It is hard to believe that a year has passed since I first decided to write you a letter on my birthday. It seems a little bit, well, nuts, to write to someone who doesn’t exist anymore. But because you were the only person who ever consistently remembered (or cared about) my birthday, and this week being forever associated with the beginning of the end for you…Oh, and the divorce being final in 2 weeks too … it is inevitable that I will struggle emotionally.

And boy, am I struggling.

So, even though I am sure the fact that I am writing to a ghost is kind of crazy, I don’t care. Because it’s the only way I can really process it all – to talk to you as if you are here.

For the sake of accuracy, we probably wouldn’t be having a deep and meaningful conversation. I’d probably be refusing your offer of food for the 8th time (Seriously, no, I just ate and am not hungry… no, I don’t want you to cook me a meal. And no, that is not code for “I just want cake”. Or biscuits. Or lasagna. I am just not hungry!)

I’d also probably try to explain to you that the political rhetoric you heard on talkback radio was more complex than it seems, and watch you rant about something that you had clearly gotten the wrong end of the stick about, with me trying hard not to laugh.

Because you and I both know that if I dared to smirk at you, even affectionately, I’d be in big trouble. I’d be yelled at, held responsible for every other member of my family and everything else they had ever done… and… well… yeah.

Don’t laugh at Grandma when she’s been watching Today Tonight, because she may tell you to fuck off and change her phone number.

Ah, the eggshells.

Right now, I kind of miss them. Because I get it now. You just held me to a different standard to the others: you cared what I thought of you. And it hurt you when you thought I was judging you. I wasn’t. You’re just piss funny when you’re angry.

It is only as I grow up and experience the complexities of adult life, relationships, love, decisions… and make my own complex decisions (and mistakes), that I have started to realise: love is not as simple as I thought.

Now I am the one who needs to be talked down from my own simplistic ideas about what it means. Because not only can people hurt you and love you at the same time, sometimes they hurt you because they love you.

Heh, the irony. I’m the one who got the wrong end of the stick this time and bought into rhetoric.

I recently made the decision to leave the kids in Perth and move to Sydney. The plan is to visit frequently and bring Angus back on alternate months (and the older 2 for school holidays), but because that is dependent on a steady flow of WA work (which is proving harder than we thought it would be)… it has been really tough.

Every day, I hope that I made the right decision.

You always appear in a dream to me, with the answer to a dilemma. If I need to find a solution, or a direction, or make a decision (I know it’s not really you – it’s just a representation of my subconscious trying to communicate important things I need to stop and listen to…), you are there to make me listen… and you told me to pursue this.

I hope you’re right.

Last year, I was at a point where I was actively dating, getting “the marriage” out of my system, and had my fair share of hurt. Well, needless to say, I continue to be baffled about men and this year, I am going to just… wash over that issue completely and just say that I understand the complexities of love. And that is all I am going to say on that subject…

Anyway, so, it’s my 33rd birthday. I know 33 is not old, but to be honest I feel kind of old and tired… mostly because I am not too good when I feel like I am in flux, because of my anxiety issues. I can’t help but feel like… I am back where I was at 16. And at least, back then, I had you to fall back on. Now, I am on my own, in a new place. It is terrifying. It is stressful. And I frequently struggle with the overwhelming feelings of failure that go with everything that has happened.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there were times in the last few months where I have, quite seriously, and quite clinically, considered ending it. Don’t worry, I won’t. Because fortunately (or unfortunately depending on how you look at it…) I am also stubborn. And proud. And would never, ever, do that to my children. So, I am stuck here, having to fight.

Damn.

Looks like there’s a bit more of you in me than I care to admit. You know, having no choice but to… just keep swimming. Let the shit roll over me and to just keep moving forward and trying to see the positives and the lessons in everything. And I will. And like the grief that I felt would never end when you died, it will get easier. I just have to put one foot in front of the other.

Wouldn’t hurt to feel loved for a bit, though, even if it was by being stuffed with food and told off for smirking.

I miss you. I love you. And I hope that next year, things are a little better.

