He says “I’m tired of saying sorry...” i say “especially when...” He says ”It’s not all men.” i say, “women fear men...” He says, “Men protect women.” i say, “...from other men.” He says, “They should be thankful.” i say, “...yet still they live fearful.”
No it was me, not you, no way, That stopped the BBQ that day, Just said what no one could see, Yep point the finger, it was me. Great day for it, eh? Still daylight? Got the pecking order all right? Who cooks, who stands by, Who gets drinks, me i looked at the sky! So mate, what’s the subject of choice? The one us men speak with one voice, Cars and sports, what’s you view? Kids, jobs, the safe topics we all knew. After the meal, the children running outside, Wives gathered in prayer, all safe inside, We all looked around, looked askance, Out of their hearing, us men took our chance! Each bloke had the same sad tale, She thought me perfect now I’m a fail, Favours given, favours lost, none she could see, Their love always reconciled, till they came to me. Yep, I said, the first few weeks are tough, Reconciliation with me was never enough, I left out the rest of my story that day, Besides, by then, they had packed up and walked away!
Bang! Crash! Wallop! Throbbing music and flashing lights. People stomping, clapping and shouting.
That was me last Friday night.
I wasn’t at the movies. Not at a concert. No, not even a nightclub.
I was at the cricket. The T20 womens’ cricket game between Australia and England. To decide the Ashes! Which we won.
Heat, light and smoke! And the cricket! Balls hit at speed. Stumps scattered. Wickets falling. Fours and sixes! Catches held and spilled.
For me, everything was happening too quickly. I was losing sight of the real game being played.
As marketed and frequently played, cricket, especially in the shorter formats appears to be a game of total firepower.
Bang! Crash! Wallop!
Any finesse and timing is rarely shown. Such attributes surely belong to a more sedate sport. Perhaps Olympic Curling.
Or the Australia versus England Women’s Test the previous weekend.
The wicket was a friendly featherbed. No bounce, swing or turn on show here. As a result the cricket displayed was defensive. As was the result itself. After four days play, a draw.
Bang! Fizzle?! Kapow! Pfft?!
Despite the non-spectacle, I counted myself perfectly fortunate. For I was witness to another game being played.
Yes there was physical strength and skill shown, Amanda Jade Wellington spinning the ball like a washing machine for one. Brilliant athletic fielding. Even some big hitting.
Finesse and timing too. Actually seeing real late cuts elegantly played.
The other game, one where Ellyse Perry scored 213 and never ever looked like getting out. Or the two English batters who didn’t even reach Australia’s score until late in the day.
For me that’s where the real game of cricket showed up. Bang! Crash! Wallop! Nope. No heat, light and smoke.
For this other game is the one played above the neck. The real game of cricket where resilience, determination and persistence prevail. Continue reading
I had to laugh (out loud on the train)! For My Dad, Kevin Whalan’s latest blog,opens with the same words as the following speech, written and delivered in 2001, while I was going through…
“Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage “
Well, you don’t see that any more do you?
Do I mean horse and carriage or love and marriage?
There is a hidden pandemic of loneliness occurring right now.
It’s called second and third marriage or permanent singlehood.
Actually it’s really divorce.
Most marriages fail. Most second or third marriages fail. Most divorces fail too!
What is the triumph of hope over experience? A second marriage!
But all is not lost! Like flowers in the desert after a rain shower, a new industry has sprouted to upend this trend.
Books, radio shows, tapes, videos, courses, even laws and of course marriage counsellors are lining up to help you and your loved one out of your marriage! I have checked out some of these resources. Unfortunately, few have been helpful.
But I did find something. To paraphrase Sherlock Holmes, when you take away what’s left, whatever remains, no matter how strange it is, is the answer.
Or what I might call Whalan’s law of failure, success is the path you take when all else has failed!
