While I'm Down Here You May As Well Get The Boot In

You know you've done something right when you get a hater.  It means you've told the truth.

The only hater I've had up til this morning was a loooong time ago, back in the day of companies taking your content, republishing and getting ad revenue for it. I objected, as I am wont to do. I got a response - from the company I "named and shamed" - saying that I was a whore and my son was the son of a whore. Charming.  But not unexpected. They had a lot of emotional investment in what I brought to the attention of readers.

Bringing us back to today, another hater.  On my Broken post. (I am hanging in there, by the way. Just. Not going to do stupid stuff: the kids, remember?)  Go read that comment from Anonymous. Its a corker.  Go on, I'll wait.

Some fucked up part of my brain automatically wants to rebut (oh! my brilliant legal mind!) every.single.point.  I'm trying hard to shut it up, because there is nothing to defend myself for.  Quite obviously, someone has a lot of emotional investment in what I have written. In my truth.  I'm actually hoping to god its my husband's family, or there is one fucked up random out there who needs their own life to get invested in.

Let's get something perfectly clear.  This is MY story.  It is not the full story, nor can it possibly be.  There are many things I have not yet written about (the full story of my spine for instance), there are many things I will only give limited information about (my kids, my husband), there are things I will never write about.  I dont need to write the exact conversation had when MIL took my kids.  The police have that record.  I dont have to record conversations with my husband that devastate me. I dont need to write what I do or dont discuss with my health professionals. I DO have to write what is affecting me so I can get it out and try to process the emotions.

And that is what this blog is. It is me, with a tiny part of my truth, processing my emotions.  If those emotions are too raw, too confronting, or too close to home, feel free to click that little X in the top right corner and go somewhere else.  No one is making you stay here.

This is a part of me.  And I'm not going away.

Post-Stalker Quandry

Did I say quandry?

I meant "darkest pits of hell I just want to die because nothing is safe and what is the point in continuing I feel so disgusting I wish I could scrub this off me" despair.

The blackness descends again and again and again and nothing can lift it because there is nothing left that can give me any hope. 

This blog gave me hope. 

And now its gone.

And I am thrown between wanting desperately to be able to write my story in complete honesty so that one day my kids will know that mamma did everything possible to be a good mamma and when she fucked it up, this is why.  So that other people who are dealing everyday with the same fuckingshitsonofabitch nightmare of crazy that I deal with might have some microscopic sense of relief that they are not alone. So that when I write, what I write is on record, and I am therefore more accountable for my actions than if I wrote in seclusion.  Relapse is easier if the whole intertweebs dont know about it.

(Whole intertweebs. That is, all 10 of you.)

But, you know, evil narcissistic stalker.

How can I write anything about my children knowing that the crazy bitch I want to shield my children from is reading it all? After all, if I wanted her to have updates, I would be sending them to her. Which I am not. Because she is a psycho. An "under-the radar psycho" one of my friends called her, for on the outside she looks completely normal. But she's not.

What is the point in continuing to write when my voice has to be censored to protect my little family from unwanted intrusions?  What I write loses its meaning, loses its power and loses its ability to help anyone, myself most of all.

So I wonder and I feel sick to my stomach and I'm climbing back into bed and I dont know what to do because its all fucked up and all those painful moments of 3 years ago come flooding back and I rage and I know its about to get a whole lot worse because, hello, dosage increase tomorrow.

Advice, anyone? Because I am in no way capable of thinking clearly about this.

Dear Stalker (or, why you can fuck off now you crazy bitch)

Really, I should watch what I say, for it will surely come and bite me on the ass. A 24 hour turnaround is rather sudden ass-biting though.

I made a comment an another blog yesterday, about how I didnt care who read my blog because I didnt care what people thought.  This is true. I dont give a rats ass what you think of me. 

I *do* care, however, when someone I have deliberately and with good reason removed from my life somehow finds (or is given the address of - and I'm looking at you, other in-law family members) this blog and reads it. Silently. Like a stalker. With intent.

She's even reading it right now.  Yes, she is. Peering in through the windows from the bushes. Getting ready to phone me in a muffled voice and say "I know what you did last summer".

My mother in law.

In her narcissistic self-righteous wisdom, she decided 3 years ago that it was perfectly acceptable to take my children away from me, without my permission (I was begging you not to, do you remember that Anne?) and against my husbands express desires (he said only if I was completely ok with it, remember?)  And then, then, she refused to acknowledge that she had done anything wrong whatsoever. There was nothing to be discussed, nothing apologised for. 

After many attempts at resolution and much pain, we cut her out of our lives, out of our childrens lives, to protect ourselves from someone who didnt care about anyone but herself, didnt care how much hurt she caused others.  We have had no contact for 3 years, apart from unwanted cards arriving. Token jestures. The worst kind.

Today, an email arrives for my husband. "I've been reading Sharon's blog. Want to talk?"

My husband doesnt read my blog.   What the fuck makes you think its ok for YOU, of all people, to read it?

How long has this been going on, Anne? Have you gone through all the archives? Did you enjoy reading the bits about my cerivcal mucus when I was trying to conceive? What about Ella's birth story? Did it make you stop and think you could have been more supportive at the time?   Did you smirk to yourself when I was in hospital, detoxing from alcohol? Have your suspicions about my being an unfit mother, an unstable crazy woman, been confirmed by my ordeal on various medications for my "mental illness"? 

Did you read the bits about suicidal ideation and think letting me know via your son that you are reading this would push me over the edge?  Give you a window of opportunity? Are you salivating at the thought of a divorce? 

Does violating a person make you proud, make you feel good about yourself?  Because that is what you have done, as sure as a Peeping Tom violates the person they prey upon. Did you used to read your children's' diaries too? Open their mail?

You have violated me.  Again.  You took my children and now you have taken away the one thing in my life that was safe and good. 

Never again can I write in this blog, this sanctuary from the mess of my life, and be safe from the people who wish to do me harm. Maybe that is exactly what you want.

What possessed you to go down this road and read something that you know damn well I would never give you permission to read? What have you hoped to gain? That your son would suddenly forget everything you did and come back to the dysfunctional fold? 

ITS NOT GOING TO FUCKING HAPPEN.

You have gained nothing from your disclosure. You merely confirmed what we already knew about you. You will never get what you want. Never.

