So, looks like we’ve done our job then. Ah well, you’re on your own. Time to get a job…

Jules. My kind, funny, odd, smart baby Jules. My easygoing, sweet, Angry Birds-obsessed son. I apologise for using a clichéd phrase as the theme for this birthday letter, but hey, you are seven. And because we are in a place where I need to focus on the bigger picture, I often think about the man you will become. Grandma used to say that phrase a lot too, so, as I sit down to write, it is the most prominent thought.

Part of me hopes that it isn’t true, because I get you full time next year and I like to think that I can somehow undo some of the damage. Despite there being very good reasons for me being absent, I know how it affects you. I know it has hurt you. It has hurt me too. But I hope that one day, when you are a man, because we have done a good job, you have the capacity to understand and forgive.

I am so excited that you are coming to live with me. And I have to be honest, I am also terrified, because I know that there is a chance that your Dad is right, and you will want to go back to him after 3 months. I have learned to deal with my decision not to fight. I have learned to accept the emotional fallout of how my decisions are represented to you. I have learned to accept that someone else is raising my children. And I am thrilled that you have so many grownups that love you and want what is best for you, even if I end up on the periphery.

I chose this. It is difficult. It is painful. I frequently question my decision. But I have realised that even if I lived around the corner – I am forever the bad guy as long as I make my own choices. It occurred to me, earlier in the year, as I was being chastised for my apartment in West Perth… that no matter what I do, I am wrong. It occurred to me, when I was making the decision to move to Sydney, that even if I did suck it up for 10 years, living in a city I hate, with no career progression or other things that make me happy – I would still be wrong and that bar would just keep moving.

It’s why we are not together anymore. By opting out of the relationship, I opted out of the abuse. I let him have his way, avoid conflict, and try to make it work. And I just keep writing these letters… so that one day… when you are a man… you will understand.

But I am excited, because you are coming to live with me! And even though that also causes me intense fear… I still have hope that your Dad is wrong. Because I am a good mother. And I love you and can give you all of the support that you need. And if you do decide that you want to go back, I will not take it personally – because you should never have to choose. You have 3 parents that love you, and because of that, I am happy.

So in less than 6 weeks, you will be here with your brother and sister for Christmas. Then, it’s you and I. And Angus some of the time. So even though I am unable to make it today… I am hanging onto 6 weeks time, as the time I get my beautiful boy with me, full time. And despite some of the damage done in your first seven years, and even though despite this I know and love the man you will no doubt be, I will do my absolute best to make it right.

Happy birthday,

Mum.

My favourite? Toddlers & Tiaras. It has all the trainwreck of stage mothers, overdone makeup, rednecks and sequins to get me excited. I don’t understand pageants. I don’t understand pageant Moms. But to watch them is a delight. They are generally miserable, vain and superficial and… well… I like to mock people to feel better about myself.

I first saw Honey Boo Boo (aka Alana), with her mother (“Mama”) June on Toddlers & Tiaras. I remember June, because I mocked her. I stereotyped her and judged her. I was outraged at the idea of giving her daughter a pep drink. And I remember Alana’s cuteness & OTT precociousness. As did most people. But, that was that – I watched it, I moved onto the next train wreck in the next episode, and continued my life.

Then, this month, I heard everyone talking about Honey Boo Boo. It rang a bell, so last Friday, I said to Martin “I need to find out what this Honey Boo Boo thing is all about”. We hit up YouTube and watched the first few minutes.

And that was that. We laughed our arses off and I decided right then & there that I needed a piece of this show. You know, because I am a Toddlers & Tiaras fan and have been known to yell at the TV during Keeping Up With the Kardashians. I needed this delicious trainwreck.

So I started watching.  They are all on YouTube… start with this and work your way through:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xR2fQ334B5k&feature=relmfu

The first episode exceeded my expectations. As did the second, and the third. I found myself laughing in disbelief, condescension and outright disgust at what I was watching. And, when Martin pointed out the lifetime supply of toilet paper in the background – I was a goner. But then… something strange happened.

I kind of fell in love with these people.

