Posts Tagged ‘fear’

The one I almost didn’t post because I was afraid of backlash.

June 5, 2013

I asked TMD, ‘Hey, what sort of person signs their text message with the word “blessings”?’ She thought similarly to me – Christian or Pagan. We chatted a few more minutes, then moved on with our lives.

She went to work, and I took the kids over to their friend’s house – and my new friend, the one who offered me blessings. I met them a few weeks back at a large home ed gathering and we ended up talking because Coco really hit it off with one of her boys. I liked the kids, I liked the mum, I scored her digits and BAM. Playdate time, baby.

It turns out she is Christian. The sort of Christian that has all these cute amazing crafts hanging up that her kids have made, but they all reference Jesus. Lots of Bibles.

And, you know, that’s fine. Except that super Christian people don’t always love gay people. And I don’t remember if I came out to her when we met.

Now, the whole should I or shouldn’t I coming out debate is not one I often participate in. The decision to not come out is one I very, very rarely take. I can remember once or twice in the last thirteen years I’ve let someone assume I was straight. My long blonde hair, style of dress, etc often means most people assume I am straight. So I am very practiced at coming out, and usually work it pretty early into a conversation because I find it’s better to let people know they are in conversation with a queer bee, otherwise you end up in awkward conversations where they are asking about your husband and you tell them you have a wife and they are horrified they assumed wrongly and apologise and tell you all about their gay friends. Seriously. Better to avoid.

But this lady? We met at a farm. Our kids played together a lot. We looked for baby chicks together. My son smashed his face into her kid’s head on a trampoline and we couldn’t get the bleeding to stop. So I don’t think the gay thing came up.

I try to assume the best of people. There is no reason to think she wouldn’t be okay with me. The amazing Aussie is Christian and she is a staunch defender of civil rights of all shapes and sizes; she is the sort of right on, activist person I think Jesus would have totally dug.

So, should this lady ask, of course I will come out. But today? Today I kept my mouth shut.

Because all the Bible quotes and crafts made me feel a bit uncomfortable. A smidgen awkward. A mite squeamish. I wouldn’t have minded them at all if I knew she knew I was gay and invited me over anyway.

Generally, Christians in Country B are much more progressive than those in Country A. My experience with Christianity, in many flavours, in Country A, has left me with pink scar lines running across me. People have hurled insults at me, made vitriolic comments, told me I was going straight to hell, and much, much worse. My own mother would have nothing to do with me, all in the name of Christianity. A blog reader once told me she liked me even though I was gay, then emailed me a five page letter about my sins. I spent twelve years in a Catholic school that wasn’t shy about their ideas on homosexuality. It’s made me automatically register when people mention they are Christians in a way that I don’t react to Jewish people, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, whatever. And perhaps that is wrong of me, but I also have no firsthand experience with Christian Christians here in Country B.

The Christian toys, art, books, etc that were everywhere, combined with the blessings text, make me assume she is a Christian Christian. I look forward to coming back here and telling you all she is super okay with me and my ‘lifestyle choices’. I hope none of you call me a Christian basher. But it is true that much of my life is spent reading, listening, and observing what Christian people think of homosexuality, and a lot of is a poisonous.

I don’t assume all Christians, or even most Christians, feel this way. I’ve been personally involved in a great Anglican church, various Quaker meetings, and Unitarian chapels. But there is no denying that I have a self protective mode that makes me hyperconcious and uncomfortable….it is also a way I rarely feel anymore, now that I am older and more confident, now that I am surrounded by people of my choosing.

I had a great time today at her house. Our kids still all get along well. I like this woman a lot; she’s warm and gentle with her kids and seems really genuine. So I will be inviting her to our home sometime in the next couple of weeks, and I genuinely hope a real friendship can blossom.

But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about telling her I’m gay.

14 st 11, would Mickey approve? Also, I need deadlines in all areas of life. No exaggeration

October 28, 2012


This is me, about six years ago on our very belated honeymoon in Disney World. It marks the second time in my life I wore a bikini. The first was when I was about ten. It was a tight hot pink and orange number, and I was on a boat with my family and our friends. I felt uncomfortable and like the thing was going to fall off the whole time. As a teen, I looked back at that picture and remembered viscerally how uncomfortable I felt. I don’t know whether I thought I looked good, or too chunky.

