My Therapist. And My Mother, Natalie
Without Prejudice
He's small and wears red shoes. He's calm and yet explodes the myths I held so dear for so many years. He is the same man I saw when Lauren died. He was my friend and saviour then and is once again. I cannot recommend therapy enough now that I have returned to it after 23 years of struggle.
I have had three sessions and feel so much better. As youngsters we learn and as mature age people we come to understand. As I speak he nods, he comments and his comments are a ladder I climb and start to rebuild. When I saw him and his colleague after Lauren died I thought they could not possibly understand what I was going through. But they took the time and trouble to go to a pool at night and realise how easy it was in the dark to become disoriented.
I tell him of my fear of men and how I no longer want to feel like that. He says I must stop looking for my Dad. My Muso Dad that was placid and loving, who over compensated for my mentally ill
Mother. I ask if I am a reincarnation of her and he tells me not to be silly my Mother was ill.
She left my older sister and I with depression and that these days it is treatable. Jackie and I remain good at taking our medication, although we both remember all the meds Mum was on and have periods of time where we try and go off it, but realise then that we have to be vigilant
Jackie's life is so different to mine. She has been happily married for eons, has no money worries and yet her and I are the same. Sisters under the skin. She is the strong one, or she used to be and I was the shy bookish one. She dragged me to school after school, unwilling and crying and she could not understand my shyness and reluctance. I was good at school, but the thought of new circumstances
Would terrify me.
I'm not like that now. I am a warrior now and prefer the truth rather than imagination. But I am glad we take the journey together of depression, rather than alone. I now relate to her and she to me as the sisters we always were and no longer rivals for Mum and Dads attention.
We both still adore our brothers and I am so proud of them all. We were such poor kids and had to keep secrets, many secrets, but we had each other and I am so glad that they were mine. They all protected me and I them in my own way and we protected Mum, fought for her.
My brothers are wealthy now as us my sis and I am not. But I have kids, lots and lots if them and they regard me as rich and I understand why. I am rich with love, hugs, kisses, and I get that everyday and know now I am truly blessed. I love my kids, I find them endlessly fascinating. I always have.
When a child makes that leap in knowledge and understanding my heart soars. Andrej my beautiful great grandson can say Da da and can crawl and no matter how many times I see a child develop I am always thrilled. And I have had so many children to take care of, mine, other peoples, friends of my children's friends. I love them all as I did as a girl.
And I remember my Mums saying,
"kids, I should have had a dozen"
She had seven of us.
And each and everyone of us has gone on to do her and Dad proud. We never expected to have something for nothing, if we wanted something we had to knuckle under and work. Times were tough then, we often starved, we had no new clothes, but we were all gifted with intelligence and pride. We kept our secrets and beat up other kids that threatened our Mum or mocked her.
We knew somehow by osmosis she wasn't well and protected her fragile mind. She glittered and was brittle, a fine piece if china that could become broken at any time. Dad knew it too and loved her, and stayed with her to the very end, his beautiful Nat.
She was schizophrenic, an awful thing. She was war damaged and a genius, the fine line of genius and madness she walked every day, she had migraines, she slept a lot. Sometimes waking when she was older, screaming, she saw things we didnt, heard things we couldn't hear and at 53 took her own life.
I miss her every single day as I do my father. They loved us unconditionally, and only from parents do you get that.
He's small and wears red shoes. He's calm and yet explodes the myths I held so dear for so many years. He is the same man I saw when Lauren died. He was my friend and saviour then and is once again. I cannot recommend therapy enough now that I have returned to it after 23 years of struggle.
I have had three sessions and feel so much better. As youngsters we learn and as mature age people we come to understand. As I speak he nods, he comments and his comments are a ladder I climb and start to rebuild. When I saw him and his colleague after Lauren died I thought they could not possibly understand what I was going through. But they took the time and trouble to go to a pool at night and realise how easy it was in the dark to become disoriented.
I tell him of my fear of men and how I no longer want to feel like that. He says I must stop looking for my Dad. My Muso Dad that was placid and loving, who over compensated for my mentally ill
Mother. I ask if I am a reincarnation of her and he tells me not to be silly my Mother was ill.
She left my older sister and I with depression and that these days it is treatable. Jackie and I remain good at taking our medication, although we both remember all the meds Mum was on and have periods of time where we try and go off it, but realise then that we have to be vigilant
Jackie's life is so different to mine. She has been happily married for eons, has no money worries and yet her and I are the same. Sisters under the skin. She is the strong one, or she used to be and I was the shy bookish one. She dragged me to school after school, unwilling and crying and she could not understand my shyness and reluctance. I was good at school, but the thought of new circumstances
Would terrify me.
I'm not like that now. I am a warrior now and prefer the truth rather than imagination. But I am glad we take the journey together of depression, rather than alone. I now relate to her and she to me as the sisters we always were and no longer rivals for Mum and Dads attention.
We both still adore our brothers and I am so proud of them all. We were such poor kids and had to keep secrets, many secrets, but we had each other and I am so glad that they were mine. They all protected me and I them in my own way and we protected Mum, fought for her.
My brothers are wealthy now as us my sis and I am not. But I have kids, lots and lots if them and they regard me as rich and I understand why. I am rich with love, hugs, kisses, and I get that everyday and know now I am truly blessed. I love my kids, I find them endlessly fascinating. I always have.
When a child makes that leap in knowledge and understanding my heart soars. Andrej my beautiful great grandson can say Da da and can crawl and no matter how many times I see a child develop I am always thrilled. And I have had so many children to take care of, mine, other peoples, friends of my children's friends. I love them all as I did as a girl.
And I remember my Mums saying,
"kids, I should have had a dozen"
She had seven of us.
And each and everyone of us has gone on to do her and Dad proud. We never expected to have something for nothing, if we wanted something we had to knuckle under and work. Times were tough then, we often starved, we had no new clothes, but we were all gifted with intelligence and pride. We kept our secrets and beat up other kids that threatened our Mum or mocked her.
We knew somehow by osmosis she wasn't well and protected her fragile mind. She glittered and was brittle, a fine piece if china that could become broken at any time. Dad knew it too and loved her, and stayed with her to the very end, his beautiful Nat.
She was schizophrenic, an awful thing. She was war damaged and a genius, the fine line of genius and madness she walked every day, she had migraines, she slept a lot. Sometimes waking when she was older, screaming, she saw things we didnt, heard things we couldn't hear and at 53 took her own life.
I miss her every single day as I do my father. They loved us unconditionally, and only from parents do you get that.
