when i was in the fourth grade, i joined chorus for the first time because i saw my friends were having fun with it and I wanted some fun. I loved it and continued it through out school. But when I reached high school chorus, tone changed. Yes I was still in chorus but the teacher...well not in the exact words... told me i can't sing. It makes me wonder why he let me stay in the chorus. I guess he didn't want me going to my parents saying this mean teacher said I couldn't sing. plus he was a very popular teacher and to think if he was turned in, I would have to transfer to another school. Well it didn't stop there. One of the concerts we had, I had gotten sick with an illness I caught the weekend before the concert. I still had to go to the concert or I would get an 0 for not showing and wind up with a C in chorus and I didn't want that. So I went and as sick as I was I did pretty good till I almost past out. My teacher makes fun of it, saying I locked my knees. NO BASTARD I DID NOT LOCK MY KNEES. I WAS SICK AND COULD BARELY SPEAK OR SING!!!!! Some how I got an award later that semester for most improved soprano. I didn't make it into the extra chouses. I didn't have a role in the musical. I did try out for it though, in front of people (still sick btw) when I would usually run for the hills. Senior year... he made me look as if I needed him to pay for everything. We went to this place in Boone and we had a choice of Arby's or this local place in the area. Mom of course says Arby's since the other place was like 15.00 or 25.00. Can't really remember since it's been a long time. Teacher said he'd pay for it. I felt embarrassed. Later on that school year, we went to New York and being short as I am, I got separated from the group. I called him but of course I get no answer (i get that a lot) so i called a student that was with us and finally someone got to me. He makes fun of me about that, saying "I was sniffing daisies" oh and get this... he told me that he wasn't no sugar daddy. I wanted to slap him but I didn't. I have a clean record.
Looking back on all of that... I just wish he would told me I suck at singing so I could have done something else besides getting mocked at. Oh he called me fat one time and that year I starved myself. That was the same year I almost passed out. Grrrrrrrr!!!!!!!
I would say the worst years for me were from 2011 to 2013. 2013 was the absolute worst (and best in some ways). A wave of crap happened that made my already heightened anxiety levels go through the roof. It was one thing after the other and I was barely able to cope. I ended up in the Emergency room at one point, because it all became too much.
My little sister, who is basically my best friend in the whole world and is three years younger than me, had gotten married some years ago. She was settled with her lovely husband, contemplating parenthood. Her life seemed to be working out fairly well, and as happy as I was for her, it made it clear to me what a mess my own life was. I still lived with my parents because I was stuck on the Disability Pension due to my endometriosis. It had stabilised but it was still debilitating. I relied on the government and any money I could scrape together from my art. I felt constantly bad about the position I had ended up in. I felt like I wasn't much of a catch for D, that my 20s had been a complete waste of time and that I had done absolutely nothing with my life so far.
This was a lie. I had put in well over the 10,000 hours required to become a competent artist. It took half my life but I managed it. I was a talented writer, and I got good at that in my 20s too. I'd faced hurdles most people don't get piled onto them all at once - mental illness, chronic illness and constant bad luck. I finally pressed myself to believe I was doing okay. And I was a catch. I was amazing.
I had a nephew with cerebral palsy. He was in his 20s in the 2010s, and we'd nearly lost him to breathing complications in the past. He was bright, warm, kind, sweet, full of good humour and a constant reminder of how my own chronic issues did not have to define me or rob me of my joy and verve. I grew up with him, seeing him after school every day. He had been born when I was 8, so he felt like a brother to me rather than a nephew. I had sung and danced for him in my childhood, his laughter the greatest reward I could ever want or receive.
Over Christmas, he became ill. His lungs became infected. I tried not to let my anxiety get the best of me, but as time went on, it got worse. He had a brief reprieve around New Year, and we thought we had dodged death yet again. But on the 4th of January, after coming home from a swim at the beach, my little brother tearily informed me and my Dad that my nephew had had a massive seizure, and was now on his way out.
It was devastating. The family took a huge blow. We still miss him today, of course, and photos of him are up about the house. A little bit of magic left our lives when he died. He taught me how to laugh without a care of what I looked like or whether I was silly or not. He taught me joy.
Time went on, as it does. My relationship continued healthily. D and I would often talk about where the relationship was going. As it got more serious, I grew more anxious for reasons I couldn't identify. D wasn't in a rush to have kids, but my years were slipping away. I was terrified that we'd try and I wouldn't be able to conceive. But I didn't want to rush myself, or D. All I knew, deep in my gut, was that 35 years old was the age I would have my baby. I didn't know how or why or when, but I knew that's when it had to happen. It was one of those irrational woo-woo feelings I have from time to time.
