Birthday

Would have been my Mum’s birthday today.

74….18.03.34 - 10.05.71

Exactly twice the age she was when she died.

Strange knowing that. Almost been gone longer than she lived.

Happy birthday Mum…..

One of the problems

I’ve been so busy being strong for everyone else, I’ve had no time for myself.

I haven’t for years.

What I want, badly, is someone to lean on. Just for a little while.

A day would do. No decisions, no problems, not a bill to pay, nothing to think about.

Just time for me. Someone to shoulder the responsibility of everything.

I’ve been doing it for 34 years, and I’m tired.

So tired.

I want to sleep. I can’t.

I’m sick of sleeping less than 4 hours a night.

My eyes are stinging I’m that tired.

I go to bed, I lay there and stare into the dark.

So I get up again.

It goes around and around and around.

Every damned day! The never ending cycle.

How the hell am I going to break it?

Dark passenger

This post has nothing to do with the time line in all of this. It’s more about something that struck me tonight. Like a ton of bricks.

I watch a program called Dexter. For anyone not familiar with it, the story is built around a serial killer. Who also happens to be a forensic sicentist with the police dept.

Season 2 is currently running here in Oz, and we’ve just watched an episode.

The main character used a phrase tonight that struck a chord.

He said “I have a dark passenger. One who has always been with me and is a part of my life”

That’s what I have. A dark passenger.

He’s always there.

I don’t know why.

I don’t comprehend the purpose.

He won’t leave me alone.

He won’t go away.

I’ve been ignoring him for some time, refusing to admit he exists.

Until tonight.

I too have a dark passenger.

I am however very lucky in that I also have someone trying to coax this “thing” from my life. I’m not sure they realise they’re doing it. I don’t think it’s a conscious happening on their behalf. They just do. They reach inside and touch my soul. Now I understand the purpose of why this person came into my life. It’s been a puzzle for some time. Not anymore.

I’ve edited to add this today

Now I understand. That one line made it crystal clear. I now also understand why I’ve been quite content to go along with it. I didn’t mention it in recent chats because the forum wasn’t right. It needed to be in words. Like this. This how it began, this is how it will continue on this subject. For now

Every now and again I feel that in some instances, time does not heal all wounds. I still have a stab of pain when I think of the past, and the things that have happened there. It shouldn’t be so after all these years. It should have been banished by now.

Yet still it exists. It’s why this site has been badly neglected of late. Life has been sunny and good. I haven’t felt the need to purge.

Until that one line.

I have a dark passenger.

The longer I ignore it, the more chance there is of ending up just as I was before I allowed the grieving process to commence.

I need to do this more. I know I do, yet still I avoid it.

For someone who seems so together on the outside, the inside is somewhat in turmoil at the moment.

Life can be a pain in the neck sometimes. This is one of them.

You may need coffee

Again, this is a lengthy post, so if you’re inclined to read it, please make yourself comfortable.

