Even Casey Stoner had to start somewhere...

Today I had my second motorcycle lesson. It was less comical than my first lesson, but still filled with confusion and Mark, my poor instructor, returning with more grey hair and a larger bald spot then he had at the beginning of the lesson...

Again, my lesson started at 7am. Again, I have an issue with this. I know I blamed peak hour traffic for my dislike of this hour but to be honest... I'm not a morning person. Who wants to get out of bed at 6am when the weather is starting to cool down? Who am I kidding? My dislike has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with my love of sleep. Well, most of the time. Not so much when I have nightmares, but THEY are a whole other story!

This morning I woke to the nasty sound of my phone alarm blaring out its vibration on my bedside table. After a mini heart attack and turning my much hated phone off. (It's a love / hate relationship.) I heard the soothing sound of rain on the roof. I love the sound of rain, normally. When I'm not about to jump on a motorcycle in the middle of peak hour traffic. The other problem I have with the rain today is that I risked my life on Saturday to buy myself my very own motorcycle jacket that was now set to get wet. I say I risked my life because I managed to interupt some kind of bikie gang meeting when I walked into the shop. Well, I have no proof it was a "gang" or "meeting" but when a bunch of guys (I am debating the sex of 2 of them) all stop talking and get up from their table when I walk into the shop... I am left assuming the most exciting and scary option.

My first instinct was to turn around and run but I feared this would be too obvious and they would kill me. I'm sure they can make it look like an accident or maybe I would never be found... So I went with my second option, the innocent "I'm new to this whole bike thing" approach. I guess it worked, they were all lovely and I survived. I had a really sweet mail order bride help me pick the best jacket ever! I'm actually considering joining their gang, I mean they did give me a stubbie cooler!

So, I have my jacket with it's detachable raincoat part that I refused to wear because I didn't want to get it wet. I actually chose to wear a dirty, stinky, borrowed jacket over getting mine wet.... I have serious problems! But my jacket is still clean, new and more importantly, DRY!

Mark, my instructor was late again today. I was a bit more flexible when I realised the poor guy rides for 2.5 hours to get to work. How do I know this? Mark talks A LOT!! Not necessarily about motorbikes either. I know more about his girlfriend than I care to remember. I'm fairly sure he shouldn't be encouraging her to fall asleep on the back of his bike while they are riding. Maybe it's just me but it doesn't sound safe or something I should hear about. I'm still a bit unsure of Mark and I think he feels the same about me. I swear he walked in this morning, saw it was me again and tried to pull a sickie. I'm pretty sure I heard him sigh and mutter a prayer under his breath. Bless his cotton socks!

So today was all about getting me on the road, on the bike, in traffic... With real cars, buses, trucks and the loonies driving them. I was off to a great start. I did the safety check on the bike with Mark constantly narrating over the top of me, this time both bikes seemed to be ok. I am cautious of using the word "safe" because... how the hell am I suppose to know if it's safe? I can almost guarantee it won't be safe the second I get on it! We headed off to a quiet estate area off the back of base. I managed to get all the way to the end of the driveway and turn onto the road before I stalled the bike. I think that's a record, the longest for me before stalling and the shortest for any other student. Mark must be SO proud!

Mark gave me some instructions before we left saying he would give me all my instructions via hand signals and when we came to a round-a-bout or intersection, he would make sure it was safe for both of us to go through together. At the first intersection we came to, I realised Mark is either a liar or he wanted me dead. I some how managed to stop, I'm not exactly sure how because he hadn't taught me how to use the front brake, and the back brake... well, to be frank, is BLOODY USELESS!! I managed to keep it together fairly well until I had a car following right on my bum. Why would you do that? I am wearing a giant "L" on a fluro yellow vest, you can't miss me. Unfortuantely this means you literally can't miss me when you aim your car at me! So, this guy decides he is going to bully me and try and scare me. Little did he know I was scared before I even knew he was there. This of course was a perfect distraction to make me nervous and concentrate on what I was doing... Unfortuantely for me and the car behind me, and to the embarressment of Mark, when I think about riding, I suck at it. So, of course I came upto a round-a-bout with said car on my back wheel and I stall the bike. I was very classy duck waddling the bike off the road because the nasty piece of work got stuck in neutral and no amount of rocking and releasing the clutch would budge it. I'm sure Mark considers me his biggest challenge.

