Do you want to truly SEE yourself? Try this.

A few days ago I had dinner with a girlfriend who is also a single mum. She's recently starting dating a new man, and when she described him to me alarm bells started ringing. I could read between the lines, I could sense her tension and uncertainty, it was so clear to me the way she was compromising.

I didn't say much. It's not my place to challenge her. But it got me thinking about the numerous times close friends of mine challenged me when I was dating someone who wasn't good for me. The guy was a million shades of wrong, and was making me far more miserable than happy, but I couldn't see it.

And why not? Because it is almost impossible to see ourselves objectively. We are too caught up in our own heads.

Many of us are tremendously emotionally intelligent about other people. We can deconstruct their spin. We can analyse their motivations. We can cut through their bullshit. We can give advice! Fabulous advice! We can show them the way forward!

But when it comes to helping ourselves out of a quagmire, we are completely stuck. We can't see our own patterns, because they are the veil through which we view ourselves. It's like discerning the Matrix when you're living in it.

You can't know what you can't even perceive.

Recently I discovered a trick to help me see myself the way I can see other people. I've found it to be incredibly useful during those times when I have found it difficult to be objective about my own situation, in regard to a relationship, my career, a parenting issue or a personal decision.

I write down how I feel, what has happened, what I need to decide. I write it down in detail, in the first person, for example:

I'm sure I did the wrong thing. I'm sure this is going to ruin everything. I spoke to her, and she told me it won't, and so far nothing has happened, but no-one can come back from a mistake like this.

And then I go through what I've written, give myself a new name, and change it all into the third person.

Amy was sure she had done the wrong thing. She was sure it was going to ruin everything. She spoke to Sarah, who told her it wasn't going to affect anything. And, so far, nothing had happened. But Amy was sure no-one could come back from a mistake like this.

Then I leave it. I file it away and ignore it for a day or two. And then I come back to it, and read it as though it really was the reflections of someone else.

And I can see it for what it is. I can see that Amy is worrying over nothing. Nothing has happened, she has been assured nothing will happen, and yet she is still worrying. Clearly, her anxiety is the issue and not the mistake.

Then I realise, Amy is me. And it is me who is worrying over nothing. It gives me the perspective I could not possibly have about myself. It gives me the emotional intelligence, the insights, that I can only have about other people.

Next time you're stuck, try it. And for my friend the single mum, I hope you try it too. I can see things that you can't, just like everyone could see things about me. Now we just have to learn to see them about ourselves.

the sweet spot

Have you ever done a hill start in a manual car? It's very tricky to learn. You have to release your right foot from the brake whilst depressing your left foot on the clutch, but you have to find the sweet spot in the middle; release too quickly and the car will roll, release too slowly and the car will stall.

Well, for me, parenting is a bit like driving a car, and my love for my kids is the clutch, and my anxiety is the handbrake. And I am constantly needing to find that sweet spot between the two in order to drive smoothly and not roll down the hill.

Too much anxiety paralyzes me. I worry endlessly about my kids, I fantasize about worse case scenarios and I don't want to let my children out of my sight. If I wasn't constantly mindful, I could be consumed by anxiety. I can feel that person in the back of my mind, that crazy anxious parent who sees danger in every corner and awaits the day some terrible tragedy will occur.

But I won't be that person. I made that decision when my kids were born that I would not cripple them with my anxiety, and I haven't. I will not allow the dark thoughts to enter. I push them away and allow my kids to take risks. I send them down the road and let them play in the park and allow them to climb tall trees and encourage them to be independent.

I will not be that anxious person, not for their sake, and not for mine.

And yet... and yet... the anxiety is there. I won't allow it full expression, but it is there. And so I use it, I channel it, I hone it and I finely tune it so that it serves me and my children well. I access it when I need to. I allow myself moments of dread. I allow myself to think of what might be, just for a few seconds. Just enough. I release the brake, just a little bit.

I find the sweet spot. I find that sweet spot where I am not paralyzed by anxiety, but feel enough vulnerability to appreciate in every single part of me how lucky I am that my kids are okay. I find that sweet spot where I feel that surge of pure love, still so strong even after nearly 16 years of parenting. I find that sweet spot where I can stand over my sleeping child and feel overwhelmed with love and gratitude. Because anything could happen, and it hasn't. They are here.

The brake and the clutch. The anxiety and the love. I'm moving forwards. My hill starts are smooth.

Looking. Searching. Pining.