My neighbour loaned me a book. The basic idea of that book was that the man is the problem. And if he helped around the house a little bit more: let’s just set the scene…
The wife has gone out somewhere or is working and has come home late. The husband has just finished washing up and is putting away the dishes. He’s a bit bald, maybe a bit of a paunch, but tonight to the wife, he has never looked more attractive. When she comes home, she is so glad to see him… scene cuts to the flames burning fiercely in the fireplace.
So you men, if you wash up marital bliss waits. Maybe even a second honeymoon. I wonder what do I get for doing the washing and my own ironing too?
One other book, which I bought and attracts dust, also says the man is the problem. If the man stopped going to the footy or cricket, stopped watching TV, didn’t go out with his friends, gave up his favourite hobbies then marital bliss awaits. Just spend more time with your wife and family.
But I ask you, what man has enough time to do all of this and the housework as well?
And suppose women are the problem.
Yet another book says the above. Laura Doyle’s “The Surrendered Wife: A Practical guide to finding intimacy, passion and peace with a man”. Luckily for me I haven’t read it even silently or aloud to my wife or coloured in the pictures.
For instance her advice is for the woman to stop nagging the man, even covering her mouth with duct tape to do so. She should say, “Whatever you say, dear? “ Talk about the inaudible language of love!
The woman should always say “Yes” and be available for the man. What does this mean? Maybe I should get the book…
The woman should never ever tell the man he is wrong. Does this mean that I’m always right! I can’t remember that time!
Or as I saw in a leaflet which prided itself as a prescription for marital bliss. It suggested that when the husband came home from work, the wife should have all the children lined up to greet him all squeaky clean and neatly dressed. The wife should be perfumed and also neatly dressed, made up etc. She should do all the cooking and housework and hang on every word the husband says.
Obviously, the wife does not work and the children are robotic. Not even in the Brady Bunch, could they make this happen. Even with Alice and Carol Brady slaving away…
It seems ridiculous that Ms Doyle can write a book saying the way to marital bliss is to let the husband do as he pleases. Please no cheering men, for if what she says is true, men are Neanderthals with a no thickening veneer of civilisation and have to be appeased.
It always seems to me that its either the man is the Conqueror and the wife Surrendered. The women’s liberationists hate that and rightly so!
Or the other way around. The man is submissive and the woman a conqueror.
Maybe there’s a market for a book called the Surrendered Man. It would probably sell to the sensitive new age guys (you know, the ones with boyfriends) and I would have the other copy.
Maybe we should live like accountants, counting up and valuing every task and redeeming them for prizes. Like a game show.
Is there no common ground between men and women except mutual selfishness? Its that the answer?
Or is there not another way?
Maybe there’s a market for a book, video series, etc, called the Surrendered Spouse where both husband and wife promise to live for each other alone.
Maybe they could commit to mutual respect and work together and find that two people can do more together than each alone!
Maybe instead of trying to change each other for selfish gain, they could just change themselves one day at a time.
My point is that the only person you can change in your marriage or any part of your life is yourself. How is up to you !
That takes more courage than slavishly following a reverse tit for tat marriage manual.
Perhaps then marriage (And Life Itself) be an unfinished symphony!
Twitter is like someone sitting next to you while you write. And as soon as you look up, she winks at you. Then you go back to writing again. Until you stop and she winks at you again. Until you put down the pen or stylus and return the look. For you realise that she has been waiting for you. And when you do, you have to stop yourself from staring. For something new has appeared.
As happened to me when I looked up after Twitter winked at me. That Twitter eye catcher was Trust, and the Only Fruitful Response to Betrayal in Intimate Relationships Maria Popova’s review of Martha Nussbaum’s book, Anger and Forgiveness: Resentment, Generosity, Justice (public library).
I can only rely upon the book excerpts in the blog. And similarly to the blog, my experience was eerily similar. Except I’m now staring aghast at this new thing I’ve learned.
Yes I was betrayed. My trust was utterly vapourised. And me being me, I told myself it was my own fault for being so vulnerable. And not being watchful enough.
