Category: Self-Care

The Fountain.

raphaela99Leave a comment

I love how time allows us to revisit experiences that were cringe-worthy at the time. Those bloody-awful events which made us want to curl up in a ball when they happened. Three years ago, I had plastic surgery after removal of some tumours on my face. Long story short, I had been on high doses of hormones to try and reverse the premature menopause I found myself in. We wanted to try IVF, and give our daughter a sibling. Instead, I found myself with what I thought were warts. “Great, I really am a crone now,” I thought to myself. I thought they would be frozen off, but instead, I was sent to a skin specialist, and then found myself receiving plastic surgery. I was chattering in a deep and meaningful manner, under light sedation, completely off my trolley. Not helpful when one’s surgeon is attempting to do a flap repair and remove a tumour to one’s chin. “We will need to knock this girl out,” I heard. Then, they knocked me out. Over the next few days, I couldn’t speak, as I had stitches to my chin and forehead, two black eyes and a bandaged face.

266367_229313330435853_4737459_o
I was waiting to see if these tumours were a nasty cancer, and also whether the HRT I had bombarded my system with had worked and I would be able to do IVF again. I would find out both sets of news at two different places on the same day. Feeling as though I had absolutely no control over my life, let alone the outcomes, I became desperate. Desperate to find my place. Desperate to feel connected. What happens next is why I view fountains with fondness.

Anger.

raphaela992 Comments

Today, I learnt that a group of bad guys from my past were flourishing, and planned to open a business nearby. My first reaction was numbness. I couldn’t feel anything, nor did I want to. Nervous energy needed an outlet, and I cleaned my guinea pig’s hutches. I paced. I put on music. My daughter could feel the nervous energy and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t tell her. She is seven. It would require a long, convoluted explanation that I didn’t want to give to this precious child. These people almost successfully ensured that I didn’t get to grow up, and have her. I took her to school, and had coffee with a friend, a lovely distraction. I then became pissed off. How dare these people ever be allowed to be in a position of trust again. I want more for kids. I want more for my kid. I want them to live in a world where the bad guys get punished. I want her to live in a world where stuff like this doesn’t happen to kids at all. The truth will come out. It always does. I know that. I have been around long enough to see empires crumble, villains brought to justice and Royal Commissions uncover the reality of various groups. For now, I will treat myself well, go for a stroll in the sunshine and pick my daughter up from school. I can’t wait to play with her this afternoon and hear about her day. We are planning a trip to Nutcote, May Gibbs’ home. A place of Gumnut babies who get away from Banksia men.

My Book Launch.

raphaela992 Comments

As a little girl, I had big dreams. I had a mighty future ahead of me. My family was fractured, and I hoped that if I was responsible enough, loving, kind and silent enough, we would get through the darkness, together. It was not to be. I could never have envisioned what was to come. The drug and alcohol abuse, domestic violence, sexual and physical abuse. The threat to send me away for finding my voice and relaying what was happening. The day they actually went through with their threat… This book wrote itself throughout those years. Scribbled on pieces of paper were each wound, with dates and times. Stuffed under my mattress. If I lived, I would tell. For the sake of condensing my story, I couldn’t relay all that went on, and there was a lot! What was more pressing was to relay that a young girl was hurt, desperately. At thirteen, she tried to take her life for the first time, such was her despair. She was treated as rubbish, and ignored by those who could have helped her. Rubbing two cold stones together, she produced a spark. From that spark, grew a flame. She wouldn’t listen to these people, abusing her, stripping the marrow from her bones. What the hell did they know about faith, about love, about her? Nothing. They knew nothing of themselves either. She decided to create a rich internal world, where the good guys win, and girls like her actually get to grow up. The past two decades have been a tumultuous ride toward healing. Nightmares and scores of operations. Pain and hope. The one thing that she never did was listen to the echoes of her abusers, the stinging words, which rattled about in her mind. What the hell did they ever know about her? That frightened girl, who used to lock herself in the linen cupboard whilst waiting for the police to arrive, who dreamed of leaving and being adopted into a stable family. That girl is me. I got to grow up! I have a wonderful husband, who has been through the inferno with me, often charging in ahead to take the brunt of the blows. I have a miracle daughter. I am blessed. I pray that this is never allowed to happen to another kid. Last year, I discovered that two other girls, one nineteen, and one sixteen, were abused in this clinic. One suicided. This is why I am speaking out. I got to grow up, and so many that I shared this story with, didn’t. I speak for them. Thankyou from the depths of my soul, Jo and Barry. I sent a proposal off, moved house and a year or so passed. One night, I was awoken with a deep need to check the spam box in my email. I was scrolling down, when I saw an email from JoJo Publishers. They wanted to talk with me! If I hadn’t checked my spam, I would never have known… Thankyou to Anne Van Alkemade, an amazing editor and now dear friend. Thankyou to beautiful Meldi and Ariel bookshop for all of your work and incredible kindness. Thankyou to Don Smith from the White Ribbon Foundation for speaking tonight, and Brian Bell for your wondrous poem. Thankyou to Suzanne Grae for supporting the White Ribbon Foundation, and dressing me for the launch. Thankyou to all my beautiful family here tonight. I love you all deeply. Thankyou to Tommy and Lizzie, for always believing in me. I am a blessed woman. I got to grow up.

