Easy Like Sunday Morning

I wanna be free
Just me, babe!
That's why I'm easy
I'm easy like Sunday morning
That's why I'm easy

As you may have guessed it's Sunday morning. I know, you're astounded by my perception and, to be honest, so am I! It's just another day of course, the beginning or end of the week depending on your personal preference. Either way, it's not as easy as the song suggests!

We'll forget that the song is about the guy leaving his girlfriend and how he is actually complaining about the constraints and pressure of being someone whom he is not.

For as long as I can remember Sunday's have never been easy, at least in my household. Sunday has always been a day of high anxiety with the impending Monday looming dark over head. This anxiety was at it's peak when I lived in Sale, Victoria. You see,  in 1996 Monday's meant primary school, which meant The Run and disgusting teachers who would bully me because I was (and still am) not very good at running.  My anxiety manifested in such a way that when I ran I would hold my breath! Anyone who has ever run in their life knows that breathing is one of the most important aspects of running. Having a steady breath equals a good steady run. So after a few steps while holding my breath (without realising I was doing this mind you) I would inevitably have to stop and pant and, consequently, wonder why I wasn't able to breathe. At this point more panic would set in as I realised I would have to walk and thus get in trouble, again, for not running.
My friends weren't much help as they too would tease me for being fat and lazy because I couldn't run. No one ever asked why I was having so much trouble and, as far as I recall, no one cared. I was on my own.
In 1997 at the beginning of high school the anxiety got much, much worse. Not only was I now in a completely different environment with new students but it was here that the bullying increased. My very first day I was called "steam roller Renee", which didn't really help in reducing the fear of being there. Of course, that name stuck throughout the year I was forced to attend the school, despite my best efforts to be the nicest, sweetest, quietest person. The latter failed miserably as I wasn't really able to keep my mouth shut and that became another avenue for the other kids to tease me. The part that used to really make me angry, and I mean angry, was that there was another girl in my class who was the same size as me yet no one ever teased her. She was even more pathetic than I was but somehow I was the one "chosen" for the "privilege" of being teased. What the fuck was up with that?
What ever it was about me I managed to cop it all, except being physically touched. I'm still unsure why no one tried to beat me, they managed to break me mentally so it would have made sense that they'd "finish the job". Maybe they just enjoyed breaking me from afar?

Of course now it's 2010 and we're on the verge of welcoming 2011 and these things should no longer factor into my every day life. Yet, strangely, it still does. The old panic still surfaces every few weeks and I begin to panic as if I were still the 12/13 year old I once was. Of course now I can talk myself down from the hysteria and dry wretch inducing panic and remind myself I'm now 26 and no longer the helpless, pathetic child I once was.
Well, I may still be rather pathetic.

Sunday's may be easy and I'm quite sure for a lot of people they are lovely days of cruisey relaxation or maybe housework or maybe even a day of cute cafe's while reading the paper and meeting friends. What ever the day means for others I'm quite sure it's not the anxiety ridden dread that my Sunday's are filled with.

The Fear

We all fear something. Maybe you fear spiders, heights, being alone, enclosed spaces or even clowns. Whatever it is that you fear, it's real to you. It's simply terrifying.

Some people have multiple fears that reverberate through their psyche every so often keeping them constantly on edge. Not that I would know about that kind of ruminating fear *looks around innocently*

I think fears evolve and grow as we grow. For instance my fears when I was a child are different to my fears as an adult.

As a child my fears revolved around placating my mother. I spent so much time worrying I wasn't good enough that when she inevitably came storming into my room to beat me, all I could think was "I wasn't good enough. I need to be better."
My other fear as a child were migraines. They were another affirmation of my "I'm not good enough" outlook, because I couldn't understand why someone would give me migraines. It never occurred to me that my body would conspire against me and cause a sequence of events that would ultimately lead to a migraine.

As I got older, in my teens, I feared someone finding out about what my "secret life" at home. I felt inferior because I couldn't conceive of any other families being as Wrong as mine. I knew, mainly from movies of all things, that parents beating children isn't normal. Again, this confirmed to me that I was bad and a terrible child because my mum was forced to discipline me.
I harboured this particular fear until I was 23.

More recently my fears have changed shape yet again. Now my fears revolve around my ability to "recover" from my mental illness.
As an adult my fears also dabble in my appalling management of my money; what is this "saving" thing anyway?
Between these two main fears, never underestimate how many things one can fear at any given time, I am forever going around in circles.

