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Must keep typing

I'm typing because everyone knows what will happen if I don't. I'll pick up the damn phone and I'll press the stupid buttons and have a conversation that doesn't fix anything and then cry until I'm ninety. It wouldn't even be the right conversation. My prediction is this one: ME: Hi. HIM: Hi. What's up? ME: Oh you know, I'm just sadder than the population of SadLand and I wish my face would fall off so at least the crying would stop. What's up with you? HIM: Nothing really,...

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Sunday night

I used to dread Sunday night. Everything from 4pm onwards felt like winding down, and there's nothing I like less than winding down. The feeling of inevitable endings. I used to fear that moment at about 7pm on Sundays when the nighttime crept around and I knew the weekend was over. That the next thing was sleep and morning and Monday and school runs and traffic and being late. I would sit on the couch and will Sunday to run...

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But then writing poured out

“I don’t want to be in this relationship anymore.” Hang on, this isn’t what we rehearsed! Take it back! He’ll leave! “I can’t - I hate it. We fight constantly. When we’re not fighting, I’m just waiting for us to start fighting. Even when it’s good. It might even be worse when it’s good because I know that any minute it won’t be.” I’m not sure he’s really listening. He’s holding a book. The words have spilled out of me in an ugly, clumsy...

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Writing is broken

It's a funny thing, being too depressed to write. And by 'funny' I mean 'so horrifically unfair and devastating', P.S. I write much better about the sad things when I'm not sad (though it usually takes me a couple of days afterward to feel anything resembling unsad). When I'm this depressed, this is what my writing looks like: OH GOD THE RAIN IS FALLING LIKE MY TEARS PLEASE MAKE IT STOP So, not excellent. It's 8:30pm on a Saturday and I'm in bed. I was...

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Out of my depth

This afternoon I met with Georgia’s teacher again, to discuss the ongoing friendship and social issues that she’s having. More and more, she comes home from school with tears in her eyes and with her little shoulders slumped and that is just not on.

Part of me always hopes that her teachers will say, “No, you have it all wrong, she’s fine at school!” And sometimes they do, but today was not one of those occasions.

“The other kids do tease her,” the teacher said, and my heart dropped into the centre of the earth. “Usually not right to her face, but they talk about her to each other sometimes, and sometimes she does hear them.”

At this point I was glad for my sinus infection, because I could pretend I wasn’t crying.

“What can we do?” I asked, and for the first time I realised I had no idea what answer to expect.

Stop being so mental, you fucking idiot!

I am having a mental health day today. Sort of. I’m working, but I’m on my couch and I have a blankie. Also, I have a sinus infection and my face feels like tiny men are trying to punch their way out of it. So I guess it’s part mental health day, part actual health day and part doing work anyway day. But I digress.

Do you know who probably needs a mental health day? Matthew Newton. I’m no psychologist, but I am someone who has her own mental health issues and all I see when I look at that guy is the saddest of sadness. I’ve read a great slog of articles today, particularly ones that talk about his violence against women, and they make me vomit in my mouth a little. Not because we shouldn’t feel the greatest empathy for the people he has hurt (and especially the women) but because they don’t help. Anyone. Especially not further women who may be hurt.

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Book Review: The Mothers’ Group [SPOILERS]

Following on from my last post, I’ve now finished reading The Mothers’ Group. The sheer volume of positive reviews spurred me on, and it is quite an easy read, one that I managed in a couple of days (days that included a terrifying afternoon at Intencity with 15 of Lily’s friends).

My thoughts on the story come with some (major) spoilers, so I’m going to sneaky them away behind this ‘Continue Reading’ link.

Mothers’ Group

I’ve just started reading the widely and highly acclaimed The Mothers’ Group. Obviously, this has given me cause to reflect on my own experiences with mothers’ groups.

When Georgia was a baby, I made a proper effort to make friends with other people with babies. I was twenty, and I had no idea how to do things with babies, so I sought others who would tell me what to do. I went along to my Maternal & Child Health Centre with the very, very best of intentions. I signed up for the First Time Mothers’ Group. I went to that group as if it were a religion.

I lived in Brighton when I had Georgia. Brighton is a beach-side suburb of Melbourne, where people are so rich that they don’t have to use indicators and some of them have servants. Neither of these things applied to me, I just wanted to be close to my parents whilst I tried to figure out what the fuck was happening to my life.

Mother Crime

I am a terrible, awful parent. Lily was brushing her hair in the car on the way to school. That's not The Crime, though it might sound like one. No, what happened after that was that Georgia thought Lily was brushing too slowly, so she grabbed the brush and started trying to brush it for her. We pulled in to the carpark and I yelled. That's the first part of The Crime. "Are you brushing her hair for her?" I yelled. "Yes." "Are you serious?"...

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Mummy Wars? More like NOTHING AT ALL EVER.

The Age published an article today called Curse of the Mummy Wars. Please. Obviously the real curse in this situation is the one that forces journalists to refer to women with children as "mummies" at all times, in the same way that they also refer to men with children as "daddies". They do that, right? This morning, I dropped my daughters off at Before School Care at 7:30am, before running at the speed of light to get to work on time and choke...

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Living with someone who is bipolar

People on the internet say "I thought you broke up with Gaz", because I told half of a story and then didn't tell the rest of the story. And then when I say "not exactly", they say "but he's a dick!" and so I write blog posts about it. This is a very personal subject and not one that is easy to write about, and I think quite a bit of it is going to sound like defensive battered wife...

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