I am more than a stereotype of my mental illness

I am more than my mental illness, I have dreams and hobbies which have nothing to do with anxiety, or depression. Sometimes it's hard to remember this. I struggle every day with my condition, I talk about it constantly to those I love. I seek reassurance and validation constantly.

At least once a day my husband asks, “how are you going?” He expects an honest answer about my emotional state. As do the multitude of friends who constantly ask, “are you ok?” I try to answer honestly but I get sick of seeing the pity in their eyes, so I lie and say, “I am much better, thank you”.

With everyone reminding me to take care and not over do it, it's no wonder I get caught up in the world of my illness. I believe there should be no shame in admitting to mental illness. So, I do talk about mine openly, (mostly) honestly, and loudly.

Still it feels all I can offer the world is my wisdom and experience, hard earnt by fighting every day to accept myself and be accepted by others as the beautiful yet flawed soul I am.  However, I want to be known for more.

I want to publish my poetry, finish my first book, complete my diploma of photography, and make money capturing the beauty in the world around me. I want to do well at my day job, and be known for being a kind and caring person.

I want to be an Aunty my nieces and nephew can look up to. Most of all I want to be a wife who can contribute equally to the household and its maintenance.

Some days I bounce up and do these things, and some days I count it as a win if I can even get out of bed. Sometimes I laugh and joke and it is almost as if I am the person I want to be, but something always happens, something triggers a thought or emotion and I can’t come back from it.

Everyone has doubts and even people who never have and never will fight with mental illness can self-sabotage or doubt aspects of their life. For someone with Anxiety or depression however, self-sabotage and doubt is an Olympic sport, and we are training for gold.

I am more than my mental illness, but at times when a major episode hits it feels like all I am is my mental illness. “How are you today?” is one of the most used social niceties, when someone says it to a person they know suffers anxiety or depression it becomes more than a social question. They stare intently at you waiting for a dramatic answer, tears, or overreaction. The worst thing about this is on a bad day I’ll give them exactly what they expect.

I still write, I capture beautiful pictures, I laugh and play with my nephew, and visit my sister and grandmother. I try to spend time with my husband and do all the things it is easy to “forget” about. I battle people’s misconceptions every day, hoping my transparency can perhaps dissipate some of the stereotypes surrounding anxiety and depression.

Mindfulness is more than just another trendy buzzword.

Anxiety is a constant lump in my chest; smooth, hard, shiny, and solid like a big marble. This is how I visualise my anxiety during mindfulness. When all the chaos and mixed emotions are cleared away and I am looking at anxiety alone as a feeling it’s not as big as I think it is. Knowing this I should be able to function out in the world just like everybody else, right?

I mean everybody gets stressed, everybody gets scared, you just have to relax, and think about something else. It’s something everybody deals with sometimes, what makes me so think I’m so different?

The distinction is, I don’t have a reprieve from my worries, the back of my mind is always ticking over with concerns and things I should be afraid of. For me mindfulness is not just a buzzword, it is a daily requirement to be able to get out of bed. I know I’ve got to go to work and make money, however, without mindfulness exercises I can’t even leave the house.

See, I know how small anxiety is inside my chest because I look at it every day. I clear away the dirty emotion surrounding this one little uncomfortable lump. My anxiety is only small but it attracts other emotions to it like moths to a flame. What starts as a little black marble becomes a swirling grey mass of pain, fear, anger, hopelessness, anguish, anxiety about  anxiety, paranoia, you get the picture.

If I don’t clear away these other emotions I quickly become incapacitated. My brain shuts down, my body follows. I go from an articulate, some might say intelligent woman to a stuttering, stumbling mess, who cannot remember even the simplest of her vocabulary.

Since I suffer Generalised Anxiety Disorder, that marble of anxiety will always be there. Everything is potentially a catastrophe in my world, if my husband doesn’t say I love you enough he doesn’t love me anymore. If he says it too much then he must be guilty of something.

