#anger – Entirely Unlike Tea

Perpetual Motion

I am always in motion. To be honest, I am happiest when I am using my body; gliding through a series of precise movements to get from A (somewhere) to B (nowhere). I revel in change, I thrive off new beginnings in far flung places. Rebuilding my life, my home, my circle of friends once again. I wake before dawn with a longing to fire the synapses and engage my muscles and run. Out the door and down the road, in to the enveloping security blanket of the morning black. Yes, people may think it strange, but if I stop a vice closes over my body and I am trapped, strangled by my own inactivity. My muscles grow tight, shortening fast, as if trying to crush and splinter the bones beneath. I am in the box of my childhood, where a moment in time obliterated my being. Squeezed every drop of life out of me and took away every choice I ever had, and I just had to wait. Wait in the void until I could breathe again, and I could run…..

Why does a child stop eating? A child who is desperately trying to regain some sense of order in her life. A child trying to hang on to any tangled thread of control in her 10 year old hands. That is what makes a child stop eating. A child who wants to become so physically small, that no one can see her. A child who wants to destroy her body, so she can climb back out of her withered chrysalid and be reborn as the butterfly. A butterfly who can rapidly move her wings, and fly away to regain her life, embrace the change and rebuild.

Instead the withered child was placed in a hospital. Thankfully, she was too young to be locked up in the local mental asylum next door, and thrown in a padded room. Instead she was placed in a hospital to be force fed and told not to engage one single muscle. And so I was placed on a months bed rest and that was when I truly died.

I could not run or escape the suffocating darkness that lay on me as I slept. I could not break free in to the sunlight and feel the breeze on my skin. I could not sprint from my fears or my emaciated body. Instead, I was left to wallow on a bed under a exposing strip light; watching my shrunken skin grow yellow and begin to decay. Because there was nothing else, I was left there, incarcerated, straining at the chains to fly away. My choice of movement was once again not my own.

So you wonder why I run, why I want to keep running, why I never want to stop running, because it is my choice, not yours. Why one day I will run 100 miles maybe I’ll run 200, maybe not, but I will run and I will run every day if I want to. Because, It is mine, it moves me away from the forced stillness, the pressure of my nightmares that hold me captive at night. Lost in a dark room, an invisible presence crushing me until all I can see are the veins in my eyelids as I squeeze them so tightly my head hurts. I will let my body move, I will fly out into the light and let the rain lash my face, the wind whip my skin, let the snow settle on my eyelashes and the sun scorch my shoulders. As I run, as I run far, as I run towards life, coping, sometimes winning but vowing to never let movement be taken from me again.

Crash landed and it’s not pretty?!?

Fuck fuck fuck! Today, out of nowhere, after 2 years, I had a full blown panic attack. In my car of all places…

I was alone thankfully, No small children were scarred, by my inability to keep my shit together. My heart was skipping beats and had been for 2 days. It feels like it is getting worse and that dear readers, was the catalyst to send me over the edge. Plummetting like a rag doll, back into that viscous, black abyss of brain crushing, hysterical, blinding panic.

I was sobbing, my face was numb, my heart raced the world was blurry and the white noise was screaming, I was hyperventilating and could not stop it, I just could not stop it, so I instead let it crash over me and hoped I would resurface soon.

Side note – Post meltdown recovery to be conducted as soon as functional, sane brain restarts …

I’m alive. I share, to show this is what myself and 1000s of others deal with and this is my way of making this rational, to remove the fear and look at it in black and white and walk away.

Anxie – tea and biscuits.

I wanted to share this – this picture is of me going through serious anxiety and repeated panic attacks. I look calm and together. Inside I am unraveling and panicking continuously. I think I am going to die… literally! and my mind is broken and fuzzy. The only thing that makes me keep some form of sanity are the kids. Today I have googled continuously the symptoms of a heart attack and any form of light that suggests I am ok? I know rationally it’s my anxiety and I need to breathe and focus and meditate and slow down. But when you are in a pit of overwhelming fear and confusion, it’s very hard to climb out. I can feel it lifting as I take those steps. But it will be a good week before I’m back to “normal”. I wanted to share this picture to show you, anxiety like any mental illness cannot be seen from the exterior. This is essentially a picture of me crumbled and destroyed and barely keeping my shit together… and you would never know. I don’t need sympathy but just an understanding that I am one of many and kindness is key to anyone struggling. #anxiety #mentalhealth #mentalhealthawareness

Aging

Age is but a number? Sure!

But I’m struggling with my age. It does not help that someone asked me if I was K3s grandma (WTF – I almost punched him) and K1 said “mummy even though you are old, you don’t look old.” I’m not sure if I should kick him or hug him tight.

40 is not old people. It is not even Middle Aged just yet.

POEM

Yesterday I quit Facebook,

Today I skipped my Prozac.

2 months ago I abstained from coffee,

Lets hope Mrs Anxiety does not come back.

My heart has not raced yet – Phew

My breathing remains long – Ahhhh

I have not broken down just yet – Woo Hoo

Not sure if I will stay strong.

Last week I thought I was Asperger s,

I think it will be my excuse.

For when I crumble and go nutty,

When I ramble and become obtuse.

The fear is mounting, I push it down,

What will happen with no drugs?

Thank Fuck, I still have alcohol,

Not an alcoholic yet, as I’m not hiding it in mugs.

The peace away from social media is lovely,

Functioning without SSRI s is divine.

I kinda really miss the coffee,

Not panicking is sublime.

I am not sure what I am,

or who I will become?

I never really fitted in to life,

But being odd is fun.

So good bye Facebook, you will be missed,

Prozac I am stronger than you.

Coffee, oh coffee, you are so so loved,

And Anxiety I will beat you too.

