Wonderland Wanderess

No human being is entirely good or entirely bad and my father was no exception to this.  Amidst attempted abductions, over a decade of stalking, countless Domestic Violence Orders, alcohol induced rages, bitter custody battles, supervised visitations at contact centres and terrifying untreated mental illness, was the man who did not once hesitate to order seafood pizzas for me, all the while knowing I would eat nothing, but the teensy-weensy baby octopuses off them.     Beneath the outward portrayal of toughness was the dad who took his children to Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings and church so we could see he was trying.  Masked by the facade of a performance he had mentally cast himself in as "Father of the Year", was the manic yes-man, in all his grandiose glory, who saw no problem with allowing his son to ride in the boot of the car at his request to, nor with doing doughnuts and burn-outs in the middle of public parks—never mind the blood noses from our faces const

The man I am writing about passed away many years ago. Out of respect for his family, I will not disclose his real name; I'll refer to him only as *Simon.   *Simon was like a father to me and I loved him dearly... eventually. For the first few months, my hatred burnt with the fire of a thousand suns. *Simon had just been released from prison for heroin trafficking, but before you judge my mother for allowing him into our lives, you must first understand that he had just served a 5 year sentence. Theoretically he should have been clean for half a decade; a reformed member of society, if you will. We would later learn just how readily available heroin had been to him in prison. My mother was put through hell by my father and then along came a good looking, kind-hearted man. *Simon fell in love with Mum and was even willing to put up with her emotionally unstable little brat (me), who never missed an opportunity to tell him how much she hated him. *Simon was patient with me when

Dear Younger Self, Forgive yourself. You are brave and you are smart and I know you don't know what to do with all of these things that have happened and are still happening to you. But you will get through them...all of them, and you will be okay, I promise. Right now, you are doing what you have to do to survive and you lash out at everything and everyone around you because it's the only way you know how to deal with all of this rage consuming you from the inside out. But the day will come when you won't have to fight anymore. The demons that have overrun your scared little mind will be banished to the furthest corners of the realms.    I won't lie to you, it's going to get worse before it gets better... a lot worse. It's going to hurt like hell and you are going to need to call on strength you don't even yet know you possess. But when that day comes, as hard as it will be to let go of everything you thought was meant for you, know that it wi

My dark passenger.  That ever present voice, quiet and gentle as a whisper at first, 'til it spins dread and fear like spider webs throughout every happy moment.  Then it crouches in the shadows, in the wake of its deception, waiting to pounce and sink its claws in for the kill.  My heart rate increases, my breath falters, my body shakes and sweat pours from my palms.  I'm now in fight or flight mode, in response to whatever situation, place or environment I've found myself in.  My body wants to run and my brain is preparing it for just that, pumping adrenaline through my veins.   I've lost count of the amount of times people have made ignorant comments, all to more or less the same effect- anxiety can be conquered with something as simple as mind over matter ..... but when half of me wants only to run and hide, while the other half  is gearing up to stay and fight the generally non-existent threat, to battle for rational calm amidst the fictional chaos, tell me

Until recent years, I harboured so much shame about my history of drug abuse.  It was something I was adamant needed to be kept secret from all but those closest to me.  The mere thought of the scrutinous judgement, whispered words and condescending looks sure to be aimed my way in public, sent waves of anxiety cascading over me.  But no more.  Fuck what you think.  More stories of long term recovery need to be shared with the world.  Struggling addicts need to know that there is hope. The thing I know I wrestled the most with when I was institutionalised each time was the men and women, with all these fancy credentials and titles, trying to "fix" me, when in my eyes they didn't understand a thing and therefore didn't have a hope in hell of bringing about lasting change in my chaotic world or my troubled mind.  Childhood trauma, sexual abuse, mental illness and drug dependency- these aren't things you can properly learn from a book, without ever having li

Dear Dad, It’s been years since we last spoke. I was pregnant with my first child; you were sectioned in a psychiatric hospital again. I’d visited you there many times over the years, as a child and as an adult. I feel I owe you an explanation as to why I had to walk away.   My childhood seems like a good place to begin. I vividly recall you telling me at Family Court, right before you were stripped your parental responsibility and visitation rights, that I was strong like you. You told me this strength was what enabled me to endure and withstand all of the pain. That day was the first and only time I saw you cry. I remember how hard you hugged me; how tightly you clung to me. Your exact final words as I was escorted from the room were: 'God, I love you, kiddo.' What you may not know is that it wasn’t any perceived strength that allowed me to speak to you that day when my brother refused. It was the panic button located beneath the Family Report Writer's desk. That discr