Once the initial hullabaloo had settled down, which took some time, needless to say, life became quite difficult overall.
We had neighbours on one side of us where I spent a lot of time. She tried to be my friend, but was quite over the top and could be somewhat scatterbrained at times. I’ve never suffered fools gladly at any point and this instance was no different. She wasn’t the reason I was going though, it was him.
For a girl in the situation I was in to have a man pay me attention and actually listen to me after the events at home felt good. I make no secret of that, none at all. He listened, he understood, and he sympathized. He spent time with me, just talking and listening. He’d known my Mum and what type of person she was so it was something we had in common. The other thing was, being grounded I couldn’t go too far from home other than to school and it was an escape from the witch without the questions about where I was going.
Well, as you’ve all probably seen coming, it didn’t stay platonic. It was never meant to happen, it was circumstances that created it, and I must say before another word, I do NOT regret it in any way shape or form.
I was a very mature teenager and well aware of what I was doing. I was not seduced by someone twice my age, I was just as much at fault (if fault is the right word) as he was, and allowed it to develop, albeit not consciously.
To cut a long, complicated story short, and for the sake of not writing War & Peace, when I turned 16, I left home, so did he and we moved in together.
Life was interesting to say the least. It was the scandal of the town, {remembering this was 34 years ago and it was a small country town}
A married father of 2 children had left his wife for a teenager. It was almost headlines in the local paper.
When the divorce was applied for, it was in the days before no fault was thought of, so I was named in the court papers as the reason for said divorce, and is the way with these things, the court list was published in the Public Notices and anyone who had been unaware before was certainly not unaware after that!
We made a decision to have a baby, it was not accidental. K was the result, and a wonderful result at that. I was happy to a point, but had, to a degree understandably, been ostracized by my family. His family were quite shocked at first, but then felt their son and brother’s happiness was paramount and if this was what he wanted then they would accept it, and did. I was welcomed into their home without question, recrimination or anything else, and for that I will be eternally grateful. Never will I forget the kindness and welcome these people afforded me.
What rankled was my own family couldn’t do the same. It hurt. Fuck it hurt!
I refused to show it however, and in my own pig headed way decided I could live without them. To a point I could, but I missed the family gatherings, and those involved in them. My Dad wasn’t one of them though. He wasn’t invited because they were on Mum’s side of the family and he had been wiped like a nose after remarrying so soon after her death. Few of Mum’s family has had little to do with him for many years, and even till today they have not forgiven him.
Life went on, I fell pregnant with N, and we decided the time had come to marry, which we did when I was 5 months pregnant. That same year my brother got married and, much to my surprise, an invitation was issued, to both of us. We accepted, with some trepidation I’ll admit.
Dad and the witch were at the wedding, which we knew they would be. At first it was all very polite and nice, she tried to get the odd barb in but being a wedding and not the right forum, I didn’t rise to the bait, and in fact {surprisingly} Dad actually stuck up for me a couple of times, telling her that she really didn’t need to be like that. Thankfully, I was sitting down at the time, or I would have fallen over backwards!
Dad got me alone at one point and said he felt that the time had come to start building bridges, and if we were willing so was he. My question was, “is she”. Not one word about the way I referred to her, and the answer was he had made sure it was ok.
I spoke to my husband and he said it was up to me, he would be happy either way, all he wanted was for me to be happy. He did express some concerns regarding the sincerity of her agreeing given that Dad had insisted on it, but felt that to give it a chance was possibly the best way to be. So I let my guard down.
Pretty fucking stupid huh?
All was well for a small while. Visits were exchanged, meals were had, all the pleasantries observed. It would appear life was good.
Beware the calm before the storm!
On Christmas day my husband had to work. Dad would not hear of me being on my own with the K while being heavily pregnant, and in fact overdue at that point. He insisted we come for the day, so we did. My brother came and picked us up and off we went.
All was well till it was time to open presents. Dad had never been one to buy these things so left it to her to do. She had 2 sons, one of which had a little girl about the same age as mine.
When the time came, the son’s daughter got a trike. Pink, girly, all the bells and whistles. When it was K’s turn it was a book about the size of a postage stamp. I was somewhat irritated, but thought, hey, the kids are happy that’s what counts.
Dad didn’t think the same way. He asked where the rest of her present was. The response was that’s it. He very calmly asked for a quiet word in the kitchen and off they went. By this time I’m feeling somewhat uncomfortable about the situation and felt I should say something, but held my tongue. I didn’t want any trouble, it was Christmas day after all, and I’d been taught it was the thought that counts anyway.
The voices became just raised enough to hear in the lounge.
Dad: “Why the obvious difference in the presents?”
Her: “Because only the REAL grandchildren deserve to have money spent on them, not the bastard ones”
That was it! I exploded! Christmas day or no Christmas day, NO-ONE was referring to my daughter that way!
End result? Me walking out with K, and saying I was going home…without the postage stamp.
Dad did nothing more than I thought he would, he bowed to her pressure and tried to play peace maker, saying it wasn’t meant the way it sounded.
I didn’t respond, I kept going. My brother came and found me and took us home.
It was 10 years before I spoke to either Dad or her again. I had N 3 days after the Christmas debacle, and then M, a few years later. I went through the trauma of a {nasty} divorce and custody battle, cervical cancer, many health problems and a 2nd divorce without one member of my family to turn to, or indeed one offer of assistance from any of them.
In fact in the midst of the custody battle, my very own sister gave evidence on behalf of the girl’s father that I was an unfit mother and didn’t deserve to have the girls. That was the end of any hope of a reconciliation with her, and until recently did not speak to her, or even lay eyes on her for many, many years. It took the death of a family member for that to happen. That however is another post for another day.
In recent years, I speak to my father on special occasions, tolerate her when I need to and don’t take any shit at all.
I never explode, never raise my voice, and have, to a degree, forgiven the past hurts. Please note I said, to a degree.
The things that have been said and done are bitter pills to swallow. Whilst some of it is of my own doing, I have put my hand up and accepted responsibility for my part in the saga.
But not her. Oh no, She’s still, never wrong, always right and continues to have the odd dig about past events.
Dad is different these days, he doesn’t tolerate too many jibes at me from her, but my response is always the same. It’s ok Dad. I’m not a young girl any more, and I don’t fear incurring your displeasure. She doesn’t upset me anymore, I choose to ignore the crap and enjoy the rest. I choose to enjoy whatever time I can get with him on his own. Then I see my Dad, not the man who fathered me. There’s a difference, let me assure you.
I had his displeasure for many years, and for many reasons. Not these days. I’m like the prodigal daughter. To him anyway.
What more can she do to me? She is now a little old lady of 91 and I’m going to outlive her I hope.
I don’t care how it sounds, but I’m looking forward to the day I can speak of these things and hear, from him, WHY this cow had enough power over him that she could convince him to distance himself from his own flesh and blood. Without her there to throw her 2 cents worth in and get in a few little digs.
That day is coming.
I know to err is human and forgive divine, but there is NO way on this earth I will EVER forgive this woman for the part she played in the destruction of our family.
I’ll never forgive myself, or Dad for allowing it to happen either is the sad part.
I struggle with knowing I need to forgive as part of the healing process, all while not wanting to.
The time is coming, very soon, when I will ask for some higher power to show me the way, because that’s where this is leading, but not just yet.
Soon….
There are many events not included here. Things that happened in the years i was estranged from my family. They will be separate posts of their own. Most of them are not pretty, and will be password protected. I will email the password once they’re done and the post is up for those who want it.
Whilst this is about me exorcising demons, there is such a thing as too much information for some people. For those who can access them via other means, please don’t say you weren’t warned.
I know there are people who come here under cover so to speak. It’s these I’m trying to keep away. I have no desire to give them any opportunity to take swipes at me or anyone else.

