Before & After – A Mental Transformation

Well this is going to be confronting & long. It’s going to be a case of personal oversharing including photos of me – yep, I’m totally freaking out here – but it has got to be said and it has got to be shared for clarification.


The photo on the right is me 4 years ago. Eating crap, exercising little (unless waddling is a recognised sport nowadays) and weighing the heaviest I have ever done in my entire life. Clearly I am also very pregnant, in fact I am 3 days overdue with my fifth devil spawn … and by devil spawn I mean my darling children. I was told during this pregnancy, around the halfway mark, by my doctor, that I was not to gain anymore weight. At that point in time I had only gained 5kg. By the time this photo was taken I had gained 10 in total. I’m such an over achiever … Actually thats a lie – I’ve never overachieved at anything. Let me tell you though that being told not to gain weight or even to consider losing some while pregnant by a professional really fucks with your head. Like really. Fucks. With. Your. Head.

The middle photo is of me at my slimmest – as an adult at least. Or as someone trying to be all adulty and stuff. This was me 6 months after giving birth to my fifth child and 6 weeks into a gruelling 500 calories a day supplement supported “detox”. I wasn’t allowed to exercise on this diet which is clear because there were no calories to spare. I cried many of those 42 days and would beat myself up when I ate an extra cracker or didn’t lose some gram of weight daily. Then at the end of all that, 10kg lighter, I still saw a fat, disfigured, heavy set woman. Although that is me smiling in the photo – posing even – in all honestly I had my daughter take at least 20 photos before I decided none of them were good enough to share and went into the bathroom to cry because I was just so fucking hideous. Which cracks me up now because I’d give my fifth child up (I’m kidding!) to look like that again but I wouldn’t ever want to go back to the way I felt emotionally and mentally at that moment in my life.

The photo on the left was taken 3 months ago. It’s a flattering photo of my current body & this is obvious to me because it’s the only full length photo I can find of myself recently. Which means that perhaps I don’t look like that in real life. Perhaps I am bigger and realistically I know I am. I know I am because I am pretty close to the weight I was in my pregnant photo. Yes the pregnant heifer on the right. The one who was warned to lose weight or face diabetes. I also know I am heavyset because categorically the BMI (or as I prefer to call it Bad Mother-fucking-mental-image Indicator) says I am either close to being obese or I’m too short for my weight.

BUT what it doesn’t tell you is that in the here and now I eat a well balanced diet including eating some form of crap once or twice a week because I love food that is sometimes not classified as “good” food. It doesn’t tell you that I’ve given up the torturous yo-yo dieting, self sabotaging and body hating. I no longer drink coffee because of the horrible reflux, the side-effect-city medication I took for it and the anxiety those little brown beans caused me. I seldom drink more than one or two glasses of alcohol a week, though if I do it’s more like 6 or 7 in one quick sitting as I’m a irregular try-hard party girl who prefers her jarmies, a good book and her bed. But most importantly what it doesn’t tell you is that I am mentally stronger than I have ever been in my entire I-feel-not-good-enough life.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not “cured” of this mental torture so many of us have and in all honesty I can say sometimes when I look in the mirror I don’t love what I see. Sometimes I look at photos and it looks as though I am smuggling food in my mouth. But I’m not. My cheeks are just chubbier than they once were which would have been cute 30-something years ago. What’s more confronting is that I know you guys see it too. You see the extra chin, the bigger belly, the fatter arms. And it’s there for all to see. I get it I see it too. But whats more important is what you don’t see. You don’t see the real difference between those three photos, those fragmented stages of my life. The difference that actually matters. And that is my mental state. My happiness.


I can now honestly say that 97% of my time is spent with me accepting my body. But don’t you dare confuse acceptance with defeat. I haven’t given up on my health. I am not “letting myself go”. My health is top of my priority list as I get to the halfway point of my life – assuming I live to 70-something. I don’t want to hear the “no excuses” tag line anymore because I do actually have them. I have a few of them. But I will not justify any of them to you because this is my body. My life. My mental state in question. My excuses. My reasons. My body. My life.

