So, the job is mostly OK but I worked a night shift the other night, 9pm – 7am and it was hideous.  I felt sick and so tired I was seeing double, I would never usually drive feeling like that, but I was desperate to get home and decided that the train wouldn’t be much safer in the state I felt in.  It screwed up my medication regime, ruined the day because I couldn’t keep my eyes open, so missed out on time with the kids, and even today, following on, I’ve not felt well.  Night shifts are really hard for people anyway, but throw a mental illness into the balance, and its a recipe for disaster.  I’m a bit annoyed because I was supposed to be working today (even though I didn’t feel like it) drove all the way into the city, had to find a parking space and then there was an issue with the roster, so no one was expecting me.  And I’m apparently still supposed to be monitored until I can be trusted to go it alone.  I took the opportunity to leave and have continued to rest all day.

I had a mood shift earlier in the week, I suddenly broke down in the shower and sobbed. I felt like my entire life was a joke, the car battery had died that died that morning, I adopted this dog (on trial) from a complete psycho (I didn’t know that until too late) and I am stressed about finances.  It all seemed to catch up with me, and I felt terribly lonely and sad.  It scared me that my mood could plummet like that after a period of stability.  I made an appointment to see my CPN this Friday, and tried talking to my ex about it.  Naturally that ended in disaster.  I can’t seem to get my head around the fact that he literally doesn’t care.  His only interest in me was getting to sign the house over, other than that, I am someone to be tolerated because we have kids together.  I had hoped for a friendship, as we have known each other for so long, but he continues to put me down to the kids, and treat me like the lowest demoninator.  I did reach out to friends, they were receptive and reminded me that I had been through a lot the last few weeks and it was to be expected that I’d have wobbly days. That made me feel better.  On the whole I was beginning to regret coming back to NZ, despite getting a house and a job and trying to stand on my own two feet.  But I think with everything just got overwhelming.  And being single there is no one to share this vulnerability with.  A cuddle and some reassurances would be nice, but I cant imagine sharing my life with anyone else.  Its almost too hard to contemplate being able to trust and love anyone else.

The kids have been awesome.  J in particular is awesome with the dog. She has such a natural ability with animals. I hope she will become a vet nurse and tap into that skill and natural ability.  I don’t know how I could have juggled a job and training a new dog.  He’s pretty cool, he’s one year old, so not so puppy which I wanted, but the woman that had him before was so mentally unstable, I’m worried about the upbringing he had.  He has been amazing with the kids, very patient and gentle, but I feel myself guarded.  I’m also guilty of comparing him to my last dog, who was awesome, and who I tried to find on my return back from England, but couldn’t locate him.  I miss him a lot.  It is nice to have a dog around the house again, I feel more secure and its forced me to take walks that I usually avoid doing.

My landlord has been great and installed security lights around the front, so I feel better about that, plus its easier when I get back from a night shift.

I am worried about my health in the long term with these unreasonably long hours,  I have decided to be honest about my concerns – although NOT mention my mental health but rather my capacity to work such a long night shift, with a drive home in the morning,  It simply isn’t safe, plus I’m hardly performing at my best past 1am and can’t concentrate.

So aside from glitches, things continue to be OK.  I wouldn’t say I’m operating at 100%, I have stresses and concerns and I feel particularly sensitive.  But hopefully I can iron these things out.

Having the kids stay at my house has been really nice.  They seem to love it here and I’m so relieved I can accomodate everyone. Just!


The thing (the truth)

You know what, I am just going to write about what’s been happening that has caused me so much stress.  No one has said that I can’t discuss it and I’m sick of carrying it around and being careful not to mention anything.  And again, I cannot be silenced.

So, I started by blog when I was back in NZ after my brief time in the UK (18 Months) because S got ‘the job’ that was going to ‘make’ him.  Yep, heard that before.  I was pregnant with our son and I really didn’t need that upheaval, when I had a good circle of friends and a good OB here.  But he was adamant, we were all going.  It was going to be good for us.

We were given two weeks to pack our lives and move out of the house, the house I’d loved overlooking the ocean.  Where friends had congregated for BBQs, and where the children went to school just down the road.  We had, like most accumulated so much stuff, alas, most of it became charity or tip fodder.  The whole thing felt like a nightmare.  I anticipated any second that S would change his mind.  Why would I want to return to the UK??