When I look at the above picture, taken on a waterproof crappy camera, I feel a lot. Freedom, sunshine, laughing, bliss. I also think I looked awesome. This trip to Disney happened to mark the end of my eighteen month journey at Weight Watchers. I’d lost fifty four pounds and felt terrific. I bought two different bikinis and felt so confident and happy. We have lots of pictures of us on waterslides and in wave pools and my face just glows in them all.

It is not a coincidence that the trip landed at a time when I had just hit my goal weight (11 st 10). No, I knew the trip was going to happen and I used it as a deadline.

A couple of days ago, my mom brought up the possibility of us all going to Disney next September, which happens to be seven years exactly after the above picture was taken. (How do such large chunks of time pass by?) So once again, I have a trip to Mickey’s Florida home as a deadline, though I am realistic. Last time I lost weight slowly, steadily, and very consistently. I may not have lost every week, but I never gave myself a week off. Never.

A small part of me hates myself for saying I will lose weight by Disney, when I never lost it for having a new baby. A bigger part shrugs, accepting, and says what is done is done and cannot be undone. No point in beating myself up, not when weight loss will require much courage and self love. Hard work.

Last time TMD did all our meals at home, and she often packed me healthy lunches as well. I was working so was not around food all the time. My job also required me to spend a good portion of my day walking through inner city __________, which involved dodging the crowds, speed walking, and a few particularly funky hills. This time I do all the food. I hate cooking, and often feel panic. What will I eat? When will I eat? This is why I reach for convenience foods, because they are so much easier when you are tired and cannot cook.

But it would be nice to have a new swimsuit. Red, I think. It would be nice to have more energy and less aches so I could keep up with the kids as they run around Disney in that hot, hot sun.

This last week I got some very scary news from back home. The sort of news that makes me wonder about trying, again, to figure out how we could possibly navigate the rough waters of immigration and relocation. When I got off the phone, I started eating and did not stop. I could not stop, even when I ended up unpleasantly ass sick as a result. Nothing stopped the eating until the casual mention of Disney, so I latch onto that. Seven or eight months to focus myself on something positive, while quiet worries and the realisation of time passing by try so hard to drag me under.

I have no printer, but really want to find a way to print out the original picture from this post. A few copies. So I can keep looking at it, knowing that no matter how hard it is, I KNOW I can lose this weight because I did it before. The circumstances have changed, but at the core I hope my inner strength and self belief is still there waiting for me and the possibility of a new swimsuit.

Mama’s lump.

February 1, 2012

I parked the car and walked across the tarmac to the hospital. The air was so frigid it felt like my fingers would shatter if they bumped into anything. I walked in the main doors and asked directions. To the breast clinic. The clinic with the name obviously belonging to a woman who’d died of breast cancer and left money to the hospital.

I wound my way through the corridors, each uglier than the next. Finally I found the unit- so happy to find the place I was so unhappy to be – and walked in. The walls were light pink, there was a built in tea bar, the receptionists actually smiled. This was a place, crammed next to the MRI and mammography unit, where people were trying to be cheerful and upbeat.

Except we weren’t. The patients, I mean. We were there in that overflowing room, each chair taken, thigh to thigh. Most were with a partner, a sister, some with their whole families. One woman, a mother, brought her tiny baby with her because he needed to breastfeed. People’s voices were loud, frantic, forced. The drone of voices was so overwhelming it was difficult to hear the names the nurses called out. Then a woman with a bright scarf wrapped around her head walked in, and there was a heartbeat of silence before the voices swelled again.

That woman made me realise this was all real. Cancer was real. It happened to women, to men, to YOUNG women. To mothers. I took the time to look around that room, to take in specific faces. That stoic, quiet woman with her Bible spread across her lap. The young. boisterous one in the pink sweatshirt. The one tapping her fingernails on her knees. I thought about the blogger I respect so much, the one with two small children, who is now is hospice. The one I don’t know if she’s still alive, or not, because her blog hasn’t been updated.