We went away for a day and a half on the weekend, I spent most of the time imagining our house burning down, one of our cats dying, someone breaking in, the highway flooding so we couldn’t get home for work even the house flooding because we live close to the river. I don’t mean I thought about these things and blew them off knowing I was being silly, these thoughts in my head seemed so scary and real I could almost convince myself they had already happened.

Of course, we came home and everything was fine. I prepared to return to work Monday morning for the first time since my Hospitalisation. Which just means Sunday night gave me a whole new set of concerns for my anxiety to chew, like a dog with a bone.

Mindfulness is my saviour. Closing my eyes and breathing in and out slowly ten times thinking of nothing but the air going in and out of my lungs may seem rude to people around me, but checking out of the conversation for a minute or two is better than hyperventilating and becoming a hysterical mess in public.

I have piles of colouring books, rocks I touch for texture, and guided mindful exercises on my phone. I walk mindfully, paying attention to the things I see along the way.  I even have tricks for when I am in public. If you see me rubbing my left hand in circles on my left thigh, you guessed it, I’m being mindful. All it means is I am thinking about nothing but what I am doing, seeing, physically feeling. I am bringing myself back from the edge of panic giving myself something to think about besides the growing ball of messy emotions whirling inside my chest.

Now, I’m no mindfulness expert, but this is the way I understand it. This is what helps me. I practice some form of mindfulness at least 4 times a day. Most times it is a quick one or two-minute exercise, and at least once a day I do a ten or twelve-minute exercise.  

Mindfulness doesn’t always work but I am calmer and better equipped for being out in the world as long as I remember to be truly mindful and not just someone who can throw a trendy buzzword around.

What activities do you apply mindfulness to in your life?

Just some poems about anxiety and depression

Hollowed out and beaten down

Still you hold your tarnished crown

Eyes are burning, muscles sore

Head is aching, you can’t take anymore

You once were queen upon your throne

Now you wander lost and alone

Your mind is trapped within your past

You fake happiness which cannot last

You need release you need to cry

You need answers you need to know why?

If not why then how? you ask

How do you fight? What an impossible task

When the danger dwells inside yourself

When the problem is your mental health

How do you fix it? Why should you care?

Why does it matter if you don’t wash your hair?

You hold your crown but deep down you know

Your castle and throne were all for show

Your mistress of nothing, you rule over none

You can’t even make sure your housework is done

There must be a way to get yourself back

To get this life of yours back on track

Perhaps the first step is to polish the crown

Wash your hair, find your shoes, and buy a new gown

Or maybe you let go of a past tarnished and frightful

And look to a future which just may be delightful.

                                     09~05~2017

Endless noise and endless fights

Forever thinking means less sleep at nights

Hard to stop the incessant noise

Hard to control my perfect poise

All this inside my mind each day

No wonder sanity feels like it’s slipping away

Two personalities with their own thoughts

My mind becoming their private tennis courts

The left side lobs a thought across to the right

The right lobs one back with all his might

I’m stuck in the middle trying to survive

Constantly wondering if I’ll get out alive

This constant noise can get so loud

Its hard to concentrate out in a crowd

I need time to myself, I need time to rest

Distractions from thoughts, but sleep works the best

No noise when I’m sleeping, except for the dreams

But that noise is different, we’re untinted it seems

Why does my mind seem split in two?

And to stop all this noise what do I do?

If I can’t get along with the thoughts in my head

If they constantly bicker about what someone has said

How can I know what is fake, what is true?

Why do friends stand by me with all I put them through.

23~04~2017

Hiding behind a perfect mask

A girl so shattered yet no one will ask

What is wrong? Why are you so sad?

Why do little things make you so mad?

They can’t see the sorrow, despair, or the pain

Only the cheerful mask, the smiles she can feign

She is scared to show the world her pain and true face

She instead moves along with kindness and grace

Helping another with whatever she can do

Her generous nature the one thing that is true

You’ll look at her passing you out on the street

You’ll look right through her never missing a beat

No one will guess she thinks she’d be better off dead

You’d never guess at the commotion inside of her head

Strangers often stop and tell her their sorrow

She listens and shows them a shoulder to borrow

Other people mean more to her than she does to herself

She will give all she can no thought for her own health

She always says yes, she hates to say no

Works so hard to make sure the truth doesn’t show

She could be your mother, your sister, your wife

Or any random female you know in your life

So take the time, stop and truly talk a while

Pay attention and you may notice what’s behind her bright smile.

