Are you going to tell her?

(Pic for Vogue US)

Or shall I? :-)

Or this poor lass?



You know when you leave the house thinking "I just know I've forgotten something"....I just hate it when that happens.

Sweet First Times

I've been spending quite a bit of time inside my head lately (if you visit, bring a torch. It's kind of dark and imposing at first). Trying to immerse myself in the happpy memories, leading up to the psychs wanting to discuss the bad ones.

And I remembered a few of my 'first' times. My first kiss. My first memory of Dad. My first day of school. The first time I found out I was pregnant. My first kiss with Joel. The first time we made love. The first time I wrote something and was paid for it.

So, I thought I would blog some of these, so there was a little less of my depression reflecting from these pages.



I didn't get my first bike until I was 8. Mum was 16 when she had me. Her first husband (biological father to my 3 siblings) was a deadbeat even when he was around. Which wasn't very often. By the time I was 5, she was 21 years old, divorced, had 3 children and was pregnant with my brother.

So money was tight. And bikes were a bigger purchase, and in all honesty, not one that I'd put much thought into.

Mum and Dad went on their honeymoon and left us with some friends for a few days. I was close to the daughter of the household, she was my age. She of course, had a bike. And had been riding for years. Noone believed me when I told them I couldn't ride, that I had not, in fact, ever even sat on a bicycle.

They simply sat me on the bike and pushed it. Their house was at the top of a hill, and their street fed onto a major road at the bottom. They screamed at me to use the brakes and stop the bike, and I remember asking myself what a brake was.

Needless to say, I ended up being saved from traffic. By a light post (I'd managed to steer myself into it). Sadly, they still didn't believe me and the father of the house belted me for it (I never did tell my parents that).

But I did tell my parents about the bike. And a few weeks later, my parents led me outside into our back yard (we lived on an acreage, so by back yard, I mean the top of the fields, we had about 13acres). There, sitting proudly was a bike. Not a new bike, a fashionable BMX style. Dad had dug out his old boyhood bike, and painstakingly restored it for me.

He'd used my two favourite colours - yellow and magenta and painteed it. He added a new basket on the front, and the bike fashion accessory du jour - streamers from the handlebars, and a shiny silver bell!




I was so thrilled, I hadn't even known how much I wanted a bike until I saw it! I was hesitant when it came to getting on, of course. My first time on a bicyle had not ended well. Scraped knees and elbows, bruises on my backside and my first smack from anyone but my mother.


I used to ride that bike a lot. WHen I needed space, on I'd hop and go riding to a far corner of the property, where the silence was only broken by the sounds of birds, crickets and sometimes the sound of water in the little creek.

I remember my nerves as I was learning to ride. My fear of falling, or more - my fear of failing. But Dad was confident, excited. He used to run along behind me, telling me to pedal. "I won't let you fall", "I'm right here". He always was.

Whether teaching me to ride my first bike, talking me through math homework, or checking on me every day, he's always been there, ready to catch me if I fall.





I love you Dad.

Happy Friday

There are some movies that just by hearing their names, I am transported into a happier place (just like visiting Ave's blog). This is the one I've been thinking of today. Might go hunt down a copy and make my poor, long suffering husband snuggle with me.









One of the reasons I loved this movie is that Kathleen understood my love of daisies! I think they are the lovliest, most un-pretentious of flowers. They're happy and fresh and just so...easy.

A huge bunch of them, tied with a soft blue ribbon..that'd be my next wedding bouquet~!



The first time we watched this movie together, Joel smiled at me at this part, and wrapped his arms around me. It was a very 'me' thing to say.



What's yours? Your happy, sentimental, grab-it-on-a-rainy-day movie?

Still Here

Sorry. Have tried to come in and update a few times. Am really struggling with a new drug they have started on me. The side effects are making things very difficult here, and I can't seem to do much of anything at all. I feel as though I have been set adrift and that I have no control right now over my body or my life.