Eventually my name was called, and I was taken directly to a doctor, rather than the nurse I was told I’d see first. The doctor had a cheerful and brisk smile. She looked at my form – breastfeeding, smoking, contraceptive histories. Length of my cycles and how long I bled each time. Family history of any major medical problems. She asked a few questions before asking me to strip to my waist.

‘Your left breast was the reason you were referred. I’m going to check both breasts so I can compare how they feel.’ She kneeded my flesh, my breasts giving way to her fingers. Her voice told me what she was doing, explaining how I should do this at home a few times a year. Then she frowned.

‘This breast is definitely lumpier than the right. Because of your age, I’m not going to send you for a mammogram, but I am going to send you for a scan. You’ll have it and then come back to me; I’ll give you the results. If they decide they need a tissue sample, I won’t be able to give you those results today.’ She handed me a tie-on hospital top.

I looked her in the eye. ‘Is this something I need to be worried about?’

I was shown into the next waiting room. This was was small, cozy. Five chairs in a circle. Posters all over the walls with cancer helplines, groups for hair loss support, chemotherapy support, financial support for women with cancer. One entire wall was covered in leaflets we could take away. No one took any. I think we were trying to ignore them.

My eyes were drawn to the section labelled ‘children.’ I’d been missing Snort and Coconut so badly that morning, and so full of questions. What if I died before they were old enough to remember me? What if my dying screwed them up for life? Was the love, the deep love, I’d given them for two years deep enough in their marrow to sustain them, to nourish them, to help them carry on?

I’ll be fine. This won’t happen to me. But then, quick on the heels, I bet everyone thinks it won’t happen to them.

As I scanned the leaflets, my eyes were caught by a big, book shaped leaflet with bright colours and drawings. ‘Mummy’s Lump.’ My heart stuttered and I looked away, but every few minutes I found myself staring at it again, helpless to stop.

An hour later I was called down for my scan. As I arranged myself on the table – leaning on my right side, left arm up and behind my head – I said, ‘I feel like I’m posing for a dirty picture.’ I do tend to say whatever pops in my head, but what I didn’t say was ‘Why is the consultant radiologist here? And the other grand high pumba doctor? Is this standard procedure?? Please God let it be standard procedure.’

She asked me a few questions and began to move the wand over my breast. Over my nipples, over the rounded sides, pushing, pushing. She found a spot that hurt, and she went over that spot again and again. Again. It hurt, my breast hurt, those lumpy bits hurt – but nothing compared to my heart. Why is she going over the same area so many times? Does she see something?!

The other doctor walked in. ‘I don’t see anything,’ she said. He took the wand, went over the same areas, focussed and confident.

‘There is nothing to see here.’ He turned to me. ‘Everything looks fine, there’s nothing for you to worry about.’

I exhaled for the first time since entering the breast unit three hours before. I saw the first doctor again, and left with a leaflet detailing the massive doses of evening primrose oil I needed to take, with relief coursing through my veins, with the overwhelming urge to get home and hold my children. To tell TMD that, once again, we were okay. Life had given us another break.

I also walked out with words repeating in my ears. The woman with the Bible, who’d sat with me in room after room, she wasn’t so lucky. She didn’t get to escape. She had to make an appointment to come back in two weeks, but me? I’d been told not to worry about coming to the follow up appointment if it was too tricky with the move, that there was nothing to worry about.

The main waiting room, so teeming with life that morning, was quiet and empty when I left. There must have been a hundred of us in there that morning, a hundred of us waiting to see. To find out.

I hope all one hundred of us are okay tonight, tomorrow, forever.

I am craving scary movies. And books. And crunchy leaves.

October 8, 2011

I love horror. Films, books, haunted houses. And not just the scary stuff, but the stuff that is supposed to be scary but it a big old mess. Have you seen Sleepaway Camp? If not, I suggest you go watch it now.