 20~04~2017

Falling Further down the rabbit hole

Nothing to stop you nothing to hold

The darkness grows dense around your soul

No heat to thaw the heart numbing cold

Fall far enough the pain just may cease

But of course, this is just another lie

There is only chaos no room for peace

So, you yell and scream and ask the gods why

Why am I like this? Why am I here?

Why am I damaged beyond all repair?

You can fight, beg, or hide from your fear

But the ground hits hard, best beware

How far you fall or how deep you go

Changes each time you fall into the hole

Till you stop falling you never can know

If you’ll make it out unscathed and whole

When you hit rock bottom yes it will sting

No free rides are to be had in this wonderland

You must pick yourself up and get back in the ring

Fight back at your monsters, win your right to feel grand

20~04~2017

What a bad day looks like when you suffer anxiety and depression.

Today is a bad day. For a lot of people this might mean they forgot their wallet, or spilt their morning coffee on their shirt, perhaps they made a mistake at work and their boss told them off. For someone with anxiety and depression, someone like me, a bad day means I couldn’t get out of bed.

My husband brought me a cup of tea, reminded me to take my medication, cooked me brunch and made sure I ate it. We watched a comedy sitcom on tv together before I crawled back into bed for the afternoon.

He came in and hugged me and I had to grit my teeth and not yell at him to go away. I wanted him there and I wanted to know he loved me, but I also wanted to be able to lie there and cry without having to explain my tears.

On a bad day, my tears have no reason, my emotions are all over the place; anxiety makes me think about everything and I cannot switch off, while depression makes me apathetic and numb and I cannot care. So, when someone wants me to explain how I am feeling, I can’t. I’m too befuddled by everything, and nothing.

I feel dazed and confused, no words coming when usually I have no problem communicating. My vocabulary shrinks, I stutter and stumble through sentences, I repeat myself and then I get frustrated because no one seems to be understanding what I am trying to convey.

I look at the world through a foggy lens which leeches the beauty and wonder out of everything in front of me. On a bad day, I just lie in bed thinking how I am not good enough I will never be good enough and trying to make anything of my life is futile.

On a bad day I feel unloved, unwanted, and as if no one understands me, no one cares. It’s on these days suicide ideation seems like the most normal and natural past time, I’m not doing anything with my life so why keep wasting oxygen?

These are the days I need my friends the most, but also the days I won’t reach out to anyone. The days I fear my own emotions, and what I may do. I try mindfulness, meditation, grounding, I read a book or colour in, most days these strategies help and I can get up and get on with it, but sometimes there is nothing to pull me back and all I can do is get through the day and hope tomorrow will be better.

Tomorrow isn’t always better, this is my third day in a row where getting out of bed has been such a struggle. I still hope for tomorrow though, and hope is like a lifesaver I cling to while trying not to drown in a sea of deadly emotions.

So, yesterday was a bad day, today is a bad day, and tomorrow, well I just can’t say yet. What I can say is whether tomorrow is a bad day, a neutral day, or a good day, it’s a day I’ll still be here. I’ll still be fighting to keep my head above the choppy waters. Tomorrow I just might even make it out of bed!

Some days my smile is real and some days you would never know I'm faking it

Here’s the thing with anxiety and depression, some days I feel better than others. Some days my smile is real, and I may laugh at your silly joke. Other days though it’s all fake, the smile, the laugh, the assurance that I’m doing fine, none of it is real, it's just a really good act. I’m just waiting for the people to go away so I can break down and cry alone.