High five St Peter for me,

Téa

There isn’t really much I can write as an excuse to make you feel better about the lateness… because my excuse is that I was busy moving across the country. Which, I am sure, when you are old enough to read this, becomes yet another addition to the “reasons I hate my mother” list that you’ll no doubt be formulating.

ha ha ha. Awkward laughter…

Sigh.

The other, more truthful reason is… I find it painful to write to you when you aren’t around. I have written and re-written this post, trying to articulate how I feel about you, and, well… now the stakes feel so much higher. Because in many ways, this is now my chance to tell my side of the story. For you to read later. It’s kind of a bigger deal than it used to be.

I remember once, when I was Mina’s age and I said I couldn’t wait to grow up. Grandma said not to wish such a thing, because being an adult is not as great as I think… and that decades pass quickly once you turn 30.

And boy, was she right about that.

My youngest baby, my last baby, my vulnerable, sweet premature baby… is not a baby anymore. And as I ponder for a moment the changes that have occurred since your first laboured breath – where your Dad blamed himself so harshly for not realising that you were struggling to breathe – to us having to navigate our way through our separation, divorce & getting over ourselves for what is best for you… It hits me hard. Right in the guts.

Because this was not what I wanted for you.

And it’s definitely not what I wanted for me: to be away from my baby that I fought so hard to have… and to risk having that day come where you… decide to call someone else “Mum”. Of course, with this decision I have made, I have to live with that possibility. And all I can hope is that somehow, your Dad and I can find a way to make this work.

Somehow.

Despite it never being my plan for you. Despite me always viewing you being full time with your Dad as temporary.

But, how the time flies. And how that one decision, 18 months ago, made out of grief and fear, now has me needing to ask permission to have you. I hope we can work it out. For your sake.

I’m sorry this birthday post isn’t funny this year, but… I guess it speaks to my state of mind right now. I hope that, by next year’s post, things have settled down.

I love you.

Mum (1.0).

So, I kind of managed the drive across the Nullarbor! Made it to Ceduna without any hassles. I am actually surprised, but it’s weird, that now I have hit the other side… and am free to enjoy a couple of days… that the emotions kick in and I realise that I have left WA. I actually did it. Wow.

I drove across the Nullarbor, alone. I didn’t break down, I didn’t get serial killed… and in some small part, I managed to distract myself with the “big  drive” and everything till the SA border, so as not to have to think about what I am actually committing to doing here.

Fuck, I LEFT Western Australia. After 15 years of talking about it, I have actually done it. For a maybe.

While I ponder that for longer than I should, I suddenly realise that it’s a hell of a drive back if I chicken out now.

So, like the lovely psychologically healthy person I am, I’ll just distract myself again and tell you about the trip.

I left Madura at about 7am, after a pretty average sleep, what with keeping one eye & ear open for mice eating my eyeballs. I made Ceduna my goal, planned to pace myself, take in the sights, take photos… and I did. To an extent.

The outback is… amazing. I don’t know why people say there is nothing to see – it really does have some incredible beauty if you look for it. Going from brown, to green, to red… to glimpses of cliffs on the Bight to the most beautiful red & ash-coloured trees I have ever seen (and need to be seen with eyes, not a lens, to be fully appreciated!). And that’s the thing. It really is something that you need to see. Experience. Take in all the colour and the beauty and the vastness that a lens just can’t capture. It really is… epic.

So yes, I got some pretty great shots. But honestly? I actually really, really like (and prefer) the driving part. There is something incredibly Zen about hitting the open road, alone with your (in my case swirling and complex) thoughts and emotions… that each time I hit somewhere, I really only stopped for half an hour, to stretch my legs, go “aw pretty”, take a picture… and then… kept moving.

I guess I learned something about myself, which is that I relax more when I am moving forward. Not too good at the sitting still, me. So a note to anyone planning holidays with me: you better be planning to take me exploring or walking up a mountain…

Anyway, yesterday, I finished the leg between Madura, Ceduna and landed in Smoky Bay with the intention of spending some quality time there.

Until I was told there was no accommodation.

See, apparently all the oldies like to fill up all the caravan parks and accommodation in March & April, creating a grey peak tourist season outside of the school holidays. I did not know or plan for this… I assumed that because school holidays was over, that it wasn’t a problem.

