The Black Dog came out of the Darkness, again without warning, and attached himself to my soul. I wish I knew when he was coming, so I could arm myself against his unpredictable onslaughts. Unfortunately, I usually don't realise until I've tipped over the edge into the abyss once more. To combat the Black Dog takes a huge amount of willpower and self-belief. I am recovering slowly, following that guiding light of hope that will restore my mental well-being.
I began thinking about this post as being a celebration of my husband and my boys. However, my contemplation took me in directions that were both surprising and confronting. Hence, I found myself drifting back to my mother and her influence over me, my life and my three brothers' lives ( the Lost Boys?); she has remained a dark shadow that has caused me much grief. And much to my dismay, I have traits of Borderline Personality Disorder, which I am convinced Mum also had. My greatest fear is that I am like her and that thought makes me shudder with horror.
Mum was charismatic, brilliant, chaotic, belligerent and catastrophic. My Dad adored her, which is why he was impotent to protect us. My two older brothers cope by having very busy lives, compulsively and actively energetic. The youngest of my brothers was almost destroyed by Mum's impulsive and cruel actions that withered his psyche. My other brothers think they understand, but they have no idea; I was the witness to all that happened to him. As soon as he could, that most beloved of my brothers shot through and now, more than fifty years later, I actually don't know if he is even alive.
One of my older brothers has hurt me deeply, but he has no idea how his words wounded me at a time I was extremely vulnerable. I am hoping I shall be able to write to him and explain, but even then, I don't think he will either understand or respond. So be it.
In my search for happiness and unconditional love, I married my first husband (the Confident Boy) when I was still a teenager. We were probably not well matched; he was another super intelligent being, who relished control and consistency whereas I was fragile and uncertain, longing for the children I was sure would allow me to become his equal.
Our daughter is approaching forty years of age and is on her own journey. She has rejected all her family and I miss her, longing to understand what happened. She was a much adored baby born after I'd had a second trimester miscarriage, ten months prior. She was seventeen months old when I had her brother, a tiny scrap of humanity we named Christopher, born nine weeks before his due date (our Temporary Boy). Little Chris had a number of horrendous health conditions and eventually his body gave up when he was forty-eight days old, having never left hospital. After thirty eight years, I can still see Christopher and especially smell him, which I only was able to do after his death. How can anybody else, unless they have held their dead baby, possibly identify with me?
I didn't have another living baby for two more years. Zoe and Melanie were stillborn. We decided to have one more roll of the dice. I am so bloody grateful we did, as the result was (my totally Awesome Boy) Callum Timothy. He is thirty-six years of age, married to the beautiful Bronwyn and Daddy to our wondrous grand-babies, Imogen and Violet. He is a Performing Arts Specialist at a large suburban Perth primary school, and after thirteen years of teaching, has finally earned permanence, now a rare gift for teachers.
Callum is so easy. He understands my sense of humour and I can banter with him, discuss seriously with him and simply just enjoy his company. He appears to be an equal and and supportive partner to Bron. If he ever isn't, he will have explain why to me. I have seen what a fabulous and engaged Daddy he is to Immy and Violet, a far better parent than I ever was. My only regret is that we don't see Callum, Bron and the girls as often as we would like. Our every visit with them just is magic.
Then, there is Alex (my Autistic Superstar Boy). He is thirty-four years of age. Born with a complex heart defect, he was diagnosed with asthma at thirteen months, suffered an Acquired Brain Injury after cardiac surgery, was labeled with Developmental Delay at twenty months, Autism at four years and seven months and had the spectre of Intellectual Disability bandied around most of his life until a specific neuropsychological study demonstrated he had normal intelligence. He has sleep apnoea, scoliosis, abnormal gait, repetitive chest infections with low oxygen levels, 'blank episodes' and sometimes crippling fatigue. In spite of all these challenges, he is positive and cheerful, loves his job and is a diligent employee, has a fantastic social life and looks forward to opening a drop-in cafe for disadvantaged people. He is also an attentive son who values me as his Mum. How good is that.
The last of my Boys is my beloved Michael. I have been with him for sixteen years, married for thirteen years. He is truly the light of my life. That doesn't mean he is perfect. He has his flaws, as do we all. However, we keep trying to improve our relationship, honour each other, stop and think before we open our mouths and remember to tell each how much we mean to each other.
He is an innovative artist who pushes the envelope further with each and every artwork he creates. He produces art that is alive inside his very being and although he would love to sell more of his pieces, he has to remain true to himself as a sculptor. As a couple, we are both as one when travelling and fossicking in the Outback, anywhere between the Wheatbelt and the Pilbara. When he first took me to the Goldfields, I was transfixed by the sky, the landscape, the people and the historic objects we discovered in the middle of nowhere. Since then, we have tried to head for the Outback at least every twelve month
2025 has been a tough year. Michael is currently awaiting hernia surgery, which is severely restricting his actions. He is also battling plantar fasciitis, causing extreme pain which makes him utterly miserable. I am probably going to need surgery to remove a misbehaving metal plate from my upper right arm and the Black Dog has been my companion much more frequently than I have liked.
Together, we face crippling money issues, mainly in regard to our East End Gallery. Yesterday's local government elections do not give us much hope. As a business with no reliable regular or repeat "clients" or " customers", we have asked for a reduction in rates, a reduction in advertising rates in the Beverley Blarney and meaningful interaction with the Shire and Councillors. The elected Councillors, we fear, will just maintain the Status Quo. Which means, unless our financial bottom line improves in the next twelve months, we will be forced to close after eleven years of operation.The Shire doesn't seem to understand (or care) what a massive loss that would be to the main street of Beverley and to our one hundred artists.
We hope that doesn't have to happen. But, we do have to look at our commitments and the life we would like to lead, without excessive financial stress. Our health issues do not do well in Beverley's winter; we need to head for the North's warmth for at least two months. Not with luxurious accommodation, just our dinky little caravan named Will and a tent for extra space.
Luckily, we are now moving into late spring and then summer, so that is a conversation we do not have to have just yet. And guess what, in spite of worries, of fears and of uncertainty, I still have my Boys - Michael, Callum and Alex. They provide me with joy, respect and unconditional love. And that is all that is truly important.
And here are my Boys -
Callum...
