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.

Crazytown now has Netflix

I visit Crazytown often. My passport is swollen with stamps from my many visits. Crazytown is just my word for being really depressed.

According to my GP, who nearly fell off her chair in laughter, I’m not just a little sad.  I’m clinically depressed. Her face now stone and emotionless, people who are just a little sad don’t do the things you do’.

I always have a feeling of emptiness, anxiety and pessimism but Crazytown is usually when I’m thinking of stabbing my shrink in the neck with a box cutter because he didn’t listen to me.

Crazytown is me finishing work for the day and having no idea what happened during the day. All I can tell is that I haven’t had a productive day.

There is a man in black, known to many as Death, who lures me with promises of nothingness. He whispers to me that he can take the pain away. He smiles. He wants me to follow him. I think endlessly about how I can gain his approval and join him. He promises to love me if I come with him. He promises not to judge me. He promises me warmth and safety. It’s an obsession that he promises will solve all of my problems.

Crazy town is like a dark fog. I can’t see anyone else and they can’t see me. I’m scream but nobody hears. Maybe nobody cares. Nobody understands. Nobody feels the pain. But the man in black does.

Everyone tells me living is the best revenge but I’m not really living. I’m getting from one day to the next. They’ve already won. I’ve already put up the white flag but they are still firing at me with machine guns even though all my flesh has been damaged and torn. I’m already on the ground but they can’t stop firing.

‘You just need to’. In Crazytown this is a common phrase. As I approach each person they point their finger at me and tell me to just stop being like this. Stop it. Be normal. Are you even trying?

Every single day I try not to be this person you all see. I’m desperate to be someone else. It’s almost like I’m too stupid to learn.

People who love me get frustrated. I get frustrated. I don’t choose to be some whiny little bitch-tits emo.

I want the world to be full of yellow dresses, talking cartoon characters, icecream mountains and a house made of gingerbread. Until Willy Wonka sorts this out though, I curl up on my lounge with the television on in some hope of distraction.

The more I fight against death though the stronger he gets. He wants me and he is only just warming up. Fancy that, he wants me. Every single time I’m in Crazytown I have to wonder if I have the guts to fight the man in black off.

He told me he loved me but he lied

I was always someone that craved love and attention. This is not to say that I accepted love willingly—quite the opposite, in fact. I had been told I was loved but that was a lie.

If someone decides to like or even love me they have to pass through a path of obstacles, being pushed pulled and tested at every corner. Only then, upon arrival at the finish line, would they gain my acceptance.

The root of my inability to accept love easily stems back to my childhood.

Growing up my parents made no effort to hide their disappointment and wish that I were something different. Five kids and I was the one that could never prove I was worthy.

So when my father’s friend would stay over for the night I would eagerly soak in the attention he would lavish me with.

According to him I was the prettiest of my sisters. I was smart. I was everything that made up the definition of being a good girl. I never got tired of hearing him these things. I’d never heard them before.

He smiled at me as I jumped up and down on my bed, wearing nothing but underwear and a skimpy night shirt. He grabbed my ankles and pulled my legs from beneath me making me fall to the bed and engage in laughter.

He then straddled me without putting any weight on me. He looked down at me, smiled and said those three words I had craved for so long. I love you.

It wasn’t too long after that I needed to prove my love. According to him the only way this could be done was through sex. This is how people show love. We’d moved past oral sex and were now rocketing toward the ultimate proof of love. Actual sex. I was ready. At 13.

He loved me so of course I did what he wanted. I never said a word to anyone because if I did I wouldn’t be a good girl anymore and he told me he’d hate me. I didn’t want to lose what I though was love. Soft moans, closing my eyes and biting my lip was what I could do to make it a more loving experience.

One night he had my sister bailed up against the wall. I was mad at him because he’d told me that she was boring and even though my parents loved her dearly that he could never love someone that boring.

I was mad. Here he was showing ‘love’ to my bitch sister who I lived in the shadows of. That love was mine. Not hers.