PTSD.

raphaela99Leave a comment

As a toddler, I had night terrors, the peculiar feeling of being cognizant of forces at play which can be felt in sleep. Terrorized to the point of screaming. They faded as I grew. Now, I suffer PTSD, as a result of having lived a dark dream. To confront the places of terror, and rewrite my own endings, was my weapon of choice. Many years ago, I revisited places of trauma. Instead of being left bloodied, broken and half-dead, my husband could recite a poem, I could leave flowers, and I could walk away. Not a speck of blood upon me. It rewrote the script, and I felt stronger. Over many years, I began to heal. It is a process, a series of steps. Walking to the letterbox whilst an unfamiliar car with a driver was parked outside was a moment of triumph. Listening to a song which once hooked me into the past was cause for rejoicing. Climbing a staircase, picking up my phone… Learning to be a functioning human.

 

The past few weeks have been tough. I have retreated somewhat, which fills me with pain, though not surprise. I have had a book published which details my dark dream. The media have interviewed me for hours on end, dredging up every painful moment, then leaving me to deal with the fallout. I was on a train with my daughter, travelling into the city for a day out. As we approached the station in the suburb where one of my villain’s lives, I could suddenly see his face. I could smell him. I recalled his deep guttural voice and the hollow eyes which contained no depth. He was there in that carriage. The other day, it was the anniversary of my fall. The day that changed everything. The reason I have had to pay a few home deposits to surgeons, the reason my kidneys are damaged and I self-catheterize. The reason I had to have a caesarean and was in unbelievable pain in pregnancy. The reason my daughter has to adapt to having a mother who needs to lie down mid-way through the day and can’t do all the physical activities other mums do with their kids. The reason I cry in the shower each morning from pain, so my daughter can’t hear.

 

A friend met me at my gym and we worked out together. We screwed up at our noses as a smelly, muscle man lifted weights, then had lunch together. I was so grateful she was there with me, my friend. I took my daughter to her singing lesson, and delighted in hearing her practice her scales. I chatted to the teacher’s grandmother, and revelled in discussing the frivolous subject of candles. I had dinner at the shopping centre with my child and husband and did the groceries. Songs from the past came over the speaker, and I was furious. Why tonight? Why are they playing songs he collected and strung together in a cloying, threatening mix-tape? I got home and burst into tears. The distraction of the day was over. I was here with my soul and my body’s cellular memories. Grateful and sorrowful at the same time. How could I not be thankful? Somebody wanted to kill me and yet I am still here. I have married, and had a spectacular child. I have a multitude of friends who love me deeply and I them. I laugh often and much and am resilient. Nothing much shakes me, certainly not the little hiccups in life. Thankyou! Thankyou! Thankyou!

 

Sorrow… Hmm, I have that too. As a mother, I grieve for that child, put in an impossible situation and left to fend for herself. She did the best she could. She screams within my heart that somebody hurt her, and it’s not fair. No, it’s not fair my darling. I will spend the rest of my life loving you, and protecting you as best I can. Memories get stirred up, songs are played. Something on the news reminds me of yesterday. I try to take each moment as it comes. Right now, my husband and daughter are playing with our baby guinea pigs, and I am in the office, listening to the sweet trill of my budgerigar, Cuddles, who has decided to join me. This moment is all that matters right now.

The Myriad Ways.

raphaela99Leave a comment

Writing my book was one of the hardest things I have undertaken in life. I am a dreamer, a poet. My friends call me a fairy, and it is true. I have a tenuous footing on the earth, and feel more connected to the stars. I love kid’s movies and art. Having the pull in my soul to write a book fused in stark reality, stripped of fairy-tale nuances has been hard. A big message within the pages is to never let anyone measure your worth. Whether they be the flatterers or the persecutors, they have an angle and it is skewed. I have tried to allow my worth and merit to bubble up from a well deep inside my soul. Yet, upon reflection, there are myriad ways I, and many others, sabotage that clear spring filled with self-belief and self-worth. The fears that come up at night. The coffee I drink when I am already jittery. The choice to drink that extra glass of wine that leaves me feeling retched the next day. Not putting aside time to meditate, to exercise or even breathe deeply into my lungs. Picking up junk and ingesting it when my body needs nourishment in the form of a decent meal I actually sit down to eat. So many unconscious acts which pollute that spring. I am tired of sabotaging my energy, my clarity and health. I don’t wish to go through life habitually. I shall do what I can to make the best choices for my body. Despite everything, despite the wounds rained down on this body, I still believe in it and the soul it houses. I have to start proving it.

