Monday, January 4, 2016


For an odd-numbered year, 2015 turned out very well, and actually came close to being exactly what I wished for it at the end of 2014. Except for the naming part; early on I named it my Year of Action, which I remember being code for my decision to EXERCISE and EAT WELL and SLEEP ALL THE TIME and basically kick depression’s butt with all my effort-making. That didn’t work, so I finally gave up and let antidepressants do the arse-kicking instead, which was a liberating move. When I saw my psychiatrist in December I told him I couldn’t remember what I felt like before medication and he flicked back through his notes and told me, “Let’s see… When you first came to see me, you felt a lot of guilt about how you were doing as a mother… You felt like you were letting your children down… Hmmm… [flick, flick] … Yep, it was mostly guilt around mothering.” I don’t worry quite so much about ruining my kids’ lives anymore, which is really nice.

2015 was the year we decided not to move to Adelaide. 

2015 was the year I lost the urge to apologise for the things I believed, and for the things I didnt believe anymore.

2015 was the year Alan made family-life easier for me and more fun for the kids first by working four days per week rather than five, and next by successfully launching his own business from our bedroom. 

2015 was the year I attended my school reunion and realised my classmates and ex-boyfriends were gracious and lovely and had not, as I’d (strangely?) expected, been waiting for an opportunity to tell me how much of a cow I was to them at some point during my teenage years.

2015 was the year that took Hazel from the squidgy to the confident-and-articulate end of toddlerdom, and the year that turned Moses into a lanky ready-for-school-er.

2015 was the year I finally faced the insurmountable-feeling challenge of studying Psychology and surprised myself by surmounting it. (Well, six subjects of it; I still have four left to be surmounted.)

I have hopes rather than resolutions for 2016. I hope to finish the remainder of my Graduate Diploma with marks that give me the best chance of being accepted by a university nearby to study honours next year. The thought of tackling the next four subjects fills me with both anxiety and determination (slightly more of the former than the latter; I’m starting with another statistics class). It’s a similar feeling to approaching the birth of your second child, where you’re fully aware that what lies ahead will almost certainly involve yelling and sweat, but you’re also able to reassure yourself that you’ve been through it before and therefore know you’ll probably survive. 

I hope that our family finds a sustainable new groove with Hazel at preschool two days a week, and Moses starting school.

I also hope to be healthier (as well as less of a cliché). I’ve realised I rely a little too heavily on my antidepressants to do the job of helping me feel relatively content and also sleepy at bedtime, and I really should make some effort to lend a hand (I know! I’ll name 2016 The Year of ACTION!). I lost weight in 2015 and started to feel like me again for the first time in a long time (except for my belly, which feels less like me and more like a weird, fleshy, six-week-old-balloon adornment on my front. I’m not sure how long itll take for me to accept that my belly is also ‘me’; maybe 2016 will be the year I finally make peace with it), but the more I’ve felt like me the less motivation Ive had to continue working towards feeling like me, because, you know, Im right here! So. I want to exercise, at least semi-regularly. I also plan to try (for the seventeenth time) to drastically reduce the amount of sugar I eat. I actually started this low-sugar plan on the first day of this year, not realising there were still lollies in the house; upon discovering them this afternoon I helpfully ate the entire lot so that I can quit sugar properly tomorrow.

I hope very good things for you, too, this year. Heres a song to kick us off...
(Its One Wild Life by Gungor.)


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