Fraud

I went to see the oddest Ruby Wax show in the West End earlier this week.  If you are thinking acerbic, quick witted humour, well sure there is a bit of that.  However, the show, entitled "Losing It", was more like a painful public airing/therapy session dealing with Ruby's personal battle with depression.

It was an exploration in using humour as a sort of group therapy.  It was messy and uncomfortable.  She had taken it to The Priory and played to the inmates (is that what you call them?).  Her line is 'If you can make depressed people laugh then you've got a good show'.  I am not so convinced.

I went with a friend who has been living with a seriously depressed partner for many years and I have seen this condition ravish the family's strength and reserve.  For my friend the whole performance left her unsatisfied and angry, neither relieved from a great laughter release nor buoyed by a sense of connection and support.

Ruby's demise into depression is covered in detail in the first half.  The usual suspects were covered; parents, upbringing, school bully's, being/looking different etc.   But she also talks candidly about Motherhood and careers, loss of confidence and jealousy.

She talked about feeling like a fraud.  From being the one at school who everyone picked on or ignored, to then becoming famous and applauded.  Asking herself, "When are these people going to discover I am really not this person but rather the bucked tooth loser from high school?"

I have had the fraud conversation a bit lately.

A friend recently described this feeling (the fraud one) as part of the female condition.  The self doubting, the guilt, the lack of confidence.  Do men feel the same sense of fear?  I am sure they experience fear, but does it come from the same place?

I am going back into the real life workforce after a reasonably pre-longed Mothering break.  I describe quite regularly to my friends the sense of fraudulence I feel.  On the one side claiming/believing I am capable and experienced and on the other seriously doubting my ability and worth.

But apparently even woman who haven't had breaks from work and hold lofty respected positions of power are secretly questioning themselves, doubting their ability, all the while clearly being applauded and accoladed for their skill.

I had lunch with a friend today who reminisced about the old days before kids and remembered having moments back then, as she produced huge TV commercial shoots, of thinking to herself, "Am I really doing this? Can I really do this?"

My sister and I wondered if this is all because, for as much as feminism has done to free us, we still feel deep down like it is a man's world, we are not really on an even playing field.  We are posers and fakers in a world that doesn't really belong to us.  Interestingly Ruby does mention the man vs woman earning equality divide.  Comparing the salaries of the husband to the level of subservience of the wife, and the fact that in reverse it is never the case.

I think the fear us Mum's feel stems from the invisibility of Mothering.  From being unseen and unheard whilst giving up so much of ourselves to this relentless job.  There is no question that we relinquish ourselves to the job through pure hearted love.  But the fact that there is no professional 'man's world' recognition for the skill and dedication of Mothering well can make it feel like a huge black hole in the landscape of your experience.

This isn't a question of whether I think you should stay at home or not, the whole issue has always been a spiky one for me.  I won't lie either, Mothering has provided me some of the greatest highs yet also the lowest lows.  Depression is something I know about too now.  I do believe the job of Mothering is completely undervalued and any woman who can navigate sanely through those murky waters should be awarded with any job they desire.

So facing up for work in the real world again is slightly frightening.  Fronting up from the trenches with the confidence to say "Hell yeah I can do that" takes so much courage.

All the while the little man in the back of your head is yelling out "FRAUD FRAUD".

Silky Smooth

I live in an area of London with quite a large Turkish population.  Amongst the many kebab houses and Turkish cafes serving jaw grinding coffee there are a lot of places dedicated to hair.

It is an obsession.

Both the coiffing and the removing of hair is big time around here.  Much time and money is spent upon these pursuits.  I am not just talking about the chicks either.  You want an old fashioned hot cloth and shave, there are a million barbers to do the job.  Back hair?  No problemo.  For a princely sum a course of IPL will transform you from Fozzie Bear into Bear Grylls in a matter of months.  Well, perhaps not quite.

"You Don't Mess with the Zohan" is a favourite movie round at our joint and "silky smooth" is definitely something I like to be.

Best thing about removing my downy mouse coloured fuzz around this neighborhood is that I don't feel freakish at all.  As an hirsute whitey, it ain't nothing compared to some of the stubborn thick black stubble these 'removal' girls face on a daily basis.

