I helped ONE !
Without Prejudice
I helped someone with my stories. That is so weird as I just said, the other day, if i could help just ONE, I would be happy. A lady contacted me and I had helped her with her day. She typed in Melbourne Winter Depression and my stories came up. Isn't that fantastic ? I helped someone with their day. Thats why I do it, that and the fact that I will get 6 million readers one day and have enough to buy a tea towel. Ha Ha.
I write as it's the thing I love and it just comes pouring out now. I write as I've been through a lot and am a baby boomer and love to share. I write as it is cathartic and releases a lot of anxiety, worry and depression that I have inherited from my Mum. Mum was a beautiful, elegant ballsy lady, a feminist before femininsm came into being.
But she became very ill. was ill for a few years before she died. Post Partum depression or menopause triggering a latent mental condition she had from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the War. She never believed she was ill, never believed how bad she was. There were no SSR'Is or antidepressants in those days and it makes me very sad to remember the struggle that she went through.
She craved things, peanuts at one stage, couldn't get enough, packet after packet and chain smoked. Towards the end of her life she devoured sugar, meringues from shops mainly. It still makes me sad to think of her trying to force sugar into her body as if it would make her feel well.
Her body trying to get back it's equilibrium, somehow, anyhow. They tried ECT and sedatives, didn't work. They tried lithium and it made her enormously fat. She wore Kaftans, my Mother would never before that be seen dead in a Kaftan.
Looking after themselves goes first in a depressive, not caring how they look anymore. Mum was always well dressed and pretty I remember. She had blazing blue eyes and with tanned skin and her black curly hair she was gorgeous. That's how I remember her not the big lady with greying hair and no teeth when she was in Psychiatric Hospital.
Dad refused to believe she was ill and she was so very ill, terribly so. I watched her with so much sadness and helplessness and would then hate her when she was stubborn or violent. She was my Mum, my overly intelligent, stand your ground, fierce Mother. It broke my heart when I saw her in the Hospital, I didn't recognise her. Even now tears come to my eyes when I think of her fierce struggle to be well and not classed as "crazy."
Dad stayed with her to the end, the very end, the last day, would not give up on his lovely Nat. Natalie who was the mover and the shaker of the Family of 7 kids and Dad. Who taught us to love education, to love to be smart at school and to love the written word and language. And Dad taught us music.
I can't remember her crying, not even when she was bad. I can't remember her crying for Jamie when he died. I remember Dad crying but not Mum, but then she was put in hospital. A nervous breakdown, they said, the Doctors.
She said that when she was belted as a child she was told not to cry. Crying would get her another one, and I think that was from my Granny Wilsher as Grandad Wilsher was as mild mannered as my Dad was. Meek almost to my fiery granny.
God knows what she had to put up with. He was drinker and a bit of a lady killer my Grand Dad in his day, mild mannered or not. And so was my Dad. I can remember Mum finding a strippers G String in the glove box of the car and going mental.
A diamante encrusted G string. Dad was a muso and had been at a gig. God, there was shit flying for a few weeks over that incident.Mum went to town on his head. Then unbeknownst to us when Mum had Helen her last baby at 42 in the UK there was another lady giving birth to one of Dad's babies, a boy, John, supposedly in the next ward.
The same time might be a bit of an exaggeration but it was true John was born around the same time as Helen and was supposed to be the reason we went back to Australia after 5 years in the UK. The stories are embellished over the years. Only my Aunt is alive now, my Mum's older Sister, only she would know what went on back in the day, 45 years ago. She hated my Dad with a passion, so the truth is out there somewhere. Helen and Ian and I hear from John and he is Helens age.
God, can you imagine my Fathers panic, Auntie Bet said Mum never found out but I bet she suspected a lot. Imagine hiding that, he was doing an Arnie Schwartznegger. He told me about it years later and I didn't want to hear. I hated even thinking my Dad had sex never mind who with Ugh! Horrible. But it's not John's fault. Dad was his Dad and he looks exactly like Dad and he sings! He lives still in the UK. Nice bloke.
Maybe I want to help people because of my Mum. Probably. She was a great Mum before she was ill. A really great Mum. She committed suicide in the end. At 53. She had warapped up my two daughters birthday presents and had them in the wardrobe in the bedroom.
We found them after she died. Waiting there to be sent off at the end of November. It was Cup day in Melbourne when she died, the beginning of November. The month Jamie died in. Shortly before she died my older Sister said she went looking for Jamie, said she had lost him in Woolworths. He had been dead twenty years by then and we hardly ever spoke of him for fear of upsetting her and Dad.
I wish now I had, I wish I had spoken to her of her loss, I was 23 and pregnant with my 4th child when she died. She took an overdose of pills, had saved them up, Sleepers, and took the lot. Lay her head down in a park in Redcliffe and went to sleep. Her head resting on her handbag. Poor old Mum. She's at peace, now, with Dad and Jamie again. I know she'll be happy. But I will miss her every day of my life as I do Dad.
