Diamonds

What does an alcoholic do when he gets into a rut?
Decorates it.

- Overheard at a recovery meeting

This morning, I drove in the driveway and the sun came out. I pulled up, still dressed in my pj's after dropping Max to school. Rocco sat in the backseat in his pj's, and I noticed the still in the air and for a brief respite, I could feel a calm. A droplet of dew on a leaf was caught by the sun, and it looked like a sparkling diamond. Like a fricken 5-carat diamond, swaying there with its balls in the air, in my front garden.

I unbuckled Rocco and for a change, didn't hurry him inside, didn't rush and get preoccupied. He gathered up a golf ball, a broken tennis ball, two dummies, and his Beru. And walked around, holding his treasures tightly to his chest. Then handed them all to me, one by one, I had to say "ta" after each one. This was repeated twelve times. Slowly.

Nothing was more important in that moment, for either of us.

Earlier, I called Max into my bedroom and asked him to lay down next to me. I told him I wanted to tell him something, he looked up at me gravely. I explained to my almost eight year old, patient, sensitive, beautiful son ... that I've had a very hard time lately. That out of everything I've ever been through in my whole life, this year has been the hardest. That I'm working it out, and I promise to stop yelling so much. And I was so sorry he had such a stinkbug for a mum sometimes.

Probably all too much info. I just don't want him blaming himself.

He looked at me with his unconditional love again and melted my heart again.

Every single issue I have ever had in my life is now triggered. Game on. This week I'll see two different doctors and tell them the exact same thing and see what they both say. There's a sense of palpable relief, just knowing I have made the appointments. One of them has known me for 11 years, the other not so much. I have been a staunch non-believer of medications for years. It's tricky territory, for me. And I have valid reasons ... but now it seems I will have to eat my words. Again.

I need to do something - not for me, but because it impacts my boys so much. My real diamonds.

Pffffft. Pussy.

Swear to God, by the time this is over I will be the EXPERT on what to do when you have abandonment issues caused by your fathers killing themselves and you grow up in an abusive home and then you wipe the worlds floor with your twenties and you almost die but don't but then you really DO die, spiritually, and get re-born and try to unparent yourself and have a baby with a guy you love. And he has kids and a messy past but you make it work and then you want ANOTHER baby because it was so fucking great the first time. So you do then while you were growing the second baby in your tummy, your beloved husband is growing some nasty tumours in HIS tummy. And then a week before the baby is born, he will bend over in pain and say, "Hon - what side is your appendix on? There's something wrong." And you knew there was something wrong because that's what life is, after all. A series of really fucked up things where something goes wrong. And everything you love will all turn to shit anyway, dufus. The next year is spent waiting for the cancer to come back. It was easier to be dark and love nothing. Wasn't it? HELP. So then you cry all the time and you get stuck, in the well. And you remember that your grandmother used to call you a "deep well", and she was the only person who used to really look at you, as a child. And kind of give a shit, you know?

Yeah. I will *totally* be an expert on all that ... so if you know anybody who goes through it, send them to me and I will tell them what to do. (As soon as I find out myself. Pfffft. PUSSY)

__

Here is a funny photo I took last week. Because this is what we must do ... laugh at funny things. Especially unfunny things. Just ask my sisters and brother.

Max came home from school and said he had wet shoes, so he took them off.

Max: "My feet are wrinkly, mum."

Pre-occupied, distracted, arsehole Eden: "Yeah mate everyone's feet are wrinkly."
Max: "Ummmm, they have wrinkles all over them. Look."

I walked over and looked, about to tell him again that everybodys feet are wrinkly.

But not this wrinkly.

Oh we laughed. The sweet blessed relief of laughter. A tear fell down my cheek, like a diamond.

FORE

The world has sharp edges this week. I've found myself thrown around again, with no life jacket. Sick of the sudden ups and downs, sick of my own self. Sobbing SO HARD into Daves chest the other day, hiccupping. "I thought you were going to die! And you didn't die! Aren't we supposed to be happy every day for the rest of our lives now? We got through ... but why do I feel so BAD."

Walking around the house, waiting for the next disaster. A helicopter is poised to smash into my house, at all times. This is how I constantly feel. I know it's not normal, but then again, I never said I was normal.

