I’m here and I’m queer!

Most of my life has been spent in the closet. Married with two kids I was good at pretending I was ordinary suburban mum with a bad haircut.

Last year I ended a 15 year marriage because I couldn’t take living in the closet one more moment. I’m gay. Gay as fuck. I’ve flung the doors open to the closet and have come out waving the rainbow flag.

I have always been attracted to women and transgender people so I give myself the title of queer.For as long as I can remember I’ve always preferred the pretty brunette woman at the counter over the handsome CIS man.

I’ve spent many years torturing myself and developing workplaces crushes with women who I knew were out of reach.

It was a difficult yet natural decision I came to when I ended the marriage and while I’m not proud of hurting someone I care about, I’m proud that I am able to demonstrate to my daughter that you are never trapped in a relationship that isn’t working.

Some people think it’s a phase I’m going through and I spent so much time wondering if it was my mental health that was making me think I was attracted to anyone other than CIS men. Ever since my first kiss with a girl in high school I’ve known deep down that this is who I am. Gay. I’m here and I’m queer!

 

 

Overwhelmed

This week my daughter starts on a trial of ADHD medication. I’m excited to trial them but at the same time nervous as hell. I don’t think I’m in a good headspace for this not to work. It’s been years of trying to work out what is going on, having jerk teachers confusing me and playing doctor with their wild diagnosis but in the same breath telling me not to worry.

ADHD medication won’t fix it all and even if we can get her to an even platform, we still have a long way to go! She is severely behind.

It’s been a year of people invalidating my worries about my daughter. It’s typical that if you have a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder people think you are exaggerating everything and that you don’t have a good handle on what is going on.

I love my GP but even last year she was trying to calm me down with, ‘does Michael (my husband) think this a problem or are you seeing something there that isn’t there?’ I left thinking that maybe the issue wasn’t as doom and gloom as I had it in my head. Reflecting on this moment, I let my daughter down. Big time.

My whole life people have invalidated the way I feel and it makes it difficult to feel like you’ve got a handle on life.

I don’t see a psychologist anymore for this reason and it sucks because times like this I actually need someone to talk to.

I know friends and family say, ‘you can always talk to me’, but talking to friends and family means I have to unpack the life I’ve lived for you to even understand me.

My past is complicated. My present is complicated and I’m pretty sure the future will continue in this fashion and be complicated. I feel more than most people do. I’ve chilled out a lot although when I’m feeling overwhelmed, like I am, I struggle to keep the bike on the path.

At the moment I simply just get through the working week with as little carnage as I can. I spend my weekends exhausted and wishing the world would end so I don’t have to do another day.

My husband and I are growing further apart, I wonder if my kids are happy and there is always some fucking know-it-all in my life.

I’ve written all of this and it doesn’t even come close to describing the war I have going on inside right now. I feel so overwhelmed, am more paranoid and I know I’m circling the sinkhole of depression. I feel like raising my hands in the air and declaring that I’m done.

I wish someone would invent a way to download feelings on to some chart so that clearly shows in metrics that I’m not doing so well and I don’t have to have me try to explain the unexplainable.  I don’t have the words and it seems ridiculous if you say that one or two things has got you bent out of shape and ready to chuck it all in when really it’s everything from the last however long you’ve been in the world.

Some nerd really needs to get onto this invention.

Connie

Wagging her tail and shaking in excitement Connie looks back at me impatiently as I put my headphones on, take the leads and begin our walk.

Connie likes to walk ahead of Winston, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Connie is a rescue dog, and up until the time we adopted her, I don’t think she’d ever been on a lead or even walked. We were learning though and getting better. She loved her walks. The biggest issue we were experiencing were other dogs. I don’t know if she wanted to fight them or lick them to death but I wasn’t keen to find out yet.

We have a regular walking route. One that I felt comfortable walking. It was well-lit and had lots of traffic, and this has been important to me after being mugged at knifepoint. Walking up Cooma Road, the sun was still shining, the puppies were happy, and I was listening to Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones.

