THE CLOAK

There’s a cloak wrapped tight around me.
A cloak of grief.
A cloak of fear.
A cloak of wanton weariness.

Keeping me dry,
From tears that threaten to rain.
Softening painful memories,
That strike like buffeting winds.

My mother.
My sister.
My grandmother.
My familial trinity gone.

Reunited and cleansed of mortal imperfection.
Their love now pure.
Safe.
Warm.

I feel them always near,
Though gone from sight and sound.
I hold them snug around my beating heart,
By the cloak wrapped tight around me. 

FLY FREE

In 1918, King George V reigned in England, Billy Hughes governed Australia, and Irving Berlin was busy composing the Ziegfeld Follies. May Gibbs had just published Snugglepot & Cuddlepie, David Jung invented fortune cookies, and we were yet to discover hair dryers, band aids, and the internet.

On 19 October – 23 days before peace treaties were signed to end the first world war – Charles and Eva McDougall welcomed June Margaret into the world. A world where electricity and cars were yet to become mainstream and Tasmanian Tigers were still living and breathing.

She was the youngest of the three formidable McDougall girls – Carlene, Marjorie and June. Marjorie born in 1914 and June in 1918 were nicknamed war and peace as children. Peace suited June. She was quiet, determined, passionate, devoted, and ofttimes the peacemaker. In adult years, her politics leaned strongly to the left and she had more than the occasional peace sign hanging around the house.

June was born in Patrick Street, North Hobart, but as her educated and cultured family fell on hard times they moved frequently in search of work in the timber and boatbuilding industries. She grew up in many Tasmanian towns – as a toddler in Cockle Creek gathering shells on the beach, starting school in Franklin and walking four miles to get home each day, teenage years spent in Hobart leading bushwalks to the top of Mount Wellington or beach walks to Kingston, then holidaying as frequently as possible on her beloved Bruny Island. In no particular order, she lived and fell in love with West Hobart, Lauderdale, Invermay, Broadbeach, Trevallyn, North Hobart and finally Ranelagh – a home she loved with every ounce of her being, transforming an empty yard into a veritable Garden of Eden.

As a child June developed a deep and abiding love of plants and animals, becoming a passionate gardener and devoted pet owner. She had an uncanny knack for reviving dead plants or bringing an almost lifeless animal back from near death. Her instincts with the sick and injured were spot on – every time. She nursed an orphaned wombat back to life, visited the last living Tasmanian Tiger, and nurtured a henpecked chick into a proud and bossy rooster. Among her many beloved pets were Princess the blind white cat and her litter of kittens, Trotsky & Bella the snappy Maltese terriers and their litters of puppies, and chickens running around at Ranelagh, three of whom she named Carlene, Marjorie and June. “Marjorie just laid an egg!” a gleeful reminder of her sharp wit.

As a young woman, she worked as a milliner and it was there she met her lifelong friend, Lenna – still going strong at 102. Lenna and June shared 83 years of devoted friendship – holidays together on Bruny Island, working together at Maisettes, supporting each other through births, deaths and marriages. A true friend.
Not long after she met Lenna, June was introduced to a dashing young fellow called Maurice James Conley and they became the love story of Bruny Island. Unfamiliar and shy around girls, Maurice first saw her stepping off the ferry and thought, “She was a bit of alright”.  They married in 1941, then Carrol was born in 1944 and David in 1945. Having adored and cared for babies for years, June finally had two of her own to cherish. She raised not only her own children, but spent her entire life taking in abandoned, abused or homeless, women, children and pets. Her door was always open, and a spare bed found, no matter the day or time. While never blessed with affluence, a seat at the table was always on offer and all were welcome to share what she had. She was a champion of the underdog with a warm heart and a caring hand.

After a difficult and tumultuous marriage, June and Maurice separated (though never divorced) in 1970. She moved to the Gold Coast where Carrol was now living with her husband and young family. It wasn’t long before she met “Uncle Mac” and a whirlwind romance was ignited. Mac was a Scotsman and one of the great loves of June’s life, a man who adored and cherished her, and they had many wonderful years together in the Queensland sunshine. Squirrelled away in her purse until the very end, was a photo of Mac.

