Bystanders too lazy to help someone CLEARLY in fucking distress shit me to tears because they're fucking hypocrites.
That Aboriginal woman who suffered a stroke at a bus stop and lay there for FIVE fucking hours because no lazy prick could care less about her?
That poor little autistic boy killed by a train last week because although so many people SAW him wandering on and off the fucking HIGHWAY they were too fucking lazy to do something?
Hypocrites.
These fucking pricks who claim to be too scared to get involved are probably the ones only too WILLING to confront another parent and rip them a new one over a lack of parenting skills.
Admit it, you've stood in line at a shop listening to a child having a meltdown; you've given the mother the evil eye, looked her up and down like she's dirt, sighed overly LOUDLY to get your point across - you know, BULLIED them - that she should teach her kids to behave.
Not once does it enter your head that child might have a disability; no, you're pissed at standing in line so you take your shitty little assumptions out on what is possibly an overly stressed parent who has to deal with a disabled child Every.Single.Day.
Are you one of the gutless ones who stand back when faced with someone CLEARLY in fucking distress saying you couldn't possibly get involved yet feel you have the right to make snap judgements on others?
Arsehole.
04/04/2011
Mums are always to blame and will always fail
I wasn't always this whiny, self-absorbed craven old bitch.
I used to be young, cheerful and happy.
Being cheerful and happy is a hard fucking slog these days.
My beautiful baby girl was always unsettled, she was damn hard work almost from the first.
She barely slept, beganwalking running extra early, screamed non-stop all night long, had quirky likes and dislikes and in general was just plain odd.
Everyone looked to me as the problem when her behaviours became more and more evident; I was a young mother, I mustn't be disciplining her properly, I obviously had no idea how to teach her to behave correctly, couldn't I teach her manners/acceptable behaviours, the accusations went on and on and on.
From both my husbands and my own families.
I tried to get her assessed after a doctor witnessed her behaviour but I was firmly told not to go looking elsewhere for answers, not to seek to use anything the medical establishment might think up to relieve me of the very obvious guilt that should sit squarely on my shoulders.
One conversation actually went,
"You should just accept what you've done and wear the problem child you've created."
I took the blame for years, I was the problem, I was the failure as a parent, I should never have inflicted my faulty self upon this poor child who I had broken.
How I had broken her I had no fucking idea but so many people were telling me that I had that it must be true.
And of course siblings and friends' children were all perfectly correct in their behaviours and manners, some questioned my parenting, asking what I'd done to get such a bizarre daughter.
So, by sheer weight of numbers the judgement came down firmly against me.
My second daughter was perfect, she was chalk to her sisters cheese, she excelled at school, she made and kept friends, she hit all her development marks like clockwork.
In short, she was a magnifying glass that highlighted her sisters shortcomings, failures, lack of social graces and odd behaviours.
When my son was born I was revisited with all the similar behaviours and nightmares from my eldest child's birth and development, each time another specialist saw him and agreed with diagnosis' my mind would silently scream.
Was this the problem my daughter was struggling with?
Was I still yet a failure as a parent for simply accepting that I was to blame and not insisting on seeking medical opinions that could have helped?
Could I have made a difference if only I'd sought early intervention for her?
I was her mother, for fuck's sake, why didn't I take a stand in the face of opposition?
I had fulfilled everyone's low expectations by failing as a parent, after all.
I used to be young, cheerful and happy.
Being cheerful and happy is a hard fucking slog these days.
My beautiful baby girl was always unsettled, she was damn hard work almost from the first.
She barely slept, began
Everyone looked to me as the problem when her behaviours became more and more evident; I was a young mother, I mustn't be disciplining her properly, I obviously had no idea how to teach her to behave correctly, couldn't I teach her manners/acceptable behaviours, the accusations went on and on and on.
From both my husbands and my own families.
I tried to get her assessed after a doctor witnessed her behaviour but I was firmly told not to go looking elsewhere for answers, not to seek to use anything the medical establishment might think up to relieve me of the very obvious guilt that should sit squarely on my shoulders.
One conversation actually went,
"You should just accept what you've done and wear the problem child you've created."
I took the blame for years, I was the problem, I was the failure as a parent, I should never have inflicted my faulty self upon this poor child who I had broken.