My humble apologies

I’ve been neglecting this site badly I know, however there is a reason.

All has been reasonably calm and peaceful in my world of late so I’ve found it difficult to drag these feral thoughts from the depths. It’ s been a very difficult exercise to start with, and while life is quite serene, those difficulties are magnified due to not wanting to upset the status quo.

The telling of these events take a lot out of me emotionally and mentally, which some may find bemusing, however that’s just the way it effects me, so I accept it. If I’m going to do this I need to go with the flow and neither force nor fight it

I have a draft of the next chapter that was started some 4 weeks ago, and whilst it hasn’t progressed beyond 3 paragraphs I’m going to make an effort to add to it this weekend.

I see the visits still happening, and I thank you for that.

Hopefully there will be more for you to see than a 6 week old post by Sunday, maybe Monday.

The witch

This a long post, so if you’re inclined to read it might I suggest tea, or a beer, maybe a little snack?
After Mum died, Dad wrapped himself in a cocoon of grief, oblivious to all and everything. Including us kids.
There was only my sister and me, my brother was in Melbourne. He came home nearly every weekend to try and help out but was normally tired after working all week and then driving an hour and half to get home. No freeways in those days, single lane all the way.
Through the week, we all of a sudden had to make meals, do housework and all the things that go into running a household, as well as go to school and study. Not easy when you had never been allowed to DO housework or cook. Mum was so determined we would have a childhood, unlike her, as she had raised her siblings (while my Nan was in the pub) There’s no way we were doing anything! We were to be kids, there was time aplenty for learning about things like housework and cooking and cleaning. Little did she know.
Whilst the sentiment was wonderful, when reality bit, it bit hard! Neither of us had any idea of how to even boil an egg let alone cook a full meal. There were some disasters, and we nearly set fire to the kitchen once, but we got by and learned (quickly) by our mistakes. Dad was little help, he had less idea than us and struggled to even get out of bed to go to work. Most days he didn’t. He was struggling financially with the absence of a second wage so that merely added to the problem.
In the September, one of my Dad’s workmates suggested it was time he pulled himself together and start living again. He and his wife were going out to a dinner dance one Friday night and said they knew a woman, widowed, who would appreciate the opportunity to be partnered to the function they were attending. He reluctantly agreed.
That was the start! We went from him moping and worrying to never being home. Always out, always off doing something with her.
We thought it was somewhat insensitive, disrespectful to Mum’s memory and were not particularly impressed, but on the other hand it was good to see him smiling and happy. We had our Dad back, and that was good. A real bitter sweet type of thing.
We didn’t have him for long.
In the middle October he thought it was time we met the woman in question. We were to cook dinner for all of us and it was going to be one happy night. Not likely!
When he got home from picking her up, dinner was almost ready, all we needed to do was the gravy for the roast meat.
Nothing was right that night. Nothing. All we heard was criticism of the food, criticism of the furniture, criticism of the way we were dressed, criticism of how the meal was served (we didn’t warm the plates) and then the comment that turned our lives upside down again.
“I’m not going to keep any of this furniture Jack, I’ll bring all mine”
We looked at each other, at her, then at Dad.
I couldn’t help myself.
“What does THAT mean Dad?”
“Well, er, um, we were going to talk about it over dessert….”
“Dessert will be OVER HER if you don’t tell us what that meant!”
Her “Don’t speak to your father like that!”
“Who the hell are YOU to be telling ME what to do?”
Her “I’ll be your Mother very soon young lady, and I’ll sort you out very quickly I can tell you!”
All HELL broke loose!
There was a HUGE argument that resulted in me being banished to the bedroom after being told the wedding was in the middle of November and I told both of them it would be over my dead body!
Dad took exception to my tone (understandably, to a point) and suggested I take some time out to think about my attitude. I suggested he think about the fact he had only buried his wife less than 6 months ago and now he was trying to replace her! That was the comment that got me sent to the bedroom. My Dad doesn’t raise his voice, or lose his temper, but he gets THAT look on his face when you’ve gone too far. I knew the minute I said it I was in trouble, but I didn’t care.
How DARE he even consider marrying this cow, and how dare SHE even insinuate SHE was going to be my mother!
I didn’t emerge from the bedroom until he’d taken her home, and then it was only to speak to my sister about the impending nuptials.
It was going to happen when she said it was, and there was no argument to be had over the matter.
I was devastated and I was heart broken, yet at the same time I was numb!
How could he do this? How could he forget about Mum so quickly? Did she mean so little to him? They had always been happy, laughing, doing things together and with us.