I can actually pinpoint the moment it happened. The precise moment where the Thompson family felt like family, and someone made fun of them and I wanted to punch them in the face. There is a scene in Episode 4 with a smirky pedicurist (or whatever they are called) snarking with the camera about June and the girls’ feet.

Something shifted. What started out as a pretty transparent attempt by the TLC Producers to show up the family as idiotic, grotesque hicks dancing like monkeys for my amusement – in that moment, turned into much more. That pedicurist, with her condescending smirk about the ‘interesting’ family turned it all on its head and made HER look like the idiot.

It was quite startling.

There is actually substance to Here Comes Honey Boo Boo that I never, ever expected. And, despite all the power of Reality Show editors, farts & closeups of a fat woman eating (oh have Mercy!), it became pretty clear that this family… are… happy.

How many people do you know that are happy? I know I’m sure not. Looking past the superficial, that family – made up of a fat matriarch with a ‘forklift foot’, her de facto a short toothless man called “Sugar Bear”, a pregnant teen who gives birth to a baby with an ‘extra thumb’, and an obviously screaming untreated ADHD world-famous 6 year old daughter – not to mention the fact that Mama’s 4 girls are to 4 different Dads, they eat roadkill and go “shopping” at the dump (yes, for those who haven’t seen it yet… I know how that reads… and yes, it is funny writing it down) – they are living the life so many of us want and daren’t admit it.

Bear with me, because I am not saying I want to eat roadkill or eat sketti with butter & ketchup.

OK, I kinda want to try the sketti…

There is a sweetness and authentic love in this show that makes it impossible to continue laughing at them, and instead, you begin to laugh with them. They are just so… endearing. And funny.

Not in a condescending way. Not in a “oh look, they’re poor and fat and they’re ignorant” way.

In that truly envious way, where they remind you exactly of what is important, and see the wisdom underneath. “Sugar Bear” is devoted to his family, and doesn’t differentiate between his biological daughter and the others. Both parents create fun & happy memories for their children, spend quality time with their friends and play in the mud. Even when it is uncomfortable for Mama to do so, she gets out there, puts on a bathing suit and goes on a water slide in public. They eat food because it tastes good and is cheap so that they can support their youngest daughter’s expensive ‘hobby’.

And they laugh their arses off. They play stupid games like “Guess the Breath” and hang shit on each other in a way that only someone who truly loves you can. And when the teenage daughter’s baby was born with the extra thumb, they laughed at it, embraced it and moved on. The love in that family is just so obvious, that it just smacks you in the face. Watching that baby come into a family of people who truly were excited to see her join them was… surprisingly moving. Yeah, I cried. Shut up.

There’s been a lot of hate towards the family. The South Park episode was rather mean-spirited, and commentators are calling it ‘exploitative’ (like, somehow they are in need of our middle class/educated ‘protection from themselves’, because… you know… they’re so stoopid and muddy and fat!), or that it is mocking them & their ‘ignorance’. But, much like the pedicure girl who thought she was the clever one – maybe the joke is on us.

Because you know what? They are happy. And most of us are not.

The Kardashians are not happy. The Pageant Moms are not happy.

But Mama, Sugar Bears & their family? They are happy.

This is confronting to us, because they lack the “happiness” metrics: thin bodies, good looks, teeth (!), money, a house without a train running through the backyard, big screen TVs, marriage, romantic dinners and possessions… in fact, in most ways the Thompsons do pretty much everything that is opposite to what most people deem to be “successful” in life.

And yet, there they are. Right in front of us, mocking our value system: Laughing. Smiling. Happy with who they are. Charitable to those less fortunate. Having fun with ‘extreme couponing’. In love. Water slides! Raising women who are secure in their bodies. Supporting and loving their pregnant teenager, and celebrating the arrival of their granddaughter (at 32!) and showing love and acceptance to each other – no matter what. Even the gay uncle “Poodle”.

That’s pretty uncomfortable, isn’t it? To think that you might have it all wrong and that these people that you initially watched with the intention of feeling superior, actually did the opposite.

If you haven’t seen the show yet, do. It starts as a laugh and ends as a journey with people that, truthfully, I envy. And I am not ashamed to admit it.

