Life does not seem to begin at 40

 

Bit of a different post this one.  Rather than a retrospective reflection, I needed to sit and talk out loud my thoughts on where Im at in life right now. 

41, single and overweight.  That's how I'd explain myself right now.  What is actually true is that I'm in the highest ranking job of my career, healthy, safe, living in QLD which is mostly COVID unaffected.  I have a work family who care a lot about me and a house mate who is generous, kind and fun.  But for some reason I am struggling to foreground all the good things; and choose to define myself by the three big things that have hampered me for over 20 years.  

Age, relationship status and appearance.  Dont get me wrong.  41, single and overweight is absolutely my truth right now.  My physical appearance absolutely disgusts me, enough to make me seriously thing about giving up on life, because I can't bear what I'm looking like.  My stomach in particular.  It's got more rolls than a bakery, and for someone who allegedly lived a 20 year elite sport existence I am nothing short of a disgrace and embarrassment, dare I say even disappointment. 

I have lived such a big life.  Yes endured and survived a lot of big things but also, experienced so many wonderful things, met awesome people, been cool places.  But for some reason, my head is so far up my own butt.  I've noticed I'm not naturally curious and interested in others from a place of care and empathy.  My interest is a lot more in experiencing people. spending time with them that is about something else, not necessarily deeply concerned with them.  Perhaps that's where I struggle to fit into peoples lives.  I've noticed I have just floated in and out, and my nearest and dearest seem to love me, but they are so used to me being a temporary part of their worlds, they dont hold me in their priority contact list anymore,  Im not a godmother to anyone's kids; people have rarely visited me in my travels, but even the ones who used to have stopped.  I am that person (I'm even doing it right now) that somehow turns a conversation about others or anything into a story about myself.  I know I'm doing it to try and relate or be seen, but, it's annoying for me, and I'm the perpetrator; I can only imagine what my friends say. 

Im also a bit of a hurricane.  I haven't grown up yet, and due to my character, I often fly in create a storm and mess and leave.  Noone really knows what happened but they know I was there. 

I have a severe social media addiction and mild alcohol problem.  Through my studies I know that gluttony is a passion and in it's shadow can absolutely take m down.  I know that discipline and focus are ways to realise the best out of myself, but to be honest, I just dont care about anything enough to want to.  Im not inspired or attached enough to anything in my life, mostly myself to truly give a shit about making real change. I understand the importance of getting intentional about life, but every time I sit down to try and go through this, I know I am bullshitting myself.  I literally dont care enough about anything.  Other than what consumes my mind - will I ever find love again.

Want to know something funny.  Even in writing this four paragraph story so far, I've checked my mobile phone four times at least.  It's late at night, noone is messaging me, but I'm obsessed; and embarassed.  So unhealthy but I dont know how to stop.

Does anyone else spend all this time in their head, completely self absorbed, over playing everything but yet being that caught up in themselves, that as soon as they're bored with one thing; they forget completely about it (literally nothing resonates in this brain) and they're on to the next shiny light.  No wonder Saia called me Pepz - as in moth, I am a bloody moth. 

I'm a bit worried about myself at the moment. My suicidal thoughts are hanging around a lot longer than usual.  I think it's stress.  I cried at work and seemed a lot more emotionally attached to decisions and issues than I normally would be.   I've started a new eating plan and trying to lift my exercise but anything good from that gets lost in my alcohol problem.  I honestly wish I would just get some kind of unhealthy obsession with bulimia again so I can lose this weight.  It's so disgusting.  I feel my rolls all day long,  I just want to scream and cut it all off with a knife.  I googled liposuction again today.

You know when I think about ending my life - which I still think I'd do by driving my car off a bridge.  The things that make me feel like it's a good idea, is because I honestly dont see where I add value to anyones day by day life.  I know my family love me, and some friends would be sad; but I think I could disappear in life, for probably a month or two, and barely anyone would notice.  Noone needs me, depends on me and that's probably my own fault but when I think about reasons 'not' to end it - these are the arguments that help the cause. 

Maybe its a bit to do with the not caring about myself, so I dont care much about anything else.  I wonder how I get that back?  What the secret is.  Its funny but the lack of care is affecting my ability to hold conversations, and show that generous interest I was talking about. Some of it is because I think Im so busy that I dont lift my head to stop and smell the roses or live in the community.  Rather it's about whatever Im doing in each minute and moment, without greater ecosystem context.  
I wonder why that is?

If I was better in that space, I'd probably have a better relationship with food and exercise.  Wine is another story altogether. Listening to a few different audibles lately I've noticed people are feeling a little bit the same in the relationship space as me.  It's slim pickings and we're not quite open to meet people due to our social conditioning at the moment, it's a different world; but it isn't making a difference to my ability to connect with people, foreground some empathy and compassion for people and get my head out of my fat, 41 year old single ass.


Update - it's 15th May, so 9 months after writing this and I feel as though I could've written it today.  A lot has changed. I was confronted with a harsh situation in March and asked to resign from my job or be terminated, because some members of my team couldn't work with me.  The official reason they gave was that people had experienced me in such a way that the organisation had concerns about my honesty and trustworthiness.  I feel like I've been swiped in the side of the head with a baseball bat. 
Of all the things in my life that I am, I would never have through honesty and trustworthiness would be questioned. 
In the last couple of months since this happened I've come to realise that there is definitely a number of areas I can work on,  In particularly the way I build rapport with people and connect at human level / relationship level.  I'd taken being an objective voice of challenge too far and think I must have shown up as way too abrasive for people.  I also didn't play my cards well with the new CEO and showed too much of myself in my ugly processing way.. through some big issues involving diversity and inclusion in particular.  
It's been pretty gutting to have been so betrayed by my team and that majority have not had the courage to even speak with me (before or) after the event.  They are believing the line the new CEO gave that I chose to leave.  
I am seeing some of the programming that I installed do good things, and think I did have a good impact in some ways - but considering Im a bit of a mess in my head at the moment, I've put even more weight on than last year and in particular on my stomach in quite an awful way and I just find it impossible to feel any sense of happiness at the moment.  With anything. 