Basically, the gist of the Psychiatrist visit is that he is 90% certain (based on my history and just what he has seen) that I have something that's going to fall on the Bipolar spectrum, probably Bipolar 2. I have researched a lot, and that was the conclusion we had reached also. My GP and Psychologist and the Mental Health Nurse all concur.

So for now, I'm still on the same anti depressants (that will probably change on Friday when I see the Psychiatrist again) with the addition of an anti psychotic for anxiety (this is the drug I'm struggling with) and some benzos.

I feel incredibly fragile and vulnerable at the moment.My whole body is trembling and my left arm/shoulder/hand twitch constantly. I have no control over those muscles. I am sleeping constantly. Can only describe the drowsiness as akin to 3 Mersyndol or a Stilnox and a Mersyndol (I have taken those before, adn thats' what this feels like). I'm completely unable to function (drive, cook properly, manage the boys or even hold a cup properly)and dependant on Joel, and it feels horrible.

I am vulnerable and I am frightened. I literally feel like I"m lookingi at the world through vaseline, I can't seem to focus my eyes on anything.



I'm also worried because everyone I've spoken to tells me that this drug made them or whoever they knew on it gain a significant amount of weight. One person said she put on 30kgs. Another said her husband put on 15kgs in 3 months.

I'm at my lowest weight in 12 years. I have lost 35kgs. The thought of them piling back, combined with the way I am feeling now make me very, very hesitant to continue. I have an appointment with my GP this morning and I am afraid of the drive there.

Back in Business.

The other site is back up and running again.

So (for my new friends), if you have something you're dying to get off your chest, but can't post it on your blog, email it to me at thingswecanttellyou@hotmail.com .

You can be as anonymous as you want to be, and I will cut and paste it into the other blog. Kind of in the same spirit of PostSecret, but with more words. You can get it all out of your system, and your mother in law/next door neighbour/husband/best friend/ sister need never know.

I worked it out!

I found it! It was embedded in my post about Mum. Instead of the YouTube video I had tried to embed, I had clearly cut and paste the wrong code, the code of the layouts (I was playing with a few things at once.

Am a knob. 'Tis official.

So. Now to try to get the pretty banner happening.......

I broke my blog!

I've really been wanting a change lately in my template. I loved it, but it doesn't reflect me at all right now.

I have been browsing and after choosing the one I assume you're all seeing now (it's the one I keep seeing, no matter what I do), decided it was no better. (Are you all seeing chocolate and green dandelions?).

I want this one.

Help me?! Does anyone know what in the hell I've done wrong. For some reason, no matter how many times I've tried to reset it (even reverting back to minima), it isn't changing.

I want my blog back. :-( It's making me anxious for some reason. It doesn't look like I feel. It's all wrong.

Mum

34 years ago today, at about 2 in the morning, a radio announcer played a song. Dedicated it to all of the little girls born that day.

Half an hour, my tiny, 16 year old mother used every last ounce of strength to push her 5lb4oz new daughter into the world. Born with a shock of long black hair (long enough to be tied in the ribbon by a nurse that first day) and very blue eyes, a 16 year old girl became somebody's mother.



Thank You Mum. For being so brave. For everything. I don't remember a single year when this date hasn't been, to me, more about you and what you did for me. It's your day. You gave me life. You fought for it.

I love you. I miss you.



(We had two songs, she and I. But this was the one on the radio).

Pull up a chair. Now don't say I didn't warn you.

This is me.



So is this.



And this.










I seem to have some new readers, and am getting a lot of requests to find out what's 'going on' with me at the moment.

So, I guess it's time for a bit of a rundown, and a slightly more comprehensive 'About Me'.

So. Get comfortable. I'll keep it as brief as I can. Maybe we should have a cuppa though. Who are we kidding. I've never been brief.



(And by the way. Has anyone else noticed that macaroons seem to be the new black? Or the new cupcake? Or is it just me? They seem to be on everyone's blog. Mine included now).

