Thank A Teacher #LifeThisWeek

It's been a frightfully long time since I was at school. Thirty years, in fact. Yikes. How did that happen?

Happen it did. Quickly. Suddenly, I was 18, with no idea of what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Still haven't figured it out, to be honest. I guess I never will. Oh, well. Sigh.

Anyway, long story short, I ended up enrolling in a TAFE course in library practice. I schlepped into the city replete with my infamous mullet perm. The 80s were just about over, but I hadn't received the memo.

Throughout my years at primary school and high school one thing had become apparent. I was excruciatingly shy and quiet. Furthermore, this was a heinous character defect.

There must be some sort of magical spell or secret knowledge I didn't possess. Knowledge that would enable me to come out of my shell immediately. If not, I was doomed.

It seems that being quiet is viewed as suspicious in our society. Case in point: have you ever noticed that a popular trope in fiction is the killer turning out to be the quiet unassuming character? 

Likewise when a gruesome murder takes place, neighbours of the perpetrator are seen on the news, appalled. "He was pretty quiet. Kept to himself," they mumble to the camera. The subtext being, all quiet folk are psychopaths waiting to happen. HMPH. Not true. Granted, I am weird, but in a completely harmless way.

Look, I'm getting to the thanking a teacher bit shortly. The point is, I had been conditioned to believe that being quiet and shy was tantamount to a crime. A hideous, awful, shameful flaw. Something that had to be changed at all costs. If only I tried hard enough,  I should be able to do the thing that people commanded: come out of my shell.

I grew to loathe those words. Sadly not as much I loathed myself. I desperately wanted to be bubbly and outgoing. The opposite of my true self in every way.

To complicate matters, I didn't know that I'm autistic at the time. I believed that all my struggles to communicate were simply shyness. And yes, I AM shy. Like I've said before, I scored the ultimate trifecta of social awkwardness: shy, introverted (yes, they are two different things) and autistic.

But to get to the thanking a teacher bit! As part of the library practice TAFE course we had to do a communication module.

My teacher for this subject was a lovely lady with the unusual name of Gill Goater. She wore dangly earrings and a warm smile.

It transpired that one of our assessments involved giving a speech on a topic of our choice. OH. MY. GOD. Naturally my shy little soul shriveled at such a prospect. The thing was impossible. A knot of dread settled in my stomach.

The dread was also suffused in shame. Here I was, ostensibly an adult and I was no closer to 'coming out of my shell'. The very idea of standing in front of the class set me quivering.

But Gill smiled at me and said something to the effect: I just want you to know that I know you're shy and that's okay.

Wait. What?

"It's okay to do things in your own time," she continued. I was thunderstruck yet thrilled. No one had ever said such a thing to me before.

The upshot of it was, she gave me a get of jail for free card. I didn't have to do the speech if I didn't want to, she told me. A funny thing happened. I mulled it over, as I am want to do.

A number of people in the class were from non English speaking backgrounds. A speech would be a challenge for them, too. Upon reflection, it didn't seem fair that they should have to do it, while I was excused.

I went back and told Gill I'd do it. She suggested a topic I knew a lot about: Why not talk about shyness? Explain what it's like. Make people understand.

So that's what I did. I don't remember exactly what I said, but I do remember that you couldn't hear a pin drop until I finished and the room erupted into applause.

Gill was beaming. "I'm giving you an 11 out of ten because I know how hard that was for you!" she said.

Shortly afterwards, she left to go travelling and we had a different teacher. But I never forgot her. So, thank you, Gill Goater, for your acceptance and understanding. I wish more teachers were like you.

Interestingly, I googled Gill's name and discovered she is now a poet, with a book of poetry in print. Highly unlikely she would remember me, but now I'm keen to read her poetry. 

Meanwhile, I now know I'm autistic. In retrospect, it could have been an even more interesting speech! It certainly explains why I could never just 'come out of my shell'.

But I've never become a murderer either. And never will! That's something.

What about you?

Is there a teacher you'd like to thank? 

Read More

Together Again #WriteBravely #Day 1

Welcome to the Festival of Words 2018! What on earth is that, you ask? Read about it here. I'm joining in for the first time, because I never really knew about it before. But better late than never, as the saying goes!