In 2012, my little sister told us all the news we were waiting to hear in the family: She was pregnant. I was joyous, and I let the joy consume me. Some part of me often felt a pang, a yearning that I could go through this too. But it wasn't to be, not at that time. I watched her go through the journey and I knew, I knew I wanted this. That I couldn't live without experiencing what she was experiencing. It was terrifying, because I knew D was still frightened, still hesitant. I didn't know how he would ever change his mind. I knew I was the one person he wanted to share parenthood with, but the timing was everything.
In September 2012 I noticed my cat, Lennon McCartney, wasn't looking too well. He wasn't young. I got him when I was 16 (1995) and he had seen me through my terrible 20s. He was beloved, my boy child, who I doted upon every day since I got him. I sung to him and he loved it.
I figured Lenny was just old and might have needed some kind of treatment from the vet. I was confident he was fine, probably just having his "thin summer condition" that he'd had before.
The vet was immediately worried upon looking at Lennon. She told me something serious was wrong. Lenny was my rock. He had been who I turned to when men treated me wrong. When life was too hard. I excused myself and went to the veterinary bathroom and had the anxiety shit of my LIFE. I composed myself and went back out again to face the storm.
Lenny had a major organ in trouble. Either the kidneys or something else. I could not cope. They took blood tests and would tell me the results. He may live four weeks, four months, four days - who knew with cats.
I fell apart. Waiting for the phone calls was hell. They were good natured at the vet about my badgering. The blood tests told us it was a liver problem.
After an expensive and traumatic ultrasound (it took two women to hold down a five kilo tomcat who did not want to be there) it was found to be cirrhosis of the liver. My cat was too rock and roll to live, apparently.
Another vet saw me this time when I took Lenny back, and they said that he was just old, and that his liver wasn't *that* big, and they weren't sure how long he had. They couldn't tell me anything for sure. They could do more invasive tests but I said no. He had had enough with the undignified ultrasound. Even if they did find out exactly what was wrong, the treatment would have been worse than the illness. I decided to let Lenny live out his days. I would spoil him, love him, give him everything in my heart. I would cherish him and never let him go through any discomfort again.
Easier said that done. Oh, the actual spoiling bit was fine, but my Generalised Anxiety problems went through the ROOF. Every day became a day Lenny Could Die. That month, I actually skipped a period because I was so stressed out. This is what I count as my First Pregnancy Scare. I went something like 40 days or so without a period. Perhaps it was a chemical pregnancy? Who knows. I kept getting negative pregnancy tests. It was enough to send the wind up me at the time. Every negative test was a heartbreak because to me it meant that a) my cycle was broken and b) there was no baby.
It was about this time that a niece and a nephew of mine, both in their late teens, were going through some pretty serious mental shit of their own. In our family mental illness marches through like a gay pride parade on a long weekend. God bless 'em, they were strong enough to survive it. Me, I'm Miss Come To Me With Your Problems, because I take my aunting duties VERY seriously. So while some serious crap went down in the ensuing months with those two, I was also dealing with Lenny, and the feelings from my aunt declining. I was a fucking mess.
2013 hit us like a bomb. First, Tina's son was born. I honestly think that he, like D, was a gift God sent us to help us through dark times. He was blond, bonny, with pale white skin, huge blue eyes, a tiny nose and and fat full lips. Healthy, hale and hilarious. He loves music, being with people, sci-fi and cars and trains. Many times I babysat him for my sister, and quietly, while he slept in my arms, I'd close my eyes and imagine that it wasn't my nephew, that it was my baby yet to come. I'd close my eyes and tell myself, "This is what motherhood might feel like." I needed those baby hugs SO badly at that point in my life. The ache to reproduce got greater and greater. Time was running out.
Soon after this, I got the news that my aunt had finally succumbed to cancer. It was a sudden death, which was a blessing, really, given what she had to face in the final months of her life. I had come to know her much better in the years she had lived with the disease, as she would visit once a week to catch up with Mum, or pop by after a doctor's appointment. She eagerly watched my relationship with D unfold, and always listened to me prattle on about him. She showed me how to crochet properly. She told me stories of driving muscle cars on dirt tracks in races in the 70s. She was an amazing woman, and losing her was a terrible blow to the family.
