Time and time again

I was once told by a male friend that I was 'too strong'.  I asked him to clarify.  "You come across as too capable".

I was honestly flabbergasted.

So this is my problem.  I am capable, smart, independent and opinionated.  This doesn't make me an emotionless automaton.  But the few times I have tried to open up to people about how the stresses of life were/are getting me down, taking its toll on me, I get met with 'oh but you'll be fine, you're strong, capable and smart.

SIGH.

Why do I only have to be one or other?  Why can't I be both.  Sometimes I need someone to lean on, albeit temporarily, until I've regained my strength, energy and enthusiasm.

Right now I'm tired.  Tired of the outrage, tired of the hate, tired of the fear that the world seems to pump out relentlessly.  I'm tired of single parenting and bearing the burden alone.  I'm tired of doing 90% of the housework, tired of being 100% financially responsible for everyone, tired of  being overlooked, tired of my goodwill and good nature being taken for granted, tired of the skills I want to nurture being overlooked.

I'm tired, I'm whiny and I just want to cocoon myself away from the world until my energy returns.

But I can't.  Because there is no one else to do all the things a single parent has to do.  There's no one else to shoulder the emotional burden, the financial burden and there's no one to even celebrate the good things with.  I get to do it all on my own.

Today, I'm tired of that.  But I can't share that because I'm too capable.

Can you go Another Round?

I haven't blogged in ages.  Partly because life has been busy and partly because I haven't felt the need to share.

But I've been in my head a lot lately and that's not a good thing.  The above quote is quite relevant to me right now and I've been guilty of doing it.  But I know I'm learning, because instead of truly distancing myself and losing the people that matter - I actually spoke to them and explained how I was feeling.  (Well it was one person actually...)

Anyway, it turns out that they too have been struggling with anxiety, and feeling it in a different way, and dealing with it in a different way.

I am surrounded by people all the time - yet feel isolated and alone.  They feel like they're surrounded all the time and emotionally crowded - even when they're not.  I was deliberately creating distance when what I needed was connection.  They were unable to disconnect when they needed distance.

I don't think many people would have even realised that we were/are struggling with anxiety as we both have excellent game faces.  In fact, although I knew something was "off" between us, I couldn't place my finger on what.  So I'm glad that I pushed past my anxiety and burgeoning paranoia and bluntly asked if everything was okay between us.  Now we understand each other better, can support each other how we need to and have taken care of our friendship.

Space Oddity (Or Why You Shouldn't Touch Me or Get Too Close)

This is one of my favourite moments in my life.  I was on a boat, with two of my dear friends.  I'm sitting on the front of the boat (I'm sure it has a proper term, but I'm not very nautically knowledgeable).  My friends are behind me in the boat.  I'm surrounded by water and no one is invading my space.

I've slowly come to the realisation that I have a problem.  I don't like it when my personal space is invaded.  In fact, I need a lot of personal space.  More than what is probably "normal".  I like to maintain an invisible barrier between myself and everyone.

Now that barrier can be flexible.  For example: in a crowded lift, I understand that we are probably going to be less than an inch away from each other.  But if there's only two of us in the lift then you need to be more than arms length away from me.

I'm not overly affectionate either, except with those I truly love.  I'm not a fan of the casual touching.  If I'm meeting you for the first time I do not wish to hug you or kiss your cheek.  I'd prefer an arms length, firm handshake and then step back please.

If I have one friend over and there are two couches, please don't sit next to me on the same couch.  There is another couch over there, please deposit yourself on that one.  However if I have three friends over and my couch sits two each, then I'm more than happy for you to sit by my side.

I have a dog.  My dog knows I don't like my space invaded.  He will sit next to me on the couch, but at the far end, and will only move in close if I give the command.  He will only sit on me if I pat my lap or chest and grant permission and he understands that after 10 or so minutes he will probably need to move back to the other side of the couch.

My best friend's sister is like a sister to me.  And she's super-affectionate.  She will sit next to you on the couch and hold your hand.  She will stroke your shoulders or your hair.  She was raised in a family where affection was freely given and received.  The other day she grabbed my hand while we were watching television.  After 10 minutes I excused myself and made a cup of tea, just so I could stop holding hands without upsetting her.

I allow my two sons in my space and freely give and receive affection from them. I have never withheld any affection from them.  I'm also utterly comfortable with my best friend invading my space.  I love the level of affection between us.  In fact, I crave the affection between us.  Because it's the most beautiful, platonic and profound relationship I've ever had.

But beyond him and my two sons, I'm uncomfortable in sharing my personal space and in general being hugged or touched, unless invited to do so.  I am involved in theatre where everybody hugs and is freely affectionate and I'm getting better at not flinching or evading these situations.

