Archive for July, 2013

So, I’m feeling like me again.

I mean, I have pneumonia, I’m dead tired, blah blah, but I’m…me.

I’m not drowning anymore, right now, I’m feeling connected to life and myself and Bailey again.

Sure, I’m stressed. I’ve been waiting to start this stem cell treatment because I keep getting sick, and if it’s effective it will make a huge difference to my prognosis. The waiting is making me want to climb the walls, because its like I’m waiting for it to work (because it has to), before I start planning to, you know, have any semblance of a life ever again.

I’m sick of being on hold, but omg you guys, that is so much better than just not caring as long as I could hibernate and numb myself.

I don’t just mean I’m feeling like the me of a few months ago, I mean I feel like…I can’t quite remember when. The me who used to smile for no reason, who would never let a guy treat her like trash (especially while cooking him dinner every Sunday – seriously why didn’t anyone just slap me?!), who would sit in the park for an hour making daisy chains with the cutest child in the world. The me who will cry at a sad movie, and then get the giggles, who would actually appreciate things like fresh air, clean water, and food in the fridge every single day, who dragged her kid out of bed to watch lightning over the ocean.

I’m sure I’ll still have days where life seems hopeless and it’s hard to get out of bed, but this does -deep breath and praying I don’t jinx it- feel like a permanent shift.

And -another deep breath- I want to ride again, struggle on with my horses for as long as I can. I hadn’t really been wanting to, but I think that was more not letting myself want to, because it’s impractical and expensive and blah blah. I might not ever get back to competing now, but that’s ok. It’s never been about that. It’s about the feeling of being the first one to sit on my young horse, the first time our traumatised rescue pony walked up to me and ever so gently tickled my neck with his whiskers.

It’s early mornings, the smell of hay, mixing feeds with molasses, warming my hands under their rugs. It’s feeling that moment when half a ton of instinct and adrenaline decides to work with you.

So, for now, fuck practicality.

I’ve always been a dreamer, anyway.


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This afternoon, I was blindsided by this horrible surge of grief. Oddly enough, I’d been feeling stable, quietly productive. It was gorgeous today and I had all the windows open, sea breeze coming in, and I was curled in a patch of sun on the bed.

I have these moments, staying here, where I feel young, and some of what’s happened just falls away. I think it’s the same beaches, the same house, the same smells and sounds. The in-between could just be a dream, right? I could just wander down to the paddock, chuck a bridle on my patchy pony to gallop bareback through the surf. I could walk for miles without being needed, feeling tired, could get lost and found again.

So I was feeling peaceful and young, and I guess my mind just drifted a bit far until I was immersed in a happy time, and when I crashed back, it felt a little…soul destroying? It’s been (OMG) over 2 years since Craig and I lived together full-time, and I don’t know how long since we last had a big ‘lets (maybe, possibly, oh wait actually, I’m not sure) try again’  talk. A couple months? Six? If I thought about it in treatment cycles, I could probably narrow it down.

About 10 years ago now, we spent a lot of time together here. We’d wander along the beaches with my then-puppy, hang out with my best mates, I’d scare him with my interesting shortcuts through gravel tracks.

Sometimes these days, I don’t think about him in an us kinda way for days on end, and then it hits me how real this is. We’re not getting back together. This isn’t just a glitch. Even if the first part of a miracle occurred and he got his shit together, I actually couldn’t forgive him now anyway. Not because he cheated on me, hit me, any of the things when you think ‘unforgivable’. Because he let me go through cancer alone, because I just wasn’t enough. The probability  possibility of me dying doesn’t provoke enough in him, and I know how I’d be if our situations were reversed.

That. Absolutely. Kills.

I’m just staying away from him. As much as I can. It feels like I’m being torn apart but I’ve done everything else.


I don’t think I’m cut out for marriage anyway, and maybe I shouldn’t just be realising (or admitting to) that now, but I think at heart I’m a bit of a commitment-phobe. I mean, in a relationship, I am committed and I do love very deeply but I also have itchy feet a lot, I genuinely enjoy change, and I need a decent amount of stimulation I guess. Aside from my relationship with Craig and my closest long term friends, I tend to have shorter but quickly intense relationships and friendships.

