Today I got a call from my little sister…. it was one of those sisterly warning calls, you know the “mum is really angry with you, thought you might want to know/build a barricade/move to Bolivia” type of calls… and you know what? I realized for the first time that I really didn’t care.

My relationship with my mum is complex, to say the least. My childhood memories of mum involve watching her hand rear baby birds she’d rescued and playing with play doh she’d made and dyed with beetroot juice. As a little kid, mum was my world, and I was always writing her love notes and cards addressed to “the world’s best mum”. I’d collect my pocket money and spend my life savings (about $1.50) on a gold plated locket and a hanky for mother’s day and have fond memories of her singing while she did the housework, and generally being a fun and loving mum.

Looking back on it though, there were issues. Mum didn’t ever come to any school plays or parent teacher nights (I was the sort of child that teachers loved to brag about)… mum was never a cuddly mum and would often tell me “get off me, you’re making me hot” or words to that effect, which as a kid, I just took at face value. I guess I just lived with it, and tried to make mum love me as much as I could by being a nice child, a good, well behaved child, although I knew my mum was different to other mums who sat proudly in the audience as their kids were on stage.

As I have gotten older, my relationship with my mum has deteriorated to the point where it is today — I don’t want to fight with her, not because I want the relationship, but because I quite simply do not want the confrontation. If she disowned me today, I would mourn not having a mum, but it would be the hypothetical dream mum in my head, not the actuality.

I have always wanted a mum who would be there for me, would talk to me about clothes and makeup and would tell me about the world and how to deal with it. The kind of mum that I could have coffee with and who I could turn to if I was in need of emotional support, who I could rely on. I guess I got this concept of the “ideal mum” from television, books and watching other people’s mums, and over time I have moderated it to something that is actually half realistic. I don’t mind a mum who fights with me, or nags me, I don’t even mind one that tries to control my life, but I just can’t handle the kind of cold rejection that I get from my mum all the time.

I haven’t spoken to my mum in over 4 months. This was sparked by her coming to stay at my house. She wanted to stay because she had a BBQ of a friend of hers in the city and she didn’t want to fork out for accommodation and she told me so. My hubby and I had just moved, our cat had just been attacked by huskies, and I was in the job from hell. The place was a mess and there were still boxes everywhere. I was barely able to function on minimum sleep and my hubby was away on a business trip. It had been 3 days of the cat and I scrounging for food (sardines on toast were the regular staple) and clothes piling up in the laundry. I was dubious about the idea, but my hubby, ever the optimist, thought it might be a good idea. He was so wrong!

Mum and dad arrived and the first thing they did was pull the house to pieces - nothing was good enough…. it was old, it was unclean, it was unfinished. We were living rent free in my in-laws house, literally 15 minutes from the CBD in prime location and all my parents could think about is the peeling paint.  I offered them my bed, with me willing to sleep in the unclad (but perfectly habitable attic) but they wouldn’t have a bar of it. I knew things were not going to be good as I saw my mum try to navigate the spiral staircase up to the attic— the look on her face said it all “I am not amused”.

As it happened, my parents arrived on the day of my grad — no, they didn’t come down especially, as I said they came down for the BBQ. I was excited at the prospect of them attending, since it was a big deal - we got dressed, with mum cursing all the while about not having a hair dryer and went to the hall where the grad was supposed to be done. I sat through the speeches and heard a million times “the parents should be congratulated as much as the students, because they have supported them through the course, emotionally, financially and in so many other ways”. I realized sitting there, that for me, that really hadn’t been the case, my parents hadn’t been there at all. I am financially independent, and have been for years, and I have never felt able to call them up for help emotionally. That burden unfortunately falls on my poor hubby.

We had the grad, and all the parents were congratulating their children. Parents were hugging their kids, giving them flowers and gift of jewelery,  people were taking professional photos, happy parents and happy kids, what I have always wanted, so tantalizingly close, yet so distant, and then came the utterance that brought it all home for me, when mum turned to me, angry and said:

“Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this course thing. I didn’t even know. You made me look like an idiot”. 

What can you say to that? How many times had I tried to reach out and connect? How many times do you just keep cutting yourself before you can’t bleed anymore. Her I was having one of those days in your life that you always remember - about to be a solicitor, and she says that, because, of course, it should all be about her.