I originally thought "Oh I'm just not a very cuddly person" and that's okay.   But last week I agreed to dog sit for two dear friends and their dogs have zero sense of personal space.  I sat down on the lounge, they draped themselves over me.  I got up to walk to the kitchen, they followed behind, I went to the bathroom, they pawed at the closed door.  I went to bed, they tried to sleep right up near my head.  On the third night of this behaviour when Phyllis lay down in the crook of my knees and Basil laid up against my shoulders I lay there getting more and more tense, until I couldn't take it anymore.  I picked up Basil and Phyllis and deposited them at the very end of my bed and on the opposite side to me.  When I lay down I felt such a profound and overwhelming sense of relief that my space was mine again.

As I lay there, shoulders unclenching, breathing freely, the thought crossed my mind.  This is not healthy.  If you can't accept the affection of two beautiful, friendly puppies who want nothing from you accept your warmth and affection, then something is actually quite horribly wrong with you.

I'm a Space Oddity and I'm worried my circuit's dead and there's something wrong.

Time to get in touch with Ground Control, I think....

Carry on Wayward Son

Supernatural has been on our screens for 10 years and the boys are entering their 11th Season.  I was never able to watch it on tv because I had other commitments the night the show first started, but thanks to Netflix, and some down time from the theatre, I had a chance to watch it.  And binge watch I did.  Ten seasons in two weeks, with plenty of 3am bedtimes and "DO YOU WANT TO CONTINUE" messages from Netflix (so judgemental).

A month later and many, many late nights watching every possible Youtube of Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles, Misha Collins and the gang at the last 10 years of conventions I think it's safe to say I may have crossed the line into obsessed.

And I'm not afraid to say it.  But guess what I like best about this show?  The fact that my 17 year old son and I watch it together.  We don't do a lot of things together.  After all he's 17.  He's independent. He has his own likes and dislikes and aside from a couple of bands we both like, there aren't a lot of things we share in common.  He's introverted.  He's quiet.  His sense of humour is very dry.  I adore him.  But our interests are quite different and very often it leaves us little to talk about.

So when he sat down one afternoon and watched a couple of episodes with me, I got quietly excited.  The thing is, what we love most about the show is the relationship between Sam and Dean, the two brothers.  It's messed up, it's complicated and it's family.  And the two of us can relate.

Funny memes, tags in facebook and twitter about Supernatural and one line jokes only other fans understand are now things we share on a daily basis.

Last night's episode was called 'Baby' and it was a unique episode.  Shot entirely from the '67 Impala's viewpoint (Dean's beloved car known as 'Baby' and considered a character in her own right) made for some of the best viewing I've seen in ages.  We got to see Sam and Dean at their most personal.  And I related, because very often the best conversations I have with my eldest are in the car.  Little eye contact and music in the background opens him up.   I often find excuses to go for long drives just so he and I can talk (my youngest chats with  me all the time so he just falls asleep on road trips!) and it's always surprising, funny and honest.

The cherry on top - last night when we both headed off to bed we said Good Night to each other.  And the #SPNFamily, as they're known, will get why this moment was so special.

SON:  Good night Jerk
ME:  Good Night Bitch.

Baby, I swear it's Deja Vu

Déjà moo. Yeah, I know. Bad joke.

But I found myself in a situation that's almost identical to one I was in over 10 years ago.  And for a while I was thinking REALLY? AGAIN?

For about a week I slid down the slope into despair and frustration. And I found myself thinking and reacting the way I would have back then.

But this time around one thing was different. I had people to turn to. They couldn't fix the situation. But they could listen. They let me know that they cared.

Then I realised something else. I'm not the same person I was a decade ago and although my initial reaction was the same I did not ACT on that reaction. I took the time to think, seek support and realise that I'm going to be okay. 

Feelings, nothing more than feelings...

So I was raised in one of those very stoic-don't-show-any-kind-of-emotions type family.  Happy? Fine.  Angry? Fine. Frustrated? Fine.  These were acceptable to share with the general public and/or your family.

But other types of feelings, not so much. Hurt? Buck up.  Sad? Get over it. Vulnerable? Not interested.  As a person who tends to have all of the feelings all of the time, and as someone who likes to express themselves in order to be understood, this bottling up of emotions was very difficult for me.  But I learnt how; to a degree.

Then I got married to someone who would use any type of emotion I had as a weapon against me.  So I became awesome at really, truly burying the feelings quite deep and only applying logic.

Only the safe emotions were, and still are, ever expressed.  Happiness, anger and frustration.  Hilarious that the anger and frustration are considered safe, right?

Even at my brother's wedding when I got teary and my voice broke while I did a reading for him and his bride, a family member asked me why I got choked up about it.  (Gee guys,  I don't know, my brother only found the love of his life and married her - no reason at all, I guess.)

Consequently I find it difficult to say things like I love you, I need help, I'm feeling vulnerable.  Not only do I not say them, but I definitely don't show them.  (Except to my kids, and normally it's still expressed with a great deal of inappropriate humour.)