Back in the UK, we’d miss a Kiwi summer, and were in an English winter.  I can’t tell you how depressing, back to back winters are.  S was in the job straight away, so pregnant and leaving my kids with my parents, I trawled rental properties with an agent.  I was pregnant, tired and sick and eager to build a nest for my children.  I had no help, my parents bordered useless.  They were never good with the kids and as a wife/mother, it was obvious that I could juggle all the balls in the air, still look good and not complain.  We were temporarily in an apartment, a 2 bedroom apartment which was hellish with three small children, so S arranged for us to move into a four bedroom apartment near St Paul’s Cathedral.  The area was lovely, and perhaps in holiday mode, I could have enjoyed the history and architecture and atmosphere and I have done previously in London.

But not just a house, I needed to find an OB and hospital too.  This meant many taxi trips and appointments, squeezing the odd scan in where I could to make sure my baby was OK with all this stress.

I found a house, a lovely big home a short walk from shops, off the M25 so easy drive into London city (not incl traffic!) and a fast train into London.

Our furniture was continuously delayed, so we had small pieces of rental furniture.  That were neither homely nor barely functional.  But we got through it.  Despite morning sickness and tiredness and swollen ankles, I organised a school for the kids and started to make this town our home.

I could never shake my regret at not filing charges against the man who had attacked me all those years ago.  And I felt more vulnerable than ever.

I hired a PI initially, I had to KNOW my enemy, and then I decided to press charges.

S worked long hours in the bank.  I felt I barely had any support.  My parents of course delighting that I should be a bankers wife and concentrate on being a Stepford wife.

The whole thing was a horrible, long never-ending nightmare.  But that is a different story.

As I lived in a county away from where it happened, I pressed charges through the local constabulary and then they in turn communicated with the constabulary of the area where the attack occurred.

communication breakdowns, different people on shift, new people, disorganisation and the general disregard you’d expect for a hisotric case were all part of a journey that lead to multiple psychiatric treatments, in-house care, medications, etc. I also managed to parent three kids, give birth to my fourth, and manage my life back in Blighty.  Of what life I had.  The resentment that I had towards S slowly bubbled unde the surface.  Maybe this signalled the start of our breakdown.

Anyway, there was a ‘Specially Trained Officer’ in the local police office that always treated me with such compassion and kindness.  We had a lot in common, and he was great company, funny and attractive.  He always had time for me, he never saw me as victim, he always helped by giving me legal advice and I feel supported me through the whole process.  Even in times of panic and upset, I could get hold of him.  We text each other often and after a while, people started to think our communication was probably too much.  But I didn’t care, here was a man who understood my pain, but could make me laugh and be there to mop up the tears.  I’m not sure how the line was crossed, there is no clear moment, no recollection of comment misread, or a ‘moment’ but somehow we became flirtatious.  There was an attraction between us.  He was married as well, but he told me unhappily and keen to leave.  We bonded over so many commonalities, and he made me feel like a desirable woman.  Not a mother, nor wife, nor struggling mental health patient.  A woman with desires, smart, funny and tender too.

In essence he represented to me everything my husband was not.  He listened, he advised, he held me, he spoke to me for hours.  He was there.

Anyway, he knew ultimately I would return to NZ and he knew that I loved my husband.  But I genuinely believed that there was something special, a connection.

I’m not going to justify this, it was wrong.

Fast forward, maybe three or so years later.  I’m in NZ.  He texts occasionally.  Chatty, upbeat messages, but I keep my tone civil but wary.  I am focused on my family and my marriage and I’m home.  Then he tells me that there was some sort of protest and he and some other cops got involved, things got a bit gnarly and there’s been a complaint about him.  He wonders, if asked, if I  might be a reference for him.

I don’t think that a good idea at all, and say as much.  I asked some friends in the UK and they tell me about a protest that occurred, so I know that much to be true.

He asks a few more times, implies things are heating up.  I answer the same.  I haven’t been in the UK for ages, it would be strange and frankly I don’t know the charges or what happened.

Then I receive a letter, from his office, an official letter, asking for information about an investigation into an officer during years that women made were pressing charges for sexual assault related crimes.  Of course, it was during the year that I had made my complaint (about the offender).

I thought it an odd request.  I ignored it.  I wanted no part of it.  I did query though, with him, why this letter?  He claims that someone is suggesting he was inappropriate, but its all lies and it’s a witch hunt.  Of course, I believe this because initially it seemed to be about a protest.