June was renowned for her library – from Shakespeare to Readers Digest, fact to fiction, highbrow to romance. She had everything and read everything. She could recite the sonnets of Shakespeare, recommend a Dickens novel, or quote snippets of Kipling. Of the thousands of books she owned, every single tome was read from beginning to end at least once. Every birthday and Christmas we were gifted a precious book – something hand selected because of a special connection by name, place, or circumstance. Unfortunately, she was also very attached to every volume in her library and invariably forgot she’d gifted it, demanding its return anon.
Capping off the three great loves of her life, was family. She was not demonstrative and was prone to high levels of expectation, but adored each and every one of us, regularly boasting to anyone who would listen how clever, talented, successful, kind and worthy her family were. She was also famous for her fallings out – you could mysteriously find yourself on the outer for a misplaced word or a forgotten task. But all transgressions were quickly forgiven the moment you turned up with a smile and a fresh flower from the garden.

June died peacefully in her sleep at 98 2/3. When she was born the population of Australia was just over five million, a block of land in North Sydney cost £200 and a loaf of bread just four pence. She lived through the great depression, watched three monarchs crowned in Great Britain, and saw Dame Joan Sutherland live at the Hobart Town Hall. She welcomed new life into the world, and farewelled most of her loved ones. Woven through the story of her life was a love of all things Scottish and indulging in an afternoon glass of watered down cask wine.

June was blessed with excellent health and longevity, a sharp mind and quick wit. Her life was simple and ordinary, extraordinary and unique. Now reunited with her adored parents, sisters, and daughter. Maurice and Mac, a grandson, granddaughter and a host of family members. Countless friends, lost lovers and a multitude of pets. She will never be alone. She will not be forgotten. Fly free. Rest in peace June.

TREASURES

For the fourth time in my life, I find myself going through the intimate possessions of a family member. It is a stark reminder I should never keep in my possession, things I do not want my nearest and dearest to find. Lucky for me, I don’t have drawers full of sex toys, illicit drugs, criminal records or secret lovers. My life has been very boring – an open book in fact.

Going through my grandmother’s possessions feels voyeuristic. I am not going through her possessions alone – we are sharing the load – but there is 98 years worth of photographs, letters and precious items to go through and I seem to have ended up with a lot of the personal stuff. She took none of it with her when she left this mortal coil. None of us ever do.

I want to both read everything in detail, and hide it away for fear of invading her privacy. Lucky for grandma though, she too did not have drawers full of sex toys, illicit drugs, criminal records or secret lovers. She did have drawers full of used envelopes, sachets of sugar, and toothpicks though. When you’ve lived through the great depression, you learn to keep everything – and I mean everything.

One thing I do love going through, are the photographs. The amazing beautiful photographs of people long gone and places much changed. Going through her personal photo albums is like a trip into history.

And then – when I was already having a lovely time looking at a teency little black and white photo of my grandfather as an infant, I found this gem. This beautiful, beautiful photo of my mother as a young girl. I saw this photo many times over the years – but not for a long time. I searched for ages after she died in 2009, and asked family members if they had a copy – no luck. Then out of the blue this afternoon, it turns up. I am so happy! She looks so young and beautiful, joyous, fresh-faced, full of hope. Her life went on to have so much sadness, but in this photo she doesn’t know that yet. She is happy. She believes in the future. She is healthy and whole and I love it. Even the koala loves it – look how happy he is!

It is not easy to go through someone’s personal possessions – to throw away their underwear and toothbrush, to wonder what on earth to do with thousands of books that nobody else wants, and find loving homes for treasured possessions – but it is also a beautiful gift to be entrusted with the care of the material representation of a whole life. Everything she owned at the time of her death – from hand towels to hand creams, and vases to vaseline – now to be sorted through and distributed. And I am fortunate enough to be able to keep some of these treasures, and keep those memories alive just a little bit longer.

A beautiful white scarf, gifted to her in the second world war by a pilot.

A unique, handmade coffee table.

A hoya plant and three hanging geraniums.

A stunning photo of my mother in the prime of her life.