Growing up we had a little independent movie rental place – cleverly named ‘Movieland’ – near us. Every week we went in, and every week Sleepaway Camp is the one I chose. I also love movies and books about summer camp. So summer camp plus horror? And weird gay subplots? Crazy aunts?


Everyone who I force into watching this movie is like, ‘Dude, why the hell are we watching this? This sucks, even for you.’ They may concede that certain parts are awesome, but I admit that by and large it’s your typical eighties horror film. Until the final thirty seconds.

I’m not going to tell you what happens, and you are a big fat cheater if you google this. Just get your paws on this movie somehow – I think it may even be on YouTube – and watch (in full!). Trust me on this one.

Another one worth watching? Wicker Man.

All of that being said, Halloween is my favourite holiday and time of year. I find myself wanting to watch scary movies all night long and read books about all things spooky – however I choose to define ‘spooky’ on any given night. My current greatest wish is to buy MTV’s full two series of the show Fear. It’s very cheap online, but alas, I must save my money so I can buy my kids nasty orange flavoured water in special bottles when we go for a walk because the awesome organic juice they like is not available.

I’ll give it a few years, and hope that eventually they’ll want scary movies more than they want juice.

Massive SPD/PGP update.

January 15, 2011

Haven’t written a longer entry in awhile because things have been tough. I don’t know if any of you kids remember me writing about a month or so ago about how I’d had a bad relapse that hadn’t cleared when I got my period? I’m still in it. And it seems to have escalated ten thousand fold with the approach of another period.

I’ve been finding daily life more painful and restricting, and have been dealing with the ramifications of that.

One being that I spoke to the manager of this volunteer we have. She donates 2 hours of her time every week to our family, to help me take Snort and Coconut out to a local group. The manager is an awesome woman; I really like her. She came over one day to push the babies’ pushchair to the park – through snow and ice – so we could take them swinging.

Anyway, I shared with her that waaay back when, the spinal surgeon said I needed to consult with a pelvic specialist, and that referral had never happened. She suggested I get Crazy Lady (every family in Country B has a specialist nurse assigned to them for kids aged 0-5, ours is named Crazy Lady) involved. I agreed because Crazy Lady has sped up referrals in the past.

Well, weeks went by with no phone call from Crazy Lady. Then this week there was a knock on the door and she just fucking appeared. No forewarning, no professional bothering to call and make an appointment for her, oh no. She busts in during naptime with no regard for my sleeping kids.

She comes into the flat and starts demanding to know if I am depressed. ‘Are you depressed? You’ve been doing so well and I hear things are going down.’

I say, ‘Well, yes, physically things are getting pretty awful. I just needed support getting this referral, maybe speeding things up.’

She totally brushes me off. ‘Go to the doctor for that. Now, ARE YOU DEPRESSED? Be honest!’

I’m totally bemused by this and say no, I’m not depressed. Then she says she’s coming back next week for ‘a proper chat.’ No thanks. I will write a whole entry about why I’d rather pull out my toenails than talk to this woman. But that’s an aside.

So her visit upset me epically. I didn’t like someone just turning up, making assumptions, and ignoring the areas I truly do need support in. So I left a message the next day cancelling her visit this week. I also phoned up my favourite receptionist (holla! Tracy’s in da house!) and made an appointment to see my favourite doctor on a Saturday morning in a few weeks, so TMD can have the babies while I’m in the appointment.

I guess I’ll be asking for this referral. It’s to a private specialist, but I don’t think public healthcare has an equivalent, so it should still be completely free.

Yesterday TMD had to stay home from work because I couldn’t walk. At all. Even with crutches. And codeine. I was a non-stop sobfest because the pain was so intense I just couldn’t handle it.

Today is a bit better, but probably only because I’ve spent the whole day passed out in a drug induced stupor.

So, my plans. I know I never updated anyone on the whole Christmas weight loss thing, but I’d lost 33 pounds in total by Christmas. Not all in the three months, though, of course. Because I’m sane and realise 1-2 pounds per week is the ideal, though of course I’ve been losing much slower than that. I plan to continue losing weight.