I might have a mental illness, but I'm not crazy.

Warning: May Have Been Genetically Processed By The Same Equipment As Nuts

After I checked myself into hospital to get help dealing with my alcohol dependance (dependance? addiction? which should I call it? words are so loaded with hidden meaning) and there was some space for me to think, really think, for the first time in years, there were things that I began to realise about myself. Writing in my journal helped to solidify those realisations. There were certain behaviour patterns that kept cropping up, things happening in a cyclical fashion. There has been underlying depression present for as long as I can remember, with occasional windows of what I have considered "normality" that on reflection may not have been normal at all.

I have seen many many mental health professionals in my life. It started when I was 19, being treated for Major Depressive Disorder.  I have been on 6 different anti-depressants in my life. I have been so depressed I couldn't get out of bed. I have cried continuously for weeks. I have been suicidal on many occasions since my teens.   I was absolutely serious about it last year, when my GP made Monkey Boy take control of my medications to keep me safe.  When I see a new shrink, we do the usual thing of going through the family history, list the stressful things that have happened to you.  I've done it so often I now see it as some kind of entertainment: what will the reaction be when I tell them? Will it be humour? Sarcasm? Offer platitudes? Or a chin drop to the floor? (that happened just once, but was quite funny. Maybe you had to be there. Or be me.)  My most recent therapist told me shrinks love people like me because it makes their job all so interesting. I'm a complex case, multi-faceted.
Yes yes, I know I'm fucked up, that's why I'm seeing shrinks.

The family history has always been:

• Mother: controlling, manipulative, emotionally abusive in extreme, chronic depression for which she was given Valium and told to stop being neurotic.
• Father: violent, anger issues, developed Alzheimer's in his 80s
• Eldest brother: depression. Suicide in 1998
• Middle brother: violent, anger issues, turned to God to solve all his problems (is that in the DSM these days?)
• Youngest brother: paranoid schizophrenic. Suicide in 2001
• Me: well you all know by know I'm fucked up in an interesting multitude of ways

(You can tell I'm assuming I am never going to be working again at this point, yeh?)

So the therapist/GP makes assumptions and decisions about medications based on that information.  But what if its wrong? What if it is incomplete? What if it is incomplete and you don't even know it?

I'm a great believer in the power of Dr Google. Some may scoff (many most all doctors do) at self-diagnosis, but I believe that if you are using the information wisely it can bring you closer to a proper treatment a lot quicker than if you leave it up to your overworked, underpaid, stressed out health professional who just doesn't have the time to listen to all your problems.  I learnt pretty quickly while dealing with infertility investigations that I had to be my own advocate for proper health care and diagnosis, and this is especially so if you are dealing with a chronic health issue. I know my body, I know what is normal for my body, in a way my GP never will because she doesn't have time to listen to me tell her. There are a million nuances that I am aware of but cannot articulate.

So I read a lot of medical websites. Professional ones, as well as teh forumz. And sometimes I read stuff that punches me in the guts because it has described me clearly on paper, and made me reassess things I took for granted as being normal.

Trawling mental health sites and reading up about alcohol dependance, anxiety, depression etc, I came across articles on Bipolar Disorder. I read them out of interest more than anything else, because I have extensive experience of living with someone who had Bipolar 1 with Psychosis. (Fun times.) That is what I think of when I think Bipolar. That is not a label I would ever apply to myself.  Ever.

Except I keep reading. Especially the section on Bipolar II, where there isn't the crazy mania people normally associate with Bipolar Disorder. Instead, there is the extreme "whale shit at the bottom of the ocean" depression combined with at least one instance of Hypomania, or Mania Lite.

Cue Oprah's "Aha! moment."

It all fits and that means that maybe if I get the right medication I wont feel like whale shit any more.  Woohoo. Except the likelihood is fairly low unless you have a family member who has a Bipolar diagnosis too, which I don't.  But you never know right? So I get a referral to  a psychiatrist (I hate them, the last one I saw kicked me out of her office after reducing me to sobbing hysteria by telling me that society didn't want to help people with mental illness).

I will have a full mental health evaluation. Doesn't that sound like fun?

A couple of nights ago I had a long Facebook conversation with a family member (the only one I have any contact with) and discovered that what I knew about my family profile is wrong. It turns out that:

• Eldest brother: had Bipolar, prior to suicide.
• His daughter: has Bipolar
• Middle Brother's daughter: has Bipolar

Ummmm.

Well.

Um.



I have had depression for as long as I can remember, and despite the 6 different kinds of antidepressants I am still depressed on them, though not whale-shit depressed. I don't want to kill myself when on the right AD.  I become too apathetic to kill myself, which is not really a glowing endorsement for relief of depression, is it?  The only time I can categorically state that an AD made me not depressed at all was when I started taking Prozac and the first month felt like I was on Ecstacy. Looking back, I can see it: hello Hypomania!

I am so unbelievably grateful to have this new knowledge of my family's mental health history. It could very well make the difference between a definitive diagnosis and a "you might have this, or you might have this, here try these pills and see what happens."  I've had enough of those experiences. I know enough to know that there is something wrong with my brain other than good old unipolar major depressive disorder.  

On Friday, I will have what may very well turn out to be the most important appointment of my life.

This is probably the first time in the history of everything that someone has actually wanted to be diagnosed with a mental illness.

Image from here

Well, hey, I'm crazy like that.

Hearing Voices

I don't believe I'm worthy, the page in my journal reads.

"Piffle" my friend Lioness offers from Portie-Land, and asks me to think of all the reasons why my friends do love me now, why I AM worthy.

yes yes, plenty of reasons blah blah

But when my head is reeling with noise noise noise that I just want to SHUT UP, its not so easy to hear the distant whispers of those positive words. This noise is so persistent that it is indecipherable, all encompassing and constant.

I want it to stop. I want the silence.

Pink wrote in her song "Fucking Perfect": Change the voices in your head/Make them like you instead.

 
Listening to this song for the first time while in hospital, I came to realise that's what they are, these incessant noises: voices.

Voices of people long gone.
Voices of people dead.
Voices of people dead-to-me.
Voices of people with their own pain, that they never acknowledged or dealt with.
Voices of people who would project their feelings about themselves onto me.
Voices of people with no love to give, even to me, who should have had it.

