A boy, a sausage and a dog named Holly

 I was feeling a little melancholy this afternoon. I did some good things - swam my 25 laps, took my dog and Mags to the beach, dropped Mags back to her Dads to a less than warm greeting from her Grandma. Honestly, it must be tiring to be so cold, but not my problem, entirely hers. I'll let her keep it. I get home, notice my plants look sad, feel a strange level of empathy for them, get the hose out. 

I'm watering away when I hear the street dogs begin to bark and a small figure coming along the side of my garden. It's a boy of about 8 years old, dangling a raw sausage at Molly. I watch for a second. wondering, then spray the hose at him so he knows I'm there. 

'Have you seen my dog' he asks, she's run away. I tell him no, ask what she looks like. She's big, similar colour to mine, her name is Holly. Cool, I say, this is Molly. We are both pleased that their names rhyme. He says Holly slipped her lead and ran away, that he lives 2 streets over. I ask if he needs a collar or lead for her, he says both please, I'll return them to you. I have a look round, find both, take them to him. Holly is on the street, having a marvellous time going fence to fence and pissing off the dog residents. He calls her and she looks at him, wags her tail, runs in the other direction. I tell him my dog does the exact same thing at the beach and it's quite embarrassing, he cackles with joy. We feel bonded from that moment, and I'm glad I didn't soak him with the hose like I could have.

I decide I quite like this kid so will help him in his rescue mission. We follow Holly up the street, every time we get close she races off, happily. I ask if his parents know where he is. He starts to answer, then says, oh it doesn't matter. There is a pause and I wonder if I should fill it, but he's got it, was just finding the right words I guess. He says 'well, it's not divorce but my Mum moved into a new flat today.' Okay, I say, that's cool. Have you been there? He says he slept there last night and it is, in fact, cool. I tell him my kids are at their Dads this week, that they live in two houses. I ask him if he goes to the local school and he looks at me with a mixture of surprise and suspicion - he asks - how do you know?  I tell him it's a lucky guess, and the closest school. I tell him my kid is school captain, maybe he knows her. He asks - is she really tall? I want to say no, but then realise that possibly, yes, she is, to an 8 year old. He thinks he knows her. 

We talk about the sausage for a while as we walk, he offers to let me smell it, it's uncooked but doesn't stink, apparently. I politely decline. Eventually Holly ends up on his street, which is indeed 2 streets away from mine. His Dad and younger brother, with the most glorious red curls, come out to help. I try to explain who I am to Dad, but he doesn't seem to mind, just a friendly neighbour helping to get the dog. 

They manage to get Holly, who by now is puffed out and probably on her way home anyway. The kid and his Dad thank me about 4 times each, which is just enough, but truthfully, I've had a lovely time. What an adventure, an encounter, a cool kid and a cool adult (me. I'm talking about myself). What a nice way to remember that alone doesn't have to be lonely, and community is mine for the taking, in one way or another. Hope I run into that little champion again one day, sausage or no sausage.

Imposter Syndrome

I'm at my Mum's house for a week of respite. Cool air, no work, less chores and time out. It's been a hectic few weeks in Darwin and it's getting hotter and people are beginning to decombust, myself included. I've been overly sensitive, eating shit food and fending off a severe case of Imposter Syndrome. 

I see you there, Imposter.

Wanting to find a home in my head, wanting me to raise your chicks as my own, 

Like a cuckoo bird. It's your nature, your instinct.

I see you watching. I feel you nearing. I'm not afraid of you. I know you and

I'm sick of you. Telling me I'm not good enough

Whispering to me in the night like a narcissistic lover, a gaslighter, a frenemy 

I know you. I know why you do it. Not to hurt, but to protect.

You don't tell lies but you twist the truth.

You want me to stay small, stay quiet, stay down.

Stay safe, don't put yourself out there.

You used to be inside of me, or so I thought

You were me and I was you, dancing with one another to the same song

Now we are apart, we are no longer one

So I see you. I wave at you. I thank you for trying to keep me safe. 

But I don't need you to do that anymore. 