But apparently it’s peak season, so without paying over $150 a night for a room (which I can’t afford), I am fucked.

The guy at Smoky Bay was really nice and apologetic… and laughed at my joke that I should camp outside in case we get a “casual caravan park vacancy”… so … I wasn’t annoyed. And, unperturbed (given that this is an adventure after all and I know I am a control freak who really needs to learn to just roll with things…) I continue to Streaky Bay, where I was again informed there was “no room at the Inn”.

Same problem.

It was at this point I decided that I was not paying $30 for an unpowered campsite (my only option other than $150+ a night hotel rooms). I stopped at the Streaky Bay bar, where everyone was just a little weird and looked at me funny and made me feel generally uncomfortable. Or maybe I was just about to meltdown… because I love the feeling of having no control. Yeah, I am totally in my element there.

It was at this point it really started to hit me what I was doing. I was half way between either home, with nowhere to stay because everything was full… people were looking at me weird, my daughter won’t talk to me on the phone… and… then I find out that an old friend had passed away… it was all too much.

So, after a little panic attack and a cry to Martin, at 8pm, all emotional, tired, out of control and sad to hear about Jaye, I decide “FUCK IT” and hit the road and drove till I was tired.

It was absolutely WONDERFUL.

I have no problem with night driving. I take it easy, I am alert and know how to handle myself on country roads. And… it was awesome. No roos, the occasional road train, and passing dead quiet country town after dead quiet country town.

And then I saw the big concrete cockatoo. Never before have I been so relieved to see the stupidest thing I have ever seen. Kimba. Halfway across Australia and slightly more than halfway through my trip. It is hard to describe that feeling, especially given the weird state of mind I was in that got me there in the first place. But…

For the first time in about 2 weeks, I breathed out. And I smiled. And then I cried. Hard. SHUT UP YOU DON’T KNOW.

So, I kept going for a bit longer, and eventually started to feel tired around midnight, and because nothing was open along the way, about 70K West of Iron Knob (heh… knob), I pulled over into a rest area with all the truckies and slept in the car. Which, ironically, was the most comfortable sleep I have had the entire trip!

I woke up, found a shower on the way, and am now sitting in Port Augusta. Where I am actually feeling good and relaxed.

There’s more to write about that, so I will save that for the next post. It’s funny the things you learn about yourself when you travel on your own…

I was chatting to the guy at the BP in Norseman this morning, and making small talk about lack of comms and internet. He said “that’s why I kind of like not having the internet a lot of the time. When you can’t Google everything, knowledge is more valuable than information”. I liked that.

So, anyway, I drove 700km this afternoon. I arrived in Madura at 7pm. It is now 9:30pm and I have unloaded my car twice because I had to move rooms. More on that later.

For the last few months I have been contemplating/anticipating/planning the Nullabor drive. I have been reading up on how harsh it is. I have been reading about all the little adventures you can have… and, intellectually, I was completely prepared for anything that happened along the way.

And you know what?

It was fucking anti-climactic.

Not in the sense that it was disappointing – it is beautiful. It is quite Zen-like, in fact.

It was anti-climactic in the way that it was actually MUCH easier than I thought it would be.

“Oooh it’s SO boring! The 90 Mile straight will kill you from the boredom!”

Nar. Wasn’t an issue. I don’t get bored easily. My brain is a circus. Not a problem. Besides, I have karaoke in my car…

“Watch out for kangaroos/camels/bunyips and especially don’t drive at dusk”.

Well, guess what? I DIDN’T SEE ONE LIVE ANIMAL ALL DAY. And, because I am a fucktard who forgot about timezones, found myself driving at dusk. And guess what? NOTHING. I saw ONE eagle eating a Kangaroo corpse. Any other roadkill had been well tenderised days ago (and by tenderised, I mean mooshed repeatedly into the bitumen to make a mincemeat pancake)… and 2 sheep at the side of the road.

That was it.

In fact, it was a very pleasant drive. Time went fast, I barely even noticed how far I had driven, and now, I am well on track to Ceduna from here.