These voices are loud, constant, persistent, unrelenting and lifelong, starting at birth and continuing through bullying at school and then into relationships. They have had me shy away from friendships that might be positive, or worse, not nurturing them as they needed to be. Shying away from the people that wont treat me like crap. Persisting with those that do, whilst begging them to change.  Rejecting those that love me to pursue those that can't love me and never will. Then I do it to my own children too, rejecting them in favour of things that have no value in my life.

I feel like whale shit at the bottom of the ocean because this is not what I want to do, this is not the mother I want to be.

And the panic, the panic that those voices can instill in me...  The intense cell-level need to flee, to get away from the conflict that is coming, the negating of what I have to say, the denigration, the PROOF that my mother was right. Anything to avoid that...

My psychologist asks me during my session this week about my early childhood (no, not that, do we have to talk about that??)  Who did love me, if not my parents?  And I think.  And I shrug my shoulders and the tears fall.  Because the answer is unsayable. The answer is "no one."

Imagine that?

She explains that if a child has just one person to show them affection, to nurture them, provide care, to show love, make them feel safe and wanted, then their brain will develop to expect that relationships are positive, safe, good things.  If the child doesn't have that one person, then the brain develops completely differently. Relationships are a source of danger, and are to be avoided or sabotaged.

Without that "one person" to show me love when I was no bigger than my own children are now, it is no wonder I behave the way I do, react the way I do, expect the things I expect from people. The voices, they repeat the things that hurt the most in my childhood. The way I react to them and the way I relate to people is result of my brain development.

Does that make a difference?  I know now that my childhood is not something I "should just get over." I know that there is no point in beating myself up for the way I react in certain situations - its like hating on myself for breathing. I know that with self-knowledge comes the ability to change.

I know that when my heart is pounding and every cell in my body screams "danger! love approaching" that my brain is going to try to fuck things up for me.

I just don't know how I'm going to stop it.

Detox Day Whatever*

Apathetic.

Anxious.

Writing furiously and prettily in my journal and have come to some conclusions:

I have had Panic Attacks my whole life.
I have had Anxiety my whole life.
I have had multiple epidodes of PTSD, none of which have been dealt with properly.

When I read my list of the consequences of my upbringing, I can feel the beginnings of a panic attack.

Fuck knows where to start on the mess thats is my mind.

These clouds looked like a good place to start.

The Clouds They Do Beckon 

*Edited to say: its actually 28 Days sober today.

In Which We Descend Into The 11th Circle of Hell

The System. You cant beat it. Even if you join it you cant beat it because you dont want to get your ass sued. And even if you make it to the top of the system and cant be sued then you still have to work within legislation which those in REAL power wrote so they would get re-elected and not so it would actually work for the benefit of those whom it covers.

The System: 1. Panda: Nil.

And normally I would be kicking and screaming all the way to the District Court yelling as loud as I could to anyone that would listed about how completely FUCKED it is to allow two people for whom there are "grave concerns" about their wellbeing and ability to cope at home TO ACTUALLY GO HOME and about HOW can one make a determination about someone's mental incapacity when it is acceptable for that person to REFUSE a psych assessment and therefore an application for Guardianship is denied because there isnt enough evidence AND how is it even ethical to do so when that person is the CARER for someone who has been deemed to have a mental incapacity but no, HE doesnt need a Guardian either because this woman over here, THE ONE WHOM WE CANT ASSESS BECAUSE SHE REFUSES BUT WE'RE HEAPS CONCERNED SHE'S NOT QUITE RIGHT IN THE HEAD, HEY, she's going to be his carer.

Normally. But now I have a Small, Somewhat Burrito-Shaped Item who kinda needs his mamma to be around and not be climbing the walls with frustration and RAGE at this system that gives carte blanch to old people to go home and die.

So my parents are at home. My mother hates me and has even gone so far as to make the statement to the Board that I "never did anything to get them help" [A-HEM], the social worker, who while very nice and I'm sure the best thing mum could have at this point, is very naive about how my mother operates and is in for a rude shock, my father is oblivious to the whole thing, and my brother... Well, my brother is about to get the following email. I hate him like poison.


Dear Fuckhead,

Today you said some things that I have to address, if only to get them out of my brain so I can get on with my life and not keep dwelling on how angry I am.

You based your allegation about my suitability for our father's Medical Power of Attorney on what exactly? My behaviour at the hospital the night my parents were admitted, you claimed. What behaviour was that exactly?

• Was it the fact that I stayed at the hospital until midnight in Emergency with my 6 month old son?
  
• Was it the fact that I made sure someone was with him once our mother had been taken to hospital so that he was not left to fend for himself alone for a whole weekend because the doctor wouldnt do anything for him?
  
• Was it the fact that I called an ambulance in the first place so that our father was not at home choking to death?
• Was it the fact that I made sure that the hospital had as much information as I could give them about their medical status and history?
• Was it that I made sure the doctors were aware that the growth on his face needed to be looked at? Lucky I did, hey, since it was cancerous.
• Was it the fact that I had to request an ACAT Assessment be done for them to make sure that they werent just sent home?

What other decisions have I made that havent been in his interests? Was it being the person who pushed and pushed to get a diagnosis for him? If I hadnt insisted upon a referral to a specialist, there would STILL be no diagnosis. If I hadnt taken him to all his appointments for the majority of my pregnancy he would not have gone.

Your transparent attempt at maligning me fooled no-one today. If you want to make allegations that I cannot be trusted to make medical decisions for our father they'd better be backed up by some damned good evidence next time.

Truly, you are diabolical to me. I cannot understand your need to deny our family history. What do you gain from trying to sweep decades of abuse under the carpet? Do you somehow asuage your guilt by doing this? Is it the only way you can live with the fact that you knew what was happening to our mother and you knew what was happening to me when I was a child, yet you did nothing to protect us? Even Warren had the guts, the sensitivity, to apologise to me for not being there for me when I was a child.

It makes me sick to think that you want to rewrite history and pretend that it was a mere "difficult relationship" that has now "weathered the storm". Domestic violence should NEVER be ignored in this way and I cannot believe that as someone who has been called out to surely countless DV incidents is so willing to ignore it and diminish it in his own family. Our parents have not "weathered the storm". Our mother was battered by our father since the very early days of their marriage. The ONLY reason this stopped is dad's decline from dementia. As his dementia progressed his personality changed and lucky for mum it was into a placid, doddering old man. The way you minimise the dysfunction in their relationship and our family is so reminiscent of the behaviour of the perpetrators of the sexual assault on me 5 years ago that it makes my skin crawl.