I'm smart enough to know that this is something I need to get intentional about my changed behaviour and to reflect and identify what I want in my life.  But at the moment, the darkness is looming like a really unwelcome character.  Full of shame, doubt, self-judgement, disgust and dissatisfaction.  What I think I need is to reframe those things with sense / beliefs that I want to have about myself.  Change the way I refer to other people's opinions of me,  and to disregard this nagging sense of unworthiness.  That apologetic position that I hold of myself that how I show up is not appropriate, not good enough etc,  That there are people out there who love me and enjoy my presence and that I do have value to add. 

Touching back in another 10 months later, in February 2023.  To be fair a lot of the above hasn't shifted, except perhaps a bit more self awareness, a new job and great bunch of people and an allowance on myself (with a therapists' help) to grieve some of the hurt that I've tried to just practically resolve over the years. 

Despite the anxiety and fatal thinking still hanging a bout a bit, I am starting to get a sense of greater barriers and small layers of self value starting to rise up.  I think surrounding myself with great people in my new job has helped.  Positive energy and innovative thinkers has been an enormous blessing. 

More blogs to come but for now; as I sit here nearly two years since this post started, I acknowledge, there's more work to do to find that peace and to welcome in my own ugly, to decrease some of this pity party I'm putting myself through. 

Puberty Blues - Pearl Jam, Humiliation and Big Dreams.

 Moving back to QLD when we did, was not my idea of a good time.  I was coming of age and not happy to leave my desperately important friendship nucleus and 'life' in Melbourne. 
Despite Mum doing her best to enrol me in a small Catholic college where many of my friends from primary school were going, Mt Maria - I cried and hated the family for most of the first term of the first year back in Brisbane. 

However, once I started to get my friendship circle established and the lost memories of Victoria started to fade.. the letters to Tan and Belinda began to be less frequent; and I started to enjoy the torture of teenager life. 

Year 8 was pretty standard.  School work was school work.  I participated in every sport and extra curricular activity possible. I loved hanging on the weekend at Stafford City and going to Roller Disco's at Stafford Skate Centre.  I was a good speed skater and loved dancing, so this was right up my ally.  I just couldnt go backwards very well which always irked me a bit.  My best girlfriend was Cassie Wrench and we spent most of our time together.  I also had a side gang of Nicole McAvaney and Alison Cannavan - they lived far from Cass so i had to be realistic and strategic about where and how I'd socialise.

We lived in the northern suburbs about a 25 minute drive from school, so our bus system and journey home was with a unique mix of kids and it stretched my friendships and my brother's experiences; in a fun way.  The boys went to primary school next to me and Clarrie in particular was always so cheeky on the bus, everyone loved him.   Living in a completely different hood to the school area also felt like I had two lives.  The school and the home life, different friends, different experiences, so much to keep track of.

There were the usual dramas in high schools from year 8 - 10.  Friendships that were rocky; boy crushes and bullying.  Questioning about own self and the foes of trying to stay fashion savvy and trendy when I came from a relatively poor family. But my sunny temperament and thirst for experiencing all things in life meant I rolled with the punches fairly well.  (Literally sometimes, having been someone who got into fights once a year at high school).

We had a couple of teenage boys who lived next door to us.. Nathan and Adam Guild.  Nathan was one year older (14) and Adam 3 years (16).  They went to a super cool all boys school in the northern suburbs.  They were sporty and outdoorsy and super cool and I thought Adam was SOOO HOT.  I would sit out on the fence like the completely lovestruck teen that I was, gazing at him every afternoon as he washed his car listening to Guns n Roses, or he mowed the lawn or passed the footy with his brother.  Living in QLD had it's perks because most of this was without a shirt or a muscle singlet. 
Late in the year of 1993, Adam and Nathan's parents sold the house and moved.  I have a feeling it was because our extremely rowdy mob disturbed their serene mojo and they wanted to escape us.  Nevertheless, their impending move was crushing to me.  I was about to lose the love of my life - and I had never even had a chance to tell him. 
So, on the last night before they moved.. I left a love letter to him in their letter box. I confessed my feelings, wishing him all the best and leaving my phone number that maybe he would like to call and hang out with me some time.  I took the bull by the horns and gave love a shot.  
To my absolute delight - he rang; and we started a little teen-romance.  We met up a couple of times in town and he would call me and I would go to water and giddy with love.  Until Dad. 

Dad and his unforgiveable, idiotic, menacing mockery.  One day - Adam had called after school and Dad was home.  He wouldn't normally be home at that time, but he was.  When I answered the phone, Dad also picked up the other line and 'caught' me chatting to a boy.  He wasn't mad, he just started to tease me.  Mercifully.  I couldn't handle it and hung up on Adam.  Adam rang back confused, and I hung up again.  Then eventually, he rung back, naturally wondering what the heck went on.  I am so embarrassed to this day.. I said 'she's not home' and hung up again.. effectively ending the relationship.  All because I couldn't cope with my Dad's mocking.  Fair to say that put an end to me exposing anything of my life to my Dad for the future onwards.

Year 9, that awful year of teenage girl hormones and bitchiness..  Lots of school sport; started going to Blue Light Disco's and Marist Brothers dances.  I noticed friends were starting to experiment with smoking and getting into relationships.  I definitely wanted a boyfriend and to be popular but not so fussed on the smoking and super naughty scene.  Fashion and peer influence got to me more than I wanted to admit, but I also had my own style and preferences that were kind of quirky... and didnt help the struggle between mainstream me and individual me.   Cross colours and 26 red were the Kris Kross inspired outfits of choice and I swayed between R & B and  grunge music; with Cass and I having a HUGE obsession with all the legendary grunge bands of the 90s.  Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Offspring, GreenDay, Silverchair, Violent Femmes, Soundgarden.  You name it, we had or wanted to have the band t-shirt and matching flanelette shirt.  

