Davy

A long time ago, when I was very young (and adorable)

my mother divorced my dad and married Davy.

What I remember from being that young, was living on a farm and listening to my dad and Davy singing in a band together. Their music was beautiful. I remember sometimes being at concerts of theirs in dark smokey rooms and falling asleep to them singing.

As I got older I, like any child, idolised my "real" dad and clashed heads with my step father. I tried a few times, the old "YOU'RE NOT MY DAD" line, as step kids do, though never to the extent that my sister did. She really hated Davy, though maybe not really as much as she thought she did, mental illness being the curse it is.

Not too far into my foray into the nightmare that is high school, Davy died.

It was the middle of the night when mum woke me to say Davy was being taken to hospital in the ambulance. She asked if I wanted to come and I didn't cos I had school in the morning and I hated the idea of hospital.

The next morning Davy died.

I don't remember our last conversation, I'm sure it was something about not leaving the table before I finished my dinner.

What I remember now is fondness. Love. Never the hate I thought I felt.

I remember him helping with homework. How awesome he was with my baby brother. How much my mum loved him. How amazing it was that we got to live in the US because of his work. Endless Sunday's down at the lake while he sailed model boats, because he could never have sailed on a real boat because his legs were damaged by polio.

I remember with love. And I hope he knows, regardless of my petulant childish behaviour that I loved him dearly. He was truly the father I always deserved, with the love, care, support, and commitment that my sister and I never got from my birth father. Davy was *there* every day. As a kid you underestimate what that means in your life and your future.

What I think about now is what his life would have been if he lived. What my mums life would have been. What would my baby brother be if Davy had lived, given how much he's achieved without the guidance of his father. He followed his father into engineering, would that still have been his choice if he hadn't lost his father so young?

Would my mum have stayed home for longer if she'd had the choice? Would she have wanted to move to the country if Davy had lived to retire with her, or would they have stayed in the city because of his legs.

And what of my life? Without the instability after Davy's death would my sister have gotten so violent, and would they have made a joint decision to send me away to protect me from her, or would I have stayed at home, in school. Would I have finished college. Gotten a degree in architecture or law like I always planned.

Would I have made so many mistakes with the men in my life if I'd had that stable male influence to temper the instability of my own father.

Would he have walked me down the aisle. I hope so. I would have wanted him to.

I think, considering everything, Davy's influence had extended beyond his own life.

His son is so amazing. I'm so proud of this kid. He walked me down the aisle with composure his dad would have been so proud of.

He's a mechanical engineer working on changing the world. He's climbed to Annapurna Base Camp. Right now he's motorcycling around Tasmania. In snow. He's a cyclist. Like in a serious sense of riding 40km for fun. He has incredible friends, he loves his family, and he's respected in his job. He is everything a father would want his son to be. 

Despite a rocky start Davy would be proud of me too. My successful career and the fact I'm respected in my field. Not the many achievements and talents that my baby bro has, but I, at least, still earn more than the little punk. 

He would love that mum has a good life, her property, her craft groups and friends. 

We've all gone on, lived our lives, they're good lives, but they're lives that would have been made richer, fuller, more special had he been in them. 

I hope, whatever is after this life, he knows how much he's missed and what an amazing legacy he left.

This is the song Davy sung for my mum at their wedding.

https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/11375048/16%20Six%20Ribbons.mp3

Not for you

When compared with my sisters mental illness, my anxiety, depression and OCD are almost non-existent.

Her illness falls in the schizophrenia range of disorders. She doesn't hear voices, but the spectrum she's in results in her not having any kind of understanding of long term consequences. She doesn't have any kind of comprehension of a life outside her own sphere of understanding. She doesn't comprehend that people aren't ready to talk to her at 7am on a Sunday. She doesn't think that calling me, or our mother, 12 times a day is unreasonable. It doesn't occur to her that I can't drop everything and drive an hour each way to deliver her cigarettes because she doesn't get paid for 3 days. Or pick her up foundation, or perfume, or whatever she needs right now but can't afford and won't be able to pay back.

There is a complete empty space in the consequences and consideration part of her mind that doesn't allow her to realise that she can't call someone every 5 minutes when she's well aware they're on another call.

The lack of understanding is no fault of hers, but it has such a huge impact on those around her. She expects that everything will be dropped for her the moment she needs something. No matter the time of day or the request, it must be done on her time and nobody else's.

And it's hard to say to her that this moment, this call, this request is too much. This time is not for her, this is mine, it belongs to me and I cannot devote it to you. She can't find the part of her that understands the need for me to say no to her for my own peace of mind, because she doesn't want to see that I have my own mental health issues that impact my ability to be a good sister, aunt, daughter, partner and friend. And her demands on me make it harder to be the things I need to be to those that are part of my circle.

I, middle child that I am, have a compulsive need to please others. My parents, friends, family, I have to be the one that's "good", easy to get along with. I don't ask for money, I don't generally ask for support, I don't need anyone to solve my problems for me, and clearly I am a tad in the control freak spectrum in my life, and my illness.

But a time comes where you need to say "this is not for you" and hang up the phone. And ignore the guilt that you know the next call is going to make life even harder for your mother.

Blessings

Ive struggled lately with my faith in something greater then us. God, Gaia, the universe, a giant ball of connected strings, whatever it might or might not be, i've struggled to see a greater purpose to the stupidity, selfishness, confusion of humanity.

The awful hate, discrimination, destruction, and pain we all cause each other seems to indicate a lack of connection between us, humanity, and a greater purpose, a driving force or direction that is divine in nature.

With my faith shaken its hard to believe that it's possible to have pre-determined connections between people, places, things, ideas, and yet, in the midst of six months of gut wrenching anxiety, pain, depression, a day of clarity makes me see my faith more clearly than I have in a long time.

I don't know that I believe that the universe, Gaia, great creator, destined Americo and I to be together from the beginning of time, but I think whoever guides the strings through the loom to form the fabric of the universe set my feet on a path that put me in this place, in this time, and it is supremely right that the things I've been through in my life, all the pain, sadness, hurt, lead me to this day of rightness.

I don't believe in soul mates, I don't believe in only one great love per lifetime, but I do believe that I haven't, and couldn't, love anyone as strongly and with such passion as I love Americo, and I am grateful to the great string puller for giving me this chance to share a bed with this wonderful man again.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Nervous? Who me?

yes, alright, I am.

It's been a year since I've seen my man.

A year is a long ass time in the world of relationships. It's a longer time in the world of a relationship that turns five in two weeks and is still frustratingly intercontinental.

It's ever so slightly ridiculous that I'm still nervous after this much time committed to this relationship. The first trip, totally logical. The second trip even, logical. Trip number, five, however, should be a breeze. Should be normal, familiar, just routine.

But this time has a new twist that is making me flippy in my tummy. It's the first time we've been alone in the house together. Plus, the first time I've been fully medicated for my anxiety. And to add to that my medication seems to push my mild OCD into a different place that is slightly unfamiliar and difficult for me to manage.

I have routines. Routines that I need to survive the nutty in my brain. Any change, even the arrival of my sweetie, will change those routines and I'm scared of what that will do to my brain chemistry.

Plus, there's so no room in my closet for another person. I have a lot of clothes. And shoes. SO MANY SHOES.

But, but, but, but, but, I miss him. I miss him like I'm not fully together and so maybe I'll find a way to make the routines work. Maybe I'll figure out to fit my shoes AND his shoes in the closet?

You never know.

Still, nervous. What if I'm too crazy this time around?