It's a big thing for me to have separated myself from my imposter. I've had it for years, right back to being a teenager. This dread of being found out that I'm not good enough - at being me, as a partner, a parent, a writer....it's a well trodden pathway I've walked in my head. It's a nice feeling to know that we can co exist without hating one another. My shrink is working with me on self compassion, which sometimes feels completely foreign, excruciating and embarrassing. Other times it's the greatest relief, that I don't have to hate myself for learning to cope in the ways that I have. Annoying that I'm 42 years old and I feel like potentially I could have worked some of this shit out in my 20's, but hooray for late blooming. I'm getting there, I suppose. 

I won the Darwin Poetry Slam last weekend, which was surprising and terrifying and delightful. I'm proud of myself but also...fuck are people going to have expectations of me now to be...good? Cue my waving at the Imposter. Not in goodbye, but a greeting - I see you. Thanks for trying to keep me safe. Don't be a bitch about it. I'll see you again over the next few weeks as I write and practice new poems for the Australian Finals?! I mean, at least I'm not alone in this. I'm grateful for that.

 

Fat One

 

She was born chubby

Little fat one, they said

She's so cute, rubbing her soft legs

Squeezing her tight

That fat baby 

Became a little girl

All she wanted 

Was to be big

A big girl

Big like her brother, 

Big and strong

Slowly 

She came to realise

The world around her

Didn't want that 

They wanted her to stay small

And cute

And not take up too much space

They told her she was lovely

When she was slim

They looked the other way

When she wasn't

Or they looked through her

Or called her names

They taught her

That the more of her existing

The less she was worth

And When there was less of her

They told her how good she looked

Eventually she believed them

But she still wanted 

To be big

To be strong

So she hid herself away

In a body made with

Bacon and bread and wine and laziness

She knew, that deep inside

were cheekbones and kindness and a desirable woman

She knew

Who was in there

If they wanted to find her

She was in there

A big, strong, kind one.

Living Sober

 Why not make it public? I've not been drunk, nor has a drop of alcohol passed through my body in 121 days. This is an achievement and while I'm not quite ready to sing the song of sobriety from the rooftops, I am feeling better about myself, my health, my bank balance and my future.

Ironically it started with a trip to the Doctor to get myself some valium to float me through the holiday period without my kids. They were to be away for Christmas and my heart, head, ego hurt to know I wouldn't be with them. People would ask of my plans for the holidays and I would inwardly cringe when the inevitable pity look came, probably due to my tendency for oversharing and longing to roll in my self made self pity. 

Doctor Kev is six feet tall and full of muscles. Probably a little top heavy, but who am I to judge? He has a God poster on his wall and a sympathetic gaze and before I had finished my first sentence I'm ugly crying and reaching for his tissues. He's encouraging, but direct. I have a drinking problem and if I do something about it I will feel better. It's that simple and that complicated all at once. I leave his office with a script for Naltrexone and 30 Valium (thank you Dr Kev and God Bless), a weight off my shoulders but a dread rising in my throat that I've just committed to stop drinking. He gives me the number of a lady who is a sober helper and I text her immediately and organise a time to meet in a few days time. 

I drink that night, hoping it will numb the pain or even lift me out of it, just for old times sake. It doesn't. I argue with a friend, my anxiety is a rock in my stomach and I spend too much money on gin and tonics, smoke cigarettes and hate myself. A regular occurrence, but the others have blurred into one another over time and now I'm left with this - a shitty last night of drinking. 

Now for some extra truth telling - the drinking problem itself. We can probably go back 26 years to my first drinks - oblivion, excitement, emergence of a different me (one that was much less inhibited and 'straight') - I drank to get drunk from my very first drink. So, for 10 years that was normal - binge drinking on the weekend. It was fun, frivolous, easy. It was easy. Until it wasn't.

I got pregnant at 26 and managed to stay relatively sober for a year or two. Friday nights were still for drinking too much, even if it was at home watching a movie with my partner. Weekends were for relaxing and recovering. Another baby at 31, sobriety for maybe a year. Still drinking, but not often drunk. Still depressed but blaming a lack of sleep and the remnants of grief for that.

For the next 5 years I drank more. More wine, whiskey, beer and gin. Most nights. I broke my hand in 2015 and added codeine to the mix - what a joyful collaboration that produced. Hazy, distant, repetitive evenings, feelings squashed deep inside of me, trying to swallow them with every glass, poison them into submission. 