We’d just crossed an intersection, and Connie fixated on dog walking on the opposite side of the road. Before I knew it, she had slipped out of her harness and was running toward the other dog. It was then I saw her get hit by the car. She let out a whimper and then lay on the road. I rushed over to her but didn’t know what to do. I was clutching Winston tightly in one arm, and the other shaking hand was trying to feel for a heartbeat. I couldn’t feel anything, but my mind was racing too quickly to concentrate. A couple, who had seen the whole thing, rushed to my side and helped me get her off the road and to the sidewalk grass.

I knew before we moved her that it wasn’t good though. She was laying in a pool of blood. The couple told me that they could feel a faint heartbeat. I clutched Winston even harder. A policeman was now standing beside us. He was visibly upset as he explained to me that he had a dog that looked exactly like Connie.

Just before the policeman turned up, I had spoken to Michael on the phone. Within minutes he was at the scene, barefoot and shaking. He had a special connection with Connie. He used to refer to her as his ‘zing’ a term used in Hotel Transylvania to describe that special love that just happens.

Wherever you’d find my husband, you could guarantee Connie wouldn’t be far away. She loved his tummy rubs and would playfully bite me when I wouldn’t cater to her desire her a tummy rub.

She died on the side of that road – January 14 around 8.15pm. She had too much head trauma, and I think she had broken her neck. I don’t see any difference between human and animal. One isn’t better than the other, so losing her has been heartbreaking. She was very special.

Before adopting Connie, I hadn’t cleared it with Michael. She needed someone to love her, and I was more than happy to get into an argument on her behalf. She’d been rescued from a puppy farm and was pregnant when she came into care. She lost her babies though. She wasn’t even two at the time, and she’d had three litters that we knew of. She’d been hurt in the past, and I could tell that through her insecurities. She craved love, and we craved her. At first, she was scared of my husband, but once she realised he wasn’t going to hurt her, their love grew.

Connie was quirky, smart, cheeky and was the dog you couldn’t wait to get home from work to see. She was a beautiful companion to Winston, and we all adored her.

I can’t help but feel like I could’ve done something to prevent this. Walked a different route, left a little earlier, skipped the walk for that day, done something on the side of that road to save her life. Every single time I close my eyes, I see her being hit by that car. She was a life worth knowing, and I never regret taking her into our home and hearts.

There have been many tears shed for you, Connie. I can promise you that you had what you were searching for, a family that adored you. Your dad is getting a tattoo to remember you and losing you has destroyed him. You were his pup, and he loved you so very much.

 

I wasn’t surprised

It’s strange how in the space of four years a lot can happen, but a lot still stays the same. Those of you following along at home will remember that I decided to eliminate the family I grew up with from my life.

“So, I think your brother got married today,” my husband said as he looked at photos on Facebook.

Pumping my hand – the international symbol for ‘give me’ – I snatched up the phone eager to see for myself. There they all were with their fake, faded smiles. Four years on and my sister has a failed marriage and is a single mother to three children. My other sister’s daughter is now a teenager! The brother that got married has a baby, but I shake my head in disbelief at how healthy my father looks. I can tell he hasn’t changed his ways though. I thought alcohol abuse would’ve been showing its destruction more. Just goes to show that evil bastards always live the longest.

This year my grandfather and aunty passed away – all of this I know through my husband’s Facebook account. I didn’t go to my grandfather’s funeral because the way I found out was through a family photo they took and uploaded from the wake. It was too late.

At the time my husband was shocked that they never tried to contact him to get the message to me. I wasn’t.

The thing that hurts the most about all of it though is that they never fought. For centuries they have written songs about how people fight for the ones they love. I wanted to hurt them by slamming the door in their faces. I wanted them to fight for me and to apologise for all the years of various abuse.

It backfired though and here I am with them having proven that I was right: they never really loved or cared about me. I’ve spent my whole life wondering what made me so unloveable.

I’ve never met my brothers now wife, but I can tell that they like her considerably more than they ever liked me. She has really embraced that spot I warmed for her.

They can never change though, and they can never apologise because they don’t think they did anything wrong. To them, I am ungrateful. They gave me a roof over my head, and yes, they did, but they never protected me. I grew up amongst violence, was robbed of a childhood and they think they did the best they could. They made my life a misery that I wanted out of.