How I had broken her I had no fucking idea but so many people were telling me that I had that it must be true.
And of course siblings and friends' children were all perfectly correct in their behaviours and manners, some questioned my parenting, asking what I'd done to get such a bizarre daughter.
So, by sheer weight of numbers the judgement came down firmly against me.
My second daughter was perfect, she was chalk to her sisters cheese, she excelled at school, she made and kept friends, she hit all her development marks like clockwork.
In short, she was a magnifying glass that highlighted her sisters shortcomings, failures, lack of social graces and odd behaviours.
When my son was born I was revisited with all the similar behaviours and nightmares from my eldest child's birth and development, each time another specialist saw him and agreed with diagnosis' my mind would silently scream.
Was this the problem my daughter was struggling with?
Was I still yet a failure as a parent for simply accepting that I was to blame and not insisting on seeking medical opinions that could have helped?
Could I have made a difference if only I'd sought early intervention for her?
I was her mother, for fuck's sake, why didn't I take a stand in the face of opposition?
I had fulfilled everyone's low expectations by failing as a parent, after all.
03/04/2011
That phone call that scares us all shitless
One of the biggest fears chewing away in my gut is getting that phone call.
Not the prank, abusive calls we've been getting from whoever it is my daughter has befriended in her vague, socially inept manner of not recognising predators vs real friends.
It's that phone call, the one all parents of a mentally unwell/unstable person have lodged in the back of their brain.
We don't discuss it as a rule, too stupidly fucking frightened that to give it voice will breathe life into it and make it fact.
But, after the initial abuse recently my husband aired what I'd been thinking and fearing for several years.
That phone call from police or hospital.
Or worse.
I'm almost glad to have an excuse to have the phone off the hook at the moment; she's very obviously unstable at the moment and has not-very-nice people as her friends who are only too happy to indulge in her childish, imagined vendetta against a loving family who have done nothing to hurt her.
I've mentioned it once, out loud, and now I'm spewing it out in all its acidic gut-gnawing glory to the net, to get some relief from this insidious screw of fear that's turning ever tighter in my brain.
Not the prank, abusive calls we've been getting from whoever it is my daughter has befriended in her vague, socially inept manner of not recognising predators vs real friends.
It's that phone call, the one all parents of a mentally unwell/unstable person have lodged in the back of their brain.
We don't discuss it as a rule, too stupidly fucking frightened that to give it voice will breathe life into it and make it fact.
But, after the initial abuse recently my husband aired what I'd been thinking and fearing for several years.
That phone call from police or hospital.
Or worse.
I'm almost glad to have an excuse to have the phone off the hook at the moment; she's very obviously unstable at the moment and has not-very-nice people as her friends who are only too happy to indulge in her childish, imagined vendetta against a loving family who have done nothing to hurt her.
I've mentioned it once, out loud, and now I'm spewing it out in all its acidic gut-gnawing glory to the net, to get some relief from this insidious screw of fear that's turning ever tighter in my brain.
Welcome to the depressive crap infecting my brain!
Welcome to my new anonymous spleen venting, gut vomiting blog, where I get to let slip my happy, witty mask I wear everyday and flash the real pain hidden beneath the surface.
An event ocurred to spawn this new, author-unknown blog and I'll get to that in a moment.
So, this event that saw me screwing up my guts and keeping the smile plastered across my dial for the sake of the family when all I wanted to do was howl my sorry eyeballs out was a horrible phone call.
Don't get me wrong, I've dealt with plenty of craptastical phone calls of all varieties but this one was pretending that my mentally unwell 'adult' daughter was in hospital somewhere as a patient.
After years of pleading with my daughter, taking her to various psychologists and psychiatrists all of whom she refused to continue seeing after a handful of visits with some piddling excuse - in reality it was after they'd started getting too close to the truth for her comfort and she might have to start listening to the fact that she wasn't well - she began spiralling out of control and we have little contact.
She's not stupid, far from it with an IQ of 122 but she's fluctuating like she has bi polar, the troughs are so, so depressive while the manic peaks are Wow!I'vegotmoneymoneymoneytospendlet'sspenditNOWlet'sseehowquicklywecanmakeitdisappear!
She is unable to process social situations and the tone of people's voices at times, almost like she's on the Autism Spectrum.