I dont know why you have such a low opinion of me. I have never known and I probably will never know. At this point I dont even care. I scratch myhead about it and wonder in an anthropological/psychological exercise kind of way, but that remains the extent of it. I doubt that even you could tell me. I know I have absolutely done the right thing with regard to ensuring the welfare of our parents and somehow I have managed to rise above my upbringing and become a decent, well-adjusted human being despite my family.

Methinks that when you have yelled at me that I am just like our mother (and you mean that in a bad way) that in reality, you are projecting your beliefs about yourself on to me. I see so much of mum's behaviour in you (particularly the denial of reality and rewriting of history to fit your agenda) that I really hope your kids have been paying attention to whats been going on here. I fear that this will be their story in 30 years.

Good luck with the Administrator role. I hope you can sort out the financial mess.

I'm done here.

My Life In The Tenth Circle of Hell

Ok. The dummy has been reinserted and I have about ten minutes before he starts screaming again because he really does want to get up now please.

In the last 6 weeks we have experienced the following at Chez Panda:

• Projectile vomiting from the Spud for TEN DAYS which left all of us drained, and him especially so.
• No sleep whatsoever for a number of nights which was definately heading towards "I'm gonna kill the baby and divorce my husband" territory.
• The return of Monkey Boy to university and thus the beginning of my life as a Stay At Home Mum Who Now Has To Deal With The Baby All On Her Own and doesnt THAT cut into your blogging time.
  
• A trip to the Sleep Clinic where we learned how to wrap the Spud like a burrito in a single bed sheet so he cant escape and will thus sleep through the night. And it worked. IT WORKED. He sleeps! He sleeps! He will not be killed! I will not be divorced!
• A phone call to the nursing home re my parents...and you know that has to be saved for a post all of its own because I cant possibly rant enough about having to go to the Guardianship Board next Thursday in the time I have left before the Small One wants out of the burrito.

It has been an interesting time.

Did I say interesting?

I meant fucked.

Except for that sleep bit.

Panda 1: Fucktards 0

And so back to our regular programming.

In our last episode we had left our heroine bemoaning the fact that The Brother can’t take a hint even when it’s spelled out in interpretive dance. Since then, our heroine wrote her mother a very long (4 pages, single spaced, 12 pt font) letter explaining in great detail why this situation was a complete clusterfuck, why she no longer wished to acknowledge her brothers existence and why she would not be partaking further in the family’s game of “why Panda is a total fuckup and we’re all saints and do what I say or I’ll scream.”

In today’s episode we discover that The Powers That Be, when apprised of the facts of the situation and having to deal with The Mother themselves (“having difficulties with her being rather…um…assertive”), are quite capable of coming to the same conclusions that our heroine has been banging on about for the last 18 months. As amazing as it may seem to our regular viewers, Someone Else has finally recognized that a woman who has almost killed herself and her husband from neglect should not be allowed to go home and continue to be the carer of said husband. The Powers That Be conclude that the best place for The Father With Alzheimer’s is in permanent nursing care, and that the best place for The Mother With Fucking Selfish Bitch Disease is either at home on her own with extensive support or in assisted living with The Father. The Powers That Be will under no circumstances allow them to leave the nursing home and enter an situation which is unsafe.

The episode closes with our heroine feeling rather smug and flicking the bird towards The Brother.

Cue swelling triumphant music.

Yeh, Well You and Your Cat.

Its amazing how much people give away about themselves by attempting to defend their actions to complete strangers.

Someone seems to not have a very good grasp of the English language, judging by the continued text messaging after having received the "do not contact me again" request. Man-way-lah, bless her fired-up little heart, sent the Fucktard an email reminding him of my request. It was a short email. Polite. A couple of sentences. It required no response.

Unfortunately HeWhoShallBeIgnored felt that the appropriate thing to do was to explain himself justify his actions in many long-winded paragraphs that actually ellicited no new information other than the fact that he is incapable of proper use of commas, officious to within an inch of his life and unable to communicate in any way that does not involve some use of bullshit pseudo-legal power trip.

Seriously, in his writing as in his speech, all that is missing from his Police Prosecutor role is the "I put it to you...I put it to you."

He sent yet another email last night, again long-winded excercise in self-justification, coupled with the re-writing of history (he's the sensitive caring one and I'm the evil foul-mouthed one who's confused about what he was talking about) and a pinch of either my mother lied to him or he lied to me.

It doesnt matter of course. I'm merely writing this down so that when insanity the urge insanity strikes me and I feel like I should be getting involved in this clusterfuck again, I can come back and remind myself of how bad it really is.

And by "it doesnt matter of course" I mean it matters in that "jesustapdancinchrist where do you people get all this crap from and why am I suddenly the bad guy when I've done nothing to anyone and maybe I've always been the bad guy to you all and never realised it until now and how the hell did THAT happen" kinda way.

Its very noisy inside my head as I try to put all this to rest. My parents are in their nursing home. All their belongings that I am "holding on to" and "refusing to return" will be given back to them tomorrow by Monkey Boy. The nursing home has been made aware of the family breakdown and that HeWhoShallBeIgnored is now the only contact for anything to do with their care. Tomorrow, as the very annoying Craig David song said, I'm walking away from the troubles in my life.

And The Winner Is...

Dont be silly. You didnt think there was going to be a winner in this situation did you?

You know things are going badly when the first words you write in a text message to your brother are "You chickenshit motherfucker".

Last night was the final act in Familius Horribilus Retardum. And by final, I do mean final.

Mum and dad had their Aged Care Assessment done yesterday, a four hour procedure which was painful to say the least. At the end of it the Assessor had the same opinion of the situation that I do; my mother is suffering from some form of mental illness and my father should not be going home with her, if indeed she should even go home. For now they are being put into a nursing home for at least 12 weeks, and they will both be assessed for their future needs towards the end of that time. Good, good. Ways to get a psych assessment done were discussed and were to be followed up on.