Then in 2017, somehow I managed to grasp a hold onto something that I'd been shutting out for a long time and I came out. As a lesbian. Despite having a male partner and two gorgeous kids. Despite having worked at this 'normal' and reputable life for 14 years. I fell in love with a beautiful woman, moved into my own house, shared care of the kids 50/50 and started my new life. That from the very first day involved drinking. I mean - I could do what I wanted now, I was free to be me! 

That was almost four years ago. The relationship didn't work out, but the lesbianism has stayed.  I don't regret it, but I regret the hurt it caused. I drank the guilt, the loneliness, the shame away. I drank every day, because I could. It was my companion, my netflix and chill, my collaborator. My friend, the whiskey bottle, the wine glass, the cold beer. I woke up every morning angry with myself, hating myself because I'd done it again. Couldn't just have one, could never just have one. Weak. Sad. Pathetic. Repeat.

The idea of stopping was non existent to me. I just hoped one day I could have enough self control to tone it down, drink like a 'normal person'. It turns out - I'm not normal. Don't want to be. Don't need to be.

Becoming sober. Thank god for the valium. I go through about 20 tablets in the first 10 days, under the Doctor's orders, just don't drink. I go to an AA meeting, then another and another. I like when people clap me for my days of sobriety, I wish my friends would do the same. I start smoking weed again, because I'll be fucked if I can make a positive change in my life without counteracting it with something negative. One thing at a time. It helps me sleep, which is a blessing because once the valium is finished I am an insomniac - I just can't get to sleep. I hate it, being left alone in the quiet with just my head. Gradually though, I start to remember who I am. I have a good brain. It just needs a little time, and a little retraining. I meditate, a little. Exercise, a little. Write, a little. I don't drink. I stop wanting to, but am left with another hole and a fucktonne of emotions that have been hiding under the booze for so long. Untangling these is gonna take some work.

A Trial

I start taking them on a Saturday. Take half with food in the morning. There is no wave of release, no fuzzy cloud of inner warmth, just a waiting game, a longing for a remedy.

Sunday. Anxiety. Swirling thoughts. Tears. I go for a swim, slowly, calmly, mildly motivated.

Monday. I'm very conscious. Aware of myself. My tummy feels different and makes lots of gurgling noises. It's hard to eat - which is very unusual for me. I have an awful nightmare - a huge cat shaped like a devil comes flying down to earth and no one is worried but me. I'm unsettled.

Tuesday. A thin veil seems to exist around my brain. My mean girl has quietened and when she does raise her voice my mind says No. Not today.

Wednesday. I bounce out of bed. It's hard to focus and I keep finding myself staring into space. Still no sign of my mean girl returning.

Thursday. I chat with me Mum. People ask how I am and I say - I'm okay. Without crying. It's not quite a numbness, more of a nonchalance. I'm not doing much self improvement and I drank too much last night so there are moments of anxiety but nothing too much. I scroll through my phone a lot.

Friday. Full tablet with breakfast. Later in the day I feel the swirling, in my stomach, my forehead and my heart. It's hard to focus on work. I feel calm though, not emotional about anything.

Saturday. I am anxious. I drink two coffees, which doesn't help. I go to writing group and I feel agitated. My ex girlfriend is here and even though we are supposed to still be friends I want her away from me, away from this, separate from my life. I want to leave early but I'm ashamed. I want to storm out and leave them all wondering if I'm ok? I'm also hungry.

Another girl is here. One I wish for closeness with. One who I'm in love with the idea of, her smoky voice, her clever wit, her hidden pain. No doubt my image of her will evaporate into falsehoods but I like having her as a potential potential.

I'm having a terrible time concentrating. I feel like a fraud. Here. At work. As a Mum. As myself.

Week 2 brings low concentration span and little motivation. Although I have started to stretch, morning and afternoon. It doesn't hurt as much after a few days and it's so low impact it's perfect for me. My body is fat. Has fat. It's sore in a lot of places, my neck, my lower back, my stomach. I don't know if it's normal. 

Tuesday is a disaster, lots of lolling about, screen time is overboard. I really want Wednesday to be better, for me to be better. It's also apparent that I'm the only one who can make this happen and I feel frozen in time at the prospect of change. I want it, I want to be better, to look better but the actual doing of it feels out of my control. Within reach, easily accessible but for a part of my brain that says - no, not today. Everytime. For years. 

Maybe it will help if I create a plan, throw a couple of goals together and break them down into smaller, achievable wins. The stretching is a start. Sleeping without throwing my leg across my body is the next bit. Writing, for 10-15 minutes at a time, everyday. Should be easy enough. I say now.