So let's get this party started, as P!nk says... Or something...

For day one, I chose the following creative writing prompt:

Day 1 – 24 Jun – Use this sentence in your post : You’d never believe me if I told you that I _____________, but it’s true and I can prove it.

Here's my story:

TOGETHER AGAIN

Image credit: https://www.pexels.com/

You'd never believe me if I told you that I'm a murderer. But it's true, and I can prove it. You see, everyone dies around me. You might meet me and think I'm a regular person. I'm witty, quirky and quick with a joke. Fun to be with. You may even want to be friends. I would advise you against it. It could be fatal.

"It's not your fault," my psychologist told me. Her eyes exuded kindness and warmth. Warmth I didn't deserve. The day they'd taken away Blake's lifeless body, all those years ago, I thought they'd take me, too. Mum was still slumped on the floor. Her guttural wails sliced through the unnerving stillness. I felt frozen in time. Floating. Surreal. How could this be happening again?

After the funeral, Mum didn't get out of bed for weeks. I made her bowls of cereal and cheese on toast which lay untouched. The only things I knew how to make at age ten. I became the mother to my mother. Tall and mature for my age, people said. They shouldn't trust me.

"Poor love," Auntie Lorraine said. "First her father, then her baby brother."
"So sad," sniffed cousin Sally. I didn't like her. She'd never visited before, why was she here now? Auntie Lorraine had always been in our lives. She was Mum's auntie really. My late Poppa's sister. I loved her. She wore brilliant coloured scarves and bustled about as she gossiped. She rarely mentioned my Dad though.

For years afterwards I replayed the accident in my mind. Dad's eager face when he saw me waving from the school gate. He stepped off the kirb onto the slippery wet road. I never knew if he saw the oncoming car. If his life flashed before his eyes in that instant. He bounced off the bonnet, hitting the ground with a sickening smack. My screams were swallowed by the clap of thunder as biting rain fell on the gruesome scene.

Six months later, Blake stopped breathing. They said it was SIDS. Sudden infant death syndrome. My already scarred ten year old psyche didn't understand. I'd been playing peek-a-boo with him. Maybe I'd left the blanket over his face when the phone rang and I rushed off to answer it. I'd murdered him, and I knew it. Could ten year olds go to prison?

Mum was never the same. She was there, but not really there. After a while I went to live with auntie Lorraine. Luckily she didn't have any children, or I may have killed them too.

"Your mum is sick, but in her mind, not her body," she explained. "Do you understand?"
I nodded. I'd made her that way. She'd probably die next. Because of me. She didn't. But she only made brief appearances in my life.

Months and years went by. I went to school, netball, piano practice. I was the good girl. I blended in, fooling everyone. Later, anger surfaced.  I became a bratty, belligerent teenager. This eventually morphed into a sarcastic, wisecracking twenty something. I was a chameleon, but drowning inside.

By now, Mum and I had an on again, off again relationship. She'd never remarried and moved around, living a nomadic life. I never knew when she'd flit through the periphery of my existence.

Somehow I'd survived university and established a career. Every day I expected someone to tap me on the shoulder. My secret discovered. I was a fraud. A freak. I didn't deserve a normal life.

Inevitably, Auntie Lorraine passed away suddenly. People I love always do. This time I planned the funeral. Mum turned up.

"Hello, Bethany," she gave me a wan smile. She'd put on weight, but it suited her. Her once coppery gold hair was streaked with grey, but her eyes were the same olive green flecked with hazel and underlying sorrow.

"Hi." I wanted to say so much more than that one innocuous word. Where have you been? I screamed internally. Then she surprised me by learning in to give me an awkward hug.

One by one, family, friends and strangers, paused to give me grave looks and platitudes, before leaving the wake.

"I'll help you clean up," Mum began clearing plates of half stale sandwiches cut in triangles.

"Leave it," I held up a bottle of wine from the fridge. Auntie Lorraine always had some on hand. She'd been fond of glass or two after a long day. "One for Auntie Lorraine?"

"Of course." Mum agreed. I poured and we clinked glasses.

"To auntie Lorraine," we both murmured. A few glasses later, we began to unwind. Or unravel. We were pouring out memories along with the wine. Laughter mingling with tears as we remembered what a remarkable woman auntie Lorraine was.

