Batman had my back after I had his. Good work Batman.
Batman had my back after I had his. Good work Batman.

I live in a constant fear of bombs. I live in a metaphorical bomb shelter covered with pretty vines and Jasmine flowers. I don’t know how to ‘live’ in a world where it’s calm and centered, where nothing is wrong and everything feels right, where my issues are being dealt with instead of me sticking them in the bottom of my undies draw with the undies I hope to wear when I lose 5kgs, when the only thing we or I am struggling with is toilet training a 2 year old medusa who just can’t figure out the toilet paper part. Right now I have this sense of unknown calm, I don’t know this like I don’t know what Batman is talking about when comic book day comes every Thursday. Life is great, my kids are happy, the husband is happy, I am happy.

Then why do I feel like I’m waiting? Waiting for the bombs. 

Since I was a child I’ve lived in this world where something bad was happening to me constantly, the constant abuse, my own uncertainty about it played havoc on that little girl, on me. I became a teenager and that was it’s own new set of ups and downs. Then I was a pregnant teen, then a single mum with constant anxiety and depression, bringing craziness and chaos into my own life because it’s what I was used to, I see that now.

Who am I without the chaos, without the bombs?

When I began this blog I was at the sessy back end of a really hard time, I’ll call it my ‘Up-breakdown’. Essentially I was the first 20 minutes of Pixar’s ‘Up’ on repeat peaking when the wife dies. I had never been so low and it was all because my cup of chocolate milk was full and had finally spilled all over my iPhone6s (I love my iphone). By this point the milk had become old and warm and lumpy and stank of old socks and dead chickens, so the up-breakdown that followed was equally as disgusting and terrifying. The up-breakdown came after my Batman’s Bipolar had gone into a 6-7-8 month hulk smash mode crushing his very Batmanness that I once cuddled and fed Bat food to into a raging Bipolar bear clawing at his own mind and devouring those baby fur seals straight off the ice.

 I had endured months of supporting him and his condition that when we finally got the medication right and he finally got better, I was done, I crumpled. I crumpled like a toddler, like a toddler that’s had their world ripped away when dad says:

No you can’t have any more snacks

I spent weeks and weeks crying, because of my fear of actually confronting these issues was incredibly daunting, eventually I decided to try more counselling and to try turn that spilled chocolate milk into wine. I did it and started this blog to help me overcome my fears, my memories, and my life. It was time to write a new story, it was time to come out of the pretty little bomb shelter. 

Like Rafiki says:

rafiki-it-is-time

 Here I am, I have popped out the other side, all of a sudden. My memories are no longer hard to live with because I wrote them down, and now I barely think of them like I used to. I look at life in a brighter light. I see two counsellors, and speak openly to others about my blog, about my abuse and finally I understand that I have come from places most people will never know. I am  strong. A survivor of this abuse that has kept me crushed under my own weight for so long. I am brave. I am impressive even to myself and to the world I have opened myself up which surprises me. I never saw or imagined a life where I might be hopeful that I’ll be more than just this sad girl who was defined by the abuse she endured.

I guess being happy is just as difficult as dealing with the sad, and I’ll have to get used to it.

But at least the bombs won’t hurt quite as much next time.

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