Gradually as time wears on, his communication comes in spurts.  Mostly asking for a references, sometimes just random, vague messages.  Once telling me he was quitting the force, felt suicidal.  It all seemed surreal.  I didn’t reply because I didn’t understand.

Gradually I started to wonder if maybe he had done something.  Overstepped a mark with someone, and if so, I had effectively set the benchmark.  As my affection was mutual, could he have interpreted that to mean that it was OK to make moves on victims?  I felt horrendously guilty.  Had I started a behaviour?  A year went by, and I carried the weight of my guilt.  What had I done?  What had he done?

So I called and obtained the name of the investigating officer.  I spoke to her.  I had to know what was going on, and why.  Hoping it was something minor, something casual, a witch hunt.  The investigation was still on going.  And I learnt that he had been inappropriate with 10 women in total (that they knew of).  All survivors of sexual assault, all with some sort of mental health issues.  I felt my heart go to stone.  Immediately I explained it WAS MY FAULT, I had been equally attracted and so he must have thought that paved the way to be with other people.  I also asked why this started off the back of a protest.  It had nothing to do with a protest.  It was a woman, making a complaint about his conduct.  I was noted in the communication through emails.  They expected I had become involved but without talking to me, they didn’t know the extent of the communication.  I had to know – was it my fault?  What had I done?

I thought back to when I saw him, always on duty, always in a police car (unmarked), it added to the appearance of a professional meeting.  Yes, somethings had seemed or said that seemed inappropriate, but he was a man and we were friends now, so it didn’t matter did it?

Frankly the whole thing is confusing.  He’s apparently claiming to be very unwell (mentally) but the argument is whether that caused his behaviour or whether he’s simply using it as an excuse.  I guess that’s internal politics because I don’t know why a resignation wouldn’t be accepted.

I mentioned that his marriage was broken and it had been a difficult year for him – yeah well, apparently that’s not true either.

In fact, I am not really the wiser as to what is true and what isn’t anymore.  Maybe I wasn’t so special?  Was he attracted to damaged goods?  Did I really know him at all?  Could these women be wrong?  Was it wrong that he spent so much time with me?  I thought he genuinely liked me.  Or was I a challenge?  Was this a game?

I mentioned to the woman who I kept my phones, I always keep my cell phones, unless I upgrade.  I have a phone and handbag addiction.  I’m not even sure why it tumbled so forthcoming from my mouth.  Even at the time, she didn’t seem interested.  I guess I pictured that Blackberry in my draw, that had been my lifeline.  So many messages communicated.  Such an integral time in my life.  Later she asked for me to send it back.  But the thing has been long since reset.  I might keep my phones, but I don’t keep my data.  She wanted things I’d told her to be written down and for me to sign. A formality with record keeping.  That made sense.

Little did I know, its been a few weeks of complete hassle.  Emails come with statements – formal looking, I’ve had to go to the library and sign and scan.  NZ Police got involved to get the phone.  I have felt scared.  I have felt further violated.  And frankly I would like to speak to the person in question and ask all these questions, did I mean anything to you?  Whats a lie?  Whats the truth?  Is this all one big mistake?

I’m reminded of the reason we met in the first place, and that adds to the seediness of it all.  I feel dirty and crappy all over again.  I’m scared.  I feel used, but I feel so stupid.

I want to believe he’s the nicest cop I’ve met, that helped me through a traumatic time.  The alternative cannot be right.

So, this is why my life has taken an unusual and upsetting turn.  I probably shouldnt have called the UK police, but I had to know the truth.  Although I don’t feel much closer to it.

Again, I’m shouldering this alone.  But I have made an appointment with my therapist to discuss this.  I need to talk, and to think about it.  I need to find where to allocate my blame.  I need to consider what this means and what I’ve done wrong here.

My self entitled rant

No one fully appreciates the trauma of a sexual assault unless they too have experienced it.

I remember when I trained with Victim Support and I heard people who were the victims of house burgleries feel violated, stating that they felt almost like they’d been raped.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not getting into a ‘who has it worse’ scenario.  I’m not going to trivialize a home invasion, and I completely understand, although not having experienced it, that it would be extremely frightening and traumatic.  In America, you can shoot someone while trying to defend your property.  And of course, people have worked very hard to accumulate these items.  So I’m not putting that trauma down AT ALL.  BUT, yes, the inevitable but, items, aside from sentimental items can be replaced.  They can be insured, they can be, well, effectively lived without.  No, I wouldn’t like it if someone stole my phone, my TV, my laptop, my jewellery, or waded through my personal effects.  No I wouldn’t feel safe for a long time after.