I must say, that there was a “squee!” moment when the road got pretty and hilly again. And here I am, at the Madura “Oasis” Motel.

This is as far as I could get before nightfall, and it’s… you know… an Outback roadhouse. I am haemorrhaging cash, with fuel being $2.10 a litre (! YES I have noticed the massive difference in consumption between Premium Unleaded and normal… massive difference and Premium is well worth the money), it’s a LOT more expensive than I thought it would be. And the accommodation is… well… not great.

To be honest, I am starting to think that I am better off sleeping in my car on a cheap powered caravan/camping site. The best night I had was in Coolgardie, but the rest have been pretty bad. So I might try that and see how I go. Can’t be any less comfortable!

Look, I am no Princess. I love camping, can live for days without power or anything fancy. I am in the Outback and I am not expecting anything other than a bed to sleep in, access to power and the basics… and… NOT HAVING VERMIN IN MY ROOM WHEN I PAY $80 A NIGHT.

Because, I tell you what… there is no vermin in my car. I have nice pillows and blankets and stuff and at $80 a night, I will happily sleep in my car if it means not having my feet chewed off. The thing that annoyed me tonight was not the mouse… I mean… it happens… it’s the Outback! But what annoyed me was the “countryfolk” taking the piss because I happened to go in and ask what I should do to deal with it. Like “har har city person” condescension… like I can’t POSSIBLY know anything about anything.

I FUCKING KNOW I AM IN THE OUTBACK. And I was not freaking out. I simply asked if they had a broom or whatever so I could get it out to sleep… but it became this big deal. And then I look like a city prick freaking out over a mouse, when I really didn’t care… I just didn’t fancy paying $80 for the privilege of wildlife infestations around my ears.

I’d take up drinking if it wasn’t $300 for a bottle of wine.

So, Eucla & the Bight and pretty things tomorrow. I am looking forward to seeing the ocean. I am leaving here at 6am, so I should go get some shut-eye.

So, obviously I am lingering here for another day, to take care of outstanding work, prior to going dark for the longest period of time since I was in a coma for 6 days. Believe me, I am dreading a repeat of the emails I got then (you know, because I had the gall to go and almost die and leave a woman without her slideshow…).

So yeah, I am finalising things before I go, you know, just in case something happens and I go get myself Wolf Creeked or something.

Why?

For those who are not up to speed on what’s been happening… About 4 months ago, I decided to move to Sydney. I said “within the next 6 months”, started making plans… and well, here I am, with my worldly possessions in the back of my Kia Rio, making my way across the country. I was initially going to fly… you know… to make it EASY on myself… but because I have a car that is under finance, it became a pain in the arse to sell it… so… I decided to drive over, extract a couple of days of R&R, enjoy a leisurely drive over, do the “bucket list” thing of driving the Nullarbor and start anew.

As for the kids, I’ll be flying back to Perth once a month and staying approximately a week. Still not entirely sure how it is going to work (or how I am going to pay for it!), but… that’s the goal. We have clients in Perth, and I am committed to keeping roots in both cities (even though Sydney is my new ‘base’).

So, I am going to blog my journey as best I can, but frankly, it’s not really very interesting! I mean sure, I am a 33 year old woman, driving alone across some of the harshest land in the world… but to me, it’s not really very interesting. I have planned this trip so that it is NOT interesting, you know, beyond the stuff I will see.

Because nobody wants an INTERESTING trip, where they break down, lose tyres or end up as a wilted skeleton corpse on the side of the Eyre Highway. I will take perfectly boring ANY DAY, thank you very much.

So, Norseman.

I thought it fitting to write a post just before I disappear. You know, because if I die, at least you know I will have died doing what I love: sleeping in the freezing cold, with limited water supply and no internet.

If I break down after this point, my only option is to flash a truckie my sub-standard boobs and perform favours for a lift. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that… I am about to leave, and I managed to charm a guy into checking my tyres for me. See, ladies, THAT is how it’s done. You apply sunscreen to your bare shoulders at the service station and then look quizzically at the air thingy… and someone will help you.

Fuck Bear Grylls, I know how to survive in the desert.