Stopping.

raphaela99Leave a comment

My daughter and I woke Monday morning with excruciating headaches. Our stomachs lurched and we were both hoarse. We looked at each other, and said “day at home” in unison. We have been housebound for three days now. We have slept, played games, had lunch together at the dining table, and mummy has snuck off to do mummy jobs. I now have a clean fridge, laundry, home, and a life that seems in order. It makes last week’s disorder a distant memory. It was school holidays, and this mummy was trying to juggle media, writing, promoting my book, organizing my health appointments and entertaining my six year old with a myriad of activities. I hadn’t had time to cook dinner for a fortnight, couldn’t find a spare hour in our schedule to supermarket shop, and my email box was full to overflowing. I was exhausted, and scared I had forgotten something, Scared of letting anyone down. What she and I both needed was to stop. This virus had been building, first as fatigue which I chose to ignore. Our bodies are wise machines. They break down when they have reached their limit. I had forgotten the power of saying “no, I am sorry, but I can’t.” As much as I adore the people in my life, I can’t possibly see them all in the space of seven days. I have tried. I started to feel sheepish when faced with the reality of needing to attend to the basics of running a household. I have discovered that it is imperative to have more space in my day and on my calendar. I need to be a role model for my child, and teach her it’s okay to have dreamy, breezy, easy days, with no commitments. To cuddle on the sofa and watch a movie. To turn the phone off and disengage. I hope that the clarity this week has afforded me remains, and I can relish the simple joys, and have a bit more spontaneity available. Space for impromptu visits and calls, for travel and surprises. I don’t want to see a calendar groaning under the weight of the commitments pencilled in. I vow to pencil in pockets of time where we are home, and doing nothing but relishing each other’s company. The three of us. It makes the social activities enjoyable (which is what they are meant to be). I have to go sip some lemon water and play Uno with my daughter now. I shall see you soon, my friends. xxx

The surgeon.

raphaela99Leave a comment

http://www.jojopublishing.com/html/s01_home/home.asp

I walked reluctantly to the neurosurgeon’s rooms. “I don’t want to be here!” my mind screamed. I had seen him four years prior, after slipping over in my town. I had heard a snap in my back, and sure enough, I had broken my spine in several places through the thoracic region. He sent me for an MRI, and I had it, but never went back to him. I couldn’t face it at the time. I had a small child, practically a baby. I was nervous about seeing him again. Would he be angry with me? I was immediately put at ease. He put me through an examination, and found there is quite a significant deficit in the nerves through my right side,from my foot to my hand. I cried when he said he was in awe of me and how I kept going. He knows the pain is severe, and he knows nothing he does will make it better. “How did you survive that fall? Nobody could survive that!” he exclaimed. He wants me to bring a copy of my book to give his daughter. I told him that his praise meant a lot. More tests have been ordered, and I am going back in July. A day I was dreading-which had dredged up the crime responsible for this appointment-had been transmuted into a day of clarity, pride and redemption.

What would you say to a bloke you suspect of having bipolar?

raphaela99Leave a comment

My husband wanted me to write about our experience with bipolar, as we know several couples at the start of their journey. He wants what we have been through to help others. I commend him on this, and also on the huge changes I have seen in him. He said he didn’t understand that he had textbook symptoms. There needs to be a checklist. He says to other men, if these things are happening in your life, get help! What sort of things need to be on your checklist? Feeling different from everyone. Not being able to communicate with people, especially in long-term relationships. Feeling unbeatable and unstoppable, then feeling worthless and useless. Drinking heavily and/or experimenting with drugs. Seeing loved ones pull away from you. Going around in circles. Going really well for a while, then plummeting back to earth. The main thing for my hubby is relationships. He went from a naturally gregarious character to a fellow who couldn’t talk with people. He wouldn’t know what to say, and would get extremely restless at social events, and wander off by himself. Talk to your doctor, and loved ones. You can receive help and it is more than possible to not just survive, but flourish. The Black Dog Institute

I am at Peace.