But how can that compare to someone forcing themselves onto your most intimate, private and irreplaceable body?  I couldn’t fight the man off of me, he didn’t care what I said or did, he didn’t even care that people heard, he was taking my body and using it for his own gratification irrespective of anything else.  I can’t replace the virginity that I lost, I can’t forget what he did.  I can never feel entirely clean of him either. My body still reacts to flashbacks, triggers, even medical exams.  I lost a piece of myself that I will never get back.  And in that, I will never be able to feel fully safe in my own body again.  For the rest of my life, I will always know that someone is fully capable of forcing themselves onto me, despite my protests – physical and/or verbal, despite the chance someone could catch him, despite my best efforts to avoid certain situations – as victim blamers and rape culture tends to denote that there is.  I will always know that this CAN happen because IT did happen.  It’s not the stuff I read on the news and thank god it wasn’t me.  Its not the stuff people can joke about and I can impishly smile and ignore it because they’re talking about me.  They’re joking about me.  I can’t live in a world where bad stuff happens when you’re in the wrong place, wearing the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing, etc.  I know that it can happen when you’re barely a teenager, when you think you’re in a safe place, when the world is a big and beautiful place and bogeyman live only in the darkest corner of nightmares.

So when a trauma, as physically and as intrusive as rape occurs, there is no fix.  No cure, no healing balm.  No number of therapy sessions, no special words, no magic pills.

You learn to live with this horrible awareness, this painful notion that the world goes on, even though part of you died that night. Even though your brain can’t fully appreciate the depth of the horror, the pain of the horror and permanent reminders of the horror.

My subsequent relationship was an unhealthy one.  I trusted this person with my past experience, and he used it to gain power over me.  The person I trusted, physically held this power over me.  Knowing he could break me, mould me, control me, scare me, own me.  But to me he wasn’t the rapist.  I didn’t know the rapist, but I knew this guy.  I shared his bed.  I had sexual relations with him, I ate dinner with him, I knew his family and friends.  He was my protector, my provider and my partner.  I showered and bathed with him. Celebrated with him.  And yet he was able to push me down and take what he wanted, until the pain was so unbearable that it was hard to walk.  To squeeze my throat, to threaten to end me, to demean me and degrade me.  To ‘permit’ toilet breaks, to take my clothes, to hide me from the world.  But he was my partner.  I loved him and I thought I needed him.  I was young, he was my saviour.

Only leaving when a knife nearly took my choices away.

Only YEARS later did I begin to question the relationship.  Its validity, its impact, its power and control cycle. For so long, he had been ‘just a boyfriend.’

I have since been married (to a different man), had my beautiful kids and now I am separated.  And I take stock of my life, I consider the impact of all of my years on this earth.  The pain and suffering.  The lack of support.  How the only way I knew how to survive was to travel.  Alone.  To avoid people, to avoid relationships.  To avoid hurt.

I could play a role of wife to my ex husband, not really encompassing all that is involved in that duty.  Not fully ready to commit, or trust.  But to engage in an otherwise healthy marriage, or what I deem to be considered healthy and raise my children in a family full of love and compassion.  No fear, open communication and honesty.

In my separation I am left wondering who I really am.  Not able to trust, thrust often into the past.  No one to discuss these fears or concerns with – my choice – I get that.

But essentially after leaning on another man for so many years, I feel like I am left to grow all over again, dissect things, consider things, feel things, grieve for things.

My body doesn’t feel safe.  I don’t feel safe.  No home, no car, no person can change any of that.

So I don’t think anyone can place a time frame on trauma.  I don’t think anyone can have expectations or work along a linear healing process.

I am blind in my healing.  I always have been.  Wanting to move away, move on, not talk, not discuss the pain, the memories, the trauma.  Not acknowledging the nightmares, the triggers, my own limitations.

Who I am today is part moulded on the traumas of what I have experienced.  The fears, lack of trust, negative self talk, inability to talk out loud about my struggles, the fact that it has taken SO LONG to come to terms with any of it.  To process it, to accept it.