I have a problem.
I've become obsessed. And I mean obsessed. I've had obsessions before but this is different. I can't concentrate. I can't work. I can't focus on my kids. All I do is surf the web looking, searching, pining for the one.
And I can't find it. Or rather, I've found it about five times, but then I realise it's not right. It's not the one. It isn't satisfying me. There's another, that's right, that's perfect, that is going to solve everything. There's another, that is going to make everything okay.
And I can't stop.
It's been going on since Sunday. I have spent hours and hours and hours searching online for....
A desk.
A new desk.
A perfect new desk.

I hadn't even thought about a new desk before Sunday. I was happy with my (admittedly worn and a bit crappy) desk I bought when I first moved into my new apartment. I was rushing, at the time, and didn't put a lot of thought into it, but that's okay. It was fine. It served its purpose.
Until Sunday.
On Sunday I decided I needed a new desk. At first I wanted a super modern desk. Then I decided I needed a ladder desk. Then I was sure I wanted a secretaire desk, with a pull down front, and tiny little compartments. Then I was absolutely positive I wanted a super-cool vintage wooden desk, which unfortunately was only available in the States and couldn't be shipped to Oz.
Then I broke down, because it was hopeless. And then realised I didn't know what I wanted. I was just searching. I was searching for something. I was searching because I am lost.
I finished my manuscript on Sunday. My manuscript for my latest book. I sent it to my agent last November, and she recommended some revisions, which I worked on for the past four months. I worked hard. Really hard. Every single day I worked on my book. How I laugh when I hear of people writing novels in a month. This novel took a year of hard, all-encompassing work. And then I sent it in.
And now it's over.
And so I am searching, searching, searching for the perfect desk. Except that maybe I don't really need a new desk after all.
Maybe I just need to start a new book.
And it won't matter at all what I write it on.

Anxiety. It sucks. But you don't need to feel this bad.

For more information/resources click HERE

And just like that.... I was gone.

Last week I disappeared. I had a general anesthetic on Tuesday morning, was home by Tuesday afternoon, and was completely stoned on Endone until Thursday evening. I lay in bed for forty eight hours, dozing and staring at the ceiling and doing absolutely nothing else.

Endone is a morphine derivative and even the tiny doses I took had a profound effect on me. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to do anything but stare at the ceiling. I had no interest in watching TV or reading a magazine or eating or chatting to a loved one. I was perfectly content to lay on my back and just BE. It was probably the first time in my life I have experienced that kind of serenity, and - if I stay healthy - hopefully the last.

It is a weird thing, not thinking. Can you imagine not thinking? I don't stop thinking for a moment. Even now, writing this post, I have worried about the article I just wrote and whether my editor will like it, the piece of toast I just ate and how I'd really like another, how the makeup I'm still wearing after my TV appearance  is making my skin crawl and I need to take it off, and that I can't keep on procrastinating with my taxes. I hate doing my taxes. I was thinking that, too.

Since finishing that sentence I thought of the party I was at last night, and how I told one of my close friends that his daughter used to be 'funny looking'. I was a little drunk at the time, but it's really no excuse and I am quite mortified by my behaviour. I am thinking about a chart on introverts I saw this morning, and how it was a revelation because I am not at all introverted. I am thinking about my best friend and why she hasn't returned my message. I am thinking about the mess in my apartment and how I plan to clean it soon. And I am really thinking about that second piece of toast.

"We become what we think about all day long," wrote Emerson, and he has to be right, because really, what else could we be? We are not our bodies, we are not our jobs, we are not our status; we are our thoughts, and our thoughts dictate who we are. I am me because I worry about the things I worry about, because I care about the things I care about, and because I contemplate the things I contemplate. No-one else has my thoughts, hence, I am unique in this world.

Last week I was nothing. I had no thoughts, so I wasn't me. I was a generic body, lying in a bed, staring at the ceiling. I occasionally rallied enough strength to be a simulacrum of me. When my children came in to kiss me goodnight I said the things I knew Real Kerri would have said. But I didn't feel it. I felt nothing. Just air and ceiling and a deep, deep peace.

Now I'm back to me. And with all the worries and petty concerns and ruminations, I wouldn't go back to the serenity. Without my thoughts I am nothing. Without your thoughts, neither are you.

Fear On Hissing Street

Midnight. Last night. An inky black eve on the Central Coast. The house was silent. I was asleep in my bed with the cat curled up comfortably on my head*.

And then, suddenly, a noise.

"HISSSSSSSSSSS"

But I was dreaming. A beautiful dream about something or the other lovely**. I stirred briefly, then allowed myself to slip back into unconsciousness.

And then, once more:

"HISSSSSSSSSSS"

I startled awake. What the fuck? The sound was next to my head.

I switched on the lamp. Penny the cat was in full alert mode - tail bushy, hairs prickling, a look of fevered concentration on her delicate feline face.