Mental health issues are torture. Be kind to others – you do not know their insides and if you did you would be a really valued member in the X-ray department. Stay focused… on yourself. Your own life. Your own happiness.

One love
DRK xxx

Egos at War

A little while ago I did something. Something that I wanted to do for myself but also to help others. Women in particular. I was so excited to be a part of a something bigger than my little world and to share a valuable message with as many people as I could. Just registering to do, for me, was life changing because it took so much courage to even get it rolling and once I had stepped over through the fear boundary I felt so empowered.

And then it all went to shit.

I was hit with obstacle after obstacle by someone willing to do anything to get their own way. But what hurt most was she came out looking like a goddess and I, a second rate try-hard. In truth I was completely cast to the side and forgotten about. She lied to me and to others, embellished her ‘story’ and bullied me into a corner. She was spiteful and used others against me. I sound resentful don’t I? That’s because I am.

I know if I was the person then that I am today then I would have stood up for myself a lot better. And this makes me feel so incredibly frustrated at myself.

Today all the disappointment and anxiety I felt during that time came flooding back because I found out she received recognition for her efforts. That she received a personal call and a huge pat on the back. Yet me, who never kicked up a fuss, who never stepped on anyones toes, who never wanted to take away from the message I wanted to share so I kept my mouth shut got sweet fuck all.

Don’t get me wrong I didn’t do it for the self promotion like she did but to be shafted, bullied and disempowered and then for the shafter, bully and disempowerer to receive all the credit hurts… A lot. I feel resentment that I was the nice girl and I walked away unacknowledged. She even took credit for my hard work and claimed it as her own!

But yesterday after I allowed the crap feelings to build to an extreme level I decided to do something about it because I sure as shit am NOT going to let this “inspiring woman” have any more of my energy and it starts right here… Right now.

It all starts with forgiveness and retiring the ego.

I am going to forgive her. I am going to forgive her underhanded ways. Forgive that her drive was more important than another womans feelings. Forgive her ego for feeling superior and mine for acting inferior.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean we are going to be best friends or that she is off the hook for the trouble she caused. Forgiveness just means that I will no longer carry the feelings of hurt and disempowerment around with me. I know my part. I know what really happened and shouting the truth from the roof tops will only make me look like a cunt.

It is our egos at war here and at the end of the day it is my hurt ego that is driving these feelings. It is my ego that wants people to know the truth but someone once said you can be happy or you can be right.

I choose happy.

One Love

DRK xxx

How To Love Your Body

Loving and accepting yourself, especially as a woman, is not always as easy as it sounds. In fact for most of us it feels near on impossible. We spend a huge amount of our lives obsessed by our bodies and by the numbers that we allow to control our worth in society. Like the numbers on the scales and by god those damn scales never get it right do they. The numbers labelled onto our clothes which dictate our ‘size’ and categorise us into petite, average, plus-size. Numbers ‘scientifically’ extracted from foods and then labelled as calories – good calories, bad calories – don’t eat that, do eat that. Success. Failure.

It’s like a never ending rollercoaster ride that you never wanted to get on in the first place.

STOP I WANT TO GET OFF. Yes, I know, you’ve also been begging this for years.

These numbers consume us and torture us. Yet they really mean nothing. They are just numbers. They hold no power. We give them power and then we compound those numbers by surrounding ourselves with images of what we ‘should’ look like. Reading articles about other womens bodies. Being financially and emotionally invested in the toxic magazines that decide if someone is too fat or too skinny. Constantly our bodies, bodies of all women, are picked apart. Judged. Treated like ornaments. Why have we, why do we, allow womens bodies to be up for discussion? Why do we enrol ourselves in this way of living? And why the fuck do we become our worst critics when we should be protecting and nurturing the only body we have!

