A Definition of Resilience

I started writing this post the other day. Usually I write posts in a few minutes in one go. If ever I don't finish a post it's because I know it's not working and I trash it.

But this post just sounded.... too depressing. And it's not meant to be a depressing post. It's an insight into something I've been thinking about a great deal: what it actually means to be resilient.

So I'm trying again, whilst I'm in a cheerful mood (coincidentally after a cup of tea and a slice of cheesecake).

To me, resilience is the effort it takes to keep pushing through when times are tough. It is the ability to get up and keep going instead of letting the difficulties beat me. I don't need to be resilient when things are going well. Right now I feel happy and relaxed and am not consciously calling on any coping mechanisms or willpower (other than resisting another slice of cheesecake).

I need to be resilient when I am sad or anxious or scared or exhausted, when I don't think I can cope but I don't have a choice.

And I don't have a choice. Very few of us do. There are days when I'd dearly love to just get back into bed and stay there, and days when I actually do hop into bed for an hour or two. But I always get up. I have to.

I'm sure you have to, too.

But as I said, resilience is an effort. It requires great energy. And anything that requires great energy is exhausting. Running a marathon is exhausting. Cleaning the house from top to toe is exhausting. And pushing through when times are tough is exhausting. Sometimes just getting through my regular routine on a day I feel particularly lonely or burdened takes a huge amount out of me. I collapse into bed feeling like I've competed in the Resilience Olympics, where the challenges are emotional rather than physical, and the only prizes are getting through the day.

I've been depressed in the past and, to me, being depressed is to lack the energy it takes to be resilient. When I've been depressed, I can't compete in that Olympics. I can't push through. I can't get through my tasks and win that prize.

A lot of us need to have a great deal of resilience. People all around you are pushing through their days instead of sailing through. Life is tough, and that's just the way it is. But let's all remember that being resilient takes a huge amount of effort, and to understand their exhaustion and to nurture them that little bit more.

And if they struggle, be there to help them through. Because no-one can compete in an Olympics without a support team, especially an Olympics of the soul.

It's Impossible. It's Intractable. What Is One To DO?

Here is the main problem with my life. It does not fit in with my circadian rhythms.

I am a Night Person, a Woman of the Dark. I function better in the evenings. I have never been a Morning Person - or if I was, it was so long ago that it has faded into the Eternal Night of my lost memories.

I do not jump out of bed perky and fresh in the mornings. I struggle into consciousness, blinking and foggy, and pull myself into a horizontal position by sheer force of will. I climb the stairs and check the kids are awake for school, and then drag myself to the fridge where I get out an orange and collapse again at the table to eat it*. If a child attempts to speak to me at this point, they will get a grunt. Perhaps a begrudging wave. I do not speak before I have had my coffee. At least not willingly. Or with any semblance of sense.

A problem of the ages (pun intended)

After my orange, I have my coffee, and then I am able to converse. But my brain doesn't warm up for at least another couple of hours. I can tidy and pay bills and maybe write a nice, light blog post, but I can't do any work of substance until later in the morning.

Sadly, though, it's when night falls that my powers of creativity really kick in. After eight, when the little one is asleep, and the big kids are watching TV and playing Minecraft doing homework, that's when it hits me. When the dishes are piled up on the sink and the school lunches are waiting to be made and there is a pile of laundry to be put in the machine... suddenly the genius idea strikes. I need to go to my computer and write.

And then I'm on fire. From eight until way after the kids go to bed, I am surfing the web and tweeting working like a demon. I feel energised and inspired. I could go all night.

Until it is midnight, and I realise I cannot see straight, and that I am never going to be able to get up in the morning. And then I fall into bed, and two minutes later the alarm goes off, and the whole maddening cycle begins again.

It's impossible. It's intractable. There is no solution.

Can anyone else relate at all? What is one to do?

*I always eat an orange first thing in the morning (see this old post, here)

The Emotion Quotient

It's been a big year. 2013 will go down in my personal history as the year of Everything. Some fabulous, some really shitty, and a great deal of change.