I do get a peculiar kick out of sitting in the waiting room and seeing girls in the full niqab coming in for a Brazilian.

http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/n/niqab.asp

Threading is where it is at for the face and especially eyebrows.  I didn't see much or any of this available whilst in Australia and perhaps for the most part it is all going on behind closed doors.  But for the face there is nothing better for fine blonde hair, or darker hair for that matter.  Forget the mo bleach girls.  And for eyebrows, threading really offers the most precise and longest lasting results.

My Mother took me for my first 'mo' wax somewhere toward my later high school years.  All the other girls were using the bleach which only seemed to accentuate the situation.  Sometime after that I probably got my first leg wax too.  It was some time later I first heard talk of bikini shaping and trimming or vajazzles for that matter.  More than twenty years later I hate to think what I have spent on the pursuit of silky smooth.

Threading is an ancient Middle Eastern method of hair removal.  It involves using a long, thin, twisted length of cotton thread and rolling it along the hair line pulling the hair out from the follicle.  It is obviously something someone has to perform upon you and I reckon takes a fair amount of practice to perfect the technique, it is practically an art form.

According to Wikipedia, threading the entire female face is a practice common in Middle Eastern culture as a sign she has reached maturity, done for special occasions such as weddings.  Who started this whole obsession with women needing to look like twelve year old girls on their wedding day?

I don't have that much unsightly facial sprouting but a nicely shaped brow makes the whole face seem different.  Threading is by far a much less invasive practice than smearing hot wax on your face.  It is actually almost mesmerising and nearly relaxing.  (You really do know you are a tired and stretched woman when you can have a wee kip whilst having your bikini region attended to with a bucket of hot wax.)

Silky smooth.....mmmm

Browbeaten

Huddled on the floor of the living room.  Wet cloth in hand.  I rested my head on the new carpet.  My heart lay heavy in my chest and I could feel tears welling up from that lump in the back of my hoarse throat. 

He was upstairs in his room.  Sobbing his little heart out.

"Please don't yell at me Mummy".

Motherhood.

It is not always rosy.

I spend a bit of time checking out other blogs,  mostly interior porn but the occasional Mummy blog too.

There are a lot of rose tinted versions of family life to take your pick from and thereby feel totally inadequate.

A parenting failure.  

A lot of photos of cute babies on jaunty sepia toned European holidays.  Of neat little corners in colourful homes tended by SAHM's who's lives appear to be totally fulfilled with the baking and making and crocheting of wonderful wonderful.

Parental gloating.

It is not really like that.  Surely?

Fleeting moments only.

I sometimes lie in bed at night fretting about my children.  Feeling the leaden weight of their future upon my shoulders. 

They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad.  And with the best intentions.  We just really can't help it.

This Be the Verse  BY PHILIP LARKIN

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.   

    They may not mean to, but they do.   

They fill you with the faults they had

    And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

    And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

    It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

    And don’t have any kids yourself.

We are not infallible.  And sometimes the decisions we make as parents are going to have repurcussions we are not proud of. 

Sometimes, when we are discouraged by a difficult situation, anger does seem helpful, appearing to bring more energy, confidence and determination. And while it is true that anger brings extra energy, it eclipses the best part of our brain: its rationality. So the energy of anger is almost always unreliable. It can cause an immense amount of destructive, unfortunate behavior. - Dalai Lama

Is it rational to lose it over spilt milk on the new carpet? 

Is it rational to lose it when children do childish things? 


Is it rational to raise our voices?

In the Buddhist teachings it tells us that there is no such thing as righteous anger.  However, none of us are immune to the destructive forces of anger.  Life is constantly throwing up difficult situations and we have a choice whether or not to react.

The tears on the carpet incident occurred mid school holidays.  Things have greatly improved now we all have a little more focus and routine.  But the fact is I really don't enjoy losing it or raising my voice.  I always feel totally defeated.  

If we can remember to take a deep breath during these stressful moments, and remind ourselves that we have a choice, more often than not the more rational options will then have an opportunity to be heard. 

No need to hand on the misery.  Avoid the browbeating and embrace the loving kindness.  


Sometimes easier said than done.

Less is More.

The last week in London has been fairly challenging to say the least.  Summer holiday mayhem, madness, machiavellianism.

And that is just in my own home let alone what has been going on in the streets.

I must admit I had a moment one evening last week.  Lying on the sofa, with Brad away in Birmingham just as the riots kicked off there,  I briefly wondered why I had removed my children from their carefree, barefooted sunny freedom and brought them back here.  A dark moment in a night filled with sirens and a palpable tension.