My parents then proceeded to scoff all the hor d’evrs and drink as much champagne as they could lay their hands on. I had begged them to go out for dinner to celebrate, but mum didn’t see the point - too expensive, even though I had said I would pay. In the car driving away, I saw the happy families walking down the street to go to the various lovely restaurants for celebrationary dinners and I realized that this was an event that I could never get back, but one that had been deflated like a balloon. I didn’t even get professional pictures…. mum said they were too dear.

We went home, I put on my PJs and we had a normal dinner…. they cooked, making food I couldn’t eat - I have IBS. I called my hubby later that night in tears and told him how it had all panned out, and he assured me that he would be home in a couple of days, just hold on…. yeah, but he can’t remake the memories.

Throughout this time my cat, who had only just been un-hospitalised was convalescing in the laundry, with broken bones and lacerations. The vet had advised me to keep him as calm and still as possible, and he was happy to just lie around and be patted. Since her arrival mum had been fussing over him constantly, trying to move him around and generally refusing to comply with my desires that he be left alone to rest. At one point, after a few drinks she grabbed his bandaged paw just to make the point that “he can’t feel it!”…. working all day, I was stressed by the idea that she would be alone with him, but what could I do? at this point I should say that I had not advised her that the cat had cost thousands to fix up (he’s a moggie, but he’s my world) after she had advised me on hearing of his injuries to “put a value on it and don’t go higher than $300 or put him down” .  The cat is my baby and I just couldn’t do it… better to tell her stay obvious, but I was financially destitute.

So, I go to work one day, mum and dad are staying in. Same old crap at work, harassment and bullying…. I work until about 7 with no overtime and go to make the hour long trip home. I arrive home at 8 to find the house locked. My parents had my key and I was desperate to pee…. I needed to get in… thinking that they were inside (the lights were on) I hollered for a good 10 minutes before trying to call them. No answer on the mobile. At that point they pull up and get out of their car with an empty cat carrier. My mind was reeling…. my only thought was:

“My god, they’ve put him down!”

Now, when I get angry I get cold. Total ice queen. The voice gets low and controlled and I get a voice that my hubby has described as the “year 9 teacher voice”. This voice can reduce people into a quivering mess. I had never used it on my parents before, but at this point I had lost all rational thought - Where was he, and what had they done with him!!!!”

Turns out that they had had to take him to the vets. Mum had let him out of the laundry and had him on the lounge, playing with him, even though I had told her not to. Somehow (the lies get thicker here) the cat managed to fall off the couch and the fall caused the raw nerves in his bandaged leg to twinge. The poor cat went ballistic, shredding the bandage with his free legs to the point that he actually ripped out his nails. There was blood everywhere, and the cat was highly distressed. Mum and dad hadn’t called me (guilt?) and not knowing the vet apart from vague directions, had driven around for half an hour before finding the place. Mind you, this was after they had cleaned up the blood, for fear that I might come inside and find out what they had done. I was furious, and they knew it. They left the next day.

So apart from a SMS at Christmas, I have not contacted them since. This is just a single example of the years of crap that I have dealt with, and to tell you the truth I have struggled through my life without them and I really can’t see any reason to reestablish a connection. My mum doesn’t think she has a problem — she thinks it is me, and I am done with being the “good girl” and chasing her. My mum has said many times that in every relationship, she thinks there is a lover - who gives the affection and love, and a lovee who recieves that love. I am tired of being the lover, as it is a selfless task…. so it remains to be seen what happens when she finally gets angry enough to have it out with me. after all, what do I have to lose from speaking my mind?

– little h.

Okay, so I have the world’s nicest boss. Today, he brought me a happy meal as a random spontaneous thing… he even got a toy for me.

Last week he brought me food cooked by his mum for lunch. He is such a sweetie. Hoorah for lovely bosses:) the world needs more of them!

I love big tall men in the stations…. being quite diminutive myself, I stand behind these giants as they push their way through crowds…. kinda like having my own battering ram really!:)

You know how sometimes something really big happens in your life and you know it is going to have massive consequences but at the time the whole thing seems pretty ordinary? I got that feeling when I graduated (both times….yeah, I’m a sucker for punishment!) you feel nervous beforehand, but when you are actually doing it you realise it is pretty mundane, but it’s like a new stage in your life, an evolution.

Today I spoke to my real dad for the first time in over 16 years. Now, I reckon alot of you would be pretty surprised by this for two reasons - firstly because if you know me in the real world, you wouldn’t probably know that the guy that I call my dad is actually not my natural father, and I think that that actually sums it up for the readers who only know virtual little h.