These items have something far more significant than monetary value – they hold memories down to the core. Every time I see that scarf, water those plants, or rest a book on the coffee table, I will remember my grandmother and the stories she told.

And I will be forever – and ever and ever – eternally grateful to have been reunited with my mother’s youthful visage. A beautiful treasure.

THE LURE OF THE DARK SIDE

If the universe was reasonable, it would allow me to “fully recover” before throwing curve balls in my direction.

Unfortunately the universe isn’t reasonable.

I have made progress. I really, really believe this. But I am far from recovered. And the moment the balls are curving towards me, there is an overwhelming desire to return to the comfort of old habits and dark desires.
Every day is a battle to eat well, eat regularly, and keep food down. Every day is a battle to deny myself self-harm – no matter how much I want to carve into my own soft flesh. Every day I make the decision to either do harm or do good to myself. And it’s exhausting.

I am so, so tired – physically, mentally, spiritually. There are good reasons for me to be tired, but that doesn’t make the exhaustion easier to bear. I keep reminding myself to hang in there – this too shall pass. The curve balls will slow down and straighten out soon, but in the meantime I need to hang in.

I made the decision about a month ago to remove the tools of my self-harm trade to a safer place – so I didn’t have constant and ready access. More and more each day now, I find myself wanting to return them to their rightful place by my side. As yet I have not done so – I choose to make a better choice today. I make no promises about tomorrow.

I have eaten daily – for months. Most of the year in fact. I have not consistently eaten six times a day. I know I should, as learning to recognise hunger signals is part of what I am relearning. There are so many things regular eating will do for me – stabilise blood sugars, reduce bingeing and craving, feed my energy levels and brain function. The voice screaming at me that food = fat is being bullied into shutting up more regularly. Yet still – it is a battle. I have to make a conscious choice to eat. To eat well. To stop eating. And every single fucking time, I have to make the heart-wrenching decision not to purge.

The dreaded food stays in – mostly.

I guess most (all?) people reading this will be glad I’m eating, not purging and not self-harming. I’m not. I feel sad about it. I’ve lost my best friends. I can’t promise I won’t go looking for them again. But right now, I’m resisting the lure to the dark side and choosing instead to sit up straight and let head rule heart.

I have learned to accept and manage suicidal ideation. My death wish is always there, but I choose not to act on it, and I’m unlikely to act on it because I worked hard to find reasons to live.

I’ve also worked hard at picturing a future filled with recovery and purpose. And to achieve this recovery and purpose, I must maintain the gains and work towards more. I dream of being freed from food obsession – I can’t imagine it, but I dream of that freedom. Every time I give in to an eating disorder demand, I push myself a little further back  – away from freedom. Every time I make a good choice, or choose to do a self-care activity, I push myself a little closer to freedom.

When life is stressful and exhausting, it is hard to focus on that freedom. But the degree of difficulty is not impossible and is almost irrelevant. The slips are getting further and further apart. The desires don’t lessen. They are still there. Every single day. Will they go away? I don’t know. Will I learn to live with them? I hope so. Am I going to succumb? Possibly. But if I do, it will be okay. I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, and keep on working towards this recovery. The lure is alluring. Succumbing is not a necessity any more.

WHAT DO I NEED?

Since I fell apart last year, people keep asking, Are you okay? How can I help? If you need anything, just ask! They are genuine offers but I never know how to respond so just say I’m fine and don’t need anything. Not because I’m a martyr but because I genuinely have no idea. When I’m socialising out and about, I do feel fine. It isn’t until I spend time alone reflecting, I can think about how I feel. And I have precious little time to do that.

Since my grandmother died, a lot of my recent recovery work has slipped. I’m not going to throw the towel in and give up though – it’s just a bit of a blip. This is the major progress I’ve made – when things aren’t going well, I no longer beat myself up and consider it evidence I am beyond redemption and recovery is impossible. I am learning patience in this recovery gig. However, that doesn’t alter the fact I’m slipping and I’d like to start going back in the right direction.