These are the hard days, I need something from other people they can’t give me. I’m not even sure I can put what it is I want into words. It’s not sympathy, or empathy, it’s not encouragement, or positive words, nor is it compassion or understanding. It’s an elusive need, one that is rarely met, I’m not even sure I know what it is I am needing. All I know is I don’t have it!

When depression over rides everything else and I feel like everything is pointless my chest becomes heavy, I can’t believe anyone sees anything worthwhile in me. I can’t see anything worthwhile in myself. Depression is a nasty beast whispering constantly in my ear, “Why am I here? What’s the point of my life? Why does anyone care? They don’t really care, why don’t they stop pretending?”

If I was just battling depression perhaps these questions would remain unanswered and just be thoughts flitting through the back burner of my mind. The thing is, my true demon is anxiety, and she loves nothing more than to scream the answers at me. She screeches at top volume, it makes my head ache, my eyes hurt and my throat constrict. It steals the breath from my lungs and makes my stomach roll. All the while her shrill voice is shrieking answers to questions I don’t want to be asking anyway. “you’re a mistake! Your life is pointless, worthless. You’re a fraud. No one cares, they are all using you, if you tell them the truth they will run. You’re dumb, pathetic, always making mistakes, you’re a bad sister, a bad friend, a bad wife. You’re a bad person, everyone is laughing at you, you can’t do anything right.”

I take my medication, follow doctor’s orders, I meditate, I practice mindfulness, I see a therapist, but I still have these bad days where it feels like I am moving backwards. Days where it is all too much and I want to hide away. I want no one to come near and no one to touch me, except, I want to be reassured, and I want to know my friends and family care. On these bad days where I’m caught between a beast and a demon, I know I am too needy, too fragile, I cannot be pleased. I am aware of how many bad days I have (there is no need for anyone to need to remind me), and I wish it really was just as easy as “snapping out of it”.

I’ve lost friends, who think I fake it, I’ve had family call me narcissistic, I’ve fought with my husband because I seemed irrational, I have been both actively and passively suicidal, I’ve lived in self-denial; I have lived through these things and I am proud of myself for surviving. It doesn’t make the hard days any easier. It doesn’t mean I’ve killed a rabid beast or slayed a wretched demon. It just means I have survived, and hopefully with the blessing of my gods, the right medications, and watchful eye of my husband I will keep on surviving.

I may never lay my beast and demons to rest, but I will never stop trying. I will never stop sharing my struggle, never stop trying to let others know they are not alone with their monsters in this scary wilderness called life. Will you fight your demons with me?

Isn’t It time we shattered the stigma attached to “Invisible Illnesses”?

I was diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety disorder (GAD) and severe depression eight weeks ago, four weeks ago they added emotional dysregulation, apparently, a nice little gift from my untreated anxiety disorder. They (doctors, psychiatrists, and psychologists) believe I developed GAD sometime in my teenage years. I certainly could not tell them when I first noticed being over anxious as I have always been an over thinker, a worrier, a huge “what if-er”.

 I have always had trouble knowing when to stop, when to let go. Those inner voices, well they have always been there telling me to do better, try harder, make sure they don’t find out you are a fraud. Most people are happy to get a pay rise at work, not me, a pay rise means I must work that much harder because I don’t want anyone to have a reason to find out I can’t do my job properly.

The one thing I have been very good at over the last twenty plus years is faking it. I faked my smiles and laughs, developed a completely different personality to the one living inside my head. I fooled family, friends, doctors, my husband, hell I had the act down so well I even fooled myself for the better part of two decades.

About five years ago I admitted to myself that something was just not quite right. I began seeing doctors and asking them what was wrong with me? why was I so scared of getting out of bed every morning? why was going to work so hard? Why did I make excuses to avoid public transport and social events? I lost count of how many doctors told me it was all in my head, until finally one told me I suffered mild anxiety and should learn to meditate.

Learn to meditate, he was kidding, right? I explained to him as politely as I could my belief in paganism and how I already meditated at least once a day. His answer was “try twice a day then, and be more positive.”

Mild anxiety, it took over two years and many doctors to find out I had “mild anxiety”, it sure didn’t feel mild, but doctors know best, right?