In my case my fear has caused me to have a rather intimate relationship with anxiety, among the other labels I'm lucky enough to have trailing after my name.

Fear can grip us at, seemingly, any time. It usually starts in the stomach where our internal butterflies are let loose resulting in our heart trying to beat in time with those wispy wings. Not to be left out, our lungs start us inhaling and exhaling faster and our skin leaks salty sweat, especially over our palms, just to make things even more "fun".
Strangely enough my body doesn't listen to me when I explain that the situation isn't really that scary and continues on it's merry, terrified way.

What are your fears? Have they changed over time?

Unfit for Children

So I'm sitting here watching Dr Phil. There is a surrogate mother who has reclaimed the twins she handed over because the "adoptive" mother has a mental illness. According to the surrogate mother a mental illness means the adoptive mother is unfit for parenthood.

Unsurprisingly this makes my blood boil.

The surrogate mother has spent 40 minutes of the show saying how horrible, wrong and unfit someone is if they have a mental illness. In the next breath she says "it's not about the mental illness" and proceeds to claim she is tolerant and that the babies weren't safe with the adoptive mother because of her "undisclosed psychotic illness."
I'm sure it's not just me who can see the obvious contradiction.

I'll state now that the adoptive mother does not have an "undisclosed psychotic illness" and it was shown conclusively with her psychiatrists reference for the adoption.
In the 8 to 9 years prior to the adoption the adopting mother had not spent any time in an institution, regularly takes her medication, has been employed at the same company for 21 years and is so highly recommend in her job she is able to work from home.
Wow, this woman is doing better than most "normal" women!!

So, anyway, this whole story has made my blood boil so fiercely that I think I can feel steam escaping from my ears.

What this story is creating is nothing more than hysteria over mental illness by a selfish, judgemental and callous woman.
To Dr Phil's credit he spat the dummy about this hysteria and unfair, unjust and judgemental view regarding mental illness. He explained the varying degrees of psychosis and how many millions of Americans live highly functional lives even with mental illness. Yeah! Suck on that bigoted bitch!
Dr Phil also, correctly, stated that this whole issue has set back mental illness acceptance and awareness in America by 20 odd years.

Basically what this means to me is that some people would deny me the right to have children based solely on my mental state. How dare anyone, anyone, tell me what I can and can not do.
I have to state clearly I do not want children and I do not think I would be a good mother and not because of my mental illness.
My decision that I'm not the mothering type is based on my lack of ability to nurture. Some people are made to be mothers and some, like me, are not.

This story raises my hackles because I have had someone say I am not a safe person for my friends 3 year old boy to be around. This was said by someone whom I dated; a mutual friend. I realise he said this because he was hurt that I had broken up with him. However, he had no basis for this blatantly judgmental comment. All he did was hurt me (most likely intentional) and make me doubt myself. He reinforced my "bad person" image I have endured all my life. But that's another blog.

So here I am, raging because people, both on my life and in the world, are so horrible. They have absolutely no right to say who is fit and who is not fit to be a parent. As far as I am aware there are only two people who have the right to say that; yourself and your psychiatrist. (Seriously, if your shrink says it's not a good idea to do something they aren't saying it for kicks.)

So here we are, one person reading this, another person raging while writing this.
Would you ever tell someone they are not fit to be a parent based solely on their mental state?

That Woman

It's always bad when I start to think. The latest thoughts are no exception.

I was having a shower and started thinking about how I'll be nearly 40 before I can "live" my life. I know I have explained this before, but I'll reiterate for the sake of continuity. Since I've been "sick" for the vast majority of my life and have only had 1.5 years of intense therapy it is assumed that "recovery" will take half as long as the current length of illness. Basically, if you're like me and have easily been sick for 21 years of your life, it'll take roughly 10 years of therapy and treatment to "get better". Of course this is only a guide and some people will take shorter or longer times to get better.
Personally, I am at a disadvantage with my mental illnesses because it's very hard to treat. Indeed, I've spent many blogs explaining how psychologists and psychiatrists are reluctant to treat me because of the higher statistics of relapse. And by "relapse" I mean the amount of times we try to commit suicide.
So basically, what this all means is that my life, all at my own fault for not being stronger, will amount to nothing.

