So long 2014...

So it’s the end of another year and the new one is looming. This one’s been a big one, but then they all are. My boys turned 7 and 9 blitzed it at school. I raised a lot of money for cancer research and welcomed a new God-daughter to my family. My little sister turned 21, I had breakfast with Mark Bouris, I spent more than I earned, I danced, I laughed and I yelled. Oh, and my mother-in-law moved in with us. Let’s not speak of that. 

I returned to part-time work in earnest and seem to have found my happy place but it has taken my time away from personal blogging quite a bit. Still, I managed to belt out a few and I thought I’d put a list of the most read together for you to read over your holidays.

The one about loving someone who is depressed

The one where I declare there's nothing wrong with an ordinary life

The one where Stefan vomited all over the floor

The one where I come up with as many reasons as possible that women want to have sex

The one about Fakebook

The one about what it's like to love a 9 year old boy

The one about my missing pelvic floor

Thank you for sticking with me. I know I haven't been around much lately but I still love this gig and you too, faithful reader. I hope you have a sensational new year and I promise to write more!!

Happy New Year Seventies Babies.

Love Tan xx

Have you ever loved anyone who is depressed?

I’ve been thinking about suicide a lot lately. Deep, ponderings about suffering. Questioning my own deep seated belief that to take your own life is selfish and weak.

First things first... I’m not suicidal. Not in the slightest. I have always told myself it’s because I’m not selfish. Or weak. I’ve spent time in some very dark places in my years but I always pull through. Because – strong. But I’ve challenged those thoughts recently and I’ve surprised myself.

My father-in-law died a horrible cancerous death four years ago. A tumour was discovered in his sinus. Mucosal melanoma. The oncologist told him his best chance was to remove it and all that surrounded it... which was half his face. This may give him some more time. More time than the 80 years he had already lived. He was scared to do it and spent many hours deliberating. Discussing with his loved ones. With his family who all urged him to do it. “You HAVE to fight” was the message he got loud and clear. “Don’t let this beat you”. And so, bravely, he decided to go through with the procedure. He did fight. He fought hard. But he confided in me, not long before he passed that he wished he had never done it. Because it did beat him and it did not buy him time and we buried him with half his face missing.

When he died, like the countless others that I know who died at the hands of a debilitating disease, the people he left behind [us] were relieved. “Thank goodness his suffering is finally over” “He fought so hard but the pain was just too much for him” “He was so brave”.

Far too many of us have watched someone we love suffer intensely before dying. We watch disease ravage them. We watch them change before our eyes. We remember brighter days when they weren’t sick. When we could laugh together and have fun. When their body was fit and healthy. When all hopes and thoughts of the future included them. We watch them waste away before us as their illness takes hold. As their appetite wanes and their ability to put on a brave face become less frequent. We watch as the light dulls in their eyes from medication to help them ease the aching. We watch and we wait and we empathise because we can’t even imagine the hell they must be living in. Many of us sit by their bedside and hold their hands and give comfort as we assure them that we will be ok without them. That they can go. That they can give up the fight. It’s ok, we say. You have been so strong and so brave to hang on so long. It’s ok, we say.

But what if their disease is not physical? What if their illness is mental? What if the excruciating pain they are feeling is all in their head? Are they not brave too? Is their pain less worthy? Is their yearning for it to end really so selfish? Do they not deserve dignity too? Why do we urge our loved ones who suffer from physical pain to let go yet demand the ones that suffer from emotional pain to hang on?