Yet vulnerability as that blog above states is the way back. For me, the other ways didn’t work. If there are better ways, I’d be happy to learn.
I falsely thought I had forgiven the betrayals. No I had simply coloured over the incidents. And yet I remember many things clearly, for instance, the pattern and colour of my baby high chair. Until four years later when the perpetrator recalled them. Then my life was a video replay of the content that I won’t divulge here. When challenged, the perpetrator denied them completely. I was still focussed on the act rather than being angry at the person who did it as Nussbaum states.
That betrayal still constantly denied, found me and made its home in me. Have you ever had anger turn in on itself and feed itself? Still my response was repression, ignoring the video replay in my mind and the taunts in my ears the best I could. Nussbaum refers to my feelings as a status injury, which made me an ex-husband well before I separated!
Then three years later, she admitted the betrayal was true! I still recall the date, the time of day, the light that afternoon, the trees in the driveway, where the car was, where she was standing, where I was standing and how I reacted. I chose suppression. I said nothing and walked away. I had to.
But this time the anger was different. It wanted truth over revenge. It took me eight or nine months. Until I confronted her. She denied it again. This and every other time I had focussed on the first incident. That night, for the first time, I described the exact details of the second incident including the danger I experienced. There was no response. For all defences had collapsed.
This time, no answer was an admission of truth. She knew it too. Afterwards, I would joke to myself that like the spies say, “Everybody talks”, that is everyone tells the truth eventually. Yet the truth can also be told by omission. For what had been excluded had finally formed the real picture.
After the admission, came the explanation. I shook my head and walked away from that too. It was a contradiction of present words versus previous actions! I can laugh at its inanity now. Then I was too sad. When I was angry afterwards, I had nothing to feed now I had found out the truth. And being angry just made me tired and sad. I suppose I had met the truth at last.
That was the way out. And in time I left.
But the problem with grief is that it is so easy to keep it at a distance. I was simply afraid that if I didn’t it would overwhelm me and crush me. Then I would have to admit I was vulnerable.
Which it did. It took another relationship for that. And this is where Maria Popova’s blog devastates me. For one cannot ignore grief. I had read about grief in Kluber-Ross On Death and Dying, but I never really had it happen to me.
Grief? It’s the wave taller than you that flips you and lifts you then throws you down to the sea floor until you become sand.
It leaves you with nothing. But I knew that. I just didn’t want to experience it!
From nothing, all I could do was renew. I think what I was doing was Kintsugi reassembling broken pottery with gold!
That was the way back. I did what I needed to renew and review. From that nothing, I studied, I wrote, I walked, I listened to music, I had people appear and help me, I made friends and I started a charity. Every day I looked for joy. And nearly all the time, I found it although I was still unexpectedly surprised!
I consider myself lucky that I could get through. Not all of us can. It is better to admit vulnerability and ask for help. I have done, I still do, although I find it challenging. The road is not ending anytime soon. And as I have found there are switchbacks and recurrences.
So often, one forgets those times and are then unprepared for its recurrence. And still unprepared to recall the resilience that saved. Besides I don’t like fairy tale endings. Living happily ever after almost certainly is death by boredom!
Now that I’m out of the fairy tale, there is learning ahead. I learnt and am still learning to trust myself. I learnt and am still learning to accept my vulnerabilities. Then I learnt and am still learning to forgive myself. It sounds so trite and easy but it’s ruddy well not! I have not always succeeded either and there are relapses. That’s what the self-help books don’t tell you. The road is endless.
In there, somewhere, I don’t know where exactly, I learnt to forgive the betrayer, the betrayal and free myself. And leave them to deal with it.
In truth as Nussbaum writes, all of this runs closely together. For I had chosen all this. I was therefore responsible for the negative consequences. I know better why I chose it and I’m the wiser (not yet wise) for it.
I’m also responsible for the positive consequences which is, once you get through the worst, you know what you can get through, then you look back and discover life has given you a bonus. That was last week’s truth.
