Ho-Hum

Laundry.

Laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry.

Laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry, laundry.

Find the laundry, sort the laundry, put in it the machine, wait until that beep goes off – that makes me want to break things – get the laundry out, hang the laundry – most likely repeat all of this once or twice more. When laundry is dry carry it inside, dump it on chair. Because the laundry basket – wicker and white cloth – is already overflowing.

When people ask where things are, direct them to said basket, chair, corner.

Laundry.

Ode to laundry

Laundry 

Mothers’ Day Movement

The birthing process is a brutal and unforgettable event. For me it was the most horrible experience of my life but also brought me the most amazing person in my life – my daughter.

We were lucky though, we had medical intervention and treatment after the event. But though we were in a hospital tended to by a room full of professionals ( as it became an emergency situation ) we were still both close not not being very lucky at all.

I keep thinking that had of I been a woman born into a developing country, or even of a different time – we both would have died.

We didn’t though, but those thoughts still stay with me. So when I read about maternal death statistics - historical and geographical – my whole body feels it.

I loath hallmark, I loath enforced gift giving days as I believe people should show their appreciation of one another every single day. I also think gift giving should happen when you come across something you know someone important to you would enjoy and it doesn’t matter what day it is.

The Mothers’ Day Movement is something that I came across in my twitter feed this morning, it’s a movement inspired by the book Half The Sky ( a must read for everyone, especially if you think you are politically aware ) and it aims to raise money for women and girls in developing countries.

So I asked my husband to donate some money towards this charity as my gift and I thought I would it here and I know people would like to know about this and possibly donate towards as well:

http://mothersdaymovement.org/

“The Fistula Foundation helps women suffering from obstetric fistula as a result of obstructed labor during childbirth and lack of medical intervention. No woman should suffer a life of isolation and misery simply for trying to bring a child into the world“

 

Market Day

When we were searching for a house I had two conditions. One – we were close to a train station, because trams are bullshit in Melbourne and you cannot get a pram onto it. Two – we were near a market of some sort.

I got both of these – and more, I love my house – and market day always makes me super happy. I love selecting the foods I know everyone enjoys and I get to buy and try new things all the time because it’s all so cheap and fresh.

Not all experiments are good and sometimes I just do not have the time to make the things I want to – but there’s bagels, fresh flowers, yummy fruit and vegetables - it makes me so happy. The coffee is crap and I’m still a long way off from being familiar with people but we’ll get there.

Necessary loss

Coming back to Australia involved a lot of loss.

Sad, but necessary loss.

I left Cardiff where I gestated, birthed and became a mother. I found a letter last week with the details of the tree that was planted in honor of my daughters birth – for every baby born in Wales they plant a tree – and I cried. I never got to see that tree because I spent a long, long time healing, then winter with a newborn – pushing a pram through snow – and then we left.

I left Berlin where I found myself - professionally and personally – many years ago, where I had some of the most amazing times of my life. Where my relationship strengthened, where we dreamed about moving to and then moved to it – with a baby. Where I kept trying and trying and trying and yet still couldn’t be satisfied. Where my daughter began to crawl, talk ( in German ) and walk. Where I did it pretty much on my own and then reached my breaking point. Then I see other peoples pictures of Berlin – and find old photos on my phone – and I think of how well I know those streets, those cobblestones, the corners, the buildings, the graffiti, the mess, the smells – and then I cry because all the memories of my baby growing up are on the other side of the globe.

But it was necessary, and it’s a grief I can bare. As opposed to when I was in Berlin where almost two years in I was so unhappy my chest often felt like it was splitting open.

I still go over these memories and feelings to try and understand myself in the here and the now. What is important to me – what makes me happy. There’s a lot of reasons why I left Melbourne in the first place but these reasons became less important as my life took on a different shape. I see the difference in places and culture in ways that sound pretty obvious but I didn’t really know or understand before living life as an expat. Melbourne still leaves me stumped in many ways – the six degrees of separation really being two or one here. Everyone knows everyone. I’m OK with that, I wasn’t in 2008 – I didn’t know how to navigate that and I take everyone and everything less personally now.

