yes, I’d put the laptop away.

Isaac is reacting to the big ball of stress that is his sister by squealing. Lots. And screaming in anger when his will is thwarted. And screaming andscreamingandscreaming.

He’s been screaming, quite a lot. Ear piercing, make you want to curl up and hide, make your ears bleed type screaming.

It’s been … stressful. To say the least.

In other news, my floor is all pulled up! And tomorrow, they will be laying the new hardwood underlay and vinyl.

And there will be (everything going well) horses arriving on Saturday. The stable is all cleaned out and things are just about in place.

I’m excited about the floor and horses.

I’ve got no idea how I am going to make it through another 16 days of gluten.

Sigh.

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The post in which I get a little anxious and maybe go a little insane. It’s fun being me.

by Veronica on September 30, 2009

in Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Food-Issues, Headfuck

We had a Paediatric appointment today, for the children. We left with a barrage of referrals for various specialists.

In no particular order,

– A referral for both children to see a Geneticist and be officially diagnosed with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.

-A referral for an Opthamologist to have their eyes tested, as EDS can cause eye issues.

-A referral for them to see a Paediatric Physiotherapist so that we can help prevent problems before they occur, as well as making sure Isaac is developing at a normal rate.

– A referral for Isaac to have allergy testing to try and hunt down the cause of his weeping bleeding eczema, that incidentally cleared up when we stopped eating all gluten. So we’re suspecting gluten is the cause, but testing to pin that down.

-A referral for Amy to have an ECG to establish a Mitral Valve baseline.

And finally, last but by no means least,

– A referral for Amy to have testing done for Coeliacs Disease.

It’s that last one that has me wandering around muttering ohgodohgodohgod. Because to test for Coeliacs Disease, she needs to be eating gluten for 3 weeks before the blood test is done.

The blood test is scheduled in 3 weeks. She had her first piece of bread today.

I’m fucking terrified. Do you have any idea how bad it is here when Amy is eating gluten? She has meltdowns and tantrums and ohmyfuckinggod.

Three weeks.

I can’t shake the feeling that three days into this, they’ll be admitting me to a nice quiet padded room somewhere.

Saying I’m terrified is an understatement.

She’s not a nice kid when she’s eating gluten.

Scratch that, she’s a demon hell child when she’s eating gluten. Her eyes glow red and her head spins and she screeches with a voice that could make small animals die.

This is not going to be a highlight of my life.

On the upside, bread! And dip! And like, bread! And stuff.

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Anxious

by Veronica on September 26, 2009

in Cancer, Grief, Headfuck

My breath catches in my throat and I’m breathing consciously to get through the moment. My heart races and the familiar feeling of anxiety settles deep into my chest. The world around me fades slightly as I focus inwards, on my own internal struggle to get this under control.

My focus shatters as Amy steps on Isaac and tips forwards onto her hands and knees crying, while he screams his displeasure at being trodden on. The dog bites the cat, who runs away knocking dishes off the sink.

Everything lands in a big heap at my feet and I’m left with scattered plates, screaming children and no sense of peace. The world continues on completely oblivious to me.

I pick up my children, comfort them, make Amy say sorry. I stand and swearing, I clean up the plates, dust off my coping strategies and just move forwards.

One step at a time.

***

I’m stressed is what I’m saying.

Quite a little bit.

The anxiety attacks are back with a vengeance, coupled with a complete inability to actually cope with anything.

I’m spending a lot of time swearing under my breath and stomping around the house.

***

I turn the music up loud to drown out the whining and scrub at the bench. If I can just get this clean then everything else will look better and ohmyfuckingGOD.The mess just keeps coming and coming and I’m not sure I could walk through the lounge room without breaking an ankle.

***

Just stop whining. Please, just stop.

You’re tired? Here, curl up on the couch with a blanket.

No, you can’t watch a DVD, you broke the DVD player.

You want a bottle? But you’re a big girl.

I know Isaac has a bottle, but he’s a baby.

Oh. You’re a baby now too.

That would explain the whining.

Can you stop sitting on me?

Please?

Amy, get off me. You’re hurting me.

OY! Don’t pinch me! What a naughty thing to do. Time out! NOW.

You’re sorry? I don’t care. We don’t pinch. Time out.

Now.

Time out.

Walk.

Now.

Don’t go boneless, I’ll just pick you up.

There. Sit there. 3 minutes. We do not pinch. At all ever.

Isaac! I know I’m ignoring you, that’s no reason to squeal.

You’re tired too? Well here, nap time.

Boobs.

You don’t want boobs? You want to look at your sister in time out?

Isaac, fortheloveofgod just feed already.

ARGH! No biting! You’re not hungry.

Bedtime.

You. Back in time out. I didn’t say you could move.

No whining. Stop it.

Sit.

Sleep.

Shutup.

Please.

***

I love my children dearly, but they’re very needy at the moment.

Like –

really needy.

And I’m not sure I can breathe, underneath this mountain of need they have.

***

I knew this would happen. The crash.

Nan died three months ago and for that three months I’ve been caught up in merely moving from one moment to another without thinking about myself. Just getting things done for this family of mine.

Caught up in the coping.

And apparently, the grief has caught up with me.

I miss her so fucking much.

So fucking much.

***

There is stress on top of stress down here and there are only so many balls I can juggle before things start to fall on my head.

***

So I’m turning up the music.

I’m putting one foot in front of the other.

I’m hugging my children.

And I’m letting myself grieve.

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