I also am borrowing a Yogalates video from a friend who is hopefully posting it today (holla! Mamacrow in da house!). I know my core muscles are key to ever recovering. I need to not get all crazy and stay realistic. For me that means not going from zero to sixty. Once I have recovered from this truly terrible dip in my physical abilities – maybe this week? – and can do a bit of movement, I plan to do small amounts of regular work on my core. Another friend is posting me paper copies of all the Pilates exercises her physio gave her for SPD/PGP.

What would I do without kind people, hey?? Knowing I have people supporting me offers me a bit of cotton wool to wrap myself in as I try to continue to recover.

I also wish there was a way to go swimming regularly. Those of you who only know me as a stay at home mum may not know I was once Super Lifeguard, The Best Swimmer On The Fucking Planet! Swimming and pilates have consistently been the two exercises recommended to me by specialists. The key to swimming is getting my fucking driving license, which again will be the subject of another entry.

Core muscles are the name of the game. Mine were destroyed by twin pregnancy – my bump went out to my knees when sitting. They were then obviously cut through when I had a c section. Core muscles are what supports the spine and pelvis. I need to strengthen them before I have a hope of regaining a normal (normal for me, not for anyone else!) life.

My mom pointed out that I’ve been sitting around, mostly, and just waiting for things to suddenly heal and be better. She’s right. I have been. I have also been scared of trying and having things not work. Classic fear of failure.

I guess at this point, 17 months postpartum, I’ve got to be realistic and understand that recovery will require more active work from me. That will require me to keep strong emotionally and mentally, as well. So I may blog more about this stuff just to keep myself on an even keel.

Everything is hopelessly tangled. I think losing (more) weight is emotionally fraught for me because I’m just about at the point where I could eggshare again. And getting thinner without having another pregnancy? Would really upset me. I need to move past this. Whether we expand our family by me getting pregnant or not, nothing is possible until I am able to move again. And Snort and Coconut deserve that, TMD deserves that, I deserve that.

This weekend is going to be all about rest and healing, so that I can physically cope with next week. I’m using the ‘opportunity’ afforded me by being unable to walk to read more about spirituality, to think, to relax and refresh.

I’m also thinking a lot about what I want life to look like, and trying to figure out why I always, always, always avoid doing the big things I need to do, why things scare me. Finding my courage is sometimes easy, sometimes hard. But follow through? I lack follow through.

Any comments welcome on any aspect of this post, though be aware I’m virtually confined to bed so don’t necessarily want anything that’s going to be upsetting. So by ‘any’ comments, just this once, I mean ‘nice and uplifting comments, suggestions, commiserations.’ Hehe.

Thanks, for reading. For being.

Opportunity throws you out on your ass.

November 18, 2010

So. The calmer version of yesterday’s post: the government has made some pretty horrific slashes to public services. So the people who need the most help and support are the ones getting fucked over, and the people who have jobs helping those who need the most support are also fucked. TMD has one of these jobs, working with extremely vulnerable young people. Specifically, she manages the people who work with these young people.

No one knows for certain what is going to happen. But the slashes to her service are huge. No one knows what new objectives or targets the new set up will have. So if the focus switches away from helping vulnerable young people, things don’t look good.

After my initial freak out last night, I skipped nanowrimo (dear jesus am I falling behind!) and did some job hunting.

Now, the entire 4.5 years I was at Day Job, I job hunted. For myself, because it was such a colossally shit job – and also because it was what we all did. The new jobs went into the paper on a Wednesday, and I swear to god every single employee was either online or running out to buy the paper.

My friend Epilady actually called me one Wednesday shortly after I qualified as a counsellor, to tell me about the ad for Operation Fingerpaint. (And thank god she did, because I did love that job…though wasn’t there long before I got knocked up!)

The other thing I did a lot of in that job was job hunt for other people – specially young people with a criminal record, or mental health issues, or learning disabilities, or – you know – all three and more. So not exactly the sort of job hunting TMD requires, but shit. I got skillz.

I wasn’t too hopeful. We have been on/off looking for things for her for awhile, and no organizations working with young people are hiring because, let’s face it, they are all too busy getting ready to fire their current employees.