I would *hate* to be married to me. Dave married me exactly four years ago today. "It's your wedding birthday!" Max told us both this morning.

But Rocco was crying and Tim was late and I was cranky and Dave is stressed and lunches and sick and bottles and recess and school clothes and taxes and quoting and emails.

That was all before 9am.

Life swallows me up and I crumble like a sack of shit and Dave is there ... always there, being the ground and the earth and drumming his drum.

And he didn't die.

All is Well.

Four years married, nine and a half years together. Being faithful to each other. We are good for each other, I think. When I was little I would stare out my bedroom window and imagine having a husband one day. I'd think about it all the time. "Somebody out there is growing up, just like me. And one day I'll meet him and fall in love and get married. WOW."

Now I show him my old-lady knees and he laughs and tells me I'm not old. (Did you know knees sag?!)

Happy Wedding Birthday, Davey Gravey. You deserve a motherfucking medal.

Thirst

Today I went to a womens recovery meeting. As I walked in, I got asked if I could think of a topic. Without breaking my stride I said:

"Marriage is stupid."

There were many raucous laughs ... but it's supposed to be a "proper" topic like, faith vs. fear, anger, patience etc. I relented and said ok .. how about tolerance then? The girls just laughed MORE. Even better ... they kept my original suggestion. So every time somebody new walked in and asked what the topic was, "marriage is stupid" elicited much laughter.

I shared super-awesome juicy stuff, then got the privilege of listening to a shitload of awesome woman share about how outdated the institution of marriage is, and that maybe men and women are simply not suited to living with each other. It was bliss. I love meetings. Rocco ran around and around, making everybody dizzy. A headslap here, stolen banana there. He was the youngest of all the kids .. and clearly the boss.

(I tried to do my favourite meeting yesterday in Sydney, but forces conspired against me. I cried from the frustration, and had to resort to PRAYING. I KNOW.)

Today we went to the pool. Rocco + water = HIGH ALERT

He has no fear. Jumps in, time after time after time. Then runs off, me racing my saggy bottomed five year old swimmers after him, screaming his name. My friend works there as a lifeguard, thank goodness. Scooped him up as he went past. "Having a good time?"

"Nope. Not at all."

It was exhausting. The only time he stopped was when he picked up a discarded bandaid. At one point, he banged his head so hard that it bruised straight away, so he let me hold him close. With heaving sobs he looked up at me, in pain. "MO-RE?!"

He wanted to get straight back in.

Here is sir in some photos I snapped last week, bathing al fresco on the back deck -



Right after this was taken, he climbed out and capsized the whole thing. Sat there, spluttering, coughing, and laughing. "More?" -





From the day he was born I've said he got all his strength and toughness from his dad.

Today, sitting in the meeting, I realised he also got a decent amount of strength and toughness from his mum.

Blogging Out Loud

Blog like you mean it. Blog when you want to ... but especially when you don't. Never think your stories aren't interesting ... if something is told well, with truth and meaning, it will make people smile. Or relate. Or cry. And come back to read more.

Don't box yourself in ... you are the boss of your own blog. You do not need to belong to any genre, or niche, or style. Be nice .. but do not be afraid to show your dark side; your faults; your defects of character. These are the things that will make people love you more. (We all have them, anyway.)

Don't try to be Dooce .. that gig is taken. Don't worry about stats, or readership numbers. Just write. Even if you just have that one person from Tennesee, or Rome, or Budgewoi commenting ... keep writing. If you stay put and stay true, people will listen. Build it, and they will come.

Spread yourself around ... be generous with your comments on other people's blogs. Think about who the person is. Make them smile if they need it. If all of the comments to one of their posts is about the same thing, choose one other thing to comment about ... the knick knack behind them in their kitchen. What you think the horse in their dream means. Be thoughtful, and mean what you say.

Never blog for comments. Never blog for comments. It doesn't work. People smell falseness a mile off. And don't think too much about what you want to write about. The best blog posts I've written are ones that I've just let flow out. Then think to yourself, well, I can't publish that. Publish it anyway.

It will keep you up at night, then the next morning you will go to take your post down and find that fairies have come in the night, disguised as people, and sprinkled a shitload of fairy dust over your depression-laden, pain-fuelled tirade. And you will crumple and cry at the sheer gratitude and relief you feel. At having been heard.