You know I talked to my brother about this. Well, that is to say, I tried. I really really tried. But the second that I said things he didnt agree with, and I mean THE SECOND, he got abusive. The Assessor spoke to him yesterday, and because she didnt mention the psych assessment to him, Brother thinks I'm full of shit and trying to manipulate the entire situation the get them both "put away to rot". He proceeded to blame me for everything that has happened, told me it was all my responsibility to do something about it, ("How many HOURS, Panda, how many HOURS have YOU spent looking after them? Why werent YOU doing something to care for dad's welfare if you were SO concerned?") and made further insinuations that I had done absolutely nothing and he's the big fucking hero who actually cares in this scenario. He even demanded to know why I hadnt informed him of the situation. WTF??? Does he not remember this or this and countless other emails I have sent him telling him EXACTLY the situation.

He then proceeded further to bring up every possible failing (in his mind) on my part for my entire life and use it against me PLUS said that mum told him that I was holding on to her bank books and credit cards and refusing to give them back to her (she'd given them to me for safe-keeping, at HER request) and that I was trying to get control of their bank accounts. I tried talking to mum yesterday about Power of Attorney for her to prepare for the situation when she's not able to sign anything herself or cant get to somewhere to take care of stuff and she twists this to make me look like a fucking villain. AND THEN after about an hour of this bullshit, when he's hung up on us twice, he goes for the jugular...

and god knows what relevance this has to anything, says that "well maybe we are just tired of getting phone calls from mum and dad about them having to go and pick you up in a state in the middle of the night..." to which I told him how dare you bring up my teenage years and whats that got to do with anything anyway and he responded that "oh no this was only a short time before you married MonkeyBoy." Oh yes...the night that I HAD BEEN RAPED.

Lets just think about that for a minute...everything to do with the totally fucked up situation our mother had wilfully got herself and dad into is completely and totally your responsibility to have done something about and your fault that it occurred and as an example of your total failure and fuckup as a human being lets just drag out that time that you were such a total fuckup that you managed to get yourself raped and then WE HAD TO HEAR ABOUT IT.

I absolutely lost my shit at him, MonkeyBoy grabbed the phone off me and lost his shit at him, and my throat is stillhoarse from me screaming at him that I had no fucking brother anymore and never ever contact me again Its 12 hours later and I am still shaking. I dont think I have ever cried like that before, I really dont. I have never been so angry in my entire life. We got in the car and came down to the in-laws at midnight (a 90 minute drive) just to have some sane company.

He insinuated that I had something to do with mum's enormous credit card debt and then he actually demanded to know how I WANGLED being second agent for dad's Medical Power of Attorney and why he wasnt on there as third agent and why I didnt consider what would happen since I was pregnant and could be in labour, or under a general or or or... Well, fucktard, a) i wasnt even pregnant when the POA was signed, and b) you can only have two agents listed and c) you're on the other side of the fucking country and d) MUM WANTED ME AS SECOND AGENT.

He talked to me like I was one of his bloody suspects in a police interrogation. I have never heard such viciousness directed towards someone before. Even my ex was never that vicious and he was an alcoholic violent unmedicated manic-depressive. My own brother...

The only end to a text message that started as above is:

"Do not contact me again."

***The End***

Some Very Late Night Rhetorical Questions Because I Cant Sleep For Angryness

How the bloody fuck does a woman on an Aged Pension (ie Sod All income) qualify for 3 credit cards with the same institution all with a credit limit of $20,000 and then proceed to rack up a credit card debt of FORTYFIVETHOUSANDDOLLARS at EIGHTEENPERCENTINTEREST????

Why does a woman who has refused all medical attention for 18 months and brought herself and her husband to the brink of death even get the freaking OPTION of saying "No" to any medical test that will determine the true state of her health once she is in hospital???? I'm sorry, but you "WONT HAVE A CT SCAN BECAUSE YOU KNOW YOU HAVENT HAD A STROKE"?????? And you're not in the Psych Ward WHY?????

And excuse me, but if you can ring BENNY HINN MINISTRIES and give them money and ask to be put on the PRAYER CHAIN why the fuck can't you ring the doctor who is THREE BLOCKS AWAY?????

And why should anyone believe you when you say you realise you did the wrong thing and you should've listened to your family and you are a stupid old woman and now you'll accept any help you can get WHEN YOU GET HOME when you come out with crap like b) above. Will accept any help...wont have a ct scan because you havent had a stroke. Am I the only person on the planet who sees righ through this ridiculous charade?????

These and other unanswerable questions circle continuously through my brain at 2am. Stupid fucking caffeine.

In Which She Realises Her Life Is Coming Precariously Close To Being Described As A Trainwreck

Right, so back to the story....

Mum and dad both in hospital. Dad is doing as well as you could expect for someone with severe dementia, incontinence, lack of proper nutrition and a possible cancerous growth under his eye that wasnt there three months ago. He is very confused, doesnt know he's in hospital when he's talking to me and is so thin...SO thin... Mum...well they are testing her for all sorts of stuff. He electrolyte levels and blood chemistry were so screwed up it was life threatening. In fact she probably would have been dead within 24 hours if she hadnt been brought in when she was. Her legs are being treated with IV antibiotics and bandaging, her hip (from 16 months ago) is fractured (THANK.YOU!) and her knee is dislocated or possibly there is a torn ligament, they havent even looked further than "its not broken" at this stage. Today or Monday she will be given a CT scan to check for evidence of a stroke. She will have a dementia screen, be assessed by an Occupational Therapist, be given physiotherapy and (on my request) will be given a psych assessment. And then...then...if she has what they call Testimentary Capacity, which is the ability to make a decision EVEN IF ITS ONE THAT PUTS HERSELF OR OTHERS IN DANGER she is allowed to go home. Do I even need to comment on how I feel about this? Thought not.

This week has been hell.

This has not been helped at all by the following:

After running around like a headless chook and making numerous phone calls and having meetings with the appropriate doctors and social worker etc so that I actually know what is going on and have alerted the staff to the history, I get a text message from brother: "Mum very upset about U (his emphasis) putting her in a home. We should work towards getting them both home."

This particular message had Monkey Boy on the phone to the Fucktard letting him know exactly how insulted I was about this (since I'd never said a word to mum about this, and its up to the doctors anyway, apparently) and trying to make him aware of exaclty how bad the situation is. MB got exactly nowhere. HE thinks he can stick his oar in from 3000km away when he's seen them twice in the last 12 months and takes what mum says as the foundation upon which to base his assessment of their needs. Well you know what? If he thinks he knows whats best for them then let him deal with the ramifications of that.