It can be a blessing.  When people truly hurt me, but are the sort of people who take pleasure in the pain they cause - they get no response from me.  Whatever trolls...

But lately, I find it a hindrance.  I have people in my life I care for.  I'd like to tell them what they mean to me.  The other day I just had to use the "L" word.  But the only way I could say it was gruffly, and in a sentence that ended with "stupid head".   So you know, it didn't quite sound the way I was feeling.  But I think the person understood.

My best friend is about to appear in a show.  A show that has meant a lot to me for many years.  It's a show that is raw and powerful and has the ability to make me cry in public.  Something I don't do.  Not even at funerals.

I know he's going to nail his performance.  I know I'm going to be a complete wreck through this show.  I also know that there is no way in hell I'll be talking to him publicly after the show.  He knows this.  Our mutual friends are going to be shocked after the show, because they will be expecting me to be the biggest cheerleader.

What they'll witness is he and I completely ignoring each other and looking decidedly disinterested about the whole thing.  Not because we don't feel anything, but because we feel too much.  And this is the only way we can cope with it.

Later, and very privately, he and I will talk about it.  Probably in the most roundabout of terms. Thankfully, with each other we're good at reading between the lines.

Because feelings.  People give you the feelings.  And feelings?  They're the worst.

Aren't they?

When the war is over...

I had a bad moment with someone on the weekend. A relationship with a lot of history and one I have no choice but to continue. I limit this relationship to as few visits as possible and normally make sure others are around as a buffer zone. But I had no choice but one on one contact and it went as badly as expected.

I'm not going to discuss their behaviour; but its affect on me was profound. I let it affect me. Worse I let it affect a really good relationship I have.

I started off by feeling a little low, then I got a little anxious. Then I got a lot anxious. Then I had a panic attack. I managed to calm myself down but for the next day and a half I felt sick to my stomach.

I thought I had conquered the hold anxiety had on me. I thought I understood that one persons behaviour says more about them than me.  I thought it meant I was immune to letting that negativity in my head. Logic should always win, right? Wrong.

Now despite talking with my friend and knowing that everything is ok between us, I'm still sitting here not quite believing it, and with anxiety nipping at my insides.

It really sucks. It's a constant battle. But I'm determined to win the war.

Quiet on set...

(This is Al Pacacino relaxing between takes on the set of 'Two Weeks')

I just spent the last six days on a film set.  It was amazing.  A cast of four, a crew of twelve.  A short-film.  An experience I'll never forget.

I've been on a film set before.  But I was learning to crew and so focused on just getting my bit right, that I never really took in the whole experience.

But this time I was the "talent".  So my job didn't start until the camera started rolling.  That means there was a bit of waiting around for sets to be dressed, shots to be organised, cameras to set up, lighting to organise.

I felt wide-eyed and in the way sometimes watching this crew work their magic to turn night into day, make lighting look natural, lay cables, tape up marks and a myriad of other things.

I won't lie, it was intimidating in a way knowing that all their hard work was for one reason - to capture the actors performance.

The short story was an intense one.  A family break up, a husband's despair, a wife's frustration, and the children coming to grips with their world falling apart.

I was amazed by the young girl, Ashley, who played my movie daughter.  She played the rebellious, sulking, angry teenager to a tee.  I know her performance helped me find a level of anxiety I needed to find in some scenes.  My movie husband's performance of a hapless, weak, desperate man helped me dig deep to find frustration and repulsion.

Thankfully no one was overtly method in their approach and we could relax between takes, pulling the emotional intensity together when we heard the words "QUIET ON SET".  Taking that moment to find your character between that moment and when the director yelled "ACTION".

Some of the perks were pretty fun too.  Someone there to take care of all our needs.  Thirsty? Hungry? Hot? Cold?  Our First AD would organise everything we needed to make sure we were comfortable on set.  (I'm not sure I can convince my children to keep doing that for me now I'm at home!)

But what I enjoyed most of all, was finding the character of Marnie.  A determined, steely, hard-ass.  A woman frustrated by her life.  A woman seeking change.  A woman dealing with the consequences of her decisions.  Most people aren't going to find her character sympathetic at all.  But it was fun finding her.  It was fun playing her.  It was fun not being me for a while.

The last day of shooting was a long one.  It started at midday and ended at midnight.  The final scenes I shot were very emotional.  I was staying with a friend and I went back to their place and just crawled under the sheets and crashed.  I was that wrecked.  Emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Driving home from the shoot the next day, I cried the whole way home.  I cried because it was sad it was over, I cried because I think even though the movie won't show this part - I think she would have cried as she drove away from her family.  I cried because even though finding Marnie was difficult, letting her go was harder.

Today I am back to real life, and even though it was less than 24 hours ago. It already feels a lifetime away.

Now begins the long impatient wait while the crew edit the film before it's release.  The fun is only just beginning for them.  I can't wait to see it!