And I have experienced pretty much every emotion a human being is capable of. Grief, joy, excitement, loneliness, anxiety, hope, fear, pride... they've all washed through me at different periods and left me stronger for being there.

But now it's the end of the year and, quite frankly, I'm exhausted. And I've noticed something interesting. I don't seem to be capable of intense emotions right now. I feel quite disconcertingly calm, a sensation I am not really used to. (It's nice, by the way. I recommend it.)

Artist's Impression Of My Brain This Year

I have marvelled at my serenity, and come to a logical conclusion. I've used up my emotion rations for the year. There are none left. There is nothing to do but be chilled.

This is what I've learned. I think we all have an emotion quotient, an intensity and range of feelings that can be experienced in any given period. And once we use them up, we just naturally shut down a little - go into emotional hibernation, as it were - until we recharge.

And no doubt our emotion quotient runs in cycles. It is probably normal to wind down around Christmas time, when the pressures of the year have ended, and we can focus on our own wellbeing.

Of course, for many people Christmas is extremely emotionally loaded. For those people, the emotion quotient might not be drained until the new year. But for people like me, for whom Christmas is just another day, it has well and truly started.

So here's to recharging my emotional batteries, and you recharging yours. And getting ready for another exciting and challenging year ahead.

But perhaps not quite as exciting and challenging as this one has been. I may need another decade or two for that.

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.

No Title Will Do This Justice

This morning I woke up in my own bed in Sydney and wept with relief. I may also have been weeping a little from tiredness, as even my delicious ten hour sleep did not compensate for the full-body exhaustion of our trip to Surfers Paradise.

And then I got out of bed and stepped on my bathroom scales and wept for real, because I realised that the energy value of hot chips and ice cream every day for eight days is, weirdly, not offset by the energy burned by the terror induced from freakishly sicko rollercoasters.

Who could have predicted that.

Of course, I knew what I was getting into when I signed up for a trip to Surfers Paradise with three children in the Christmas holidays. But then, I 'knew what I was getting into' when I had a baby, right? NO! WRONG! DON'T BE RIDICULOUS! One never knows what one is getting into!!! It was all a horrible, HORRIBLE mistake! (The trip to Surfers, that is. Not having children. Mostly, anyway.)

A Water World Ride.
 (Family shown not blogger's own (because much better looking than blogger's family (and considerably older too))).

We decided to go to Surfers this year for three important reasons.

1. We thought the kids would really enjoy the theme parks

2. We found really cheap flights on the internet

3. We got to stay in my grandparents' apartment which was FREE.

4. Did I mention the accommodation was FREE?

5. There is a lot of ice cream in Surfers Paradise.

6. I like ice cream.

There is so much to say about our week in Surfers Paradise that I couldn't possibly reduce it to one blog post. And besides, I've been awake for an hour already, and I need to go back to bed. It's going to take me DAYS to get my strength back. As for the kids, they are lying around the house, weak and listless and pale as ghosts (except that they're actually really tanned, because... you know... we've been in the sun for a week).

But to keep you going until my next blog post (which will come when I can write about the holiday without my chest constricting as I have hideous flashbacks to my monstrous ride on Arkham Asylum), here are some choice highlights:

1. Surfers Paradise is Tattoo Central. I mean, really. If you don't have a giant tattoo of an Eternal-Life symbol embodied in an 'arty' theme all over your shoulder, then you have a tattoo of a massive angel / butterfly / cross / something-that-looks-exactly-like-the-one-your-mate-has all over your back, and if you don't have them, then you have your kids' / lover's / mother's / Brotherhood's names in humungous giant font all over your arms. It's like a uniform. My husband amused himself in the lines for the theme park rides by playing 'I can't take a breath until I see a tattoo' and he never once died.
THAT's how many there were.