This train of thought then led to the realisation that I am not special in any way. I'm not the smartest, funniest, prettiest nor am I a high achiever, goal orientated nor have I ever finished anything I set out to do. The latter can be explained in terms of validity and severe self confidence issues.
Anyway, I'm not the person people remember, I'm not an amazing writer or artist, I have no qualifications or skills other than knowing how to be sick.
In short, my life is pointless. By the time I'm in a stable enough place in my life I won't be able to achieve anything anymore. Right now I even struggle staying interested in twitter!

I'm the person that is going absolutely nowhere. The person who won't amount to anything because it requires being able to concentrate, finish projects and study and it requires stability.

These are all the things I'm not really meant to think about. It's hopeless and pathetic and it leads to certain "foolish" acts that one day can not be undone. Yet, when the thoughts are there it's not like I have a remote control to turn them off. I have to listen to them over and over. Even when I'm deliberately trying to ignore, avoid, distract myself from them.

I'm the woman who missed out on a good education because I was too busy being neurotic, even as a child.
I even remember crying in grade 1 when I didn't get a perfect mark the first time I did something.
I was that kid who never really smiled.
I was that kid who went home terrified that I'd done something wrong and that my mother would find out about it; I never did anything wrong.

I'll be that woman who people feel sorry for but don't ever know what to say, to her. And all because I wasn't a strong enough person to overcome my illnesses.

The Outing

It does not matter what I do before hand to calm my nerves the actual act of going out is horrendous. Then when I am at the shops (or wherever) the panic is so potent it's like I've been kicked in the stomach.

If that wasn't bad enough, people stare at me.
Seriously, they stare. Not everyone granted (thank fuck for that), but enough to make me really uncomfortable. Now I have no idea why they are staring at me, but I assume it's not because they think I'm"hot".
Honestly, it doesn't even matter what they think. I just wish they'd stop staring. It's completely unnerving and totally unacceptable. I don't go around staring at people. Well, not all the time. And when I do I am careful not to be too obvious about it since I know how it feels. Also if I am caught staring I at least have the decency to stop!

Today was probably worse than most since I found out a "friend" deleted me from facebook. Oh, this happens to be the same person whom I tried to contact when I was really upset. And, the same one that apparently doesn't think I am good enough to even bother responding to. The funny thing is that I never, never, did or said anything even remotely confronting to him. So, umm, what the hell?
Right, I know it's probably not about me and that it's about him, maybe someone said something to him or maybe he just didn't like something I said on facebook, but this whole thing still upsets me. I don't like it when people delete me. I don't have a thick skin like some and that's not a bad thing.
It's also really rude since this person complained bitterly to me about people randomly taking him off their friends lists. Yet, he can do the same to someone else and that's okay? Talk about double standards.

So I found out the whole facebook bullshit before I went out. Way to make yourself feel good Renee. I know right, I'm definitely the sharpest knife in the drawer.
It was awful feeling like that. The whole trying to pretend I'm fine since I was with my mum while hoping like hell I don't see anyone I know since I've actually gained weight from that crazy migraine medication I was taking ages ago. Then there's the people staring at me, the kids screaming in front of me and trying their best to trip me up when they run like crazy little fuckers in front of me. You know what pisses me off about that? If I accidentally hit the little fucker I would be the biggest bitch in the world. I mean if I was window shopping and not completely watching where I was walking and one of the little fuckers ran in front of me and I knocked into it, I would be the one copping abuse. So don't fucking tell me I have to like the little fuckers running around in front of me. *Insert evil stare here*

Then there was the shop assistant from hell.