OK. So. I'm 34 (today actually) and I live in Brisbane, Australia. For those of you in the cheap seats, that's in Queensland, the lovliest state to live in (Don't listen to the knockers. They know not of what they speak).



Yep. That's the one. Granted, that beach right there, is not where I live. (Though only 3 years ago, it kind of was. I was about an hour by boat from there).

I'm married to Joel. He and I were best friends. (In fact, his mother and my mother had lived next door to each other 30 something years earlier, when my mother was 5. They hadn't seen each other since). We were friends and then we fell in love.

This is my Joel. With me, in this lovely signature someone on EB made for me.



He's pretty perfect. As husbands go. If you're into guys who are sweet, smart, funny, caring, incredible wtih children, self sacrificing....you know. With smiling eyes and delicious lips and hands that can both thrill and soothe. He is, without question, the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I'm ridiculously in love with him. We celebrated our 12th wedding anniversary last month.

We got married young, just before I turned 22. Early on, I fell pregnant. We were shocked (oh, so that's how babies are made. Huh. They weren't kidding in all of those sex ed classes - those condoms weren't just funky water balloons after all).

Then this happened. It was pretty horrible and shaped me in ways I've probably yet to realise. It took (or is taking?) a long time to move on and let go of that anger, guilt and grief. Some of it is etched permanantly upon my soul -tears wearing tracks through my heart, forever forming a place for our first child.


It took 5 more years of trying (I have PCOS and diabetes, so not so much with the fertility over here at Chez Mitchell) before we conceived the light of our lives.


Our Alexander is pretty special, according to most people who meet him. He is on the Autism Spectrum, but is high functioning and honestly, pretty easy and wonderful to deal with. He may be the greatest thing I have ever done.







Then there's our Sammy.





It took exactly 24 cycles to have Sam. We were going to give up at 25. The pregnancy was complicated with severe SPD kicking in at 9 weeks, and ending up with me in hospital on Endone by the end. My hips, pelvis and back have not recovered from that pregnancy. I doubt they ever will. He is worth it. But he is our last.

We've laughingly called him our 'Bipolar baby' since he was born. Not as funny as it used to be. He is a child of extremes though. He is either the happiest, cutest, funniest boy in the world. Or he is cranky, agressive and cold. He throws himself into hugs so hard it physically hurts. Or he can look you in the eye with such a look of disdain you squirm and look away.

He has golden ringlets and breathtaking blue eyes. He is devoted to his brother. He tortures his brother. All at once. He loves and hates with equal abandon. Compared to his brother, who wants nothing more than to please, he could care less. He is far naughtier, but so cute and charming we inevitably end up laughing, therefore unwittingly encouraging him.

He does not sleep. Apparently, sleep is for the weak. This, as you can imagine, after 2 years is not conducive to good mental health. Mine, that is. He seems fine with the arrangemet.

He's just turned 2, and is slowly becoming slightly easier. There is no question that for the past 3 years (my pregnancy included) Samuel Thomas has ruled our lives. But he has added something delightful and I can't imagine life without that squeal and those hugs.







Then there's the reason I started this blog in the first place.



My mother was barely 16 years older than me. She was brave and strong and loving. For the first 8 years of my life, she raised me alone (she married someone when I was 2 and had 3 more children, but he was never a father to me). When I was 7 she met and later married my wonderful father. I refuse to refer to him as anything but my father, biology aside. He is an exceptional man, and was the love of her life.

This was taken of Dad and I about 6 weeks ago.



When my mother was 41 she started falling down, for no reason. Then her voice changed, subtly at first. She slurred. It took a long time, but eventually she was diagnosed with Motor Nuerone Disease (also known as Lou Gherig's Disease and AML -Amyotropic Lateral Sclerosis).

I blogged about the final days of her life here. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.6.

Joel and I had found out (2 days prior) that we were expecting Alexander. We got a house with Mum and Dad so I could help with her care.

It was difficult. Heartbreaking. Devestating. Wonderful. It was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. She died at 43, having spent 12 weeks with her grandson.