Last night I had to take some things to mum from their house. It was 7.45pm. We'd been out all day. Spudly was tired, hungry, and in the car in the parking lot. With Monkey Boy of course. I was trying to get away as fast as possible but at 8.20pm when mum was still blathering about CRAP I said several times that I really.had.to.go.because.there.will.be.a.screaming.hungry.baby.in.the.car...well what else would one respond to that other than "forget about the baby, there are other things to think about besides the baby. It wont hurt him to let him scream."?

Did we get that folks?

Ignore the needs of your child and pay attention to me.

Umm..well...no, actually. You can go fuck yourself.

And this...this is after she has repeatedly told anyone who will listen that she didnt call me to ask for help because she didnt want to bother me when I had the baby to look after.

I dont know why that comment came like such a kick in the guts, but it absolutely floored me. Not helped, of course, by the line "now you have two children to look after" as I left.

Well, that's where you're wrong, mother dear. I have one child to look after, who is the most important thing in the world. There is NOTHING more important than him. HE is my child, he is my responsibility. You...you are a grown woman who has chosen to not be responsible for her own life anymore. You are not my child to look after, and I will not put my family through any of your bullshit just because you have decided to behave like a child.

Fucktardus Siblingii will be coming here at the beginning of December, at which point there will be a "Family Conference" with the entire medical team and mum and dad. Oh joy. A family conference. Duck and cover; this will be nasty.

The Crisis We Had To Have

My parents are both in hospital.

My mother fell AGAIN and very badly hurt her knee. Doctor was called. Ambulance was called. Doctor shocked at general state of mother aside from broken knee, ie ulcerated legs and general starvingness. I call friend. Friend goes round to make sure dad okay. Father extremely distressed at being left alone without only carer. Father chokes on food and vomits. Ambulance called. Father taken to hospital as completely unable to care for self.

Panda gets to hospital, barely recognises either parent.

They are skeletons. Its clear they havent been eating. My mothers legs are lumps of raw and rotting flesh. She says she hasnt been able to wash for weeks and hasnt slept for weeks either and looking at her its easy to see thats the case. My father looks like he's about a week away from dying. I spoke to her a week ago and all she said was that she had been sick with v bad gastro. With what I know now its obvious that it wasnt gastro, it was her body shutting down.

We were at the hospital til midnight last night. I've had three hours sleep. Its obvious that neither of them will be going home again. 3 months ago...3 MONTHS...a nurse at their doctors surgery was informed of the situation with them and an appointment was made for her to go around and attend to my mothers legs as a pretext for getting someone in the door to assess them. Its clear she never went. What the fuck is up with the health system that when the medical profession is informed of patients in dire medical need they do NOTHING???

I cannot get the smell of my mothers legs off my own skin.

I expect a phone call from the hospital saying that they have both died. And I think it would be a blessing for both of them if they did.

You Knew This Would Happen, Right?

I had to visit my parents on Friday. So you know where this post is going.

First, lets get the bitching out of the way.

You may remember that my brother visited back in May for my father's 90th birthday. Since I didnt see him, he left a present for Spudly with the folks.

A slight detour to give the backstory: when I were a wee thing, I had a china Bunnykins bowl. I started eating solids from this bowl. I remember eating cereal out of it before I started school. With nary a thought that I may like to have it for MY kids, my mother gave this bowl to my brother when he had his first child. I have never got over this. Call me bitter if you like. You'd be right. The bowl had sentimental value to me, and none to him. Not to mention the fact that it is now worth a fortune. [She also gave his son my STAMP COLLECTION without asking me. MINE. I spent my whole childhood collecting those stamps. Gave.them.away. Yes. Bitter.]

Back to the other day: So what, therefore, could be the most ironic present my brother could give me? A Melamine Bunnykins set. MELAMINE people. Not MY BOWL. Some cheap-ass replica of my bowl. Harumph!


Now to the olds...

Mother had brother go get money from the atm for her back in May. 2 weeks ago, after stretching the money as long as possible on the food purchasing, she ran out. And ran out of food. No.food. Oh, well, except for 3 tiny tins of peas, half a cup of sugar, a dash of milk, a teaspoon of jam and a small wadge of cheese. What did she do? She had COFFEE WITH LOTS OF SUGAR IN IT when she felt hungry. Fuck knows what my father ate; probably nothing going by how much weight he has lost.

Mother has still not seen a doctor about her fall, despite this now being over 12 months ago. Still uses the walking frame, still cant get into her own bed, still in pain. More importantly, still cant wear her support stockings for her severe varicose veins and thrombosis, so her legs and feet are now massively swollen to the point where her skin is cracking. My fear is that she will end up with a clot in her heart or brain and that'll be that.

Monkey Boy asked if I said anything to her about this, but what's the point? Really? Nothing will happen except more banshee screaming, and who needs that?

If I think about it too long I will get very angry at the system that allows this to happen. My hands are tied, and the doctors will not get involved unless either my mother or father asks for help, despite the fact that they are both manifestly mentally incompetant to do so.

OH! AND! The local gp they saw to get a referral to the Geriatician? The one who never saw my mother as a patient? Continues to write scripts for her blood pressure medication and faxes them to the chemist despite NEVER having taken my mother's blood pressure.

How is this "doing no harm"?

"They Wont Remember A Thing"

It's one of those ever-so-useful platitudes that people like to trot out whenever your baby is undergoing some painful procedure like immunisations or being made to dress up like a caribou. Like most platitudes it is supposed to be helpful, alleviate stress and/or guilt, reassure parents that they have done the right thing (well, maybe not the caribou suit) and make the person who said it feel better. Like most plattitudes, it does none of these things except the last, and it isn't true.

Here's the thing: they may not consciously remember their first needle or that time you spilled red wine on them (okay the time I spilled the red wine) or the fact that mum and dad were not getting along too well or the time you left them to Cry It Out, but you cant tell me that it doesnt affect (affect? effect? I never bloody know) them and leave some sort of mark upon their personalities.