Have you ever loved anyone who is depressed? And I’m not talking some bullshit down in the dumps or in a slump or a bit flat or sad. I mean bona fide, clinically depressed. Someone who is actually unable to function for weeks, months and even years on end. Someone whose emotional pain is so intense they are unable to maintain a relationship of any kind so that they are deeply alone and overwhelmingly lonely. Have you ever loved someone who is so devastated that they choose to physically harm themselves as a distraction to their internal suffering? Have you ever watched someone waste away before your very eyes and pull away from you so profoundly and have absolutely no way to help them? Have you ever watched someone you love self-medicate and seemingly prefer to choose poison over their relationship with you? Have you ever looked at someone you love, survive a suicide attempt and think “you’re so selfish” or “you’re so weak” or “you’re just doing this for attention”? Have you ever said to someone you love, who can’t seem to get their shit together who tells you they’re suffering and tries to explain the depth of that suffering to “snap out of it”?

As though they have a choice.

I know I’m only one generation shy of “there’s no such thing as mental illness”. I was brought up on “snap out of it” and “toughen up” and “there’s nothing wrong with you, you just need to work harder”. Will our next generation ‘get it’? Will my kids grow up understanding all the different pains in the world? Will their empathy extend to those whose suffering they don’t even understand?

Should it?

I think [hope] most of us are well intentioned. That our insistence that those we love who suffer from depression try harder is because we believe that’s all it takes. Because those of us who are healthy of mind can, actually, talk ourselves out of [and into] all sorts of moods and mindsets. I hope it is our naivety that fills us with the belief that all our suffering loved ones need is more company/stimulation/money/love to drag them out of their slump. I hope we are simply well-intentioned and naive because if we are not, then it is US who are selfish. It is US who are weak. It is US who need to snap out of it.

My truth is, I believe the fight is worth it for everyone. I believe life is worth it. I believe that if you have any fight in you then you should use it to war against any disease you have – physical or mental. I also believe that wars aren’t won without an army. In my family, when that bastard cancer is diagnosed [far too many times] we all suit up and stand strong as we face the enemy. We know that enemy well. We understand it and we hate it. So we fight. Together. Until the end. Because cancer is ok to have at the dinner table. It’s ok to have cancer at Christmas lunch. It’s sad, and sometimes confronting, but it’s there and we accept it – like an uninvited, estranged relative.

Depression, however, is not welcome at lunch. Or dinner. Or at picnics. Or even for coffee. Deep-seated, I’d-rather-be-dead-than-face-another-day depression is not welcome. It’s uncomfortable. It is not understood. It is not discussed. It is verboten. It is not real.

And so I ask you.

How can anyone possibly amass an army against an enemy that does not exist? 

And how can we possibly look our suffering loved one/s in the eye and ask them to stay without first trying to understand the pain that makes them want to leave?

R U OK?

So everyone’s asking if I’m ok. 

And I’m happy to say that yes, I am. And I’m happy to say that for most of my life I’ve been ok. Ups, downs, peaks and troughs but fundamentally ok. I’m lucky. For the most part I can see that when I’m down, there is still an up. In the darkness I’ll head toward the light which is always there... somewhere. In my loneliest hour I know that I am not alone and I will reach out for someone... and someone will be there. In my coldest season I will find warmth in an embrace or gentleness in a phone call. Most times, when I have needed to face demons and battle despair, I have been armed with an inherent belief that things could always be worse. When I have mourned the loss of people I have loved, I have done so knowing that there will be a brighter day and that the pain will not always be so raw. And on the rare occasions that I have felt too weighed down with grief and hopelessness, it has always been the investment of my friends and family in me that have pulled me up. For that, for them, I am grateful.

I’m off to make some calls.

I hope you’re ok too and I hope you know that if you’re not, it’s ok to let people know.

It’s ok not to be ok... xx

Frank, my dear, doesn't give a damn

“You’ll never guess who just walked into the shop”

That’s how the phone call from my very good friend started today. It sounds delicious doesn’t it? Who? I almost squealed, excited. Hopeful for some gossip.

“That bitch, Deidre Smith*”

Oh. Not so delicious. Not gossip. Horrible, confronting and painful news.

Deidre is the wife of the man who molested my friend’s two children when they were very young. She is the mother of my friend’s ex-defacto, her children’s step-father. She is the woman who didn’t participate in the molestation but knew about it. Turned a blind eye to it. Kept quiet about it. Enabled it. 