By this time, and after years of one bit of bad news after the other, I my anxiety issues got worse and worse. I didn't know how to deal with these huge moments of loss in my life. Every phone call ended up being a possible piece of devastating news. My Dad had some health concerns that needed testing for. I was convinced he had cancer (he didn't). Little problems with D and I that are a natural part of any relationship got blown up in my mind out of all proportion. After my aunt died, some switch in my head flipped. I was convinced, utterly convinced, that bad things would keep happening. I was on alert all the time.
D and I reached the point where we were facing the "Moving out" discussion. And I was terrified. It was the ultimate sign of trust and after my assault, I did not know how to give it. After this weighing on me, and family woes, I couldn't bear the anxiety anymore. A doctor I hadn't seen in some years had said to me, "If you're feeling like the Prozac isn't covering your depression or anxiety, you can up the dose if you need to." I'd ignored that advice for years. One night, in a moment of desperation I followed it.
Bad idea.
The next day I woke and I didn't feel a thing. Not a damned thing. Suddenly, a wall of panic crashed over me. Over the course of the day I broke down, and I demanded to be taken to the ER. That weekend the dam walls burst and I needed help that a psychologist couldn't cover on their own.
I had stress I hadn't dealt with yet, Generalised Anxiety Disorder that had spiralled out of control, depression, and unbeknownst to me until I got some serious therapy and did some Dr. Googling, I was dealing with a later stage of healing from my assault that is apparently quite common and I totally wasn't expecting. I had rape trauma syndrome, and I'd never looked up the healing process properly.
But I grit my teeth and with the help of my D, I recovered. Slowly and surely the pieces came together again.
September came, and Lenny's condition had degenerated dramatically. He had survived a year, but after he stopped urinating and lost interest in eating, it became clear his journey on earth was closing. Calling the vet to my house to put Lenny to sleep in my arms was the hardest thing I'd done up to that point. I held him and told him everything would be okay, that his Mummy was there, that I would always be with him. I sang to him as the drugs went into his arm, the Mummy song I would always sing to him.... "You are the Sunshine of my Life" by Stevie Wonder. As his eyes closed I sang Pie Jesu, my voice cracking. He became limp, and I sat there in the loungeroom, grief flowing from me raw and intense, my heart practically bleeding. "My baby's gone!" I wailed.
My Dad built Lenny a coffin. I held Lenny for about an hour, weeping. Then I finally took him outside in his ailing box, covered him and kissed him one last time. I took a print of his paw, cut a tuft of fur. We put him in the coffin with a toy mousey, some cheese (His favourite), some chicken (his other favourite), and other little trinkets. Flowers. We wrapped him in an old towel. I bid him goodbye.
During the funeral, bagpipes wafted in on the breeze. They were playing Amazing Grace. My long-deceased Grandfather had headed a pipe band in his time, and Mum always said that Lenny reminded her of his cat Portnoy. I felt like he was telling me that he had received Lenny in heaven, and that he would look after him. My rational brain knew it was from the nearby high school having some function, but the timing was utterly uncanny.
All the things I had dreaded had happened. I felt empty, spent. Some part of me felt hopeful that maybe the storm of utter shit was over. I was so wrapped up in my pain that I didn't notice that my period was late. I figured it was a repeat of last year - that Lenny had staved off my period yet again.
I didn't even think about doing a pregnancy test until my sister insisted...
~~*~~
In 2010 I got a message from a guy on OKCupid. All of the dates and dalliances I'd had through online means had failed at that point, but all the men I knew in meatspace were dating or married or gay or not my type. It cost me nothing and sometimes it was actually fun.
About two weeks later, my attention deficit problem kicked me in the arse big time. I have a bad habit of thinking I've answered mail when I actually haven't. I did it when I was emailing BOTH these dudes at the same time. Like, I actually forgot to mail both of them. (Honestly, it's a fucking miracle I ever landed anyone!)
Days wore on and I grew more and more despondent as I thought, "Hell, they've both given up on me." Being forgotten by one dude is bad enough, but TWO? Then I checked my outbox and realised my mistake. Immediately I messaged the both of them. I girded my loins, preparing for drama to ensue. All the men I'd known had caused me SOME kind of problem. So many assholes on the internet, I was waiting for the guilt trips or the "sorry I've moved on" or something like that. I didn't hear from the Musketeer. But I heard from the Dad-Lookalike.
He said, "It's cool." That's it. No drama. No troubles. It was fine, he was busy with uni and didn't mind, and the conversation picked up where it left off. I was stunned, and that little niggle in the back of my mind that had kept me writing him in the first place flowered a little. It turned into an instinct that said, "Keep going."