To say I was speechless is an understatement.
I got a good lecture the next day, where he tried the whole “I loved your Mother but she’s gone and I have a second chance and I’m going to take it” tact.
It didn’t wash with me, I told him so, and said I didn’t like her and never would. He replied I hadn’t given her a chance, and he would appreciate it if I could try…for him.
Personally I think that was dirty pool, but he is my Dad, so I agreed.
The wedding went ahead as planned in the November. I’m not going into detail here, suffice to say it was legal! (more’s the pity)
It wasn’t long after this we found out this one quite well off woman, and exactly how much older she was than Dad (not that she looked it dammit!) 16 years older to be precise. Even less reason to be impressed with her I thought.
Dad went back to working normal hours, she didn’t work, she kept house.
Every single solitary thing my Mum owned was disposed of. All the furniture (tacky) all the crockery (cheap and nasty) even the damned carpet was replaced (it hadn’t been well maintained)
Real charmer hey?
It’s while Dad was at work and I was home from school that was worst. My sister had a boy friend and spent most of her time with him away from school. She freely admitted it was to get out of the house and away from our step mother. Yet when she was home, the 2 of them sided against me in everything. We’d never gotten along, even as kids, and this simply exacerbated the entire situation. She always was 2 faced, and nothing had changed.
Anyhow.
This woman was so different to my Mum. She was on a mission to “educate” this little heathen daughter of the man she’d married. Yeah, right! Give it your best shot was my thought on the matter! Mum and Dad loved me the way I was, why the hell should I change for you? I don’t give a damn whether you love me or not. You’re nothing but a johhny come lately as far as I’m concerned.

She was a dirty pool player this one! When dad wasn’t home I did my best to stay out of her way, more because I had a desire to run her through with a knife than anything. I’d go to my room to read, and she’d follow me and it would start. I’d be told what my failings in life were, how uneducated I was, and that i needed to listen to her because she had all the answers. Most of it was like water off a duck’s back until one afternoon, a few minutes before Dad was due home. I made some smart arse crack about how we were quite happy until she’d come along and got her hooks in, so why couldn’t she just leave me alone while I was still there and I’d be out of her hair in a couple of years. I’d had enough of the crap. Then, the statement that started World War 3, right there in my bedroom.
“Well your father is happier with me than he ever was with your mother. She was nothing but a bitch and nagged him constantly you know. He wasn’t really that sad when she died because he felt as if he had been set free”
When my father walked in the door he saw me on top of her, pounding 40 shades of shit out of her smug fucking face! He had to physically pick me up with arms and legs still flailing. I made the bitch bleed though so I got some satisfaction.
To put it mildly, all hell broke loose!
She’s in tears, I’m still trying to get to her around him, and he’s trying to gain some modicum of control. I was sent to my room and she got first say, which was just loud enough for me to hear. The bullshit that spewed forth from her mouth was something to behold. I remember it word for word. It’s been burned into my brain since it happened.
“She’s been strange ever since she came in from school. Didn’t even say hello, just went straight to her room. I left her for about 10 minutes thinking maybe she was just getting changed, but then she didn’t come out so I went and knocked on her door to see if she was alright because I was worried. She didn’t answer me, so I opened the door to see if she was ok and she yelled at me! For no reason! Told me I had no right to come into her room at all. I said I’d knocked and she didn’t answer, but she called me a liar, and then she flew off the bed and pushed me into the hallway. She followed me out and started yelling at me, and I told her, quite calmly, there was no need to yell. That’s when she hit me, and that’s what was happening when you came in. You have to do something Jack, I can’t live like this anymore. This isn’t the first time she’s spoken to me like this, but she’s never hit me before. What are you going to do? She may kill me one day you know” (It was on my mind I have to say, so at least this part was accurate)
Now you would think he would have an open mind, allowing for what had happened in my life, the difficulty in all the adjustments everybody had to make, including himself, yes? No!
Every word she said was taken as gospel! I was grounded for 3 months and told I should be thankful she wasn’t going to call the police and have me charged with assault. All this before I was even allowed to say one single word.
There were many more instances of this type of thing over the coming months. It was on my 15th birthday, a little over year since Mum died that I came to a decision.
Life had become unbearable. I had to get out.
I chose a path that would lead to the breakdown of a marriage, my leaving home and the 3 greatest achievements of my life.
My girls…