At least I had something I could work with, I already meditated but it became an obsession, every night before bed, I would spend an hour in meditation, every day I would find at least one thing to be positive about. I read books about positive thinking, liked and shared all the positivity memes I could find. My ‘fake Sarah’ went into positivity overdrive!

I told my manager about my “mild anxiety”, I needed to be able to explain why some days I just couldn’t make it to work as I couldn’t get out of bed. I suffered migraines no one could find a reason for, and it seemed I always had a stomach bug. I persevered however, staying positive, meditating, getting massages to help relax tense muscles.

At home where no one could see me, things were so different, I never made a decision (much to my husband’s annoyance), I never wanted to do anything, I spent my free time, watching television, playing computer games or looking at my phone. Mostly though I laid in bed pretending to sleep.

I was always irritable and snapping at my husband, I never contacted my friends unless they contacted me first. I was always “going to have coffee” but was always busy and just couldn’t find the time. This was my life and I was so far gone down the rabbit hole I didn’t even realise there was anything wrong with the way I was living.

Sure, I had panic attacks and was always feeling physically ill, but that was just how it was. Doctors didn’t seem to take it seriously so obviously, I was just making a big deal out of nothing. I just wasn’t strong enough, good enough, trying hard enough, basically I just wasn’t enough. I didn’t make friends because the closer people got the more likely they were to find out I was a fraud.

Then eight weeks ago I was sent home from work as I just couldn’t get a grip on myself after having a panic attack. Two days later, I just couldn’t make myself get out of bed so I visited the Mental health service in my town. Within five minutes the psychiatrist assured me there was nothing mild about my condition.

I was given antidepressants, and diazepam for the anxiety and urged to see my GP to get a referral for a psychologist. I was cynical about the depression diagnoses, I didn’t feel sad or depressed, I was convinced I was a happy person. I took my pills however, like a good girl. The diazepam dulled the senses and relieved my over active brain of all its anxiety driven thoughts. Exactly what it was meant to do, right?

The problem was without the anxiety and the adrenalin it brought to the party, depression hit me like a freight train. All I wanted to do was lie in bed and cry all day. No one loved me, no one cared, they never had, they never will, I would be better off dead. Why was I here? What was the point?

Suicidal ideation was my constant companion. My husband took me to see the GP and get my referral for a psychologist after I rang him at work in hysterics, because I really thought I would take all the diazepam I had in the house. The less anxiety I felt the more depression took over, within a week I went from suicidal ideation to actual attempts.

After trying to drown myself in a bath tub, my husband knew he wouldn’t be able to keep me safe at home by himself and so I found myself in a mental health unit (MHU) for the next 13 days. My medication was changed, increased, doled out to me on a strict schedule. I slept a lot, cried a lot, stayed locked in my tiny little room writing poems and reading books. More people than I ever thought cared about me came to visit or ring, sometimes so many people in one day I would get overwhelmed and need to ask for no more visitors.

My husband spent this time learning what he could to be able to help me, he felt bad about the debates and disagreements which could have been avoided if we knew what was going on. The most helpful thing he has given me is the option to say, “this is too much right now” and walk away with no questions asked. But I do digress from what this post is about, how my mental illness affects my relationships is a whole other blog for a whole other day!

I was fragile and tired at home and while I was trying hard to get back into life, being around people made me shaky, leaving the house drained my energy at tremendous speed. I still had suicide ideation and thoughts of self-harm. I was definitely not ready for the rollercoaster of emotions real life was going to throw at me.

I lasted ten days at home, eight days where I coped with the big bad world and two days in which I have no recollection of events, except for knowing I tried to end my life again. I ended up being transferred by ambulance in the middle of the night from my small town with no after hour mental health facilities to the same MHU I had just been discharged from.

My anxiety was screaming inside my head, what a failure, back to the same place, you are such a loser, who tries to kill themselves over something so stupid? My depression was screeching at me life is no different to death, you’re miserable here, no one gives a shit, just find a way end it all.