Eventually we organised a date. He had been so patient with me (it took a month of wrangling through my 'meeting new people since assault' anxiety and he stuck with it). He didn't mind that I needed to have my sister and her husband there at the date. We had it at the zoo, a sort of double date kinda thing. I liked the sound of his voice on the phone (I was worried he'd have a weird voice) so I was optimistic.
Now, let me tell you before I go on one or two of the HUGEST fears I held back then, going to "meeting off the internet" dates.
I worried the chemistry would be off.
I worried they wouldn't look the same as their photos.
I worried that if they did and things went well, when I got then to the bedroom they would have an ugly dick. This was my biggest worry. You're that far into the relationship - there is NO kind way to say that their dick puts you off.
I messaged him I had arrived at our designated meeting place. He said that he had been listening to The Beatles in his car and he would be there in a moment. The dormant 15 year old hippie deep in my heart that listened to the Beatles INCESSANTLY leapt for joy and said it was a definite SIGN.
He had told me that his hair was longer than in his photos. I was worried I'd see him and he'd look so much like my Dad that I couldn't look at him. I walk up the ticket line, and there he is.
About six foot, pale skin kissed in pale freckles. Wide shoulders. Muscles. Pecs. Tight pants. And arse that could kill at ten paces. He turns around. Long hair past his shoulder of a warm, brown auburn hue. Greeeeeen fucking eyes and the most beautiful face I had ever seen. And he smiled at me. He looked like the lovechild between Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale.
He did NOT look like my Dad. It had been a dorky photo.
Silently thanking God and myself for buying the brand new tight jeans for the date even though I couldn't technically afford them, I ran to my sister.
"He's fucking GORGEOUS!" I hissed at her. "HE seems NICE!"
My sister gave me the thumbs up.
From there unfolded the best date I have ever been on. Ever. I wasn't nervous. I was purely excited. I was probably a bit awkward and overly chatty, but it didn't faze him at all. We were both hugely into nature, art, music, spirituality. He was a little quiet but I didn't mind. Quiet guys turn me on.
We got to lunch. He remembered that I am gluten intolerant - he brought along gluten-free muffins that he had baked himself, just for me. He had also brought me soda, which happened to be my favourite kind.
I wanted to drag him into a bush and have my way with him the whole time. The longer I spent with him, the more I liked him. Better yet, he wanted to see me again.
After the date was over (and after a fucking DYNAMITE first kiss), I was floating on air. On the way back to the car with my sister, I babbled about him incessantly.
"I think I've met my boyfriend!" I said to her. She cautioned me not to get too excited. What I didn't tell her?
I knew I'd met the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. What I didn't know?
I'd met the man that was going to be the father of my baby.
~~*~~
The relationship unfolded beautifully. We were both nervous, both frightened of the feelings that had taken hold, both quite flighty as people, but through the ups and downs of a regular relationship, we became inseparable. He made me a better person, he helped me exercise and improve myself. He did Occupational Therapy so he completely understood my issues with chronic pain. I also helped him with his life and his issues (which we all have). It worked.
I can honestly say that he has gotten me through some of the toughest moments in my life. With him, I felt I had won the lottery. I still feel that way. If I hadn't have remembered to check my outbox, if I had dismissed him because of that one silly photo (though he does remind me of my Dad sometimes but not at creepy levels), if I had not had the courage to meet him, it might never have happened. The best thing in my life might have been a path I never walked down. But I knew, deep in my heart, he was meant to come when he came. All those years of waiting, languishing, wishing on stars and blown dandelions and weeping to my cats, it wasn't because God didn't care or that I was unloveable. It's because sometimes, the wheels of fate have a long way to turn.
I was 31 when I met D, my partner. I still had the hardest times ahead.
To know what joy this pregnancy has brought me is to know the absolute shit of a year before I fell pregnant. Two years, really. Let's just say that the late 00s were not kind to me. But it was the final year that really broke me in two.
The downturn started in 2005. I was happily going to a music school here in my city, where I was learning to put on gigs, recording music in reasonably nice studios, making new friends, getting good marks, and generally rocking the hell out of my chosen field. I felt like Hermione going to Hogwarts. I was like, "Look at all this shit I can do! Finally, after years of feeling like I was never good at anything, (except in art school), here I am at a place where the teachers value me, where I am a TOP student, where I am nailing all the shits." I was 25.