The worst day of my life

It’s taken me some time to get this post done for many reasons. It’s stirred up all sorts of memories, and every time I tried to do it, would just freeze and look at the screen. It’s a bit disjointed, and not particularly well written, but I needed to get it done while my hands would work properly and I wasn’t crying. Quality wasn’t my concern at this point

Life went on, as it does. Time is the one thing none of us have control over, no matter what.

I was still not perfect but had settled down a little bit. Well, enough to keep Mum and Dad happy anyway.

Not long after we lost Granddad and Nan, my maternal grandmother came to live with us because she was really sick. What an experience that was to live through! She was really a horrible woman. Loud mouthed, quite crude, and a drinker. A big drinker. I can remember clearly the fights she and Mum used to have about it. Huge arguments that deteriorated into shouting matches and always ended up with my Mum in tears and my Dad trying to play peacemaker. She was only with us for about a year, but it was a long, long year. One I was glad to see over and done with.

After she had moved back to her own home, we moved into a new home not far from the other place. In some ways it was good to get away from there after my loss, but in others it was hard not seeing where we’d sat together on the verandah so much. As I said though, life marches on regardless of any and all happenings.

I was about 8. School was just that, I had my tonsils out, fought with my brother and sister. In particular, my sister. We just didn’t get on in any way, shape or form. If there was something to fight over, we’d find it. Actually came to blows a few times with Mum and Dad having to separate us. I was never the one with the bruises though.

Time went by, and whilst the pain stayed, it slowly abated a small amount. I still, constantly had nightmares and would wake up screaming, disturbing the whole house. Still life went on.

May 9th 1971 was Mothers Day. The following Sunday would be my 14th birthday. We kids bought Mum a cup, saucer and plate set. Fine china with roses all over it. As always, she loved it because we bought it. She always loved everything we bought, as Mums do. My brother was living in the city by this time and had sent his part of the present money to us so we could get the one we’d all settled on. Dad took my sister and myself to buy it, and the obligatory soppy card, along with wrapping paper.

{My brother had planned to come home for Mothers Day that year, but didn’t. He’s since admitted it was simply because he couldn’t be bothered, so he has his own demons I guess}

Mum wasn’t 100% that day. She wasn’t sick as such, she just wasn’t herself. We asked what was wrong, and her, being her, was quite off hand and facetious about it, saying “Who knows, but if it’s serious, I’ll probably die tomorrow”

Well, as it turns out it must have been serious, because she did die the next day.

She and Dad were always up before us, getting ready for work. Dad had just showered and was getting dressed, Mum had already showered and dressed. As she went to the bathroom to brush her hair she knocked once on our bedroom door and told us it was time to get up, that by the time we were dressed, breakfast would be ready. They were the last words I ever heard her say. The next thing I heard was a thump as she hit the bathroom floor, unconscious. I heard Dad yell, and flew out of the bedroom to see Mum on the hall floor where Dad had dragged her, and he was giving her mouth to mouth. He yelled at us to call the station and tell them to send an ambulance…NOW! I made the call, the ambulance came and my last memory of her is being loaded into the ambulance, still unconscious, with tubes in her arms and an oxygen mask on her face.

My sister and I were left home while Dad went with Mum to a hospital in Melbourne. We heard nothing until 10.30 that night when he came home with my brother and Grandmother in the car. It never occurred to me she was dead. Why would it? I just thought they’d kept her in hospital to make her better. Why would it occur to me she was dead at 37 from a massive brain hemorrhage? That Nan had obviously been crying (a lot) didn’t register either.

