The Definition of Anxiety

Anxiety.

It’s not a medical illness nor a physical disability but it can feel deathly sickening and is often physically as well as mentally disabling.

Anxiety can stop you from doing normal things. It rides you and keeps you scared. It is fear on steroids. It tingles your insides but not in a good way. It makes your heart feel as if it is about to exlode from your chest and run away with the 20 cans of Red Bull that it feels like it has drunk.

Anxiety is not always obvious to outsiders. It’s not often a physical attritubte you can see with your own eyes. It doesn’t advertise itself on a billboard across your forehead. Anxiety is hidden within. Sometimes very well so.

Anxiety is a series of deep breaths, a lot of inner talking … Stay calm, deep breath, you’re ok. But anxiety usually yells louder … You’re going to fuck up, you’re not worthy, everyone is looking at you.

Anxiety causes you to over analyse situations, to obsess over the worst possible scenarios and can lead to compulsive behaviours.

Anxiety can feel like a heart attack. Then the anxiety increases because you begin thinking you are actually having a heart attack.

“Calm down.” These are not two words that will cure anxiety. Don’t say it to an anxious person. “Don’t worry. Be happy.” Another four words that will not cure anxiety.

Anxiety feels heavy and attacking. Heavy enough to weigh you down and brutal enough to make you feel like all of the nonense it tells you is true.

Anxiety lies to you. About everything. Anxiety is not a friend you want in your corner. Anxiety will not alter your future for the better but it will alter your present for the worse.

Breathing helps. Deep breathing. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4.

Move. Fast. Controlled. Deliberate. Then breathe. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4.

Speak. To someone you trust. A professional. A friend. And then breathe. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4. In 2, 3, 4 and out 2, 3, 4.

Courage is not the first step. The first step is courageous. 

One love,

DRK xxx

If you or a loved one is experiencing severe anxiety or depression get help! Talk to someone you trust or find a professional who can help you.

Call Beyond Blue 1300 22 4636

Burn Those Mo-Fo Scales

A few years ago my weight made my day, literally.

If my weight was up my mood was down and by down I mean down in the fiery pits of sooky-la-la-hell. Picture hyperventilating, tragic tears, snot everywhere, kicking stuff like a tempered two-year-old and eventually a hurt toe or two, it’s a pretty sight huh?!

On the other end of the scale (pun intended) if my weight was down I was up. Up in the clouds, high on happiness and full of confidence. Seriously though the only difference between a good and bad weigh day was a cheat meal and a decent shit.

One particular down day, of which there were many as it seemed just breathing my own farts could make me gain, my husband threatened the life of my scales. So when my tears didn’t dry up after the umpteenth time of him describing how he saw me and that the scales couldn’t rate sexy or awesome he honoured that threat by taking it to the next level.

He kidnapped my scales!

Yep, kidnapped that silver-tongued weighing machine without so much as a ransom note and he threw it powerfully over his head and directly at the driveway beneath our first floor balcony. He then pulled out his keys, threw himself frustratedly into his car, turned the ignition and proceeded to drive over them. Not satisfied with the crunch he ripped it into reverse, drive, reverse – you get what I’m saying? And then when he felt sure the scales were unusable he parked his ute on it as a final triumphant winning move.

I was devastated. Silly I know but I really was! How was I going to judge my day from now on if I didn’t know how fat or not-too-fat I was? Did I really have to wake up and just be happy? Is that what the rest of the world did?

I’ve told this husband-car-smashing-scales story before but now I’m out the other side, not completely cured but living better than I have before, I see this story differently. I also see it as a must for all women, everywhere, who choose their mood in a negative way because they listened to this mean girl machine! She is a mean girl compacted, digitalised and she doesn’t even have to speak to make you feel shit about yourself. Who are you giving your power away to?!!! If you must give your wonderful womanly power away at least make them living breathing humans! And by ‘if you must give away your power” I mean DON’T FUCKING GIVE ANYONE YOUR POWER EVER! Living, breathing or machining.