For decades I had decided my freckles were ugly. My nose was too big, my legs too chunky and my tummy… OMG my tummy was fucking hideous. All these things combined made me disgusting. Gross. Unlovable and unable to succeed at anything. Everything bad that happened to me was always because of these physical things. I decided from a very young age that only the pretty girls were successful and I was never going to be one of them. My life was a hate-fest – directed purely at myself.

Today I see me differently. Today I know a lot of women and young girls are also seeing themselves differently.

Why do they? How could this happen? Where’s the magic pill? You ask.

There is no pill. You do not need to put anything in your body or take anything out of it to make it loveable. To make it worthy. To make it beautiful.

It already is.

Seriously.

So how can you believe this to be true? How can this happen?

Embrace.

Embrace happened.

If you want to love your body you need to see the film Embrace by Taryn Brumfitt. You need to see it. Your mother needs to see it. Your daughter needs to see it. In fact your son needs to see this too. I saw this last night and I witnessed the transformation of so many women. The break throughs. The acceptance. The tears. The conversations. Oh my god the conversations! It absolutely breaks your heart to hear so many women have suffered the same thoughts and feelings for so long. So many have suffered in silence with nobody to talk to. Last night the flood gates opened. Last night body love and acceptance became a topic of conversation.

The message is constant throughout the film which is uniquely delivered by every size, shape and skin coloured woman. The message being that we waste so much of our time, so much of our lives thinking about our bodies. Critising them, wishing they were different, punishing them for being the way they are. Yet we should shift our focus to our psychological health because self acceptance has nothing to do with how we look. Self acceptance starts and finishes with our mind. Acceptance of where you are right now. Acceptance of your body as is.

Body love and acceptance starts with us!

We are blessed to be able to teach our daughters to love their bodies any which way they come. We are so lucky to be the generation in history that starts this movement to educates girls that their bodies are not items up for discussion and nor should they compare themselves to anybody else. We are the privileged generation that gets to teach them that gossip magazines and social media sites do not represent all the unique and fabulous body shapes the world has to offer and that photoshopping is wrong on so many levels and that realness is right!

The body image movement and body loving starts with us. Right now.

Watch the film. Take action. And one day in years to come our kids kids will be wondering what the hell this body image movement is all about because body loathing just won’t exist any more. Imagine that.

Seriously. Imagine that!

All my love,

DRK xxx

Are you still doubting? Well let me reaffirm that you, yes YOU, are beautiful just as you are. This means that you now have the right (as you always did) to be present in your life. You also get to be happy. To feel loved. To put on a swimsuit and splash around in the water with your three year old. You are fully entitled to buy that dress in the fabulous size 14 that you are right now and NOT in the size 10 to motive you to lose weight.

DO NOT waste a single day of your life from here on in thinking that you aren’t good enough, pretty enough, slim enough. There is no definition of the perfect body… NONE. You define it just by being YOU! Now go and love yourself! xxx

Click here to TAKE ACTION

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Embrace 2016 – You changed the way of thinking for a room full of women and young girls. Taryn Brumfitt, this movement is a gift that will be shared over and over again. Your sacrifices and your commitment to this film is deeply appreciated. #ihaveembraced

How To Tell If You’re A ‘Nice Girl’ & How To Be A Queen Instead

I believe on a deep level that I am a genuine person and my intentions are good. I, like most other people, have had predominantly good intentions throughout my life – even as a rebellious shithead teen.

My daily intentions now are to be a patient, kind, nurturing mum, hey, I said intentions not real actual shit that happens. Intentions to be a hard worker, a financial wizard, stylish, successful (and by successful I mean just not a failure) and intentions to write a novel…

The good news with that is I’ve actually written 50 pages …

Bad news is there are 50 different novels in those pages – 1 page per novel – winning! Or. Not. Winning…

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I’ve also had intentions to say sorry more, to love harder, to be a flawless daughter from hereon in, I repeat I was a shithead rebellious teen, and to stand up to others when things aren’t right.