I walked into City Chic since that's about the only place I can shop in Australia and find things in my size that don't look like an old lady's antique floral covered chair upholstery. The shop assistant starts off by over zealously yelling "Hi ladies! How are you today?" I'm pretty sure the people walking past outside the shop looked to see if she were talking to them.
My mum replied since I was kind of running around grabbing a huge pile of stuff to try on. Okay, so it was three items and I wasn't really running, more like dawdling. Anyway, the shop assistant huffs loudly because we didn't yell back(?) and stomps, yes stomps, into the back room. I resist muttering "niceties" under my breath.
She returns from the depths of hell, I mean the back room and loudly yells at us "Is there anything specifically you're looking for?", to which mum replies "no thanks, we're just looking at the moment." Even I thought what mum said was pretty decent. Apparently not so with Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants. She huffs and stomps to the front counter.
Another customer came in and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants greets them. This time she's not yelling at all but being really lovely and nice. What. The. Fuck.
I tell myself to breathe. This shop assistant is obviously kind of nuts if she thinks we're deaf, dumb and/or blind. I couldn't help it, I shot a glance her way. She was smiling at the new customer as if she were the nicest person on the face of the planet. I really didn't like Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants.
Roughly 5 minutes later I'm scrutinising the clothes on the other side of the shop trying to decide if I really like things. I'm not just fussy in second life! Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants yells out "Do you want me to put anything in the change rooms for you?", obviously she saw the nice little pile in my arms. I reply "no thanks, I'm still looking" and smile my best smile at her. If you've ever seen this smile it's one of a kind awesome. Again she huffs and stomps off. Seriously, wtf?
Anyway, I try on the clothes and decide on two items so we proceed to the front counter to pay. Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants is waiting for us. I groan, inwardly.
She takes the clothes and begins to scan the tags. All is going well. Then she reads out the price and something wasn't right, it wasn't expensive enough. Mum points this out and Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants starts huffing and rescanning the two items, finally satisfied she says "It must be on sale" in the most acidic tone I've ever heard. And let me tell you, after working for Telstra I've heard some really nasty tones.
Mum hands over my credit card (I buy too much stuff online if I have it in my possession) and we do all that fun stuff of signing etc.
Ms. Huffy Stompy Pants folds the items and bags them, hands me the bag and scowls at me while I'm politely saying "thank you".
We leave the shop.

Now what the hell was this woman's problem? I've never seen her before in my life nor had my mum or I said anything rudely or in a tone that was rude. She was perfectly fine to the other customers in the store and yet she treated us as if we were deaf and dumb.
If we had have been rude then I could totally understand where she was coming from. If we had have made a mess, spoke down to her, ignored her or anything like that I also would have understood her coolness towards us. Yet we didn't do anything other than enter "her" store to have a look.

Have you ever had this happen to you?

Confusion

Some of you know how I've been feeling lately, some of you don't. For those that don't I'll succinctly put it like this: I'm in a really bad place and very sad.

I've been consumed with anger lately. Anger directed at my mother. Not the kind of anger that one feels when frustrated by something another has done. This anger is 25 years of rage, building up, consuming me until I snap. I think I'm about to snap.

Not a lot of people know the full story behind my illness. Even fewer people know what happened to me. Let's not beat around the bush, I'm going to tell you my memories. Turn away now if you are soft of heart.

To this day I still don't know just what would set her off. She would be fine one minute and the next she would be this evil, devil-like monster screaming at me telling me that I am useless, pathetic, if I had half a brain I would be dangerous, among other things. If I didn't cry at this point I would only get the verbal abuse. However, I was a child and my reaction was to cry. That's when the beating started.

A lot of you reading this will roll your eyes and suggest that I'm making this up. I used to be hurt by the lack of care people show, but now, well, let's just say I know what happened to me. I dream it still, her voice is now my inner voice that tells me I am stupid.

My mother used to pull my hair, smack me, kick me, throw anything in arms reach at me. It was always body blows so I wouldn't have any marks on my face. I would spend my time curled up in a ball, crying, hoping like hell it would stop soon. I couldn't tell you how long each beating lasted, they all felt like an eternity for me.
The beatings went on until I was 15 years old.

After each beating, when she'd stormed out of my room and slammed the door, I would grab my teddy bear and crawl into my cupboard. I would sit with my back against the corners so she couldn't sneak up behind me and hurt me. It was during this period that I learned to cry silently. My teddy bear would be drenched in tears before I would whisper, angrily, how stupid I was for not being a better child. I would repeat everything she said to me as if I was confirming everything she said were true. I couldn't stay hidden for long because she always came back for a second beating. I always hoped she wouldn't.

There was one particular time I remember my dad being home. Stupidly I thought he would help me. I screamed out to him when she started beating me. I knew I would be hurt more for even thinking to call out to him. He. Ignored. Me.
Instead he sat on his beanbag, drinking his beer and watching the football or something on TV. It was at that moment I knew I was done. I was broken and nothing was ever going to change that. The two people who made me, hated me.

Sometimes I would dream about my "real" family coming along to save me. It was a fantasy that I was adopted. I'm not. I would rock myself to sleep some nights thinking of my "real" family and how much they must love and miss me. They would find me... One day.

So I hear you thinking "why didn't you tell anyone about the abuse?"
That's easy. I couldn't tell anyone. For one thing I was an only child and it never occurred to me that what they were doing (or not doing in my father's case) was wrong. Secretly I never thought anyone would believe me anyway. We moved around a lot so I had no adult figure whom I could turn to. It was always just them.
Once I thought about running away and telling the police. I ended that thought abruptly when I realised the police wouldn't believe me and the thoughts of the severe beating I would get for telling anyone scared me senseless.