After that incident I managed to ride around for about an hour without any major mistakes so, of course this means it's time to teach me how to use the front brake. (I don't understand Mark's logic, but, hey, he's the expert!) After a few attempts I had the braking sorted, now I don't need to stall the bike to stop it, this can only be a good thing for all involved. Because I was so awesome at braking, Mark decided we would go out into heavy traffic on the main roads in the area. I am a cautious rider, I prefer to go slow - which is actually the speed limit, Mark prefers to go as fast as he can and it's up to me to keep up, even if it means speeding. That was his instruction. He kept giving me the hand signal to speed up, I was already doing 60 in a road work 40 zone, so I gave him my own hand signal involving my middle finger. I then had a car cut me off and a truck try and bully me out of my lane. I shouldn't say try, because he did. I was happy to let him in, he could have my lane and as many other lanes as he wanted. I guess Mark would call that Karma.

Then, because I'm sure Mark has set this whole thing up - no one can have this many obstacles in one day, surely? A dog runs out on the road infront of both of us. I saw it coming and slowed down, Mark saw it and sped up! We ended up having an argument over this because in his opinion the faster you go, the smoother the bump over the dog. I was more going for the obstacle avoidance approach where nobody and nothing dies or gets hurt. I only had one more incident where the bike got stuck in neutral... at a round-a-bout... in road works... infront of a bunch of workmen... Mark had left me for dead, I'm sure he was praying I would be killed so he wouldn't have to be tortured by my inability to get the bike started. But to my surprise (and Mark's and all the workmen) I managed to get it out of neutral, into first gear, get moving and avoid having or causing any collision without stalling and without help!

It was time to head back to base, so Mark decided we were going to go the long way. Telling him I was exhausted, my hands were numb (not to mention my bum) and my feet and hands were getting confused wasn't enough for him to let us just go straight back to base. Being unable to get the indicators off because of my numb hands resulted in him telling me to "relax". I needed to suck it up and go the scenic route back to base. This involved a little bit of rain, not heaps, which I'm thankful for because I didn't bring a squeedgee for my helmet. I did however leave my visor up because I love the feel of the wind on my skin... This can only mean that Mark will make me ride through dusty gravel in an area which would be better called a nature corridor than a road. I had bugs land in my hair and eyes. Luckily my mouth was clenched closed the whole time. I can't imagine vomiting in ones helmet would be an appealing way to end a ride.

We finally made it back to base and we finished up with some paperwork. In Mark's opinion I will be competent with two more lessons. I think maybe he thinks doing any more lessons will be pushing his luck at remaining sane or having a clean record of never having a student killed under his supervision. There must be a motive... surely I shouldn't be set loose on the roads with a motorcycle yet? I guess time will tell! Mark justifies giving me my licence in two more lessons by telling me I won't be the next Stoner or Rossi... but what does he know?!?!


Jessie

Matters of the Heart

It's a huge risk to allow someone to be the guardian of your heart.... your secrets, your love. Every moment of time, every thought, every action can be thrown away in the blink of an eye. Loving someone is giving them the power to destroy you and trusting them not to. That's an amazing power and the most sacred gift anyone can give...

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for and if you dream of meeting your hearts longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool,

For love...

For your dream...

For the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow.

If you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain.

Mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy.

If you can dance with the wilderness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself.

If you can bare the accusations of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty.

And if you can source your own life from it's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine.

And still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the moon "YES!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with who you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

The Invitation - Oriah Mountaindreamer.

"Pride ain't nothing when it comes to matters of the heart."


Jessie

If you find yourself in Hell, keep walking before the Devil realises you were there.

This blog is dedicated to all the people who have stopped looking for the light switch in the dark room they call their world.

Depression.