Right at the height of my wave of awesome, I was dumped in suds of suckitude. I started to feel tired. My periods got worse (and they were already fucked). And then one month, late in the year, I was in so much abdominal pain that I could not go to school that day. I'd felt something like it before. The year previous when I was doing work-for-the-dole, I was in a retail job at a chain thrift store. I was on my feet all day, and I never got much rest. I could only have a drink a couple of times a day. It was tough.
The more I worked, the more pain I felt and I felt like I was operating on a dead battery as it were. I actually phoned home from work and said, "Mum, what do I do? I feel terrible."
Basically, by the time I got to 25 (and in music school) my body had decided that it couldn't deal with the shit that had been silently growing in my pelvic cavity anymore.
When this finally happened, I was terrified. I had just overcome five or so years of crippling depression, anxiety and figuring out my sexuality (I found out I am a raging bisexual). As someone with suspected ADD (never had the money to properly check but a psychiatrist I saw was rather convinced) I had an impossible time finishing any tertiary course. Music school was a godsend, as my attention problems seemed to not be bothered by the course structure I was faced with. Minimal paperwork, maximum musical activity.
But I got worse, quickly. All the migraines, all the ignored pain, all the issues I'd had over the years and thought nothing of, they ramped up and made it so that I could not continue with the course.
So I was out of a course that answered my prayers and lead me to my dream of being a working musician, and now I was walking blindfolded into the living purgatory that is Australia's public health system. I learnt to play the waiting game. Six months here, three months there. The years slowly crawled away from me. The pain increased.
The gynaecologist I saw at the hospital I was sent to did not take my illness seriously. The first laparoscopy I had, he did not even bother to prepare for any excisions or lasering. It was a complete waste of an operation that told me that yes, I was sick. I had endometriosis.
Until that point I thought myself lazy, a hypochondriac, that it was all in my head. The gynaecologist made me feel like I was wasting his time. I remember when I was still delirious, having only just come out of theatre, and the gynaecologist that had doubted me so came over to confirm my diagnosis. He sheepishly said, "Yes, you have endometriosis."
Part of me felt like bursting into tears. The greater part of my spirit laughed, and I pointed at him through the pethidine haze, grinned like a madman and slurred, "HAH! TOLD you!" And I passed out.
It wasn't an easy diagnosis to receive. Endo is incurable. It gets worse. The main treatment right now for endometriosis is hormone treatments. Hormone treatments it turns out I am completely unable to endure because my body has a hormone sensitivity.
At the time my main stress was that I was losing the career that I had worked hard to start and that this disease was completely destroying my social life, and by extension, my chance at a love life. I had some bad experiences in 2004-5, half of which was me hating myself and having bad self esteem. The endo did not improve that at all.
I got sicker and sicker, I exercised less, I was stuck at home more. The local geek community, and those that also dealt with chronic pain conditions, were my harbour and my saviour. But I didn't fall in with them properly until later.
Over the years, I did my best to cope. I had two further laparoscopies. I was assured my fertility was fine, but it didn't matter because all I'd had since my last relationship was a string of disappointing dates that either lead to nowhere or turned out to be utterly disastrous. At that point, I felt like I was never going to find anyone. The long list of must-have qualities I'd mentally compiled as a teenager (must be musical, must be gorgeous, must be kind, must understand my creative spirit, must be an amazing singer, etc) fell away to two qualities:
Must be kind. Must have symmetrical face.
I was just mentally getting my shit together in 2008 when a friend I had known for about three or four years decided to take liberties with me during a visit to my house. He sexually assaulted me. I fell apart. I had a relationship later that year (with a different guy of course) that I was very optimistic about at first, but it fell to pieces because I wasn't happy (the man was blameless in this and he was nothing but kind to me).
I realised that I couldn't settle for something that was only halfway there. I either had to find LOVE or I was going to be alone. I was also going to end the polyamorous lifestyle I had been indulging in previous. I couldn't cope anymore and I wasn't cut out for it. I wanted one thing and one thing only: A monogamous, loving, serious relationship. And I was absolutely convinced it was NEVER going to happen to me.
I was heading for thirty, I was single, I had a disease that was slowly eating away at my reproductive system. I felt I still had time but despair was slowly creeping in. Would I ever have kids? I didn't know. I doubted it.
The years that followed were difficult. Beloved 20 year old cat died. My aunt is diagnosed with terminal throat cancer. I am struggling through the hell of getting my head back together after an assault. It was really tough going, and while I was optimistic and working hard to bring my life into a semblance of normalcy and productivity, there were still dark days.