I’d really like to learn how to respond when I’m asked if I’m okay. It is automatic to say, Fine! So automatic I believe it myself. But I wonder if I’m not doing so well right now. My sleeplessness and anxiety levels would suggest perhaps that is the case. I’ve learned nobody wants to hear you’re struggling – they want to know you’re getting better and doing well. People think they want to hear the truth – but then tell you feelings will improve or offer solutions you’ve tried endlessly. Which makes sense – when you care about someone you don’t want them to be in pain – you want to help. Some problems aren’t easily solved though. So yes – it is easier to tell my friends – and myself – I’m doing fine.

So what do I actually need?

I need time alone. My life is full of caring for others, being with people, and running around helping out – and I LOVE all those things! But then I need time alone. Ideally, I would sit and contemplate my navel. In reality, I use alone time to play on my computer.

I need to walk. My self-care goes out the window in a heartbeat. Any obstacle and I put my own care on the back burner. I love walking. I particularly love walking in nature and I’m unlikely to plan it myself. But if someone suggests a walk, I’ll always tag along.

I need you to reach out. I’m always organising things for other people. Somehow I’ve ended up the bossy boots, organisational queen. It’s exhausting. I do it because nobody else wants to and I get impatient waiting for others to make plans. I get tired of having to make the phone call and stay in contact all the time. How exciting to receive a message saying, Let’s do coffee, how’s 3pm?!

I need a hug. I’ll never ask. Who asks for hugs?! But unless you’re some random creepy person I don’t know, chances are a hug is very comforting and helps me feel connected to the people around me.

I need a rest. I’m physically exhausted from not sleeping. It’s highly unlikely I’ll sleep, but just curling up in the sun with a book on a nice comfy chair would be awesome.

I need you to ask questions. If I don’t want to answer I’ll say so. I’m very open with all my issues but unlikely to disclose without being pushed. My eating disorder, in particular, is boring and embarrassing. Most people have some level of experience and understanding with anxiety and depression – bulimia not so much. Want to know why, or if, I do something? Just ask. I’d rather be understood than ignored.

I need to hear how I’m going. Have you noticed a difference in me? For better or worse? Say so! If you think I’m improving, tell me why and how. If I look like I’m struggling, ask me. Perhaps I am and I don’t know how to talk about it. But if you niggle me a bit, I’ll get there. I come from a background where talking about myself was not acceptable so it doesn’t come naturally. But if you probe I’ll open up.

I need to hear about my purpose in life. Don’t we all? And particularly at the moment. Finding eating disorder freedom is dependent on me seeing a future with purpose. I don’t always know what it is. I’ve worked on this a lot – but sometimes external validation is helpful.

I need to laugh. Don’t we all? I’ve struggled so much with depression and anxiety, for so long. I’m doing well in this area at the moment, but still – I rarely laugh. Life is tough, busy and serious. Probably for all of us. But every now and then it would be awesome to roll around on the floor laughing. Maybe a chick flick, or a night out with a few wines, or a trip to a comedy club. But every now and then I could benefit from a good rollicking belly laugh.

I need to be accepted. Right here and right now. If I’m depressed, don’t try to cheer me up. If I’m feeling anxious, don’t tell me to calm down. If I’m stuck in a cycle of disordered eating, don’t try and control my behaviours. My problem is my problem. Ask if you can help.

Ask what I need. But if I choose to starve or binge or purge, it is a choice I have made. The choice is not about food – it is about emotional distress. But wherever I’m at, just accept I’m doing the best I can on that day. Just like I accept you’re doing the best you can. We all have our issues – mine are just plastered all over my blog.

I may come across as guarded and reticent, but more often than not it’s because I don’t know what I need at that moment. I’m not good at understanding my emotions and needs on the run. It takes me time to sit and analyse and figure it all out. With a little touch of luck, this little list will help me understand my own needs a bit more!

A CENTURY IN THE MAKING

My grandmother was called Peace as a child.

She was the youngest of three girls – the formidable McDougall girls. Her closest sister was born in 1914 and grandma in 1918 – war and peace. That wasn’t her real name though – her real name was June.

Peace suited her. The first-born was self-assured, confident, intellectual and renowned for her elegant beauty. The middle sister was feisty, concerned about appearances, passionate about social justice, and a trouble maker. But grandma was quiet, determined, passionate, devoted to family, and the peacemaker. She leaned very strongly towards the left in her lifetime of politicking, and had more than the occasional Peace sign hanging around the house. Born in 1918, she still took to being a child of the ’70s.

