No More Bad Days

3 or 4 years ago I wrote a blog about losing weight.
When I wrote that blog I was about 15kg lighter, was single and a mother of just 1 child.
Fast forward to now, that 15kg ain't sitting pretty.
I'm 5ft2ish and 70kg give or take...give mostly....
I'm too big for my height. BMI, health reasons, aesthetic reason, no matter which angle you look at it, I am too big.
And more importantly I am too unfit.
So here we begin my little journey.
And this time round it's actually important that I stick to it.

So I'll be the first to admit I'm sort of a lot hopeless at sticking to things.
I am a quitter and a defeatist by nature.
So I'm going to keep the goals few and small for now.
In fact, so small that so far I only have 1 goal.

30 minutes a day of physical activity
Anything will do. Walking, gym, yoga, swimming, ANYTHING. But AT LEAST 30 minutes a day. Everyday.


That's all.
Additional bonus points for drinking more water and reducing sugar intake. But main goal focus is 30 minutes a day.

Beyond the glaringly inspiring aspect of feeling like a land whale every time I look in the mirror, there are several driving reasons behind this.
I am tired, bored, slow, unfit and all round unhealthy.
I am planning on applying to do a paramedics degree, a job that requires at least some level of physical capability.
So all of this should be reason enough to sort my shit.

So!

This isn't even a "tomorrow I start" carry on.
I started today! High fucken five.
I took my dog for a walk in the rain. I had put a timer on to see how far I had to walk to make up my 30 minutes (don't think I'm going to do a minute more than I have to...) but I failed to push start on the timer. So that was a job well done. But I think I made up around 25-30 minutes. Tomorrow I will ensure it's the full 30 minutes.

I'm going to attempt to document every days activity.
So feel free to come cheer me on. I'm sure I can do this VERY BASIC daily task.

Do you think..??

Emotion Sickness.

So today is the day that I was meant to be in Otago. Starting O week. Starting my midwifery career.

It may come as a surprise to you that today is the single hardest days of my life.

Let me hesitantly compare this to the recent death of my father, and explain why this hurts more than losing him. Why today is the worst day of my life.

You see, I am an atheist, a very committed one at that. I believe in nothing but science.
The death of my father was, for a lack of a better term, easy to accept. Because everything that happened to him, happened as science meant it to. There was a solid and understandable explanation for why his heart stopped beating and why when we turned the machines off, he never woke up.
But of course there is an undeniable pain. There is the pain of losing my parent. My Dad is gone and I will never see him again. But I knew my Dad well enough to know that he wouldn't be for me wallowing in his passing. I know what happened, I know why it happened. And so as Dad would've expected, I have accepted it and I have let it go. Many people mightn't understand this, and will question my love, sanity, emotional wellbeing and all other aspects of my person. But it is how I am, it is who I am. And I know Dad would more than likely be proud of me for not wallowing in misery at his passing.

So how does the death of my Dad not trump my failure to get into my degree?

It's because I have no explanation. I have no scientific reason behind why I didn't get in. Why I worked my ass off and it amounted to nothing.
There is no black and white, typed out reason why I didn't get into this degree.
What makes this even harder for me is that this is probably one of the only times in my life that I committed to something, and followed through.
My perpetually pessimistic younger brother has always told me to never have expectations, then you can never be disappointed.

Right now, I'm joining his team.

Because fuck this.

I was intending to make this a deep and insightful entry.
But it's resulted in me sobbing and no longer having the dexterity or brain capacity to keep typing.
I am a heartbroken mess.

I have failed.

I have failed and nothing anyone says can change it. Yes I can try again next year. Maybe. But that's far beyond the point.

The next person who asks me what my plans are now is going to get punched in the throat.

You're Not Good Enough.

Today I "re-opened" my makeup artistry business.

It is up there with the worst things that could've happened to me this year.
Because this is not meant to be happening.
This is not what I planned.
This is the action that confirms the worst.

I didn't get into midwifery.

For the first time in my life, I had set a goal. I set a goal. I worked my ass off.
And I failed.

That is the black and white of it. I failed to get into midwifery.

And for those saying I just need to "keep trying" and "apply again next year", it is absolutely not that easy.
See I failed so badly to get into midwifery, there's a very real chance that even on applying next year, I mightn't get in.
I didn't even make the wait list. I was pretty far off from making the wait list in fact.
Applications were marked out of 60.
Successful applicants averaged at 48.5/60
Waitlist candidates averaged at 38/60

I got 26/60

I failed hard.

