A couple of weeks ago, on 22 November 2017, my mother died. Her death is something I have been expecting for a year more, and I am glad it happened while I was in Vietnam, because it meant I had a good excuse not to go to her funeral. How could I eulogise kindly about a woman who did so much damage? A woman who was unkind at her best, and nasty and violent at her worst, which was often? A woman who should never have had children? A woman who had carved a powerful message deep into my psyche
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My mother was not a pleasant woman. She was violent and cruel, controlling and uncaring. She probably had Borderline Personality Disorder. She was married (and divorced) three times, and all three husbands ended up with alcohol or mental health issues. They may have been predisposed, but my mother brought out the worst in them. If they couldn’t self-medicate with alcohol, they had breakdowns. Or both. And then they left, leaving my mother as the sole care provider (and I use that term in the loosest possible way) for her three children. From the age of eight to 18 — ten
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This is the 13th essay in the #26essays2017 challenge that I’ve set for myself this year. I’m doing this because I’m the first to admit I’ve become a lazy writer: allowing guest posts and series and cross-posting to make up the bulk of content on The Diane Lee Project across 2016. The brave, fearless writing that readers admired and respected me for has all but disappeared. This year—2017—will be different. I’m reclaiming my voice—my write like a motherfucker voice! I have one daughter, but I always wanted more children. I loved being pregnant, of feeling my baby shift and move and wriggle and squirm. I
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My daughter recently informed me that she is moving out next year. Apparently, she and her boyfriend (they have been together since high school) are finally building their house. Yippee! Happy dance and all that, because it’s time. It’s been time for the last 12 months. Christmas last year was a particularly turbulent time, and while we have recovered our relationship somewhat, I still feel that she has no idea who I am and what makes me tick and therefore treats me with a certain amount of dismissive disdain. I’m that nagging person with the annoying, raised voice who is
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My sister shared some sad news with me a couple of weeks ago. Her ex-partner and also the father of her daughter—my niece—has just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. It’s spread and he’s been told has six months to live. She is deeply saddened by this news, and I felt for her, not least because I admire my sister and her relationship with her ex. Despite splitting more than 15 years ago in less than ideal circumstances, she has fought to maintain the connection with him because of her daughter. They live in different parts of Australia: he’s in far
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This post was inspired by me saying ‘I wish…’ many times about certain things over the last week. I expanded the reach of my wish list somewhat to include other things, because, who knows? sometimes the universe genie may grant more than three wishes… I wish my daughter and I could live peacefully under the same roof… I wish that my daughter would see me as a person, rather than an annoying object/embarrassing non-person to be used and dismissed… I wish the values I instilled in my daughter from a young age had not been forgotten as an adult… I wish that my
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I wrote the first part of this post back in March 2014. Thought it was about time I finished it off! My career has been an endless succession of ultimately unsatisfying jobs In the late 1980s, I left a series of bank jobs and temporary employment, and got myself university edumacated at the ripe old age of 26, graduating with a Bachelor of Arts. I wanted more from life than just temping and working in banks and bought into the hype believed that a university education would help me embark on a fulfilling and productive Career (note the capital “c”).
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I used to love Christmas as a child. I loved the excitement of it all, the anticipation, the fulfillment of wishes. It was the one day of the year I felt loved and wanted and happy. Santa made sure of that, even if my mother couldn’t. Dear, kind, surrogate parent Santa. Kindness on this one day almost lasted me the year. Almost. My childhood Christmas memories are somewhat fragmented, though, like a slide show that keeps jumping slides. My memories, while lucid, don’t flow. I can only remember bits of Christmases, a jigsaw puzzle where most of the pieces of
Continue reading...I wonder how many readers are experiencing, or have experienced, what I’ve been dealing with over the last year or so? Let me set the scene for you. My daughter is 21, nearly 22, and has been working more or less full-time since she left school, just before she turned 17. She has not moved out, opting to pay board to me (which, let’s face it, is a much cheaper option than renting), instead of finding her own place. And this works for me too; I don’t have to find a house sitter, mainly to look after Bella, when I
Continue reading...The last gig I went to was Foo Fighters in 2011. I vowed it would be the last big concert I would ever go to. While I loved the Fooeys and was blown away with how awesome they were (as was Jack Black and Tenacious D), I really didn’t enjoy the actual concert experience per se. It was held at the Adelaide Oval (before the upgrade) and it was uncomfortable. This was mainly because I was standing; I couldn’t really see over the heads of big, burly blokes; and so many people in the space meant that it was squishy
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This is part of an occasional series where I recall my childhood and teen years spent in Mt Gambier. Part 1 is here. This is all part of a concerted effort to balance out what was a rather toxic family life, which I also write about. I figure these sorts of musings might also come in useful some day, when I decide to write my memoir. A big thank you goes out to my high school pal, Ben Lindner, for helping remember the names of places… I was always so close! Roller skating at the Showgrounds During my early teens, Saturday
Continue reading...Last week, I took a day trip up into the Adelaide Hills for work. I was there observing a training session being run by one of my colleagues. I left home early, hitting the road by 7.30ish. It was brisk; not exactly cold for a winter’s morning, but certainly not warm. As I drove up the freeway, the sun peeked bright and gold over eucalyptus-covered hills, and fog draped its wispy fingers low over scrub and housing estates. I followed the road through the tiny towns of Littlehampton and Nairne, and – managing to get only slightly lost along the
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