The Salt n Pepa inspired Cross Colors Stylz

You were nothing without a Nirvana / Pearl Jam tee, 'Docs' and a good flanno.

In year 10 I had a bit of a part time job on weekends and I was super annoyed at my Dad for ages because he would take my wages each Sunday and put it away.  However one Thursday afternoon - just around my 15th birthday, he picked me up early from school and we went into town - and he surprised me with my own savings, enough to buy a coveted pair of Dr Martens 9 hole boots.  It was a 90s kids dream come true. 

What was funny was the identity crisis in fashion and music was so stereotypical.  I floated from melancholy moody grungey teenager to street tough rnb mad gangsta then Elle Woods style icon in a matter of Monday to Sunday - each week. 

I won the Athletics Age Champion every year and a few academic prizes, but only in the fluffy subjects.  Science was definitely not my jam.  I wasn't a diligent student; just did what I had to do, that still allowed me to enjoy every single part of life as much as I could.   I did want recognition though.  I loved awards, ribbons, trophies, getting named in the newsletter or called up to speak or address the assembly.  I even won a chocolate bar in first term of year 9 for knowing the entire's schools' names and I felt like it was the lottery.  Year 10 Student Representative Council was one of my favourite badges of honour. 

I got a cool opportunity in year 9 to join the QLD Academy of Sport rowing programme.  The Head Coach and TID manager visited our school and did some screening.  Of course, I signed up and after a battery of cool tests at the academy on VO2, strength, flexibility etc I was selected into the programme.  I started this double life of heading onto the water at 5am every day and rowing before school then turning up callused but exhilirated to my not very elite and definitely not a Head of the River type school - with this whole double life.   I loved the programme and the hard work, but I didnt like the girls and lack of 'fun' in rowing.  (or falling out of the boat into the river where bull sharks were and the big barges that would go past us.). I lasted only a few months, when I just didn't answer the door to my coach for training one day - and mum said I never had to go back.  BIG regrets as my Olympic dream went stroking out the door.

Rowing - the first institution

I did quite well in swimming and track and field during junior high.  Twice qualifying for state championship finals in triple jump, the 800m and once in the 400m.  I never quite got to Australian championships - with a highest placing of 4th.  To be fair, I didn't even have spikes and my home training programme including jumping at the local school grounds wasn't probably going to progress me.  I wish I had have asked for more from mum in that sense - because I loved track and field, I had a dream of being like Jane Fleming and winning a gold for heptathlon in the Olympics. I also wanted to be Alison Annan from the Hockeyroos. Not sure about either of those. But perhaps the crossover of so many sports helped produce a bit of a versatile utility athlete; which fared me well later in life. 

My foray into elite sport produced another outlet to meet new friends and experience different things away from the nucleus of my family and school group; which also carried on for the rest of my life - so I'm very grateful for junior high for that.  

I lost the first term of school in year 9 to glandular fever, then there was rowing and then I got my first period; it was around my birthday.  I remember coming home from school and it made it's entrance, thank goodness, at home. I went out to mum and said 'IT came' in a completely dissatisfied and pragmatic way.  As though I'd been incensely inconvenienced and didn't have time for this nonsense.  Mum took me shopping for bra's and sanitary goods at the same time.  That was my kind of efficiency.  Just get on with it.  I also didnt want to make a fuss and cause any unnecessary attention or embarassment from Dad.  He was so childish and the deeper I got into my puberty journey the more excruciating he would be.  Mocking me and drawing attention to everything which made me want to die a thousand times over. 

In year 10 at 15 years old, I definitely matured a bit too quick for my own good. We moved house and a few things changed in our family life.  Dad got out of the Army and started this other job that included a lot of nights and weekends.  All of us kids were now at school, mum was working a lot more and  we were a very busy household.  I was given a lot of lee-way and ran off a bit on my own tangent. 

I joined a netball team in my hood so that I could make friends with girls in my local neighbourhood.  I was still playing every possible sport and activity at school, whilst becoming more and more adolescent in my behaviours.  My wild side was waking up.  

I started dating a boy who was really lovely. He played footy and joined our school quite late.  My best friend and I had a huge fight over it, I didn't realise she really liked him.  We got a long really great and our parents were cool with it.  We went to the Year 10 social together and as I said, I matured quite fast - so he eventually became my 'First'.   It was a nice affair, nothing stressful or dramatic.  At his house, fairly romantic, with the odd awkward laugh - for instance, when getting the condom out of his wallet my nerves showed up as I 'tossed' the wallet to him - at a baseball pitchers velocity, hitting him in the head.     Keanu Reeves and the Point Break movie was the background setting and all in all I can say, I didn't hate it.   But it was definitely too soon in terms of my emotional intelligence and understanding of who I was in this crazy world.  I was still the girl who was mortified by my parents knowing anything of my private life - in case they mocked me.  Not because I was afraid; because I was awkwardly embarrassed of myself.  

Point Break - a defining moment in history

The other significant event that occurred during my junior high school years was I contacted my biological father Graham.  Poor guy definitely wasn't expecting it.  My mum had always told m who he was, his name and where he lived.  They'd broken up fairly amicably just before I was born and it was by no major fault of his really that we hadn't had a relationship. Well at the very least, I didn't hold anything against him. I'd just decided one day that I was curious about him.  

I was down at the Gold Coast visiting my nan for the July school holidays.  She was out for awhile, most likely at a prayer meeting - and I got curious.  I decided to phone the Telstra operator (013) and ask them for any numbers under his name in the ACT region.  The operator gave me three numbers.  I didn't have a plan - after all, the whole exercise was rather spontaneous - so I called the first number and the person answered.  I asked if they were the person who was living in the Riverina region at the time and did they know of me - and they advised it wasn't them.   Can you imagine their dinner table conversation that night.   But the next was worse. 