Something was in my room. Worse. Something was in my bed.

Penny was sniffing crazily, burrowing under doonas and pillows, bounding to the floor to search under the bed, then leaping up to the sheets again.

"What is it Penny?" I cried. "WHAT'S THERE?"***

Penny didn't answer. But then I heard it. A scamper.

Mouse. MOUSE. It was a mouse. It had to be a mouse.

Oh my god. A mouse. A rodent type mouse. A mouse. A mouse. Did I say mouse?

Artist's Impression of Pathetic Scared-Of-Rodential Woman

I am terrified of mice. Terrified. In a primitive, visceral way. I am not scared of spiders, or cockroaches, or dogs. I am not scared of sharks, or lions, or bears****. But I am absolutely jump-on-the-bed, scream-like-a-girl, burn-down-the-house scared of mice.

But I was alone in the room. The nominative man of the house (my father) had returned to Sydney. The real man of the house (my mother) was fast asleep in her bedroom, and whilst I did contemplate waking her, I knew my chances of getting babysitting help for the next couple of weeks would be severely compromised as a result. 

I summoned up every ounce of strength I had.... and peered under the bed.

Nothing. At least, nothing that I could see. But the cat was still bristling and searching, and the scamper had definitely scampered, and my adrenaline was pumping, and there was clearly nothing to do but leave my kids and mum to their own fate and hop in the car and drive back home to Sydney.

But by then it was 12.14pm, and I was fairly tired. And then there was the not-minor issue of my clothes being in the suitcase, which theoretically could also be inhabited by said murderous mouse.

And so I slammed the bedroom door on all living creatures, and went out to the living room, where I slept fitfully on the couch for the next few hours.

This morning, of course, Penny was sleeping peacefully on my bed. I choose to believe she has chased out the rodents, frightened them so comprehensively that they will never return.

But in case I am wrong, I'm going back home today. It was either that or burn down my parents' house, and that babysitting help you see......


*comfortably for her, that is. Not for me.

**the trauma of subsequent events has wiped the loveliness from my mind.

***and yes, this is not literary embellishment. I really did speak to the cat. I'm not sure whether I was expecting an answer, but I was frightened, and alone

****admittedly this is a theory only, as my lack of fear of sharks, lions and bears has not been tested, but I'm sure I'd be totally fine.

The Anti-Oracle

If I could have just one superpower, it would be the power to see into the future. (Actually, that's not quite true. If I could have just one superpower it would be the ability to sing really well, because I have these recurring fantasies about singing in front of a room full of people and breaking their hearts with the beauty of my song. But given my woeful singing voice, the power to see into the future is actually far more plausible.)

As an anxious person, I like to have certainty. I do not like the endless cliffhangers that come with everyday life. I like to know, roughly, how things are going to turn out. Whether that job is going to come through. How that problem will be resolved. What decision that person is going to make. Whether everything will work out okay in the end.

Artist's Impression Of Me As The Oracle

And so because I like certainty, I create the answers where there are none. Anxiety loves a vacuum (meaning, 'a space devoid of matter', not 'a vacuum cleaner' - ain't nobody got time for those) and so my mind will rush in, writing the end to the story when the story hasn't actually finished yet. I compose entire scenarios in my own head that are as real to me as anything that has taken place in real life.

The problem is, they are nearly always wrong.

I am the Anti-Oracle. I am the Soothless-Sayer. I am forever deciding what will come to pass, and am forever being stunned when it doesn't happen.

In all of my forty-five years, I have virtually never accurately predicted the future. (Okay, so that's not completely accurate; I totally saw the whole Gwyneth-Chris split coming, but I am far less clairvoyant in my personal life.) I predict disaster when a happy outcome is around the corner. I predict good fortune just before everything goes to shit.

But that's okay, because I am constantly surprised. Life never follows the script in my head, and - as challenging as that may be for an anxious person like me - it does tend to keep things exciting.

I think a quote from Pretty Woman just about sums it up (and let me tell you, I never expected to quote from that particular film so I really am walking the talk right here):

Edward: It's just that, uh, very few people surprise me.
Vivian: Yeah, well, you're lucky. Most of 'em shock the hell outta me.

What about you? Are you good at predicting the future?

More Sh**t I Could Not Make Up

This is part two of my ridiculous, stupid, you can't make this s**t up day from hell. Part one is HERE.

So the cat escaped again. From my multiple-punctured, bleeding arms.

"NOOOOOOOO!" I cried. "PENELOPE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

But it was too late. She had disappeared over the fence.

This time, she had jumped into the other neighbour's backyard. Yes, you read that right. The OTHER neighbour.