"I was here," says every comment. "I was here and I saw you struggle and here are some kind words, to help you through. Sounds like you need them."

Sometimes you will be the fairy, and somebody else will need your words, to help them through.

Be generous.

There are blogs for every conceivable thing. They are everywhere. Hang a welcome mat out on yours. Brew some tea. Shoot the shit. What's your darkest fear? What did you think when you were five? What's your take on the Russian Revolution? Do you think Jessica is totally jealous of Ashley now? What's your story?

Start your own damn meme. Make it the "This Blog Kicks Serious Motherfucking Arse" meme, and award it to seventy people. Have some fun. Show your mole! Dance! Tell us what makes you cry. I promise, you are not as boring as you think you are.

I wish my blog was more polished, with less swearing and more intellectual shit that I know I'm capable of. Alas. I started this blog as a way of showing prospective employers my writing style .... yeah right. This blog is now the last thing I would want prospective employers to see. As Jim Carrey profoundly says in Liar Liar ... "I can't ..... lie!"

I can't. My blog became way too personal, way too quickly. Occasionally I get a twinge, that too many people now know my stuff ... but so what. I'm actually not that important anyway. What a relief!

Don't embarrass others. Write often. Write for yourself. Don't think about it too much. Compose your next post as you stand in line at the grocery store, walking the dog, doing a wee. Laugh at yourself. Bring your petty jealousies out for all to see. "Check out what I think about this! Aren't I King Wanker!" People will nod and laugh at, and with you.

Don't mind the trolls. They are here to stay, but try not to let them get under your skin. Imagine yourself inviting them over for a freshly brewed coffee at your house, sharing a joke. That's probably what they yearn for anyway.

Be daring.

Be generous. You are amazing. You are terrible. Discuss.

All of it.

Lastly, but most importantly ... you do not need a reason to blog. None whatsoever!

As Kenickie says in Grease, "Rules are ... there aint no rules!"

I still don't know what I'm blogging for. And I kind of hope I never find out.

Vlog: How We Roll

I could try filming this 47 more times, pack makeup on and not swear and have a long tendril of hair to cover the MOLE .... but, pffffft. Life's too short.

I want to show you Rocco's new highchair ....

Scar Tissue

I got a new tattoo last night. Just like that. Drove down with Dave, picked the font I wanted, and had a sharp needle slice my skin and fill it with black ink. I knew I had to do something drastic, had to mark this weeks Neun. Chase away all of the dark that has been calling me lately ... with a pain of MY choosing. So I did.



It hurt like a bitch. Sweet sweet pain that I strangely got off on. Tough and raw and hardcore. "See!" I said to Dave. "We still got it! We're not boring!" He laughed. Then asked me again why I chose to get "Know Thyself." He didn't understand, thought it was pretty stupid. When I was telling the tattooist where to stick the stencil, I moved it from his symmetrical position, and stuck it on my wrist, at an angle. He and Dave stared. I wanted to cover the stupid scars that were there, from that terrible night in my early twenties. Everyone tries to kill themselves and then go to work the next day like nothing happened, surely?

"Umm, I want to cover the scars." Nobody said anything and my face went hot. Then he started it. Halfway through the K, I realised this was REALLY going to hurt, wondered if I could just get KNOW done. Dave kept making small talk with the guy. I didn't want him too, wanted him to just concentrate. At one point, Dave goes, "So, can you push the needle in so far that it bursts a vein?" I turned my neck angrily, said maybe he could ask that question AFTER my tattoo is done, yeah? He didn't get it. Yabbering away, he wants this sleeve and that ... at one point, he engaged the guy in such a way that he stopped tattooing me for a while. I just wanted it to be over. He had done KNOW THYS.

I almost shouted "HON. For fucks sake, let him do the ELF. LET HIM DO THE FUCKING ELF."



We then went out to dinner, and actually talked to each other. About things, and where we are going and where we have been. He told me he thinks my new tatt is amazing, and he really understands it now. On the drive home, we listened to Chilli Peppers sing Scar Tissue, and it was so fucking appropriate on so many levels that I almost cried. But Dave kept talking so I couldn't dive into the moment properly and I laughed and told him I loved him so much right now. I really do.