It was when I confronted him about this that my head was slammed into the dashboard of a Ute. I now have a chipped front tooth that reminds me of that day. My world fell apart this day. He told me that he was using me. That I was pathetic for falling for such a trick. How could he love me. I was a failure of a person. I was gross, dumb, and ugly.

I was his property at this point and whatever he wanted he could take. If I put up a fight I’d be punished with a fist to my stomach or somewhere else that couldn’t be seen. I spent my summers in jumpers and long pants.

He told me he loved me but he lied.

My first seizure. What a treat it was

First. Every single day we are experiencing something for the first time. The first page of a new book. First cake not burnt. First cinema experience. First online purchase … of the week. First seizure.

A month ago I experienced my first seizure. I was interstate, at a work function and it scared me out of my mind. On my way down I hit my head hard, ripped my earring out of my ear, bruised my shoulder, tore my knee open and forgot who I was.

The whole ambulance trip was me connecting the dots. I have kids. Two of them but what are their names. I don’t live here but where do I live.

Sometime in the ED, a CT scan and I was out the door – still fuzzy on the who I am but reasonably okay.

Getting back home and I chase up the results. This means a trip to psychiatrist who is $10 a minute and I wish this was me exaggerating. The man is smart and can block every attempt I make to bring his guard down. He is also so very old and talks non-stop about Freud.

It was at this appointment he promised me some he would work out what was going on as he was positive it had to do with my medication. I have been chasing him now for weeks. Daily phone calls and he won’t return my calls.

I have developed pins and needles in my hands and feet, I’m having insane headaches specifically on the right side of my brain and I’m having involuntary twitches.

I have some rich white douche telling me that I’m not handling it and that maybe a phone call from him will speed the process. I had some weird guy smell my hair while travelling home on the bus. I have zero independence at the moment and the rest of Abby-life.

I am feeling victimised by life a little, want someone to hug me, reassure me that it’s all okay and then – this is the bit that nobody can do – make it all go away.

If someone out there has an Abby voodoo-doll and stabbing it with zest, please stop. I’ve got the point.

I am not okay

I do not share my space well. My home is my safe place where I can throw that mask across the other side of the room.

My mother in-law is currently living with and has been for the past two odd months. Essentially she became homeless and made the decision she’d like to be closer to our kids. Our house is meant to be a stepping stone. Two weeks top is what I was led to believe.

She is loud, American, unclean, a loser, knows it all, and is constantly trying to talk to me about Doomsday, Jesus, how to raise my kids and how I can grow my own vegetables.

The idea was that she’d pay a small amount of money as “rent”. No money, no help around the house, no respite as she sits on my fucking lounge day-in, day-out. I really feel like I’m being punished for something. It’s my space.

I would normally try to escape as much as I can but some fuckwit doctor has said that I’m not meant to drive for six months because of a seizure I had. A seizure that I can’t get any answers on or appropriate tests. I am not okay with being trapped.

She also dobs on me, ringing Michael to tell him the things I’m up to. She tells me that my daughter is difficult because of who I am. And I got mugged because the devil came inside. And I tried to kill myself because I wore a bracelet with peace signs.

I have a Buddha statue at the front of my house and a framed image in my lounge room. To avoid her preaching my husband hides them and tells me we can put them out again when she isn’t here.

I spend most of my time in my bedroom. I am terrified of people coming to my house on the of-chance she answers the door, breathes her disgusting on them and assaults their minds and ears with whatever fucking garbage that comes out.

My house smells of cigarettes. My son has her sleeping in his room on the bottom bunk. His room smells, everywhere you look there is rubbish building up so at one big lot she can put it in the recycling bin. Rory isn’t sleeping well because she coughs all fucking night.

Not only do we have to house her, we also get the privilege of looking after her 7 year old cattle dog that barks and fucking barks. We also get to pay to feed the little bastard.

You’d think that one plus would be free babysitting. No. Left with their grandmother my children would stay in pj all day, skip lunch, and left to their own devises. We once went out one night and assuming my children would have been put in bed I came home to find they were still up. 11pm. Just imagine the anger we endured because they should’ve been in bad hours before.