(Fuck this government. There. I said it.)

But last night I found four jobs. Of those, one closing date already zoomed by – a shame as she would have got this job. One is on the other side of the country, and she’s not too keen on the job. The remaining two?

One is so funky and quirky you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Assuming she has the time and energy, she plans to apply for this job.

The other one is similar to what she does now, but it would probably require odd hours – evenings and weekends, etc etc etc. And it’s in a part of the city where you get stabbed if you blink too many times. She may apply for this one, just for kicks.

So, it begins. My new job is helping TMD find a new job. And I want to help her find a job she will love, not a job she takes out of desperation. She is sacrificing a lot – she desperately wants to be the stay at home mum, but she slogs off to work every day (and does a pretty fantastic job!!) to earn the money that keeps us in nappies and cheerios. She deserves a job that will help her grow, that she enjoys, that is a positive step forward.

Thank you all for your support and love you sent to us in the comments of the last entry. It made me feel less alone, like I’ve got a fabulous support system – even if I may never meet half of you.

The sticky icky business of building a new life begins. And we’re not adverse to moving to a new part of the country – though ideally, no moves would happen until TMD’s adoption of Snort and Coconut was finalized.

The number of times other Buddhists have pointed out that the Chinese symbol for ‘crisis’ literally holds two words within it: danger, and opportunity.

I opt for opportunity. But it’s still scary, you know?

Help. ?

November 17, 2010

I feel panicky and like I may throw up. TMD’s job prospects are very, very shaky.

I haven’t been able to walk properly in three weeks. And despite the fact that I appear to be going down Cripple Lane again, tonight TMD said that we both need to be looking for jobs. Like any old jobs. Like toilet washing jobs.

And whoever gets one first needs to take it.


Glad we just ordered their Christmas present, because quite frankly, if we are both unemployed I don’t know how the hell we will pay the mortgage, let alone buy toy kitchens.

What are we going to do?!?


October 12, 2010

I wake up this morning, the first one up. My stomach is rolling and clenched. I tip toe to the toilet, getting quietly ass-sick. No doubt this is partially due to the 7/8 of a medium pizza I ate entirely by myself last night (which is no doubt due to my feeling like a terrible person after yesterday), but mostly it’s the picture of my sweet, innocent son floating in front of my face that makes me feel so sick, so guilty.

There is no way to say it nicely. Yesterday, while changing his nappy, I smacked him. On his bare bum. Hard enough to leave a red mark.

Committing these words to paper/blog makes me feel a deep shame, but not as deep as the shame I feel because I smacked my child. On bare bum. I have never done this, and so help me god, I will NEVER do it again. I have made a lot of bad decisions. I have lost control and screamed at my children on a few occasions – yesterday I held Snort by his arms and yelled that he was a bad boy. I have smacked tiny hands away from cords or electrical outlets or from ripping each other’s hair out.

I was raised to think it’s okay and normal to be hit. This apparently turned me into the sort of adult that, when really angry, apparently resolves to wanting to hit her own children.

It. Has. To. Stop.

The gift I can try to give my own children is to not learn the things I learned as a child. I don’t want them to feel shamed, or dirty, or like an animal.

I don’t want to be my father. You know, the fun parent, the awesome parent – the scary parent. You never know when he’ll go from being your best buddy to tormenting you, to hitting you, to screaming and shaming you. I am not him. I will not be him.

Please, let me not be my father.

So I sit here, eyes filled with tears. Guilt and shame in my heart, my two beautiful babies loving me anyway.


So: this is me. I am not always the fun parent, the relaxed parent, the loving parent. Sometimes, only sometimes, I am the monster I fear.

Anyone know a local counsellor who does home visits?

March 7, 2010

Woke up this morning feeling a bit more hopeful. The world is sunshiney, Coconut gasped with delight and reached and downed more yogurt than you can imagine, I got to sit up and hold Snort – fed him, then held him while he napped.

