everything old becomes "new" again

Everything old becomes new again, or so it seems. From fashion to television and movies.

The latest Australian show to be recycled is Young Talent Time. I know people who have watched it, and report that it’s great. The ads that I’ve seen, it looks polished, professional and a great vehicle for young people to dance and sing, and do what they love. I haven’t watched it. I can’t.

I know it will probably seem strange, but for me it’s a trigger. A billion years ago when I was nine, I went to the Young Talent Time School. It was a dance and singing school, full of kids all wanting to be stars. It wasn’t something I wanted to do. It was something I was sent to. By the man who is my father. He was an entertainer. And he wanted his girls to follow suit, so they could perform with him.

Now my sister, four years younger than me, was a gorgeous little thing. Vivacious, with big blue eyes, and lips so red that even at five people always thought she had lipstick on, and long brunette hair.  She took to it like a fish to water. She wanted to be a star. Me, on the other hand, at nine, was an extremely skinny, freckly, knobbly kneed, glasses wearing, awkward looking…nerd.  Who wanted to disappear.

There were lots of “stars in the making”, beautiful little beings who could hold a note and jazz hands like no tomorrow. And all of these potential stars had mothers who primped and puffed and paraded. Then there was my mum, who constantly had the “deer-caught-in-the-headlights” look. She hated it as much as I did.

It will probably seem odd that I find going to a singing and dance school such an unpleasant experience. I don’t think I will be watching the new Young Talent Time. It hurts too much. The nine year old inside of me physically cringes and withdraws every time the ad comes on. It reminds her too much of what else was going on in her young world at the same time that made her want to disappear. Triggers are funny like that.

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Keeping it real

 

When I first read this weeks "assignment" the very first word that came to me was Respect.  Each time that I have thought about what are my five top values, that has been the first to come to mind...

What does Respect mean to me? Its not just about respecting me, or treating me with respect, but its about respecting so much more... life, humanity, the planet, other human beings. If we treated each other with respect so much hate, violence, evil would disappear. Treat others how you would like to be treated.

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" Most people will associate that saying with Christianity, but the concept has been around long before Jesus was a boy. To me it encapsulates what respect means.

When I was 19, I made the conscious decision that I wasn't going to live my life in the manner that I had seen and experienced growing up. I didn't know how I was going to live it, just how I wasn't going to. Consequently I went on to invent a personality, and in doing so, denied my authenticity. It took me 13 years, and losing the plot and a stay in a psyche ward to reclaim it.  I won't lose it again. By being authentic I am being true to myself. Its my inner compass and guide. Being authentic means not false or copied, genuine and real. It means embracing the uniqueness that makes me ME - freak flag and all!

Being authentic means being honest. Something I despise is lying and liars. Lying to someone means that its not only them that you are lying to, but to yourself as well. The truth may be disappointing, hurtful, at times even devastating. But at least it is real. Being honest has got me into trouble on more then one occasion. Lying, it is little seeds of deceit that blacken your heart.

Practising gratitude is something that keeps me both authentic, and honest. Even on days when all I feel is grey, with a little bit of seeking, I can find something to be grateful for. I believe in the Law of attraction... If I think it, I'm inviting it into my life. I would rather invite good stuff in, then bad stuff. It helps me to change perspective, to see that even on grey stormy days there is good stuff happening, you just have to peel back the clouds to see it.

Gratitude highlights hope. When Pandora opened the forbidden box and everything flew out, the only thing that remained in the box was hope. I lost hope once. And very nearly lost my life. I never want to lose it again. Practising, and believing in respect, authenticity, honesty and gratitude means I will never lose it again. For me, they perpetuate hope, fan it into being, in all its magnificence,  potential and mystery...

Narrowing down the things that are important to five core values is a difficult exercise. Harder then I originally thought. There are many other things that are important to me - knowledge, family, resilience, joy, laughter to name a few, but essentially what I identified was that the five that spoke to me the loudest ultimately lead to the others. And like any strong house that will withstand anything that is thrown at it, a good foundation is imperative.