It does not matter how much you paid for those scales. It does not matter what excuses you come up with. If you weigh yourself every day or as in my case back then three times a day then you go NOW and you get that mother-fucking number thingy and throw them at the driveway and reverse, drive, reserve, drive, repeat and park on them! And no I won’t pay for your punctured tyres be smart about it ladies cover it in cardboard if you have to. If you don’t have a car, get a hammer, don’t have a hammer, get a bat – but not the perfection bat because that’s imaginary. Throw them in a bonfire if you can’t beat them to death and stand there triumphantly watching them burn! DO something significant to those little gravity defining mofos!

Was my pep talk not enough? What are you still doing here? Can’t let go? You want more?

Well, here’s ten reasons why you should amputate those fuckers from your life:

1. The scales WILL NOT tell you who you really are! That bitch will never give you the answers you are looking for! No. NOT. EVER.

2. The scales will not tell you how your genetics influence your weight/height/body shape. They will not tell you whether you are a petite dainty babe or a complete glamazon or some beautiful specimen in between. It only gives you a number. JUST A NUMBER! Like this – 67 – or this – 84 – or this – 72.47567296 – …. Numbers! NOT genetic make-up. You’ve got your Dad’s legs, your Mums waistline and apparently your Great-Aunties nose … A scale can’t calculate that whole bundle of gloriousness!

3. The scales will not tell you how funny/smart/creative you are. They can’t tell you that you have a killer backhand in tennis, that your kids/husband/dogs think your laugh is the one of the best sounds to hear ever in this world or that, if there was such a thing, you would have earned a Masters Degree in parenting/kicking arse by now.

4. The scales just stress you the fuck out … Don’t they? Then why do it to yourself? We are smarter than that. We are worth more than that! Life CANNOT be defined by that!

5. The scales cannot tell you your ‘correct’ or your ‘ideal’ weight. Why? Because it’s a stupid fucking machine! A stupid fucking machine that someone invented to make you feel bad about yourself! And they continue to do so and they win! Why let them win?!

6. The scales tell you nothing about your actual state of health. Nothing! It may give you your body fat percentage or your hydration level but can it really? It doesn’t take your blood and then calculate your cholesterol. It doesn’t evaluate the arteries in your heart, your pancreas function or tell you that you have a fatty liver. Other machines do that. Let them make you feel bad – but only to make you do something positive about it!

7. The scales can actually hinder your efforts! How? Well, I’m sure you’ve heard the statement, and probably, like me, scoffed at it too, that “muscle weighs more than fat”…. It actually really does! So if you are exercising and eating well and your weight is not shifting (or it is going up) then could it be possible your shifting fat and building muscle? Could it!?! But no you see you’re weight has gone in the wrong direction and you throw in the towel, sit on the couch, crying into a bag of caramel popcorn and chocolate. Don’t worry I’ve done that too a billion times over!

8. The scales can’t and won’t tell you that you’re due for your period, if you ate a cheat meal last night or if you haven’t been to the toilet in a few days. It cannot tell you that you are retaining fluid or if you’ve lost centimetres off your waistline. A tape measure can, your clothes can but not that mean girl machine.

9. Weight is your gravitational pull. Your mass is your matter. But none of it matters if you’re healthy and balanced in life. Your scales will only tell you your physical earthly mass. Not the depth, the intensity or the worthiness of your mass. It cannot tell you that your laughter is contagious, your smile lights up the room like sunshine or that you look totally fucken hot right now even though the scale says a number that isn’t socially acceptable to you.

10. The scales will only confuse you, haunt you and give you reasons to whip out your perfection bat. It’s a mean girl disguised as a helpful health machine and it will take away your power – if you let it.

Who’s the one in charge of your health? 

Who’s the one in control of your body? 

Who is the only one who can change who tells who what to do?