It’s funny though. I have 6 bottles of water, and I have gone back in 3 times for one more. The service station attendant thinks it’s endearing and funny. I think it’s fucking TERRIFYING. You should NOT READ THE INTERNET about crossing the Nullarbor. And yes, even though I know it is aimed at English fucktard tourists who underestimate the conditions, there is this part of you that knows all the potential things that can go wrong. Which, if you are a control freak like me, means you end up carrying about 500L of water and 14 spare tyres. And, you know, a helicopter just in case.

Seriously though, I like long drives, and have thus far easily made it to Norseman without any fatigue, boredom or anything else. Growing up as a kid who was always on long drives, and then later as an adult who worked in the Goldfields, I am struggling to find anything interesting to say about the Perth-Norseman leg — firstly because I have seen it and secondly, well, I am not one to get bored easily… I am happily alone with my thoughts and let my mind wander and it’s an adventure. But you know, if you haven’t seen WA yet, then… well… you totally should. Because it’s beautiful.

So anyway, I will see you on the other side, no doubt with much to rant about.

Why men don’t fancy Funny women

More than half the men who took part in the survey revealed that a witty woman was not what they were looking for in a partner. Dr Martin said the findings suggested that men see themselves as the ones who should be delivering the lines and feel threatened by humorous women.

This is one of many articles I have seen, since I entered (and then opted out of) the absurdly dysfunctional world of dating, where studies dissect dating behaviour and try to understand what men (and women) find appealing in a partner.

There are articles that say that men don’t like women who make more money than they do. They don’t like educated women. They don’t like women who are taller than them. They prefer younger women. They don’t like fat women, or women with children from previous relationships. They don’t like women with opinions. They don’t like “needy” women. They don’t… well… you get the picture.

I don’t even actively seek out this sort of information and according to most of these things… as an educated, overweight, somewhat tall, funny (well… that’s subjective), ambitious, not-being-able-to-be-bought-off-with-diamonds, mother of 3 with a chronic illness and a litany of abandonment and avoidance issues that I grapple with every day…. I should just shoot myself right now because I am going to die alone. I am so undateable it’s not funny.

It sounds absurd, right?

Similarly, men are subjected to the message that they must be successful, tall, romantic… hell even I have my list of what I look for in a partner.

But you know, the more I navigate this whole “single” and “dating” thing… I realise that whilst some of the catch cries are true when things are unhealthy or not working out (Read: “He’s Just Not That Into You” and everything on the brilliant Baggage Reclaim) - it’s, quite frankly, all a load of crap, because at the end of the day, we love who we love. It actually isn’t a conscious choice.

It’s easy to theorise about people when they are an intellectual concept or stereotype, saying what your preferences are. Maybe, when they asked the question about funny women, the men actually pictured Catherine Tate, or Janeane Garofalo, who they weren’t physically attracted to. Or, they have a theory that most comics are depressed… and they have extrapolated a stereotype that helps them respond to a complex question.

As someone who was asked this on radio, TV, and continue to be asked…”What makes your ideal mate?”, it’s a highly, highly complex question to answer. I always kind of muttered and said “When you know, you know.”

But at the end of the day, it is quite simple. First, it is possible to be an exception to “The Rules”. Second, no-one fully understands what makes a successful relationship. Third, and the most important point:

There is always someone who will love you for you. All of you. It might not happen right now, and let’s be honest, your flaws may shit them no end… you may not even fit their “check list” at all. But eventually, someone will come along who accepts you for who you are… and possibly even loves you for your ‘flaws’. In fact, for anyone I have ever dated, it has always been their idiosyncracies and “deviations” from my check-list that have been the most appealing.

So I guess my point with this study, and like all of the similar ones… is that you shouldn’t settle. And you most certainly should not modify who you are. It’s OK to feel alone and frustrated and lament that men don’t like assertive, successful women with baggage and a sense of humour (let alone health problems!). Hell, I worry all the time that that magic mix of the right person, right timing and right circumstances will never fully align… But no-one should have to compromise who they are just for the sake of a relationship. Yes, sure, working towards self-improvement is one thing — like I said, I have a whole host of crappy things that I work on every day… but being intelligent and funny are QUALITIES not FLAWS. And no way is it something I would EVER modify for the sake of another person.