( This post has taken on a different shape to what I initially thought it would.. )

Still I am trying to find out what is important to me – what makes me happy and what I want out of my life. I’m OK with that too – not being where I thought I should be and not having what I think I should have. I don’t own a home – I probably never will. I don’t drive – I probably won’t know how to for a very, very long time. Or own a car. I don’t have long friendships that span over my childhood, teenage years and early twenties. I don’t have people I have known since Anja’s birth – and bonded over birthing around the same time.

My career as an artist is proving trickier than I anticipated – things beyond my control are making me ask new questions. This isn’t a nourishing industry – I never went into it thinking that it was – by by golly, it just feels like obstacle after obstacle and some days I feel so fucking worthless and then conflicted about feeling worthless because I have so much that means so much so perhaps it is this career that is damaging – and not me.

If so, then I need to get away from it – because if it is repeatedly hurting me what the hell am I doing. Life is worth more than this, I am worth more than this.

Anyway, as I said – this took on a different shape to what I had started out with so I’ll write about that in my nest post. My daughter is getting frustrated with me and I am still in my PJ’s.

 

Friendship; In silence, we suffer.

( No drawing, sick. )

I’ve wanted to write about friendship for a good long time but I’ve been stuck with it. All I can think of it oh wow my friends are really awesome and you know, that’s sufficient for a facebook status or a tweet – not so much for a blog post. 

So I’ve been thinking on it for weeks and this morning I had one of those very clear memories pop into my mind – It’s morning and we’ve arrived at Primary School. I’m running in circles around a bench my mum sits on, I’m running over the hop scotch and other games painted in whites and yellows on the asphalt and looking up at a pretty brilliant morning sky. With all the clouds and sun light and blues and pinks and I’m believing in God at this point ( this is before I know about Religion ) because I draw a lot of strength thinking that there’s someone looking over me and there’s a place I am going to and I’m asking him to take my life and take me away from here because I’m desperate. My friend has just arrived and I’m sure we look happy – like little girls do – but when my Mum goes I know the teasing will start, I know this little girl will hurt me and make me feel bad in places I never knew I could feel such things and I can’t tell my mum. She’s sitting right there but feels so far away from me.

Which is probably where my need to talk truthfully comes from, because that place of not telling and suffering didn’t need to happen. I didn’t need to feel so physically horrible within my own skin, so sad and alone and I certainly didn’t need to wish for death over talking about a secret. My secret.

In silence, we suffer.

As an adult and knowing children I now can look back at this and think what happened to my friend to make her hurt and abuse me in the ways that she did? She was so cruel to me, why? I wish I could have helped her.

When I left that Primary school and her behind I walked straight into other friendships that saw me being bullied – I was taunted for being ugly, I had heavy toys thrown at my face at close range, my hair pulled, I was ridiculed for my spelling, my imagination – my drawing. I was called a slut and made to feel I couldn’t feel things for people I wanted to feel them for – I wasn’t allowed to date the boys I wanted to but rather the boys that they wanted me to. And then in my teenage years I lived with someone who took all of my money, dyed my hair blonde and made plans to change my name and birthdate. She did take me away from another kind of abuse but it was a trade off. It came with a very high price.

There was something always so wrong with me people had to beat, hurt, pull apart whatever it was that I was. They wanted to erase me – kill me –  turn me into something that they would like.

And then somehow when I cry about all of this at the age of thirty, I receive comfort from a man who loves me – who is also my friend – and a daughter we made. How did I get here?

Friendship has never been something I felt I could have without all the hurt and suffering. In my early twenties I spent my time with people who exhausted me – and I them. We made each other feel terrible, we lied, we bitched, we dated the same boys and whoever got in first used that as a device to one up the other girl. We never gave each other a chance and used silence as a weapon. The ultimate weapon – we punished each other with it. Somehow, this is the situation that I played over and over in my head and I think it is because it’s easier to think about than all the stuff that happened long ago.

When I came back to Melbourne I came back for family. Family and language. I didn’t really think about friendships and I when I did it was in that anxious way – will I go back to all these bad patterns? But the biggest surprise has been the friendships I have made since being back and one that was re-kindled.

I have friends who never sit and bitch – we talk. I have friends who I am confident won’t go away and share what I confide in them, who don’t need me to have a status or be anything other than who I am. Even if the who I am is a premenstrual, sleep deprived mess – somehow I am good enough. I have friends who bring me over groceries when I can’t do them and have come in to physically take me out of a space when they see that I am unraveling. I have friends who love my daughter and give her their time and influence and I don’t think anything has warmed my heart as much as witnessing this.