The next number went to voicemail.  I listened to the greeting and proceeded to leave a message something along the lines of 'Hi Graham, my name is Demelza and I am searching for the man who would be my father.  I know this would be an awkward message, but if you are the right contact, you can reach me on 0755 371745 (never forget Nan's number). Did you read that.. I left a bloody answering machine message.  I could've detonated a personal world war on this guys' life inadvertently. 

Now, as the story goes, the voice message landed at the right house, and that evening I received a phone call from Graham - albeit in quite a state of shock.  Joyful, but definitely shocked.  We yarned a bit about life and then made a promise to find a time to meet.   After the call, I had to explain to Nan, and then my mum, what I had just done.  Whoops.  Of course, because they are both legends, there was no major drama that I recall, they were upfront and open and invited the opportunity for me to connect.   Which happened the following weekend in Brisbane, when Graham flew up and we connected.  For the record, I did ring the third number and had left a separate voice message.  I hope that didn't cause chaos. 

The meeting in Brisbane was quaint.  He came to Southbank Markets where I was working and we spent the afternoon hanging out. It was the first encounter for what would be the rest of our lives.  I'm super glad I began the relationship - but I have been awkward with it ever since.  You've already heard about why - Dad's are to be kept at a distance.  It's safer that way, for risk of humiliation.  Or so I was convinced.

There we are at the end of my first 10 years of schooling.  

My siblings hardly feature in my school journey from 5 to 15 (and beyond.)  We were always in different campuses or schools and beside the bus trip or walk home, or on the occasions I was home after school, I hardly interacted with them.   I never once was on the same campus as any of them, so even though I was the eldest of 5 at the time - I pretty much ran a solo journey.   I felt that for the most of my life.

The Early Nineties

It's been two years since I started writing this blog, and almost two years since my last post.  I've just reread a bit of the previous and my goodness the detail has been laborious.  If anyone is actually still engaged with this and hasn't died of boredom they deserve some kind of Nobel Prize.

I left off at the start of 1990 when we moved back to Melbourne.  To be honest, things were pretty cruisy there for the couple of years we were there.  We lived in Watsonia, an Army suburb in the north east.  We went to a Catholic Primary School that was friendly and pretty fun.  The usual things happened across the couple of years in Rasheda Street. Here's a list.

Aunty Carol's Gemini and the crash.  Dad's sister went over seas and we were babysitting her little blue Gemini.  When it was parked in the driveway and we wanted to play some cricket or do things outside, Mum would let me take the handbrake off, put it in neutral and roll it gently down the driveway.  Well also, Dad had taken me for a couple of drives in the Southland carpark in the Express Van and at 12 years old I thought I was a legend, and could drive.  Well one day I got cocky moving the gemini and put it into first gear, started it up to drive it down the driveway.  Well I let the clutch out too fast, the car lurched forward and flew down the driveway, crashing into the shed.  Whoops. 

Backyard concerts. One of our first fore rays' (how do you spell that word) into entrepreneurship was our backyard or loungeroom concerts.  With such a big hoard of kids, these were a multi act show and definitely worth the $5 cover charge. (Yep we were so cheeky we put $5 on it, in 1991.)  Michael Jackson, Janet Jackson, ACDC were all regular features on the playlist, with Ned's rendition of Black and White still part of our family folklore.  We saturated the market with too much content though, and the business venture died off.  Pretty happy with the $25 we banked and used to buy icecreams of course.

It's not really much of a story, except that it was my most traumatic childhood 'injury', but there was the great shiner.  Playing downball at school one morning (handball against the wall was a marquee game at our school).  I went back to receive a serve and blindly crashed into this dude Troy's stone hard head.  I remember he just shook it off and kept walking but I immediately felt 'weird'.  I left the court and started jogging after a nearby teacher, whimpering like a pretty big sook.  Mr Angel eventually turned around, I must've looked a sight, because he went pale and rushed me off to first aid.  I looked in the mirror and had the biggest, most impressive shiner, it had blown up within moments. The black eye took me off school for two days and I had to wear sunglasses for a week after.  Pretty impressive injury for a non-contact sport.

Socially, those years 4, 5 & 6 were pretty ok, I had a couple of amazing mates in Tania Palaia and Belinda Crivelli. Tania had a twin brother Matt who I was madly in love with. (Standard behaviour for me to have a constant object of affection.) More to come on them later.
The pant wetting hadn't really left me yet, probably to do with the fourth change of school in four years and having a weird name, being double the height of everyone - BUT it was ok, I had some contingency plans of being able to just leave the classroom if I needed to pee.  Legitimate authority to 'wag' class for 10 minute periods whenever I wanted. Cool. 
Sadly I did have a couple of episodes and it coincided with a bit of schoolyard mockery being called 'Desmelza'.  Which at the time I thought was the cruelest, most devastating attack on a person imaginable. I have no idea if it did have anything to do with me being smelly, or if it just rhymed well with my name, but it completely haunted me and has made me super conscious of my aroma ever since. 

We had a pretty cool gang of hood rats in our local area that we hung out with back in those days also. Our school was a massive 40 minute walk from home (which we complained to mum about constantly) and most of our school friends, didn't live near us.   So we had our home mates and our school mates.  Sometimes there were fights and so forth, but generally, we'd rock around the hood on our bikes, disappearing for a full day, getting up to mischief and having a sweet time.  We did get involved in some pizza delivery stitch ups.  Sending unwanted pizza's to the neighbours houses who we had 'beef' with.  One time it backfired because when we phoned it in we gave an address that was similar to ours (number 11) and the people's who house we sent it to (Leigh) knew it was us and said the order must be for number 1.  So Dominoes delivered to our house.  Mum and Dad had to pay for the order.  (Maybe they just decided to, we're not sure) Anyways, we were drilled for it, and dobbed in Clarrie as the culprit, because he was mum's favourite.  We got banished to the naughty box and mum and dad had delicious pizza for dinner.  We still thought we were pretty awesome and hilarious.

