When the going gets tough

So I am here .. again. This must be some sign. Like how many times can I circle back to blogging and word vomiting the shit out of my life?

I just re read through all my old blogs, and accidentally deleted some to my fucking dismay. Despite my blogs being crazy as fuck, negative + full of sarcasm, I actually really enjoyed reading them. I can feel my truth, my constant burning question of WHO AM I cursing through every line that I write.¬† It saddens me really, in my nearly four years (in 23 days) of parenting and self improvement, it’s insane how much I have grown in more ways than one (you would like to hope so), yet still relatively the same. Confused? So am I. Maybe some self reflection? I think so. Now let me back track to my last post early 2017, so that’s over a year ago. I had moved back to the Gold Coast after a miserable attempt with living out in the sticks with the in laws and Great Aunty Mary (may she rest in peace, bless her).

I went crazy in the short nearly three months that I lived there, I was still fresh post partum with ‘Siah, he was probably four months old? Then there was Eli, trying to learn how to shit in the toilet (so much fucking drama, bless him I wish I never forced him, or listened to everyone’s ridiculous advice).

Then James, was always at work, and doing his own shit, driving constantly for over an hour to work each way. Not fun for the both of us, but we thought, oohh save money, rent free blah blah blah. All that good stuff yet, it all backfired on us horrendously, which ended in me flying the boys up to Gladstone to spend time with my Dad and his partner and to get the fuck away. I was a mess. My life in tatters. My mental state hanging on by a thread. Absolutely fucking lost. Looking around helplessly at anyone. ANYONE to help me the fuck out. James and I were gone. Completely on different pages. Fuck, probably different entire books. Libraries. Genres. You get the idea. It was a super duper fucking tough time for us, and I remember crying a lot, and trying not step on anyone’s toes, as we were living there rent free and everyone was “helping us out”. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my relationship with James was not solid, we weren’t working as a team, and that is definitely where all the problems stemmed from. If we were a unit, I definitely think I could have handled things better. 100 %.

Yet, it didn’t go that way, because life isn’t a nice bowl fucking apple crumble and custard, instead sometimes it’s a massive pile of steaming pile of shit, where people walk past you, judge you and wrinkle their nose in disgust. All the whilst thinking, “ew my shit don’t smell like that, what poor choices in eating they must have made”. So to cap it all in a tiny little wobbly poached egg (as you can never time it enough) I went crazy and decided to up and move us back to the Gold Coast. In a tiny little townhouse off the M1. Best fucking decision ever (despite a few adjustments, and a few hiccups).

I think I snapped. Like actually. I was considering a break with James.  I was waiting on him, all the time, to make the right decisions. I thought because he was older, he would be wiser, he would lead the family into this wonderful world of amazingness. I was wrong. Dead fucking wrong. He was just lost as I was. Never admitting it even to himself, because you know. That would be weak. Men have to be strong etc etc.

And frankly, (just because we are self reflecting), I should not have put all those expectations on him! Not on anyone as I have now figured out – that life, is not about other people. IT IS ABOUT YOURSELF AND ONLY YOURSELF. Only I can be held accountable for my life, even if it means if I have partnered up with someone and spawned two beautiful gremlins with that said someone.

So with that said, a year and half later we are here now, still in our little townhouse renting, $50k in debt (we are working on that thanks to the Barefoot Investor – another blog and I can’t wait to share the rawness of that!) , married and with our third babe cooking away in our belly. We are happy. Even this past month, we have just simply become more awake. The whole transition of life, our own seperate thoughts have slowly resurfaced and individually¬† we have come to realise we want more out of lives. Not to simply just drift by, head in the sand, living week to week. We both know we have that IT, that calling, that passion, and it will resurface at different times in our lives. I will no longer push James into something he is not, and James will never hold me back on being my bigger and better self. Now we encourage each other, talk to each other.

It is absolutely fucking mindblowing to see how far we have come in the past 18 ish months. I am more focused, on my self, my family, and my art again. It feels good. To have a direction. And foremost, to be on the same page! TOGETHER. As a team. Mr + Mrs Smith.

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