She is the woman that my friend and I HATE.

It’s a strong emotion, I know. But it sits real and heavy in our guts. My friend, let’s call her Molly [because I don’t actually KNOW anyone called Molly] has grown children now, but at the time of their abuse they were both under 5 years old. Molly didn’t know what was happening then. But Deidre did. SHE KNEW. And we hate her for knowing and for sharing cups of tea with Molly and smiling in photos with Molly’s kids and for getting on with her life,seemingly unaffected.

There are many, many resources for childhood victims of molestation, sexual abuse and rape. There is support. There is a general level of public understanding and empathy. In our culture, at least. As there should be. But often, it is the family of the victims that are forgotten though they suffer too. Make no mistake the ripple effect of child molestation is more like a tsunami... some people drown, some people never return after being swept away and homes are destroyed.

In Molly’s case, her suffering is threefold. 

First she has had to endure almost crippling guilt at the realisation that this happened ‘on her watch’ and SHE HAD NO IDEA that it was happening. It wasn’t until her children were grown up that they finally revealed to her what they had suffered as preschoolers. 

Secondly she has had to deny her own deep, burning desire to exact revenge on her children’s abuser AT THEIR EXPLICIT REQUEST. 

And lastly,it is her ongoing struggle to support an adult son who battles debilitating depression and agoraphobia as a result of the horrific acts against him as a toddler.

There was never any reason to suspect the man who molested Molly’s children. I’m going to call him Frank because that’s actually his name and it feels good for me to ‘out’ him, albeit under a shroud of anonymity. Frank was a lovely man. He was friendly and funny and charming. He had good relationships with his friends and a pleasant, happy wife. Two successful, grown [childless] sons. He looked after his home well and loved Molly’s kids. AND THEY LOVED HIM TOO. Molly could barely believe it when she finally found out what had happened, it seemed so unlikely.

And that’s what I’m here to tell you. It’s not always obvious when children are being molested. In fact, it often isn’t. In this, real-life, example I can tell you the following truths:

• Those kids WANTED to visit Frank. EVERY TIME.
• Molly TRUSTED Frank.
• Neither of Frank’s grown sons gave ANY INDICATION that something was ‘not right’ with their dad.
• Frank’s own wife welcomed Molly’s kids into her home and turned a blind eye when Frank visited them in bed. And the bathroom. And the shed.
• Molly’s kids showed NO SIGNS of being uncomfortable or scared of Frank. 

The other truths I can tell you are these. When a child’s innocence is stolen by sick bastards like Frank, it affects the rest of their life and the rest of their family and the rest of their family’s lives. When pricks like Frank get their revolting paws onto babies, hearts are ruined. When disturbed fuckers like Frank are left unchecked, scars are formed and futures are destroyed and hatred grows and grows and grows.

My final truth is this. Sometimes sick fuckers look like nice guys... and girls. Sometimes the only thing standing between your child and some disgusting pig is you, your gut instinct and your perceived over-protectiveness. It is your responsibility to be ever vigilant with your kids. Don’t assume you’ll KNOW that there’s something going on. Hundreds of thousands of people have proven how easy something like this goes undetected. In the case of Molly’s family even her two kids didn’t know it was happening to the other.

My friend Molly hates Frank and she hates Deidre too. She was happy to hear that he suffered before he died. She was happy to know that his last days were not easy, just as her son’s days are not easy either. She had nothing to say to Deidre that day. She was paralysed with rage and her voice was strangled with betrayal. But Molly’s ready for her when she comes again.

And Deidre better watch her back.

*Deidre Smith is a make-believe name for a real-life monster.

Please, if your gut is telling you something isn't right with your little one... seek external help. Follow the links in this blog or contact your state government department listed here.

"the world is in greater peril from those who tolerate or encourage evil
than from those who actually commit it"
ALBERT EINSTEIN (1879-1955)