Wednesday, June 29, 2016

graduation

Sometimes I feel like I'm going to drown in the Autism diagnosis when the pressure of -this-isn't-how-it-was-meant-to-be threatens to cave my chest in.

Tonight my daughter's classmates and family gathered at the school for what is always an emotional celebration and goodbye as they leave the school. Connie makes one of her amazing cakes.


My daughter isn't in the line up, of course, having opted out altogether nearly 2 years ago now.

It's not about me, but it's so hard to fight the feelings about it. The memories of how great things were when she started school, how bright, confident, involved she was. The slow souring, the lack of help and support, negative teachers who actively blocked her diagnosis for two years, neglectful principal who let it all happen because she didn't want the confrontation of saying something to me. Untrained, gap-filling staff, and the one expert there who got cancer and was in and out, in and out. Not her fault, but still a blow to our journey.

Oh, but what you wish for your children... and instead there is limbo and guilt and fear and frustration. I saw a study the other day that suggested maternal obesity contributes to Autism. I certainly know a lot of overweight Spectrum mothers... she asked me once, in the midst of misery and rage, as we were driving, WHY DID YOU GIVE BIRTH TO SOMEONE LIKE ME?? What if that's why? Can you imagine? I didn't read it, I can't face that information right now.

This should be an ending and a new beginning, and instead it's a nothing. A heartbreak and an uncertainty.I am so sorry for myself. I am so sad. I don't want to lean on the women I don't know who are on the Out of Schoolers page we set up. I've already expressed how hard it is there. They know. There's not much else to say. There's not much comfort to be had. I am so sad. This is just, what there is.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

I spent yesterday evening in the company of two wonderful women, and there were laughs and stories aplenty.

We suffered terribly from tangentialism, and every time a story started, so many tributaries flowed from it that the orginal point got lost, over and over. It's frustrating, but also magnificent. So much to say. How can we ever find time to say all the things? I would truly welcome a Vulcan mind-meld, for efficiency.

We'd planned to watch a teen movie myself and Laura adored as children - but the dvd was for the wrong region. It took me a while to realise this as I was drunk, and Olivia's playstation is an impenetrable pyramid of black plastic, like something from the Fifth Element, that you have to stroke just right under a full moon to get it to open. (Disclosure: it doesn't open). I couldn't even see the black buttons on the black background. Old eyes, dim light... I'm wearing my glasses now, I'm starting to feel blind. But it didn't matter... we had too much to say.

We lost the football. I felt the adrenaline crash of the despondent fan for the first time. Oh, we would so have loved one more buzz of that abundant national joy and celebration that follows a win! Instead... crying goalie.


Gah.

I can't wait til Mary comes home and blogs about Havana! Am excited. I hope all is well. 
Bodhi: My posture's not that bad, I'm just a tiny bit diagonal. 

Saturday, June 18, 2016

For heaven's sake. I just dreamed that I was semi-sort-of-topless modelling for Donald Trump in his office - he wanted to me stand in a bath robe and read random lines from a book. He then came up and stood behind me and rubbed his (allegedly) weenie penis against me and I told him of in strict terms. I am *so* not his type!

Then his aide came in and rescued me and said that he was going to expose him the next day. Why the next day? I don't know. But I was saved from the Trump one way or another.

Why, brain? Why? 

Friday, June 17, 2016

2 am. I had a big sleep this afternoon, due to so many late nights this week, so I don't feel as tired as I should. I had a fight with Olivia this evening and my heart is squeezed to pulp inside me. Not a fight... She bulldozed over the music I wanted to listen to as she didn't like it and I turned it off, but after 15 minutes of non stop monologue about the game she was playing I stopped her because I couldn't any more, so she abused me for not saying it to her nicely, and as always, shouted from the stairs that I am a terrible person and a failure as a human being.

My son tells me not to believe her, but the problem is, I do feel like a failure as a human being and I don't know how to stop without becoming a better one and I am too much of a failure of a human being to be able to work on that. Vicious circle.

So now it's after 2 and I remembered this evening that the new series of Orange is the New Black is up on Netflix. Dangerous dangerous.

Though I would like to go swimming in the morning as I haven't had a chance all week. Successful human beings do exercise, right? They get out of bed. I should do those things. 

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

my daughter is becoming a film buff

Hey Jo, I watched that movie you suggested. Rear Window. It's really good.

The bad guy kind of reminds me of the Polish dude*. He has the same hair and he's kind of creepy in the same way.

*Our middle aged neighbour - he really doesn't, but it still made me laugh.

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

I am struggling tonight.

This is going to be a triggering post, please don't read it if you're feeling fragile or annoyed or affected by Orlando. I've been holding off writing it all day because no one needs to hear my broken ramblings, but I just need to blurt it out now because I'm suffering with a weird combination of anxiety and grief and self-pity and I'm not sure what else to do with it. I don't have a therapist yet, and I don't have any drugs, and I don't have anyone to give me a hug. This is what I have.