Some big memories from those times include:
Wombat's death / departure.  This was the mysterious disappearance of our beautiful, loyal and friendly border collier/black labrador Wombat.  He was the trusty steed who since I was 18 months old had never been far away.  He'd had his fair share of trials and tribulations over the years.  He was dad's absolute side kick.  Always on runs and adventures together.  He'd travelled up and down the east coast with us for all our moves.  Been hit whilst chasing cars; followed us for miles when we went on outings - not wanting to miss a minute of the family action.  Then one day, in Melbourne - he disappeared.  I will never forgive Dad for (amongst a million things) constantly jibing that the Chinese restaurant that opened up must've put him on the menu.  Mum cracked a couple of those jokes also, but then in serious, she said he probably went away somewhere quiet to die in his old age.  Being such a family dog; that makes me feel better.. although it was still super sad not to see his kind and gentle face with calm wagging tail whenever we got home.

The NRL grand finals in the lounge room.  Even though our parents were Riverina kids and subsequently AFL enthusiasts (Dad Richmond, Mum North Melbourne); all the time spent in QLD had turned us into major Rugby League junkies.  We were supporters of the Broncos but absolutely MAD about the Queensland Maroons.  I remember State of Origin and Grand Final series in the late 90's when the Canberra Raiders, Tina Turner, Marc Williams, Mal Meninga, Wally Lewis, Steve Renouf, Alphie Langer, the Walters brothers, Gordon Tallis and Glen Lazarus were our heroes with filthy Benny Elias, anyone from the Tigers to be honest and those god awful Blues were... well of course the filthy cochroach Boos.

Laid up under blankets in the loungeroom of our Melbourne house, watching the biggest most epic matches of all time - as a family.  These were seriously cool times.  Special, peaceful and loving times - bonding through sport and particularly the shared passion of QLD.

Melbourne in the 90's was also a stage where mum and dad signed up as multi level marketers with a rising Australian business called Omegatrend.  They seemed to do pretty amazing things with the business.  We started eating pretty cool 'herbalife' style supplemented foods, listening to LOTS of wellbeing and empowerment tapes plus reading all sorts of similar books.  

Mum and Dad introduced this incentive system called 'The Star System' and dubbed our little team, the Living Legends.  

We had to divise the 90s version of what we'd now call a Vision Board - our Dream Charts with financial goals associated.  Then all our chores and studies and behaviours would be recorded in a ledger (literally a marketing collateral of the system) and we'd receive vouchers for the different dreams.  Almost like a Barefoot Investor style breakdown of savings. 

My dream was Tuscany.  A family holiday to Tuscany.  Oh man, I dreamed and researched and fantasised about that trip for years.  My brother's had Disneyland and cool bikes etc on their charts. Mine was just a shrine to Italy.  Food, scenery, people, fashion, soccer the works.

For a fair while this system was pretty amazing and it even came with us when we moved to Brisbane... however ... like many iniatives and promises with my Dad - it never led anywhere and fell into our 'broken promises' box.. for therapy years later.

We did get a Nintendo 64 and Olive, the first PC of the house - it was a swanky Olivetti and was pretty much where the digital versions of Dad's obsession with encyclopaedias began to get housed, plus a place for mum to play games and do her 'study and business'. 

My love of sport and teams was ignited in Melbourne.  Part of it was the connection with Dad but more so the fun of competition and being active and of course.. being good at it.  I competed in Little Athletics for St Marys Club in the Diamond Creek association.  Every Saturday morning walking, jumping, running, throwing my way around the track.  I was mediocre, but I set big dreams for the Olympics.   Dad was a hockey player so I also got involved in hockey and got to play a few senior games.  I thought I was pretty legendary - 12 years old playing Hockey in the seniors.  It was most likely pity selections but didnt bother me.  When our family friends would pick me up in their mini-minor to head off to soccer for the day - I was practically already a hockeyroo in my mind.   Most of my weekends at sport were spent away from the family.  The boys were too young to play and mum and dad were busy working and playing sport themselves (Dad) or raising the other kids (Mum), so I just made a way to not miss out.  In hindsight, I realise just how stranded mum was, and how lucky I was that they gave me so much freedom and encouragement to be resourceful and get myself involved. 

I mentioned before, that in Melbourne my best friend at school was Tania Palaia and also Belinda Crivelli.  We were thick as thieves and the middle of the range, not cool but not completely outcasted.  When I wasnt playing sport I also spent a lot of time atTan's house.  She was a mad Collingwood fan, her mum Di was an absolute sweetheart.  Her Dad was a typical Italian Melbourne Dad - house painter and beautifully friendly guy.  Tan and I were a little bit boy obsessed, but also just loved music, hanging out at the footy grounds and gossiping.  Tan's twin brother Matthew was my first crush and almost kiss - but I got too scared.  Man I thought he was so gorgeous.  My second crush was John-Paul Reyes, I think he was Phillipino.  I just know he was dark and handsome and dreamy. He knew I had a crush but that's all that I ever did about that.   Tan's dad passed away in our 30's which was super sad.  Their little family was such a sweet one, but it seems time and tragedy has divided them a bit. 

Tan and I had planned to go to Montmorency High School together (although I secretly wanted to go to Loyola College).. however it wasn't meant to be.

At the conclusion of year 6 in Melbourne, following my confirmation and all the excitement of graduation had worn down - we packed up as a family and headed back north to Queensland and the start of high-school.

Chubby Bubby, St Pats and our Princess

I was pretty sure my mum loved me, she always told me, she was never shy of giving me a hug and always called me mate.   I truly believed I was loved, until October 9, 1987.  It was on that day that all those secure foundations of love and stability were rocked.  On October 9, 1987, my mother broke her promise and gave birth to another stupid brother, Clarence.