Be you. The rest will happen… eventually. Maybe. And if it doesn’t, so what?

In 2012 – in the age where private citizens are all living publicly through social media, we all have to navigate our way through the private/public divide. It’s weird, because, as my “profile” increases, I have had to grapple internally with the idea that what I say… actually matters. And that I have reached a point where I now have to play by a different set of rules.

Yesterday, I had a conversation with my ex-husband about what I say online. Like most people navigating through a break-up, we (I) have said things via social media (in the heat of the moment) that were not very nice. For the most part, I think we do OK, and we decided to mutually unfollow, unfriend… and move on. And for the most part, that works.

The other day, I called him a dickhead on Twitter.

It’s innocuous enough, right? I mean, people get called a dickhead every day on the internet. Hell, people call me a dickhead (and worse) on a daily basis! Almost everyone who shares on social media has done a heat-of-the-moment update… especially during a break-up. It’s certainly something most people I know have been guilty of from time to time.

But they aren’t me. Something has shifted where suddenly, I am held to a different standard. I don’t understand it, and I actually grapple with it a lot… but… I guess I have had to accept it.

When he initially raised it, I laughed. It seemed absurd that he would be so precious about it. Because he knows that 99% of the time, I don’t think he’s a dickhead. In fact, I think he’s a good person, a wonderful father and we are trying very hard to get along for the sake of our children. We don’t follow each other, we stay out of each other’s way for the most part, and the crux of my defence? How on earth is he reading it if we aren’t following each other?

He then said something that made me finally get it.

“Do you not realise you are everywhere?”

It was at that moment that I apologised.

Because, no, even though, intellectually, I know my Klout Score and see my blog stats and all those things… but… no… I don’t. I am just this person with a Twitter account who has always just tweeted like 5 people are reading. And now I find myself having to abide by a different code to others.

The reason I am talking about this discussion is not to justify my actions, rather to illustrate my main point.

There comes a tipping point between private citizen, chatting on the net… and “public” commentator. It’s something I have not yet reconciled, and up until recently, have seen it as a mere side effect of being opinionated. I’ve been blogging for 10 years. Writing on the internet for almost 20 years. I am doing now what I have always done, which is… just… write for my circle.

In 2012, however, things are changing. What I write spreads. And spreads quickly. No kidding… I get recognised on the street! What I say, more often than not, incites people to act, think… hold an opinion. It’s the nature of “influence”. It’s actually quite terrifying to think about, because (until recently) I have never actively sought influence, or recognition beyond my immediate circle… others just decided to listen along the way, to the point where I now represent a community.

It’s bizarre. I polarise, I have fans, I have haters. I get complimented & more smoke blown up my arse than many would want in a lifetime. I get insulted, I have had people stalk and physically threaten me. Even when people aren’t talking to me, they are talking about me: mostly positive, sometimes negative – most of it completely baseless (because… I really only have 3 close people who know anything about me, really…)… but…

My ex is right. Who wouldn’t be upset if they were called a dickhead by someone in my position? Where everyone in Perth, and beyond, had a picture of who he was based on shit that I have said in the moment?

It’s a really tough issue that I have not entirely reconciled within myself. That line between the sharing of my life that gave me this influence (after all, our married life was a big part of the content of this blog for 8 years!)… and realising that I also have a responsibility now, as a public figure, to behave differently.

Being held to a different set of standards to the “general population” is not necessarily a bad thing. It makes me want to do better and try to lead by example. Part of that involves now trying to avoid collateral damage in my personal relationships. Anyone that I date, marry, whatever, will be subjected to all of this… stuff. It’s weird, for sure… and it has taken me a while to even acknowledge that people listen to what I say. But it’s actually very difficult to be under the scrutiny of strangers, and even harder to know and accept that there are people that hate you.

Of course, it goes with the territory and I am certainly not complaining about it. But, for those who have tried to feed conflict in my personal relationships – think about things you have said online. And think about what would happen if people actually started reading it, picking it apart. Acting on it. It’s not an easy responsibility to have (especially when you don’t even realise people DO read).