There's no business like show business

Two weeks.  That's the name of the movie I start acting in tomorrow.  Yep. That's right. I'm moving from stage to screen (HA!)

It's a short film  about a woman who chooses to leave her marriage and children.  The children are going to remain with the dad for the most part, but the mum will have access.  It's a scenario played out in real life all too often.

The movie is told from the teenage daughter's perspective.    My character, the mum, comes across like a cold, hard bitch.  She's had enough. She wants out.

It's going to be interesting playing this role, because I've been through a divorce.  It's just that I was on the other side of it.

The last few months, learning lines and researching my character has been very interesting.  It's made me understand my ex-husband so much better.  Oh, there's lots of things I'll never understand, don't get me wrong.  There are some behaviours you can never excuse.

But I think I understand a little better the process he went through to make the decision to leave his marriage and his kids.

I understand now it wasn't as black and white as what I thought. There are always shades of grey.  Not 50 in this case....maybe just 49.

Should old acqaintance be forgot...

Normally, I like to make resolutions.  Lose weight, get fit, do more gardening, try to be a better person...the usual.  Every year by January 4th I'm eating too much cheese, lying on the couch trying to stay cool in the heat, watching the plants die from lack of watering and generally just being the same person I was the year before.

So this year my attitude is FUCK IT.  I'm not making any resolutions.

Roll on 2015 - I'll handle you just the way I am.

We are family...or are we?

I need to state up front that I love my family.  I do.  They have, for better or worse, helped me to become the person I am today.   In some ways, it's despite them that I am the person I am today.  I have made conscious choices and decisions to live my life the way I do.  They helped me form my moral code.  Sometimes, their beliefs helped me form completely different moral codes from them.  But at the end of the day, these people don't get me and I don't get them.  I am trying to find a way to be okay with this.

Sometimes I'm comfortable with the fact that most of them have different political and social beliefs than me. After all, life would be boring if we were all the same. Sometimes I'm utterly outraged by the different stances they take.

There are conversational topics that I've learnt to avoid because who needs the stress of a family argument?  Sometimes I feel so moved by a topic that I have no choice but to speak my thoughts and then deal with the inevitable fall out.  These times are never good.

I've made life choices which with they disagree. I deal with the passive aggressive comments they throw at me because they don't have the balls to just confront me directly or have a conversation with me to try and understand why I've made the choices I've made.  They're not interested in the why's of my life.  As far as they're concerned I'm wrong, they're right and that's the end of it.  This is frustrating because I'm the type of person that tries to at least understand where the other person is coming from before I decide to live and let live.  I'm not afforded the same respect.  But I've made the choice to let this slide to keep the family peace. Sometimes it frustrates me to the point of screaming.  So I do.  To one or two trusted friends.  For a long time I just assumed this was the pull/push dynamic of families.

But recently, I've seen other families interact on a more intimate scale and I've come to realise that not all families are like mine.  Some actually love, support, understand and celebrate each other.  To me, this is a wondrous gift and one that should be treasured.  I must admit to a little bit of envy as I watch them lovingly tease each other, celebrate each others successes and support each other through the trying times.

It's around Christmas time that I become reflective about my family, because traditionally it's the time you spend with them.   But the people I want to spend time with this year, well it's not really my family.  It's my friends.  The family I've chosen for myself.  The people that I'm NOT related to, that I actually relate to.  It's taken me a while to find them, but boy am I grateful I have.

It's not unusual...

Friendship is awesome.  I really rate friendship.  Like the quote goes, they are the family you choose for yourself.  I love my little family and recently it expanded.  I'm happy about this expansion.  But some people in my life are questioning my latest friendship and I'm over it.

I'm 44.  My best female friend is 28.  We met eight years ago.  She was fresh out of school, I was fresh out of a marriage.  We were both attending the same college, so that's how we met.  Our friendship grew slowly.  Mainly because I was very wary of people after a longstanding, unhealthy relationship.  But over time came trust and a recognition that despite the age gap we are very similar people, but with enough differences to make life interesting.  We've had a lot of firsts together and as time passes I know more and more that she is a person I can count on.  It might help that she's perhaps a little old for her age and I'm a little young, but really at the end of the day, all that matters is that I have a supporting, loving friend in her and she in me.

Then there's my gay bestie.  I've written about him before.  He's 27 and basically the male version of me. Together we are outrageous, hilarious, occasionally bitchy but forever loyal to each other.

I have one other bestie.  A woman my age.  She's bitingly sarcastic, smart and brutally honest and in some ways as messed up as I am (hey who doesn't go through life with SOME baggage?).

No one bats an eyelid at these three relationships.

My friends range in age from 21 to 72 and are a balanced mix of male and female.  They are all in different stages of life, but all of them are wonderful, loving, giving human beings that I count myself blessed to have.  They are people that are fun to hang out with, who make me laugh and are easy to be around.  But do I trust them with anything other than "social Bec"?  Well, to be honest, no.