I’ll give you a clue: it’s not the scales!

Wear it. Own it. Be it….. And by ‘it’ I mean YOU!

One love,
DRK xxx

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When Offspring Fly

The wings I’ve helped shape for the past 18 years have opened up and flown the coop. To say I’m feeling pretty tragic is on target. And to say I am shocked that I even feel this way is a huge understatement.

Only 1 month short of my 18th birthday I found out I was pregnant with my girl. I had organised a pub crawl, yes I’m a class A bogan through and through, to celebrate my legal stance in the community. But instead of getting totally plastered I ended up legal and totally sober. Everyone on board my bus had a ripper of a night- me not so much.

Four nights ago I celebrated my daughters 18th and partied like it was mine… again… except this time I was 100% not pregnant. I celebrated because I’d made it! She’d made it! It felt like a victory! A bloody fucking marvellous victory! I sucked back copious amounts of jelly shots that I had prepared earlier – I had made two different versions, apparently, strong and extra fucking strong. I guzzled strawberry daiquiris like lolly water and finished off with vodka and soda – which by that stage tasted like water and it was probably water that the bar staff were charging me $10 for!

I crawled into bed at 3am. Something I haven’t done since I was in my 20’s and I’ve suffered for it every day since. But oh what a night! What a memory! What an achievement! 

One child down four to go! I can only hope and pray that they all fly the coop with their heads on their shoulders, confident and happy little birdies like their big sister. But something tells me I’m not going to get it that easy… I think it’s karma 😬

One love,

DRK xx

This was written back in February 2016 – it’s been hiding in my drafts since then. Perhaps I couldn’t face that it actually happened but then again I obviously wrote it during my hangover so I probably forgot I’d even written it!

Oh and for the record my speech that I had planned in my head turned out to be a very shortened, powerful version of my actual speech. Here it is: “She’s not pregnant!” To which everyone cheered of course! Thankfully she’s not much like her mum! X


This was my offspring begging me to go to the pub with her and her friends … and leave behind my house full of guests … who were there to celebrate HER birthday … at 9:30!

Marriage, Sex and a Genie: Part 2

I recently blogged about sex and how it’s not always what it’s cracked up to be, especially in long term relationships. There is not always passionate sex and equal libidos…

Not all of the time.

Not for all couples. 

The original post came with a warning to NOT read it if you were sensitive to dirty words or lacked a sense of humour… But sometimes people, lovely special people, don’t heed the warnings. And so these people – after reading my sarcastic, crude, tongue-in-cheek and well-warned post – decided to offer their advice to me about me and my “bratty western woman” behaviour. I really, truly value their opinion. Honestly, truly valued – thank you xx. In their opinions, I shouldn’t be married to anyone … ever, I really don’t deserve my husband, I’m a terrible, terrible wife and that, well, that I’m a disgusting human being … simply because I don’t want sex every day – sheesh I thought my average of three times a week was quite sufficient.

I’m smart enough to know that “some people” (you know who you are) get all defensive about these types of things (hmmm again the warning was there people) and it seems everyone takes everything personally these days. But all that really concerned me before I hit the “publish” button were the thoughts and feelings of the people who I actually have real feelings towards like my husband, my immediate family members and my good friends. So with this is the forefront of my mind I aired my naughtiest post ever! But in baby steps.

Step 1: I let my husband read it. Verdict: he has a sense of humour. He didn’t take it personally because he knew it was a collaboration of conversations with girlfriends over many years. His only concern was that our 18-year-old daughter might read it. She hasn’t and she doesn’t want to but she also wanted me to go ahead with Step 5 coz she, like me, was also born with a sense of humour. Gifted, all of us I tell you!