So there I went, knocking on a different door, where a different lady answered, and this different lady was also in her nightie. I kid you not. This was starting to become a pattern.

And so I was shown into a different house, to a different backyard, where I rescued the same bloody cat, again cowering in a corner. And I carried her back through this house - thankfully sans-dog - where she proceeded to go equally demented and made further, significant puncture wounds in the region of my arms and shoulder.

But this time, this time, I got her home.


Picasso showed stunning foresight when painting this pic of me

And then I rang my GP, who checked my records, and told me I hadn't had a tetanus shot in 15 years. Which was delightful news, because there is nothing I enjoy more than running into the doctor's of a Monday afternoon and having a jab in my arm that will leave me sore for two days.

But I did it. Because it sounded marginally better than dying of tetanus. (Though as I was still without a coffee machine, death sounded faintly appealing.)

I got my jab. And then I made my sorry way home, broken and horribly wounded and with spirit crushed beyond recognition.

Penny the cat was waiting for me, purring. I noticed that her litter needed emptying and so I donned the gloves and began shovelling the clumps into the toilet. I buy special litter that is flushable, which is highly convenient, except when it isn't.

Because the litter didn't flush. Oh no. It clogged up the toilet which began overflowing onto the bathroom floor. And there I was, ankle deep in grossness, weeping into my plunger and bemoaning the tragedy of my life.

And that, my friends, is where the story ends. I told you. I couldn't make this s**t up.


I Could Not Make This S**t Up

I am currently dealing with a fascinating array of challenges in my personal life. Every day something new comes up and I bat it away with the keen eye and practiced wrist of a tennis player (if, that is, the tennis player was playing with small nuclear firearms and not balls).

But today. Today was different.

Because today, people, I hit the trifecta.

It started with coffee this morning. Or lack of coffee this morning. Yes, I crawled out of bed (after battling flu all weekend) bleary eyed and incoherent, reached for the Nespresso machine, flicked the switch, and...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I flicked it again. And a third time. Nothing. It was dead. I tried to cry, but without coffee, my body was unable to produce enough fluid for a tear. I just hovered in the kitchen, a wretched, broken shadow of my usual self, parched and confused and desperately alone.

For without coffee, I have no friend.

Somehow I managed to get the kids to school, and stopped at my local café for a fix. Miraculously cognisant again, I trudged home again, ready to put my five deadlines aside to take my machine to be fixed.

But first, I opened the balcony door to bring in the laundry. And within thirty seconds, the cat had sprinted out onto the balcony, across the neighbour's balcony, and into the neighbour's neighbour's backyard. I could hear her there, meowing pitifully, desperate but unable to make her way home.

I sprang into action. I ran to the neighbour's neighbour's, pounded on their door, and disturbed a lovely old lady in her nightie.

"Let me in!" I yelled. "I must get my cat!"

She looked confused, and slightly fearful, but I was frantic to retrieve my kitty.

"I need to get into your backyard! You have my cat!"

The poor dear acquiesced as she could see I was quite clearly mad with despair. She let me in through her house, past about a dozen yapping dogs, and into the garden. There I found Penny, cowering in a corner, covered in leaves.

She leaped into my arms and I carried her through the (dog infused) house, where she proceed to go UTTERLY INSANE. Yes, she bit me and tore my top and dug her nails deep into my flesh and howled like a banshee and inflicted at least 16 puncture wounds (I checked) upon my person.

And I yelled in agony but held my grip firm and got her out the front door and to my apartment building... where she bit deep into my neck and I screamed and let her go.

And she escaped again. And for the rest of the story, you'll have to tune in tomorrow.

Pushing Through

This morning I went for a run. I have just started running and it is hard. I have to force myself to don my joggers and my pitiful excuse for running gear (torn leggings and an old singlet) and get out the door. I have to force myself for the sake of my mental health, to run off some of the tension bubbling away inside of me.

 

But it is hard.

 

It is hard getting through a run like it is hard getting through the days. And that is hard because life is hard. I have the most beautiful kids in the world, and I live in a lovely apartment, and my parents are unbelievably supportive, and I have a handful of amazing, loyal friends who keep me buoyant. I love my work and I love my cat and I am lucky enough to have relatively good health.

 

I am lucky, but it is hard.

 

It is hard being a (newly) single mother of three kids. It is hard dealing with the myriad of financial challenges that presents. And it is hard coping with the dozens of other hurts and sadnesses and worries and confusions and fears that are too personal and private to write about, but that you would all relate to, because we all go through them.