Grandma was born into an era where electricity, running water, and motor vehicles were rarities.

Those new-fangled things came later in her lifetime – but as a young girl, she used candlelight and kerosene lamps, carted buckets from the well, and spent most of her early years with horses and carts. If they ran out of milk, she walked a few miles to the neighbours with bucket in hand, squeezed a little out of old Daisy, then walked home again. They may have been simpler times, but they were active.

She developed a deep and abiding love of plants and animals. All three girls were outstanding gardeners and devoted pet owners. Grandma had an uncanny knack for reviving dead plants or bringing an almost lifeless animal back from near death. She spent many an hour sitting with a sick or injured animal, nursing it back to health. Her instincts with the sick and injured were spot on – every time. She nursed an orphaned wombat back to life after it’s mother was killed and it remained a beloved pet for years. She also remembered seeing a Tasmanian Tiger – a real one. Extinct since 1936, the last Tasmanian Tiger was in captivity at the Hobart Zoo and she visited it on a number of occasions before it died from cold in the night.

Her family also instilled in the girls, a great love of books, reading and poetry. Grandma became renowned for her little library – containing thousands of books – from Shakespeare to Readers Digest, fact to fiction, high brow to romance. She had everything, and read everything. She could recite the sonnets of Shakespeare, recommend a Dickens novel, or quote snippets of Kipling. She never traveled the world in person – but visited every corner in spirit. Of the thousands of books she owned, every single tome was read from beginning to end at least once. She could do without a great many things in life – but not without books. Every birthday and Christmas we were gifted with one of her books – something picked out especially because it had a special connection to the recipient by a name, place, or circumstance. Unfortunately she was also very attached to every one of those books and invariably forgot she’d gifted it, demanding its return anon.

Capping off the three great loves of her life, was family.

Sometimes as a close family member it could be hard to tell – she was not demonstrative and was prone to high levels of expectation. But she also adored each and every one of us. All transgressions were quickly forgiven the moment we turned up with a smile and a fresh flower from the garden.

I was very close to my grandmother as I lived with her when I was a small child. My brother and sister were only a year apart and quite a handful at times, so I would stay with grandma for weeks at a time. She spent her entire life taking in not just stray and orphaned animals, but stray and orphaned women and children as well. Her door was always open, and a spare bed always found, no matter the day or time. Financially always struggling, her table was never empty and all were welcome to share what she had. She was a champion of lost children and women.

In her 98 years, she led a simple life – she only ever traveled interstate to visit family and never went overseas. She had worked as a milliner before marriage and children. She devoted her life to raising her own children and any that crossed her path, nurturing every plant in the garden and turning bare dirt into a veritable rainforest, and caring for a menagerie of cats, dogs, birds, fish, horses, wombats, all creatures great and small. Intertwined with a love of all things Scottish, reading any book she could get her hands on, and listening to opera. She indulged in a glass of wine or two every afternoon, gave up smoking more times than anyone I know – finally giving it up permanently in her 80s, and ate simply.

She was blessed with excellent health and longevity, a sharp mind and quick wit.

She died at 98 and 2/3 (life really does come full circle – there comes an age where we start counting the halves and quarters again). In other words, 1184 months, or 5149 weeks, or 36,035 days old. When she was born the population of Australia was just over five million, the number one song Over There by Enrico Caruso, number one movie Mickey, and the number one novel The U.P. Trail by Zane Grey. In the US, the price of gold was $20.67, a new home cost $2736 and a loaf of bread cost just $0.10.

She lived through the great depression, saw the invention of television, watched three monarchs crowned in Great Britain, and saw Dame Joan Sutherland live at the Hobart Town Hall. She welcomed new life into the world, and farewelled most of her loved ones.

Her life was simple and ordinary, extraordinary and unique.

Now reunited with her adored parents, sisters, daughter and estranged husband. A grandson, granddaughter and host of family members. Countless friends, lost lovers and a multitude of pets. She will never be alone. She will not be forgotten. Fly free. Rest in peace grandma. xx