raphaela99Leave a comment

Today, I am at peace. Nothing in particular has happened to procure this feeling. Rather, it stems from the many smiles, hugs and kindnesses my beautiful friends have bestowed on me. I am humbled by their kindness. They ask after my husband, and I am delighted to say that he is not drinking, and is well. To those who  walked with me  the years in the wilderness, fearing my  husband would be lost not only to me, but to the world, I thank you. If I could write your names across the sky, I would. Texts and gifts, meals and lifts. Listening ears and open hearts. It has all meant so much. We still have a way to travel in our marriage and in ourselves, but your kindness has helped make the path easier under our feet.  xxx

Early Menopause

raphaela992 Comments

”

“Aren’t you lucky? No more periods!” I have heard this many, many times over the past few years. The reality is quite different to the freeing experience other women believe it to be. It is hell. I have been thrown off a building, had my spine shattered, and a cacophony of other traumas have been inflicted on me. Early menopause is the worst, I can state without compunction. Endometriosis led me to have my IVF/ICSI daughter. She is our joy. I had one follicle, despite being on high doses of hormones that encourage many eggs to come forth. She was one of two eggs in this follicle. Both fertilized, but her twin perished before embryo transfer. We so wanted to give her a sibling. After our dark pasts, we wanted her to have blood family, as a kind of buffer in life. My last endometriosis surgery saw me almost bleeding to death. I was rushed back to surgery the next day, after having the doctor warn that I could very well die, and that if the bleeding was stemming from my reproductive organs, I would need a hysterectomy to save my life. I prayed that these organs would be saved. I wasn’t willing to give them up just yet. The bleeding came from blood vessels near my belly button. I was so grateful to have been spared a hysterectomy. When I saw the doctor for a post-op consult, he showed me a picture that still holds me spellbound, and renders me heartbroken. He couldn’t believe it himself. When he went in, he captured the moment a healthy egg was being released from my fallopian tube. It was white as snow, determined. He reassured me that I was ovulating, and that IVF was able to go ahead. We were thrilled. We saved, and we planned. I had another period, and then realized that the following was late. I couldn’t bear the thought that my body had shut down as a result of the trauma I had gone through.

 

I started to feel ill. Constant migraines, vomiting, dizziness, intense sweating and body heat. I couldn’t remember things, nor could I get my thoughts together. I put on weight virtually overnight. I looked puffy. My hair became like straw. I saw my IVF doctor, and it was broken to me that my FSH levels were double that of a normal, healthy woman in her early thirties. “Unless it comes down, IVF will not be an option,” she said sadly. I was put on strong HRT, in the hopes it may reverse what was happening. I put on two stone in a month, and had abscesses in my breasts. I had to be taken off it after two months. It had failed. I had two tumours on my face, and one on my breast. I had thought they were warts, but a dermatologist referred me to a plastic surgeon for their removal. We all concurred that the hormones had fed them. The day I found out whether these tumours were cancerous, was the day I also found out I was in full menopause. I was thirty-one. I sobbed from the depths of my soul as it was explained the health problems which can occur as a result of going into menopause so early. I already had fragile bones, as a result of my fractured back, and the many surgeries I had endured. A bone scan found I was now at high risk of neck fractures and forearm breaks, among other areas. I couldn’t take HRT after having had the tumours, to deal with the hot flushes and many other symptoms. I felt so very alone. The women I knew were falling pregnant, extending their families. It was never discussed with them, nor did they ask. People couldn’t understand why I was sick all the time. They certainly couldn’t comprehend the mind-shattering depression. I felt guilt for my little girl. She wanted so much for me to have another baby, and my heart broke when I saw her joy at holding her friend’s siblings. I felt as though my body had failed. I tried many alternative health practices, and spent thousands on herbs, potions etc. I was so delighted when I saw a spot of blood that I told everyone that I believed a period was beginning. It ended up being a normal part of menopause. I was still sent for regular FSH tests, and the last one was in the 90’s. It should be under 10. We booked a holiday and left town whilst I came to terms with the diagnosis, in its entirety. It was a time of deep grief, not helped that I wasn’t sleeping. When I say not sleeping, I mean I went weeks without having more than one hour. I felt old before my time. I had a five-year old, yet I felt eighty. I had nobody to talk to about any of it. The loneliness was unbearable.

Since the start of 2013, I have taken matters into my hands. So much has been out of my control, and it feels good to be proactive about what I can do. I go to the gym daily to be in the best shape possible, and do weight-bearing to insulate these fragile bones. After trying every remedy on the market for the insomnia, I saw my GP, and take a powerful sleeping pill every third night so I can rest. To those who are going through this (only 1% of women go through early menopause), my heart goes out to you. I can’t see the silver lining in being in a state not meant for another twenty years, but I have uncovered strength I never knew I had. A toughness despite my being soft. One has to be, when people think hot flushes are funny, that it’s hilarious to say that women in menopause have more swings than you would find at a park. I go gently into this new phase of life.