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My Pandora's box... part 1

The saying "opening Pandora's box" gets thrown around a lot. It comes from the myth of Pandora, and the box that she was given by the gods and told to never open it. Pandora tried to tame her curiosity, but in the end she could not do it; she opened the box and all the illnesses and hardships that the gods had hidden in the box started coming out. Pandora was scared, evil spirits sprung from the box and she fiercely tried to close the box as fast as possible, enclosing the only thing remaining inside - Hope.

This is the story of the opening of my Pandora's box.

This isn't a pleasant story so it comes with a warning. If you have been abused -mentally, physically, sexually - there are details in this story that may trigger you. Read it with care.


I was  ambivalent about motherhood. My points of reference for parents were not shining ones that instil in you the confidence to go forth and multiply.  Instead I had a whole lot of things I knew I didn't want to do... and not a lot to fall back on in regards to how to do it right. So armed with my HOW NOT TO BE PARENT guide I became a mother.

My daughter was truly an angel. She fed like a champion, slept through from 6 weeks old, did everything the "books" said, was a coffee shop connoisseur by three weeks of age,  was so busy sleeping, or smiling, that my arms were often empty, or holding someone else's small person to give them some relief.

But with the birth of my daughter came the beginning of "postcards" from under the door of my Pandora's box. Postcards from my own childhood. Postcards from the place where I had very neatly folded down into tiny tiny pieces my life as a child... or to be more precise, from childhood until 23... stored and locked away so that I could re-invent myself into something - someone - shiny and new.

I kept slipping - sometimes kicking - those postcards back under that door. NO! was my usual internal response to these postcard moments. NO! That was then, this is now... the two aren't related, have nothing to do with each other, aren't connected, GO AWAY!

Then I had my son. I had no experience with little boys. I had a sister, no brothers. Maleness in fact alarmed and scared me. I didn't understand them.

The postcards came faster and my refusal to look at them or deal with them became frantic. I spiriled down into the abyss, where colour is washed out, almost non-exisitent. When you have no colour in your life, no light it feels like you are walking around in a fog, sounds, images, feelings are muted, or disappear completely.

When my son was 8 months old I went to the doctor. But I didn't tell her anything, other then I was tired, and cried a lot. I didn't divulge anything about my past, she didn't ask. I didn't offer. I was put on anti-depressants, and treated for Post Natal Depression.

It wasn't until nearly 3 years later that I began to realise that all the medication in the world wasn't going to stop the postcards. That, and the fact that I found out that I was going to have a baby sister. The man who I had all but deleted from my life was going to be a father again...

That was when my Pandora's box flung open, and the world that I had tried so hard to create shattered into a million tiny pieces.

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I gave away my heart...

11 years ago, as my world started to unravel, and in a desperate need to try an understand what was going on inside of me I went away for a week to a healing retreat Mayumarri , a safe place to explore the effects of childhood abuse.

For me it was the place that I stopped trying to keep the lid on my Pandora's box that I had held and hidden deep deep down inside, and let it burst open, letting all the secrets, fear, hurt and tears out. I wish I could say it was the place where I got all better... it was instead the place where the healing began.

A local craftsman had made beautiful wooden hearts, attached to a leather thong. They were about the size of a child's hand, polished and smooth, something soothing to run your fingers over. Excellent for someone suffering from anxiety. I brought two - one that was perfect, no bumps, or knots, or imperfections, the other - while as polished and smooth as the other, on one of its surfaces it had marks that were contained with in the wood. The two hearts represented different things for me. The one that was perfect, I gave to my daughter, who was 5 at the time. The other I kept for myself... It was representative of how I felt my heart was, beautiful, but a little bit damaged. I've carried around the wooden heart, hanging it on the wall in my private spaces of the places I have lived.

Commitment, or the representation of commitment to another person is traditionally done through marriage. I've done that one - twice... and well, neither, as far as me and the other person involved, proved to be very successful, other then producing my three gorgeous children - so I guess that is a success in itself.

I never wanted to give anyone the token that represented my beautiful, but damaged heart... ever. But for a little while now, the need to show this amazing man that has entered my life, just how much he means to me, how much I deeply care for him, and how much I trust him has been rattling around in my head. I tell him these things of course... but sometimes, a token, and what that token represents means more then a million words.

Last night I gave M my heart for safe keeping....

I love you... to the moon and back.

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