We were close, though it was an incredibly complex relationship. She had a major depressive episode when she was about 39 (I can't believe that's only 5 years older than I am now) and our roles were reversed somewhat, and then of course, when she had MND. She found that hard to deal with, me in a caring role, rather than the other way around.

I miss her. Desperately. This blog was started as a way to get things off my chest, that I was subconsciously 'saving up' to tell her. You know how you see something and think "Oh, I must tell....such and such". Well, I keep doing that with Mum. Forgetting, sometimes, that she is gone. That I can't remember the sound of her voice before her illness.






And now there is me. Desperately in love with my family. But struggling. Some of you came to my blog via my BlogPost entry here. I am 4 months into the deepest depression I have ever encountered (I have had 3 previously), and have an acute anxiety disorder. My GP, psychologist and MH Nurse all believe (as do I) that we're probably looking at bipolar2. I have an appointment with a psychiatrist tomorrow (finally!) to get started on finding out what's going on. There is more, but I'm not getting into it here for my sisters (both of whom I am estranged, and better off without) to manipulate and have their fun with.

Depression isn't all I'm about. Certainly, right now, it is a LOT of what I'm about. It's hard to see my way clear of that, but I hope you can.



I love to read. I love to write. I'm drawn to art and music. I'm interested in world affairs and history. My blog is evolving, constantly, as I do. I love pink and lavender, coffee and all things 'pretty'. I love football and tennis, cricket and love my computer. I love autumn leaves and heavy rain. I want to live in Italy and make love to Joel in Paris. I love soft blues and buttercup yellow, my world at the moment seems to be assaulting me with colours, I can't ignore them. I have in the last year or so discovered that I just LOVE vintage (I blame you, Mary!).


I love Van Morrison and James Taylor. Kings of Leon and Bruce Springsteen. Carole King is the greatest of them all, but I love Pink Floyd and Rob Thomas. I prefer Beethoven to Mozart, but choose Debussy over them both. Though give me Schubert's Ava Maria and I'm in a puddle. I love Pride and Prejudice over any book (Though Anne Shirley and Jo March call to me) but am a little in love with Mr Knightley.


I love Romantic Comedies - the stereotypical chick flicks. I will read anything deep and meaningful, confronting and emotional. But I don't want it in a movie. I want my movies to be pure escapism. I believe the West Wing is the best television ever made and I wish that there was more intelligent TV around like that. I loved the Gilmore Girls and hated Seinfeld. I hate slapstick comedy, but love satire.

I hated Romeo and Juliet (though I don't hate it enough to do to it what Baz Lurhman did) and loved Macbeth. I am, however, prepared to jump down off my high horse and tell you that my favourite piece of Shakespear is Much Ado About Nothing. And that I did love that movie (The Kenneth Branagh version, that is).

Katherine over Audrey. Cary Grant over Clark Gable. Gene Kelly over Fred Astair. Dean Martin over Frank Sinatra. Holden over Ford. Shirley Temple over Judy Garland or Elizabeth Taylor. Paul McCartney over John Lennon, though I do think Imagine is the greatest song either of them came up with. You might hate me when I tell you I think Eva Cassidy did a better version.

I don't like any of the Stooges, so don't ask me for my favourite. Kylie over Danni. But really, neither of them. Jamie Oliver over Gordon Ramsey. Real Journalism over the trash currently on television.



I believe in increasing awareness of what's going on in the world - few things bother me more than apathy. I want desperately to help beat down the stigma attatched to Mental Illness. I'm deeply spiritual and I overthink everything. I have a tendancy to get up on my soapbox, especially when talking about the way women are treated throughout the world. My mother used to tell me I was born in the wrong decade - I belonged in the 60s.

I am a feminist and a hopeless romantic. At the same time. I don't believe the two are mutually exclusive, and I like those things about myself.

And that catches us up, basically. Told you to get a cuppa, didn't I? This will probably end up stickied somewhere in the sidebar. Sorry it was so long. But I'm nothing if not complex.

