Pickled Fish and Hot Cross Buns

Dear friends and fellow bloggers, Easter is a special time in South Africa, specifically in my hometown, Cape Town. Regardless of your religious beliefs, Easter is a long weekend where most get time off to spend with family. Preparations start early with the preparation of pickled fish. It is fish that is pickled in a sweet-sour pickling sauce with softned onion rings that are part of the sauce. Hot cross buns are served with the pickled fish – although a strange combination – it has become something I and particularly my husband loves. My mother said that the recipe emanated from the Cape Malay slaves who got time off over the long weekend. The fish was prepared and kept better like this during a time without fridges. My mother dilligently made pickled fish for as long as I can remember, and when anyone was hungry over the weekend, she’d point at the container and say dish.

This year, I made the pickled fish. I wasn’t anywhere near to being as seasoned a veteran as her in the chopping of onion rings, the balance of the pickling sauce, and whether to add the pickling sauce hot or not. I wished she was there for key questions, or to taste the sauce or fry the fish. When she would prepare it in the kitchen, I would sit and try and lift a fried piece of fish before it was lowered into the sauce. With her back turned my mother would say I know you are NOT taking another piece of fish. For my mother Easter was a time of family, food, prayer and renewal and each year, she played a big part in making it like this. I wondered if my pickled fish would be good enough and whether the quiet ache for her would eventually go away.

Over the week and weekend, my family has shared times when we ate my version of pickled fish. It wasn’t perfect, could have done with this and that, but it had the main ingredients which I think she also added. We spent time just being together and talking, laughing about the old days, and what she would have said. Me and our little family have endured so much, lost our Granny, but also gained a new way of being. It’s not easy, and with mental illness, I often pray for relief. This weekend however, I am quietly filled with the idea of hope and renewal, and what it could do for the pickled fish and hot cross bun industry. Have a lovely week.

Person with a puzzle

Dear Friends and Fellow Bloggers, I hope that you are as well as you can be. My husband has travelled to Paris for work. For us it is a fancy place and my children and I imagine that he is doing nothing other than consuming expensive french-baked goods by the minute. Before he left, I tried to hide my dismay, cried quietly before falling asleep in fear for the time he wouldn’t be around. For the very big part he plays in my and our routine that can’t be filled by anything else. He knows to wake me up on time, how I take my coffee to the precise measure and mostly offers calm and peace to a being beset by a storm.

There was a man who also had a poorly wife and he described her illness as a puzzle that could not be solved. Those vexed by the next piece or completion are frustrated and make great show expressing this. Imagine how they feel he said, in the dangerous and urgent pursuit of a puzzle that can only temporarily be eased. Sigh. I am most afraid that he will realise that it’s better to not be with a person with a puzzle. The person whose mind can change on a whim, who forgets, rarely sleeps well and requires ongoing medical care. I wouldn’t want to because then you wouldn’t have a partner or wife, you’d have a patient.

I always try to be happy, I try to hope for the best. I pray, work hard, and try to do right by my family but there are many times when I really can’t and the addition of the puzzle is perplexing with soul-wrenching exhaustion. I want to get up and fight. I want to feel the might for it. I don’t want to feel the washing machine churning inside my being that reminds me of the several reasons why someone like me is a loud and large dead-end. I feel sad and right now alone. But I think I have to find some ways why a person with a puzzle like me is important, especially me, whether you are in Paris or not.

Glitchy Grandma

Dear Friends and fellow Bloggers – I hope that you are as well as you can be. Over the past few weeks our family came to learn that we were having a baby in a few days. To say I was shocked will have been and will always be an understatement. I looked at our eldest daughter and her swollen belly. We went from ward to ward and bench to bench to ensure that she and the baby were safe. My mind immediately cleared, and all I could see and think about was navigating through a public hospital, trying to stay warm in a really cold winter, and taking them home.