What does it mean? A word shrouded in opinions. Professional opinions, judgemental opinions, uneducated opinions, qualified opinions and the numb opinions of those who live it every single day. I have thought about this word, this condition, and what it means... What is a simple definition? Something everyone can relate to? Is there such a thing? Probably not, but here is my attempt:

"Depression is the inability to construct a future. It is anger without enthusiasm. It is darkness. It is pain. It is loneliness."

I need to point out here that I am no expert on Depression or Mental Illness of any description. This is just my interpretation of what I have observed, heard and felt. I am merely telling my story:

My generation has had no Great War, no Great Depression. Our war is spiritual. Our depression is our lives. Our lives are never enough. There is always more, always a hole that needs to be filled. Everything we sought to make us happy, everything we thought would make us complete always made room for a new hole. We are never complete. We are a puzzle with missing pieces.

We are male and female. We are artists, athletes, students, and business owners. We have depression, borderline personalities, bipolar disorder, or maybe no diagnosis at all. Some of us were abused, some were not. We are straight, bi, and gay. We come from all walks of life and can be any age. We are every single race or religion that you can possibly think of. Our common link is this: We are in pain. And we are not freaks.

For some of us, the thought and act of never being able to attain the unattainable is too much to bare. For others, waking up from a terrifying nightmare only to realise you were never asleep is the sickening reality of hitting rock bottom. And instead of seeing rock bottom as good solid ground, or a dead end as a place to turn around. It is seen as the end. A blockade from moving on, from finding happiness or wholeness... the loss of your chance to feel complete.

Some people say that suicide is an easy way out. It's for weak people, it's gutless and selfish. But in reality, it takes a lot of courage to stand up to God and say, "Screw you! You can't fire me, because I quit!" It takes strength to be able to harm yourself knowing that you will cause immense pain to those who love you... BUT, this is not how suicidal people think, well, not in my limited experience. Because in their minds, NO ONE loves them, no one cares, and there is no one to go to because most of the time, no one else exists in this world of self loath and hate. Ending this existence couldn't possibly impact anyone else. No one would even notice. Maybe the act of ending life, removing yourself from being a burden is a selfless act, or maybe it is done to end the all consuming pain. The pain that can only be known to someone that has felt it, lived it, lived WITH it. Because maybe, just maybe that's all that exists in this dark world. Not feelings, not other people, not ration, not freedom and certainly not hope. There is no difference between day and night other than the changing of the nightmares.

Some people are lucky, they have people close enough to notice the difference between a real smile and the smile of an actor. They intervene before the darkness is all consuming. But is there a cure? Is there a way out? Can you really stop the progression of something you can't see? Some people say medication helps, some people say a lifestyle changes help, some people say nothing helps... I know distancing yourself from these people makes them think you are "better", depression makes you a good liar. Is it lying if you do it to protect yourself or the person you are lying to? Is it lying if you say "I'm ok", because you don't know what's wrong? Is it wrong to not want to be put on medication? Being drugged beyond feeling anything, being unable to react or feel any emotion, struggling to stay awake and fighting dizziness while awake is suppose to be better... Maybe it is, but it's still not living. Maybe it just buys us time for our brains to heal.

Everyone is different, everyone feels things differently, different people have different triggers and everyone reacts differently. There is so little known about Mental Illness and so much stigma surrounds the subject that it is difficult for people to talk about it. It is common for sufferers to believe they are alone, that it is a state of mind, something to be ashamed of. But the truth is, it is real, an illness and it is more common than you think.

Everyone has the right to make their own decisions. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, just like you can't fly with someone else's wings. Everyone has their own journey and their own story to create. Don't judge anyone until you have walked in their shoes....

Sometimes you need to run away just to see who will follow you.

Jessie

No Wing No Prayer... It was a Honda!

Today, I had my first motorcycle lesson. I barely slept last night because I was nervous and excited about how I would go... my first time in control of a bike. This is how it played out:

I arrived at 6.50am for a 7am start. I would like to point out here that this isn't ideal. If you want me to concentrate and avoid death from car drivers hell bent on using me as target practise, I suggest starting these lessons at a reasonable hour, like 10am. It's not that I have anything against car drivers, I mean, I am one of those people who drives around the city in a 4WD, a stereotypical "soccer mum" without the kids, school or soccer. But, to be fair, at this time of the morning you have peak hour traffic, which means you have people in cars, eating breakfast, doing their hair and make-up and of course the serial texting drivers. Add a learner motorcycle rider to the mix and you should have an ambulance on speed dial... Or maybe a chopper would be faster in that sort of traffic. My point is, I am not learning to ride a motorbike to become a "temporary citizen". I can think of much cheaper, less painful and guaranteed ways to meet the Coroner if that was my aim.

