Wonderland Wanderess

  Conflict will either unite, or divide.  Destruction lingers on the winds accompanying it, as death lingers in the hearts of those who have loved and lost. See, the thing about loss is that it will either strengthen, or shatter; harden, or soften. We fight to hold on, and we fight to let go. Hardships are fire to be wielded as either a sword of flames, or the fuel which burns down empires. But the ashes of fallen empires form the mortar to construct the most indestructible and impenetrable of fortresses. The builders of these safe havens harbour every stone and stick ever thrown their way; bank them in silos, awaiting the day their resilience is called upon to serve their fellow humans. The warriors of empathy as they are cannot be perturbed by falsely hateful words. They are comprised only of love, waiting patiently in the dark for the lost to join them in the light. They do not give up and refuse to walk away. As Martin Luther King once said, "You cannot drive out darkness with

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 first time stays with you; cemented in the crevices of your mind and plastered to the backs of your eyelids. Sometimes it's beneath darker shadows, or obscured with bright rays of sunlight. But it's always there.  The click of the doors locking reverberated throughout the building in time with the beating of my heart. That click continues its cursed echo in my mind even today.  You never forget the first time.   ~ It was 2007, I was 18 years old, and  my first involuntary treatment order was enforced (Mental Health Act 2000)  . Shame cloaked me and claustrophobia choked the air from my lungs as I realised I was, for lack of a better word, imprisoned; trapped against my will. All I wanted was to go home, but where was home?  I no longer knew. ~ " Bipolar robs you of that which is you. It can take from you the very core of your being and replace it with something that is completely opposite of who and what you truly are. Because my bipolar went untreated

It’s been months since I last blogged.   I’ve been so caught up with my university studies and home schooling my kids in this strange new Corona World. In fact, I probably should be working on an essay right now but I just needed to write freely today; to express what is in my heart and on my mind right now.  So come, buckle up, and step into the darkest corners of my mind with me. Below I have copied and pasted a dated e-journal entry.   I wrote it in November last year during the most crippling low I have experienced since I was pregnant with my now almost 6-year-old daughter.   What is a low you ask?   It is a depressive episode.   You see, I suffer from Bipolar Disorder, Type 2 (BPII), differentiated from Type 1 by significantly more lows than highs.   The rare highs of BPII, referred to as  hypomanic episodes do not reach the full-blown mania and psychosis commonly associated with Bipolar Disorder, Type 1 (BPI) and could instead be more accurately described as an abn

No parent signs up for children with behavioural or emotional disabilities. Heck, if it worked that way, none of us would. But oh, what a gift would be lost to this world. Difficult children grow into strong willed adults, champions of the causes they believe in; dream chasers, peacemakers, and driven entrepreneurs.  They are worth all the tears, sleepless nights, judgemental stares, and specialist appointments.   I was a difficult child; now I am raising one. I know you are exhausted, Mumma, but to your little boy, you are Wonder Woman , battling his demons and bringing calm to the chaos of his overwhelmed mind. Breathe—you've got this.   Dad, I see you struggling with the weight of working hard, only to come home to World War III in your living room, when all you want is peace and quiet.   To the single parent weeping in your car, after your daughter threw the mother of all tantrums in the supermarket, I think you are a rock star. ~    These children see the world in

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

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