I’ve lost the first person who ever loved me — my baby brother, Sam. I wish I could scoop him up in my arms and take him away but I can’t. It’s more complicated than that. He has a severe disability. I know I’ve let him down and I hope that one day he can forgive me.

I wish I didn’t know what they were up to. I’d tell my husband to ditch them on Facebook but I can’t risk not knowing if something happens to Sam. They wouldn’t tell me if something did. I miss him so much. God, I wish I had him here with me where I could look after him and protect him.

Strong

“NO! I love YOU more!” she uses her big, blue sparkling eyes to emphasise what she is saying and give it that dramatic touch. Her sweet, thin lips laugh as I tickle her and playfully argue that she cannot love me nearly as much as I love her because that is impossible.

“Tell it to me straight,” I said to the remedial teacher. It seemed like she wasn’t learning anything at school. Leila proceeded to tell me that she thinks that the problem could be a working memory issue or that Zali has a low IQ. “She is severely behind her peers”. I wasn’t ready to hear this, and I could tell that it hurt the teacher to have to tell me.

The teacher then went on to tell me that they don’t tend to tell parents about these things because they don’t want to hurt their feelings. Yeah, my feelings were hurt, but this isn’t about me. This is about getting Zali whatever help she needs. I don’t want to wait until year 5 when she is completely isolated from her peers and can’t read before we explore this. Early intervention, right?

It breaks my heart to hear Zali come home, disheartened and tell me that kids think she is dumb

I knew something wasn’t right when she was in kindergarten but having borderline personality disorder sometimes people around me can make me think that you are reading too much into it. “So, what does Michael think?” – my doctor’s subtle way of asking if this is all in my head.

I constantly worry that I’ve either broken or am breaking her. I worry about the genetics I’ve passed on to her. I worry about the environment I might expose her to. Am I somehow the reason why she is having these problems?

I’m not normally a pushy person, but I’ve made the vow that I will get to the bottom of this, get her help and not let this hold her back.

We’ve had her hearing and eyesight checked and nothing too out of the ordinary so we’ve just completed a language assess and get back the initial results. It states she has a moderate delay. Suspected working memory issue. We have to wait for the full assessment to know what the extent of this all is.

My daughter is the coolest person I know. She is creative, kind, loves animals, and makes me laugh all the time. One of the things that I love most about her though is this amazing strength she displays. When I was pregnant with Zali, I was told that she “might not be a winner”. I nearly lost her early in the pregnancy, and this is what the specialist told me over the phone. The specialist went on to tell me that she didn’t think this baby would grow and make it. But she did. My Zali did!

Whenever anyone doubts my daughter, I think of this and know that she will prove them wrong.

Mother’s Day: a time of nightmares

My children bounce into my bedroom this morning. Their eyes brimming with pride as they excitedly say, in chorus, Happy Mother’s Day.

For weeks I’ve been having nightmares though. I’m tired and just want to sleep but I hug them each and thank them for the abundance of gifts they have presented me with.

Every year is the same. Nightmares taunt me at this time of year. Nightmares of the hell I survived to be here today.  I lie to myself and try to think that my mother did the best she could.

I changed my name to Abigail, haven’t seen her in four years but every Mother’s Day she haunts me in my sleep. I can never escape that place.

In my nightmares she starves me, locks me up, beats me, constantly tells me I’m not good enough and laughs as I mistake someone taking advantage of me as love. Not too different to what it was really like.

I look in the mirror and I have her high-cheek bones and other similar facial features. If I grow my hair long, I look more like her so I keep it short. I change my first name because every time someone says my ‘real’ name I cringe and hate myself that little bit more. I hope it hurts her that I’ve rejected her and the name she gave me. I hope it hurts that I’ve taken her grandchildren away from her.

I’d like to forgive her for everything she did, but I can’t. My GP knows the horrors of what she has done to me over the years. She knows all of it. She knows more than my husband. More than anyone else. There are too many things she has done to me that I can’t tell anyone except for her. Last visit she shook her head at me and saying ‘you are remarkable and people who go through what you have end up so broken they can’t work and are on disability pensions their whole lives.’