My instructor was late. Great start. I thought he must be so safety conscious that his motto is "it's better to arrive late than to never arrive at all". That was giving him the benefit of the doubt, in my mind, that was a comforting thought. But no, he had to go and ruin it by telling me he was waiting for a builder (who didn't arrive). Over the next four hours I heard all about the antics of the builder, the tiler, the tile shop, his girlfriend, the guy he took out for a ride yesterday who hit a dog, put a hole in his jacket, scratched his helmet and broke the mirror off the bike. Then I heard about the politics involved in his job... All of these added up in my mind to Strike One! Oh, and I did a little bit of riding. Maybe that's an exaggeration of what I did, but I was on a motorbike, it was turned on and I was controlling it.

Strike Two occured about 5 minutes into meeting Mark, my instructor. He decided to have a toilet break which had him returning with a rather large wet patch on the front of his jeans.... I don't know the story behind this, nor do I want to know, I think enough has been said on the matter. All I want to add is this, I can not unsee this, it has been burnt into my minds eye, forever. And from the gagging and vomiting in my mouth a little, I think we can confirm my inability to handle human excretment of any kind has not improved.

When we eventually got to the point of actually touching a motorcycle, I had to do a safety check on it... WTF do I know about a bike to make sure it's safe? It had tyres, a seat, lights, blinkers... So, I thought it best that I entrust Mark with his expert opinion on making sure the bike was in good working order. BIG MISTAKE! In Mark's opinion the bike was fine, safe, in good order, low on petrol, but suitable for what we were doing. This was AFTER I pointed out the brake light wasn't working consistantly. Never mind, he lubricated the front brake thingie (technical name) to fix it. I was horrified beyond the point of noticing the protective gear I was putting on smelt like homeless-man sweat. So, we jumped on the bike and took off to a local training area. Well, that was the plan. It turns out the bike wasn't fine, wasn't in good working order and definitely wasn't safe! Of course it couldn't be the brake, it was lubricated... Yep, it was the brake. Some how, apparently without Mark touching it, the brake managed to not only turn itself on, but get stuck on as we hit gravel. My first lesson almost started with both me and the instructor face first in gravel. Instead, we turned around and grabbed a different bike. I might just add, we didn't do a safety check on this one. By this stage it didn't matter to me, I was convinced I was going to die.

Finally, it was my turn to become the rider, the one in control! After all the boring theory bits were covered, I was able to take off, straight into a corner. As everyone who has been taught to ride a bike has been told, "look where you want the bike to go" - I am the exception to this rule, so we discovered. I blame years of car driving and counteracting the steering so that you don't go where you are looking for this rare talent I possess. I manage to look right and turn left causing so much confusion to myself that panic ensued forcing my legs to extend and spread infront of the bike. I guess I was using wind resistance as a brake while squealing, because... well, that's how I roll! I managed to keep the bike upright the entire lesson, not from skill, but sheer strength and the ability to stall it at critical times.

Despite my shaky start, I managed to master, (my description, not Mark's) the art of getting on and off the bike, braking, changing gears, steering (in my own way), slow riding and some slightly faster riding. I also have the ability to feel and sense what the bike is doing - they were Mark's words. He also said I was a better rider when I didn't think about what I was doing. This can only mean I'm a natural! By this stage I started to realise the smell coming from my jacket... it wasn't me. I swear, I don't smell like a homeless man, nor do my hands normally smell like a public toilet. I'm not sure if it was the smell, the heat, fatigue, dehydration or a combination of everything, but I started to feel unwell. Luckily, the lesson was over. It was time to head back to base.