I mean seriously, there was already two annoying pains in my butt and when they told me they were pregnant, I had clearly requested a sister. The family needed to balance up the gender scales and restore order to the chaos that had reigned true since the boys were born.  Yet here I was, reluctantly (and under duress) getting out of the car at North West Private Hospital in Brisbane, on my way to see my mum and this new addition to the family.  We'd been told that Clarrie had some dramas with his skull when he was born and needed a bunch of surgery, so when we were going to visit him, not to be scared by the bandages over his head.  Personally, I didn't care.  As far as I was concerned, he was a bitter disappointment to me and my plans for the family and I was resolved to trip over my bottom lip and sulk in mum and dad's general direction, possibly for the rest of my life.

Until I walked into the hospital room. Until I saw the most adorable little munchkin, bundled up in way too much cloth, with a tiny little face, no chin and the most snuggly temperament you will ever find.  Until I met Clarence Joseph Fellowes.  That moment I walked into that room, my frown turned upside down because our family had been gifted with someone pretty special. 

In addition to the corrective surgery required to knit Clarrie's skull plates together, the little dude also had some trouble feeding and spent a bit of time in hospital during his newborn months.  Due to the steroids and other treatments required in his early times, Clarrie ended up as a chronic asthmatic.  This little memory is only important to point out that despite being the number one campaigner against his inclusion into the tribe, when it came to setting up his nebulizer, sterilizing the mouth pieces, clinking the vials of medicine to go into the system and hanging out with him while he hummed away on the machine for half an hour at a time; I was the matron.  (Clearly I had nominated myself an expert on his condition.  I had, after all been attending school for two years now, could do my times table and was a genius.)

In 1988, Dad had reached his time to take long service leave and as a family we packed up and returned 'home' to Albury-Wodonga for the year.  In hindsight it was a funny year to leave Brisbane, considering it was Expo 88, but a nice opportunity for my parents, after 7 years away and now with four children to spend some time around their extended family.

This is a bit of a warning.  1988 wasn't my favourite, so the following few paragraphs may be a bit of a downer.

We lived in East Albury and I was enrolled in St Patricks Catholic Primary, Albury.  My aunty and God mother Bonnie was a teacher there and my cousins Renai, Kara and Ben also went there, so I was a bit excited.  I made a friend Karina at school, and it was awesome because she lived right across the road from us.  One of the best fun memories from hanging out at Karina's place was doing laundry chute jumps when her mum wasn't home.  Karina's house had two storey's and they had a laundry chute from the top floor to the laundry.  We would climb into the chute, dangle down and drop to the lower level.  There were plenty of splinters in elbows from hitting the beams on the way down, and in hindsight, who knows how dangerous it was, but it was seriously cool.

St Pats wasn't the most fun I have had in my life, the school work was a bit of a repeat of things I had learnt in Brisbane and my teacher was a bit mean; but I do acknowledge that was the first place I played netball, and who would've known where that would take me a decade later.

There were some hilarious incidents throughout that year which never fail to get the family laughing whenever we re-tell them.  Ironically, most of them involved Dad doing something that left us a bit traumatised.  Not in the kind of way that creates serial killers, but definitely notorious.  For example, there was the time on a fishing trip at the weir, Ned caught a massive redfin.  Our Aunty tried to coach Dad through the cooking of it, but Dad only heard 'poach' and proceeded to boil us and our household into the most revolting oily, fishy mess of a situation.  Poor Mum came home from work to a house that reeked like cat food and a dining table occupied by sobbing miserable children and a disgruntled husband/father not understanding why the ungrateful mob weren't gulping down the delicious meal.  Ned resolved from that day forward he didn't want to eat fish, only catch them and he has barely touched seafood since.

Sam's handlebar stitches, the lopped off 'King' finger disaster, crazy Nana Kath and downhill no-brake bike racing are some of the other chapters to the family 'gap year' in Albury that (just like all families) bond us together through laughter, resilience and experience.

After 9 months in Albury, Dad's long service leave was up and the family returned to Brisbane.  As the only child in school, Mum and Dad decided to leave me in Albury and finish the school year.  So I stayed with my friend Karina and her family for three months. For an 8 year old, that was a bit of a strange time.  On one hand you only really know life as it presents in front of you, so day to day was pretty normal, just going to school and doing those kind of activities.  However on the other hand, I was already an 8 season veteran on how my parents did things like discipline, addressing issues, or even family conversations and traditions.  These were the things that were so different and I am really grateful that I had my extended family close by that I could go to, to help me make sense of the world when I got home sick.

I didn't really understand the extent of my homesickness, but some behaviour started to creep into my life that in hindsight now can be attributed as indicators.  I started to pee my pants.  It was the absolute worst. At least once a week I would have an incident, sometimes more; to the point where I needed to start taking spare underpants in my bag wherever I went. My situation was, an 8 year old girl, from out of town, with a funny name, already super tall, who wasn't living with her own family and who had already done all the work they were teaching at school; wetting her pants.  Ugh it still gives me a pit to my stomach when I think of it.  To make it worse, Karina's mum, who was my primary care giver, got a bit impatient with me a couple of times, because of the increased washing I guess, which caused me to panic and feel like quite a burden.  (A side truth was that Karina was worse than I was, and had a terrible time with soiling herself, daily, but she kept it hidden.)  Anyways, there was a couple of times when it all got a bit much and I would run away to my favourite of mum's cousins (Goog) house, and that always made me happy.

Another piece of hindsight from a few years later that put this period into a bit more perspective, was when I found out that this gentleman who used to look after Karina and I after school, was actually a predator and had interfered with Karina across her entire childhood.  I'm sorry to take this story to such a dark place.  It's just that when I think back to those times I realise just how precious your state of mind is when you're a child.  My pant wetting lasted for nearly four years, and the few times I would re-tell stories to my uncle Goog about trips to the weir with 'Kosi', that would send him into a rage, telling me never to be alone with the man again; makes me feel lucky that I wasn't a direct victim but also sad that I wasn't aware of the situation that might have helped my friend avoid more trauma in her life.