But recently I've made a new friend.  I've known them about 5 months now and our friendship has developed fast.  I don't make REAL friends quickly.  Oh I'm a friendly person, outgoing and happy to chat with anyone (well almost anyone).  But I don't trust people easily and I also like to have my space from people.  Even those I love best.  Normally after several hours with them I'm ready to have some downtime.  I'm also very careful about who I let into my space as I'm super protective of it.  This is a hangover from a long term unhealthy relationship where I didn't feel safe in my own home.  I love having people over, but I hesitate to ask them over because I know after a while I'll start to get anxious about them being in my space. It's nothing to do with them, but it's a feeling I get that I have to control.  Logically, I know I am safe with them in my space.  But physically/emotionally my body/heart gets into flight or fight mode - just in case.

But this friend  is different.  I don't know how or when but they crept past every defence I have and I feel stripped bare in front of them - and it's okay.   I have been lonely in some aspects of my life, that not even my best friends really understand and I had just grown to accept that that feeling was a part of life.  I had accepted that the bad relationship I'd been in had left a permanent mark and I would never be that soft, vulnerable, loving person I would like to be. And then BAM along comes this person and I find out that I can.  Even more than that, I don't get anxious when they're sharing my space.  There's no flight or fight glitch going off in my body. It's a revelation. A totally scary, totally awesome, freaking me out of my mind revelation.

And yet other people are judging this friendship.  They are questioning me on it.  They are talking to each other about it and expressing how they find it odd.  They've even been telling me straight up how they feel a little weird about it.

So why I am getting such comments?  Because he's 21.  Because I'm 44.  Because he's straight.  Because apparently a straight man and a straight woman with such an age gap, shouldn't have the friendship that we have.  I've heard enough Mrs Robinson jokes in the last 5 months to last a lifetime.  And it's not like that.

It bothered me a lot at first.  It made me question why this relationship, which seems so strange to others, feels completely natural to the two of us.  But it does.  So I'm not going to question it anymore. I'm not going to give a damn what others think.  I'm going to value this friendship, because it's unique and special and because it deserves it.

Oh and if you're wondering why My Little Pony? Well, keep wondering - that's a private joke! ;)

Happy days

Yesterday  was a good day.  And for no special reason.  I realised I was happy when I turned out the light to go to sleep and caught myself whistling a jaunty (yes jaunty) little tune.  I stopped and thought for a minute and then I realised I was happy.  I was content.  Instead of trying to analyse why, I just let myself bask in the moment.  My eyes were squeezed shut and a huge grin spread over my face and I stretched out my body along the sheets and wiggled my toes and just let myself be happy.   What a glorious moment.

So today I reflected, what made me feel so happy yesterday when nothing spectacular happened?  And then I realised; it was all the little things.

I had an awesome cup of coffee.  A really good brew.  And I sipped it slowly, savouring it instead of just trying to get the caffeine into me as quickly as possible.

I got everything I needed to do at work, done.  An empty inbox is a wonderful sight to see.

A friend popped by for a coffee. He's a jewellery designer.  He's re-working my engagement/wedding/eternity rings.  I've been divorced 10 years and I love those rings, those jewels and he's created the perfect design that honours their past meaning and yet reflects the life I lead today.

A newly made friend sent me hilarious snapchats through the day and had me laughing out loud in sheer delight.  Never underestimate the power of a genuine belly laugh.  How good does that make you feel?!

I caught up with some more friends for dinner.  We ate good Asian food and talked nonsense around the dinner table.  I was home by 9pm and took one of those indulgent, rarely had, 10 minute showers and let my body really feel the warm, pressurised-exactly-right-water pelt my shoulders.  I went to bed, my ever-adoring poodle, Jude, curled up at my feet.

Happy, content, and just being.

It ain't over til the fat lady sings...

Therefore it's over.   I'm in a local amateur theatre show (The Metropolitan Musical Theatre's "My Fair Lady - come and see it please!  Tickets at www.metmusicals.com.au).  And one of my helpful cast members taped a rehearsal so we could practice a particularly complicated dance routine.

I started to watch the video and wondered where I was and who the fat lady was who seemed to be where I thought I was.  Yup. It was me.  Now granted, I was in baggy rehearsal gear and granted "the camera adds 10 pounds" but to misquote Chandler (to Monica in Friends) - HOW MANY CAMERAS WERE ON ME?

I know I've put on 10 kilograms,   I know I'm still 20 kilograms lighter than what I weighed at my heaviest.  I know my body has changed due to age and two babies, and weirdly, part of it isn't even the extra 10 kilos (I'm prepared for middle aged spread to some extent), what shocked me was the way I moved.