It’s no use crying over “spilt” apple juice.

Every day I run the gauntlet of either being a complete and utter shit show or sporadically I can be freaking awesome, when all those planned, little moments, fall exactly in to place.

Each day I run and run and run at full speed and pretty much achieving “f” all in the grand scheme of my ridiculous, human aspirations and desires. Hair brushed – still looks a mess, kids all out the door to school – only 2 out of the 3 will have underwear on or have brushed their teeth, sweep the floor – but it doesn’t reach the trash, washing done – but gets folded in 2 days time, put washing away, – well you might as well just put the clothes on as there are none left in your drawer; and so the hamster wheels turns and turns, relentless in its progress and never, ever stopping.

Today officially was a shit show.

8.00 am – kids to school – forget snacks and diapers for kid 3 – drive home, mild blaspheme.

8.35 am – leave again – off to swimming. I smile.

9 am – I swim, pick up K3 from childcare and he has pissed his pants (they are weirdly not allowed to change him in the child watch – bloody sucks) now I have urine all over my hands and washed for 50 Th time, I sigh.

10 am- K3 swimming lesson – kid screams a full 20 minutes in the pool, I hide.

10.30 am – my favourite sunglasses break as I chase crazy, escaping kid around the pool edge. I mutter.

11 am – coffee balanced in hand and croissant in kids mouth we brave Costco by singing the whole way round – head down, battle stance, lets do this. I run.

11.50 am – pick up kid 2 from school, K3 falls asleep in car, now I have to transfer him to bed, get out Costco shop and feed K2 lunch, I run.

12 noon – K3 in bed, K2 washing hands, me, I am being buried under a deluge of snack boxes as I pull open the trunk and they proceed to tumble all over the drive way, cooked chicken is ejected and explodes out of its bag and I am covered in meat juice. I swear repeatedly. “Hey, no swearing until you can drive, I warn kid 2”.

12.03 pm – lug shopping into the house and a 2 gallon apple juice falls to the floor. Balancing boxes I pick up the sturdy looking bottle, like a ninja in training. Only to realize its cracked and leaking, all over me, the floor and I now have this wonderful mixture of chicken, apple juice aroma emitting from my personage.

12.05 pm – desperately trying to decant at speed, juice in to drinking bottles and in among the over flowing sink of the morning dishes, I had not managed to clear up yet, I knock a 32 oz filled bottle of rescued apple juice all over the counter. I stretch my arm out quickly to rescue it, I proceed to whack over the drinking glasses next to it and propel them clattering and smashing all over the oven…. I’M SOOOOO DONE!

12.08 pm – I stand upright, I scream, I shout “fucking hell” as loud as I can, I bury my wretched face in to my gloriously sticky, chicken, apple hands and I sob and sob and sob. Wailing “I cannot do this, I just cannot keep up”. Like an absolute lunatic. 🙂

I am clearly prone to being a little dramatic, plus I think I scared the shit out of kid 2 with my emotional display. Seeing his wide eyes looking at me and the juice pooling on the floor, ready for an ant pool party. I begin to pull the frazzled strings of my mind back together and sit on the floor to breathe. I hug my little guy hard and we laugh at crazy mama. “Time for lunch”, I say!

There is no use crying over spilt apple juice……

When I Secretly Weep

Mothering three boys is a wild ride of everything, every sense is attacked, smothered and then heightened from all sides, at all times. Clearly no one tells you how your boy mother journey will be or how the adventure unfolds. The beauty of the boy is comparable to a shooting star, spiraling out of control, poised to collide with a planet and be obliterated or avoid it and soar on wards, faster and brighter than it was before. You just know you can never catch it or quash its fire, but merely watch, hope and guide it on to a path of happiness and success.

My boys are young, my boys are complicated, they are so very different, but all willful, amazingly energetic and all have the selfish opinions of the young. Currently coming in at 8, 5 and 2 years old, I am still neck deep in bodily fluids, tantrums and copious amounts of dirt. To them I am mere maker of snacks, a huge hug and a crash test dummy that all their anger and frustrations can be hurled at. I am exhausted and elated everyday by these three amigos. Together they fight hard, play hard and love hard, all in very equal measures.

So it comes to no surprise that when, as a parent I have to provide guidelines, boundaries and limit the play they have due to bed time, food and homework, I very often become the target of all their anger and frustrations. I get screamed at, shouted at, I have been hit, bit and kicked. I have been told I am hated and wished I was not here and I that “I am the worst mummy ever”. Note, that this can occur not just once, but multiple times a day, as their young vulnerable bodies and minds figure out what the hell they are feeling and experiencing, hence I am their emotional punch bag of everything and referee of sibling jealously and punch ups.

My wildly individual, rule ignorer/breaker eldest is a huge ball of no emotion vs wild emotion, we have no middle ground. My sweet, kind 5 yr old, is also a raging maniac of aggression and eye rolling when he doesn’t get his way or gets broccoli for dinner. Then there is our fire cracker, I will never walk toddler, who thinks he can keep up with the other two and hence is going in with fists flying, teeth gnashing and will claw his way into the sibling mix. Our house is a cacophony of ball bouncing, fart noises, wild laughter and name calling.

Hence at the end of each day and each emotional episode I am spent, with each scream and hateful word thrown at me, I feel a little smaller, a little less sure of the correct path I must take with them. I understand they are children and I respond with a soft voice if I can, as I fight the rising panic inside, pushing me to run from the attack, “but mummy always loves you, but she does not like what you are doing right now’. I will then ask them to calm down in their room until they are ready to talk. At that point I turn away and walk to my room, desperately fighting the suffocating pain and tears poised to overwhelm me. I quietly shut my door to the wails of anger, curl into a ball and secretly weep.