"I'm sorry, Bethie," Mum wiped the tears gently from my cheek.
"For what?"
"Everything. Especially not being there for you after Dad and Blake died."
I looked into her eyes and knew she meant it.

"You look so much like your Dad."
"It was my fault," I blurted.
"What?" Mum shook her head.
"Dad and Blake. I killed them."
Mum looked thunderstruck. Then everything came pouring out of me. I told her how Dad had stepped in front of the car because of me. About my game of peekaboo with Blake.

"I had no idea," Mum was sobbing now. "I thought you blamed me. You see, I blamed myself."

Then she explained how Dad had picked me up that day because she'd been unable to. She'd been suffering from post natal depression.

"And when Blake died, I felt so guilty. I felt like such a terrible mother, and that's why I was being punished. Why he was taken from me. You were only a child and it wasn't fair to you to be responsible for your baby brother. You did nothing wrong. You were only a girl. My beautiful girl."

She help me tight, snivelling into my shoulder. I tried to tell her I understood, that everything was okay, but the words were stuck in my own sobs. We had so much to say.  I knew I could never bring Dad and Blake back, but I finally had my mother back.

The next day we went to the cemetery together, armed with flowers. I finally felt a sense of peace as we placed them on Dad and Blake's crypt. Mum squeezed my hand. "We're all together again," she whispered.


THE END.

Linking with Write Tribe for Festival Of Words.  

Read More

An Experiment

Good morning, dear people! Or afternoon. Or evening. Depending upon where you are in the world. Of course there's less than zero chance that folks all over the globe are reading this, but it doesn't hurt to remain delusional optimistic.

Anyway, I trust you are feeling fabulous wherever you may be. I just thought I'd check in here for the heck of it, despite having nothing monumental to report, and bugger all snaps to share. That's me for you. Always generous, and thinking of others.

Besides, according to some dude called Ralph Waldo Emerson "All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better." Look, it's on the internet so it must be legit.

Therefore, I may as well treat this here blog post as an experiment. I'm sure I can pull something out of nothing. That's pretty much what I always do anyway.

But today I am taking it to a whole new level. Because I have decided. Why must we always DO ALL THE THINGS? Sure, it feels good to smash that to-do list, but what if we mixed it up for a change?

Did something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT. Something wild and crazy. Cutting edge and avant-garde. Something so daring and innovative it's never been heard of before and likely never will again?

You with me? Good. Let's try this groundbreaking experiment: instead of the ever present, ubiquitous to-do list, let's be bold and write a to DON'T list instead!!!

Yeah, okay, you got me. I did talk the idea up a bit more than is strictly necessary. A dash of melodrama never hurt anyone. Unless it's like actual melodrama. That's stressful. Screw that.

No, I mean pretendy type melodrama. Such fun! As Miranda would say. It works even better if you imagine rousing music in the background. Something evocative and suitably atmospheric. Perhaps the Harry Potter theme? Otherwise insert your preferred movie theme of choice. Done? Good.

On with the show.

