Zoey Martin

Falling

Posted on May 1, 2013 2 Comments

The first time I ever met the intake nurse when I was pregnant with Riley and they were doing an assessment, she said to me ‘you look like a confident person’.

And I am a confident person. I am contained. Things rattle me. But they do on the inside. Like I have a cage around me. And the cage rattles, but I stay still.

I thought it was funny on GOMI the other day, I was referred to as having a high opinion of myself and having low self esteem. And the truth is, probably both of those things are true.

I travel along, having a high opinion of myself and then sometimes things back up on me. And all I can see is the great big mountain of mistakes that I have made that people can’t forgive me for. Or even if they could forgive me, they see it as a defining feature. Something that doesn’t move, or change or alter. And it overwhelms me temporarily.

And I can see what they see. How far I have fallen short of the vision I have for myself. And for awhile that’s all I see. It stares at me, like I’m looking into a never ending crevasse. Which is all white snow and black space and nothing that lies in between.

But it’s not real. I am grey. I will always be grey. I will never be white snow or black space. I will always lie somewhere in between.

There are lots of things I value in people, but as I get older and perhaps more weary, loyalty is the only one that means a damn. There are a lot of things that are forgivable. Almost anything is forgivable, really. If I can understand it, I can forgive it. Disloyalty is not something I understand. But it doesn’t mean I won’t try. Trying is worth it.

My shin splints acted up today. Just when I thought I was over it. And perhaps only other runners will understand the sadness of not being able to run, when it’s all I want.

Tomorrow I will wake up. And the sun will shine on the chubby cheeks of my toddler and reflect off the blue eyes of my first baby and nothing else will seem to matter so much.

But today I’m falling into the crevasse of white and black. But I am grey, and it is not who I am.

Let’s run a full marathon

Posted on April 29, 2013 12 Comments

If someone had told me a year ago that I was going to run a half marathon, let alone a full marathon. This would have been my response.

YOU ARE HILARIOUS. But, No.

I am not an athletic person. I was horrible at school sports. I do not have an athletic bone in my body. I am clumsy to the point where you could almost call it a gift. If there is something on the floor, anything, I will find a way to kick it and possibly fall over. In fact, I fall over with alarming regularity. Physical coordination is not an asset of mine. I never really liked exercise either. Sometimes I did it because it was necessary. But mostly if I wanted to lose weight, I just drank more diet coke and smoked more cigarettes. So smart. And so healthy.

But as it turns out running is the exception to that. After awhile I found that I actually liked it. And once I started running outside I found that I actually loved it. And that I was just as capable of running 16kms as I was running 8kms. I have a running partner who lives in a different state. See? The hilarity continues.

And tonight she announced in the #OperationMove Facebook Group that she thought doing a half marathon in September (which we’d already planned) could lead up to a full marathon in October (instead of us doing the planned half). She is my kind of crazy. And I’m crazy enough that I think I could actually do that.

I’m still recovering from a muscle injury, but I think I could do that. I might be the most clumsy person on the planet. But I do have one thing going for me. Endurance. When push comes to shove, most of the time I can put one foot in front of the other, even when they feel like lead.

I think that running taught me to love my body a bit more. It’s easy to think that your body lets you down. By the way it looks, or by the way it gets sick at the most inopportune moments. But running taught me that I could take my body from not being able to run 500 metres at a time to being able to run 16kms without stopping. It’s kind of remarkable that my body could do that. That I could do that. And it makes you think that all other things that are out of your reach, might be closer than you think. It teaches you to be bold and daring and take some risks. At least that’s what it taught me.

If I think about running a full marathon. I think YOU ARE HILARIOUS. No. But then I think about how once running a kilometre without stopping seemed impossible. And now sometimes I go for a 10km run and it feels like nothing. If you can run 10kms you can run 40? I think I could do that.

Miracle

Posted on April 27, 2013 6 Comments

I have a friend.

I get to be healthy, and she is not.

She is far braver than I could ever be. Took crazy risks. Beautiful risks.

She is far more talented than me. In words and pictures.

But I am healthy, and she is not.

I am an independent person, but she is the most independent person I’ve ever known.

And she was always strong, when I was weak.

And yet still, I am healthy, and she has to look at her mortality.

I’m in denial about it. I know I am.

Because there is no justice in it. None.

If I could trade places, I don’t know if I would. But I’d hope that I could.

Because I think if she was healthy, she would live her life better than I live mine.

But she still does things, her way.

And I’m waiting on a miracle.

She deserves a miracle.

Her life deserves a miracle.

Have your cake

Posted on April 24, 2013 4 Comments

For the longest time I didn’t understand that phrase ‘have your cake and eat it too’. I’m slow. Then one day the penny dropped. Which it has a way of doing, eventually. And then everything makes sense, and it looks shiny and new and perfect and easy.