I don’t know how I found these people, what drew them to me but I finally feel like I see the true meaning and value of friendship and it often leaves me speechless.

In that really happy way.

 

Exhausted.

I’m exhausted. I feel like I’m just pushing paint around on canvases and it doesn’t look like anything, I feel like I am coming up with new routines that no one will settle into – I feel like I’m pushing sh*t up a hill for no good reason.

Every spare moment I get I work ( art ) and every other moment I work ( on everything else ) also. I blog, I write, I socially network my finger tips off, I take photographs, I cook, I clean and clean and clean, I draw, I sketch, I think, I plan, I paint… I see my amazing friends because they are so amazing and I love them so much..

I’m working extra hard for this exhibition coming up and to look after my husband, daughter and the house while my husband works extra hours and days because of another approaching deadline and I’m just having a few of those days where I’m like OH MY GOD HOW AM I DOING THIS THIS IS SO HARD I JUST WANT TO SLEEP FOR A DAY JUST  DAY A DAY OF SLEEP PLEASE SLEEP THAT IS NOT INTERRUPTED WILL I EVER HAVE THAT AGAIN OH MY GOD WHY CAN’T I JUST QUIT EVERYTHING SO I CAN GET MORE SLEEP.

And NO ONE FUCKING TOUCH OR TALK TO ME I JUST WANT TO BE ALONE.

But – I love you all.

And then I seek comfort in chocolate and the internet and somehow the time passes and my mood changes and another artwork gets finished and we’re getting through.

At the moment it takes anywhere from two to four hours to get my daughter to go to sleep in the evenings and by dinner time I’m anxious because I know this is going to happen. I can’t work, I can’t read, I can’t relax – I can’t even fucking pee because I have to walk past her room to go to the toilet. So I’ve been feeling a little bit desperate. There’s so much to do. Is it so bad I just want those few hours in the evening to myself? No, it isn’t. But what can I do. Just keep going.

But OMFG.

 

 

Reversing the damage

I’ve tried writing about this a few times, and each time I have felt incredibly self conscious, ashamed and I have then removed it. But I’m going to keep on trying because that’s what I do.

Control is something I have always struggled with – I either focus too much on it or am devoid of it. I have too much control around my work, the way I look but not much when it comes to my emotions and alcohol.

I’ve been doing a lot of work on things since becoming a mother – life matters more to me now that it ever did before.

My self image is a fairly negative one, that started at a young age. In fact, I remember the day I made a pact with myself about what I was going to do with myself. I was very upset – probably from a fight with someone – and it was a crisp, sunny morning. I was walking down Blyth Street – past the drives ways and on that asphalt that is always in my dreams - and I remember feeling so physically sick in my own skin. I thought about how much I hated me, how everyone hates me and that I was to end it. But because I’m such a fucking coward I’m just going to drink and smoke myself to death and you can forget about eating – you piece of shit.

Or something like that.

Oh, teenage angst.

I felt so original in my misery.

And I guess because it started at such a typical, teenage angsty time I never took it seriously. No one did. Even though at twenty I was underweight and from 13 to … I drunk myself to a point of black outs. And now at thirty, I still can’t eat my breakfast without retching. I’ve tried all sorts of things like eating a little later, buying all different types of foods that I like but they still all make me want to vomit.

I’ve gotten so used to nausea it’s part of my every day life.

Now I realize that I do not have control over this, and that this has been a problem for a long time and made worse by my complacency about it. The shame doesn’t help. I feel like it’s treated as such a self indulgence.

And maybe it is but does that really matter?

I can’t eat and I’m trying to. I don’t want to be that self – hatey person, I want to like me – I think I like me – I want to be happy, full and I am so sick of nausea and panicking about eating in public and people judging me for hardly finishing a meal. But that’s what I do socially now because bars and nightlife – well, truth be told I want to be in bed by 8PM. Or at least my pyjamas – I love being in my house with my other half and my kidlet.

I want to stop thinking I’ve out done everyone because I hate me more then they ever could because really – it doesn’t matter what other people think about me – it matters what I think about me.

Teenage angst Lily begone. Enough now.