2. The theme parks are insanely expensive. Oh, it doesn't cost that much to get in, but once you're through the gates the food / fast passes / drinks / souvenir fans / basically everything you don't wish to shlep with you in your backpack getting hot and heavy for eight hours as you walk around a fun park is LAUGHABLY dear. I mean, $6.00 for a single scoop of ice cream? That melts before you can eat it? I SCOFF IN YOUR FACE, SEA WORLD (after, you know, buying the ice cream and all).

3. The theme parks during the Christmas holidays are feral. FERAL I SAY. Packed to the brim with feral families pushing their feral kids into lines, yelling 'GO Shareen! Run to the front!' and 'Jethro, if you kick me one more time I'm gonna fucking smash ya!', and  ramming into people with their feral strollers full of feral babies drinking Fanta. It was about as relaxing as spending a week in hell. Which it actually was.

4. Arkham Asylum is a sick fuck of a ride and should never have been built. But that's for another blog post.

On Victimhood

On Sunday I went to a funeral. The deceased was the elderly mother of a very close friend, a lovely woman whom I'd known most of my life. She was very ill, and her death was not at all shocking; although sad, it also came as a bit of a relief.

Somehow, though, it triggered something in me, and I've been an absolute mess since that day.

My friend's mother was buried in the same cemetary as my sister, and as I stood watching her be lowered into the ground, I had vivid flashbacks to my sister's funeral four and a half years ago. And standing there, at the burial of a very elderly person, I began sobbing uncontrollably, so much so that, absolutely mortified, I had to walk away.

It's funny what sends you back in your healing process - if indeed there is such thing as a healing process. Generally I don't think of myself as a victim of a trauma, but since Sunday, I have felt like a victim of my sister's tragic death. I have also felt like a victim of my anxiety disorder, because I've been triggered right back into a state of constant, low-level panic.

What's more, a couple of medical conditions I have are giving me grief, and so I feel like a victim of them, too.

I got on Twitter this morning and picked a fight with the delightful Helen Razer, who had taken offence to a journo's tweet referring to a 'victim' of Thalidomide.

It's only a tweet, I wrote to Helen, thinking, what's the big deal? And if I was limbless from in utero Thalidomide poisoning, I'd feel like a victim too.

Defining oneself in relation to ability and/or victimhood for one's entire life is, at best, pointless, Helen responded, and after about half a second of outrage, I knew she was absolutely right.

Defining oneself as a victim is, at best, pointless, and is, at worst, completely destructive. The thing is, it takes huge strength not to do so - whether you're a 'victim' of trauma, illness, assault, or grief. It is far easier to blame circumstances and label yourself as a victim than to take responsibility for your own happiness and identify yourself as a survivor.

Usually I find that strength in myself, however, the last couple of days, I have lost it entirely. My survivor mode has gone out the window and I've totally felt like a victim again. I've wanted to lie in bed all day, pulling the doona over my head, taking naps, and just hiding from the big, scary world. I still want to do that. I wish I was in bed right now.

Still, despite wishing I was in bed, I didn't let it seduce me. Instead, I went to Westfield Bondi Junction, where I did everything I could to make myself feel better. I got a cappucino from my favourite organic cafe. I got my nails done. I window shopped. And I bought some stationery from Typo, which will help me get uncluttered, and clear my mind.

And now I'm home again, for a blog, and a nice cup of tea. And soon it will be tonight, and I will have survived an especially challenging day.

And if I can survive that, then I can survive another day, and after that, another. Until eventually - tomorrow, or next week, or the week after - I won't feel like a victim anymore.

Cells In The Spin Drier

I am too tired to write a blog post.

Jetlag from London to Sydney is shocking. I feel like every cell in my body has been removed, put in the spin drier, injected with valium, and replaced in my body. It's not invigorating.

This morning I woke up after a good night's sleep, looked at the clock, and realised it was only 10pm. I'd been asleep for an hour and a half. At 12.30pm I was lying on the floor, desperate to go to sleep again. Tomorrow I plan to take the kids to see a movie so that at least I can get a little daytime nap. I may need to ask the twelve year old to drive.