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My intentions recently have been super pure coz I am a super fucking sparkling woman after all. They have been genuine and they have been for the greater good. But my intentions have not matched the actual outcome. Someone forgot to tell Mr or Mrs fucking Universe that I was doing things for all the right reasons and to come to the party with his or her blessing. I’m not asking for accolades or for the Gods to come and sing my praises I just wanted things to go smoothly and not be fucked up the arse at every turn. Ouch!

I play life by the rules, I dot my “i’s”, I cross my “t’s”, I try not to step on anyone else toes in the effort of getting what I want and I always consider other peoples feelings before my own. This is somewhat like the “Nice Guy Syndrome”. NGS is where a guy is super nice to all potential future partners (aka every girl he meets) and so therefore no girl wants him even though she whinges about wanting to find a decent nice guy. Because I am not a guy and I am kind of sick of having syndromes I’ve come up with my own version of NGS… I call it – Nice Girl Soshitonme – [soshit-on-me] NGS. Same-same but different.

The “Nice Girl Soshitonme” has a few symptoms typical of this disease syndrome illness life choice. Symptoms are:

  • You are polite, like really polite and you won’t step on peoples toes to get what you want… ever.
  • You ensure a smile is plastered on your face no matter how pissed off you feel at someone and you say sorry far too often for all the little things – even when it was the small-man-syndrome dude who bumped his trolley into yours.
  • You prefer to sit on the fence about controversial subjects and you never willingly try to upset anyone and if you do, accidentally, you spend the next 100 years feeling guilty about it and trying to buy their forgiveness with cheap arse gifts coz you can’t afford the real and expensive stuff and…
  • You avoid confrontation with anyone and everything and you backdown at the cost to your soul, your withering defeated soul…

Any NGS with me?

Now let me explain a little thing called “Getting Screwed” and see if anything stands out to you:

  • People who get screwed (PWGS) are scared to ask for what they want, most would say they’re too polite
  • PWGS are nice. To everyone. Pretty much all the time. Even while being screwed.
  • PWGS keep themselves safe and secure and rarely step out of their comfort zone. They like to obsess over things that have gone wrong in the past when they have ventured out of their bubble. They are scared of change and how those changes will be accepted.
  • PWGS won’t fight. They won’t fight for what they believe, for what they want and will settle for life as a screw.

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Anything standing out to you?! Any clear collisions? Well of course there is because I wrote this purposefully to be a complete collision course to get my message across! Why? Because I am a nice girl and I am not going to continue to be screwed over. I won’t sit on that pretty picket fence any longer I mean that shit isn’t comfy anyway there’s a full picket up my arse. I am not going to stand in the pouring rain any longer at the expense to my health and well being. I will no longer stop, drop and roll at any sign of confrontation because I do have my own valued beliefs and god damn it they need to be heard, listened to and put on the register of ‘don’t mess with this chick’. Yes that is a real register. Really. Ok .. so not actually real but let’s just go with it, ok?!

Are you a NGS? You sick of being one of those PWGS? Well, put those abbreviations aside and pull those awesome shoulders back girls. Dust off those dirty sucking-arse knees you have there and wipe that shit from your mouth. You were not put on this earth to please every tom, dick and harriet. You were put on this earth to shine like a diamond. We don’t need to cause chaos or become evil bitches we just need to stop allowing ourselves to be screwed – unless it’s going to end in an orgasm! We need to be real to ourselves. Stand up, be heard and believe. Believe in who you are. Believe in your importance on this soil. And damn girl believe in your ability to speak up!

You will never be able to please everyone and by pleasing all of them you are forgetting the most important person of all – yourself! Those dirty red knickers were born to ride high. That cape was designed to fly and by god that crown was created to sparkle. So sparkle you sensational, perfectly-imperfect queens! SPARKLE!

One love

DRK xx

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The ‘Sometimes’ Thoughts of a Parent

Sometimes I feel like I am missing out. I’m sorry to say it but I do. It’s so normal to feel this way yet we aren’t allowed to say it out loud as we are deemed ungrateful, spoilt, jealous. I had kids young and then I continued having kids until I felt old. And one day, before I know it and probably before my youngest has left home I will be a grandparent which is wonderful and all but then I’ll still be here. Doing what it feels like I have always done.