I tend to start things with a vengeance then peter out just as quickly. The good and the bad Clare, jostling for ownership over me. The divide that exists between the two because they are often so different.

I'll keep popping them for now. Wait for the magic to happen. Blame myself when it doesn't. Been there, done that, haven't given in yet.

Old Friends

Old Friends

There are these girls I’ve known since - well since I can remember. I think Annie was the first to start hanging out with me. I didn’t like her for a long time, I still don’t really, but she’s part of my life. She comes around some days and it’s like someone pulled the plug out of the bathtub that is me and the water that swirls through is nothing but a flood of fear.

Annie’s real name is anxiety. There are pills I can take, drop dead Fred style, that could make her disappear. But I don’t know who I am without her.

Debbie is a lot calmer and completely dependable - wherever I go I know she’ll find her way back to me. She’s a cat, a dog, she’s my shadow. I don’t know how to ask her to leave. And if she did leave I’m afraid of all the comfort I could lose that we have together. She knows me. I know her. It’s easier, at the same time as being a terrible strain. She’s like the friend who just wants to hang out, not doing much but she’s always there. She doesn’t seem to have anywhere else to go. Her full name is Depression. Most of you have probably met her, got to know her, hung out with her.

Then there’s Pamela. Weird name that doesn’t really suit her. She’s hard to engage with, hard to make sense of and fuck she thinks she knows everything. She’s very one-eyed Pamela and lately she has become a regular visitor. She’s the one who tells you the things the others won’t. She’s the one who can really get under your skin. Her other name? Paranoia.

Then there’s me. The one who holds them all together, tightly wrapped within my memories, my brain pathways. If I don’t have them - who am I left with? 

So here we are in quarantine together. Gardening, drinking beers, smoking weed, writing words. Totally Netflix and chilling together. It’s not so bad and when it is - all I can do is to name them, notice them and try not to let them boss me around too much. I don't know how to manage everyone. Their needs, wants, their ownership over me. Maybe I take the magic pills? Maybe I show them some understanding, show myself some compassion? I've tried. I’m tired.

Old friends. They know you. You know them. They remind you of people you lost, people you loved, people who brought them round to meet you. How do you unwrap the binds that tie you together? How do you let them go? Truthfully - I'm not sure I want them to go. I don’t know who I am without them. They have been here with me, for so long.

Maybe I should be thanking them for helping me become who I am.

Maybe I should be thanking them for preparing me so well for isolation.

Maybe I should be thanking them for staying in touch all these years. 

Maybe I thank them for all they have done and wish them adieu. Cut them loose. Set them free.

It's an insane world but in it there is one sanity, the loyalty of old friends.

And that's what I've got.

2019

I turned forty in July and now suddenly it's just about November and the end of another decade is nigh. I remember twenty years ago, celebrating the turn of the century, life so full of promise and stretching so far ahead of us.
Here I am, laptop on my knees, typing away. Trying to make record of an ordinary life without being too self indulgent or oversharing. Perhaps it's too late for that, although I suppose not because this, after all, is a clean slate.
This year has seen the addition of Al the Cat and Sylvie the Wolfhound to our home. Al was immediately a comfort - always keen to snuggle in close, doing funny cat things, purring like a lawnmower at the slightest belly scratch. We fell in love, immediately and remain so, despite the challenges a kitty litter poses to a relaxed family dynamic.
Sylvie came along unexpectedly but also fatefully. This oversized scruffy and oh so loving dog found a place in my heart and gradually the kids as well. She talks like Scooby Doo, snuggles in close and has the most lovely nature - asides from a solid stubborn streak and the ability to run about 70km per hour. I love her.
Then there is these beautiful kids who I get to be Mum to. My boy, 13 and a half and almost a man. He's mature but fun, cheeky, laidback, passionate (about footy) and caring. I adore him. Now to help guide him into manhood. We'll be right. Then my girl, 9 years old, clever, funny, kind and still so loving. Today she laid her head on me and let me play with her hair while we watched tv. She is a gift from heaven. They both are.
Possibly I spend too much time just chilling with them, watching movies, eating snacks. I reread that sentence and know it can't be true - I spend time with them. It's wonderful - relaxed, caring, funny. I'm alright as a Mum.