The hospital didn’t have water for over 6 days, intermittent service from much-needed doctors and several grounchy nurses. In the labour ward there are chairs where women are expected to sit in their third trimester for over 15 hours waiting for a bed and further treatment. Our daughter was one of them. After a few close calls which required much bench sitting and sleeping in a car in ice-cold parking lots, she finally went into labour. I went up to her and was not allowed to see them until she was ready to give birth.

I sat in the waiting room outside the ward and cried quietly. We’d confronted so much and I wondered if baby hadn’t also perhaps made a poor choice of grandma who does tend to glitch often. I always believe my mental illness when it proclaims that I am the worst version of myself which I’m mostly not. Mental illness unfortunately is seriously believable when you feel it inside and out. Finally, I was called into the labour room. My daughter looked at me and my tears flowed even more. When she was born my mother had been with me and the first person to hold her.

In what felt like so many loaded minutes, our beautiful grandson was born. I felt a warmness with her, with him, together in his first few moments in the world. Intertwined in the love we both felt for such a tiny little being. We cried as he exercised his little lungs for a blanket. I looked at him and her and thought to myself that if anything, they are living testimony of the good I have and can be. That new beginnings are possible even if you need to shed a tear. This is one happy glitchy grandma that will work through, about, and around her glitches for herself and hers, each and every day.

2020-Me

Dear Friends and Fellow Bloggers – I hope that you are well as you can be. If you’ve been reading my blog you might say that this girl has had a bit of a pity party for the year. I’ve got multiple things to add to the sorrow list and more. Much more that had previously convinced me to sit down and not want to get up. 2023 hasn’t been clear with her intentions and frankly, after everything I and you have been through with my mental illnesses, 4 children, 1 husband and four Daschunds, it is difficult not to want a government approved/printed manual on how to stay alive and other handy household hints. Maybe even family survival crossword puzzles to pass the time while the power is off?

Seriously though, I don’t want to sit down and am prepared to fight every day but that’s really difficult to do when you don’t know the size of the monster that threatens to take the color out of your day. It is difficult to do with the veracity of the monster that despite your best treatment comes again, affecting you, and those you love. It takes a long time to get better. I have been there and there were instructive times I would park myself in the give up corner. One such time was in a psychiatric ward after an attempt. I was at a public hospital and there is no privacy or basic resources but it was the best service I could access.

A grandmother laid across the ward from me. I got to know her, took her water and chatted about her children. I shared what my husband brought with her. She was in the psych ward but for different treatment due to unfortunate space constraints. When the doctor come into the ward he looked through my chart and remarked the reason for my treatment. When patient grandmother heard she practically spat on the ground and said she couldn’t believe her ears or eyes. She asked why I as a beautiful mother with a husband who came with treats everyday and beautiful children would not choose life. She did not mean it offensively, and softened her tone asking me to sit with her. She said my child, even in the greatest darkness there is light. Always try to find it. I think she may be right. Welcome to 20-20-Me. xx

Something beautiful

Dear Firneds and Fellow Bloggers – I hope that you are as well as you can be. I continue to fudge through 2023 and hope that Christmas will arrive by about Feburary 14th if that makes any sense. When you’ve experienced a lot and your mental health armour has taken a beating, it gets easier to hope for the impossible. Personally, I’d like a calm day. I’d like a no emotions jolting through your body day. One feeling the whole day if that’s even possible too. Instead, my existence is quite the opposite and I wonder how to work on and make it better.

I have four children who although aren’t tiny continue to need my love and support. I get up for them every day and I know that I have to. They are the one thing I’ve never been confused about and that’s saying alot for someone like me. They are four sturdy, argumentative and always hungry reminders that there were some things I did right, and some beautiful things that exist despite what and how my mental illness threatens to take me over. They are the reminder that no matter what happens, there is something beautiful to believe in.

Yes, increasingly I believe that me is important too but that’s really hard with mental illness which consistently says and feels like the direct opposite. With mental illness that says something bad is bound to happen because you deserve it. It says a lot that is far too easy to listen to. I think what I’m learning is that perhaps it’s a better idea not to listen to that feeling or “voice” anymore. Not listen to the repeated sound that hurts at the core. Instead, I think you and I need to understand that we are so much more and well worth fighting for – I certainly plan to try.