When they came in the door, Dad headed for my sister, my brother headed for me. What he had to say almost destroyed me. A red hot, burning sensation filled me, I screamed at the top of my lungs and fell to my knees. That was where I stayed for 2 hours. I ended up in the fetal position, in the middle of the hallway and cried and cried and cried. I refused to move and resisted all attempts to move me.

It was the same pain I’d felt before only this time I was aware of what it meant. I knew there was no coming back from death. I knew there was not going to be a fairytale ending. I knew nothing would, or could, change the fact that she was gone.

Yet still I prayed while i was on the floor. I did what many people do and tried to make a deal with God. Take me and send her back! I knew it was futile yet still I did it. That’s what I was doing the whole 2 hours. Waiting for an answer. An answer that never came.

We got past the funeral on the Thursday, a funeral I refused to attend. I know now I should have gone. Not that it helps knowing, but I know all the same. I refused point blank to enter a church and pray. I was angry with God, angrier than I’d ever been with anybody or anything. This was the second time he’d ripped my life apart. From where I was sitting, he didn’t deserve worship. I also know now, that was a pretty pathetic attempt at “getting back” at him. It did no good, all I did was deny myself the chance to say good bye to Mum and the comfort I now know it would have afforded me at the time.

I did another post on where and why I lost my faith, so will merely put this link for you, should you choose to read it.

What I didn’t realise at the time was that fate had more in store for me. There were times ahead when I could have done with that faith, that warm place I should have held onto. For dear life.

That however, is a post of it’s own. For now, I’m exhausted, and need to sleep

Growing up - part 2

January 26th 1964. Australia Day.

It started out as a normal long weekend. My Grandparents had gone down the coast to visit some relatives they hadn’t seen for some time. By all reports they had a good weekend, just relaxing and enjoying the company of family as you do.
There had been some discussion on when they would come home, and Granddad being the man he was, wanted to leave late on the Monday evening so as to avoid the traffic coming back.
On that return leg on the Monday night, their car left the road and hit a tree. Nan was killed outright, and Granddad was fatally injured.
He lingered 4 agonizing days before he was granted eternal rest though. 4 long, painful days, in which my dad sat beside his bed, not sleeping or eating. Just sitting. Waiting. Thinking. Remembering.
A lonely vigil beside the man who had always been there for him. Had always supported him in anything he ever wanted. Who thought nothing of moving away from everything and everyone he knew because his son needed him.
Dad mourned his mother too, but the bond between this Father and son was special for reasons unknown to me, even today. It’s not something my Dad talks about other than to say he was a very special father.
At the time, he prayed and begged Granddad be spared for just a few more years, but to no avail.
He admits these days he knew it was best he go. His medical knowledge told him the injuries sustained would leave lasting affects just too difficult to deal with. Not only for the family, but for Granddad himself. He had been a strong active man his whole life, and to be restricted as he would have been? To have lost the woman he loved after he had been at the wheel of that car? Both would have been unbearable for him.
It was for the best.

I too, know that now, but not at the time.
I was a 6 year old girl who had lost the centre of her universe. Because that’s what he was to me. The hub of my existence. I loved him more than you could ever imagine. Even today I can feel the warmth he had the ability to make me feel.
I can smell him. Old Spice.
I can feel his arms around me still. My cocoon, my safe place.
While I was with him nothing could hurt me. All was well with the world.
When he walked into a room, for me, it lit up.
If something needed fixing, I would take it to him.
He made everything right.
I wanted him to soothe the physical pain I had inside me. I somehow knew if he was still there the pain would go away.
I didn’t understand why I had the pain, just that it was there, and I didn’t comprehend the pain was because of him. To parallel him with pain was foreign to me.

Mum and Dad tried so very hard to console me, but I would have none of it.
I wanted Granddad, and that was the end of it. I had no desire to eat, or sleep, and refused to go to school.
They tried to explain death, and a special place called Heaven where he could sit with God, and Jesus. I didn’t want him with God. I wanted him beside me. I wanted to sit on his lap and run my hand through the thick hair he had on his chest like i used to so often.
(Do you know to this day I love hairy chests? When I see a man without a shirt and he has a hairy chest, I have to make a conscious effort not to run my hand through it)
I wanted him back where he belonged. With me.
Real life doesn’t allow for fairy tale endings however. There is rarely a happily ever after, but a 6 year old doesn’t understand that. They still believe in Santa Claus , the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.
Well, this 6 year old believed God loved her enough to send him back. For weeks, every night after I was eventually convinced to return to school I would race into the house looking for him, thinking this was the day! He’s going to be here! I just knew it!
Of course he never was.
It took me years to get over this loss.
I went from a normal child who was always laughing and happy, to the child from Hell.
If there was trouble to make, I was in the thick of it, and generally causing it. I was constantly in trouble at school and home.
I would lie, cheat and scheme to get my own way.
No one ever thought about why I was suddenly like this. Trying to understand why a child does things was not a big priority in those days.
These days counseling would have been on the cards because of the circumstances that led to this change in my behaviour, but in those days you were just pegged as a horror child!