Step 2: I posted it privately and sent the link and password (it was ‘headache’ by the way which I thought was a nice touch) to a few of my closest friends. I sent it to them because we actually talk about this stuff – hell this is where I get most of my crude material from? Also, I wanted to gauge their reactions. Their reactions: Laughter, agreeability and support. Agreeability is such a nice word isn’t it but what they really said was “Fuck yeah!!! That is hilarious!! I totally get it! You need to share this!!!!” Yes, they said all that with all those exclamation marks too!

Step 3: I posted it publicly to my few hundred followers who initially at whatever stage followed me coz they ‘got’ me to a certain extent. They ‘got’ my dry and dirty sense of humour and could relate to my stories to some degree BUT I was prepared to delete if necessary. Their reactions: Again laughter, agreeability and support. In fact, I received many private messages and emails saying ‘thank you’. Thank you because nobody ever talks about this stuff and we feel we must pretend everything is perfect all of the time because our marriages are doomed, apparently, if we don’t feel like bonking our partners all day every day. If we don’t enjoy it, desire it, initiate it.

Step 4: I gave myself a pep talk… Well, actually I listened to an audible book by a successful writer who speaks about writing simply because you love to write. She speaks about writing for yourself not for others. She says when you write you have to do it with the realisation that you cannot, you will not be able to control anybody’s reaction to what you have written. That reaction belongs to them. My reaction to her talking about reactions: was to be brave. Marriage, Sex & a Genie was written lightheartedly and exaggeration was obvious (wasn’t it). My husband didn’t take it personally because a) it wasn’t and b) he’s married to me so he knows the truth about our sessions AND c) again … he has a sense of humour – which kinda seems to be an important missing ingredient here for some of you.

Step 5: Accept a ‘viral’ opportunity from a big blogging site (aka Huff Post <3) who are happy to post the risky but honest, albeit sarcastic-for-humour-purposes, post. Wow, thank god someone has a sense of humour in this world! Reaction: some crazy, aggressive, mother-fuckers!

For people who don’t know me, my husband or our relationship they’ve certainly been quick to judge which is fair game I suppose. But is it necessary to label me and call me names? They have even given my husband a permanent hall pass – he’s stoked thanks guys – and I was told by some lovely fellow, whom is probably very single, that I should stop breathing…. Yeow that was a bit harsh buddy – is Mrs Palmer cramping up? Oh and here’s a personal message just for you from me and the gorgeous Megan Fox…

While to me this all seems a little bit of an overreaction (or to those that wrote the comments, fair) there is a choice here for me. I can dwell on it, cry, beat myself up coz people don’t like me which, if I’m honest, I was tempted to do because that’s been ‘my thing’ all my life. You know, live in fear of not being liked and trying to keep everyone happy. OR my other option is that I can take it and leave it. This is what I have chosen to do. It’s that simple really. Read, delete, repeat.

I’ve learnt five things in this critical process:

1) a dry sense of humour is not shared by all.

2) people take shit really, really personally.

3) from a 980+ word “story” people think they know all there is to know about you and your relationship and whether you should live and breath or not.

4) you cannot control how other people react.

5) you are braver than you think. Even if it hurts.

I’m not going to apologise to the keyboard judge and jury – again you were warned not to continue reading. This type of shaming is why women or men – remember all relationships will suffer from some kind of libido imbalance at times, feel like they can’t talk about ‘it’. That they can’t talk about their low libidos or heavens-to-Betsy have a joke about their husbands persistently high libido. Shamed because people are quick to label us selfish, dud roots (yes someone actually called me that – someone who has never actually rooted me), terrible wives and to tell us our marriages are doomed. But that’s their opinion.

We are always, always on demand whether it’s the five hundred kids we have (see how I exaggerated there?), their billion teachers and sports coach appointments (and again), our never-ending household needs (dramatising), and most importantly our husbands. Sometimes we feel like we are always in demand. Kissing sore knees, wiping away sad tears, fixing, cleaning, sucking dick… So for us to want our bodies, our minds to ourselves for an hour, a day we are seen as selfish, spoilt brats? Really?!