When to leave the table

Dear friends and fellow bloggers – I hope that you are as well as you can be. In my last blog I wrote about living mental illness free, experiencing and managing the symptoms rather than have it control your life. I spoke about the importance of being part of a village, and living the fullest life one could possibly live including receiving the treatment I and you need to be the best we. Unfortunately, mental illness is really challenging. I often don’t have much left for anyone else, let alone trying to be cheerful for me. Mental illness is difficult, unplanned and not pleasant for those with or around it.

The most difficult “thing” that mental illness took away from me was the ability to stand fully in the decisions I take. The ability to go with my gut, especially with the sounding of loud alarm bells. When I was diagnosed I was told that I was broken, my brain and emotions didn’t work and life was best served cold. My decisions are underlined with questions about whether my symptoms inform them, my behavior probably tagged in the DSM leading me to keep quiet and carry on. No point fighting facts and figures whilst I battle to switch the sunlight on.

Despite this situation, I choose to put one foot in front of the other. I decide that I need to fight (often not wanting to) to do the most important thing you can when you have a mental illness: be your own best mental health advocate. Do this all the time, despite regular news and experiences to the contrary. Write down the things that help and those that don’t. Sleep when you have to, journal and adhere to treatment. Importantly, today in looking after myself, I learn that it is important that you and I should value ourselves enough to also always leave a table where love is not being served. Thank you for reading my story.

A Time of Renewal

A weekend from now Easter will be celebrated around the world and although we may not all “celebrate” I always think there’s time to renew, refresh and be grateful for what we have.  I must however point something out that as a person with chronic “invisible” illness and a mother, I’ve been struck by the difficulty in actually telling the Easter story and admire those who have told it so well. I do not mean to be blasphemous but cousin, if I tried to explain that a dude escaped but nothing was moved and his clothes were still there back in the day with Bipolar, gesticulating wildly, pausing to try to remember my train of thought, and possibly crying a little, I can imagine the looks I would receive as I walked to the cast out / leprosy section of society.

Similarly, I have had a multitude of children under five (who my husband and I created) look up at me inquiringly, asking for clarification on different parts of the story.  What does the Easter Bunny have to do with it? Was the Easter Bunny the pet back then? Mother mumble.  Second question:  they first hurt him a lot and then loved him and wanted to be his friend? Shocked little faces. And before my philosopher but practical eldest son could unpack ANYTHING further, I looked SO excited and said guys, let’s go make play dough!  But we were still talking about… NO. Did Mom say that you can sprinkle as much flour as you want?  And we all excitedly went to the colourful muck that was MUCH better than the mess of a conversation I didn’t want to have.

My Philosopher Son is coming on Saturday for a bit of a break. To reconnect and to finally have his 21st Birthday.  My heart in preparation is so anxious, so excited, so happy and so sad.  What do you tell the most precious cargo you’ve ever had that you are so so so sorry about the times you hurt them when you didn’t mean to.   That you are equally sorry about the times I couldn’t get up, although a quiet voice inside me screamed that I should.  That he and his siblings are the most beautiful, amazing souls despite and in spite of the contributions that I had and had not made.  That I wished him the kind of happiness that would be felt and remembered in each of his cells and signed in his soul. That he deserved the kind of peace I had never truly known.  Because he had always given pieces of that to me.