Babies' brains are blank slates when they are born, and their earliest experiences shape the physical structure of the brain itself. The process of interacting with its people and its environment stimulates various parts of the brain, impacting not only on the number of brain cells and the number of connections between them but also the way in which these connections are wired. Over-stimulate the part of the brain that deals with stress responses and you will develop a brain that reacts as if a stress response is required even when it isnt.

When I understood this (for I didnt even realise this was the case until a few weeks ago) it had a profound affect on me. For two reasons. Firstly, the realisation that every.single.thing I do shapes Spudly's personality. Everything. Crying every evening because he was starving and we couldnt figure that out: some brain cells were stimulated and others died because of it. Holding him close for the better part of every day and responding immediately to his cries that mean "my butt's all poopy" "I'm gassy" and "I'm unsettled and feel like a grizzle" stimulate the warm and fuzzy pathways. On the whole, I think the warm and fuzzy pathways are winning out, but what a totally awesome (in the true sense of the word) responsibility. Obviously, I understood before that how we treat Spudly affects how he behaves in the world and how he feels about himself and others, but I didn't consider that how we treat him physically changes his brain so that he wont be able to respond differently to how WE hard-wire him. Fuck that's huge.

Secondly, it made me realise some things about myself. Since Spudly was born I've often ruminated upon what life was like in the House of the Mini Panda. My mother has told tales of being home after her 6 week hospital stay (following pre-eclampsia, 7 day labour, emergency c-section, baby born not breathing and not being able to see her for 3 days, and not having any milk to feed her) and being expected by the Husband and the Three Teenage Sons to pick up where she left off, i.e. her rightful position as their personal slave. She cried into the bucket of nappies on a regular basis from what I gather, and had to deal with not only the expectations of four less-than-enlightened males but also a baby who wouldnt stop screaming or go to sleep without the addition of Baby Valium (I shit you not). Knowing my father and brothers as I do, its not hard for me to picture the atmosphere in that house. The tension, the arguments, the screaming (not just from me) and more than likely the physical abuse. Is it any wonder that that baby grew up into a child and then adult with severe anxiety issues? Is it any wonder that she has suffered depression most of her life? Is it any wonder that a sudden loud voice, whether in anger or in fun, sends chills down her spine and does weird squidgy things to her guts?

For so long I put these things down to the things in my life that I could remember. The physical abuse my mother and I suffered from my father, the abuse I suffered from my mother, the violent relationship I ended up in with Fuckhead. The depression and anxiety disorder I put down to me being somehow weak or not made of strong enough moral fibre. I'm not denying the profound effect my remembered experiences have had on my personality, but what a shock it is to realise that the things I cant remember have had the biggest impact of all.

I'm not even sure how I feel about this. Relieved. Disturbed. Angry. Sad. Mostly relieved, I think. It goes a long way towards explaining why now that I'm in a loving, safe and supportive environment I feel like I'm out of my comfort zone and have to continually remind myself that this is a Good Thing. My comfort zone is that which was hard-wired into me in infancy. And its not a place I want to or should stay.


Speaking of the things they wont remember, here's some evidence for later court trials:

Mamma and Spudly do that 'net thing

Spudly says "Lemme see what you're doin..."

In case you cant quite read his t-shirt...

One Day I Will Stop Writing These Posts

Its Sunday. Its lunchtime. You will notice that I am posting on my blog and NOT sitting down to a birthday lunch with my fucked up family.

I am so tired that even if I wanted to go, it would have been a bad idea.

On Thursday, Monkey Boy and I did the expected thing and popped in to see my parents on the way home from our grocery shopping expedition and introduce Spudly to them. It was uncomfortable, to say the least. Spudly, the little darling, decided to start screaming as soon as we pulled up outside, so obviously we couldnt stay long. Gotta love that boy.

Really, I had absolutely nothing to say. Well, nothing that I havent already said before in response to my mother's inane drivelling about dad's memory being "a bit of a problem" and the fact that she cancelled his last doctors appointment and how its so hard for her to get around with the walking frame and she keeps hurting herself trying to do the vacuuming, blah blah blah. Monkey Boy and I just looked at each other.

Now, given the previous post, you might have some idea of how thrilled I was when my mother said to Spudly upon his screaming "isnt she feeding you?"

You couldnt get me out of there quick enough.

Neither Monkey Boy nor I said anythign about the visit when we left. Some time after we got home he said "are you impressed I havent made any comments about your retarded mother?" Yes. Yes I was. I was also impressed with myself that I had no need to vent upon leaving. We both knew what the other was thinking.

Something along the lines of "let's never do that again."

Oh Brother, Where Art Thy Brains?

Dear Brother,

What part of "I'm not keen on doing lunch for several hours when I've just had a baby" did you not fully understand when you booked a table for 8 for next Sunday and assumed that we'd all be there?

I cant actually bring myself to respond politely to his email, so I just wont respond. After yesterday's post describing my day can you really see us sitting peacefully in the restaurant of a dodgy bogan pub for Sunday lunch? Nope. Me neither.

Its bad enough that I feel I HAVE to go and see my parents this week to introduce Spud to them. Hopefully he's still young enough that he'll have no memory of the occasion. Its a fairly safe bet, since he has trouble remembering where he left his hand...

You What?

Its been far too long between posts about my mother. I'm suffering high-drama withdrawal symptoms.

As are you all, I'm sure.

The day after Spud was born, in what was the first and last conversation I had with her since his birth, the following exchange took place:

Mother: I still havent been told you know.
Me: Yes you have.
Mother: No I havent.
Me: Yes you have. N told you last night.
Mother: YOU havent told me. When N told me he'd arrived the night before I was absolutely livid.
Me: I've been in labour for 3 days and I'm exhausted. Do you really think I need this right now?
Mother (all high-and-mighty): Now listen Panda...
Me: Fuck off, mum. Just fuck off.

Really, I need someone to be pissed off with me because I didn't personally ring them the second my child was born when I've just been through some kind of emotional and physical hell and since then have been worried that said child is okay and not about to die because he got a lungfull of poo. How inconsiderate of me not to drop everything and pay attention to how my sociopath mother is feeling neglected by not being the centre of my universe.

She rang us the day we got home from the hospital, ostensibly to apologise, but Monkey Boy assures me that the words "I'm sorry I'm such a self-centred cow" did not pass her lips. Nor did the words "congratulations", "how are you?", or "how's Spudly?"

