What’s the etiquette to being a crazy bitch?

I paced the aisle of Kmart. Why can’t I find the fucking rope. It shouldn’t be a hidden item. I was frantic, hands shaking and muttering to myself. Then, my eyes zeroed in on the blue multi-purpose rope sitting amongst its friends and screaming at me to pick it up.

The same aisle has a set of box cutters. I bundle a pack of them up under my arm to accompany my rope. Rushing to the checkout and my eyes hit a shelf of soft pink. Zali would love that. It gets added to the bundle.

I’m nutty but not normally this nutty. This is the result of going from four green and yellow Prozac capsules to three. It was suggested by my shrink as he thought this was the reason for the seizure and now headaches, pins and needles and joint twitches. This suggestion only after chasing him for six weeks. The receptionist always assuring me that I would get a call-back in relation to a pretty serious side effect. I’m told to reduce the Prozac and promised a call to follow up on how the decrease went. A phone call I never got.

So here I was rope and box cutter weighing up what I should do. Should I hurt Bruce really badly or should I head to a bridge, tie the rope and hang myself from a bridge. I wasn’t afraid of any of it and it seemed like a very logical thing to be weighing up. Feeling pressured I shrugged, walked home with the intention of sleeping on it.

The next day I made an appointment with Bruce. I had decided I’d have both. I had decided that while I didn’t want to kill him I wanted to hurt him and make his life difficult. I had thought of a pencil through his eye so that he’d have to listen to me. I then though, no, a superficial but still serious cut to his neck. I had gotten to the point where I was angry that I was paying him a lot of money for him to ignore me. I’ve often felt like the invisible girl that is always in the way. Bruce was going to pay for his failings as a psychiatrist and for every single other time I’ve been hurt. He’d bare the brunt of all those before him.

My appointment with Bruce was happening within a week but my GP ‘needed’ to see me. Down to my three Prozac I was not doing well in convincing her I was all good. Before I know it I’m telling her everything. She rings Bruce although she thinks that because I’ve never been violent that she didn’t think I’d go through with it. Had a fucking knife. Had an appointment. Was crazy as fuck and that’s the point she chooses to believe in me.

I don’t go see Bruce. He thinks I should because he’d like to debrief about it. I threatened him with a knife and this still seemed to be a joke. I would’ve gone through the motion. Would have hurt him. Next day and I’d turned my attention to topping myself. I couldn’t see the point. I couldn’t see things getting better and I’d had enough of fighting. So what were the rules for ending your life? Long sappy letter expressing my disappointment in the world. I figure that nobody listens now so why would they take note of what I had to say. I figure carving the words I’m sorry into my leg a few times was adequate.

I knew the method but where. I would never leave my children or husband to find me hanging from a beam in my garage. What’s the rules about this? I wanted somebody who was used to seeing this type of stuff but not too used to it to stop me. The hospital. Second floor balcony. My rope around my neck. My rope around the railing of the balcony.

What does a person wear? This led to the all-consuming question. Would I wear my glasses or not. I know, pretty stupid. I eventually got to the decision of without. Wearing glasses I can see every wrinkle of skin. Every imperfection. Without glasses the world was a soft blurs of light colours. It was beautiful without glasses. Without glasses was the way to go.

I won’t detail the rest of the journey but I’m now A-Okay. It was a case of Abby was safer on Prozac with the risk of seizures than without the full dose. I need medicine to be okay. It’s upsetting that I do but it’s more upsetting to think of the hurt I would put my husband, little boy and little girl through. I’m going to work hard this year and turn things around. I have some goals and have a rough idea what I need to do to achieve them.


Things an 8 year old shouldn’t go to school and present as news … OMG!

My son loves YouTube. He can get lost for hours letting the auto play take him on a journey. For a long time he has been desperate to make a movie and upload it. Eagerly he wrote a list in his messy but still legible writing.

A couple of days ago Michael and Rory recorded a movie showing people how some new, geeky card game based on Star Wars characters.

For the last few days they’ve been editing the file. Its school news day and Rory is preparing his speech. He plans on talking about this YouTube video. He plans to tell everyone the purpose of the video, why he and his dad created one and chicks totally dig a boy that’s made a YouTube video.

‘So, did he tell you about how his news day went?’

‘Um, no. Did he tell you?’

It was at this point I learnt that Rory went to school and talked about my mental health issues and what it’s like to live with someone with these problems.

This is fantastic and all but a fair chunk of the presentation was spent talking about how mummy uses a blade and cuts her skin. She even writes words when cutting into her skin.

A whole classroom of beady eight year-old eyes attentive and hanging on every word and desperate to understand something that just doesn’t make sense.

‘They all had questions’. He then continued by boasting that it was the most popular news item of the whole year. Everyone wanted to know more.

Upon asking why he had abandoned his original plan he told us that the content of the YouTube video might have gone over their heads and that it didn’t seem appropriate. It might’ve scared some of his classmates. The kid is seriously fucking with me, right?

I’ve spent the last 24 hours hoping I never have to look his teacher in the eye ever again. OMG. I wonder how many parents had that sometimes-people-are-just-sad conversation. Regardless though I am very proud of how mature he is and how he is working to normalise these things. But, for fuck sake that was insane.

If you see me hiding in a shrub you’ll know Mrs Hadobas is close by. OMG.