There were so many instances that I can't recall where my trust, love and innocence were stolen from me.

So here I am, a screwed up 25 year old, living with the person who abused me and unable to do anything about it. (That's a post for another day.) Sometimes when things are bad in my head I am a lot harder to talk with, I do tweet and FB status my moods. I know a lot of people can't understand, accept nor do they care what I'm going through. It's selfish of me, but I need to get it out... Somehow.

Broken records

I started playing an online game again. I don't know why I did that. I don't know what possessed me to sign in and play. All I know is that it's been about two weeks now and already I feel like shit.

Most of the time I think I avoid a lot of drama and things from other people. I try very hard to remain neutral because it's usually none of my business and I have enough of my own drama. However, since playing this game again I am now assured that I cause the drama. It has to be me.
The part I don't understand is how, when or why I cause it. Surely I don't say things to incite people...? Do I?

So here I am. I got banned from a place, a sim. I don't know when it happened and I very much do not know why. I suspect it has something to do with a nasty rumour being said.

This is only a small snapshot of the circus going on. I realise I'm not meant to care, however, I do care because I am human. I'm not a robot devoid of emotions or feeling. A slurr against my virtual self hurts just as much as a slur on my real self. Yes, it HURTS.

This snapshot of life, both real and virtual, has created a rather large whole in me. Like a tyre with a small hole. A little bit of air escapes every few seconds so it takes days for the tyre to go flat.
I am beginning to think that people just don't care about anyone other than themselves. Everything I seem to do or say is met with hostility, paranoia and stupidity.

People, let me state right here: I do not care about your inner most secrets, or shame. I do not care about your petty squabbles with other people. I do not want to spy on you to find out whatever it is you deem so important.

It's truly ridiculous that I allow myself to be affected by so many people. I guess I allow it because I want to fit in, I want to be liked and I want to please everyone. If I can't please people I get frustrated and begin to worry about my usefulness as a human. Hey, I never said I was sane.

So after two weeks I've been followed around an Australian sim by one of the "admin", I've been lied to, I have been the recipient of rumours and false accusations and I've been treated in a cruel manner.

Is this the best the world, both real and virtual, has to offer? If it is, well, I want out of both. Where's the off button for the real world? It needs one.

Bah Humbug. My version of Christmas (Part 1)

So far I have tried very hard not to write a blog about the horror that is Christmas. However, I have failed in my resolve and here is my Christmas rant.

I hate Christmas. Call me Scrooge, the Grinch, whatever you will. I do not care. I still hate Christmas. Although, in my defence, I have a rather good reason as to why I hate Christmas so much.

We need to go back about 20 years, to a time in the 1990's (actually it was 1990) when I was 5. My 5th ever Christmas. We were living in Melbourne at the time. It was the year I'd started school and the year I started walking to school on my own too. It was safe in those days, and I lived just down the road and around the corner a bit. But I digress.

I was 5 and it was Christmas. I was so excited even though it was hot and I wasn't liking the heat very much. Mother had set up the Christmas tree and I wasn't allowed near it (even though it was in the room where I watched my afternoon cartoons.) In fact I distinctly remember being banned from the room. Oh well, I was 5 and was easily entertained with my barbies.

Finally,  finally, the magical day had arrived. Christmas was here. It was the day I held in such high esteem because I would be showered with gifts and love and my parents would love me unconditionally.
Like all fairy tales it wasn't to be.

Parental units finally woke up and allowed me to enter "The Room" only for my grin to drop and tears to begin their sluggish way down my cheeks.
Santa Claus ripped me off.

Yes, that fat bastard ripped me off. There were only two presents under that tree for me. A lousy TWO. But the best was yet to come.

As I was standing there with two rogue tears sliding down my cheek, my mother looked at me and sized up my ungrateful attitude. Without any warning her hand connected with my wet cheek and a screech issued from her lips. I have no idea what she screeched as I was in my own little world of cursing Santa for being a tight arse.

I was sent to my room. Hey, I don't mind being sent to my room. I mean that's where all my toys were and everything so, send away mother dearest.

I spent that day in my room writing a long letter to Santa listing all the things I thought of him. I'm pretty sure I made up some new swear words too that day. Pity I never kept the letter...