I've always been a dancer.  Since age 4.  I've always considered myself light on my feet, and pretty damn good on the d-floor.  Truth be told, dancing is when I feel my fittest, strongest, most powerful and sexiest.

But watching this video I saw someone clunky.  Someone who had to brace herself to get up from the floor, the way my elderly aunty does when she gets out of a chair.  I saw someone huffing and puffing to get her legs up for the spring kicks and someone who looked like she pounded the floor when she "elegantly waltzed" around the floor in the ballroom scene.

It shocked me to the core.  More than the ever-increasing waistline measurement, more than the 'oh-dear-I-have-to-buy-the-next-size-up moment in the dressing room.  Because this is something I've always prided myself on.  I've never really been hung up on my weight.  I've been skinny and I've been fat and everything in between and my self-esteem was not tied up in the number on the scale.

But this ungraceful, heavy, huffing, puffing, middle aged woman careening inelegantly away on the dance floor was not someone I found attractive, sexy or powerful.  So it's time to put down the fork full of schnitzel and hit the gym.  I'm not going to weigh myself, now or later, but I am going to, once again, feel light on my feet.

RU OK?

I don't have depression. I don't have anxiety. I don't have any form of mental health issues. I don't have any physical health issues. I have a roof over my head, a job, both my parents, and two great kids.  I have friends that love me and a hobby that sustains me.  Just for today, I am not okay.

I am tired.  I am weary.  I am exhausted. I am alone.

As a single parent all the emotional, physical, and financial burden falls to me.  I chose to have kids. I love my kids. I did not choose to do this alone.  But alone I am.  I'm tired.  My shoulders are heavy.

As a full time working parent I juggle guilt on sides.  Guilt I don't give enough at work. Guilt I don't give enough at home.  Wanting to work more hours to make the money situation less stressful, not actually having any more hours in a week to actually do this.  I'm tired.  My mind is a blur.  Sleep does not come easy at night.

As a single woman that has her kids 80 per cent of the time I haven't yet found someone special. It's not that I don't get out.  That 48 hours once a fortnight I don't have my kids, I am out and about.  I'm out running the errands I can't do when they're with me.  I lunch with friends.  I see amateur theatre productions, go to movies, rent DVDs, hang out with friends, who give me dinner in return for me making dessert.  I walk my dog, I have coffee, I laugh.  I have wonderful friends that I spend hours laughing with.  They sustain me, inspire me, challenge me, accept me and love me.  But I have no one special to curl up on the couch with to share the good times or the not so good times when I want to share them.  I'm tired. I'm alone.

This feels like belly-aching when I look around me and see people fighting depression, people struggling with anxiety, people trying to knock cancer on it's butt.  People who lost their parents too young.  People estranged from their children.  People who, in general have it a lot, lot worse than I do.  I know I've got it ridiculously easy compared to most.  So I feel like it's entirely reasonable for others to tell me to suck eggs and be grateful for what I've got.     I am tired. I feel guilty for feeling this way.

But today I just want to drop my bundle at someone else's feet and give my shoulders a rest.  Because I've been doing this alone for 10 years and I just want a break, a minute, an hour to hand it all over to someone else temporarily, until I feel able to pick it all up and carry it again.  Because I can. Because I will.  Because I will be okay. Tomorrow. I am strong.

You ain't never had a friend like me

This my gay pretend-husband and I at our joint birthday/pretend-wedding celebration.  Or as our friends know it - Bec and Daniel celebrating being Bec and Daniel.  I'm a straight 44 year old woman.  He's a gay 27 year old man - and we're besties.

There really is nothing quite like the friendship between a gay man and a straight woman.  It's not quite siblings, it's not quite friends, it's not quite lovers, but at the same time it's also kind of all three at once (without the sex).  Okay, okay, I'm willing to admit - maybe this is like this, just for us.

I can be myself around him.  Warts and all.  There's no judgement.  Maybe it's because he's gay and he's faced judgement in his life and he's determined not to inflict that on others.  (Okay - with one exception - he'll judge what I'm wearing.  But normally his fashion advice is spot on.)  Is that stereotypical?  I don't know.  I trust him to be honest with me.  He'll let me know if an outfit is working or not.  Clearly the outfit in this photo totally works....for a dress up party.

We watch Disney films together and sing all the parts (sometimes he's the girl - we switch according to the key range).  This embarrasses my kids, but we love it.  We go to the movies together and we watch musicals and action adventure equally.

He drinks wine, I drink beer, we both like scotch a lot.  We love a quiet Friday night in eating pizza in our trakkies as much as getting all glammed up for a fabulous new bar.  We both LOVE food. To excess.  We're both happy to rub each other's bellies when we've over-eaten all the good stuff.  Cheese. OMG we both love cheese.