Mark has so much confidence in me, he thinks we should do some road time on my next lesson. I think he is getting ahead of himself thinking I will have a second lesson! I will give it a week and see how I feel about it. The end result will be worth it. To be able to jump on my own bike and take off, to get away, to escape, to have freedom. I have no doubt I will return, I just need some time to forget the fact that I had other people's bodily fluids on me.

Today, I started my love affair with riding.

Jessie

Diego

Diego... Where do I start?

This amazing bird came into my life about 4 years ago. He was 11 months old and so full of life and potential. He was everything that you would expect from a blue and gold Macaw, and so much more. He was bred and raised by a wonderful experienced breeder under the guidance of the best bird Vet in Australia. Fed on all the right foods, given all the attention and mind stimulation he required, and handled exactly how a Macaw should be. He was... perfect.

Diego and I didn't have the best start.... All of which was my fault. He was great. He was accepting, non-judging and looking for love, attention and someone to bond with. I, on the other hand, saw a 1kg bird with a HUGE beak and potential to remove my finger. I was later informed he would be more likely to crush my finger into an unrecognisable mess than to remove it. Surprisingly I didn't find this to be comforting at all! I guess the difference between us was that Diego trusted me not to hurt him and I didn't trust him not to hurt me.

After a week of playing with him from the safety of outside the bars of his cage, I became brave enough to handle him. (Read: he forced himself upon me by flying a lap around the shop and landing on me). He didn't know how to "step-up" or any basic training, but he knew to be gentle and he knew how to make us laugh. In the first week, he learnt how to wave, hold hands and swear. Yep, I was a proud mum! He loved the reaction people gave when he dropped the "f" bomb. I must admit, I also loved the shock value of his antics. Diego spent hours talking to people, watching them, playing with his toys, flying around stealing things and dropping them from the roof. If you were unlucky, or in his bad books, you would have something dropped on your head. He had an uncanny knack to line up people he didn't like and drop a "bomb" on them. I'm sure you can imagine the size of the "bomb" a 1kg bird would drop... And saying, "it's good luck" never made it any less humiliating for those who were... blessed.

Slowly but surely, we developed a unique relationship. Diego was eager to please, when it suited him or the reward was worth it... Stubborn little man that he was! He loved rolling onto his back and having his tummy tickled. This trick was a huge hit with the members of his fan club. He also loved being kissed on his head and having raspberries blown on his featherless cheeks. He would try and imitate the kissing noise and shove his head in my face if he wasn't getting enough attention. The noise of blowing raspberries was fascinating to him. He couldn't copy it. He seemed to love the combination of the sensation on his cheek and the sound. He would reply with a high pitched "ohhhHHH"" everytime I did it to him. He used to study my lips to learn how to repeat this noise, I would end up laughing at his attempts and he would get upset and stop trying.

My favourite trick Diego did, no one can take credit for teaching him. He actually taught us. If Diego had no one around him and he thought it was time for some attention, he would hang upside down in his cage and squeal at the top of his lungs, "HELP!" This would send numerous people running to help him, thinking he was stuck. Of course, this rewarded his behaviour and because it was so cute, no one minded. In fact we were all always so relieved that he was fine that we would cuddle him, kiss him and play games with him. This of course was EXACTLY what Diego wanted. The bird with the intelligence of a two year old had out smarted and trained a team of animal experts.

Unfortunately, allowing Diego the freedom of full flight had risks. After flying into windows not once, not twice but three times, the vet finally agreed for his own safety, wing clipping was the best solution. We had decided that when his wing feathers grew back we would give him another chance. This was the biggest mistake we would make.... For five long days we searched, calling his name throughout the extended neighbourhood (undoubtingly annoying everyone within a 10km radius), putting up signs, ringing everyone we knew that might be able to help, hoping, praying, wishing... Diego was returned in very poor condition. It appeared that he was starved and injured. He was immediately rushed off to Brisbane Bird Vet. With the magical touch of BBV, a whole lot of love and support, Diego managed to pull through. He was returned home to be re-habilitated. We thought we were the luckiest people in the world. We thought we had a second chance... Little did we know we were merely bought some time to say good-bye.