I make no excuses for my anxiety, I make no excuses for my mental health and I make no excuses for the way I am wired.

I will manage my mental health – that is, not ignore the advice of mental health professionals, and I will try not to blame the entire world for my pain.

But make no mistake, I have been wounded so deeply that I deserve my good days and my bad days.  My scared days, my down days, and my anxiety.

I am not entitled to anything from my marriage, but I will always have my voice.


I see dead people – maybe!

This isn’t going to be a fluff piece or an opinion piece, I just wanted to elaborate on my own feelings before explaining my day yesterday.

I believe everyone has the right to practice their own religious beliefs, I take an interest in all cultures and religions, hence why I’ve travelled extensively.  Personally I don’t believe in God, Christ and I don’t interpret the bible in any way to suit my intentions.  I do take issue when people use religious arguments in social issues like gay marriage or abortion for example.  Being religious and judging people is the ultimate in hypocrisy and I think people like that are responsible for causing a bad name to religious groups.  I think people should be able to live in peace, follow their faiths without living in fear of persecution as I believe people without faith should be able to live without religious propaganda.

I’d like to think there was more to life than flesh and bones. I’d like to think we have souls or an energy that is left behind when we die.  Just because I like to think it, doesn’t mean I profess to state it as a fact. I listen with an open mind when people talk about feeling someone close when they’ve died and let’s be honest, there’s too many people who have had other worldly experiences to be immediately dismissive.  That said, I will avoid seances and I wouldn’t dabble with a Ouija board.  I mean – who can say for sure, right?!

So, this being said I went to a fair in town yesterday for the ‘Mind Body and Spirit.’  There were psychics/clairvoyants there, I know there’s some correct reference but it depends on the person.  A guy was there that I’d been introduced to in the past a friend’s psychic and we bumped into each other by chance.  Or did we?!  I’d taken his business card, he’s on Facebook too – it’s the modern era people!  So he was there at this fair thing, I didn’t know he was going to be there.  I booked my 20 mins and paid my $15 and sat skeptively waiting for my turn.

He held my hands and I guess formed some opinions about me.  Some were clearly visible signs he read quickly – no wedding ring, child-bearing age, wet hair from a late morning start.  So I’m probably either married or recently single, seeking out a psychic means I’m clearly at a crossroads in my life and looking for some advice and the wet hair means I’m probably a late riser,it was a weekend day, so probably lying in because of early starts with the kids most mornings.  First he ascertained the child aspect, my emotional response to the reference, and then gauged my reaction to a relationship.  I’m not easily bought!  He went on to say that there was someone looking after me, a woman, motherly, possibly a Nan.  Unfortunately my poker face fell and I teared up because I was incredibly close to my nan.  He went with the nan thread but some of the things he said were undeniably close to the truth.  The things that really stood out was there my Nan is with me at night when I cry.  That my ex husband isn’t a bad guy but is immature, and that I need to make more of an effort to cut the emotional ties to him because I need to move on.

He also suggested that I was convenient for him, easy to be taken advantage of.  Which is exactly what my lawyer said, because I look after the kids all the time and I can drop everything at a moments notice to be there for them.  But I love my kids, I love being around them, so I can’t help that.

I did leave feeling emotional, the references to my Nan seeing my tears and the fairly blatant, that stage of your life is over was hard to hear. Although necessary and it won’t be the last time.

S asked about the fair and I mentioned a few things which of course he took the piss about.  He doesn’t believe in any of that stuff and thinks I’m just nuts to want anything to do with it.  Of course, if he was actually a nice guy he would have appreciated that I found comfort and knew that hearing my Nan’s reference was incredibly emotive to me.

I actually felt exhausted so had a quick nap before taking the kids out.  While I slept I dreamt about my ex and I.  Me begging for him back, feeling incomplete without him.  Feeling blame and a tidal wave of grief.  But when I woke up, the residual feelings were from the dream.  It was like I was being shown how I used to feel but now I simply don’t.  It was weird to wake up feeling the heartache as a memory but not a current sadness.  It weighed with me all evening, but I knew it was a memory and nothing more powerful.  I look at him now and hear some of the things he says and I see someone who if I met NOW, I wouldn’t be attracted too at all.  I feel like I need to be loved, and I miss affection, but I wouldn’t get that need fulfilled from him.  He’s too selfish for one.  I need a real connection.  The guy did say that I fear being alone forever – that’s true, I do, but I would meet someone and be happy once I was able to let go of all the separation baggage and open myself up to trusting again.