Unfortunately, as a result of sitting up, my back fucking snapped in half again. Gone was the idea of going to the library (I read four books yesterday during my confinement), of going to look for a new sofa. TMD is leaving now with the babies to do some stuff with them, and once again I am left behind in bed.

If I was choosing to have some sort of lazy weekend, I would probably really enjoy this time. But I feel some choice is being taken away from me.

I also feel like my body has betrayed me.

First, I couldn’t breastfeed. I am still upset about this, think about it every single day.

Next, this recent snap was due to some tandem babywearing. The idea of wearing even one baby at the minute is a bit of a laugh, considering I can’t walk without crutches or sit without pain.

What next? My ultimate fear: deciding not to have another baby, because I just can’t do this again.

I feel like I have been brave and strong, and I still am, but also it would be a lie to say I don’t feel a big fear: what if I am disabled for the rest of my life? What if I cave in and get another wheelchair because it’s just easier? What if I never get to go on long walks with my family next summer, a baby on each of our backs, sun in our hair, laughing?

What if this is it?

I want to say what if it isn’t, what if I heal, I know I am improving, this is just a temporary setback. But I’ve had this ‘little problem’ for a year now, more than a year.

The emotional pain is worse than the physical, and that’s saying quite a lot because I hurt like a motherfucker.

SPD bringing me down.

January 16, 2010

On Wednesday I cracked up a little. Okay, a lot.

You see, everytime someone is supposed to come over and can’t make it for whatever reason, I find myself losing my shit, utterly and completely. You know my friend Aussie? Well, she lives in the city just south of us, where we used to live for years and years. We’re just north of that city now, and she lives in the very tippy tails of the south end, so she’s about an hour and a half drive away from us. (sigh, sob, etc)

We made plans for her to start coming up every Wednesday – until, of course, I have healed enough to actually leave the house. This past Wednesday we woke up, snow was everywhere, and I was like, ‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.’ So she was snowed in, yet TMD still left for work. (Though I went a little bit Rage Machine on her, bless her.)

I was so crazy that TMD took Thursday off so we could get out of the house. I never ever leave the house, you see. Someone asked in a comment what SPD stood for – it’s Symphasis Pubis Dysfunction. Basically, because of pregnancy, my pelvis swings in the wind….or even a slight breeze. Your pelvis is like a ring of bones connected at the front and back by little ligaments. One joint is located under your pubic hair (sorry, no way to say it and be graceful), the other on your back. The left side of my pelvis is stable, but the right side offers no resistance and moves freely. Your pelvis is not designed to move, so that’s why it hurts like a little bitch. There is no cure, but time usually gives your ligaments time to heal and things get back to normal. Usually.

We ended up going to a local mall-ish place and out to lunch.  We had to use the pushchair because I can’t walk very far with a baby on me, and TMD doesn’t wear both of them. While I felt down about this, the upside of pushchairs is that you’ve always got a place to put all your shit, and you can have a lunch while babies snooze next to you – so no worries about dropping hot food on them.

I did bring slings, so I got to wear Snortie in a ringsling and take him to the changing room to sort out his nappy. I felt like a real live parent, out in public with my son and changing his diaper. This was so exciting.

This little outing was like my life had been opened up again. I had such fun doing, well, nothing. Coming home I suddenly felt very blue and said, ‘What if I don’t get better? I’ve always thought I would, so it makes things manageable. I can say, you know, next summer we’ll go hiking with them.’ TMD sighed.

If I don’t heal, my life will be very circumvented. I can’t think about being permanently disabled, because it makes me feel inexpressibly sad. Yes, I’ve been ‘broken’ for about a year now (what with getting run over, and then the SPD!). But I have always thought of this in terms of a temporary illness or disability – one that will take time to get better, sure, but that I will recover from.

Now I find myself doubting, and it’s scary as hell. I can’t imagine a life where I can’t walk more than five minutes at a time. Where I can’t go out with my kids, where I can’t work again (not that I want to right now, but, you know!), where we have to carefully consider and plan every outing so that the minimum of movement is required. Where I have to pick restaurants based on the type of chairs they have, for fuck’s sake.

What if this doesn’t get better?