It took me until I was writing another post about my Granddad to understand why I felt this loss so deeply. Why my behaviour did such an about face.
Realistically, every person has death in their life at some point. Yes, everybody deals with it their own way, but I was 6, not 16. Common sense tells me if we told a 6 year old someone had died and explained they would never see that person again, they would cry yes, but long lasting, as this was to me?
This is an event that has haunted me my entire life!
I have nightmares about his injuries, and how they came about. About the pain and suffering he went through. Dreams about what his last thoughts were just before they hit the tree, if he felt the fear of never seeing his family again.
It’s been happening for years. I wake up in the middle of the night with hot tears streaming down my face, whispering his name over and over again.

Then it hit me, as I was writing that story.
For all of these years, I’ve been feeling guilty. For not being with him in the car.
To those who read the original story, there was one little piece of information I chose to leave out. More because of the realisation it brought home (which was a huge shock to me) than because I didn’t want you to know. {And that particular story was more about the significance of my clock than the actual happening of the weekend anyway}
The piece I left out?
I was meant to be with them in the car that weekend. Until the car was packed, I was going with them.
I’d had a sore throat for most of the week and Mum decided at the last minute I should stay home in case I needed to go to the doctor.
When I protested that I still wanted to go, Granddad crouched down and told me it was only a couple of days and they would be back. He even promised to bring me a present.
He smiled, ruffled my hair, gave me a kiss and cuddle, told me he loved his special little girl very much, and would see her soon.
Coming from him I accepted this. He always kept his promises. Always.

As an adult, and being a fatalist, my head tells me my time simply wasn’t up. I had things to accomplish in life and I wasn’t meant to die, so I had to stay home in order to NOT be in the car when it happened.
I’ve never understood why this particular event affected me as deeply as it has.
Yes, we had a strong bond, and yes I loved him more than anything in the world.
But the long lasting affects? It never made sense.
Many people have death touch them, and in far more insidious ways.
But, apparently, in my mind, albeit subconsciously, I should have died with them. And I didn’t.
Why should I live when they couldn’t?
That’s not fair. Or at least I didn’t think so.
Now that I’ve actually acknowledged the thought that I should have been with them, I understand why it’s haunted me. The nightmares, the behaviour, all of it!

Until I started blogging, these are things I’ve never talked about openly. Even the girls never hear of it. Or Mark.
It just sits inside me, swirling round and round creating it’s own little whirlpool of mischief, manifesting itself in bad dreams and in earlier years, bad behaviour.
In my adult years, there has been self destructive behaviour.
But that’s another story for another day.

For now, one demon has been evicted.
Never again will I feel guilty about events I had no control over. Never!
One down, a few more to go….

UPDATE
Why is it our head and heart constantly war with one another? I’m finding this so difficult. My head tells me I need to do it, yet my heart aches while I’m doing it!
Common sense tells me it’s because I’m dragging painful, long buried memories out, and they’re kicking and screaming, that they’ve been so comfortable for so long, they just don’t want to move.
Yet that sensible voice keeps telling me to do it Maureen, just do it!
Perhaps I’m not meant to know why I’m driven to do this?