I guess the first step is to acknowledge that there are different rules from now on, and try to still be the character people relate to. I’m trying to deal with this as best I can… and the first step is to apologise. And be more aware of the power my words have. Which is fucking AWESOME. I am so lucky. But, I need to do better.

We learned that 95% of the Australian public are apathetic to political discussion, not engaged, don't even know how government works. We learned that engaging the electorate-at-large in a meaningful debate was like pushing shit uphill.

It makes me wonder how much of an impact Social Media has had on this. I have seen several examples of people who would have been considered apathetic in those days, talking positively about political change. Getting involved. Getting active.

Maybe all people ever wanted or needed was to feel like what they say is being heard? What an incredibly heartening thing… to witness fundamental change as a result of technology. #wp

You want to know what Social Media is for me?

Stories.

Sharing those stories, hearing those stories, living.

This video caught my attention over the weekend.

Try and watch that video without completely losing your shit. I dare you.

Furthermore, this is just one video. Of millions. Of people putting themselves out there, sharing their stories with the hope of maybe, saving just one other person from not having to live through the pain that they have.

That is truly revolutionary.

We often joke about Facebook and Twitter overshare. Lamebook is one of the funniest showcases of humanity at its… um… finest.

But you know? How cool is it?

I remember back in 2009, when I posted the letter I had written to my doctor detailing all of my symptoms and requesting action. At the time, I thought I might have had Cushing’s… turned out to be boring old Lupus.

But that letter? It inspired someone else to write one to THEIR Doctor and they got their diagnosis and treatment.

When I write about my struggles with various things like Lupus, the death of a loved one and the grief afterwards… or my divorce… the feedback I get is tremendous. I get emails saying how me writing about the end of my marriage has given someone else the courage to leave. I have had emails from other people who have told me that my blogging through palliative care and death has helped them cope a little better. Or how talking about my “invisible” illness has made them feel less alone.

And it’s all just one post. One story. And one video, like the one above.

So yes, by all means talk about marketing. Talk about engagement. Talk about ways to capitalise on social media. But don’t forget that the personal stories are what make this time truly revolutionary.

My baby Julesy. My rock star, my shining light. My first foray into being the mother of a boy. My buddy, my quiet child, my geek.

My noodle-eater, my dag, my clown, my Mina-tormenter, my intense and utterly beautiful, kind-hearted son.

You’re six. SIX.

FUCK.

I remember writing Mina’s 6th Birthday post and that was 4 years ago.

I remember writing your birthday post about the Cheesecake shop raining Skittles from heaven and rescuing me from a cake disaster.

I remember this.

I remember this.

I remember this.

And this.

And this.

And this.

I remember Wiggles concerts.

I remember Pixar movie after Pixar movie.

I remember Wank. I remember… well…

everything, mate.

And I am watching them all tonight and grinning from ear to ear. It speaks for itself really :)

And I am just so immensely proud of you, I am finding it hard to put into words. Because, there was a time I was worried about you. And I am sorry for doubting you, because I was wrong. I have absolutely nothing to worry about, because you are kind, smart, cheeky and absolutely anything anyone could ever want in a son. Not that anyone else can have you because you are MY boy. And I am glad you chose me to be your Mum.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you on your actual birthday this year. As I am sure you know by the time you are reading this… I have health problems that sometimes prevent me from being able to do the things I want to do. This year, it was because you had 2 infections and it’s just too risky when I am in the middle of a flare. I felt awful and cried for a good portion of the weekend, because, well, noone really wants to be quarantined from their own children… but… my illness is getting more manageable as time goes on and hopefully, this will be a mere blip. Because you know I love you. I love you all, but Julesy, you have a special place in my heart.

It took me a while to really bond to you. Because I was prepared for losing you at 25 weeks, it was hard to not keep a safe emotional distance for the remainder of the pregnancy. Add to that the shock of having 2 kids (hahaha haha haha…. yeah)… well.. you know. But, you know I came back. And you are my special baby and always will be, even when you tower over me and smell like feet.

Keep being you.

I love you,

Mum