After Christmas that year, my family moved me back to Brisbane and I took my place back at the top of the sibling tree.  I went back to the same primary school Queen of Apostles and it was awesome to pick up some old friendships and get back to happy times.  Couple of minor, nondescript memories from that year include riding my bike to school with no brakes, but living on a really steep hill, so that was always a bit of a thrilling adventure.
Mum was a family day care mum, so we always had a million extra kids at home, also fun and super rowdy.  I would escape to my friend up the street's house Rebecca. Her parents were academics / teachers and I had the hugest crush on her big brother (even at 9 years old!).  We spent heaps of time rehearsing and playing Shakespeare plays (of all things), dressing up and using a mirror to to stare into and pretend to walk on the ceiling.  Talk about a weirdo!

The final marquee event of that time and phase in my life, was the best gift I'd ever been given, when my little sister Tara was born.  I don't know how mum did it, get pregnant again, when Dad was away so much for work, but the trooper did and she gave me my prize possession finally. 
Tara was the cutest, most hilarious, ditzy and loveable child you will ever see, and added a completely new personality to our family, that perfected the dynamic and rounded out the gang. 

I remember mum took Tara to see meet her family not long after she'd given, and it felt like she was gone for a hundred years.  When she got back, Tara (albeit a small baby and not able to really comprehend anyone anyways) seemed to not register who I was.  I fell to pieces and pretty much went on a hate campaign against my mum for quite some time for 'stealing' her from me.  My poor mum.  In hindsight, I think about mum being 29 years old, with 5 children and considering the adventurous, fun and wild woman that she is and was, the sacrifice that she made for us is so massive.
At 29 years old I was completely self centred (still am, ten years later); thought I had it all together but actually didn't, and was so busy chasing my hopes and dreams.  Definitely not mature enough to be in charge of five young and annoying humans.

Dad got another posting and we moved back to Melbourne at the end of that year, all set for another school, another season in our lives and another bunch of challenges; but it was all good because I had a sister.

Army Brats in the mid 80's

Not long after I was born my good hearted mother picked up a hitchhiker one night, I think on the way back through Bandiana (as was normal practise in the early 80's), and before she knew it the course of our lives was changed forever.  What started out as a ride across town, turned into a romance with a young soldier, big move interstate to QLD, marriage, 4 more kids and one very big adventure for the two of us.

My 'parents' were married in Townsville in 1983 amongst a host of new and enthusiastic friends, with my little brother well on the way and me cruising around stuffing my fists and face with beetroot and (albeit prematurely) wedding cake.

I don't remember a lot of my life as a youngster from zero until about 35 years old, not sure what that says about my childhood.  Just kidding, (I acknowledge any memories lost after 17 were probably due to weak buffalo style alcohol enduced brain cell shredding;) but I digress.  What I am trying to say is that the traumatic years of my first two brothers entering the world and me having to share the limelight with them haven't entrenched themselves into my memory cortex.  Ned was born 3 years after me, followed by Sam, 5 years and it's when Sam was young that I start to have some recall about my life as a kid.

I don't mean any disrespect or lack of love to Ned and Sam; they've turned out to be pretty cool dudes, but for some strange reason there's barely a handful of memories that resonate during their baby years.  What I do know about those times was that we moved a bit, from Townsville to Melbourne, then Brisbane.  Cake fights, card nights and the Kingswood were big parts of our world; and so were mum and dad's many army friends and their families.

Starting school at Queen of Apostles in Stafford, Brisbane in 1986, there's a little bit of school memory that remains such as playtime in the 'forest' that was the school yard; singing in music, teachers stuffing up my name, a bullying incident with an asthmatic girl called Heather who for some reason annoyed me and one hell of a stack over the lunch basket near the tuckshop where I'm certain I broke my nose.

But most of the real memories from those times come from myself and my brothers being absolute dickheads in the back yard as true blue dinky die Aussie army brats.  Singing at the top of our lungs on the back swing set, fighting like all bugger, having mum scream at us, kick (or lock) us out side, give us the necessary hidings, chuck us a plate of cheese sandwiches and never ever miss a day where we had to 'lay a little bit of liplock on her' before we went to bed.

Dad was away a lot on 'Exercise' with the Army, so his cameo's are usually that kind of return from holiday buzz where he would be flavour of the month and stack all his parenting into a couple of days making disastrous billy carts, taking us on adventures, having tickle fights and then of course, giving us the necessary discipline required.

We had an unreal dog called Wombat that was a border collie / black labrador and he was the best.  He was a good size so he gave amazing hugs and he literally was never far from us in the yard or wandering the streets.  I remember when he chased a car down the street thinking it was Dad, and he got hit, he skun all the fur off his bum and had to wear a bucket on his head til it healed.  Poor ol' bucket head; he really felt the ridicule we gave him.  The noble warrior that was Wombat did sulk a fair bit for those few weeks.

A couple of other significant occasions that call to mind in those mid 1980's was one night when my brother Ned, 3; helped Sam in his little walker 'escape' the house.  (His motive is still under question here).  Anyways, the outcome was Sam, an infant, in his walker, crashing down the 13 front stairs, on a wet and cold night, when mum had three kids under 6 years old and was alone with dad away for work.  I particularly remember being bundled up and sitting outside what I now know as a locum Doctor's surgery in the rain with Sam a bit battered and bruised and mum (only 25 years old) fairly concerned her new infant was brain damaged.  Pretty heavy night.  Great news, Sam was all good and it wouldn't be the last time he would push the boundaries of mortality through clumsy accidents often at the assistance of his brothers.

There was this other strange period of time about 1986 where us kids and mum lived in a hotel where the big Koala was. We were in Brisbane and the hotel was at Flockton Village.  Dad had come back from a tour and things went all weird at home.  Us kids went from fish fingers and veges at the table to nuggets and chips and a small hotel room where they had a kids area with a ball pit.  We stayed there for ages and lucky for us our nanna Nancy who I adore lived on the Gold Coast so we got to see her loads.