And academically, there is very little I can do to make my application more... applicable?

So this is me wallowing.
And some may say my time for wallowing is up.
To those people I say...

Fuck you.

I have never been more devastated by anything than I have by this.

So I will do my makeup work out of necessity.
And I will fucken wallow.
I'll clean my house, I'll do the laundry, I'll make dinner.
And then I will come home and sit in my bed and not have a fucken clue what to do next.

Every time my facebook pings at me to let me know another person has liked my page or liked a picture of my makeup, I feel ill.

Don't get me wrong. I love makeup artistry. It will always be a passion of mine and I always put my all into my work.

But this isn't how it was supposed to go.

I have nothing left to say.
I am numb.

I am numb and lost and so completely unhappy.


I think this is why I previously never aimed to achieve anything too extreme.
Because the disappointment is too much.
And I'm not that strong.

So I end with the wise words of Homer Simpson, in life lesson #666

"Kids, you tried your hardest and failed miserably, the lesson is, never try"

So this is christmas...

Christmas is built on religion, consumerism and expectations....

All three aspects stir up feelings of great discontent.

The purpose of christmas is the celebration of the "birth of christ". I am not religious. I am far from religious. I am anti religion in an aggressive way. My parents are not religious. I believe 1/4 of my grandparents are religious. Bar my Granddad, I know of no one in my family who has ever been a church goer. So how does it become that a primarily agnostic family partakes in the core celebration of a religion?

Consumerism! Weeeeee!

The media tells us to!
The day after Halloween (another bullshit "celebration"...) shops start sneakily slipping in display shelves and progressively, tinsel starts taking over store fronts and by mid November entire malls are positively dripping in twinkling lights and shiny baubles and the glimmer of irrelevant fake snowflakes in the lead up to a southern hemisphere summer. Gigantic Christmas trees are surrounded by piles upon piles of fake gifts, wrapped in sparkly paper and fancy bows. Subliminal messages to the hundreds of children who will pass through.

Children are drilled with the idea of christmas being about presents. People say, "if you don't like the idea, make christmas about what you want it to be, family, and food and having a good time." But how, HOW am I supposed to instil this in my daughter when everything is about presents. As soon as an adult comes into contact with my 6 year old they ask "what's santa bringing you for christmas?". The public school she goes to spends the weeks leading up to christmas reading stories about santa, making christmas stockings and baskets "for christmas treats", she tells me. Writing letters to santa asking for a myriad of toys that will be played with for 2 weeks before being discarded at the back of the closet.

And then. Then. I have this overwhelming desire to buy her things, fill the base of the christmas tree with everything she asks for and more. Not because I love her, not because I want her to have nice things, not because she has behaved well and earned said gifts. But because I don't want her to be disappointed.

I fear my 6 year old will be disappointed by the gifts she receives from the elusive character that is Santa. 

What have I become?! What monster have I created?!

I have slowly but surely been influenced by the pressure of society to provide unreasonable amounts of material objects to please my 6 year old. 

This is what christmas is. 

And trust me when I tell you, I have tried, I have tried so SO hard to teach my daughter, to explain to her that gifts aren't important. How full your santa sack is, isn't important. That family matters, spending time with her cousins, having her Nana and Grandad come stay, these things are important. 

She claims to understand. But within the same breath she tells me that she thought of something else to ask santa for. 

I feel defeated.
I feel powerless. 

Trying to fight against something that is so aggressively forced upon you, that there is no way to avoid it. 

Every year I will try my damndest to explain to her what christmas is about, who it is intended for, and why Mummy would rather ceremoniously set fire to a christmas tree than cover the floor it sits on with environmentally unfriendly rubbish.

But I foresee fighting a losing battle.
A battle I will continue with my son. Whom, this year, is too young to give a damn about presents and santa sacks. 

I don't like christmas. 

I don't want to celebrate christmas. 

Yet because I have children apparently I am being "cruel" or "a grinch", to roll my eyes at santa visits and sneer at the idea of christmas place setting at the dinner table. 

Last year my daughter had a pile of presents under our tree. They were all for her. 