Now I’m left with today’s truth. Betrayal, misusing trust and taking advantage of the vulnerable is too difficult a life to bear isn’t it? Yet such behaviours are an admission of vulnerability from the perpetrators too.
For them, the road hasn’t yet begun. For me it has yet to finish.
Bleed out drop by drop,
Breathe out gasp by gasp,
Lose time tick for tock,
And love beat by beat.
Each day darkens upon dark,
Each touch lessens its loss,
I watched my heart disappear,
Shrivelled and dried by fear.
Push me away, slap my face,
Shove me to the wall, that’s my place,
Punch my chest, kick my head,
I fend off the blow. And now I’m dead.
For you’ve found the impetus enough for you,
Though I’ve stopped you, you take your revenge,
I see it double inside you as i double up too,
For many are the offences I could avenge.
I could easily kindle that evil in me,
Take hold of your rage and reciprocate,
Your anger as mine, now pure and clear,
But surrendered to the void of fear.
I know and see that you’ve suffered,
I’ve been racked by your loss unsalved,
If I could, I would offer you comfort,
But I found the healer was killed by the cure.
And now with my heart spent,
I am poured out and empty,
All I have left are questions
To ask of you, one or two, if I may?
Will you let this dissolve you?
As you enjoy the hurt cast on others too,
Now, my question is better said:
Would total revenge be a comfort to you?
Or would it, a second one, if I may ask,
Be a false cure to a pain eternal,
An acid that melts a dying heart,
And bile that burns your mouth?
Perhaps I may suggest an answer,
Diffcult though it may yet be.
A hope perhaps still shrouded
But it may be happening to me.
Out beyond the passing pain,
Lies a desert now watered by rain,
And in it an oasis of comfort and healing,
Where you’ll rest and regain your healing.
And there you will rest and be restored,
There you’ll receive a power conferred,
There you’ll learn to love your suffering,
And that will be the superpower.
A bald head crowned by a few curls peeks out. Two eyes large and watchful wait and see what I might do.
I’m not moving. I stand silent. I’m a daddy statue.
Tiny hands cover her eyes. She tries to catch my gaze.
No way. I’m having no part of it. Not yet.
She opens them. She peeks carefully at me. Then covers herself with the blanket.
“Peep bo!” The blanket speaks.
That’s my moment. My eyes close. Although I keep the good one only an eighth open. Enough to cheat. Enough not to get caught.
Each time she closes her eyes, I open mine. Each time I see her open her eyes, I close mine!
Blanket on. “Peep bo!”
Blanket off. Blanket on. “Peep bo!”
Blanket off. “Peep Bo!”
“Peep bo!” I say again. Before the blanket went on.
I chuckle as the blanket giggles and rolls on the floor. Then smile at her laughter while she wriggles her way out. Usually she beats me to it. Then as she unwravels…
“Peep Bo!” She got me that time.
The blanket again wraps itself up. It giggles and rolls on the floor. Then she crawls out. And stands a little taller than this morning. Now her jumpsuit is too small for her. But that’s no matter now.
Two arms stretch to the sky. She starts to waggle her fingers. Twinkle twinkle? Yes i’m happy to sing that with her. But no peeking. Otherwise she’ll catch me lip syncing.
Then she stops stock still.
No. I was lucky there. Then not so lucky.
Oh no! Daddy workout time.
Arms stretch high. “As high as the sky.”
I squat down. I waddle towards her. I put my shoulders under her arms. Then my hands around her waist.
I lift her up. Until her head is level with mine. Her eyes are already laughing. Daddy’s doing the heavy lifting now.
I stand up and throw her high into the air.
Giggles, then laughter.
I stop just before I let her go. I’m not a dad, I’m an astronaut trainer. Besides she’ll never get vertigo from me!
“Again. High as the sky.”
More deep squats. More overhead presses. My knees ache. My shoulders sing. I sneak a glance at my burden.