I like that Albert Enstein quote ‘If you can’t explain something simply, then you don’t understand it very well’. I’m a classic over-thinker. It’s probably why I score far higher on IQ and Mensa tests when I’m drunk. I know. I’m disturbed that I know that fact too. It’s not just you.

Yesterday someone who I’ve never met before and never talked to told me I was an awful parent. And I found out that someone who I thought was my friend, wasn’t. Even though, deep down you kind of know that it shouldn’t bother you, some things stay with you.

In most things you don’t get to have your cake and eat it too. You’ve got to choose one. And the choice can be somewhat defining. It can tell you who you are. Much like how who you are on the worst day of your life will tell you more about yourself than your best day. On your worst day, that’s character. On your best, it’s just fluff.

Most of my best assets as a person are my greatest flaws. I’m not sure if most people feel that way or if it’s a common thing. But it certainly feels that way to me. Sometimes the flaws seem so great that I think people could see it in my bones. Like an ever-fixed, never changing mark.

But I’m all good with my choices. I’ll eat my cake. And leave the rest.

I’m running down the path less travelled and nothing is in my way.

You are not my friend

Posted on April 23, 2013 20 Comments

People are idealists in friendships. You think because you were friends once, that you will always be friends.

Like the last line in ‘Dances with Wolves’: ‘do you understand you are my friend? Do you understand you will always be my friend?’

It would be comforting if all friendships were like that. But they aren’t. Because friendships, like people change and move. They drift in and out. They move back and forth. And sometimes they end, when you aren’t looking. And maybe that’s why they ended in the first place, because you weren’t paying attention. Or maybe you were, but you didn’t want to admit it even to yourself.

And even though it’s not the first time you’ve watched a friendship whither away and die, it’s hard to watch. And it hurts. Even though you thought you were made of tougher stuff than that. Even though you think it shouldn’t bother you as much as it does.

Why is it so hard to say? You are not my friend anymore. You are not kind to me anymore. And I’m sorry that our friendship got to the point where you could not tell me why. Or that things degraded to the point where it seemed more palatable to be rude, than civil.

I try to think of a way that I could explain it. Give it a reason. Find a way that I am to blame. Because if I am to blame, then maybe it is fixable. If I am not to blame, then I am just down a friend for no good reason. If there is a way that I could see the behaviour in a positive light, I will. If I can find a way to explain it, I will. Because that’s easier than admitting what I already know. It’s more convenient for me. It’s easier on my heart. And it doesn’t weigh so heavy on me.

But you are not my friend. If I could change it I could. But I can’t. I have to live with that. And it is with reluctance that I say it. You are not my friend. And all it took was a slap across the face to let me know for sure.

You are not my friend. But I guess in truth, I am still yours. Until the slap sinks in. And then one day I will say I am not your friend and I will care a little less. And it will hurt a little less. I am not there yet. I don’t know if I want to be. But you aren’t my friend, so it is of little consequence to you.

You are not my friend. I wish you hadn’t been so faithless.That you could have tried, just once to not assume the worst in me. But you did. And you are not my friend.

Real love ends. And begins again

Posted on April 22, 2013 46 Comments

It is with no small amount of reluctance that I say goodbye to Good Googs. My home for the last four years. My babies grew up there. I grew up there. And so it is with some degree of excitement and some degree of terror that I venture forward. Naked. Babies make excellent buffers. When in doubt, look at the baby. Because CUTE.

I am not a mummy blog anymore, and the truth is I haven’t been for awhile now. So I might as well say it out loud. I remember years ago, someone much wiser than me told me that my mummy blog days were numbered but you kind of had to start there, because it was the beginning. I remember being kind of offended. But I get it now. That was the beginning. But it doesn’t last forever. Maybe it would have gone on longer if I’d wanted to have more children. But it is coming to a natural end point and I’m alright with that.

One night, when I was mid depressive episode and pre-medication, I took my camera down to the lake. I was lying on my stomach in the grass and too teary to really know what I was taking photos of. But I had that moment. A single, teensy glimmer of clarity in amongst the hateful pit of depression. This is who you are. This will save you. And among other things, it did.

It gives me great comfort that no matter what surrounds this blog, and no matter what form it comes in, it is a constant for me. A permanent home. A sanctuary. My blog is a mountain. And it never moves.

Welcome to my mountain.

My armour

Posted on April 19, 2013 3 Comments

I don’t write much about my husband on this blog.

Not because I have nothing to say.

And not because he would mind. He has given me permission to write about whatever I want.

But mostly I keep it private.

He does a job that he doesn’t love. Because he looks after his family.

He commutes 15 hours a week. And that’s a good week.

He has never asked me to be less or more than what I am.