 I was going to have to face the same nurses and some of the same patients, I was sure it would be humiliating. However, it wasn’t as bad as my anxiety made me believe. In fact, while I was there two other patients returned as well, it is not unusual for patients to return quickly after their first discharge.

Both times I presented at the MHU I entered as a voluntary patient, this second time however it was made very clear to me by the attending doctor that any attempt to leave the unit while they had me under observation for the next 48 hours would result in me being placed under the mental health act. Even irrational, I’m better off dead Sarah knew this was not something we wanted.

It all went so fast the second time, no one knew where I was, there was no visitors no phone calls (except for my husband). By talking to him I pieced together things from the two days I do not remember. The one thing that scared me, that made me realise I really needed to do whatever it takes to get better, was finding out when my loving husband asked me not to over dose on tablets because he couldn’t live without me, I told him to take the tablets too.

I asked someone I love more than anything in this universe to die. Hurting myself is one thing, hurting someone else is another thing entirely. I’m not that person. Self-loathing, self-belittling, self-harming, yes, all those things, but I care for other people I would never want to hurt anyone. At least the me I once was would never want to harm another person.

Again, we played with my medication increasing my anti-depressants and anxiety pills again. I had seen a psychologist while home but this time I saw the MHU’s psychologist. It seemed doctors and nurses were much more in my face being a returning patient. No longer was I allowed to hide in my room reading and writing all day, I had to sit in the garden and talk to doctors, nurses, peer-support workers.

At first it was hard, it was scary, it was tiring, I didn’t want to go to art therapy and relaxation. I walked around with my kindle and made a point of opening it during meals to read instead of talk. This was not because I am mean or I hate people, rather my social phobia kicks in anytime there is more than three people in a room with me.

 The thing that kept me going to group activities and eventually trying to eat a meal without my kindle in my face was knowing I had to get better. I had to do whatever it takes to get back to the person I know I am. The kind of person who would never encourage their husband to die alongside them.

I started writing in a notebook while in the MHU for the second time. It is my recovery book, one side is full of my research, and techniques my psychologist and I are trying, flip it over and it is my recovery goals written out over many pages with space to write notes as I achieve things.

Two of these goals have led to this blog, and will probably lead to more posts about my Illness in the future. The first of these goals is, start writing again, write every day, write for pleasure, write for release, write to reach other people. The second goal is to stop lying to myself and other people, be open and honest about my mental illness, to be a public voice helping to break down the stigma people with invisible illnesses face.

To all the people who tell me how brave and inspirational I am talking about my anxiety and depression on social media, thank you for your kind words. I don’t feel brave or inspirational though, mostly I feel tired and depleted, full of fear and overly emotional. By sharing my story, I just may change the view of one person who thinks mental illnesses are not real illness, help one person suffering in silence to seek the help they need, or even just make someone fighting their own anxiety and depression know they are not alone.

If you need help or think someone close to you might need help, please find someone to talk to reach out, if you have no one in your life you think will understand  there are places you can call. You are not alone!

- lifeline 13 11 14
- beyond blue 1300 22 46 36

In memory of James Douglas Malcom; My first love, My first hero, My Daddy!

My beautiful Daddy left us this month, there is a black hole in my life knowing I will never get to speak to or hug him again. So my return to blogging is going to be a tribute to my dad, a memorial of the day I had to say goodbye to the first man I ever fell in love with! 

JAMES DOUGLAS MALCOLM

20-3-1952 – 14-10-2014

dad at our cousin Sandy's wedding

 

Dad was a great man, with a huge personality and an even bigger heart. He never hid his emotions and wore his heart on his sleeve. He loved unconditionally and unashamedly claimed pink as his favourite colour, wearing anything he could in pink and often stealing my sister's pink accessories. His obsession with the colour is the reason many people honoured him by wearing pink to his funeral.

 

There was nothing dad loved more then a good yarn, he was never without a story to tell and his stories were never short winded. What better way is there to honour dad's memory then with a few of his favourite yarns.

