The good, the bad and the ugly.

This post comes after day of hell being super Nanny to a family, a new one, who, while I do love these kids, think their parents are great and enjoy my job, I also just cant help but shake my head at how much these kids have, how little they know about the world outside of their very nice four walls. Sometimes I have to catch myself while doing this and question whether my feelings are fair or if this is how we should all have been as children, but because my life was such a contrast to theirs I just cant seem to work out my feelings on this.

I was raised very aware of what goes on the world, the good, the bad and the ugly. Some of it unfortunatly I learnt the hard way, being abused etc. But the rest was because my parents were very open with us about such things. My dad especially took us to protests, friends houses who were going through crisis and it was always explained to us what was going on, sometimes I must admit this was overwhelming and probably a bit inappropriate for the age I was at the time. But most of the time, I think it was okay, good in fact, as by the time I went to high school I was very aware of the issues in not only my community, but in many parts of the world. I guess though, that my Dad being so relaxed about me interacting with people, trusting people and trusting that I knew dangerous from safe situations a little more than I did at age 11 was really how I got hurt in the first place.

Sober truths

The weekend was a whirlwind of drunk days and drunker nights, people I dont know sleeping on the floor of our apartment, someone I know even less sleeping next to me in my bed. At the time it was all a fantastic idea, who doesnt love a weekend where they can just let loose and party day and night? But come monday I was not proud of myself. I had not been sober for seventy two hours and the reality of that hit me, hard, harder than a headache and a shakey morning. I do this to myself more than I should. Its easier for me to be drunk then sober, a lot of the time, and that is something I am not proud of, but its the truth.

Catch up New Zealand

One thing I have noticed in the three weeks I have spent in Canada so far is that society here is much less forgiving of sexism than in my own home of New Zealand. The first night I arrived in Canada I managed to catch a bit of the news where a rapist had been released from prison and there was a huge crowd protesting his release so near to a school. At home it seems people are not so vocal about such things, especially when it is about the safety of women.

I always had a hard time explaining to friends over the internet who are from this area how hard it is for a woman to really be vocal about being a survivor at home. Reporting is hard in any case, but at home once you report, as a woman you are stirring up a whole lot of trouble that people dont want to know about. Especially in my case where the man was so close to my family.

A house full of memories

I am spending this week in the house I grew up in, my mothers house. We moved out of here when I was Twelve and into my step fathers house, my mother never sold this place but rented it out to a family instead. Now she wants to sell it, so here we are again. This week she is on holiday, so I am taking car of the place, and my cat, while she is away which is more than a little challenging. I am sleeping in my sisters old bedroom, as my old bedroom is the size of a closet (being the youngest and the unplanned child I lucked out on the bedroom choosing). Its odd to be back, to see the bedroom where I would come home from my fathers house and hide under that bed. Where I slept in the toy box as a little girl because I thought my teddy bears needed the warmth of the bed more than I did. This is the place where I hid as my parents fought loudly in the living room, where the police came to take away my big brother to prison, where I fell off the garage roof, while hiding up there so that I didnt have to go with the man who was abusing me who was supposed to be taking us to my fathers house.

Seen the other side

This is going to be hard for me to post. I am not sure exactly why I am posting this at all, but I will because this has shocked me into reality about something that I have treated like some sort of option in my situation, some sort of relief of what I am going through, and this last weekend has really shaken me back into reality and I realise how very selfish I have been.

I have had people in my life commit suicide before. With them, I got a phone call, they were gone, I cried, I screamed, I sat in black at the funeral and felt like my insides were raw with anger and grief and loss, but this was different. I got the phone call. My friend, dear friend, who I don't see enough anymore, was in the hospital. She had overdosed and cut herself badly and was found by one of my other friends just in time. There was no time for tears. I sat in black at the hospital next to her bed, neither of us saying a word to each other just staring, my hand on hers. It was wierd, to be the one next to the bed. I have been the one laying there, more than once, waking up and realising where you are, only I dont remember someone holding my hand. Eventually they released her, and I drove her home. She lay down for a sleep, while I cleaned up the house from the night of what we were calling, the accident. Even though we both knew, it was no accident.

Syndicate content