It’s amazing, actually, the kind of pressure I feel now as I write this, not only because of my absence in your day-to-day life and trying to say something meaningful and reassuring that will somehow, magically, make up for that (I know it won’t), but also because this year, I heard the words that will make any mother recoil in horror:

“I read your blog, Mum”.

It’s enough to stop me dead in my tracks, really. Despite you not having a problem with it and reassuring me that you liked reading my posts, I have to be honest – I contemplated not writing a birthday post at all, because I know you are growing up and don’t necessarily need your mother gushing about you online for all and sundry to read. I want you to know that I nearly didn’t. But… bear with me. I promise I won’t embarrass you (too much).

It’s strange how something as simple as a blog post can come to mean so much, and have so much impact on someone’s life, as it has mine. This blog, that I have been writing for all of the time you have existed on this planet, well… it is quite an extraordinary thing to read back on. Much like going through old photo albums, going through and reading the letters I have written to you in the past provides just… so much reflection and insight into my thoughts and state of mind at the time. And I feel that pang of regret when I read it, because, there were times when life was a lot easier for you. And life will get harder, and more complex, and… well…

Much like photographs, my blog entries, for better or worse are a snapshot in time, that one day, will hopefully provide you with comfort.

I speak from experience.

As you probably know, I have a photograph that is 1″ wide and 1.5″ tall, in an oval frame, sitting on my bookshelf. It is innocuous, barely even noticeable, but it is the only photograph that I have of Grandma Chris, because she avoided photos. Well, that and our fractured family meant that, basically, I have one photo.

But, Grandma’s reluctance and fear of embarrassment means that now… there’s no photos. No record. I know it’s morbid, but…

I don’t want that for you. I want you to understand, and know that I love you. Have it written here, stored by the Internet in forever-land, that I battled daily with my decision to move away. But, I love you, and I fought, and continue to try to make it work. I made choices that I think will be better, and provide you with opportunities that can’t be provided in Perth, in the long term. And hopefully make you see that there is a world bigger than sitting around, staring at the TV, waiting to die.

It’s strange though, having written this blog for this long, that in part was started so that you would read about the cute and funny things you said and have a laugh at the “letters in a shoebox” when you were older… has, through the life of the blog, somehow morphed into this big, complicated need to tell my “side of the story”. My actual side of the story will come when you are an adult. In private. That is a private discussion that will no doubt occur, but just know that, in those moments where you doubt that I love you, or that I don’t miss you, or that I am not doing my very best with a situation where my hands are tied… I want you to know that… I’ve done my very best.

And that, right there, is why I decided to write the post. So you don’t have a 1″ photograph when you need me, and know that… in my words… that it’s going to be OK.

Happy birthday.

Mum x

I know you’re fatigued with the discussion, because so much has been said already, but hear me out. Because whilst Charlotte Dawson’s Twitter bullying saga, landing her in hospital, and subsequently in the mainstream press, has been done to death, there is something I want to say about it.

There seem to be two, rather polarised, camps on the events of last week. The first, in Charlotte’s defence:

• Decrying the bullies (and “trolls” being lumped in for good measure);
• Calling for harsher legal consequences for online behaviour;
• Calling this a feminist issue, where “strong” women are frequently targeted online with vicious attacks;
• Criticism of telling a person, who has openly battled depression and lost a partner to suicide, to kill themselves (and rightly so).
• That to criticise Dawson’s own contribution to the events that unfolded, is ‘victim-blaming’;
• Commenting on the bigger picture of violent behaviour online, that stalkers are a very real problem for ‘celebrities’, and that you cannot understand unless you are in that position.

The second camp, are not terribly sympathetic of Dawson’s situation, and:

• Say she is a troll herself, and therefore deserved everything she got;
• Say that as a public figure she needs a thicker skin;
• Say that she needs to disengage and detach from it, and accept that this is ‘how it works’ online;
• Say that Dawson contacting the girl’s employer (a University), means that she was the one to overstep first;
• “Don’t Feed the Trolls”;
• Defending the definitions of harassment vs trolling (which are very different things, with different intent) and expressing concern that people who provoke for a bit of fun are going to be labelled “bullies” and hauled through court for “harassment” (a valid concern).