Love Janette
I helped someone with my stories. That is so weird as I just said, the other day, if i could help just ONE, I would be happy. A lady contacted me and I had helped her with her day. She typed in Melbourne Winter Depression and my stories came up. Isn't that fantastic ? I helped someone with their day. Thats why I do it, that and the fact that I will get 6 million readers one day and have enough to buy a tea towel. Ha Ha.
I write as it's the thing I love and it just comes pouring out now. I write as I've been through a lot and am a baby boomer and love to share. I write as it is cathartic and releases a lot of anxiety, worry and depression that I have inherited from my Mum. Mum was a beautiful, elegant ballsy lady, a feminist before femininsm came into being.
But she became very ill. was ill for a few years before she died. Post Partum depression or menopause triggering a latent mental condition she had from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the War. She never believed she was ill, never believed how bad she was. There were no SSR'Is or antidepressants in those days and it makes me very sad to remember the struggle that she went through.
She craved things, peanuts at one stage, couldn't get enough, packet after packet and chain smoked. Towards the end of her life she devoured sugar, meringues from shops mainly. It still makes me sad to think of her trying to force sugar into her body as if it would make her feel well.
Her body trying to get back it's equilibrium, somehow, anyhow. They tried ECT and sedatives, didn't work. They tried lithium and it made her enormously fat. She wore Kaftans, my Mother would never before that be seen dead in a Kaftan.
Looking after themselves goes first in a depressive, not caring how they look anymore. Mum was always well dressed and pretty I remember. She had blazing blue eyes and with tanned skin and her black curly hair she was gorgeous. That's how I remember her not the big lady with greying hair and no teeth when she was in Psychiatric Hospital.
Dad refused to believe she was ill and she was so very ill, terribly so. I watched her with so much sadness and helplessness and would then hate her when she was stubborn or violent. She was my Mum, my overly intelligent, stand your ground, fierce Mother. It broke my heart when I saw her in the Hospital, I didn't recognise her. Even now tears come to my eyes when I think of her fierce struggle to be well and not classed as "crazy."
Dad stayed with her to the end, the very end, the last day, would not give up on his lovely Nat. Natalie who was the mover and the shaker of the Family of 7 kids and Dad. Who taught us to love education, to love to be smart at school and to love the written word and language. And Dad taught us music.
I can't remember her crying, not even when she was bad. I can't remember her crying for Jamie when he died. I remember Dad crying but not Mum, but then she was put in hospital. A nervous breakdown, they said, the Doctors.
She said that when she was belted as a child she was told not to cry. Crying would get her another one, and I think that was from my Granny Wilsher as Grandad Wilsher was as mild mannered as my Dad was. Meek almost to my fiery granny.
God knows what she had to put up with. He was drinker and a bit of a lady killer my Grand Dad in his day, mild mannered or not. And so was my Dad. I can remember Mum finding a strippers G String in the glove box of the car and going mental.
A diamante encrusted G string. Dad was a muso and had been at a gig. God, there was shit flying for a few weeks over that incident.Mum went to town on his head. Then unbeknownst to us when Mum had Helen her last baby at 42 in the UK there was another lady giving birth to one of Dad's babies, a boy, John, supposedly in the next ward.
The same time might be a bit of an exaggeration but it was true John was born around the same time as Helen and was supposed to be the reason we went back to Australia after 5 years in the UK. The stories are embellished over the years. Only my Aunt is alive now, my Mum's older Sister, only she would know what went on back in the day, 45 years ago. She hated my Dad with a passion, so the truth is out there somewhere. Helen and Ian and I hear from John and he is Helens age.
God, can you imagine my Fathers panic, Auntie Bet said Mum never found out but I bet she suspected a lot. Imagine hiding that, he was doing an Arnie Schwartznegger. He told me about it years later and I didn't want to hear. I hated even thinking my Dad had sex never mind who with Ugh! Horrible. But it's not John's fault. Dad was his Dad and he looks exactly like Dad and he sings! He lives still in the UK. Nice bloke.
Maybe I want to help people because of my Mum. Probably. She was a great Mum before she was ill. A really great Mum. She committed suicide in the end. At 53. She had warapped up my two daughters birthday presents and had them in the wardrobe in the bedroom.
We found them after she died. Waiting there to be sent off at the end of November. It was Cup day in Melbourne when she died, the beginning of November. The month Jamie died in. Shortly before she died my older Sister said she went looking for Jamie, said she had lost him in Woolworths. He had been dead twenty years by then and we hardly ever spoke of him for fear of upsetting her and Dad.
I wish now I had, I wish I had spoken to her of her loss, I was 23 and pregnant with my 4th child when she died. She took an overdose of pills, had saved them up, Sleepers, and took the lot. Lay her head down in a park in Redcliffe and went to sleep. Her head resting on her handbag. Poor old Mum. She's at peace, now, with Dad and Jamie again. I know she'll be happy. But I will miss her every day of my life as I do Dad.
Love Janette