TO-DON'T LIST

• Don't give up. Unless it's smoking. You should really give that up. Says the woman who can't even give up chocolate . 
• Don't forget to be grateful for the little things in life. Like m&ms. They're little. Did I mention I can't give up chocolate?
• Don't think you have to fix all the things and be perfect. 
• Don't mull over what's already happened in the past. 
• Don't worry about what may or may not happen in the future. 
• Don't be a piker (pyker?). Not exactly sure what that is, nor how to spell it, but still. Don't be one. 
• Don't watch dumb reality shows. This one is for me, really. You can watch them if you want to. I can't stop you. 
• Don't stop believin'. Okay, that's an Olivia Newton-John/Journey song, but whatever works. 
• Don't forget to pat your dog. Unless you don't have one. In which case I don't even know what to say to you. You PSYCHOPATH.
• Don't be a will-o-mo-wisp. On second thought, a will-o-mo-wisp sounds quite lovely. And if it was good enough for Maria, it's good enough for me. 
• Don't rain on my parade. Okay, that's a Barbra Streisand song, but Babs is awesome so I'm going with it. 
• Don't take life too seriously. No one gets out alive.
• Don't forget to eat your five a day. Unfortunately it's not five cakies. Again, that one was for me. Sigh. 
• Don't forget what your arms and legs are for: movement! Another one for me. Ahem.
• Don't cry out loud. Just keep it inside. And learn how to hide your feelings. Actually, no. That's terrible advice. What was Melissa Manchester thinking?
• Don't write to-don't lists then proceed to DO everything on them anyway. 
• Ditto don't write to-do lists then DON'T do anything on them either. I like contradicting myself. Shut up. 
• Don't worry about what other people think of you. As Dr Phil says: you wouldn't worry about what others thought of you if you knew how seldom they did. Besides, they're probably dickheads anyway. That last bit is from Dr Ness. 
• Don't stay up too late. Unless you can sleep-in in the morning. Why not?
• Don't get up too early. Mornings are stupid. See above. 
• Don't take advice from random bloggers on the internet, who have no qualifications whatsoever to to give such pearls of wisdom, including me. Especially me. 
• Don't begin frying an egg then walk away, get distracted, and forget about it until the smoke alarm goes off. Oops. 
• Don't spend too much time on social media. Bahahaha! I'm so funny. 
• Don't forget that social media is people's highlight reels. Things aren't always what they seem. 
• Don't be cruel to a heart that's true. Okay, that's an Elvis song, but still. It's not bad advice from The King. 
• Don't expect your folded piles of washing to put themselves away. They don't. So rude. 
• Don't spend winter being a sloth creature on valium because summer will be back before you know it and you'll regret it. Just me?
• Don't worry, be happy! Okay, that's some dude I can't remember's song. But it works to end this list. And now you'll have that lovely little earworm for a while. You're welcome!

Linking up for:

Friday Reflections

Life This Week

Open Slather

What would you write on your to-don't list?

Read More

The M - Z of Me

Now for the moment you've all been waiting for! Drum roll, please...

The illustrious list of all lists! The next installment of my personal alphabet.  The M - Z of Me! YAY!

Oh okay, it's not that exciting. Sniff. But since I've already regaled you with the  A - L Of Me, I may as well finish the thing.

So here we go: 

M : is for Mum. These days I totally understand why my mother often said "She went mad and they shot her!" in response to my brother and I's frequent cries of: "MUUUUUUUUUUM!!"

In addition to being a mum of three boys, I'm also MARVELOUS and utterly MAGNIFICENT.  Modest, too.

Oh yeah, and I'm married to a bloke called Mick. I like to call him Mickey Blue Eyes. He does have blue eyes, so it makes sense. Moving on.

N: Now, this is a hard one. Snorts. Nah. Clearly it's for Ness. Which is my nickname. And the reason for the name of this blog.

O: Isn't it OBVIOUS? I'm OUTSTANDING.

Look, a bit of a 'dad joke' never hurt anyone. Except that one. Oops.

And there we have it. The O word that sums me up: OOPS.

Also, I'm quite odd. You may have noticed that. Case in point: I have certain obsessions: Cakies and Carpenters. Yep. I mentioned I'm odd.

P : is for pretending. I pretend that I'm normal, but you've already caught me out with the odd thing. See above.

Q: could be a quandary for many folk. (Do you see what I did there?) But not for me. Because I'm quiet. Also; quirky. And very quaint.

R:  is for reading. I love it. Additionally, I enjoy rainy days. I'm reserved, often in my little own reverie and frequently ravenous. I do tend to ramble a lot here. No, I have not been reading the dictionary! Whatever gives you that idea?!

I would also like to believe that I'm much more resilient these days.

S: is for shy. Which is a shame because I'm truly SENSATIONAL. And you may have noticed that I always descend into self-deprecation. Sigh.

Seriously though, how do I stop that? Should I?

Then there is the fact that I'm a scatterbrain. I think I'm a weird cross of sweet and sarcastic. Not sure how that works. Perhaps it doesn't. I don't know.

T: is for teatotaller. Is that how you spell it? Anyway, I drink A LOT of tea. A TREMENDOUS amount of tea. I'm also very truthful and trustworthy. That's something.