Not much.

A stay at home mum.

A taxi driver.

A cleaner.

A cook.

None of which I excel at. Or so it feels. It’s fucking ruthless though.

And I sound ungrateful. Yet it’s real. I’ve just watched my newsfeed tell me how wonderful other peoples lives are. They’re living the dream. Living abroad. Travelling the world and only now settling down to have babies. People I went to school with who were smarter and more committed to their future than I ever was. I wanted things now. Like a baby. Like a marriage. The first one didn’t work so why not do it again. The furtherest I have travelled is Bali when I was 11, hardly self-sufficient. Then Melbourne a couple of times. I am not worldly. I’m not even sure if this is what bothers me. I’m not convinced that I want ‘worldly’ in my nature.

I haven’t set myself up financially. My husband did that. Don’t get me wrong I worked. I worked my butt off in many jobs while being a single mother. And when I finally got myself secure in a permanent job selling real estate, and doing quite well, my hubby came along, swept me off my feet and asked me for two more kids. Which I gave him for love. But I also gave up what I’d hoped to be a forging career. But maybe I am not cut out for that. Maybe a career is not my thing. Parenting is. And of course I am going to tell you that I would never take it back. And I mean it. My kids drive me bonkers and make me question everything there is in this life but they also give meaning to my life … But somedays I have to first peel back a few layers. And somedays I worry – do they even like me? Do they wish they had a better/funner/more organised Mum? The stress of raising little humans into big humans is fucking scary. What if I fuck up? What if I have already fucked up and there is nothing I can do to change it?

When I go to my school reunion late this year – who am I? Who have I become? Where are all my great stories? There is only so much kid-talking you can do before yawning begins and they find someone far more interesting … And less drunk. Is this an achievement? The fact I have had five kids? Is this the biggest achievement I have made in my life? Again, I know this sounds ungrateful. I know to people without children this sounds like fingernails down a very ugly and very selfish chalkboard. But I am asking it anyway.

My responsibilities lie at home. My house. My husband. My kids. That is my job. My career. Somehow this doesn’t satisfy the burning for something more. The desire to be doing something else. But then I remember that even if I do something else this will always be here – but harder. There will be just as much to do except with less time to do it if I devote my time elsewhere, to me. To something I want to do.

I am a Mum forever. I know how lucky I am to say that. But what else am I? It’s a rhetorical question. Just a thought after a relentless day.

One love

DRK xxx

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Menstrual Cups *Women Only*

It was recently my birthday …

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I know. I know. Thank you. Thank you. And thank you Brad.

For the evening of my birthday I celebrated with the women I am closest to in life and true to our sisterhood we were free to discuss everything openly.

We are lucky like that.

It wasn’t long, probably around a bottle of champagne, until menstrual cups came up in conversation. Yes, menstrual cups.

A few sisters knew what a menstrual cup was but hadn’t tried them, a couple were like, “What the fuck is a mentrual cup?!” and then there was me … on day 5 of menstrual cupping for the first time ever.

So with this topic as various stages of understanding the discussion opened up and flowed (yes *shudder* pun intended) into deeper more specific levels of talk.

What does it look like? How do you put it in? How do you take it out? Is it safe? How gross is it? What is it’s usage life? What do you mean you can wear it overnight and not flood? Can my daughter wear one? Do they come in different sizes? Is it comfortable? This question always comes after seeing the picture of a menstrual cup.

Well for those of you who also want to know these answers in a very simple unbiased way then read on. I will do my best to answer it as a beginner user and nowhere near being a pro… I also want to let you know that I have not been asked to review this and I am no way affiliated with the company of my menstrual cup BUT I realised at my birthday dinner that there are women who are unable to discuss these types of things with the other women in their life. Which is fine, I’m not judging, but if you wanted to know from a real person using them then here are the answers….