Diego was ill for quite some time. He was under constant care by the team at BBV. They were running test after test to try and find out what was wrong with him. He was displaying neurological symptoms and it was suspected that he may have picked up a rare and fatal disease (PDD) from a wild bird or possibly had a tumour or cyst on his brain. We were slowly working out what was wrong with him by eliminating what wasn't wrong with him. Unfortunately Diego continued to decline. He lost his swallow reflex and was being spoon fed hand rearing mix to keep him alive. At this point the decision was made to do an MRI on his brain. Although there isn't a vet in Australia who could read the results of an MRI of a Macaw's brain, Diego's ever caring Vet was communicating with international Vets to make sure this wasn't a problem.

I spent hours trying to comfort Diego. By this stage he was unable to open his eyes or even stand. He didn't immediately know who I was. It took a good hour for him to settle in my arms with his head resting in my hand. I sat on the floor with him like this, gently stroking his back and talking to him. He was being medicated with strong pain killers and antibiotics but nothing seemed to be helping our amazing little man. This was the first time I realised that Diego was giving up his battle. On Wednesday the 29th of September 2010, Diego was taken to have his MRI done. Depite the best efforts of Adrian and the BBV team, despite the fact that he was surrounded by love and hope, despite the fact we (selfishly) wanted him to make it through so very much, Diego never woke up. At the baby age of 3 years old, Diego got his angel wings.

Diego has been sorely missed by all those who knew him. His death hit us all hard, including the beautiful team at BBV who treated him with respect and loved him as much as we did. He will always be remembered as the cheeky, fun loving, mischief maker that he was.

Jessie

Broken Promises

Marriage is said to be forever... 'til death do you part. For better or worse, in sickness and in health.... Promises made in front of your closest family and friends and in front of God. Yep, thats some pretty major promises, and I broke them. But, in my defence, marriage is also meant to be a happy union. Or so the fairy tales say. We have all read them with their expectation building "knight in shining armour" and their "happily ever after" rubbish. Not once have I read a fairy tale that eluded to the fact that love may be impersonated. But I guess I have never read a fairy tale that has a strong-willed independant woman as a lead character either... It turns out my life is NOT a fairy tale.

I have been told I am a disappointment, a quitter, a heartless bitch... and thats not including the names the in-laws called me. Of course the whole marriage break down was my fault and I was happy to accept the blame and to lose everything if it meant getting out of my situation. On the outside everything looked fine. No one had any idea of the daily hell I endured behind closed doors. No one knew because slowly, day by day each and every one of my friends was slowly pushed away. I was isolated, I was in a situation where I needed help and had no one to turn to. No one that would believe me, no one that would understand, or so I thought.

I wish I could say that we "just grew apart" or even easier would be if he was to blame by being unfaithful. Instead I had to try and explain to people that despite what they saw in public, that was NOT our relationship. That was an act. A show put on to make everyone believe that we were fine, a couple in love. But in truth, it wasn't love. Not even close and it has taken me many years to realise and admit that. The sad part in this whole matter is that I had to JUSTIFY myself to people. The same people that had once been my friends but had accepted being pushed away. The same people that had never fought to keep my friendship. The same people that I thought I would need support from to get through this difficult time... I was wrong. I should never have tried to justify my decision. At the end of the day there are only 2 people in this world that know what happened in that house. People will judge you no matter what you say or do, so why try and change their minds? And why let it get to you?

Looking back at my marriage I am ashamed at the peson I had become. I was never the type of girl to let anyone walk all over me. I was always independant and strong-willed, I always voiced my opinion on subjects I was passionate about, but that was before. The old saying "If you hear something enough you start to believe it" was very true in my case. I started to believe that I was worthless, that my opinion meant nothing. That I was no one, just a number and no one loved or cared about me. And worst of all, no one would believe me. You don't trust anyone because they are only nice to you because "they feel sorry for you" or because you are "the wife". I had never felt so alone...

I lost my passion, my spark, my zest for life. I was unhappy and I couldn't see a way out. The empty threats didn't feel empty at the time. I was scared and in my mind, had no future. All the promised plans were denied, my freedom was removed and my only outlet was being slowly torn away from me. For me, it was now or never. If I didn't do something about my situation I knew it would be too late. At best, I would be stuck in a controlled unhappy environment at worst I would be another statistic.