Frankly, irrespective of beliefs, I was given something to mull over.  And it would  be nice to know my Nan was there.

Next week is going to be another shitty week.  Tuesday I take my boy to try at school, he turns 5 in Jan, and that’s when they start school, then in the afternoon I see my lawyer because of S and this shitty house situation, then Weds is my hospital appointment.  Which I’ve decided to get a taxi back from, as I don’t want to rely on S.

I think hostility will grow between S and I because of this house thing, I wish it could be avoided, but the only way to avoid it would be to comply and sign the house over.



Looks like my passport has arrived. I have been like a dog jumping at the door whenever I hear a van. I knew it would be any day now. 

This afternoon I took my eldest daughter, my boy and me out for haircuts. In that time the courier arrived. I have a ‘come to collect’ waiting for me. So tomorrow I will duly collect my passport, head to immigration in the city for a stamp and will at that stage be free to leave when I choose.

Some power back.

No more limbo.

To date, my husband and I have avoided each other. Sick of arguments and knowing that we are only existing around each other. Communication is the odd question or text, usually relating to the kids.

How did it get so bad so quickly? I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. Just the awareness that things were cracking. Then the panic, no one likes the status quo to change. The fear of being alone, of being rejected and unloved. The attempts to band aid the situation. Barely lasting a day. My desperation to see the caring supportive man I devoted most of my life too. And no doubt he too has been trying to remember why he fell in love with me in the first place. 

Then the honesty, it’s been like this for far too long. Is it actually fixable? Is it worth it?

Considering I’ve been so alone the last few months and my husband has been aware of my pain, aware of my fight, but chosen to turn a blind eye is testament to the degeneration of our relationship. The change in the way he makes me feel. The look of disdain, freezing me out. It’s been a hard pill to swallow. 

But I can’t ignore this sadness in my soul, even just for the children’s sake. I feel like crap, I feel so empty. 

I’m sat in the bedroom now while he plays computer games. He has no interest in me. I have sought him out time over to encourage dialogue but end up feeling like a neglected puppy trying to get his masters attention. That’s not me. Our relationship should be equal. It always used to be.

Everything has changed. Can I give a time and date of when that happened? No. Could I have predicted such turn in events? Actually yes. When you pretend that everything is all right for so long, you are lying to your heart and soul. And this emptiness grows inside like a seed. Stressors come and go, but the damage is done. The seed grows a bit more. Eventually you are forced to face the truth. You can either hide from it or embrace it. I’ve always preferred to hide. I’m a coward. But now I can’t handle living like this. The gnawing away at each other, the second guessing. 

I have to find myself again. I have to experience my passion – for doing something I enjoy and for life in general.

I have to learn to love myself again. Over time I became dependant on my husband. He was my guardian, my rock, everything safe. Familiar, warm and loyal.

Recently he’s made me feel inadequate, unattractive, unworthy, lonely, weak and desperate.

I need to breathe. And I need to relinquish this seed.

I need to remember who I am. I need to be ready for my trial, because my husband won’t be holding my hand anymore. He won’t be comforting me in the night. He won’t be my person.

I’m so sad. Devastated that it’s come to this. But determined to be true to myself.

Truth and loyalty

I’m a complicated person. There is nothing special about me. I don’t proclaim to have all the answers. I’m far from perfect. I make mistakes often, I speak out of turn. I infuriate people, I offend people, my failures haunt me for years. No one can give me a harder time than I give myself.

But there’s one thing I offer my friends that remains consistent, it’s my honesty and my loyalty. Believe me, if my friends want to take me to some party to impress others – I am NOT that friend, if my friend is dating someone completely inappropriate, I am NOT the friend that they will take to introduce. I offer my honest opinion and I stand by loyally. Often it means people I care about hear truths that perhaps they don’t want to hear. But you know what, never can I be accused of saying something behind someone’s back. I call things as I see them. I try to manage not being too blunt. And I ask, rather expect the same of my friends. If I hear mixed messages and this confuses me, it angers and upsets me. I would rather take the initial hurt and process it then find out later. To deny someone honesty and loyalty in any situation is the greatest show of disrespect and disregard there ever is. I find that inexcusable. Because in life, we don’t have much to offer our fellow man. Basic courtesy is something that can never be taken away for us. That can never be manipulated, or twisted by anyone else. Even during my darkest hour, when I feel sad and alone, my friends know, I will be there for them. That if they ask me a question, I will answer honestly. So although I struggle with my demons and my moods, and nightmares tear at my sleep and my past will grip me in a vice, I know, and my friends know, you ask a question, you get the truth. You need me, I’m there. It’s amazing when you learn that very few people can offer the same. Those that can you need to hold onto with both hands and cherish. Those that can’t are best left, usually in the past.