I’m embarrassed by a lot of it and I wonder what made her hate me like she did. Why was I so unloveable?

I once advertised on Gumtree for a mother. I just wanted what other people had. I just wanted to feel like I belonged. I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me that I was good. 

 

 

 

You is kind. You is smart. You is important.

The other night I attended the Canberra viewing of Dominion; a feature-length documentary which is exposing the dark underbelly of modern animal agriculture through drones, hidden and handheld cameras.

It was two hours of being repeatedly punched in the face, and I can’t even begin to imagine how much courage it must’ve taken for those involved in producing this.

After the movie, I made my way to my car again and as I did a possum scurried past me and bounded up a tree.

In Buddhism, we have a practice that we call Equalizing and Exchanging Self with Others. I thought of what I’d just witnessed, sat in my car and cried.

I cried for the beautiful souls lost. Tossed away. Every one of these animals is unique, special and beautiful.

I honestly believe that I am no better or of more worth than any being on this planet. We are all equals.

The supermarket does a great job of distancing people from the harsh reality of eating an animal. It comes neatly packaged, you pop it in your trolley, take it to the cash register, take it home, put it in the fridge and come back to cook it for dinner. In that whole journey have you thought about the journey it’s been on before getting to your dinner plate?

‘No, sweetie it didn’t come from a moo cow’. I’ve heard someone say this to their child while handing them a plate of meat. That moo-cow was someone’s baby. That moo-cow had a life.  Maybe little Timmy has compassion and doesn’t want to eat the moo-cow. The movie Babe came out in 1995. This film turned legions of people into vegetarians—including its star, James Cromwell—because who could “pig out” again after watching that cute little piglet charm Farmer Hoggett?

I came home and told my husband that I’d like him to watch the documentary. ‘What so you can scare me into becoming a vegetarian?’. I can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, but I will use every tool in my belt to lift the curtain and show you what is happening in your backyard.

Commercialism has meant corners are cut to save money and people eager to make more of a profit don’t see animals as the sweet, kind and beautiful souls they are but for what they can use them for. A lot of the documentary showed monsters disguised as people who worked in their slaughterhouses. They would punch, mock, abuse the already scared animals. Most of them didn’t even know how to use the stun gun properly. Nothing is humane in these slaughterhouses. Why do you think they don’t have open days inviting you to see where your eggs come from. It’s because it’s appalling.

Can you believe that I’m related to one of these monsters? My sister works as a manager at a battery hen farm. She has paid off her house and could easily afford not to work, but every day she gets up early and heads to the shed of unhappiness and torture. My sister has a hands-on role, and I’ve heard first hand of how handlers are unnecessarily rough with the birds and quite often will break the hen’s legs as they toss them about. I haven’t spoken to my sister in six years but I imagine she is still proud of the work she does.

I’ve also heard people in the supermarket exclaiming that they only buy the RSPCA approved eggs, meat and so on because the animals had it easier. Animals ‘lucky’ enough to be free range go through the as appalling conditions. Think. You are all smart people. Think with compassion and understand that you are powerful enough to make a difference.

Puppy love

There is a reason that dogs are man’s best friend. They are great listeners, are loyal, are more cuddly than anyone you know, there is no judgement, they won’t make plans without you and they are always happy to see you.

Over Christmas, I embarked on a pet-sitting adventure. Three chickens that I have since named Lucinda, Helen and Julie and two Shi Tzu puppies named Oscar and Chloe. I didn’t expect that I’d be making friends and powerful relationships with two puppies but I did.

When I found out I would be sitting with two Shi Tzu dogs I rolled my eyes – small dogs have never really been me. I met these two balls of energy though and was smitten.

Without their owner in the picture, they came to really love and trust me and I would wake up in the morning with a smile as I would prepare to go feed them. They got me out of my own head and I would visit them twice a day and spent many hours with them.

My friend Janette and I walked around the lake. The whole time I would pretend they were my dogs and would proudly answer any questions – and with confidence – about how old they were, what their names were and so on.