Right now I spend all minutes of the day being angry. I want to sit on the floor of my shower and cry but even that isn’t something I can do without having her walk in, dob on me or remind me that I just need to let Jesus into my heart.

I want to use my toilet with the door wide open, walk around without clothes on or very little. I want to have my house smell better. I want to be able to put whatever statues I want around. I don’t want to feed another person and animal. I want to be able to eat cereal in the nude (I don’t do this but it sounds like a good idea).

So, the solution would be to find her that place to live with her fuckwit dog. After being told there is nothing out there I present four potentials. Three of them won’t do because those areas are too cold. I find her a place in Boorowa to rent. She fucks up and the owner isn’t keen to have her as a tenant.

I have another four to present to her and she is still sitting on my fucking lounge not paying rent and dishing out cleaning tips to me.

It feels like I always miss out. I’m told that it’ll just be a little longer Abby. I have hit my fucking limit though. I’ll be looking for a place to stay soon. I can’t fucking do this. It’s my fucking house.



I’m angry

  • I’m angry that I’m still having the same conversation with my doctors.
  • I’m angry that weedles are ruining my life and taking all my pokeballs.
  • I’m angry when people promise things but never deliver. Don’t tell me you’ll do something with me if you don’t actually mean it. I’m not the girl to do that to
  • I’m angry that a house receives more love and affection than a daughter
  • I’m angry that I can’t trust my emotions. Am I being reasonable with this anger
  • I’m angry that I don’t sleep well
  • I’m angry I had to let my brother go
  • I’m angry that my life has been stolen from me
  • I’m angry I have to down as many tablets as I do just so I am palatable for others
  • I’m angry with how much all that medicine costs
  • I’m angry that my daughter refuses to listen
  • I’m angry when I’m left with my own thoughts. They scare me and I’d do anything to shut my brain up
  • I’m angry that I’m not the mother or wife they deserve
  • I’m angry that because I work and make money I am not eligible for most mental health services. What do they honestly think will come from all this anger? It won’t result in a hug-fest.
  • I’m angry that I’m completely alone in all of this
  • I’m angry that Cheers walked with little consequence. One minute alone in a room with him with me holding the knife is all I’d need. I’ve learnt where I need to stab him for him to bleed into his heart.
  • I’m angry that I don’t have many friends
  • I’m angry that for the last seven odd months I have heard nothing but my-mum-is-great from a lady at work eager to welcome a new baby into the world. Stop flaunting your Disney-life.
  • I’m angry that I’m travelling for work next week and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that. I can barely look after myself and it doesn’t sound like there will be much Abby-alone-time
  • I’m angry that my birthday this year sucked. Spending it with a sick kid was fucked
  • I’m angry that I once again have my mother in-law living with us
  • I’m angry that I was the one who has had to find her a place to live. I just want her out of my fucking house
  • I’m angry that she tells me that all my misfortune is the devil taking control. Nothing like walking around on the devil’s hit-list
  • I’m angry that so much is explained by using the word God. God is a prick. God doesn’t exist. He is some magical perfect judging fuck that has been made up to make people a little nicer to each other. It’s not working!
  •  I’m angry that people are now thinking she-is-going-to-hell for that. I live hell. Every. Single. Day so bring it
  • I’m angry that my husband doesn’t obsess over me
  • I’m angry when he asks me where I’m going. I feel like he doesn’t trust me
  • I’m angry when he doesn’t ask where I’m going. Makes no fucking sense.
  • I’m angry that I want people to like me
  • I’m angry that I don’t know how to trust
  • I’m angry that I’m ugly on the inside and the outside
  • I’m angry that I don’t know how else to deal with things that don’t involve causing myself physical pain
  • I’m angry that all of this has come off the back of the desire to have money
  • I’m angry when the School’s Out guy rings me and bitches because I forgot to tell him Rory was sick
  • I’m angry that my rabbit isn’t nicer
  • I’m angry that I have to wash clothes