What-ev-uh.

Familius Horribilus Retardum Act 2

Scene 1

An email from my brother. My thoughts are in red:

Thought I'd let you know it's Dad's 90th birthday coming up on May 8th [a Monday] but you probably knew that already.

Oh, really? Because I have no idea when my own father's birthday is.

Because of the special age etc... C [wife] and I are flying down with M & P [kids] too on Saturday 6th in the morning and returning home on Monday at 6pm or so.

We missed being there for Dad's 75th so would like to make this special for him and Mum to.

Actually, you missed his 80th.

We haven't mentioned anything to Mum and would like it to be a surprise if possible. Would you be interested in getting together for a lunch somewhere special on say the Sunday or Saturday like you did last time? Not sure where you had that get together.

Are you able to organise the luncheon from your end knowing Adelaide a bit better? Will you be able to get yourselves with baby + Mum and Dad to the lunch?

Suuuuure, because, you know, only 5 weeks until I give birth to my first child I obviously have nothing better to do. As for lunch 4 weeks after his birth, there's nothing I'd love better than to drive for two hours and sit in a restaurant for several more hours with a newborn and deal with people I dont like particularly and listen to my father ask the same question every 5 minutes. And I'm sure we can strap Spudly to the roof so we can fit the olds in the back of the car.


We have hired a small car only but would like to surprise them at the lunch, not before.

Will wait to hear back for your thoughts.

I dont think you want to hear my thoughts on this matter....


Scene 2

Another email from my brother:

Can you think of anyone else to invite ? If you don't give it away about us coming down, you may be able to get Mum on side to organise some of Dads other friends in Adelaide to come along too.

Are you on drugs? What friends?

I take it Mum is getting out and about from time to time ? By taxi or with you ? Alone or with Dad ?

Yes, clearly you are on drugs. How else could you come up with such a preposterous assumption?

If she can make it out from time to time I'm sure we can get her and Dad to lunch somehow.

Try hitting her over the head.

Do Mum and Dad qualify at all for assistance with taxi transport through Adelaide Access
Taxis? Mum didn't speak to highly of the regular taxi operators she had used to start with.

Start with? She's used a taxi ONCE in 7 months.


Scene 3

My response:


Okay, it seems fairly obvious that you're not up to speed on what things are really like down here, and if you're getting all your info from mum that's hardly surprising.


Hmmm. Where to start. I'll address the issues/questions you've raised first.


Mum and Dad dont have any friends. At least not people they're in contact with anymore. I know mum talks about people she knows, but this is more of a "living in the past" thing as they have no visitors, no-one rings (except for D) and no-one is aware of what is going on with dad, which as far as I can tell is how mum wants it.


Monkey Boy and I have talked about the idea of it being a surprise visit the other day, and upon reflection I have come to two conclusions:


1. You could tell Dad every single day every five minutes from now until his birthday that you are coming down and we're all going out for lunch to celebrate, and it will STILL be a surprise to him. He remembers NOTHING that you tell him. Absolutely nothing. He will ask before you get him in the car where we're going, as soon as we get in the car, and every 5 minutes after that where we're going and what we're doing that for. So trust me, it will be a surprise visit!


2. Mum hates surprises. She doesnt want to deal with people, and everything is too much effort. I can guarantee you that there is no way I could talk her into a lunch out without it turning into some huge drama that ends up with her crying and yelling at me about how nobody cares about HER.


I dont know where you got the idea about mum getting "out and about" ( I can guess) but she most certainly doesn't. She has left the house only twice since her fall, once the week after it happened to go to the bank, and the second time a couple of weeks ago when the doctor had a go at her about not bothering to bring dad in to his specialist's appointment. At which point she cried and played the victim card and was badgered into taking dad by taxi the week later. Which she complained about. Dad only leaves the house to go to his medical appointments.


Mum has been using a walking frame since her fall at the beginning of July. She is not able to walk unaided, she is in constant pain and taking large doses of codeine daily and still continues to refuse to seek medical treatment. She hasn't seen a doctor at all, and despite what she may say she has not improved any. I was walking around and driving my car 6 weeks after major spinal surgery, so I think the fact that there has been no improvement in seven months is fairly indicative of a major problem, but she absolutely will not accept that she needs to see a doctor.


Re qualifying for Access Taxis; yes, they do but as usual mum hasn't been bothered about organising anything with them as yet. In fact, they qualify for a whole heap of assistance but mum does not want a bar of any of it. I am not broaching the subject with her again since the last conversation we had about it ended with her screaming abuse at me for an hour and telling me that her fall was all my fault and I never cared about her anyway, yadda yadda.


In case you weren't aware already, whatever mum tells you about how things are is grossly minimised. She lies, she understates how bad things are and denies problems that are obvious to everyone else. Oh, and lets not forget the manipulation. To tell the truth, I'm really worried about dad's welfare staying in the situation that mum has created. He needs much greater assessment and assistance than mum will let him have, and from what I have witnessed he is often treated abusively by her because she simply can't cope. Not that she will ever admit this though.


I have done everything I can, even up to talking to the Public Advocate directly about the situation. Short of going to the Supreme Court to have the Powers of Attorney declared invalid (dad was already mentally incompetant when he signed them) or having mum assessed as unfit to be his carer under the Mental Health Act, there is nothing more that can be done until she is willing to let the Aged Care Assessment Team into their house and actually be honest with them. Oink oink, flap flap..... I have given up. It was just too stressful and the only thing I could to to protect my health and Spudly was to leave them to it. It really breaks my heart thinking about dad not getting the treatment and care that he deserves to be able to live out his last few years with dignity, but mum has the power and control now and she is not about to give it up for anything.


In summation: its bad. Its really really bad.


So, on the idea of lunch, I think its a nice idea with a lovely sentiment behind it, but under the circumstances I can see it being turned into a big drama with no-one being happy about it except dad, who willl be oblivious to the whole thing and wont remember it the next day. Given that I am only a few weeks away from giving birth, I am SOOOO not wading into that minefield, so if you want to organise lunch I suggest you talk to mum about it yourself and sound her out. By the time May 8th gets here I could be still recovering from a C-section (I have placenta previa, so this is a real option), so I'm certainly not willing to say I'll definately travel for two hours and then sit in a restaurant for a few hours.

*****INTERMISSION*****