Thursday, November 27, 2014

On not being a parent (Or: No dessert till you've finished everything on that plate)

"No one tells you about the hard stuff!"

I've heard this from more than a few new mothers recently and each time I've been astonished.

Everyone tells me about the hard stuff. New mums, new dads: they're not holding back. Perhaps it's because they know I don't want children of my own, so they can't scare me off.

For the record, and for all the misty-eyed would-be mums and dads out there, here's an inventory of the hard stuff managed by my immediate circle of friends before, during and after birth:
  • inability to conceive, leading to multiple rounds of IVF
  • miscarriage and in one case mishandling of ensuing medical procedure
  • dangerously high blood pressure during pregnancy 
  • baby dies at term
  • induced birth
  • emergency caesarean (usually after endless hours of labour)
  • vaginal tearing and cutting
  • prolapse
  • post-birth haemorrhage requiring emergency surgery
  • "baby" is in fact twins
  • baby born with physical defects requiring surgical attention
  • baby suffers seizures within hours of birth
  • mastitis
  • mother produces no or insufficient milk
  • baby has difficulties learning to suckle
  • baby refuses bottle
  • weaning issues
  • sleeping problems (in some cases, but not all, ameliorated by sleep school)
  • post-natal depression, in one case requiring hospitalisation
  • child has Asperger's syndrome
  • mother develops conditions during pregnancy that require surgery after the birth
  • parents find relationship problems emerge between them in the months immediately after child is born.
And in the case of my close friends' families and close friends:
  • baby is born months premature
  • baby sustains brain damage during birth and dies within weeks
  • baby dies of sudden infant death syndrome.
Seriously. People. These aren't extreme cases; every parent reading that list will be thinking, well, of course. 

I hear these kinds of stories all the time. So how is it that so many would-be parents are missing out on the news? Are new mums and dads really keeping the challenges under their hats? Really?

Needless to say, this is just the beginning. After the baby arrives and weans and starts being a little human, there are all manner of challenges, and these, too seem to surprise the parents more than they do me. I've developed a separate theory as to why this is, thanks in part to a friend who once told me how she wished she was still a kid because her parents took care of everything and her life was just fun, fun, fun! No responsibility! If only she could have stayed a kid forever...

My theory is that if you enjoyed childhood, your parents probably did a pretty good job of coping. They probably managed quite well not to let show how very hard (a.k.a. sometimes downright excruciating) it is to be a parent. And so perhaps you think kids are basically fun, because you basically had fun being one.

My parents did a poor job of coping, so I got a very good sense of how hard it can be. How difficult it is to balance the competing needs of everyone in the household, and to sustain a supportive, loving family. From what I can tell it's basically a minute-by-minute challenge.

So I never expect kids to be basically fun, either in person or in theory. I expect whatever fun there is to be mixed in with a tonne of other emotions that are far less exciting and inspiring, that are much more taxing, that require proactive, hands-on, entirely conscious, very deliberate parental management. 

I'm not saying that, overall, parenting isn't positive or inspiring; I'm just agreeing that no, it's not easy. No one tells you about the hard stuff? Ask your parents.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

A certain line of enquiry

I read a little something on stories today that you might like.

The especial quote?

"The best way to ask a question is to answer it yourself first. "My experience is this, what's yours?" That way you're not asking for anything you wouldn't disclose yourself. ...Telling a story gives you the right to ask for one in return. It constantly surprises me how little people seem to understand this. How some people ask questions like they're throwing hammers."

Just days ago I told someone:

"People tell others how they feel as a means to solicit the same kind of thing back: I'll be vulnerable first so you won't feel shy about doing it too."

People ask questions like they're throwing hammers. To me it feels like throwing hammers to ask direct questions, but I was beginning to think that was ridiculous, oversensitive, crazy. Perhaps it is kind of indirect to offer information as a means of enquiry. Perhaps I should work up my throwing arm... I read this letter just as I was reaching for the free weights.

There was also this, which speaks enormous volumes to me:

"[Lies are] especially hard for me because I live in words. I love words. I believe the words we choose are a lossy formatted version of our truest thoughts and feelings. And the right words, at the right time, can change lives."

Change lives? On the one hand this may seem ludicrously idealistic. But on the other?

Don't we spend the entirety of our speaking lives using dialogue to seek connection, understanding, sense, answers, truths? Don't we spend our verbal existences longing to find—and to hear—the right words?

Those are rhetorical questions. You don't need to answer them.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014


[It might be a normal evening --
Sinking sun,
thin shadows thinner still.
My lazy thoughts, adrift,
Lie light above deep waters
Deeper still
When your memory surfaces:
As blind and real and
Dead as a corpse:
As breathtaking and dumb.

So the sun sinks, unfazed,
But I'm overboard,
And deeper still
Beneath iron waves
Bound to your deadweight.]

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Something for you

I've read a few things recently by fiction writers about writing: writing that is in their souls; writing what is in their souls. They write to explore the unknown parts of themselves and bring life to those darker, hidden possibilities.

I'm not that kind of writer. Where they explore with writing, I just tell. By the time the pencil's on the page, the exploration is over. What matters now is how I can put what I learned together in a way that makes sense of something for me, and something for you.

This blog is all backstory. Overtones, undercurrents, things that would otherwise go unsaid. Sometimes it's real, sometimes less so, but there's no fiction here. The less direct items do sort of conglomerate reality outside the immediate realm of the here and now. Still, I wouldn't call them fiction. I wouldn't know what to call them.