Or maybe I’m just hurting too much now, and ‘realising I’m not cut out for marriage’ is a bit of a cop-out. I honestly wouldn’t know at this point. I’m one of those blessed people where I don’t seem to find it hard to meet nice guys, genuine people who are funny and smart and kind but god forbid one of them should try to get close to me. I’m even like that with friends now, and I’m getting so. lonely.

The flip-side of all this is at least I’m really actually starting to deal with things (and I am definitely in touch with why I actively avoided this) and I can feel myself changing, and not necessarily in the negative ways people would expect. I think I’m either getting stronger or realising my strength, I’m more inclined to speak up, I’m noticing people don’t put nearly as much emphasis on my physical appearance as I do, and I just feel..free-er. People have been criticizing me left right and centre lately, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care, but I also haven’t compromised myself to please others who don’t even know all the factors behind my decisions :).

So? Win. I think. Who the hell knows, really, and it doesn’t matter.

Anyway guys, I’m sorry for the word-vomit, just wanted to get some thoughts out :). Bman is at Craig’s this week and I also have the week off treatment so I guess that’s why I’m thinking about all this stuff I generally try to keep out.

Love to you all 🙂


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When I started this, I never thought it would become a cancer blog. A parenting blog. An ‘oh-my-god-my-life-has-fallen-apart’ blog.

I never thought I’d get divorced (nearly anyway, at this stage), go in and out of remission, move house, quit my job, lose a pregnancy, come close to a complete emotional breakdown and share it all with you guys. I never thought I’d feel comfortable with sharing my dating (mis)adventures, my therapy sessions, my messy adolescence.

I thought it was just a way to get writing again, because I used to like it as a child and teenager, before life (read: being an emotional train wreck delinquent) got in the way.

I’m so glad I did though 🙂

Every follow, like and comment means so much to me. I never thought I would be able to feel empathy through a screen, make friends, feel like I have a support network.

I feel like a bit of a tragic admitting this, but sometimes if I am having a low low day I read back through the lovely supportive comments you guys have made, and it makes such a difference to me.

Thankyou, you guys, so so much from the bottom of my heart.

Ash xxx

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‘So, will you write about me one day?’ he asked casually, leaning back against the couch. He passed her the joint, half smiling at her hesitance.

She thought, trying not to show him how her skin prickled. Took a slow drag.

‘Do you want me to?’

‘Write something just for me now. And then something when I’m long gone.’

She smiled, picked up the notebook. ‘You’re not that old’, teasing him.

‘No. Just too old for you.’

She made eye contact, wearing her sexuality like a dress as she crawled into his lap.

‘So why am I here?’

He closed his eyes.


As the months wore on, she started dressing differently. Not to please him, she’d tell herself. Just to try to bridge the gap a little. She cursed less, wrote more. He liked her to wear her hair back, instead of down and styled with salt water. They listened to classical music, staying in to explore each other. He drew her flowers and she enveloped him in prose. Her family was drawn to him; most were.

‘He’s quirky, isn’t he? That’s probably good, you know. For you. You’ve always been mature, anyway.’

The first time, it seemed almost charming, the flip-side to his creativity. She wasn’t scared, even when he made her load the gun again and again. But that night, without knowing why, she took it.

‘It’s because I love you. You need to be able to protect yourself’

‘You’ll protect me. Nothing’s going to happen anyway. Unless you’re not telling me something.’

His eyes darkened.


She took him to the hospital, listening to him talk to ghosts in the car. Adjustment, make sure you keep taking your stabilisers, was what she remembered. Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed of. The intensity left. Stability didn’t suit her. They decided to see someone else. So he could be him. But well. No more bullets on the stove. No more sleeping for 16 hours. They went to the beach, for bushwalks. The apartment was covered in drawings and notes. It was Spring. She visualised this being for always. Keeping this Balance.



To be continued. If I’m brave enough.

Just wanted to try something a little different and this has been on my mind lately. I hope you guys don’t mind :). It’s important for me to start putting this to rest finally, and writing is the best safest way I know.

Thanks for reading,

Ash xxx

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