Let me tell you the story. The beginning is that my mum and my natural father married very young. Looking at the situation through adult eyes, they weren’t compatable and their lives were pretty grim. They started off with pretty much nothing and they scraped together what they could. Me and my sister were born pretty early on, which probably added alot of pressure as well.

My childhood memories were yelling, shouting, mum packing me and my sister up and heading to Newcastle to stay with her parents while things cooled off. It was a scary time and as a little kid I didn’t really understand what was happening. My mum, who is prone to melodrama at the best of types would always be in hysterics and as such my sister and I would freak out too.

When I was 9, my dad came to school and took me out of class and told me that they were getting a divorce. I didn’t ever expect that that would happen. My world stopped. I remember the day clearly, especially as my dad took me into the girls toilets to get some toilet paper cause I was crying… funnily, I remember thinking that boys weren’t allowed in the girls toilet and that if he was allowed in, then everything was different, and of course it was.

We moved. Mum, my sister and me. I didn’t have my toys. I missed my strawberry quik coloured room and my barbies. We went to Nanas and it smelt funny. My grandpa had just died and I was scared of his ghost getting me in the night. Mum took us on car rides to theme parks on the weekends and slept all the rest of the time. We saw dad on the weekends, but they’d still fight when he’d pick us up. Dad would take us rollerskating and buy us bon bons, but my sister and I weren’t really happy.

Gradually the fighting got worse. Mum got a restraining order. She also got a boyfriend. They’d take us swimming after school and buy us beer battered fish. Her boyfriend became associated with ice cream spiders, sand and salt. Mum got happier and smiled more. Dad got angrier and asked strange questions about where the new man slept and then would get quiet. It wasn’t fun to see him anymore. Mum would always be cross when we got home too.

I don’t know when I decided, if you can call a nine year old’s choice an actual decision, not to see my real dad. There was pressure everywhere, from mum, from nana, from the new boyfriend. Even mum’s friend, my beloved “aunty” was against it. He was bad they said, he smoked and drank too much…. he hit your mum (a lie), he’s violent, he’s no good. Then the crush came. Dad got angry in the car. Said I was just like my mum and I was suddenly petrified— I’m like her. He hates her, he hurts her, now she’s not around, he’ll hurt me. My last words to him…. ” I love you dad, but I don’t want to see you anymore” were so final. I felt grown up, I felt like I had made a decision, The best decision, and mum was happy. The boyfriend, she said, could be your new dad. A better dad, and we can have a new family. So I tried to make it work — for mum.

My real dad was frantic. He called, he tried driving past the way I walked to school, he sent presents…. the more he tried, the more scared I got until the very thought of him made me feel sick enough to vomit. All the while I was fed a string of subtle misrepresentations and negativity. I became a virtual recluse, hiding away trying to avoid meeting him. Then the gifts stopped and I thought that he had forgotten me. That hurt too. There was no right answer. I wanted to feel loved, but I didn’t want a connection. Life passed like this until I was 18, and I left my hometown to go to Uni. It was liberating to not feel scared, but even so, I got a private number and tried to keep my whereabouts a secret, while at the same time, keeping a photo of him, which I looked at from time to time trying to see a family resemblance.

6 months ago, my quiet little life was disrupted by a thin, carefully addressed letter in a flowery patterned envelope, no return address. Two paragraphs that changed my life. He was proud/ he loved me/ he thought of me. By this point, my relationship with my mum was rocky, my stepfather was distant and disinterested and I was longing for a parental figure who would just simply care about what I did in my life and appreciate me. It came at the right time and I wrote back, an awkward, clumsy letter. Thus started a slow correspondence, with months in between of ramblings between two people who really didn’t know much about each other.

So, two days ago my sister - still in touch with my natural father all these years (to the detriment of our relationship) calls me and asks if he can call me. I was panicked. Calling and writing are very different…. writing was safe, impersonal. I could write what I wanted and not answer awkward questions. But a part of me, a very small hidden part wanted to take the step and move forward, which is what I did an hour or so ago.

How does it feel, you might think? Well, I was stressed beforehand, but slept surprisingly well last night. I was a little worried at work, but not more so that I would be for a job interview. The doubts were there — will he like me? will he ask questions that I don’t want to answer? will he be angry? but I kept pushing them down and got through the day. The actual call was hard for the first 5 minutes — a long lost voice can shock a little, but after a while it seemed so normal. We talked for about an hour, and promised to again.