What's interesting, though, is the sense people make of them. This last people thought they knew about ... but then on second thoughts, maybe they weren't so sure. Wait, was I talking about ... you? How real was it?

Well, I'll tell you.

That piece is a plea to a grown-up from the idealistic child in themselves. It's a question to the world. It's a question to the particular people I connect with, and the ones I used to. It's a question I know you ask yourself. It's a reflection on what becomes of fresh, youthful ardour in the long rays late in the day, and an admonishment for a world gone dull when it could be so much more. It's a prayer-promise-to-self and a spiteful rage-post on betrayal and self-betrayal.

Was it about you? That's not the question. Was it real? That's not the question either.

What it is is a piece of me, made for you.

Friday, September 26, 2014

The letter

[Dear [name],
I miss you. Not the current you, because Jesus Christ you've turned into a boring fuck. I miss the old you. The you that had a sense of adventure. The you that could take a chance—that could, on occasion, be willingly lead astray.

What in hell happened to you? Bogged down now in mortgages and long-term relationships and the safety of the suburbs, every "radical" step only ever "radical" by the most middling standards? Directionless, yet buoyed by a zombie haze, feeling nothing, wanting nothing? Angry now only at the government, the voters, the parking inspectors, the rent collectors?

Don't you remember how it was? Don't you ever think about that?

I do. I think about it all the time, but mainly in the darkness after midnight, when there's no light to distract me from the task. I remember all we used to dream, every one the worlds we imagined combined into a single, vivid, incredible whole. Tessellated evenings cockeyed with colourful drinks. The friendly stranger with the dog on the street. Every plan we hatched and discarded for a better one, and only me eager to follow them all through.

Because you were all talk, even then. But I knew what could be, and I wanted you to see it too. Sometimes I even thought you did. I remember the light in your eyes when you smiled.

I hope you're happy with the way things panned out: your partner's hostilities washing over you like turbid water, your Saturday afternoon joint and superannuation. A life kept as pain-free as possible. 

I hope you're happy, because I'm not. And if that makes two of us, then what the fuck?

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

The weirdest thing

I'm all about drama, it has to be said. But in recent times something objectively weird has happened. It's the writer's greatest fantasy—and, possibly, worst nightmare: one of my characters appears to have come to life.

Years ago I set up a few extra Twitter accounts so I could play out an interactive story I'd written. It was fun, I ran the story, and then I forgot about the characters I'd made.

Until last week when one of them favorited one of my tweets.

Woah, I thought, as reality met fantasy and both worlds reeled around me. Hacked?! Panic-stricken, I tried to retrieve the password, but the account's tied to someone else's address now. I checked the accounts of my other characters: one's been taken over by a stranger, and all tweets and followed accounts deleted. The other two remain intact.

But this character? Still following the accounts I set up for her. And enjoying them if the favourites are anything to go by. No tweets of her own since those she contributed to my story, but she favorited another tweet of mine today.

Having a tweet favourited by a character you invented for a story is a pretty weird feeling. Who hacks a dormant account so they can chuckle over the accounts it follows? What are the chances that a random hacker would like the same things as my character?

I'd say it was creepy, but if we forget the hacked-account angle, the whole thing becomes entirely tantalising. Since the account was created for an imagined person, it's very easy to pretend that whoever's using it now is actually that character. Which is at once a wonderful and terrifying and terrifyingly wonderful prospect. Imagine! And if it's nothing more than a product of my psyche, why would it have shown up in Real Life (Official) now? Am I finally losing my mind?

I don't know, but I'm enjoying the mystery.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Footnotes from a non-fan

This whole Robin Williams thing, eh? I couldn't call myself a fan, and yet his death has prompted so much talk of suicide that it seems to have reached people who wouldn't otherwise have been overly engaged by the ending of his life.

One thing that's great is that some of those making commentary are doing so from the perspective of their own suicidal inclinations.

How refreshing; death is part of life, after all, and given that sentient humans are capable of choosing to end our own lives, it seems silly to pretend the thought never entered our collective mind.

We must all have known people who have taken their own lives. We can, surely, also assume that we've all thought about it in relation to ourselves, either in abstract or more practical terms. Even those now asking what Williams could possibly have had to be depressed about must have given the topic more than a passing thought.

This suicide is the first I've heard of since last year, when I woke in the middle of the night with the same compulsion. That time, it was a compulsion—unexpected, overwhelming, necessary. I never fought so hard against anything as I did against that. I was never so scared of—or for—myself.

Whenever I hear of a suicide, my first thought is, "Oh! If only they'd told someone!" Because things change, and suicidal hours or weeks can segue into mere difficulty, given time. But time is crucial. And the suicide doesn't care for it—what matters is this moment. Which is why it's so important to be there for anyone who express a desire to die.

I told just one person about that night: the friend I felt closest to. I wrote to them a couple of days later, but they did not respond. They kept silent, told no one. And when I finally confronted them, just recently, months after the fact, they brushed it off, saying, "It wasn't real" while avoiding my gaze.

Self-harm is hard to come to, even for some of the supposedly intelligent, respected, sensitive people who might claim to be your friends.

When a famous person loses a death-battle with something—drugs, mental illness, whatever—the media, and we as part of it, rush to encourage others to ask for help if they need it, as if there's a solution in the seeking. There's not.

Self-harm is complex because we are complex. Both those who want to do it, and those who would stop them, are human. We make choices on the basis of sentiment rather than sense. We all are weak. Those who have never wanted to kill themselves are no "better off" than those who have.

There is no "better off". There's only this moment, and what you do in it.