I think I have summarised most of the commentary, aside from the extreme , that my peers, the media, other commentators & friends have said over the last few days. I took a few days to really digest what was going on, and how I can provide some original thought on this subject that has been done to death… and I am still firmly… empathetic. More on that in a moment.

My point is, that despite people being polarised in their support (or lack thereof) of Charlotte Dawson, every single one of those points above… is true. It is all true. They are all factors in a complex issue, where… there are no absolutes, no right, no wrong. And as such, because I am still on the fence and believe that everyone has a legitimate point to make, I am going to recount some personal experience to try and make a broader point.

Like most people who are active on Twitter, I witnessed the incident in question. Honestly, when all the hubris hit, my immediate thoughts were that Charlotte Dawson was handling this… like a bit of a n00b. We’ve all done it. We knew it would happen eventually – you provoke the wrong person and BLAMMO. So when things got nasty, I honestly did not expect things to go the way they did. Because as you and I both know, Internet, a bit of fisticuffs is something that kind of goes with the territory.

• It goes with the territory of being a public figure.
• It goes with the territory of being online.
• It goes with the territory of being a woman online.
• It goes with the territory of having an opinion, on anything, ever, on the internet.
• It also absolutely sucks balls when you are subject to an attack, particularly when you are battling with depression and suicidal thoughts on top of it.

Thing is, this stuff doesn’t just happen to celebrities. It happens every single day to ordinary people. It happened to me. It has happened to friends. I have had escalations and vicious attacks online that are certainly not for the faint hearted – ranging from a bit of rivalry & heated debate, to being systematically targeted by packs, to doing something I never thought I would and make a Police complaint & file an AVO.

Now, you all know by now, that I am not exactly innocent. I have been part of communities well-known for their snark and sarcasm, enjoy a bit of a playful poke and have built (and benefited from) a persona that is dry, sarcastic and snarky. I only ever target people who I think can either take it, ‘get it’, or are fair game (e.g. Reality TV show contestants & celebrities).

One of whom, has been Charlotte Dawson, who did one of her famous “RT the “bully”" things on me, on a fairly innocent-in-context remark, with NO opportunity for correction or recourse. To 30,000 Followers. It was a joke, during the Celebrity Apprentice, about a caricature. Not a real person. I said it. I own it. And I probably deserved it. But I don’t know that her response was entirely fair given the context. She was on Celebrity Apprentice, for fuck’s sake.

However, because I am a reasonable and fairly reflective sort, I learned from it. It made me think for a while about the role that sarcasm and snark, under the guise of “funny”, can hurt people, even if it isn’t my intent.

So, yes, in short, over the years, I have been complicit in some things I regret. Usually as a result of a misunderstanding (a big downside to relying on sarcasm rather than wit), sometimes because I saw bullying and harassment of others and didn’t speak out, because I knew that I would then become a target.

I have also been the target of harassment. I always intellectually knew that it wasn’t me, a real person, but my caricature, they were targeting (something that Dawson could actually try to understand). But, I have also struggled with an anxiety disorder for the better part of 20 years. On the good days, I can take it and dish it out. But on the bad days… it can be enough to push me over the edge. And quite literally, it did when I had a complete breakdown in 2010, partially as a result of Twitter abuse that escalated into full blown harassment. It wasn’t pretty. Claims about me as a mother in my most vulnerable time post-separation. Being called things that noone, ever, should ever call another human being (and remember… I defend the C word…). Of course, the abuse was not the only thing. It was not the cause of my breakdown. But to deny that it wasn’t at least a significant contributor, well, that would be a lie.

I don’t really talk about it. I let people think I was OK. But, I was terrorised. There is no other way to describe it other than… terror. Not just the self-inflicted terror of having a Formspring account (which I deleted quickly in an attempt to ‘ignore the trolls’), but absolute terror at logging onto my email, to work, to see what had landed in my inbox. Terror at checking my voicemails because I was getting abusive messages. Terror at even going online in case another well-meaning friend decided to tell me what was being said about me by those I had blocked.