In anticipation of his arrival and Pet Bunny weekend next weekend, I am doing what my grandmother did, sneak off to the room to have a little cry.  To be flooded with the memories of his life, his support, his little frown, his enquiringness.  The fact that he watches National Geographic Deep Sea stuff because it cheers me up.  That he has annoying habits like tickling me (but we signed a contract against this now) and holding me.  In anticipation of all of this, I am grateful for the opportunity of renewal, to try things again, and perhaps google answers to those pesky questions before they’re asked by anyone again.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

Verbal Volcano

I think that people with mental illness are amazing. For nothing other than opening their eyes, or deciding when not to, but for always trying.  I am acutely aware that those tries vary in let’s say intensity, dependent on where you are.  For example, I bought myself an awesome yoga band, designated a space in my home and mind and had a printed rather energetic exercise routine closeby.  I have not mustered up the courage to do the exercises.  No.  I haven’t even managed to get the outfit on.  That’s not true.  I AM wearing the sweatband with pride, because I thought, however momentarily, about exercising.  Ok.  Not really.  It’s just to keep my hair out my face.

I have spoken in my blog about how irritable I’ve become, and I’ve beckoned to my Treatment Team, setting appointments for private therapy and psychiatry my newly employed self can’t afford, but I know I need to go.   This or the Mental Illness Gods are paying an unfortunate amount of comical attention toward me and my life.  For example, and in quite a marked way recently,  my children often tell me lovingly that they are very glad that they became big before I was diagnosed.  My eye twitches and I ask what on earth they could mean by that?  Another is a lovely attachment the toddler (who I did not birth as far as I know) who lives with us has to me.  He cries during work interview skype calls (when I’m talking to pro-women pro-child NGO’s) because he loves me so much.  And his mother is quite unperturbed that this takes place.  And no matter how I look at her in a pointed manner, it falls on quite an un-receptive um, person.  And I don’t feel at all maternal or mentally healthy or anything else other than large, heated welts of irritation on me. And my mouth, it speaks irritated welt speech which is quite graphic.  I can’t help it.  Once you’ve lit my vulgar verbal volcano, I can’t help the language lava that comes out.

More seriously though last night I found myself yelling at my favorite things – my chickens – for stuff that probably wasn’t so major.   Ok it wasn’t major and I freaked out when I shouldn’t have.  If at all I felt sorry for myself (I immediately apologised to my children), I was immediately set straight by my awfully maternal psychiatrist – you are ALWAYS irritable, how is this different?  Straight face emoji.  My shrink is saying that I am a serial bitch.  Cough.  When she asked me how bad the irritation was on a scale of 1-10, I sourly thought:  I dunno, my bitch-o-mom-meter is clearly broken, but I’d give myself about a 15?  I didn’t say that, but am pleased that I will see her – and my therapist.  It’s about time.  Until then I am putting tape on my mouth so that it’s harder to respond with my liquid language – wish me luck and tell me how YOU deal with irritation, and those you’d like to erupt on?  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

 

Oceans of Expecations

I live my life by quotes that I read, inspiration from other writers, inspiration from other bloggers.  The one that struck me most recently was one that said: “Don’t swim oceans for people who won’t cross puddles for you”.   And I thought wow.  I thought ocean swimming for very little in return was the norm.  That a girl like me shouldn’t expect much in return.    But no, I don’t believe that in my heart.  Because in my mind I go beyond extreme to demonstrate that I love you – I would take on (and have pictured myself) gale force winds, tsunami’s and other life threatening situations to aide my declared love (with much drama and wind blowing).  I would.  And the minute I feel like I’m not getting it back, I recoil completely, and spit angrily at what I believe is injustice at me, the ever trying, ever innocent, ever mood free somebody.

My son points out that this may be a little bit off the mark, because like for example the mood free thing.  Well he rolled his eyes. DRAMATICALLY.  And whilst he noted they all appreciated the “dedication”, sometimes some of the “smothering” was a bit much.  And also the fact that they do try and show me that they love me.  But sometimes I can’t see it.  He does blame this on the fact that I have a goldfish memory, and I unfortunately have to agree.  I would very happily be walking to the kitchen for something, and by the time I got there, either remembered a reason I was cross with my chickens / support person and strike up a fight, after having say, made everybody tea.  I would leave the room and come back and forget we’d fought.  Ok erase.  That I had fought about something we’d (me) had forgotten about.