He listens (mostly) even when his care factor is zero.

There might not be a strong man behind every woman, but I have one who always has my back.

Sometimes he goes out late at night to buy me tampons or wine. I’m a simple soul really.

And there’s something about that person who you get to bask in how much you love your babies with. You don’t have to qualify it, or tone it down. He wakes me up to look at them in the wee hours of the morning. I make him get up and look at them while they are sleeping.

He accepts that me mocking him continuously is a core part of my personality.

I have a few life partnerships, I’m lucky that way.

And they are all keepers.

‘People are dying in the dark, while I’m lying in the sun’

Posted on April 18, 2013 1 Comment

*Title brought to you by the new Michael Buble album. I know I’m a hopeless case. I apologise.*

{Image credit}

I’m writing this in bed, next to my five year old who is sleeping like the dead. As she always does. Lately, she wants to sleep in our bed and I don’t have the heart to say no. It will be short lived, I’m sure.

I call the wee one ‘the shark’ because like a shark she never stops moving. Especially when she’s tired.

I joke about the horror that is dishes and laundry and teeny terrorists, but it is a blessed life I do lead, really.

On this blog, my voice shakes a lot. But I still say it.

Since New York, I’ve doubted the value of words. Not because I doubt them. But because I doubt their impact. It’s why I like photos. There’s something universal about them, something honest, something truthful. Words, I’m not so sure. They mean so many different things to different people. And no matter how great a writer you are (and I don’t put myself in that category) people will always interpret it the way they want, not necessarily the way you intended.

Sometimes it’s easier to say it in pictures. Words. Well sometimes they connect. But sometimes they just bounce in the empty chamber, like they never existed in the first place. Like they don’t matter. Like they no longer belong to me. But somehow, the photos always belong to me. They stay with me. And they keep me company and give me more comfort than any words ever could.

Which is funny. Because a long while ago, people would say I can’t put it into words to me. And I couldn’t relate to that at all. Because I don’t think in feelings or pictures. I’ve never had a feeling that I couldn’t put into words. Ever. But things change. Death and taxes.

And now? Words are not enough. They will never be enough. They fall short and fall into the abyss and are never heard from again.

I will still say the words. But I’ll be looking for the picture that no one can take away from me.

Mean girls and sisters

Posted on April 17, 2013 Leave a Comment

This morning Josh woke me up in the wee hours of the morning as he was leaving for his hideous commute. Usually when both girls are in bed with me they like to sleep on either side to maximise their mama cuddle time. But at some stage in the night, which I very vaguely remember, Piper had clambered over. And there they were my two babies both cuddling one another while they slept.

That image will stay with me for awhile. It was perfect.

This afternoon, we went to the park. I didn’t really want to go. I tried to bribe Riley with making cookies instead but she wouldn’t have a bar of it. So we went to the park.

There were a couple of older girls there. And they were mean. It’s not really what they said, but it was narky. And not very nice. The age that my girls are is such that while Piper still holds an OMG she’s so cute quality to older girls, Riley at the age of five, doesn’t really illicit the same response. So they have a tendency to want to talk to Piper, but not to Riley. And they laugh at her, because she’s so gregarious. It is hard to watch. But Riley is a beautifully protective older sister, and she won’t let anyone baby Piper. She tells them that Piper is two, and she can do it on her own.

At a certain point Riley came up to me and said that the girls were mean. I asked her what they said, even though I knew it wasn’t really what they said. And she couldn’t really put it into words. She asked me what she should do. Should she say something to them? And I said no. You just leave and you play with Piper. And she was very excited, because that is exactly what she had done.

That’s the beauty of sisters. They might be mean to one another sometimes, but it doesn’t mean anything. They always have each other. And no amount of mean girls will ever change that.

I hope nothing ever changes that for them.

Get Up

Posted on April 15, 2013 1 Comment

That’s what I say to myself.

Actually what I say to myself is get the fuck up.

I find expletives help, in the whole getting up process.

I say to myself that I am bulletproof.

And when that doesn’t work I look myself in the mirror, in the eye. and tell myself it’s just one day, not my whole damn life.

See? Expletives, even little ones help.

Because it doesn’t matter if you win the war. It doesn’t matter if you succeed. It doesn’t matter if you fail. It doesn’t matter if you fall down. The only thing that matters is that you get the fuck up. That’s the only thing that counts. It’s all about momentum, really. If you are lying flat on your back, you are going to stay there. If you are standing up, it’s not impossible to be pushed over, but it’s a damn sight harder.

And it doesn’t matter how many times your head hits the pavement. What matters is how many times you get up. And it doesn’t matter what you have to say to yourself to get yourself there.

So when you are lying there, wondering what the hell happened. Get up. And then maybe go and get a phoenix tattoo with someone else who knows what that means.