U: is for unassuming and unpretentious. That's just the way I am. Totally unique, thank you very much. So ner.

V: is another hard one. Except it isn't. Because my name is Vanessa. Ness for short. I suppose you could say I'm kinda 'vanilla'. But people tend to forget what an exquisite flavour vanilla can be. Vanilla ice cream? Yes, please. Vanilla cupcakes? Now we're talking! What's wrong with a bit of vanilla?

W: is for woman. Pretty sure I am one. And I'm often wistful and whimsical. Two wonderful W words. Wow.

X : is for xylophone. Which has nothing to do with me. I've never played one. I've xeroxed some things and had a few x-rays, does that count?

Y : is for yodeling. I can't do it, mind you. Unless you count my enthusiastic singing along to The Lonely Goat Herd whenever I watch The Sound Of Music.. Yodelay heeee! Yodelay hee heeee!! Join in! You know you want to.

Z: is for zoo. Well, I have been to one or two in my time. Plus it often seems like a zoo around here. Meanwhile, I feel like a zombie, so there's that, too.

Aaaaand, we're done here!

Cue trumpets, fanfare and fireworks!

Look, I'm just trying to liven things up around here. You got a problem with that?

Over and out.

Can anyone really think of anything about themselves for the letters X, Y, & Z?

Read More

What I Will Never See Again

I wasn't really sure where to go with this prompt. So here's a random list. You're very welcome.

What I Will Never See Again:

• An empty laundry basket. 
• A clean clutter free kitchen.
• A clean clutter free HOUSE.
• My waist. I think I had one once upon a time. 
• My teens. (Phew)
• My twenties. I vaguely remember them. They came and went during 1991 - 2000. A time period affectionately referred to as the olden days by my boys. 

Me in my 20s. No 

one wants to see 

that again. 

• My thirties. They flitted away quickly, taking my waist with them. See above. Rude.
• Any "reality" shows; such as Married At First Sight or The Batchelorette. Somehow I got sucked into watching bits and pieces. Never again. Well, I'll probably see the ads. And that is more than enough, thanks very much. 
• An Adam Sandler film. Enough said.
•  Ditto for Woody Allen films. Can't stand him. Never could, even before the molestation allegations from Dylan Farrow. Weird. 
• A new Carpenters album. This will be my lifelong sorrow. Sobs.

• A Carpenters concert. In fact, I never saw one in the first place, because I was only a year old in 1972 when they performed in Sydney. The black and white footage of this concert is available for viewing on YouTube and I've watched it many times, but details. 
• My babies. They are growing up fast. Mostly I'm happy and relieved about this, but sometimes, just sometimes, I'd love to be able to briefly go back in time for a cuddle. 4am feeds, and colic and poonami's (totally a thing - don't ask if you're not a parent), on the other hand... Glad I'll never see those again.
• The runway as the plane soars off... Or will I? I guess you never know. Fingers, arms, legs, eyeballs crossed. 
• Not much of anything if I have to keep my eyeballs crossed for ages...
•  A Tom Cruise film, a Mel Gibson film. A Kevin Costner film... OK, I could be here all day. Why are there so many unappealing actors? I guess it's just me. 
• My original hair colour. It was an exquisite shade of glorious titian. Also known as Ranga red. The former sounds better. Sniff. But I'm rocking the silver fox thing, so all good.
• Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever see another blog post, given how inane my musings are. Eh, who cares. I'll be back. I can't help myself. 

End of list. 

What about you?

What will you never see again?

Read More

My Biggest Fear Is Fear Itself

Fears and phobias are a funny old thing. Using 'funny' in the sense of horrific and absurd. Some folks are mortally afraid of moths. For others it's clowns. Neither bother me. Cockroaches, on the other hand: EEEEEEEEK!!!


I've blogged about my fears and phobias before. They're all fairly generic: heights, public speaking, the dentist, and of course, cockroaches. Shudders. I know I'm not alone here. Many people fear these things.

These days, I would have to say, my BIGGEST fear is something happening to my children. A close second is getting cancer again and not being around for my children. But even after saying this and knowing it to be true. I truly fear these things. I realise there's a bigger everyday fear that's always lurking.

Fear itself.