Unbeknown to me what was actually happening is my step-dad had some indiscretions and that my parents had in fact separated for that time.  It's interesting that despite that time being 30 years ago and me being 6 years old at the time, I still have a physical reaction to that insecure and unstable feeling of the family structure being shaken up when I recall those memories.  It bewilders me to consider my mum and dad being 26 years old, with three children, not a lot of money and not the best relationship and I marvel at how mum in particular held it together, with dad being a cheater.  When I was 26 years old I could barely manage to get myself to work, training and the bar; let alone keep a bunch of annoying small humans alive.

We moved home after some time and things looked like they'd be getting back to normal.  My last distinct memory of that time, before the next big adventure began was myself and Ned, standing at the front windows of our house in Stafford Heights.  We were nose against the glass, hands on window sobbing as we saw mum go away in a car somewhere.  Nan was looking after us and we didn't understand where mum was going.  It was right out of a family movie where the ending turns out to be really great; but in that precious moment, the heart break and sadness I was feeling must have been minute compared to that of my mum and grandmother as they looked upon these two pathetic hysterical kids whose sixth senses could detect burden.  In actual truth we would have no idea of the enormity of that moment for another 25 years.

Oiiiii I'm Here

I was born at Wodonga District Hospital in Victoria (I don't tell a lot of people that) on August 5 (I tell EVERYONE that), 1980 at 4.35pm, to Yvonne May Craig, or 'Ossie' to all those who love her.  

My mum is the youngest in a big old Irish Catholic family of mostly boys. She was the youngest and lost her Dad when she was 9 years old. Mum is a bloomin legend for the woman she became out of such a rubbish start to life.  I could write ten years of books about her, but that's not my story to tell.  One funny thing is that Mum has 4 big brothers and she thought she was the fifth boy.  So she hated being a girl (country boys are cool apparently) and mum particularly hates being called Yvonne.
I think Yvonne is an awesome name, but I've got enough 80's parenting inspired respect to know... if mum prefers 'Os'... we call her Os! So I'm one of Ossie's kids.
My father is Graham Ferry.  He is a really good man who Mum had a great relationship with but wasn't destined to be with for life.  I know him, he's great and that's a story for later.
Mum's sidekicks in life when I came along were my nan, Nancy Craig; and mum's besties Mooka, Cookie and Wendy Carruthers.  They're main characters in mum's blog, but still important to note around this whole 'having a baby as a single mother at 21 years old' time of my welcome to the world.

Anyways..
I weighed 7pound 5 or whatever that means in the metric system.  Something about 2.2 pounds to the kilo.  All I know is that I arrived a touch early and I gave Mum a bit of stress because apparently I died a couple of times on the labour table.
Mum is a pretty chilled lady, she's a child of the 60's and 70's who already went through more in her short 21 years than anyone should have to, BEFORE I came along, and top that with being a trained nurse.  So not only was she pretty chilled out - she had that nursey ability to just get on with things regardless of what is happening in front of her..  In this case, her newborn's heart stopping a couple times was no worries mate.  So the Doctors did their thing and the national treasure of Australia couldn't be stopped entering this world 😜.
Anyways, pity party over about the whole dying thing.  Good news was, I made it... the adventure had begun. Mum got through like a champion and as for me, well, clearly I was destined for resilience from the start.

But we do probably have to address this whole Demelza Joy situation.

Most people probably look at the name Demelza and think oooooooh she must be exotic. Then reality hits - I am as Aussie bogan as they come.  Anyways, I was originally planned as Camille (😬) THANKFULLY Mum was kicking back in hospital the night before I was born, watching an episode of the hit 70's tv show 'Poldark' and there she was.  The hero of all heroes.  The boss lady that puts Foxy Cleopatra and Wonder Woman to shame... Demelza... the feisty heroine.  And so it was.. I was destined to be a bossy little ass kicker.  Sometimes I tell people Mum just pulled Scrabble letters out of a bag and thought 'this works'.

Then my middle name.  Mum's Aunty was also a bit of a boss lady, Aunty Joyce.  That solid influence of wisdom, strength and love in the family and I got the honour of bearing her name in mine - Joy.  Not just for Aunty Joyce, but because clearly it's me, I'm a natural joy machine to all those around me 😉.

So - in the only way that Os knows how, she set me up for a big life. Resilience and pushing the boundaries from the start.  I'm 12 hours old and already blessed beyond belief.

What if noone knows?

This week I'm turning 37.  That is a seriously scary number when I see it typed on the screen. Even worse when I choke on it during my outbursts of encouragement that everyone should celebrate my birthday with me. And when I say celebrate, I mean throw caution to the wind and party like it's 1999 for the entire month of August.  I don't know when my 25th became my 37th.

Anyways, as I sit here on the eve of my birthday month, and 7 weeks away from my second divorce, I'm starting to get a bit retrospective about my life.  It's probably a bit morbid, but I've been preoccupied with the idea that what if no one knows?   What if I die and no one knows me?

You see, after two unsuccessful marriages, no children and a lot of shifting life around the world, I've been feeling a bit like I'm floating and not quite attached to anything.  Sometimes I feel as though I've been a bit disconnected, and that there's no one that has the full story... and if I die, then that's it, there's no one to tell that story as proof of my life.

It's probably a bit tragic to be having such depressing 'what if' thoughts, but I cant help it.  I'm completely neurotic, am not much of an online shopper and have never played Candy Crush - so I spend way too much time thinking about things.  Things like, what if that dream man that will listen to my endless rambling of really boring stories and terribly lame dad jokes and actually love me for it, never comes along.  What if I never get to share my life stories and secrets with anyone and my story just dies when I die.  What if I never get to tell my kids 'in my day'.

I wouldn't say it's been stressing me out, but the thought definitely gives me a bit of a hollow ache.

So I decided, before I kill many more brain cells due to excessive consumption of Shiraz, to try and capture things with a blog.  Then it doesn't matter if no one reads it, but I get the comfort of knowing - if I die, and anyone wants to, maybe they can learn about me and my life.

So here is my long boring story.