I turned to the only person I knew would listen. I rang my mum... She didn't doubt a single word I said. She saw my bruises and she saw my shattered soul. Between my mum and my dad, they made it their mission to get their little girl out safe. They are the ones that supported me and pushed me to fight for my belongings. I was willing to walk away from everything and that meant losing a lot. I didn't care if I had to start over, I was grateful to be able to start over. Not all woman in my situation are lucky enough to get out, let alone have a second chance. I knew I was lucky and I didn't want to take any chances.

It was a long hard road. A journey that tested the strength of my family. A fight that almost tore us apart many times. A nightmare that lasted a long time, a very long time. I don't regret many things about my life, but I regret getting married. I regret ever meeting the man. I know I should be grateful for the lessons I have learned, but I'm not. I used to trust people. I used to see the beauty in everything. I used to believe that people were ...good, kind, caring, loving. I used to believe that people didn't have to have a motive. Now, I am wary of people, I analyse them and I assume everyone is manipulative. I think everyone is putting on an act, living a lie. I've seen it, a lie lived for years, I know how easy it can be for some people. I have built walls to protect myself, to keep people out, to stop them from being able to hurt me... All it does is hurt myself. It makes close relationships difficult. It makes people believe they don't really know me, and to be honest, most don't. But most have never really tried either. I can count on one hand the very few people that I have allowed to get close enough to see the pain. The few I have trusted to see the raw emotion and heartache that almost destroyed me. The ones who know the part that hurt the most was having no one fight for me.

I managed to move on with a brand new bunch of friends. Real friends, the kind you can get raw and honest answers from. The rare kind of friends that ...know, they just KNOW what you are trying to say and how you feel. The kind of people that don't judge, they just accept things the way they are. None of these new friends know the full story behind my marriage or divorce and none of them care. It's not important to them. And none of them has actually asked for a detailed account of what happened. Ironic really, the closest friends I have aren't bothered with the details, and the people who I barely speak to, that also don't know the story, are the people with strong opinions.

I am slowly learning to trust again. My theory is "It's not wrong to trust, it's wrong to abuse trust". I am slowly learning how to love too. Despite everything that has happened, I know that wasn't based on love. I think loving someone is the most pure of all emotions and brings such joy. You have no control over who you love, it just happens... It's hard to describe. They don't make you complete, you are already complete. They compliment you in a way that enhances all your qualities, they make you want to be a better person. You can't explain what it is... maybe it's intuition?

Some things you just don't question.


Jessie

The Daily Grind.

Most people think working in a Pet shop is all about cuddling puppies and kittens all day. They think its full of love and fun and nothing ever goes wrong... "You must LOVE your job!" or "You're so lucky, you have the BEST job!" Are the standard lines I hear day in, day out. Of course, the grass is always greener on the other side. For them and for me.

Can I think of worse jobs? Absolutely! Without a doubt, I mean I would HATE to be a plumber sticking my hand down some randoms toilet. Or a Dentist, or even worse, one of those people that collects pathology specimens. OR, worst job ever... cleaning public toilets! People are disgusting, there is no more accurate way to describe them. We have all been the victim of walking into a public toilet to find some unpleasantry written in feacal matter on the wall, or delighted in discovering some precious soul has missed the bowl althogether... haven't we?


Well, I'm here to tell you that working in a Pet Shop is not so unlike these other professions. Cuddling puppies and kittens all day is what you call it. But, what actually happens is this: The day starts with scrubbing rediculous amounts of worm infested poo off the floor, walls and yes, even the roof. (Their poos are full of worms because we have wormed them - unlike the unnamed registered breeder, so don't critise!) The puppies themselves also need to be cleaned because after a night of interior design, paw painting and accessorising themselves with chunks of poo, they just don't resemble that "puppy in the window" picture you imagined. Ok, so you have had enough talk about poo? Well, unfortunately, just after cleaning is when EVERYONE is due for another poo.... I will save you the details, but it's not fun.