Yep. I have an anxiety disorder. My biggest fear is fear itself. This is tremendous fun. Said no one ever.

The thing is, even though I once had a pathological fear of childbirth, I faced it. Hearing that you have a cancer diagnosis is undoubtedly one of the most frightening things ever. But I got through it.

Now I am left with the fear of it happening again. Even though my current reality is that I'm cancer free and well, the fear still intrudes.

Anxiety is so strange. At times you can pinpoint the triggering thoughts, other times it just pounces out of nowhere. Of course I've learnt all about the fight or flight instinct and how anxiety is necessary for human survival.

Additionally, my understanding is that being autistic means I am wired to be more prone to or predisposed to anxiety. So I decided to  name it Agnes and make an uneasy truce with her. I don't like her, but I understand why she exists.

There's a theory I've heard of that says fear can either mean Fear Everything And Run, or Face Everything And Rise. Don't you just love inspirational quotes? Yeah, me neither. But I have to admit, when I first began having panic attacks many years ago I often did the former. Until I realised: I don't run.

I avoid my fears and problems, sure. But running is stupid.

Seriously though, now I can say I (mostly) do the latter and face things. Sort of. Kind of. Sometimes.

What I mean is, the fear doesn't evaporate but I let Agnes tag along and I tell her what to do not vice versa. Occasionally she still manages to get the better of me. She's a freaking bitch so I expect that. Dammit.

Lately I've been listening to a lot of this true crime stuff which seems to be the thing these days. This is veering slightly off-topic, but I have a point so bear with me. It seems like an odd thing to be interested in, given my anxiety and self-confessed aversion to blood, guts and gore.

However, it's not that part of it that intrigues me. It's the psychology behind the crime or behaviour. How one individual can come from a tragic background and become a criminal, while another rises above it. The other day I heard a psychologist explaining what a sociopath is like. Supposedly they not only lack empathy but it goes further into complete callousness. According to this psychologist, sociopaths also don't experience stress or anxiety like others do.

In a weird way, understanding this helps me accept the things I dislike about myself. I don't like my anxiety, aka Agnes, but if I never felt it whatsoever, then I'd be a sociopath. Or something. Does that make sense?

I mean, obviously I'm just a little self absorbed or I wouldn't have a blog all about myself (ahem), but I'm not a sociopath. 

So yeah, my biggest fear is fear itself. And I'm okay with it. 

But anyone who's okay with cockroaches? PSYCHOPATHS. All of them. I don't need a psychologist to tell me that. 

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

What is your biggest fear?

Read More

The A - L Of Me

A is for Autistic.  I was diagnosed with ASD (formerly called Aspergers) at age 40. Also, I'm pretty awesome. Amazing, astounding, and everything. Okay, I'm fairly average, but the other a words sounded more impressive. Sniff.

B is for bookworm. I am one. I should probably mention my boys, too. They're the Best. 

C is for cakies, chocolate and Carpenters music. These are a few of my favourite things! As opposed to girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. Not that I have anything against the latter. I just prefer the former.

D is for dogs. I'd call myself a dog person. I'm also a chronic daydreamer. And utterly delusional delightful. Let's not forget about that.

E is for enigmatic. I am a puzzle even to myself. A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. Or a middle-aged woman, wrapped in a dressing gown, inside a ramshackle suburban house. Details.

F is for FOOD. I love it. I'm also extremely forgetful. But I never forget to eat, so that's something.  Also, I am FABULOUS.

G is for groovy. Clearly I am. Totally hip and cool and cutting edge.  Also; GORGEOUS. And; grey. I let my hair go grey and I love it. Silver foxes FTW!

H is for hermit. I fear I am becoming one.

I is for introvert. See above.

J is for January. The month I was born in. During?

K is for Karen. Carpenter, of course. My idol. No explanation necessary. You either get it, or you don't. And if you don't, I can't help you. I mean, we can't all have exquisite taste, can we?

L is for the library. The only place I go to these days. See above. Plus, I once pretended to work in them decades ago.

L is also for Lafferty. It used to my name before I was married. This is frightfully fascinating information, I think you will find.

L is also the last letter for now.  Lovely.


Stay tuned for The M - Z of Me. Coming soon!


What is your A-L?

Read More