Well to those on the same wavelength as me (I think there are a couple of you out there … Oh yes I see you.. Hi there!), to those that feel like they’d like a little “this-is-my-body-and-I’d-like-no-invasion-of-a-peen-today” let me support you. Ignore my hateful commentators (I have – they’ve been deleted) that try to make us feel ashamed for not feeling like getting down and dirty with sexy time all the time

Here’s to not feeling like a ‘happy ending’ each and every night – oh unless that happy ending is watching your own TV show in peace while snacking on chocolate.

Here’s to the effort that we do make even when we don’t feel like it. 

Here’s to “obligation sex” when hubbies flying out to his week-on shift, or flying in. 

Here’s to being able to laugh about it with your girlfriends and to people with a sense of humour. 

And finally here’s to feeling normal and not awful for having a headache, occasionally. And no aspirin will not fix it but a cuddle will. Just don’t poke me in the back with that ‘thing’, ok?

#findyoursenseofhumourdotcom #nexttimereadthewarning #yourreactionsucksdicks #hallpassesallround

One love,

DRK xxx

 

For My Nana

This is my reading from my Nanas funeral. I’m posting it here as a keepsake and as my promise to remember her for the rest of my life.

On the morning of the 27th January the world lost a feisty, stubborn, proud and loving woman – traits many of her family members have inherited – me included! A woman who fiercely loved and protected her family. She was a true nurturer and she was proud of us all regardless of the mistakes she witnessed throughout our lives, mine especially.

Her hugs were powerful, her stories often on repeat and just two months after her beloved husband, my Dear Pop, passed away she left this world to be with him. We all knew she wouldn’t be far behind coz since when does Nana give Pop any peace and I think it’s fair to say two months was long enough!

There are many things I will remember about my Nana and so would many of you. Kelly remembers the cheek pinches and how she used to say “I could eat you and suck on the bones!” But when I say it it just doesn’t sound as sweet.

I know I will remember her for the rest of my life. This is my promise.

Nana, I will remember those hugs you gave me where you squeezed me so tight know matter how old I got. So tight that I didn’t think I could breathe.

I will remember your smell – a mixture of roses and moth balls – on your clothes, in your home, on your soft porcelain skin.

I will remember how you always confused your only two granddaughters names in every conversation… I was called Kelly, Kelly called Cristy, and on an occasion Kelly called Evan. It didn’t matter what name you called us we always knew who you meant.

I will remember the bits of advice you gave me about love, about life, about children, about making mistakes and moving on.

I will remember your bright and colourful outfits and jewels that were always matching, your style was forever fancy.

I will remember the funny speech bubble stickers on all our photos and your creativity with scrapbooking and knitting – especially those sexy knitted socks that I wouldn’t dare to be seen in 15 years ago but would do anything to have a pair made from you now.

I will remember the squeals of joy as you cuddled a baby, any baby. I will remember your passion for your beloved Eagles and support for their Benny Boy. You were always keen to give a second chance.

I will remember how you taught me to play chopsticks on the piano which I never quite mastered as good as the other grandkids.

I will remember how your face lit up every time the great grandies came to visit, the littlest ones especially. You had a massive love for little babies, a trait Kel and I have inherited from you and considering between us we’ve produced 10 of your 20 great grandchildren I think we’ve done you proud in that department. You even tried to convince me that my babies just got cuter and cuter the more I had so I definitely needed a sixth! But that is one piece of advice I’m going to ignore.

More recently I will remember your eyes and the way they would open wide and sparkle every time you said “I love you”, even in your final breathless days. I will remember that I loved you fiercely in return, I have loved you all my life.

So today we say goodbye and we love you Nana. Don’t give Pop too much curry up there for getting there first, let him read his paper in peace and once you finish squeezing Jeremy in your biggest Nana-hugs give him another one from all of us. We miss him.

We hope Heaven is ready for you, our bright beautiful spark, Nana xxx