James Douglas Malcolm was born on the 20th March 1952 to Nancy and Doug Malcolm. He had four sisters, Maureen, Kathy, Julie and Janelle, who sadly was a still born baby. As well as one brother Peter.

 A baby picture of dad

Dad married Jeannette, the love of his life on the 23 June 1973 and to hear dad or mum tell the story he quite literally swept her off her feet and stole her heart. Mum was dating his good mate Dougie Gray and one night after they had gone to the movies a car sped up as they were Crossing the street and two guys jumped out and threw the couple into the back seat. Dad turned round held out his hand and said "Hi I'm Jim." That was the last date mum had with Dougie.

Dad and mum went on to marry and have three awesome children, myself, Annie and Dougie. Although their marriage ended in later years they remained close and everyone knew mum held a very special place in his heart right up until the end.

mum and dad's wedding photo

 

Dad always said “blood is thicker than water”. For many people this may just be a nice saying, for dad it was a way of life. He lived and breathed for his family and there was nothing he wouldn't do for any of them, especially his children, the three of us were his world. 

 Mr Saunders, myself, my sister, her partner and my brother with dad

Growing up every year without fail dad would ensure we went to the Cairns Show not just once but on all three nights. It was a sacred event for dad and he demanded that his nieces and nephews go all three nights as well. He didn't care if he was broke after those three days, they were a time for spoiling the kids. When we went to the show dad made sure we wanted for nothing. In later years when he couldn't make the show it became the custom for anyone to bring him home a dagwood dog and a waffle.

When we all became too old for the show and discovered night clubs we knew if dad wasn't sitting in the parking space between Tropos and the Sports Bar all we had to do was ring him and he would come and get us. Dad always had to feel useful and this was his way of taking care of his loved ones. It was our cousin Adam who dubbed this Jim's Taxi service.

Dad worried about us when we were out in the world. He would always say I trust you I just don't trust the rest of the people out there. He especially worried about Annie finishing so late at the casino and he would always be down there at 3 am waiting for her to finish work. Often asleep in the car with all the windows down and Annie's huge dog Tzar there to protect him. If Tzar didn't know who you were you needed dad's permission to touch the car. A fact a poor police officer learnt when he almost lost his hand as he prodded Dad awake one morning.

 Annie and dad at her graduation

 

Watching his kids grow up and leave the nest was bitter sweet for dad. He saw us less but was happy to see us creating our own lives and extending his family. All he ever wanted for us was that we were happy. He was a protective father though and I had to promise to only hold hands with Jason until we were married and sleep with a pillow down the middle of the bed. Annie was smarter than me she just agreed that John and herself slept in separate rooms. Dad only met Carrie briefly but he was overjoyed that Dougie had found someone to make him happy.

He was over the moon when Annie blessed him with his grandson Jaxon, ask anyone in this room, he was his happiest knowing he was at last Dar. Poor Annie though, he told her she had been downgraded to second favourite, Jax was now his number one.

   a couple of photos of Jax and his Dar

We had our ups and downs with dad, we didn't ways see eye to eye but this was because dad raised us to be independent and think for ourselves, he realised this meant we wouldn't always agree with him but he knew he had also taught us about unconditional love and we could disagree and still love each other dearly.

He told me writing was a difficult profession to break into it would take a lot of hard work, he never told me I couldn't do it though and over the years he patiently listened to many of my poems, some...well most of which were truly dreadful. He was most proud of the book I am writing though and it is sad that he won't be here to see it published.

Raising us to be able to take care of ourselves is something dad was really passionate about and apart from giving him Jaxon this is what he was most proud of Annie for. Out of the three of us he knew Annie was the one who could stand up for herself. His favourite story about Annie proves this point. Annie was really young maybe about 6 or so we ordered Chinese for dinner and they messed up the order this wasn't good enough for Annie so she rang the shop and gave them a piece of her mind scoring herself a free bag of prawn crackers. Dad always said this was the moment he knew he had raised her right.