The rest of the day is filled with helping the vet to vaccinate (not great if you aren't good with needles, or holding animals while they get their needles OR if you have a problem with a certain careless, yet extremely goodlooking vet accidently stabbing you) Same goes for microchipping, its the size of a grain of rice going into an 8 week old Chihuahua. Yes, it hurts and YES Chihuahuas are vicious little gremlins. I won't even start to explain the likely injuries from giving a worming tablet to a feral kitten! But the last time one of the little fur sharks got me, it bled for hours and left a scar. By the way, everyone has done another poo.

Then there are the joys of dealing with "breeders". I use this term broadly. Everyone who has animals that reproduce fall into this category, but there is a HUGE variance in quality. Some days you get the breeder who is an "expert" in the industry. The ones who have puppies that are underweight, too young to be sold, full of worms, covered in fleas and ticks and full of genetic conditions that will reduce their life span and quality of life. BUT, don't try and tell them these things, because, "What would you know? You just work in a pet shop." This is a common quote generally mixed in with a bunch of name calling and sometimes threats of drowning said animals. To get the full picture of this scenario you need to imagine what the breeder looks like... A stereotype, if I may... They are generally from Gympie or Ipswich, small town people, didn't finish school, never knew how to brush their teeth - not that they need to anymore... grubby clothes, no shoes and wild toe nails. Flannel shirt with Winny blues in the top pocket, built like a brick shit house and haven't used a hair brush in years. (For the record, I used to put up a decent fight and NEVER purchased animals of this quality from ANYONE.) - While this argument is going on, there are more poos to clean up.

Ok, so enough about puppies and kittens. Lets move to the grooming room! So, that should be fun, right? Giving doggies cute little haircuts and bathing them... WRONG!! Did you know that when clipping a dog their hair will get into every orifice you have? Hair will also stab into your skin like minute splinters and if you don't remove them daily it can get infected. The hair gets into your eyes and up your nose making you rub your face, embedding more hair and making you look like a Yhetti. And then there is the true pain known only to those who have ever clipped a Cocker Spaniel... the ingrown hairs in your nipples! If that isn't enough to put you off grooming for life, then you have customers and their unrealistic expectations to deal with. "Make my 50kg German Shepherd look like a small fluffy lap dog." Or, a favourite amongst groomers, "Just brush those knots out." First of all, the hair is MATTED to the skin, no amount of brushing will fix that, and secondly you have a Silky Terrier, the dog will need to be muzzled so I can even look sideways at it! After that it gets easy, I mean dogs just stand there and do what they are told when you are using a foreign object that makes a noise and vibrates all over them.... Then occassionally, to top off a splendid day you get the nervous / stress related explosive bottom. If you are really lucky, the dog has JUST been bathed and the volcanic erruption that is it's bottom goes all over the freshly cleaned and shaved bottom and on really special occassions, it gets you... on the face.

My favourite thing about working in a Pet Shop though, would have to be the customers. I mean who else is lucky enough to be trusted so fully that in times of emergency, we are the ones that are relied upon? When something unusual appears out your beloved dogs back end, where do you go? Straight to the pet shop, of course. Who else can be trusted to identify the parasite in your dogs faeces? And YES, we do literally get bags of poo brought in for us to examine. It's funny how this relationship works, when an animal should probably be seeing a vet, our expert FREE advice is asked and then argued against... Why ask if you don't want to know the answer? Why say it's too much hassle so instead of fixing your pet you will shoot them, or dump them or leave them to suffer? Do you honestly think we will LIKE you after that? And talking about liking customers... Customer service is our job. It does not mean we like you, have a crush on you, want to date you, have your babies or even marry you. It means we are doing our job to make money for the business. Oh, and we care about your animals welfare... simple!

And that is a good day. A day where no one gets hurt. No animals get sick or injured. No customers are screaming and yelling because they killed their fish and want YOU to replace it.... A day where you think maybe it's worth going back again the next day. A day where you think maybe what you are doing is making a difference to the lives of some animals. And then, you remember the big picture. Then you try and think of a goal that you have achieved today. Something to take you a step closer to where you want to be... WHO you want to be.

All of a sudden the grass doesn't seem so green anymore.


Jessie