She sat there and opened present after present.
Tearing through the wrapping, her eyes not even seeing the gift inside, just discarding each toy and book in a pile next to her and moving on to the next colourfully wrapped package.
The last gift hit the mountain of loot next to her and she looks up and asks

"Are there anymore?"

This is not my doing. I have not encouraged this.
This level of expectation is not what I have taught my daughter. 

I have always downplayed the present aspect. 

Santa can't always bring everything you ask for.

It's not important that you get lots of presents.
We should be grateful for what we get, not how much we get. 

But it all falls upon deaf ears, because consumerism, media, hype, advertising, all speak louder than mum ever will. 

Defeated. I have been defeated.

I don't believe in the birth of christ, I don't believe in the christmas spirit. 

I believe my children are been taught a level of expectation that is completely unnecessary. 

A "tradition" that will do little beyond creating a materialistic society.

Call me a grinch, call me a killjoy, I am beyond giving a fuck. 

Who Gon Stop Me

I had my daughter when I was 19 and since then I have done most things purely for survival purposes. Worked 40 hour weeks with my baby girl in daycare for 50 hours a week, just to survive.
Had 2 jobs at a time, just to survive. Missed out on adventures, just to survive.
I have done nothing for me and everything to keep afloat and make sure my daughter doesn't miss out.
I have never, ever held resentment or anger about these things. I have accepted that you do what you have to do and you get on with it.
But with the support and love of the best husband money can buy, I am now doing something for me.
And I am wet my pants excited.
I am beginning study to ultimately become a midwife. I have to first do a bridging course and that will take a year, after that it's 3 years of midwifery study.
I'm so terrified, but SO excited.
I know that this is what I'm supposed to do. I watch programs and I read books about it and I know, with every fibre of my being, this is what I'm supposed to do.

Due to medical issues, I have never been able to give birth to my babies naturally.
In fact I have the most unnatural births around.
I am put under full anesthesia and deliver them via c section.
I have never been there for the birth of my babies.
And it's a really fucken difficult thing to deal with.
I try and not think about it too much, because I know if I do it will eat me up inside.
There is no other way I can give birth to my babies and that is just something I have to accept.
I think this is the root of my desire to want to become a midwife. I can't be there for the birth of my babies, so the next best thing is being able to help other women give birth to their babies.

I can't think of anything more rewarding than assisting in the arrival of new life.

In saying that, it is only recently that I have become aware of the difficult side of my chosen profession.
I have come to learn and accept that although this is possibly one of the most rewarding professions, it can also be one of the most difficult. I learnt this first hand, but that is an experience that deserves a blog of its own.

That experience was a huge learning curve and I know for the next 4 years there will be many more.
But I'm so ready for it.
I'm so happy that I finally get to do something for me.
I know that it's going to be difficult. Of course I do.
People keep saying "you know, it's not going to be easy"
That makes me want to slap them.
Of course I know that. You think I don't know how difficult it's going to be to study, work, be a mother to two children, be a wife, keep my house slightly less than chaotic, get sleep, eat well, not go insane.
You think I don't know how difficult this is going to be?
I know this. And I am ready for it.
So a "good for you" or a "I believe in you", would be a far more welcome response.

I have those who doubt me. Probably with good reason. I haven't been the most over achieving person in the world.
That's fine.
I doubt myself sometimes.
But this time. This is more than a job, more than high school, more than wanting to lose weight or learn to sew or completing a marathon.
This is a life decision. This is what I am meant to do.

There are people who doubt me, there are people who give me negative feedback and literally laugh when I tell them. 

They are not my definers.
They won't hold me down.
They will fuel my fire. 

I will show those little people.


Life lesson #whatever,
Find out what you are meant to do. Do it. 

What are you meant to do?

Would?

Blog interrupted. 

I found this blog that I don't really remember writing. It's fairly dark and grim and I never finished it. Maybe I will one day. But for now, this is where it ended... Enjoy?

I like to think I have things under control.

In my head anyway.

I like to thing I'm strong willed and independant and capable.

I don't need help.

This is what went through my mind every couple of months for the last four years or so.

I should start from the beginging. Explain what I am babbling about.

This is kind of an average subject for me, I don't like thinking about it too much and I certainly don't like admitting it.
I "suffer" (that word is lame, it makes me think of a cancer patient) from depression and anxiety.