I can talk to him about anything to do with sex (SEXY TIME QUESTIONS is the funnest game ever.)  We argue about politics, we ramble on about tv shows, we randomly sing songs at each other.  We can look at each other from across the room and know what each other is thinking.  Sometimes I feel like we're two halves of the same coin.  His wonderful partner Simon, has said to me that he knew when he came on the scene that he had to pass muster with me if Daniel and he were to work out.  If ever someone comes on the scene for me - well they'll have to pass muster with Daniel.  He trusts me to see what he can't and vice versa.  He messages me during the day and sometimes we even message each other the same message at exactly the same time. We're HILARIOUS with the back and forth.  Others may not think so, but as he'd say "they'd be wrong".

I've had a rough trot with friends in the past. Sometimes I've had friends that seem to be in competition with me.  I'm not sure what we're competing for.  Sometimes I've had friends who only seem to be there for the successes and not the failures.  They haven't lasted long.  Sometimes I've had friends who are only interested in what they can get from me and never give back.  Actually, now that I think about it I'm not sure any of the above qualifies as friendship.

But with Daniel I feel equal, I feel accepted, I feel loved.  So I just want to celebrate him for a bit.  And as he'll tell you - he's worth it.

With a little bit of luck...

Around 10 years ago I suffered from anxiety due to a long term situation I was in.  It would start with a pain in my chest which felt like indigestion, but wasn't.  My heart would race and occasionally skip a beat, my hands would shake and adrenalin would surge through my body.  I'm long since removed from the situation and therapy has helped me deal with the anxiety.  I rarely suffer from it now, although if I feel I'm in situation similar to the one that used to trigger it, the symptoms will come on again.  However I'm now equipped with techniques to calm myself down, and have used them successfully.

I had a very different experience on Sunday with something I can only assume was blind panic.  I was auditioning for a role in a local amateur theatre production of My Fair Lady.  It's not my first audition, and I had worked with everyone on the audition panel in previous productions - so there were no unfriendly faces.  Now, I normally get nervous before an audition, but as someone who's been a performer since the age of 5 I know how to harness those nerves and always in the past, once the music starts muscle memory kicks in and a performance happens.  Also, I have this weird ability in job interview to harness nerves and normally interview really well.  So what happened next came as a surprise.

The pianist starts playing my audition song and I start to sing and I'm not in the right key.  I ask for another start and the same thing happens again.  The Musical Director, who knows I can sight read, offers me the libretto so I can quickly re-acquaint myself (with the song I had been practising for over three weeks on a daily basis) and try again.  I look down at the sheet of music and the words and they are suddenly a bunch of meaningless symbols that I can't translate.  It's like she's given me a book written in another language.  It was the most bizarre and frightening experience of my life.  I slammed the book shut and said I'll just try again.  I hit the key I was supposed to be in, but was so rattled by the experience that I lost the words of the second verse.  Bless her heart, the MD sang the third verse along with me to keep me going.

I went on to finish the dancing and reading section of the audition without any problems.  But for 10 seconds of my life I had the worst moment of blind panic a person can experience.  It was like something out of a nightmare, except I wasn't dreaming.

Panic and anxiety should never be underestimated.  It's a scary, scary thing.

Oh and one more thing: "C'mon Dover!  Move ya bloomin' arse".

Girl, You'll Be A Woman Soon.

I'm not sure a picture can get more girlish/feminine/Disney/Princess than this photo of me.  Although if you find one let me know.

Today's topic is femininity and why I'm not sure I feel it.  Or maybe I feel it but don't understand what the feeling is.  Don't get me wrong, I wear enough make up, own enough dresses and have the stereotypical fetish with shoes to "qualify" as a woman.  (Please, please note the tongue in cheek use of quotation marks.)

This weird turn of mind comes about, because recently I've had friends of various ages talk to me about their femininity or their womanhood or their essential feeling of femaleness.  After listening to them I don't think I have this.

One of my friends is a much older lady.  She has been through menopause and come out the other side, but for various reasons she's about to undergo a total hysterectomy.   They're taking everything and she was quite upset about this and telling me that she's not sure she'll feel feminine or female after they take the bits that represent that, out of her.  I didn't understand completely where she was coming from.  You see, she's a grandma and she definitely wasn't using those bits anymore.  I don't mean she doesn't have a fulfilling, raunchy, hang-from-the-sex-swing-in-your-rafters sex life with her husband of 40 years, what I'm saying is that babies were a highly unlikely result from said sex life. So how could she feel less womanly?  I kept these thoughts to myself, because obviously she was feeling very strongly about this and hugs were far more appropriate.  I'm not judging her on her feelings by the way, I'm judging me on mine.

Another friend has been through breast cancer.  She's very close to getting the one that was "lopped off" (her words), reconstructed and she was excitedly telling me that she'll feel like a woman again.  I didn't think that she wasn't anything other than one of the strongest women I've ever met and I've never seen or thought of her as less than. So why did she?

Are we, as women designed or educated to feel that our bodies are the only way of expressing our womanliness?  Or is that exactly how we are supposed to express it?  With our bodies?