I haven’t really talked about it till now. Because I was afraid. I am still a little afraid, to be honest. So, then, to try and preserve my sanity and emotional state, I completely deleted my blog, that I had been writing on for 7 years. I deleted my Twitter account & my Facebook account. I even contemplated (and trialled) changing my name at one point, just so I could do my job and be left alone. I was forced into virtual reclusion.

Bullying is not as simple as ignoring it when it escalates to that point. This is not a couple of negative responses. This is relentless. They follow you. You CAN’T just block it without taking napalm to your entire online life. Luckily for me, after 6 months, it settled down and I was able to rebuild my online profiles again. It briefly resurfaced, during the iPad thing, but… thankfully I was less psychologically vulnerable at that time and could take it.

I have been where Charlotte Dawson is, on a smaller scale, and It. Was. Fucking. Horrible.

And, like her, I have said things I regret, or crossed a boundary. Some may even believe that I deserve everything I get. I make no excuses, and have recently decided to reduce the role that negativity and sarcasm has in my life, and in the way I communicate. I have learned this the hard way. My point is not that I didn’t contribute to it, or to justify myself or look like a victim, or even to try and defend Charlotte Dawson, but to highlight the very real impact that these things can have on your psyche when you already struggle to begin with.

There is a difference between being sympathetic and showing empathy. I for one feel tremendous empathy for Charlotte Dawson right now. Even if I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy for her actions. It is unfortunate that she has had to learn the hard way, and I hope that, rather than play victim and deflect all of the blame, she does at least acknowledge her role in it, and try to… be better. Engage positively. Lose the snark. Lose the sarcasm. It hurts people and you know what? It hurts people.

And yeah, you may just tick off the wrong person one day.

Learn from this.

Peace.

I am now almost 4.5 months into making the best and most liberating (and yes, terrifying) decision of my life. I am not generally adverse to making those kinds of risky decisions – I mean – I generally have a pretty adventurous disposition – but nothing has really paled to the decision to leave Perth to live in Sydney.

“Big deal”, is what most people would say… however… the decision to be further away from your children is one that is not easy. Most people just don’t understand, and some even go so far as to openly judge me for it. But, I love my children. I didn’t do it lightly. And… thus far, I think I am making it work.

When faced with the difficult choice between one piece of your heart (my career) over another (my children), there will always be doubt. And people will always have an opinion. And believe me, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t scrutinise that choice.

But as I sit here, after a week filled with some amazing developments for the business, and sharing it with someone… incredible… and with the once-tense relationship with my ex husband turning around into a positive co-parenting relationship, I realise that sometimes… you just have to go with your gut, even if everyone else thinks you are making a mistake.

On a day to day basis, I try to forget/suppress how much I miss the kids. I keep myself busy and fill it with distractions. We FaceTime as much as possible, and I try really hard to make it work.

I manage to forget the pain, for the most part, until I have a ticket booked to see them, and start preparing to have Moo again. We do month-on-month off with him, because he is not yet at school. And when my month comes around… I get so excited that I am reminded how much I miss my babies.

Missing them is such a normal part of my day and I am so busy I don’t give myself time to think about it…. that when the anticipation and excitement kicks in… I realise…”wow… that REALLY hurts”. And yeah, when I am exhausted or have a few glasses of wine… I get sad. I mean… who wouldn’t?

But, 4.5 months in and I realise, that Sydney is my home. I love it here. I made the right choice. Yes, it’s difficult. And there are aspects that do provide me with some stress and incertainty. But, nothing in life is certain (as the breakdown of our marriage proves), and… I am simply doing my best. I am finally starting to rebuild my life after an awful 3 years… and things are starting to work out. Sure, my kids may have a different view, and I am prepared for that (and would never blame them), but… I am trying to make it work.

And, my ex is coming around in a way I never expected him to, being more flexible with the kids and visits… and as money improves, hopefully it won’t even be an issue.

As I reflect on the craziness of the last 6 months, it hits me that, despite the odds, I reckon we can actually make this work. Against incredible odds, I reckon we can. And if there is anything that you can get out of this… it’s that you should follow your gut. Trust it. Make difficult choices as necessary, but follow your gut.

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.