It has taken me a week to remind myself why we made the decision we did.  A friend once told me that there are no good or bad decisions, just decisions.  From those decisions we learn valuable lessons.  We make a choice and we need to make the most of what we have.  Live in the moment without regrets or attachments.

Many of my readers will know that my decision making process (with regard to this return to London) was long and considered, even painful and tiresome.  I recently read a great article here about making difficult decisions, and I reckon I can tick quite a few of the those suggestions, and therefore rest easy in this place.

I decided to start a photo diary on my Facebook page to document the things I love about London.  As a way to focus on the positive.  Because there are always surprises and random moments of beauty and wonder in this city.   If we take them for granted, then it is easy to only see the dark and dirt and chaos.

Having left this city for a few years for some soul cleansing in my homeland, I have returned with a deeper understanding of what it takes to survive here.  In a city of constant motion, where the energy flows like a thunderous river, nearly visible to the naked eye.  Ever so mesmerizing, so easy to fall in and be swept away with the currents, tossed and tumbled and washed ashore like a piece of useless flotsam, miles from where you started or intended to go (this of course can sometimes be a good thing).

We have to be able to know when to stand behind the yellow line.  Take a seat and breath.  To observe the motion without feeling we have to jump on board.

I received another of my daily truths from Brave Girls Club today, and as I quite often find, it was a timely message about slowing down, not getting caught up in the race to have everything (or at least what we are lead to believe is everything we need).  Stopping in the moment without grasping for the next.

This message applies to life in every corner of the globe.

Here I Am

We have been painting.

It is quite physical and at the same time meditative.  Also hugely satisfying to paint over the stains left from a time that went before.

We are re-decorating our house, yet it also feels in some way like we are re-decorating our life.  The scars and stains we know exist, we have lived through the mess.  Now we are starting out fresh.  On a clean page.  An exciting new chapter.

The colour palate is, quite unsurprisingly, white.  Who would have thought white would come in so many shades.  That light from different angles can make the same shade change so dramatically from room to room.  Surely there is something metaphorical in that?

I want it bright and cool with a splash of colour here and there.  A happy space.  A haven from the urban chaos and long winters to come.  A welcoming family home.

The repetitive up and down of the roller on the wall provides a space to think, and of course, in covering over what went before, my mind comes to pass over what has been and gone.  Back and forth.  Up and down.  Covered now in a thick layer of paint.  Not without a little sweat and pain and irritation.

Will we even remember what it looked like before?  With time it will become harder to recall the details.  New life and memories will be breathed into the space, upon the clean slate.

When you leave a place for a long enough period and have the opportunity to return and see things through different eyes, with a fresh perspective, it is not necessarily going to be a more favourable outlook, but fresh all the same.

For me this time round, returning to London, it is like coming home.  I could never have imagined I would say that about London.  Yet its noise and dirt are surprisingly soothing.

It is nice to leave a place and come back to find it has improved, evolved.  We tend to feel that when we travel and return it is us that change, and we grapple with our new relationship with self and place.

I live in an area of London that is gentrifying.  Yet it is doing so in a way that doesn't feel exclusive.  There is a mix of cultures and colour and age to keep it vibrant.  Its new breed of residents fight to maintain and enhance its sense of community. Fighting the multinationals to keep it local, encouraging and supporting the creative force and spirit.  Whilst I have been away attending my own inner battles this place has also kept moving and expanding its outlook.

For us, upon our return, the community welcomed us.  We are a part of the tightly woven fabric upon this small part of the Greater London tapestry.  We felt both warmed and slightly taken aback.  It was proof that time invested is returned.

It is not going to rally around like a small country town, the weak do get left behind.  I was weak and I was broken when I left, and etched into the old paintwork were all those years of toil.

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to heal in the land of plenty, my home land Australia.  This gratitude I will carry always, and I wrote about it recently here.

I did learn that loneliness and depression are not symptoms of place.  We can feel a deep void even in paradise.

Paradise can also become a little tiresome.  A little like retiring from life.

For us, this place has a constant palpable heartbeat.  By choosing to live here we are in someway more alive.  Perhaps via osmosis.  Sucking up and drawing on the collective energy, the transient force of such coming and going.

I feel alive again.  No longer in transit.  I am not waiting to be or to go.  I am here.

The whims of the city.

 

http://weheartit.com/entry/6882838

As the train rolled into the station the dawn light offered up a soft warm glow that gave an almost celluloid quality to the scene.