I don't think about my body that way.  I don't equate my girly bits with well...being a girl.  In fact when I stop and think about myself,  I don't even think about myself in girly/female/womanly terms.  I am simply Bec.  This made me wonder if that's normal? (OH HELL - WHAT EVEN IS NORMAL???)  But you get my drift, right?

There are people out their struggling with gender identity, there are people out there struggling with faulty reproductive systems, cancerous jiggly bits and I wonder if we as human beings are only designed to suddenly ponder gender when faced with any difficulties with it.  In the grand scheme of things is that how we work?  Do we only consider a problem when we are faced with it?

I'm not even sure I think about it when I think about sexy times.  My focus is on the connection I have with the other person.  That connection to the soul, the eyes, the brain, the intellect, the emotion is what I feel then.  So I'm guessing I missing something here.  Or maybe I do feel it - I just don't use gender terms in my head when I do.

What does it mean for you?

Out of the mouths of babes...

My 11 year old son is trying to get voted on the Student Rep Council.  He had to prepare a speech for his class mates.  He asked me to read it when he was done and see if there was anything I would change.

Nope son.  Not a word.

*27 February 2014 update
He was not voted into the Student Rep Council and the feedback that he received from his teacher was that he didn't use enough persuasive language about HIMSELF.  My kid was focused on what he could do for others, and wasn't interested in talking himself up.  I thought that's what public service was about.  Maybe we're both too idealistic?

I'm your Number One Fan

My 15 year old received a $15 voucher for K-Mart over Christmas from an elderly aunt. We both wondered what he would spend his money on.  I was the one who had the joy of trailing behind him while he looked at games, Cd's, clothes and lollies.

He (and I) had given up hope and started to walk out of the store when he walked past a fan.  He's been bugging me about getting one for his room for years (he likes the constant hum) but I'm not one for increasing my electricity bill so I've dragged my heels about getting one.  His face split into a wide grin when he saw the fan was on sale for $15. VOUCHER+RIGHT PRICE=15 YEAR OLD BOY CARRYING HUGE FAN BOX TO MY CAR.

He waited a week to put it together.  Now I am the Queen of Putting Things Together.  Nearly every piece of (thanks Ikea!) furniture in my house I've put together.  The only thing that wasn't, was my coffee table.  My dad put that together.  It fell apart after 6 months.  Handy is not his thing.  Long winded stories about the ships of Australia and the history of Kangaroo Island are.

I asked my son if he wanted me to put it together for him, but apparently that was treading on his newly formed man toes (as opposed to pudgy piggies that go to market).

So one night at 10pm he decided that was the perfect time to put the fan together.

"Make sure you check you have all the parts, before you start" I offer helpfully.

"MUM I AM NOT AN IDIOT I CAN DO THIS" was the grateful reply.  So I settle back on the lounge with my book and soda water, sip loudly and slowly and flip my pages noisily.

Thirty minutes later with what I am sure was mumbled swearing he comes in and asks for help.  Because I'm a good and loving parent, I hide my smug "I knew you would ask for help" smile.

The fan pieces are strewn across the floor and the instructions are nowhere to be seen.

So first things first I find the instructions and together we start to build the fan.  The cool thing is that we also got to build our relationship a little by saying awesome things to each other like "hold the damn blade still" and "that's too small to go in there" and "why is this bloody screw going in wonky" "where is the plastic clip thingy - I JUST gave it to you to hold/You didn't give me any plastic clip thingy/Oh here it is, under my foot" and "OMG it's hot in here I wish we had a fan".

Seriously, we actually work together well.  He's good at holding the heavy stuff.  I'm good at the fiddly stuff where his rapidly expanding man-hands can't fit.  Together we get to the last step before the fan is complete.

Except there are no more pieces.  It's the long slidey-shiny metal thing that helps adjust the height of the fan (yes that is the technical term, thank you very much).  So we assume he's put it down in another room while he searched for the philips head screwdriver (which we didn't need).

So I ask the fatal question, 'Did you check you had all the parts before you started?'  He looks at me, guilt written over his face.  (I swear it's in male DNA that instructions are the enemy and to be feared).  We turn the house upside down and no luck.  I swear we look for 30 minutes and it's pushing 11pm - on a school night

So I say "Well mate, we've got to take it apart and take it back to the shop."  He's angry and disappointed.  But I tell him he's learnt the first rule of any construction.  Make sure you've got all the right tools and all the right parts.

We turn the bottom base pole upside down to remove a set of screws and lo and behold the long slidey-shiny metal thing falls out.  HALLELUJAH. LORD JESUS WE'RE SAVED.

The fan has now been running for a week and he will need to get a job to pay for the electricity bill.  But hey, he's happy. He's got a fan.  Everyone should have at least one fan.  He's lucky he's got two - because I'm his Number One fan.