So, I’m on the increased medication and I’m certainly functioning a lot better than I was. I can’t say as if I’m skipping around town, but I’m certainly doing a lot more than I was. The children are on Easter holiday. We had gone away for the long weekend which was lovely and relaxing and nice to be out of the city. For the remainder of the time they are in a holiday programme which they are thoroughly enjoying as it has lots of activities. I’m happy to see them getting out and about.

I’ve not had therapy for a while as my therapist has been on holiday. Perhaps this has been a good thing as it’s given me a break. I had one set of terrible nightmares while we were away, which isn’t too unusual as we were away and then another bad night when we returned. I believe that second night might have been triggered by a programme on television. It’s strange that my symptoms of PTSD have generally subsided with the reprieve in the therapy. I do feel anxiety from an argument I had with some people from my past. Unfortunately, when you confide in people, there is always a risk that you choose the wrong people and they are unhelpful. Their responses are callous and selfish. You just have to be so careful. I guess I expected too much from the wrong people. That kind of judgment call doesn’t get easier to deal with. But there’s no point wasting more time and energy getting upset over it. And I refuse to be made to feel bad by others inability to act with honesty and integrity. Unfortunately this isn’t the first time I’ve been made to feel bad by the same people. Sometimes you have to recognise the pattern – even though it hurts.

I’m not sure where I’m going from here. I’m still waiting for the medication to balance out I guess. I seem to be in limbo. My confidence has taken a knock so I’m unsure about looking at getting into contract work again. I’m anxious about resuming therapy. It always feels difficult after a long break. I guess we’ll see….

Past and the present, secrets and lies

I often refer to Demons. That’s what they are. Ugly insidious parts of my history that lie within my soul like tumours. They taunt me, eat away at me, sometimes quieter than other times. But ever present. I feel that I can never be free of what is inside of me. Although therapy has been an excellent way to confront these dark shadows, to name them, to face them. But every fear is very much current, it grows with me. I can never be safe. I can of course take actions to enable a sense of security, but I never feel truly safe.

We all have a point in our lives when we meet a significant juncture. Some of us have a few. I have a few. One most pointed is deciding to leave someone without offering an explanation. Leave with the good memories. Protect them. And our lives go on and things change and as happens with the accessibility of social networking, connections are established.

Then the situation becomes further complicated when you see danger in the midst of the people you care about. Every time you wish to bask in the beauty of the fond memories, a shadow is lurking not too far beyond. A reminder of what you are. Where you came from. That you are vulnerable. That there are very thin veils between all that is good and evil.

Alone, you must make a decision about what is revealed, what isn’t and how you can handle the ramifications. There is guilt of tremendous proportions, because all that is good don’t deserve this misery, but they deserve to be kept safe. There is guilt because you should never have gone back. There is fear. There is heartache. Who knows what the right decision is? 

I believe in honesty, directness, most of the time at my peril. I believe in loyalty and as I don’t have extended family, my friends are my family and I want to protect them as a wolf does their own.

The medication is working, so please don’t think these are the ramblings of a mad woman! My energy levels are very gradually rising. I’m taking extra care to rest and eat. I’m owning my current state. I take each day as it comes. There will be good and bad days. My hope is that the good days gradually outnumber the bad days. I realise it will take time. But I’m fighting.

But today, today I must face a cold hard truth in my blog. You can keep secrets to protect the ones you care about, you can keep secrets for years, but they eat away at you, they give more energy to the demons. It all hangs there. Unspoken, but there. Secrets are lies. They are omissions of the truth. And you can only hide that for so long. Especially when the veil between all that is good and all that is evil is so very thin.

Today, protecting the ones I care about has ended in me being hurt again. And yet, I am the one that was hurt in the first place.

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