I love it. It's perfect. I was telling my brother about it, and he asked me if I 'd got the idea from the Matrix - the Oracle has it above her door, which I'd forgotten all about.

This is why I had it done .. feels like I need huge reminding of it, lately. That, and I like the symbolism of those two words covering my scar.

"The saying "Know thyself" may refer by extension to the ideal of understanding human behavior, morals, and thought, because ultimately to understand oneself is to understand other humans as well. However, the ancient Greek philosophers thought that no man can ever comprehend the human spirit and thought thoroughly, so it would have been almost inconceivable to know oneself fully. Therefore, the saying may refer to a less ambitious ideal, such as knowing one's own habits, morals, temperament, ability to control anger, and other aspects of human behavior that we struggle with on a daily basis. To truly 'know oneself' in this sense involves a deeply personal, spiritual transformation whereby a person would seek to orient themselves towards understanding their own phenomenological perceptions of reality, so as to gain earnest insight into aspects of one's own existence."

This last photo is symbolic of the fact that I am the biggest wanker ever.

I take so many photos of myself in stupid poses, it drives Tim and Dave NUTS. The camera is full of them. I do it in front of them, act all ghetto and pouty. Why? WHY? They scream at me.

"Because nobody ever takes photos of me, so I have to take them myself." They groaned. "Actually, you're going to have to use one of these self-snapped photos at my funeral."

Dave told me he will get a really wanky one enlarged, prop it up on my coffin for people to cry over.

That man is so thoughtful.

The Safety Dance

Last night was a momentous occasion. At the age of 7 and three quarters, Max accidentally entered the world of social networking ..... and it scared the hell out of both of us.

He came home with a website address that one of his friends had given him. No stranger to my laptop ... he loaded it up with me sitting next to him, watching to make sure it was ok. He had to create his own avatar before he could get in, I watched him choose his colour and name. Loading - then suddenly on the screen, were all of these other animal avatars walking around, talking to each other. With cute little speech bubbles over their heads. They were real people. We sat, dumbfounded. Max was shy .... I typed in HI EVERYONE, and we both laughed as replies of HI and HELLO THERE! popped up all over the place. You can walk around in this land, go surfing, play games with others, earn coins to buy stuff.

I said "Max, this is really freaking me out."
"Me too mum!!! But it's the best thing I've ever seen in my whole life!"

He played it until bedtime, with questions of when he can get onto the computer again. I gave him the spiel about being "safe" online, that he needs to be careful who he chats to and come and check with me before he adds a new buddy.

Freaky.

I watched this morning as he trotted off, so happy to go to an excursion to the Sydney Opera House. I told him to behave - to be careful when he goes to the toilet.

I have safety issues around my kids using public toilets by themselves. I've heard too many horror stories. When Max is with me we just go into the parenting room, sometimes he comes in with me to the ladies. He's probably bordering on getting too old now, but once I read a terrible news report about a woman taking her seven year old to the mens toilet at the Australian Open tennis. Her young son got assaulted while she was waiting right outside for him. Right outside!

Dave is the opposite to me, and gives all of his children a lot of freedom. Oodles. He tells me to back off, that Max can ride to school, to let him live, let him go. It's tricky, knowing when to draw the line. At the caravan park last week, Dave thought it was fine to let Max go the games room, and swimming pool by himself. It made me very uncomfortable, I could do it for five minutes but kept walking up to make sure he was ok. I know child abductions and assaults are actually quite rare, statistically. But my children are not statistics, and if anyone ever harms a hair on their head I swear to God I will kill them. Kill.

Watching Max on the computer last night made me realise that in a short while, he will probably build up his own online persona. Facebook, mySpace, mobiles, twitter. All the technological things to come, for my guys. I need to keep them safe, yet still give them space.

In the meantime, my heart went warm when Max came barreling downstairs. "Mum. MUM! Can I make a new buddy?"

I'm such a terribly jaded, cynical person ... his eager innocence took my breath away.

___

THANK YOU for your wonderful birthday wishes on my last post. I read them all so many times. You are generous with your words. I only ate one measly Mars Bar yesterday! I'd still like to swill around in a champagne vat, but the feeling is losing its power. THANK YOU.