Dougie was dad's only son and this makes him pretty special. Dad was proud when Dougie started playing as a hooker for brothers in the under 11s, after all you played for Brothers or you didn't play at all. He was ecstatic when Dougie excelled at the sport.

Seeing Dougie become a qualified chef was an awesome moment for a man who loved good food, he would use every excuse he could to get his son to cook for him. Dad loved curries and chilli and it could never be hot enough, a challenge Dougie took up. He made dad this curry and he was sure it was so hot dad couldn't possibly eat it. He dished it up to dad outside under the awning and then sneaked around the back to secretly watch dad suffer, only dad didn't suffer he finished the meal and told Dougie it was spot on!

 

Dad's humour was a little off kilter at times, almost always completely inappropriate and politically incorrect. Nanny always tells me he shared a morbid sense of humour with his father and brother. His humour also got him into trouble at times, at our cousin Sandy's wedding the priest came down to bless dad as he sat in his wheel chair he touched dad's forehead and dad couldn't stop himself from saying "it burns, it burns!" we tried unsuccessfully not to laugh but I don't think the priest was impressed.

In 2004 dad's ranking as first born and only son was blown out of the water when nanny received a surprise letter from Peter announcing to the family that he was in fact nanny and granddad's first born son. Dad had never been happier, he had always wanted a brother to banter with instead of 3 sisters to torment.

He welcomed peter with open arms and the same unconditional love he showed all his family and friends. Though they had only just met dad was chuffed by the similarities between himself and peter. Peter is a taxi driver and just like dad loves to tell a good yarn.

 dad's brother and his partner with dad

 

Dad was, let's just say a tad accident prone. From his early preschool years he gave his parents lots of reasons to worry.

He put his hand through a glass door at kindy. He always maintained he was pushed.

He rode his push bike into the back of of a stationary big yellow garbage truck. Running home to tell nanny he ran into a post at school. Too bad he was caught out when a neighbour who had seen it later told his mum what happened.

His first and most serious accident was as a passenger in a chandlers work vehicle where he nearly lost his life. It was this accident at only 16 when dad was given the last rites and from growing up listening to dad's many yarns I can tell you he counted every day after this one as a blessing.

Dad went on to have 2 motorbike accidents and another car accident while driving for black and white taxis.

Dad loved his time as a cabbie and made many good friends. Victor and Mick the Irishman continued to come by to visit dad long after he stopped driving taxis. Annie remembers poker games held at our childhood home after the night drivers finished work. Rusty and little Jim would be there. Dad was of course known as Big Jim!

 dad in his cabbie days

Dad would be the first to tell you be was a larrikin and some of the stories his good mates could tell would make your toes curl. He was the master of truancy. A talent he started honing as early as year one of edge hill state school when he would hide under the bush in the front yard or down at the corner store. If I remember correctly from Nanny this caper ended when the front bush developed a little cough.

By the time dad hit Cairns State High School he was given a nickname by his teacher Mr Jim Leahy... He was... The scarlet pimpernel! A name dad embraced. He would often quote "they seek me here, they seek me there, they seek me everywhere".

In his later years dad's passion became the Brothers Junior Football League. Every Friday night he would sell raffle tickets at Brothers Leagues Club to raise money for them. Where he was by the way quite a hit with the ladies. On Saturdays you would find him sitting on the gates taking admissions. Though his phone and pocket radio were always close by as Saturdays were race day.

Not long ago dad was given a motorised scooter by rotary to give him more mobility... He named her Lulu... and boy he loved zipping around on her with his akubra on. But in keeping with his history of things with wheels, he and Lulu suffered a few scrapes.

Dad had three things he loved in life, his family, his friends and Boofy, his beautiful white cat, sorry "white Siberian tiger" whom he trained to shake hands and come to him when he whistled. He was loved and adored by so many and truly the world is a darker place for having lost the light he shone upon it. The one thing I can hold on to these days is knowing the last thing I ever got to say to him was "daddy, I love you", there are not too many people lucky enough to be able to do that.

 a baby photo of dad and myself

dad and myself at my 21st