I may have been jetlagged in London too

A couple of hours ago I took a five minute cold shower (do you KNOW how long that is?) as someone on Twitter told me it will cure my jetlag. Ten minutes later I was ready for bed again.

I hear I will be ready for life again one day. But until then I'm laying low. I've learned many things from my trip to London but two will stand out in my mind for all eternity:

1. Human beings just aren't meant to travel across the world in 28 hours.

2. I'm never going to be an astronaut. If a flight leaves me this wrecked, space travel must be really, really brutal.

Guilt And The Nap Trap

Today I was given a very precious gift.

Time.

Pinkela is away on camp, and my (beautiful, kind, generous) mother agreed to pick up Little Man and Boo for me so that I could have the whole afternoon to myself. An empty house.

Bliss.

Things have been pretty crazy recently. I've edited my first book for the UK release, edited my second book for it's Aussie release, written three regular columns, and taken on a new writing project, as well as several other bits and pieces that have flown in at different times.

Oh, and I've looked after my three children, their father, the house we live in, the finances, the bills, the laundry, the shopping, our social lives, and pretty much everything else.

I. Am. Exhausted.

I need a break, desperately. And whilst a real break isn't coming for a while, I realised that today was the first day without a deadline looming, and that I could afford to take a few hours off.

I'd been up at 5.45am to get Pinkela to camp and the others to school, then had a meeting with my publishers. I got home at 11.30am and realised: This is it. This is my chance to relax. Do it.

But I pretty much had forgotten how.

I wandered around the house for a while, occasionally tidying, or wiping a surface with a cloth. And then I sat down on the couch and thought, What now?

I didn't know. It felt.... odd. Discordant. Where was my computer?

I watched an episode of Modern Family and then one of Sex And The City (the Modern Family I hadn't seen, the SATC I'd seen around 17 times), both in slight agitation. I was enjoying the shows, but something was wrong.

I didn't feel relaxed enough.

I decided to try to nap. I went upstairs and lay on the bed.

I couldn't sleep.

I COULDN'T SLEEP!

What was happening to me? I fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow! I fall asleep BEFORE my head hits the pillow! I fall asleep at my desk with Boo yelling in my ear and my laptop grinding a dent in my forehead.

WHAT WAS HAPPENING TO ME?

The answer, people, was guilt. Guilt was what was happening to me. Guilt for taking an afternoon off. Guilt for doing nothing. Guilt for stopping.

Guilt is bad. Guilt is a useless, stupid emotion. I shouldn't feel guilty for taking time off. I shouldn't feel guilty for stopping. I deserve some relaxation and I deserve to stop and enjoy my life. And I deserve a nap, god damnit, even if my tick-tick-ticking brain won't pause for a moment and let me.

So from now on, I'm having a rostered afternoon off every fortnight. It's going in my diary. I'm going to watch TV and lay in bed and roast marshmallows and eat bonbons (okay, so I may have lied about the marshmallow part).

Life is short and guilt is stupid and Sex And The City is on endless rerun on pay TV. And I am going to learn to enjoy it.

Let Me Go The F**k To Sleep: A Wife's Lament

By now most of you should have heard of the magnificent new children's book (that is definitely NOT for children) "Go The F**K To Sleep". Author Adam Mansbach and illustrator Ricardo Cortes have captured the frustrations of parents everywhere, longing desperately for their kids to go the f**k to sleep so that they can get some f**king rest.

Well, I have come up with a new version of "Go The F**k To Sleep". I don't yet have illustrations, but you'll get the general idea.

"Let Me Go The F**k To Sleep: A Wife's Lament"

The kids are finally in bed
With sweet relief I weep.
I go up to the bedroom.
Time to go the fuck to sleep.

In only seven hours my
clock radio will beep.
I need to catch each minute
of my precious fucking sleep.

It's been a long, hard day
of work and chores and problems deep.
I cannot wait to get to bed
and go to fucking sleep.