What does it look like? Well it looks as it sounds… Just like a cup, except it has no base to stand up and instead a tab. Like a champagne glass without its base which would normally be messy but not in this case.

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How do you put it in? It’s made of a silicone material so it is bendable so don’t freak out about the above picture. The particular brand and model (Model 2) that I bought is sturdier than the other option called, originally, Model 1, which is for virgins which I am definitely not. To place it inside you just need to fold it twice and insert. It really is that simple. You might need to find the most comfortable way to do this but it won’t take you long. Promise.

How do you take it out? At the bottom of the cup is a tab that acts like the string except it doesn’t hang out. You bear down like you would in childbirth or just doing a big poo and you gently pull on the tab. I found if you move it side to side and pinch the bottom of the cup once you reach it then it unsuctions itself and voila – Bobs not your Uncle but Flo is your Aunt.

Is it safe? Yes they say. I left mine overnight and no TSS not that I’ve ever had it with tampons. So far I haven’t lost it ‘up there’ in neverland and I have always found it easy enough to remove – don’t google horror stories before you’ve given it a crack.

How gross is it? It is a little bit gross and you do have to be prepared as to when and where you are removing it – purely for hygienic reasons. It’s not like you can be in a public toilet cubicle pull it out and go rinse it in the sink and then go back to the cubicle and refit it. BUT you can buy disinfectant wipes to do it while on the go and out and about but I would avoid it initially til you are pro. My advice is to always be prepared before you remove – especially for us heavy flow-ers. Toilet paper, flushable wipes, positioning. You’ll get what I mean when you do it.

What’s the usage life? Well that depends who you ask and how you care for it but considering that thing is wedged up your private bits for some time every month I would expect you would care for it pretty proper! Some websites say they should be replaced every year while others say up to 10 years. I can’t say based on my own knowledge but I will just see how it’s fairing on my 38th birthday.

What do you mean you can wear it overnight and not flood? Seriously! I am pretty heavy but the beauty of it is that if inserted properly it creates a seal and allows you to flow naturally with a catcher rather than an absorber that once is fully absorbed starts leaking. I haven’t had an overflow on my first week but I’ve been pretty vigil about checking and emptying. I have, however, been able to leave it in overnight without a flood in the morning. Great news.

Can my teenage daughter wear one? Yes. There is a Model 1 for our newbies and one would assume virgins – they’re not married right?! Just like learning how to insert tampons the menstrual cup is a learning curve but with extra considerations like cleanliness. In saying that my teen went out and bought herself one as soon as she heard I was trialling one. I’ll get her feedback.

Do they come in different sizes? Yes as mentioned the particular brand I bought came in two sizes. Model 1 and Model 2. Model 1 is a softer silicone and is smaller. Perfect for those who haven’t had sexual intercourse or have light flows and Model 2 is better suited to heavier flows, those sexually active or that have had children – nicer way of saying you have a bigger twat, you know.

Is it comfortable? Yes. By Day 5 of my cycle I had it totally sussed and then on Day 7 (yes I bled for 7-8 days every 28 days) I didn’t even know it was there – actually someone might need to remind me each month… The first few days I wasn’t sure about it being 100% comfort factor down there but when I mastered it it definitely was.

So there you have it.

Would I recommend it? Yes absolutely!

Will I go back to tampons? No way!

I paid $59.95 for my MC which sounds expensive but I spend about $240 on pads and tampons over a year so if this thing works for a year I am already winning.

One love

DRK xxx

How not to say sorry

No more sorry’s….