I'm struggling no more than anyone else is, I'm sure. Certainly far far less than anyone affected by the Orlando shootings. Or anyone gay, who has such an emotional stake in what happened, who feels hated or hunted and vulnerable in their places of community and safety now. Less than the angry, bitter journalist I follow on Twitter who is so enraged at straight people, his straight friends' lack of mention of the incident, their calls of 'don't forget the allies!' who were in Soho last night at the vigil. His blame... it's All Our Fault. My fault?

Or there's my facebook friend, who is heavily pregnant, and enraged at me for having a brief rant about stupid, blind gunlovers - how dare I pollute her feed, and everyone else's, with their ugliness? What's the good in that? Why don't I post about the victims and who they were?


maybe just stop sharing such negative bullshit media/memes from crazy facebook pages and the like. (how the fuck are you even finding them unless you're following them in the first place?!)
why fill up your own facebook wall, and others with crazy, negative, ugly shit?
just. fucking stop for a second.
there's enough of it on the fucking tv.
share some love. share something positive. share pictures and stories of the lives of the people that lost their lives in Orlando, instead of the monster that killed them.
Stop glorifying murderers.
fucking stop.
god. damn it.

That's positive? When you go look at the 49 faces of those people who were torn from their lives, you find out about the hours of terror and agony they suffered. You find out about the phone calls and texts they made before they died. Who would be a mother? To receive a last message that says Mom Mom Mom Mom or Mommy they shooting I'm gonna die and begs you for help, to save them... and you can't? I can't bear it. I can't bear to feel those parents' horror and fear, to think of them hearing this, and rushing down there, to wait for a day to see if their child's name is on a list of the dead. I can't bear to think of people lying on a bathroom floor in the blood, trying to escape and live and ... the idea of having that message on my phone forever. Those calls for help. This is what is there, when you go to read about the nice, sweet people who died.
 I am triggered, but I'm not sure what by, exactly, or how this related to me, other than that I feel it, and I can't stop crying. I am snot and aching face muscles and I'm trying to eat my feelings and it's not working.I am a pain in my chest and a heart clenched in fear and misery and oh, god, I would rather be angry with sick, stupid asshole redneck fuckbag neanderthals who perpetuate this evil shit with their tiny minds and lack of understanding, than feel this way. I would rather rage at them then be on the other end of those calls or on the floor in the blood, while wishing to god I had never had children and what was I thinking?

I have to try and finish this work, now, that I have been putting off forever, the way I always do because I am  this paralysed, non-functional person who can't manage normal life. I wish this would abate. 


Monday, June 13, 2016

LGBT people are angy. They are grief stricken. They want to know why their straight friends aren't posting on facebook about Orlando. A rainbow flag reads 'Stop Killing Us'. This year's pride will not be the joyous, welcoming celebration it was last year because of the referendum. Instead it will remember that it is a protest.

I've been trying to avoid thinking too closely about the terror and anguish of the people inside Pulse because aif I don't shut those sort of trains of thought down, it's like being sucked into a dark tunnel and there are so many of them in our horrible world - dog torture festivals, abducted children, abuse, cities under seige where children are starving to death, all our human horrors, past and present.

The vigils are hard to watch, but beautiful, but I just saw the last texts of a shooting victim to his mother and allowed myself to read the report - I do this... even though I know what the outcome is, I read in some desperate, pathetic attempt to find the happy ending that isn't there - just in case it's hiding. But there is no happy ending here, it's just a horror. So much loss. I'm not sure what there is to do but ugly-cry for strangers who should not have been murdered, and the state of the world.

People have given hundreds of litres of blood and millions of dollars. Other stupid, hateful people have jeered and goaded online.Donald Trump is in there. Does one balance out the other? Does my ugly-crying count for shit?

I don't have any answers. 

Friday, June 10, 2016

Kilruddery chickens




I meant to put these up with teh pigs the other day, for Mary. Isn't that a handsome rooster shining in the sun? I love the way the hens are posing on the stump.


The mist is rolling, creeping back in off the hill again. If this were a story, it would contain something eldritch.

I stayed up last night after doing a 'Bodhi' search and read through pages of posts about his, and sometimes Olivia's little funnies and phrases. So many magical little funny stories. And all the sad stuff about what was going so badly wrong too.

And then I couldn't sleep, and I kept reading and crying. So I stayed up til about 1.15 I think. And then I woke up at 6am, full of anxiety and adrenaline and realised that I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep again so I womaned up and got up and went swimming. But swimming is sorta shit because there's a lot of thinking time as you go up and down, up and down. And either someone who was freshly sprayed with perfume came in and polluted the whole pool, or they sprayed air freshener to mask the smell if pee that's sometimes very evident, though it wasn't this morning (they say it's the drains from across the road, but I dunno) so I was gulping down stinging artifical floral crap with each breath, and that was shit. I'm a bit allergic to perfumes. I can't wear them, and the way the water seems to disperse them is horrible. Not a good feeling. Too many bad smells in that place. Once someone had a smoke outside the back doors so I was breathing in smoke each time I swam down to the end of the pool... bleh. The perfume is worse, though, I think, it affects my chest and sinuses a lot. Doesn't help me stop thinking about bad things.

My colleague who's a bit of a mighty athletic type suggests just exhausting yourself so you can only think about gasp, keep going, gasp, pant, one more and I think that's a good idea. I'm just not exercising violently enough.