I tiptoe through the door and
to my bed I softly creep.
Don't want to wake the hubby
who - thank god - is fast asleep.

I slide beneath the sheets
and fall into a crumpled heap.
I close my eyes then hear a voice:
"Hey babe, are you asleep?"

I lie there very still and then I
start to count some sheep.
I'm hoping he will take the hint
and let me fucking sleep.

Just as I drift into my dreams
his hand begins to creep.
He thinks it's time for making love!
It's time for fucking sleep!

He snuggles in and nuzzles me
and out of bed I leap.
"Don't even fucking THINK of sex!
I want to go to sleep!"

He looks at me so hopefully,
his boxers torn and cheap.
"I bet I can convince you
that you're not ready to sleep!"

I shake my head and climb back in
and lie on pillows deep.
"There's not a chance in hell," I say,
"now let me fucking sleep!"

"We never do it anymore,"
says hubby. But he'll keep.
Quite frankly I don't give a fuck.
I'm already asleep.

The Never Ending Weary

I have a question to ask you.

Are you tired?

If not, what does it feel like, this 'not feeling tired' thing? Because I honestly cannot remember.

I am tired all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. I am never not tired. My tiredness comes in several categories.

Weary - This tiredness is just a mild feeling in the background. A kind of 'Could do with a nap, but can hang out till bedtime' sensation. If I'm just a bit weary, it's a very good day.

Tired - This is my baseline level of tiredness. I haven't had enough sleep (for about, you know, 11 years) and it's showing. I can function well, because I have learned to co-exist with tiredness, but I would function much, much better with more rest. If I can get in a brief nap, I will, but I can keep ploughing through until bedtime if necessary.

Exhausted - This is the tiredness I feel after a particularly late night or rough week. I feel fuzzy all morning and I need a nap. If I can't get a nap, I feel a little desperate. Of course, most of the time I can't get a nap, so I end up falling asleep prone at my computer, or on the floor in Boo's room whilst I am trying to get her dressed. Sadly, this doesn't even alarm my kids anymore. They're used to seeing Mummy on the ground unconscious.

Shattered - When I feel like this, I have to sleep. Like, get into bed and sleep for two hours. I simply can't keep going otherwise. This is when I call my mum, or weep on the phone to my husband and tell him he has to come home early (which, in Kerri's Husband Speak means '7pm'). This is when I let the kids watch TV for three straight hours, or feed them frankfurts for dinner, or bribe them with money and chocolate to let me lie down. These days occur at least once a fortnight. Often more.

Being tired is the bane of my existence. If there was a pill to take tiredness away, I would gobble it down. Oh hang on... there is a pill to take tiredness away... and a powder... Okay, so if there was a legal, herbal, non-addictive, non-hallucinogenic pill that didn't make you dance to house music for hours and tell the world you love them and cause the inside of your nose to collapse, then I'd take it for sure. Oh, hang on.... there is and I do. It's called coffee. But they really need to make it stronger because I'm on my fourth cup for the day and I'm ready to go back to bed.

The last time I didn't feel tired was two years ago. My husband and I managed to get away for six nights to a beach somewhere without the kids. We'd planned to have a romantic getaway. Not surprisingly, my husband got an urgent call from work on the first day and spent most of the holiday glued to his computer. Not inclined to take romantic boat rides on my own, or sit up late at night drinking cocktails and looking at the sunset solo, I took to my bed. I slept twice a day for the first two days (as well as ten hours or so at night) and once a day for the next two. By the fifth day I reflexively got into bed after lunch, and realised I didn't need to sleep anymore. It was a strange and wonderful sensation.

Of course, two days after that we were home again, and within 24 hours I was totally exhausted. Three clingy kids who insist on paying you back for leaving them at their (utterly doting) Nana and Papa's place will do that to you. And now, I have no idea what that delicious sensation of being rested even felt like.

So if you know, please enlighten me. I promise to read all your comments.

After I've just had a little bit of a nap.