But althought I have a memory of a goldfish. I’m moody on a good day, I have ants in the pants insomnia most times, and I strike up firey conversations at the least expected times.  I also cry frequently (and sometimes I’m not sure why) and I’m prone to depression.  I have other challenges too, but I’m not about the negative life.  Because what is happening is that I am becoming demanding about what I want and deserve.  And I am prepared to match those demands with standards that are much higher which I impose on myself.  Yes, another thing to unlearn.  But you’d be surprised at what I have learnt.  I can make Peanut Butter fudge.  I have my own brand of pizza / pasta / toastie sauce (well marketed exclusively in my fridge).  Oh did I say I can make fudge?  Because I’m starting to think that I deserve being treated well.

Walking quietly with someone holding their hand.  Silent conversations.  Lively ones.  But never one that is too tired, too sighed out, too supported out.  Because that happens.  Mental illness is lifelong and this girl has been a massive, huge, challenge.  And although I would never ask anyone to do this for me – I do want the tsunami, life threatening situation kinda guy to be rooting for me.  If he can come in uniform that would be nice too.  Because this goldfish girl is worth that.  And my expectations are great.  Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.

These are a few of my favourite things…

So although it has NOTHING to do with my upbringing, where I was raised, or our race and income reality, my mother played the movie The Sound of Music.  Repeatedly.  And I freaking LOVED it.  A “babysitter come mother” that could make “play clothes” (we didn’t have stuff like that) from the curtains, sail down the river singing, climbing trees singing.  Singing.  Ok there was a lot of that, but I DID find myself singing Do Re Me more so la I’d like to admit.  That’s not the point.  Today I found myself humming the song a few of my favourite things, and thought about the ones that are in my house now, that I love, that help, that keep me feeling good.

• A lack of kitchen or bathroom curtains – both my chickens and I believe that curtains in the bathroom and kitchen are simply ways to have stew / soap / mould on fabric / blind,  Yeugh.  No thanks we have none in our home.  Instead, we have a red heart with clinkly bells hanging in the kitchen as our curtain.  We have lots of loving hearts here, so it doesn’t matter that the window is “open”:
• “Failures” become inventions – for some reason my cake recipe keeps flopping.  The cakes sick in, in the middle.  So sunken cupcakes become mini banana filled caramel flans. And the kids love them and say I should make them again.  Sure.  Just need to make the exact same mistakes again;
• Room Parties – we will all randomly be doing our own thing in the house and then I will lead my younger children into my eldest son’s room.  Whether he liked it or not, we would end up making toasted cheese’s / hot chocolate / whatever is in the cupboard and it would be a fun.  And it would be a party, and we would laugh until our stomach’s hurt;
• Sprinkle Bells – during the festive season, one of us would get sleepy during the day.  But the others wouldn’t want that one to go to sleep.  So we made a pact that we could do what I would call “Sprinkle Bells” – singing any festive song, you could sprinkle water on the asleep / sleepy person.  Let’s just say I was regularly wet and not liking this tradition so much.  But seeing my little girl laugh, I felt (and feel remembering) jolly all the way;
• No tickle pacts – my eldest son and I both HATE being tickled.  Ok it’s a love hate thing, but I don’t like it.  And we both would tickle each other the most.  So we promised each other from that day forth we would not tickle each other, and protect each other in the event that another tickle attack loomed.  Sometimes we broke the pact.  But we’d immediately sober up and walk away from the tickle.

But as with the song, there are bad things too.  They have seen me cry endlessly, curled up and nothing could make me happy even when they squeezed me.  I wanted to be happy so much.  I would always try to tuck my tears away and sometimes I could.  And sometimes I couldn’t.  But this is not a sad story.  It is a happy one.  It is about a family finding out how to learn to live with mental illness, understanding that we never stop learning.  I don’t have a license to behave badly, but they don’t have a license to treat me badly.  That applying to both my family and the world.  And armed with my favourite things in my mind and heart, I’m going to assert that treating me properly stuff even more.  Raindrops on Roses… Be part of those who support us as opposed to those who don’t.  I am 4 M’s Bipolar Mom.