 

Yesterday I heard some terrible news. An online friend lost her husband, a vibrant, healthy young man. He died suddenly and tragically. It is awful, just awful. It is not my tragedy. It is not my family. But it devastated me. It brought back home the fragility and unpredictability of life. I am so sad for my frined. I am so sad for my own parents, who lost their daughter nearly six years ago now. 

 

It is hard. It is all hard. But this morning, I went for my run. It started to rain when I was about five minutes into it, and the water was hitting my face, and I had to blink away the raindrops, and I was cold and wet and my legs were hurting. But I pushed through, because I had promised myself that I would. And then one of my favourite songs came on my iPod* and I suddenly got that rush of endorphins, and I surged forward, and I felt good, really good. I finished the run and I am sitting here now, tired and hungry and wet, but with an enormous sense of accomplishment. 

 

And that is what I will continue to do, today, tomorrow, and every day. I will push through. I will push through as you will all push through, because that's what we do, because that is life. And there will be good moments and bad moments and absolutely fantastic moments and moments that are really fucking awful. But we will push through them all. 

 

Wet and cold and tired, but with an enormous sense of accomplishment. We will push through.

 

*My Life (50 Cent feat Eminem & Adam Levine). Awesome.

In Rehab - Part 1

So I had a bit of a failure-to-cope. It's been a pretty rough year, what with the kitten falling off the balcony, and becoming a single mum (er, me, that is. Not the kitten). I was exhausted and overwhelmed and needing to go somewhere to rest and recuperate.

I have previously been to Lilianfels in the Blue Mountains and loved it so much I decided to contact the manager and offer my firstborn in exchange for accommodation. He politely declined my offer, but he did very kindly cut me a deal in return for some Instagrams of my kitten and a promise of eternal gratitude.

REHAB Lilianfels

I decided to go away by myself, as I needed the solitude. Besides, I planned to spend the entire time in the bath, which would make conversation with a friend difficult, or at least rather more intimate than I desired.

I got packed, said a cheery goodbye to the kids and a tearful goodbye to the kitten, and hit the road. Sadly, it did not take long for the trip to take a bad turn. I was sailing down the Great Western Highway singing along to the radio, when I heard a noise, and realised with a terrible shock that a police car with sirens blaring was tailing me.

YES! It was BEHIND ME!!!!

"Oh god, I'm done," I thought. "It's over. They've got me." But then I realised with an even greater shock that I hadn't actually done anything wrong. I pulled over to the left and the police car raced around me.

Clearly, my nerves were a little on edge.

I arrived in the Blue Mountains somewhat frazzled, and decided to have lunch at Leura Gourmet before checking into Lilianfels. I sat in a sunny corner of the restaurant and ate a bowl of pumpkin soup with a crusty bread roll, both of which were absolutely delicious. Still, despite the bowl being as large as my head, I decided I wasn't quite full enough, and so I ordered a rhubarb and apple crumble the size of my torso (although, obviously, a slightly different shape).

I wobbled towards the counter to pay and the friendly cashier took my money. "I'm busting!" I told her dramatically, and she looked at me oddly. It wasn't until I was back in my car that I realised I'd given her the impression that I'd needed to wee, when I'd actually been trying to tell her that I was full.

Clearly, my nerves were still not quite settled.

I continued driving, and soon pulled into the the beautiful grounds of Lilianfels Resort and Spa. I was so excited to be away and on my own that I nearly wept as I checked in.

"I made you two keys," said the lovely Sue at reception. "I know you're staying alone, but I thought... you know... just in case..."

I figured that the chances of me picking up a man were somewhat remote, given that I didn't plan to leave the bath, let alone the resort. Still, it was greatly appreciated .

And then I went up to my room, which looked very much like this. Actually, it looked exactly like this, because it was my room.

LOOK! Someone else made the bed!!!!!!

Also, it had this:

...which I totally would have used if I did any work which I TOTALLY DIDN'T!!!

So I climbed into bed, and the rehab began. But more, much more, was in store.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Note: This is not a sponsored post. I stayed as a guest of Lilianfels at my own request.

Cat of a Neurotic

Call me crazy (no, don't really, that was just a turn of phrase) but when Penelope the cat woke up with a big white scab on her nose, I could only draw one conclusion.

Cat melanoma.

My name is Penny, and I'm a Cat of a Neurotic

Now, it didn't matter that Penelope is only 12 weeks old. Melanoma can develop in the very young. It didn't matter that I didn't know if cat melanoma could develop in the very young. It didn't matter that I didn't even know if cat melanoma was a thing.

Lack of knowledge has certainly never stopped me from worrying before.