She’s frozen in time!! One arm up, one arm out, frozen in a ballet pose.
Carefully I shift her to my stronger arm. I lean forward, most weight pushed backward and draw back the coverlet, sheet and blanket. Then i place her in her bed as if one false move would be the last. She slumps flaccid in her bed. I cover her up. I start to lightly leave…
Her hand finds my finger. And crushes it. I hold my breath. I listen to her breath slow and deep measuring eternity one second at a time.
On a not-so-crowded train. She is the only one standing. Back pressed against the only space that is neither seat nor door. Light brown curly but wiry hair, clear open face, same colour eyes (my best guess as far as I can see), all fully engrossed and engaged.
The bumps and lurches of the train don’t bother her. She just doesn’t lose balance. She sways slightly to the rhythm of the carriage. She is not dancing though. Perhaps inwardly.
Her head is bowed. As if in prayer or contemplation. And her forehead is smooth. Her face serene. And I watch to see if she will raise her head. It’s not just to look at her face. For I’m curious as to her quiet calm and innate peace. Now she is even more fully engrossed and engaged. With her hands held up in front of her.
Not a newspaper. Not a smart phone. Not a magazine. Not even one of those slate-sized flickering whispering mini TVs.
For a second, time stops and everything around her is removed. So much so that I stop and wonder and look again. Yes, now I know what it is. It’s like she’s behind a lectern. She’s reading. A tattered dog-eared hardback with yellow threads fraying the red cover. No title that I can see.
I wait to see if she’ll read what holds her so aloud.
For the last person that held out a book like that let me read it.
And I wanted to read it aloud : it was that good…a children’s book too…
Perhaps I’m waiting for the sequel.
I saw her walk past me. With a friend. They sat down opposite each other.
I chose not to notice. But out of the corner of my eye I could see her head bobbing and moving.
I glanced for a second. But she wasn’t talking.
But my intuition nudged me. There’s something more happening here.
I glanced again. And then I understood.
She’s listening. To everyone. To her friend in front of her. To the people across the aisle on the train. To the people passing through. She was awake and alive and alert to all occurring around her.
She alighted off the train. She and her friend walked in front of me. A crowd of us were taking the bus from Caulfield to Darling.
She sat near me. Or I sat near her.
She listened to her friend show her phone photos. She listened to the two children on her left. She laughed while they played peep-bo while sticking out their tongues! She listened as the girl next to me gave up her seat before I had even thought of it.
She was awake and alive and alert to all occurring around her.
And the joy she gave me was watching someone really listen.
Last night’s ABC Q and A on domestic violence and the ongoing bullying of Gillian Triggs by the LNP would appear to have little to do with each other. But to me both events are more synchronous than coincidental.
Last night Q and A exposed some of the private stories of domestic violence. Today the Senate hearing that interviewed Gillian Triggs exposed the ongoing public corporate violence towards an individual.
Whether public or private, individual or groups, all of these stories run in parallel. They have the same theme. Much like Anastasia Steele in the movie 50 Shades of Grey, Professor Triggs and domestic violence victims all have been offered a deal.
Just do as you’re told. Don’t disagree. Don’t fight back. And all will go well with you.
What’s unacceptable includes having your parenting abilities called into question (both Rosie Batty and Gillian Triggs), being subject to gaslighting, having false rumours and allegations spread about you, etc, etc, right up to and including mental, physical and sexual violence.
What’s then unacceptable is then being asked “Why Don’t You Just Leave?” as if finding new accommodation, packing and leaving, paying rent and bond whilst leaving a relationship is easy. Rosie Batty’s response to Joe Hildebrand and her eloquent words last night say more than enough.
What’s also unacceptable is being implicitly asked to leave a role and then possibly promised another for not towing the line (See transcript).
As to the question “Why Doesn’t Gillian Triggs Leave?” No her perpetrators should. At least we know who they are.
And then we can focus on the children.