Growing up - part 1

My parents came from what were classed as slums, in the suburbs of Melbourne. Money was scarce when they were children, and their parents had little, yet somehow they managed to get by.
My maternal Grandmother was a horrible woman, horrible. (In my own strange way I loved her though) She loved her children I think, but she loved her beer more.
My Mum was the eldest of 6 and virtually raised her siblings while her mother spent her time in local pubs.
I never knew my maternal Grandfather. He was long gone before I was even thought of. The struggle to raise 6 children through lean years was too much to bear, so he went out one day and simply never came back. He was never seen, nor heard from, again. My Mother never really forgave him for that, and understandably so. How my Grandmother even had money to live on let alone spend on beer I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t want to know?
My Mum & Dad lived across the road from each other. They grew up together and were firm friends long before they fell in love and married. To be friends first and foremost is always the best basis for a marriage I think.
By the time they married, my Dad had joined the ambulance service (This was the only serious job he had in his life. He started with them and when he retired was still with them)
After my brother and sister were born, he requested a transfer to a little town in country Victoria. He and Mum wanted more than a city suburban existence for their family. They refused to see them restricted to concrete and asphalt as they had been. The transfer was approved, and they moved their little family into a house provided by the ambulance service, and for which the ambulance service also subsidised the rent.
Within 6 months of being there, I was born. Unbeknown to them, my Mum was pregnant when they left the city. It was not a secret in our family that I was unplanned, but it was never suggested at any time I was unwanted or a “mistake” Perhaps by my siblings occasionally if they were trying to goad me into an argument, but I was quite secure in the knowledge that I came to be because of love and for no other reason. In that respect I have always been well adjusted.
My childhood was good. It was warm, it was comfortable, and there are days I long to be that child again, as many people do.
My parents never had a lot when they were growing up, and vowed their children would not want the way they did. We were (very) well fed, had ample clothes, every toy that opened and shut. If it was new on the market, we didn’t even have to want it, we got it. Both worked full time in jobs that were reasonably well paid for the time, and both also had second jobs in order that we could have the extras they wanted us to have. Neither were afraid of hard work to provide for their family. It’s like they had a vision and were more than prepared to work hard for that vision to become a reality.
Birthdays were huge with the full monty happening every year. Cake, party, friends family, we had it all.
Our life was busy, never dull. We were never home on holidays, always went away, be it with a caravan or to a rented house for a couple of weeks during summer. We had family to visit in the city, relatives to go and stay with and we were surrounded by love. What more could a person ask for?
Mum & Dad were both church going people, and we would happily go along to Sunday school until we were old enough to participate in “real” church. We all enjoyed it and took as much as we could from it. The deep seated belief I held was a source of warmth and comfort for me at that point.
Due to circumstances I cannot recall, my dad’s parents came to live with us when I was about 2 or 3. I know that they always seemed to be there from my earliest memories which are around that age, so I must have been reasonably young.
My Grandfather was my idol. I loved him more than any person alive at that time. I loved my Mum & Dad, my Nan and the rest of my family too, but this was a love that transcended anything I felt for anyone else.
I have no explanation for it and see no need to search for one. That’s simply the way it was.
Do I feel guilty for feeling this way? No.
Do I feel I was disloyal to my parents for feeling this way? No.
They were secure enough in our relationship to accept the bond we had, and in many ways encouraged it. Neither of them had grandparents themselves and were more than happy that we had a bond at all.
Life was good. Granddad and Nan looked after us while Mum & Dad were at work. I would go with him every night to pick Mum up. The others had no inclination to spend the time with him that I did, and that suited me down to the ground, it meant I had him all to myself and I was never happier than when I was with him. We would play silly games, laugh, make plans for when I was old enough to go camping or into the local betting shop with him. He loved a punt on the ponies.
I would sit on his knee for hours just talking, about nothing, about everything.
Sadly, none of our plans were meant to be. Fate had a different plan mapped out.
6 months before I turned 7, my world fell apart and for the first time in my short life, I felt the agonising pain of loss and was touched by death…..

Welcome

If you’ve found your way here, welcome to my hell hole. I call it that for reasons which may not make sense to you, even after reading what I have to say, but it does to me and that’s what counts. Whilst much of what I post may not seem “that bad” to you, remember every person is different, and everything effects different people, in different ways. If you choose to scoff, do it quietly, do NOT do it in the comments. I can banish you with a keystroke, and will, if I feel the need.

This will not be a light blog overall, but it will have it’s moments. Not all will be doom and gloom.

The name I found particularly appropriate given why I set this blog up. I recently did a post on my other blog, called Demons, which explains in more detail why I felt the need for another place to do this. I also selected the theme and tagline very carefully. They too have a message. Everything I do here will have a purpose, and/or a message. Some I will explain, others I’ll leave to you.

It may (or may not) be a little while before the first proper post, as I want to get it right. I see no value in exorcising demons if it’s not done thoroughly and permanently.

That’s what this is about. Getting rid of things that sit inside and fester, creating a pool of poison. If you deny their existence it simply gives them more room to maneuver their way into your mind and they will eventually manifest themselves in the most unexpected and unpleasant ways. It casts a shadow over your life and mind that you never really see, yet still know there is “something”. You’re always aware of it’s existence but struggle to pinpoint what it is. Until someone flicks a switch and the illumination begins.

The first step is admitting they exist, and that’s what this post is for. To openly acknowledge I actually have demons. To admit that for years I denied their existence. Went about my life as if all was well and nothing bothered me because I had dealt with whatever had happened.

The denial stops, right here, right now.

I will win this battle, and I will win the war. Make no mistake about that.