I won’t say sorry for a messy house anymore. I’m doing my best trying to keep it clean but then it gets undone. Every. Fucking. Time… Three. Times. A. Day… #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry for my body when you fake tan me, see me in a bikini or give me a Pap smear. My body is my temple and sometimes that temple eats cake and fries… #loveroffries #sorrynotsorry

Saying sorry for my creased up clothes is a thing of the past. My iron was faulty – faulty as in I didn’t have fucking time this morning to care about my outfit but the kids are done. #ironingsucksballs #sorrynopenotsorry

I won’t say sorry for being a little bit cranky this morning. My smile and my charm was smashed through the window during one of the eightieth times I got up to my child. I can hardly see through the sandpaper in my eyes let alone care about making sure a fake smile is plastered on my face. Plus I haven’t had my coffee yet. #gothefucktosleepsorrynotsorry #coffeestat

I won’t say sorry for being on my phone while my child plays in the sandpit. He’s happy. I’m happy. What more do you fucking want. #stopjudging #sorrynotsorry

I won’t say sorry when we are in each other’s way at the supermarket. Stay left dickhead! #roadrulesapply #stopsayingsorry

You won’t be hearing me say sorry for saying how challenging things feel at times. It’s called venting. It’s called getting it off your chest. It’s called getting over it and moving on. I know that things could be worse. Trust me I know. I’ll pull my big girl panties up once I’ve unloaded. #whinger #sorrynotsorry

Sorry. Nope not sorry at all.

One love

DRK xxx

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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So You Quit Parenting?

Some days you don’t think you should have the honour of being called a ‘mother’.

Some days it all just feels too hard.

Some days you whine like a bitch and cry like a baby. You cry more than your own baby.

Some days it takes every ounce of energy not to say ‘fuck off’ to your children for every second, every look, every breath that they take, especially for when you’re hiding out in the toilet.

Some days you hate the role of “mother”. It’s unpaid and unappreciated and you’d rather bury yourself in your ten-foot high dirty washing pile even though you’re scared of germs and goobies. And by germs and goobies you mean stinking-arse-crack-and-sweaty-ball-jock goobies. Bonus, at least, you know they’d never look for you there.

Some days when they say, for the hundredth time prior to 9am, that they’re hungry you just want to grab them by those shitty jocks, lift them so high in the air it’s no longer a wedgie they’re wearing but dental floss for their back molars. Here’s hoping they can taste their own ball sweat.

Some days your patience is as thin as the air we breathe but not as thin as the air that’s coming out of their little lungs coz that air is heavy and loud and you hate that whole breathing sound thing they do some days!

Some days you’d just love some fucking silence!

Some days you just want to unleash the wrath of brain cell killing by giving them their iPads and 24 hours of screen time and high-fat, artery-hardening junk food for breakfast, lunch and dinner and a padded cell (actually, that’s for you) just so you don’t have to hear them or see them or talk to them for one whole glorious day.

Some days you feel so wild at the lack of gratitude your kids have that there’s a little ball inside your belly that wants to explode and bounce shit-fuck-shit off every single wall but you don’t because of the guilt and mess. But mainly the mess. But that doesn’t matter anyway because your clean-two-minutes-ago home is, thanks to them, now-a-fucken-pig-sty.

Some days you can only manage to eat popcorn for lunch because there’s nothing left to eat and there’s no way you are dumb enough to tackle the supermarket with this fucked up attitude and those demons kids.

Some days you let that popcorn get the better of you and you beat yourself up because you only started your new weight loss diet two hours ago.

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Some days you want to throw a two-day-old-shitty-nappy with your fiery resignation letter tucked inside at the bosses face, defiantly stick your middle finger out and scream “Fuck you, I QUIT!”

Except there is no boss.

The only boss here is you.

And that wasn’t a two-day old shitty nappy if you’re honest – it was three.

So now you have three-day-old-shit in your eye.

And possibly some in your mouth.

Some days you can blame PMS for your behaviour.

Somedays you can’t.

Some days you’re not a nice Mummy, hell you’d lucky to be classed as a nice person some days.

Some days it’s ok too.

One Love

DRK xxx

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Women’s Greatest War

Today I feel sad. Deeply sad, not in a depressing way but sad in a connected way. I feel sad for the women in the world who spend their time being mean to other women. I feel sad that there is constant verbal abuse towards women about women by women and behind other women’s backs. I don’t understand this. This is not a life designed to keep women at war. This is a life – our own – and we all have our own shit to fight for, within ourselves not amongst ourselves.