Well Heaven forbid!

WARNING/DISCLAIMER

This post contains materials that may be upsetting. If you think that a story about rape or molestation may contain triggers for you, I urge you not to continue.











This update has me shaking my head tonight.

Polanski could face two years prison if extradited.

By Sam Cage and Lisa Jucca
Reuters
Sunday, October 25, 2009; 1:34 AM

ZURICH (Reuters) - Film director Roman Polanski could face two years in prison if extradited to the United States after fleeing sentencing in California on child sex charges in 1978, the Swiss justice ministry said.

"The United States want him to be extradited for sexual intercourse with a minor. This carries a maximum sentence of two years under U.S. law," justice ministry spokesman Folco Galli said on Friday.

The United States had formally asked Switzerland to extradite Polanski, the ministry said earlier, adding it would reach a decision based on a hearing and information provided by Polanski's lawyer, but that there was no deadline.

"If he agrees voluntarily to the extradition, the process can be concluded rapidly," Galli said. "If he fights it all the way, it will take months and months."

Polanski will be able to appeal against any extradition decision to the Swiss Federal Criminal Court and, in the last instance, the Federal Supreme Court, the ministry said.



The 76-year-old Oscar-winning director, who holds dual French and Polish citizenship, was arrested to comply with a U.S. warrant when he flew into Switzerland on September 26 to receive a lifetime achievement award at a film festival.

Polanski fled the United States when he was due to be sentenced for having unlawful sex with a girl aged 13.

U.S. judicial sources have said the extradition process is complex and could take years if Polanski challenges it.

A Swiss court this week rejected a bid by Polanski for release on bail, saying the risk that he would flee was too high.

Polanski's lawyer Herve Temime told Reuters that his client's strategy remained unchanged.

"Mr. Polanski will continue to fight this extradition request and demand that he be freed," he said.

And before you start feeling sorry for the poor 'old' man, this was what he looked like when he committed the rape. He was famous, authoratative (she was working for him) and charming.

He got her drunk. He then went even further, and drugged her. He performed oral sex on her. He raped her, then he sodomised her. At no time have any of these facts been disputed, even by Polanski himself.


From the LA Times:

In the flat light of the grand jury room, a nervous, deeply embarrassed 13-year-old girl sat alone -- no attorney, no mother, no friend -- facing three tiers of middle-aged strangers silently studying her from their leather armchairs.

The questions that day in March 1977 were clinical in tone.

The answers would set off a furor from Hollywood to London and Paris that has yet to subside.

Samantha Gailey -- sandy brown hair, dimpled chin, missing class at her junior high in Woodland Hills -- described her alleged rape by director Roman Polanski two weeks before at Jack Nicholson's home above Franklin Canyon. She clutched a small heart charm her friend had given her.

"After he kissed you, did he say anything?" asked the prosecutor, Roger Gunson.

"No," the girl said.

"Did you say anything?"

"No, besides I was just going, 'No, come on, let's go home. . . .' He said, 'I'll take you home soon.' "

"Then what happened?"

"And then he went down and started performing cuddliness."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he went down on me, or he placed his mouth on my vagina. . . . I was ready to cry. I was kind of -- I was going, 'No. Come on. Stop it.' But I was afraid."

Samantha's testimony that day was unequivocal: She had kept trying to get away from him, putting her clothes back on, saying no repeatedly. She had made up a lie about having asthma to get out of a Jacuzzi. He persisted. She was scared. She did not physically fight him off. He began to have sex with her, then, concerned she might get pregnant, switched to anal sex. When he drove her home, he told her not to tell her mom, adding, "You know, when I first met you, I promised myself I wouldn't do anything like this with you."

Well. What the hell kind of message does this send out to victims of sexual abuse? Other than that if the attacker is rich, powerful or in a position of authority, there is no use in reporting him. No justice will be served.

And at best, the scars you will bear the rest of your life are worth, at best, 2 years.