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40 years

 Monday 10th October 1983 at 7am, I got on an Ansett flight to Kalgoorlie with 3 suitcases. Alone. Age 17. Not knowing what I was going to, but knowing I didn't couldn't stay where I was. One parent was trying to instill fear of the flight; her fear of being alone, of having a child fail at life, of where the child would be.  She even had a fear of my address being in a street called Nemesis. One parent told me I would always be ok, to go and live my life, and that I was loved. One grandma smiling silently and nodding as I was now in a career path she had followed over 60 years earlier in the Post Office. I never rose to the dizzying heights of Post Mistress that she reached, but she was proud. My first plane flight. My first room in a house not with my parents. My first experience living with others. So many firsts all hit in that one day and the weeks ahead. I tried to work out who I was as all I had done was care for others from the youngest age, and to people please to keep
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Graduation Day

 For the first time this year on Mother's Day I'm the top of the food chain. I'm no longer a daughter, but I am a mother and a grandmother. What a shift in dynamics!  All my life I dreaded Mother's Day. It was Judgement Day in my mind. The day where no matter what I did, had done, or promised to do was not going to be good enough. My faults would be identified and glorified and my redeeming qualities paled into insignificance. The stress levels would rise to obscene levels and I felt physically ill. When I was younger I would attempt to outdo my previous years efforts in generosity. No point. I would over-organise and plan and create. No point.  The years between when my grandmother died and this year were the hardest. Grandma was the most appreciative woman and any efforts were highly rewarded and acknowledged. Her loss was huge not just to me, but I think to everyone who knew her. Even three decades later, people still say she was a star. So this year, I'm the old
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International Women's Day

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I guess you could say I'm an International Woman. I'm the product of two grandmothers who lived on opposite sides of the world. They were opposites in almost every way, and they shaped who I am from within. Firstly, the smiling, bead wearing, white haired energetic one. She saw little of the world. Her whole 96 years were lived in a very small part of the world. She never travelled on a plane. Her train rides were never more than 200 kilometres. Her car rides the same. A couple of bus rides did take her almost 400 kilometres. She worked, she married, and she had 3 children. Her sisters and brothers were her best friends and always lived nearby.  Her first son was stillborn, but she always talked of him with love and never bitterness. She was so loved by her family, friends, and it seemed sometimes by people she had just met. There was only ever a bright side, and an attitude of get up and go. Wise, funny, stylish and cheeky. I spoke to her at least once a week until she was on
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Safety in Numbers

 How many people do you need around you to feel safe? Interesting question? I was told by someone once that they hated being alone. They would go to the shopping centre and walk around rather than be alone in their house. They didn't want to ever be alone. I  struggled with that theory. I wondered what was in their head that they constantly wanted to flee and what was their magic number of people they felt safe with? Being an only child I was literally alone but never alone. I had nobody to share my lifestyle with. Everyone jumped in and said that I was lucky, spoiled, had everything. That idea is the fairystory version of being an only child. In my case, one parent who had issues, and one who created them.  I couldn't hide in my room because that would be invaded constantly. The sound of the door scraping on the 70's shag pile carpet is still in my head. The quiet "What are you doing?" with no answer ever being acceptable or appropriate, or to be honest even hear
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Unconditional Love

 Today marks a year in a very special relationship in my life.  While it's normal to celebrate a birthday, and I am very much celebrating that birthday; this has been a year of a new relationship with myself. I'm celebrating that too. A year ago I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to love this person because of one single 3 letter word. How incredibly stupid is that? But I was absolutely terrified. I'll explain. That 3 letter word represented, and to a certain extent still does represent a truck load of negative emotions. That word belongs to a relationship that was based entirely on transactional love not unconditional love. I wanted unconditional, but I got transactional. And by it's nature that is not love. I've learned that this past year where I have processed so much of my past and laid the groundwork for my future. That 3 letter word represented pain, frustration, anger, distrust, failure, fear, hurt, shame, and in varying degrees every other negative
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Can You See Inside my Head?

 I have been asked to do something I don't want to do. It's because of what's in my head. I don't know how to show someone what's inside my head. That's what trauma is you see. It's inside the head. Nobody can see it. A physical injury or trauma leaves a scar which tells a story which in turn needs no explanation. You see a bent and twisted, scarred and marred leg and if the person is quite jovial and engaged you can even make a joke. We've all seen it done.  "Bet there's a story behind that one mate!" "Well yes my friend there is, want to hear about it?" The ensuing conversation can take different pathways. The scarred one could make up a brilliant story of a shark wearing a beanie carrying a golf stick and chances are that because the wound is so visible, the listener will believe it! The answer is often "You should see the other bloke". Why? Because a visible scar is just that. Visible.  No explanation needed, we can
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A year of mourning

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 I was thinking recently of childhood memories of the Fremantle area in Western Australia. It was so normal to see older European women wearing black. In all seasons of the year. I asked about it once of my Grandmother who was Australian and of English descent. She explained to me that they wore black because they had lost someone dear to them. A death of a loved one bought out the black clothing for a year. I heard others say that they should stop doing it because it was old fashioned, and even because they smelled bad wearing black in the heat. That was the most ridiculous reason ever in my mind even as a child.  After the year I had in 2020 on a personal level I began to question why they would wear black for a year to show the world they were mourning. We have become so used to mourning being a private affair that we have lost sight of how helpful it is to show it publicly. These women weren't proud of it, they didn't wear it as a badge of honour, or to get sympathy. It was
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