It did, however, matter that Penelope has never been outside. Once I realised this I was forced to revise my diagnosis. Even I know that melanoma is caused by the sun.

And so there was only one other conclusion to draw.

Ringworm. My cat had ringworm. And ringworm was very, very bad.

Now, Penny's nose didn't look a lot like the noses of ringworm cats. I know this because I Googled ringworm, and found some revolting pictures. Clearly, Penny had an atypical case of the Ringworm Nose. And obviously, atypical cases are going to be far, far harder to treat.

The really worrying thing was that the kids and I were going to get ringworm too. Google said it could happen, and if it could happen then it's totally going to. And ringworm in humans is absolutely gross. It can cover your whole body, like a plague of, well, worms, which is not a good look when you go to school pickup. I had visions of the kids and I, stuck at home for weeks like lepers, with ringworm ravaging us from head to toe.

I knew I had to bite the bullet and go to the vet, who could seal my fate before the horror set in.

So off we trudged, the kids and Penny and I. I braced for the bad news. I was ready. I was primed.

And guess what? The cat has the flu. The garden variety flu, of the feline kind. No melanoma. No ringworm. No leper colony. No disaster.

Either Google knows nothing, or I was searching the wrong term.

'Cat of a Neurotic' might have been a better place to start.

A Dream of Maddox

Last night I had my favourite recurring nightmare. Not that one would think there is such thing as a favourite nightmare, but clearly my subconscious does, because she keeps hauling the damn thing out.

Now, if my subconscious was slightly more creative I would dream of zombie apocalypses, or being in the supermarket wearing only nipple tassels, or finding myself standing before an audience who speaks only Klingon.

But she's not. She's boring and prosaic and utterly predictable. And so, I dream of failing university.

The nightmare has many variations. In last night's scenario, I had just found out that I had an English exam in two hours. It was a verbal exam, in which the examiner would question me about a great work of literature. Every student was allocated a different masterpiece, and mine, I discovered, was  'The Maddox'.

In my dream, I had never heard of 'The Maddox'. In my waking life, haven't either. (I mean, I know The Maddox to be The Son of The Brad and The Angelina, but as far as I know he is Boy and not Book. Perhaps my subconscious is more creative than I thought? )

Not That Maddox

I realised in a panic that I wouldn't have time to read the book before the exam, and so I Googled it. I couldn't find crib notes to the book, but I did find reference to 'The Maddox' as a film starring Johnny Depp and the characters from South Park. This didn't help me terribly, but I decided to watch the film anyway.

Then I remembered I hadn't actually gone to class for a year and that I'd fail no matter what and so I decided that there was no point.

Then I woke up and there was a cat on my head.

What is your recurring nightmare?

Things I Have Learned About Therapy

1. Therapy is an excellent idea.
2. If you are desperate to go to therapy, you need it.
3. If you don't particularly feel like going to therapy, you need it.
4. If you really don't feel like going to therapy, you need it.
5. You are messed up enough to deserve therapy.
6. Your therapist does not think you are boring. See Point 3.
7. Therapy is expensive.
8. It is worth the expense.
9. Retail therapy is more fun than real therapy. However, unlike clothes and accessories, the gains you make from therapy will not go out of style.
10. There is no point lying to your therapist.
11. You will catch yourself lying to your therapist.
12. There are times you will feel cranky at your therapist for no reason. You actually feel cranky with yourself.
13. If you see people you know in your therapist's waiting room, the protocol is to nod discreetly and do not engage in conversation. At most, a brief 'Hi' is sufficient. Asking 'Oh, what are you doing here?' is not appropriate. Snapping an Instagram pic of the two of you to post on Facebook with the caption 'Therapy Twins!' is even less appropriate.
14. If you see a famous person in your therapist's waiting room, the protocol is to ignore them. Yelling 'Oh my god! You go to therapy! Wait till I tweet about this!' is definitely not the way to go.
15. You will get to a point where you don't need regular therapy anymore. (Note: This is not the same as being 'cured'. You will never be 'cured'. No-one is ever 'cured'.)
16. Your therapist will not be disappointed in you if you return.
17. You will worry that your therapist will be disappointed in you if you return.

A Slight Overreaction.

The other night a friend of mine cancelled an arrangement.

"Sorry," she texted. "Can't make it. Work problem. Speak soon."

She sounded... well... curt. Clearly she was cross at me.

But why? I couldn't think of anything I'd done. I wracked my brains, trying to work out if I had offended her in some way.

And then I remembered. Her daughter Tali had been at my house the previous day playing with my child. I had fed them some biscuits and let them play computer for two hours. Tali had been delighted.

"I wish my mum would let me do this," she said.