I can’t say I love him in the whole sense at this stage. I love him for being my father and for the years of childhood that I had, cause there were happy memories there as well as bad. He is familiar, but a stranger at the same time, and it will take a while to learn to love and trust. Years have passed and our roles, that of father and daughter, have to be defined to suit our changed situations and needs. But we have time, and I think that we will sort things out. I guess that just leaves my issues with my mother, who encouraged the original separation and that is the area that I am really dreading……

People who have been in the same situation might find literature on the area useful. There is a phenomenon called “parental alienation syndrome”, whereby a parent either consciously or subconsciously (or both) influences a child to “decide” to cease contact with the other parent. There are also support groups for adult sufferers of the syndrome.

I’ll keep you all informed.

little h.

Today my life sucks. I say today, because I like to keep an optimistic perspective on things, but to tell you all the truth, I don’t know when things are gonna pick up to the point that things were prior to the grand city move.

For a while now I have been contemplating my reasons for moving to the big smoke in the first place, after all, my job in my old town was secure, my hubby had a job he liked, the rent was low… we had a pretty sweet existence, so why did I want to move?

Well, I guess the first thing is that I had always had this glorified image of the city, and being a lawyer and living some corporate lifestyle fantasy where I was able to sashay around in suits and have lunches paid for on the firm tab. I wanted to be one of those gorgeous north shore blondes that I see around me everyday who look like they don’t have a care in the world, with their gucci bags and their pearls and their perfect nails. I built my life in the country around this goal and worked and worked to try to achieve it. I think back to my calendar of last year, which I still have, with the little picture I drew of me, the cat and my hubby and a plane, saying “big move!!!!”. I was so excited.

The reality is that the city is hard, and city living is tough. Travel is cripplingly expensive. Groceries are dear, and the temptation to buy things is so much greater because there are so many things to tempt you. In the city, you travel for two hours a day, just to get to work. You pay $70 a fortnight in transport before you have even made a cent and then get home too exhausted to do anything, but you can’t afford takeout so you just have to try to scrounge up something moderately eatable. You are frequently lonely - you can be lonely on a full bus or a train. Surrounded by people, you can feel horribly isolated - that’s if you are lucky enough to be ignored. Otherwise you can have a freak stare at you for the whole ride, or if you are even more unlucky they’ll want to talk to you. In the city, people who don’t even care about you are always interested in the minorest details of your existence. If you have a sore foot and try to put a blister on it, you will have an audience. These people only stare because there is nothing else to do — there is so much dead time in the day.

When I get up, it’s dark. I scramble to get ready to catch the bus, then a train for one stop, then another train. I see homeless people regularly, and frequently have to fend them off as I am trying to make my way to work. People in stations are stupid, and encourage me to be a bitch as I pointedly tell them to “stand to the side of the escalator so people can pass” or “please let me through”. Often they need to be told numerous times. I often want to hit them.

My hubby travels further than I do and he often comes home really late at night. We are so tired we watch TV… gone are the days when we used to chat. If we do chat we feel stressed about all the things we aren’t doing and the fact that we will get to bed late and will be exhausted the next day. My hubby works maybe 4 jobs — I have lost track, just to keep us okay with the rent and the bills, while I have only pulled in $300 this month. We are literally counting our pennies and trying to make ends meet till the end of the fortnight and I can’t even bear to check out when the bills are due cause I want to vomit.

I need a car, but I won’t be getting one anytime soon. It will be dark at 5 soon and the prospect of walking down dark streets terrifies me. We pay an exorberant amount of rent to live at my hubby’s parents house, but are financially bound to do this as we don’t have the means to move…. this is vimes boots theory in practice here.

Being poor on the north shore is screwing with my brain. I feel constantly insecure. I feel conspicious, like an outsider. sometimes I feel resented. I went into ralph polo laurent a few days ago and could have cried for the way I was treated, and I remind you all at this point that I am a practicing solicitor. Yes, the harsh reality - I’m working for bugger all, my HECS debt is through the roof and I just simply want things to be easy… just for once! I just want to buy things and not feel guilty. I want to feel validated in my choice of degree, I want to feel good about a night out, buying dinner….

I want to scream at people that I am a person who deserves better. My family is completely uninterested in my plight, not that I would take their help anyhow. I am alone and I just have to deal, but sometimes the mask slips a little.

Like today.