Her mood swings and bizarre behaviour also tick the boxes for a Personality Disorder.
So, after her most obvious diagnosis of depression after her first suicide attempt some years ago she refused to continue with her anti-depressants, refused to continue seeing the psychiatrist and then refused to see the GP who knew all about her mental health history.
Then she started blaming me for everything going wrong in her life, making up stories of things that never happened, convincing her boyfriends that her family were some strange cult-like soul sucking thing that she wanted to avoid.
Until they met us and started to realise things - a LOT of things - weren't quite as what she'd claimed.
Then soon afterwards the relationships would go down the gurgler and we'd, or rather I'd be the one to blame for that.
I recently tried to contact her - stupidly I thought she'd be interested in the fact her sibling was unwell and her grandfather was dying - but instead I was treated to someone repeatedly screaming at me to "Fuck off!".
And that person has called numerous times since, either silently hanging up or screaming abuse at me, with yesterday's call about my daughter being in hospital the latest chapter in this second rate soapie drama.
After calling all hospitals and making certain she was not an inpatient I now keep the phone off the hook and my close friends know to contact me via my mobile.
And I waited until the family were in bed before I could sob on my husband's shoulder and pour out my fears, my anger and my disbelief anyone could make such a stupid prank phonecall given my daughter's very obvious mental instability.
And now I get to regurgitate it onto your shoulders because there's a shitload of more of the same I've bottled up and kept hidden behind a cheerfully, chirpy facade that is beginning to crack under the enormous strain.
An event ocurred to spawn this new, author-unknown blog and I'll get to that in a moment.
Don't you love the fly background?
I thought it most apt for a blog where there is likely to be plenty of shit for the maggots to nom on.
And just to cheer it up a little I chose pretty, happy colours.
To either console the reader or lure them in with a false sense of security.
So, this event that saw me screwing up my guts and keeping the smile plastered across my dial for the sake of the family when all I wanted to do was howl my sorry eyeballs out was a horrible phone call.
Don't get me wrong, I've dealt with plenty of craptastical phone calls of all varieties but this one was pretending that my mentally unwell 'adult' daughter was in hospital somewhere as a patient.
After years of pleading with my daughter, taking her to various psychologists and psychiatrists all of whom she refused to continue seeing after a handful of visits with some piddling excuse - in reality it was after they'd started getting too close to the truth for her comfort and she might have to start listening to the fact that she wasn't well - she began spiralling out of control and we have little contact.
She's not stupid, far from it with an IQ of 122 but she's fluctuating like she has bi polar, the troughs are so, so depressive while the manic peaks are Wow!I'vegotmoneymoneymoneytospendlet'sspenditNOWlet'sseehowquicklywecanmakeitdisappear!
She is unable to process social situations and the tone of people's voices at times, almost like she's on the Autism Spectrum.
Her mood swings and bizarre behaviour also tick the boxes for a Personality Disorder.
So, after her most obvious diagnosis of depression after her first suicide attempt some years ago she refused to continue with her anti-depressants, refused to continue seeing the psychiatrist and then refused to see the GP who knew all about her mental health history.
Then she started blaming me for everything going wrong in her life, making up stories of things that never happened, convincing her boyfriends that her family were some strange cult-like soul sucking thing that she wanted to avoid.
Until they met us and started to realise things - a LOT of things - weren't quite as what she'd claimed.
Then soon afterwards the relationships would go down the gurgler and we'd, or rather I'd be the one to blame for that.
I recently tried to contact her - stupidly I thought she'd be interested in the fact her sibling was unwell and her grandfather was dying - but instead I was treated to someone repeatedly screaming at me to "Fuck off!".
And that person has called numerous times since, either silently hanging up or screaming abuse at me, with yesterday's call about my daughter being in hospital the latest chapter in this second rate soapie drama.
After calling all hospitals and making certain she was not an inpatient I now keep the phone off the hook and my close friends know to contact me via my mobile.
And I waited until the family were in bed before I could sob on my husband's shoulder and pour out my fears, my anger and my disbelief anyone could make such a stupid prank phonecall given my daughter's very obvious mental instability.
And now I get to regurgitate it onto your shoulders because there's a shitload of more of the same I've bottled up and kept hidden behind a cheerfully, chirpy facade that is beginning to crack under the enormous strain.
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