"Yes, well, clearly I'm a better mother than her," I told her. I was joking, of course.

But obviously, she thought I was serious.

And obviously, she had told her mum.

And obviously, her mum was furious with me.

And hell, why on earth wouldn't she be?

I felt sick. I texted my friend straight away. "Are you cross with me?" I wrote. "I'm so sorry! I really was just joking!"

There was no response. I felt even sicker. I paced. I drummed my fingers on the table. I thought about turning up at her house to apologise in person. Maybe I should send flowers? Or a basket of fruit? Or hire an aeroplane and write an apology across the sky?

An hour later, my phone beeped. "What are you talking about?" she wrote. "I really do have a problem at work. And I thought you were mad at me!"

We are going out tomorrow instead.

Do you ever overanalyse relationships????

In Bad Form

Today I have to fill out forms.

I do not like forms. In fact, I am a little form phobic. I have a fear of forms, if you will. I don't give good form. I give bad form, even when I am in good form.

It is strange, because I like words. I like words very much. I use them all the time. They come out of my mouth, my fingers, my computer, my phone... I can throw them out all over the place with no effort at all. I can put words into a blog post, an article, a text, a tweet. No words phase me. I am at one with words.

Until I am required to put those words into a form. And then my heart clenches in fear and my body tenses with stress and I stare at the form and tap my foot on the floor and then go away to do something completely different because it is simply too scary.

It is a form. And forms are bad.

I tried to figure out why forms bother me so much. Theoretically, they should be far easier to complete than a thousand word article. You generally have to write only a word or two at a time, and there is no issue at all about spelling or grammar. And with online forms, you don't need to worry about making mistakes - you just return to the previous screen and do it again from scratch.

Tragic Woman Shown Not Actual Blogger

But then I realised. It's not the form of the form per se that disturbs me. It's the content of the form - or rather, the content that is not yet in the form, the content that I am required to put in the form. Because most of the time, I don't know the answers. Forms ask questions about dates and places and figures and events and obscure pieces of information that I do not know off the top of my head, nor am I able to find out without weeping for two hours in a dusty storeroom over piles of paperwork. Forms need me to think. They need me to calculate. They need me to look things up in filing cabinets. They need me to open up a bottle of gin and drink deeply until I am no longer afraid anymore.

But now I've written this blog post and I've cleaned the house. There is nothing left to do but go back to the form. Help me, people. Leave a comment so I can come back and respond. Ask me a question - the more complex the answer required, the better.

And if anyone lives in the Eastern Suburbs of Sydney and loves filling out forms, please come over. I will write you a thousand word thank you letter. Because I love words. Did I mention I love words?

I Am Anxiety

Watch this video.

If you have ever experienced anxiety, if you have ever thought you have experienced anxiety, if you have anyone in your family or circle of friends who experience anxiety, watch this video.

This. This is what anxiety feels like.

This morning I co-launched this new Anxiety Awareness initiative by Beyond Blue alongside the amazing Garry McDonald*.

I couldn't be prouder to be part of such an incredible campaign.

When I released The Little Book of Anxiety a year ago, my primary aim was to help to lift the stigma associated with being an anxious person, and to show other sufferers that they were not alone.

But there is only so much that one little author can do with one little book. This campaign will do this a thousandfold.

Please watch this two minute film and share it. And please, if it resonates with you, seek help.

There is hope. There is light. There is a life away from anxiety.

Sending love to you all.

*Who later accepted a lift home with my mum and I, which was one of the more surreal moments of my career to date.

A Letter of Resignation

To My Family & Friends,

After around thirty seconds consideration and with a heavy heart, I have decided to resign from my position as Mother.

I have enjoyed working with my children for the past nearly fourteen years. Unfortunately, however, this latest outbreak of lice has made my position as head of the family (no pun intended) to be untenable.

There are several reasons why I have come to my decision.

1. There was no mention made of the possibility of lice when I took on the position of Mother. I feel that I was tricked into a role that I did not agree to.
2. Removing lice from my children's hair is virtually a full time job in itself. There is simply no time in the day to attend to other parenting duties, such as feeding my kids, bathing them, doing the laundry, and drinking wine.
3. Lice are revolting.
4. Lice removal lotions smell terrible.
5. My children are clean. Lice, apparently, like clean hair. This creates a paradox which leads to severe cognitive dissonance which causes me extreme stress.
6. I can't claim worker's compensation for my extreme stress because Motherhood doesn't come with insurance.
7. My children complain that their heads are itchy then they complain when I put the lice potion on them then they complain even more when I use the fine toothed comb. I can't win. What is the point of a job where I cannot win?
8. There is no pay. There has never been any pay, but this is completely unacceptable now that I have to remove lice.

