That side is dominant, it wins over the negative side, about 80% of the time.
The negative side (I don't even feel like writing about because I'm sort of trying to forget it and *stay* in the positive side...but here goes) is charcoal grey. It's howling cries and screams from my nightmares that wake me up. It's me, cold in the night, and unable to warm up. It's memories of earthquakes at 4am, heavily pregnant with the world falling down around me. It's dark and cold and frightening. It's being at home with a newborn baby, alone, with a dicky wrist and excruciating pains every time I breastfeed, and having people tell me that I HAVE to breastfeed- but they're not doing it. It's the past, not the future. It's looking behind you as you're sure someone's watching, and it's slow haunting music. It's a cold hand pulling me around the neck, from the grapes on the fence of my childhood house.
This side now has me sitting here with my head in my hands.
I've suffered from depression since I was 8- isn't that absolutely ridiculous? I recall someone in my family saying "How can an 8 year old be 'stressed' and depressed?!". The negative side of my brain takes me back to the years I spent in silence, inside myself, hiding away from people and their positivity- or negativity- trying to find where I belonged. I lived in jealousy, in envy, of the girls in my class that were too busy to come play because they had 'family' things to do.
My childhood probably wasn't as awful as I remember; I'm sure there were good bits. Like when I got to spend time with my dad (he worked and works a lot). I have memories of him coming home to eat dinner with me (cooked by my nanny at the time), to play on the trampoline or take me to the park on my bike... The memories of my cat, now 18, as a kitten. I remember coming home from school and calling her from the back deck... "SOPHIIIIIIIIE!!!" and she'd come bounding in from god knows where- I think she had a wee spot on top of the shed. I remember when my mum was healthy-ish (she has M.S) and she'd take me to my Nana's, I learnt to skip on her lawn and Nana and I always looked at the "Ballerina" flowers - like the picture I use on my profile on here. I have them tattooed on my neck also.
I remember travelling with dad- or so I like to think I remember. He took me to Fiji when I was 3 and all I remember is a paddling pool, not even the ocean or the sand or the hotel, the bloody pool.
He took me to America not long after that and all I remember is a king size bed, McDonald's on the plane, and getting stuck to a carseat.
If there were no photos from Fiji or America; I wouldn't have even remembered going there. The memories I have feel as vivid as some of the dreams I've had. '
I remember Strasbourg because it felt most like home, and I was so homesick (why, I don't know, because even home didn't feel like home) at the time, it was a welcome relief to be there. There was a tram, which I think is why it felt like home. There was an eery calmness- there was no one around, where we stayed. I nicked some jam from the breakfast platters and had a wheel of cheese explode in my bag, in the sun. We had an egg maker at the table. The keyboard I used to send emails, wasn't the same as ours in NZ. I don't remember the room we stayed in.
I've been to Australia a few times here and there. I think all of the travel was mostly a reason for dad to have time with me alone. I have always appreciated the privileges I've had, but to be honest, if they caused more problems then they were worth- then I wouldn't have wanted them. All I ever wanted growing up was Sunday afternoons with my parents, or one of them, feeling like I wasn't in the way.
When people say "You're so lucky to have been to America!" I never know how to respond. Yes, I really enjoyed that plastic carseat ripping my skin as I tried to move. Oh and that Donald Duck iceblock was the highlight- I think.
I want to travel more, I'm nowhere near done. Ireland for the greenery, Italy for the food, and Bali for the peace (obviously not the shitty bits). There are places I feel I may find more puzzle pieces; like in a video game when you unlock other levels... I think these places might take me to other levels. But to be honest, the top of my priority list is being here for my daughter in the middle of the night when she needs me, to pay even more attention to her on Sunday afternoons, and to speak for her when no one will listen. I need to be, for her, what my parents weren't, for me. I need to try and prevent her having depression and anxiety problems at 8.
I don't blame my dad for working so much, when I was growing up, but I do wonder what it'd be like if he hadn't. I wonder, if instead of Fiji in 94, I would've just had fun here at home- I wonder if I'd have even known the difference. Before anyone snaps, he considers himself a workaholic ;) Not just me!
I remember (negative side of brain taking over here, bear with me) cold dark nights, cotton sheets and shadows on the wall, eyes watching me from somewhere, a dead quiet house. I remember being too scared to even call for dad, not knowing if he'd come or if he had left in the night for a different country. I was terrified of not having him there; I'd rather have cried myself to sleep, quietly, than call out and not have him come. I struggled with my own thoughts and fears for years of my life.
I had a lot of health issues growing up; most were headaches, I lived in fear of getting these as no one ever believed me. I got them on hot windy days. I used to go to the sick bay, at my primary school, and my head was throbbing so hard I couldn't even cry. Or sometimes I could cry but couldn't stop because the pain was somehow masked a little by the pressure of howling tears.
I never enjoyed the sick bay. I never enjoyed the looks from a certain HORRID teacher who made many passing snarky remarks about me getting better 'just in time for lunch'. I never enjoyed seeing kids out the window as I sat there wishing my headache to, well, fuck off thanks.
What I remember the most about headaches was when I'd get them in the middle of the night. If I was at my mums it was actually her who would wake me up with a cold flannel, panadol in jam and a glass of water. She knew, because I would whimper in my sleep- we shared a room until I was 11. Whereas at my dads (we moved in with his, now wife, girlfriend and 2 of 4 kids in 1999), I'd lay in bed until I couldn't take the pain anymore, I'd creep out of bed, down the stairs- knowing exactly which ones to skip because they squeaked- right to their bedroom door. I'd stand there for so long, so quietly, I could hear my bones creaking in my legs. I once saw the sunrise through the front door. I never wanted to wake them I felt so guilty and, as per, like I was causing a fuss ("How can an 8 year old have a migraine, Dr?!"). Sometimes I'd find the courage to knock, I would physically have to get my left hand and push on my right fist to hit the wood, otherwise it'd never make contact.
This is when my anxiety disorder was born.
For years I resented the fact he was rarely around. It was only when I had my daughter that I could finally let it go. If I never had my daughter, I'd never have understood (I don't really understand but I don't hate him for it anymore), and I was 20 when I finally got it- so many teenage years I spent evil-eyeing him from the next room, hating his existence. I remember my mum actually called my doctor once as she thought I'd try kill him. A lot went on in our house, never physical violence but a lot of emotional problems- I can't seem to avoid them!
I always hated his work for taking him away from me, but in reality he took himself to work. He lived to work, not worked to live. And that's not a criticism, that's how he built his life- to suit himself. He never wanted me, or himself, to go without.
But by being so careful about what they might be 'going without', it's easy to make the mistake of your children literally going without you.
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