  • I’m angry when people bitch about the messiness of my car. Fuck off you judgemental bastards
  • I’m angry that I am so vulnerable in front of my doctors
  • I’m angry because Nesh turned out to be a wanker who made fun of me
  • I’m angry that my husband doesn’t want to adventure more
  • I’m angry because my kids make my life difficult
  • I’m angry when I can’t find the remotes
  • I’m angry when I’m cold
  • I’m angry that I’m not as fit as the Big Bird Lady and she also smells great
  • I’m angry that I have to go to work and maintain happy and positive
  • I’m angry I have to lie to people
  • I’m angry that I will never be able to relate to my children
  • I’m angry because I can’t have a conversation with someone about those ‘nice’ times when you were growing up
  • I’m angry that I have convinced myself that I’m not going to grow old
  • I’m angry at my fuck-wit siblings and their fucking bitchiness
  • I’m angry that my parents think they even have a role in Rory and Zali’s life. Quit with the Postman Pat shit. You aren’t helping yourself when you write those narky things in the cards about me. As if I’m going to let my children have your cards and crap
  • I’m angry that I feel like I have to have permission to spend money or to do anything
  • I’m angry that I get worried if I’ve been out too long
  • I’m angry that people shouting makes me shut-down
  • I’m angry when I put on weight
  • I’m angry that I feel like I can never breathe
  • I’m angry that I know the difference between a strangulating and breaking neck knot. I can even point it out in movies
  • I’m angry that I think of killing people as much as I do
  • I’m angry when someone assumes I can just start acting like everyone else
  • I’m angry when people say that thinking about them is letting them win. I know that. I hate myself because of it. Don’t really need validation on that one
  • I’m angry when people say that hurting them won’t make me feel any better. How would they know? It might. Don’t presume to know how much anger I have buried deep down
  • I’m angry that I can’t see when I take my glasses off. I’m really blind. See things in shapes and colours blind
  • I’m angry that I’m a female. Men have a sweet ride. No horrible lady-time and they don’t walk around fearing men. I once heard the quote, men worry that women will laugh at them. Women worry that men will beat them.
  • I’m angry that people younger than I am are more successful
  •  I’m angry that I find it difficult to do more than a couple of things and if I try to do it all I fall in a heap
  • I’m angry Katherine Zeising exists
  • I’m angry I was born into a loveless family. Fuck, I’m angry I was born
  • I’m angry at that fucking antique fucking leather lounge. I’d really like to burn that fucking thing
  • I’m angry that my little brother seems miserable
  • I’m angry that I can’t do anything about it. No court would let me have him over guardians that seem to have their shit together
  • I’m angry that my mother thinks that an appropriate santa gift is a fucking weight-loss belt for my little brother
  • I’m angry that I when I see my reflection
  • I’m angry when I hear my own voice
  • I’m angry when I analyse my own thoughts
  • I’m angry that people leave me
  • I’m angry that people lie tome
  • I’m angry that I’m never good enough
  • I’m angry that I look like my mother
  • I’m angry when I think about my other brother. I fucking hate him and want to attack him with a fucking axe. He is turning into the perfect little heartless bastard that my parents would be proud of
  • I’m angry that my eldest sister is such a fucking princess. Yes, we all know you have three children. We all know that they are perfect and that you are perfect. What you don’t know though is that nobody fucking cares about receiving a (no, three) newsletter in the first person of whatever stupid kid it is
  • I’m angry that my other sister has settled into the life that they want her to have. She is a gossiping, drunk.
  • I’m angry my father hasn’t drunk himself to death. Why do the mean old bastards have to live forever
  • I’m angry at every single word that has ever comes out of their mouths
  • I’m angry that I’m that invisible girl that is always in the way
  • I’m angry at all the times I’ve been scared of members of my own family
  • I’m angry that I have tricked myself into believing there was a happy end place
  • I’m angry at that court-approved councillor who used to text, make phone calls and forget my name
  • I’m angry that this isn’t even all the angry I am