So goodbye children, and goodbye Motherhood. It's been fun. Some of the time. The rest of the time has been lice.

I wish me the best of luck with all my future endeavours.

Kerri

How An iOS Upgrade Nearly Destroyed My Life

I wanted to download a ringtone. It wasn’t a big deal. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. Other people had personalised ringtones so I thought I could have one too. It’s not like I’m some sort of technology Luddite. I’m a Woman of Social Media! I have a blog and everything! And if I can email and Tweet and Facebook and Instagram, then surely I could download my favourite song to play when my phone rings.

Well, it wasn’t so easy. It never is. I tried to download my ringtone, but my iPhone got stroppy. “You have to upgrade to the latest iOS,” it said. Now, I don’t know what an iOS is. I’ve never given iOS’s a moment’s thought. But apparently, I had to have one, and so I set about finding it.

I realised that I couldn’t upgrade my iOS simply by looking at my phone in confusion (though if I could have made it happen through act of will alone I would have had such a late version of iOS the thing wouldn’t have been invented yet).

By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like throwing things and sweating) I deduced that I could upgrade my iOS by plugging my phone into my computer and pressing a few buttons. Easy! Except that it turned out that the upgrade took OVER TWO HOURS and if my computer lost internet connection for ONE SECOND the whole thing would fail and have to restart.

Which it did. THREE TIMES.

By the time the thing was complete, some six hours later, I was exhausted. I was also disappointed to discover that the upgrade hadn’t actually taken effect (using ‘disappointed’ in the sense of ‘I was disappointed to learn that a meteor was hurtling towards earth and we were all going to die). By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like crying and drinking gin) I deduced that I had to start and restart my computer and phone and then plug them into each other again and wait, without breathing or moving a muscle, until the upgrade began to work. (I don’t know why the breath holding and remaining still was so vital, but it just was.)

Eventually, the upgrade took place and all was well in the world. My phone looked slightly different, which mildly concerned me, but I figured that it was just the new, improved iOS - whatever the hell that was.

I felt proud of myself and in a celebratory mood. I turned on some music and prepared to dance the ‘I’m Queen of Technology’ shuffle. Except that the music didn’t come on, because somehow all my music had been wiped from my phone, and it was clearly never, ever coming back.

By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like rocking in the corner in the foetal position) I deduced that the iTunes music was not syncing to my iPhone no matter what settings I chose or plugs I stuck in. And this made me very, very disappointed indeed.

Happily, though, I managed to get my ringtone. Unhappily, this will be of little use to me as I never plan to use my stupid iPhone again. From now on it’s carrier pigeons for me. And the only ringtone will be their gentle cooing.

This Woman of Social Media hates technology. 

Managing Anxiety, Part Two: A Day

This is the second part in my new series, Beating Managing Anxiety; Advice from a Worried Person. For Part One see here. To buy The Little Book of Anxiety click here.

Anxiety is a bitch. Anyone who has experienced it knows. Sometimes it fades into the background, sometimes it rears it's ugly head, and sometimes it roars so loudly that the best I can do is just put one foot in front of the other.

At times like this, I turn to my last resort, the technique I use when things get really dire (and, occasionally, when things are just reasonably dire, or I'm not feeling particularly robust).

I take one day at a time.

Why do I need to take one day at a time? Well, anxiety has many side effects - fun things like a racing heart, a cloudy head, and a sense of disconnect with the world. However, one of the most debilitating impacts of anxiety is to reduce my ability to cope. When my anxiety is roaring, it becomes the loudest voice in my head, and takes up all the energy I need to function.

Without my emotional resources, I become easily overwhelmed. Simple tasks like cooking dinner seem difficult. Bigger projects like organising my car rego or generating invoices seem scary. And long term responsibilities like my career and parenting my children seem utterly impossible.

So I do what I need to do. I don't think about the scary or impossible. I push those thoughts away and focus myself directly on the here and now. I decide I just need to get through today, and not think about all the tomorrows that are going to come later. I can get through one day. It's just twenty four hours. Anyone can get through one day.

There is a tremendous release in just taking one day at a time. Life is complex and frightening and we never know what is around the corner. But a day is just a series of hours that lasts until bedtime. A day is manageable. A day is limited. A day has a beginning and an end. And if it's too hard to make it through a day, you can resort to making it through the hour. One hour at a time. One day at a time. And when you make it through, start again.

Sometimes, that's all you can do. But if you keep getting through, hour by hour, day by day, eventually the anxiety will recede again. I promise you, it will. So hang in there.

Anyone can get through one day.