They give me a joy that my other pets don’t. Cats are arrogant and only want to engage when it’s good for them. Bunnies are aloof and don’t like to be cuddled for hours on end … and they can be quite the judgemental pricks. I have a Labrador named Bella but she is 14 years old and struggles to walk. I spend a lot of time with her but because of her age time spent with Bella has changed and usually involves her sitting next to me while I potter around in the garden.

Oscar and Chloe are the typical Shi Tzu dogs with their character traits, however, I really got to know them on their own levels. It took a little bit of time for Chloe to connect with me but in the end, she is the one that missed me most when I wasn’t there and she was the first to come bounding over to greet me. Oscar is a bit a tart and spent a lot of time trying to get all the love for himself.

As I’m writing this my son is reading over my shoulder saying, ‘it’s a bit weird that you are writing about someone else’s pets’. I can’t explain it though. They mean everything to me.

I’ve found myself convinced that the dogs love me considerably more than they do their owner; Abdul.

Who wears short shorts?

Dark coloured leggings or jeans is the usual image people conjure up when thinking about me. No, I’m not boiling hot in the summer-heat while wearing this long sleeve jumper I lie.

I began hurting myself when I was maybe 12. Everything in my world seemed like it was spiralling out of control but when I drug the razor over my skin I was the person in control.

Self-harm is incredibly stupid because once you start it’s like any other addiction. It’s been at least six months though since I’ve hurt myself. That’s pretty big considering what the last year has looked like.

I have loads of scars all over my legs and arms. I never wear shorts well at least not until recently.  I was going to a Buddhist Foundation Program end of year pool party. I had planned on covering up and if I did go in that I would slink into the water unnoticed. My daughter needed new swimmers though so before heading to the party we went swimmer shopping.

Walking past a pair of denim shorts I shook my head and thought about how awful I’d look wearing them and how all the shameful secrets would be on display. I stopped though, picked up my size and proceeded to the checkout.

I have made some truly beautiful friendships within my Buddhist group and if I was going to take the plunge and be brave around anyone it would be them.

At times I felt self-conscious but for the most part of it, I was comfortable. These people are my friends. Each of them has their own problems and I know that each of them wouldn’t judge me.

After this success, I’ve been wearing shorts more often. I know that people are staring at me but I don’t want to have to hide unnecessarily. I’ve had to/have to do what I can to survive this world and if my battle scars are too much for you – I think it says more about you than me.

 

#Me too

Logging into Facebook these days has me running scared. What triggering horror story will I read put out into the world under the ‘Me too’ campaign banner.

The idea is to copy and paste a status to highlight how prevalent sexual abuse against woman is in society. While there’s a few variations, the post reads: “Me too… If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote ‘Me too’ as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem. Please copy/paste.”

I used to think that being honest about these things was somehow shining a light on the issue and that detailing the events in my life would make people feel less alone. I think that my thought process was wrong though. With the abundance of ‘me too hashtags’ I feel a heightened sense of fear and more alone than ever.

I then thought more about the motivations behind why I have been so open with my story and I’ve figured it out. It’s messed up reasoning to be honest. It’s that excuse I use when I sit crying and knowing that I’m not all I can be. In my head I have created this idea that my faults and shortcomings stem entirely from this. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. I want people to know that I am something special because of the things I have achieved despite the demons that lurk in the dark.

I’m sorry to anyone I’ve hurt. It’s impossible to forget but being ignorant seems to be where it’s at. Don’t talk about these things and the scabs on those wounds won’t come off. People don’t want to hear about the familiar and dark minds that lurk in the shadows waiting to attack. It’s terrorism. Let’s talk about it to the point where it changes the decisions we make. Can’t walk down that dark alley. Can’t trust that uncle with my children.

I want to push it back into Pandora’s box. I want to take it back and have the secret come with me to the grave. I’m embarrassed people know. Let’s just pretend it never happened and that everything is okay.

How are there so many people out there with these experiences who have their lives put together. How are these people so strong? I’ve heard it a million times, but Abby, you are strong because you have survived. Really? I don’t call this survival. I’m still a victim. I’m still looking for ways out. I’m still holding onto this idea that I’m going to conquer this.

“Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” ― Margaret Atwood