Is this war we insist on something built-in inside us? Something we can’t control? I’m calling bullshit. Bull-fucken-shit it’s out of our control! We own the rights to our thoughts, to our filters and to our trashy potty mouths! What’s even more disturbing is listening to our beautiful daughters doing the same thing in the playground. The playground at Kindy where the four year old girls tell another little girl that she cant play with them because she’s not pretty like them. You wonder how they can be so mean and judgmental but then you turn to listen to the mirrored conversations of their thirty something mothers under the verandah…

So is it built-in or do we learn this behaviour from our own mothers and the women around us? The distasteful looks, the judgements, the comparisons. The nastiness about other women while they are not even there only to smile and be polite when they walk through the door. The lack of compassion they show for what other women may be going through. The lack of sincerity when they speak. The falsity in their voices. The judgement on bodies, wardrobes and choices in life. Do we consider this the norm? This is how you be a woman? Is this all the substance we have, that we are?

I find it terribly sad that women degrade other women so easily. That they put other women down. But isn’t it a reflection of their own insecurities? Isn’t it an ego boosting statement while the insecure sheep nod and smile? Isn’t it the narcissist polishing their perfection knob? And I feel sad knowing at times in my life I have participated. Deeply participated… I feel sad that I know that it was my insecurities, the driving force, behind my own cruelty. I feel sad that I didn’t change my filter sooner.

War

It’s like so many women are looking for a fight but avoiding confrontation at all costs. It’s like engaging in war, a war without a cause and the fight only involves trying to get people on your side but you can’t remember the reason why you starting warring in the first place. What are we fighting for? What does the winner receive besides an ego that is bigger, an ego that is placed on a pedestal, an ego that is worshipped but truly unloved. You can’t love a faked ego like you can love a real woman. Women against women is the ugliest war I have ever seen. It is based on nastiness, judgement and as many casualties as possible.

I don’t believe we should all live in harmony, hold hands and dance in koombahya but I do believe we can acknowledge when someone is not in tune with our song and just leave it at that. There is a woman in my life who drives me completely nuts and I am now fine with that. We have a history that I used to draw upon when I choose to feel a need to justify my disconnect towards her. But our history is just a story. A story that has been told for so long that I (and my therapist) have decided it is now finished. End of the final chapter. Book closed. She is, realistically, just not my cup of tea and that is totally OK. We don’t have to get along with everyone but we don’t have to bring those who we don’t ‘get’ down. If they are on a pedestal whether you put them there or not is no concern to you. The pedestal is imaginary. We are all born equal – society differentiates us.

So I do feel sad. A sadness that is connected to other women’s sadness. The victims and the narcissists. I feel sad that we can’t just all get along or be ok not to get along and agree on what is best for ourselves. That we can’t just accept, support, stop trying so hard and be real. Be open heartedly really fucken real.

Being real is awesome. Being real is authentic. Being real gives you clarity. Being real means being you and fuck me but there isn’t anybody else out there like YOU! Celebrate that! Celebrate that we are all different and that we don’t have to conform to fashion, size, success. We don’t have to be like any other woman but we can certainly pat them on the back and say “Well done Sista!”

Some of us are business entrepreneurs, working hard to climb a corporate ladder – I fucking salute your dedication, sacrifices and hard work. Some of us are successful mothers who keep our kids alive, in fact we breed the next generation, we feed them occasionally, maintain the house they trash and drink shitloads of coffee to keep up with it all – hey that’s me, I’m a fucken successful mother! Some of us are health freaks and live for raw food, wheatgrass shots and naked yoga – bless you thats great but vaginal discharge scares me! Some of us grow armpit hair, colour it and plait it all pretty like – not my thing but hey whatever floats your boat and yay for you being al-natural! We are all superbly different, seeking different things in our lives, defining successful via different means. We live and breathe for our own unique reasons and guess what??

THAT IS TOTALLY FUCKEN OK! OK?!!!

Warw

One Love DRK xxx