It seems every second person does these days. It's almost trendy.

It's something that has been apparent in my life since I was an angsty teenager but actually became a problem after I had my daughter.
In hindsight it is blindingly obvious to me, but at the time it wasn't. I had full blown post natal depression. I didn't have baby blues. I wished for horrific car crashes every time I hoped in a car.

If not to abolish me, then to abolish this new little stranger who I had to take care of.

I did not find instant love with my daughter.

I didn't like her.

I didn't know her and I was in a horrible state of regret.

Every morning I woke up and thought "what have I done?"

This is a difficult subject to talk about as you can imagine.

Very few people know about this.

But I'm kind of at a point where I feel talking about it can only be a good thing. It helps me come to terms with things and it could potentially help others.

As I said, at the time I didn't know what was wrong. I just dealt with the feelings I had. Ultimately the lack of resolution led to the dissolution of the relationship I had with my daughters father.

I didn't know what was wrong so I decided it must've been my environment. I decided the only way to fix how I felt was to leave.

To this day I whole heartedly believe that had I got proper help and acknowledged what was going on, it is very likely that the relationship would not have fallen apart.

So around we go, back to the start of this entry.
I left my daughters father and I decided; no, I'm strong, I can fix this, I can do this on my own.

I don't need help.

And I didn't.

I eventually felt better, I moved on and things started looking up.

And then it happened again.

I found myself in this dark place with no understanding of what was going on, what was making me feel this way or how to make it stop.

But then I get up.

I decide this is no way to live.

And I carry on.

And I make myself better.

And then it happens again.

Over and over, round and round.

I was constantly finding myself in this horrible place where there is nothing in site, it is a black abyss and I'll be damned if I know how to get out.

Every time this happened I would start having suicidal thoughts.

Mentally calculating how many pills were in the house, what they were, and how many I would need to go to sleep forever.

My preferred method was always pills.

Once watched an episode of Nip/Tuck where a dying patient had had enough and wanted to just hurry up and end it. Her doctor friend advised her to drink milk to line the stomach, take the pills and put a plastic bag over her head and just quietly drift off to sleep.
And once in a 4th form first aid course an ambulance office told me the lethal dose of paracetamol was 60 tablets.

I only ever got as far as opening the medication box in my kitchen and assessing the pill situation.
By this point I had patched up my relationship with my daughter and decided that she was pretty spiffy.

She has, and always will be my reason to keep going. Despite internalising the complicated situation and having intense arguements

(unfinished)

Your Song

An entry I found unpublished from over a year ago. It's not terrible. I shall publish.

Lucky you.

I am not musically talented.

I played about 4 different instruments when I was younger, I sucked at all of them and stuck to none of them.

I wish I had stuck with the violin.
That shit's cool.
How hipster would I be. With my alternative look and PLAYING THE VIOLIN.
I think I would need to wear more hats.

Music is an essential part of my life, despite my inability to make it.
If I have nothing but music, I am ok.
I managed to delete my entire music collection a few weeks ago (shut up I don't want to talk about it)
I almost cried.
I am slowly rebuilding my collection.
I am rediscovering old memories, and making new ones.

Music pinpoints times in my life.
It reminds me of heartbreak, happiness, hurt.
Pick a song on my iPod (maybe before I deleted everything...)and I can probably associate a time in my life with it.
Or a person.
I love songs that I associate with people.
Be it good or bad.
I love the nostalgia attached to music.

Rilo Kiley, Owl City, Deftones, Slipknot, Passion Pit, MGMT, Marilyn Manson, Ellie Goulding, Pink Floyd, Gene Pitney, Less Than Jake, Brand New, The Beatles.

All music I can associate with a time and/or person...

Rilo is graveyards and molboro lights and a secret that changed my life.
Owl City was long drives and desires that weren't reachable
Deftones is staple. Deftones is the discovery of someone who would complete my life. I'm your Passenger.
Passion Pit is my beloved boys, dancing on the deck, being so entwined in the music we could burst.
Slipknot was the soundtrack for my teenage years. I was emo before it was cool. The kids at school called me a goth and a freak...With fair right, I wore a dog collar and a trench coat. Lovely.
Gene Pitney, my siblings will tell you, that's Dad.
The Beatles... My Penny Lane.



This is just a teeny tiny fraction.