After an arduous journey on the overnight train from Geneva I was excited to have finally arrived in Spain.  En route to Barcelona, city with a rich and rebellious history.  Home to artists and intellects, vagabonds and bohemians.  City of wide majestic boulevards and dark Gothic alleyways.  Of crumbling decay and architectural brilliance.

As we alighted the train to the platform, a chilly morning breeze greeted us and the first of the autumn leaves scuttled across the track.  Then I felt it, something warm and wet landed on my head. WELCOME TO SPAIN it seemed to say.

They say it's a sign of good luck when a bird craps on your head.  But it never feels that way at the time, and especially so after an all night journey on a crowded train.

A day or so later, in a hostel room in Barcelona, I jumped out of the shower and pulled on a tight white t-shirt.  I checked my reflection in the mirror.  Had my breasts grown?  Well that certainly would have been a great fortune, perhaps the bird poop theory really was true after all.

I twisted and turned, this way and that, trying to get a better look at myself from different angles, admiring the large pert breasts that had seemingly appeared overnight.  Perhaps I had just gained a little weight with all the bread and cheese on the backpacker menu.

Then it came to me.  From far off in the distance, within that 19 year old consciousness of mine, something was trying to grab my attention.  Leaping around waving a large bright flag.  And like the Bull to the Toro all I could see was red.

Pregnant.

As I watched, the reflection of the girl in front of me changed in an instant.  Just moments before she'd been bursting with the light and sparkle of a young woman brimming with the possibilities of her new found freedom.

Ashen face.  Grey eyes.  Panic in the pit of her stomach.  What would happen now?

I hated Barcelona in that moment.  For its dirt and noise and thieves.  For delivering this devastating news.  For providing the backdrop to what seemed like a great disaster.  For reducing my world to just four dirty stained walls.  For crushing my hopes and dreams.

I couldn't  have known then, that only a few years later, that same city would compensate me for this burden, open its heart and soul, and provide for me a liberating, seminal experience upon my journey as a young women finding her way in the world.

And then much later still would yet again provide the backdrop to the beginning of possibly one of the most unsettling yet enlightening periods of my life. 

I didn't have the baby.  It wasn't the time for us.

I was however spellbound by that city.  Sucked into her womb.  Beguiled by her beauty and wisdom.  Hypnotised by her charms.  At the mercy of her whims.

I'd be surprised to meet anyone that has spent time in Barcelona and not been moved in some way by her spirit.  Her enigmatic charm weaves tales for all that encounter her.

I know now the bird poop was indeed a welcome.  For a part of my soul was rejoicing.  A part of my soul had come home.  Over the years, since that fateful morning on the train platform, I have had a grand love affair with Spain.

In her embrace, under her watchful eye,  I grew up**.


(**A lot of my Spanish friends will be rolling off their chairs in fits of laughter reading that! Yeah I know I didn't behave like a grown up alot of the time, but you know what I mean!)

Four O

Two score.

Two by twenty.

Four decades.

Four by ten.

Forty.

There, I said it.

Hard to believe that only one hundred years ago what was expected for my life, in terms of years, would almost be over. I'd be entering my twilight years.

Nowadays, unless fate has other plans, I am expected to reach the ripe old age of 81.5. What's better is I don't even have to look that age if I choose not to.  So essentially 40 really is middle age.

How are you suppose to feel at middle age? In our minds I am not sure we ever get any older than some point in our twenties perhaps. Aside from being infinitely wiser than I was at twenty (Oh, to have had the knowledge then!),  I feel the same as always.

"Youth is wasted on the young."  said George Bernard Shaw. How we dream at forty to have the bodies and stamina we did at twenty. How I lament at forty that I that I didn't appreciate my youth more at the time (well maybe I did because I do remember having a really fucking good time).

My 30's were pretty challenging. By half way through I had given birth to three (healthy and beautiful) children. I had also lost my Mother. Those two things alone are enough to irreparably scar the body and mind and soul. Etching the strain and pleasure upon our faces as we stumble through the years.

Now I am here at forty. 

I face it with the resolve to not to look backwards, but rather look forward to the decade ahead as a new and exciting adventure. One where I carry with me the lessons and experience of half a lifetime. Feeling more self assured and confident than ever in who I am and what I want.

As Doctor Seuss so splendidly puts it:

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”

And that is precisely how I intend to forge ahead.

"I am off to Great Places! 

Today is my day!   

My mountain is waiting, 

So... I'll get on my way!"