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Leaving

Having watched my Mum leave an abusive relationship (I think I’ve blogged about it before, not sure where), I’ve never really understood the “Why doesn’t she leave?” mentality that some supposedly helpful people have. I was with her as a five year old as she had to make all the sneaky arrangements to flee. Thank god she had a relative half a country away who funded the flights and put her up in a granny flat. She was one of the lucky ones. She escaped. She had support. But even then, she started out in a strange city, knowing noone, with a 5 year old and a 12 month old with nothing but what she had on her back or what she managed to cram into her luggage. And she lived in fear – the reasonable, rational fear of someone who has been on the receiving end of violence and knows (in her heart, although research backs her hunch up) that leaving it is the most dangerous time for her.

Truly, it’s so fucking hard for a woman to leave – then and now – that it’s remarkable that any do. The fact that so many do successfully speaks of their strength of mind and purpose, their focus in saving little bits of money he doesn’t know about, their survival skills, their determination to remove themselves and their kids from any further violence. Don’t sell women who’ve experienced DV short. They may not realise it themselves after their abuser has shot their confidence to shreds, but the fact they are still standing is testimony to their strength.

And I am seeing those qualities reflected in my sister (the 12 month old mentioned above, now in her 30s) who is herself taking a stand and leaving a violent relationship. The police have failed her repeatedly. They failed to make an arrest following one particularly viscious assuault in which her husband repeatedly smashed her head against concrete until she blacked out. I’ve written about it here and here. And they have failed her again recently when she went to them for an AVO and they told her there “wasn’t sufficient evidence because it’s different once you split up”. Ignorant dickheads. OK, that might have been one cop. But because of that one cop’s bullshit assessement, decent cops can’t take the AVO out on her behalf by over-riding the previous cop’s assessment. True there are alternatives, but come on.

So, following trying to take an AVO out on her husband and failing, she made the brave decision to leave. And leave immediately. Have you ever packed up an entire house in 2 days? We did it. She was more than fair in leaving half the household goods (particularly given that we’ve since found out he’s already trashed the lounge and punched the TV to bits in a rage), but we packed up every personal item belonging to her and her kids and put it either into storage or in the back of her boot.

That sounds hard enough, doesn’t it? But wait, there’s more.

She drove with her belongings in the boot of the car and her cat in the back seat with the kids to my step dads for refuge. I had told her she was welcome to stay with me, but I think she wanted some stable male energy. Wrong place to go for that. Before they were even there two days the evil witch who controls our step dad had created drama and was ready to kick my sister and the kids onto the street. But in fact it took another two whole days for that to actually happen. My sister once again packed the kids, the cat and the stuff into the car to drive 1000k or so to my place. Now, that’s not nice in any circumstances. But add two traumatised kids who are convinced their grandad doesn’t love them and a shell-shocked mum just trying to keep it together and you begin to think that my step dad and his evil witch are actually pretty poor excuses for human beings. Week 1 wasted.

OK, so she’s at my place. She and the kids have survival senses that are so honed by trauma and the DV cycle that they are flinching at the slightest thing. Despite being made welcome, they are expecting to be kicked out at any moment. We are having to give the kids so much love, but the trauma is there just below the surface. Yesterday, my sister said that the needed to get into the car and go, and the kids took that to mean that they were “going” going and asked if they were taking the cat!

But apart from frayed nerves and post traumatic stress, she now has to deal with housing. She hasn’t had to seek refuge accomodation, and she won’t have to while I’ve got a say in it. She has a room here as long as she needs it, and she knows it. But it’s not ideal. It’s not her room or her space. She’s living out of a suitcase and it’s cramped (the room, not the suitcase). But she has to deal with long term accomodation, which raises questions of public or private housing. If public, complete paperwork and cross fingers. If private, figure out how to cover the bond and afford the rent. Is there assistance for private bond and rental? What is deemed to be ‘affordable housing’ and how far away from where she is staying will she have to look to find it? What about her son’s special needs? How do they factor in- help or hindrance? And so on.

Accessing any assistance is to delve into a paperwork nightmare. Centrelink. Dept of Housing. Sorting out the banking. And on we go. Through a friend of mine who also went through DV she has finally been referred to a program to assist women who have experienced Domestic Violence, and the outreach worker there is fabulous. Nevertheless, she can only work wonders not miracles.

All this with the time pressure of School starting next week and having to get her daughter into a new school at the start of term. She’d prefer not to have to move her part way through the term, but what if it drags on?

And then there’s furniture. She needs to find money to buy a new lounge (destroyed by husband), dining table (left behind), fridge (left behind), TV (left behind and destroyed by husband). What about cookware and plates? Pretty much all she doesn’t need to replace is the beds and the clothes they are wearing.

The there’s the joint accounts. And the car which is in his name. To contact him about this or not? It’s hard to know which way to turn. And them, of course, there’s custody and visitation rights to the kids. What a nightmare. Anything or nothing could trip him into a violent rage. He’s only an hour a way and – need I remind you – the cops have done nothing to ensure her protection.

My sister is daily in tears about how it’s all too hard. And it is. It’s ridiculously hard to safely extract herself from this violent relationship and to create a new life from practically nothing. Having to contend with homelessness, poverty, fear and more…

Are you starting to get the picture now about why women might not be able to extract themselves from a violent relationship?

Will wonders never cease

I’m stunned; A major department store actually carried at least 2 bra styles in my actual size (24c). Wow! I actually have a well-fitting bra for once. On sale, too.

Normally I have to go up a cup size, down a chest size and/or use a bra extender, which is what they tell you to do when they can’t be fucked to make bras in your size. Somehow, a 22D or a 20D with extender is supposed to be ‘equivalent’ to a 24C, but from experience, I can tell you they ain’t.

Why do we hate ourselves at 15?

Me at 15

Why do we spend our teenaged years hating ourselves and our bodies so much? Is it universal that we look back at photos of ourselves and realise that we were actually pretty and not the hideous mostrosities we thought we were?

I posed for this photo very reluctantly at my mother’s insistence. I was about 15 at the time this photo was taken in 1986.

At Australian size 12-14 this was the thinnest I got. Ever.

But there was no triumph, only shame that I wasn’t thin enough. I was right in the middle of my worst body-hatred cycle (and undiagnosed Major Depression). I had been dieting under supervision (and restricting without supervision, although my mother, doctors and diet counsellors did not know it) since I was pre-teen. I had, in fact, lost a large amount of weight, but the weightloss goals that had been set for me and by me were unacheivable. My weightloss had plateaued, which really wasn’t suprising following 4 years of pretty much constant dieting and restriction. In despiration, I had latched on to a diet (recommended by a doctor!) that allowed me one boiled egg with one piece of unbuttered toast for breakfast and a small piece of grilled chicken with cabbage for dinner. I could eat all the cabbage I liked! Since I loathed both tuna with iceberg lettuce and no substitutions were permitted, I did not eat lunch at all. I remember there were some kind of tablets and a herbal solution I had to put under my tounge, as well. The lack of food made me nauseous, but I embraced that as an excuse not to eat anything else.

In short, I was well and truly in Disordered Eating Land.

I was miserable – not because I was fat, but because I was told from every side and at every moment that my body was unacceptable and that I did not deserve to eat or to have happiness until I reached some hypothetical ‘goal weight’. Because I was told that losing weight was more important than caring for myself.

I have written previously about this period in my life, as part of a series on my awakening to Fat Acceptance.

Another 5am post: Why I don’t like the term HAES anymore

Just posted a lengthy response to a post on HAES at Inner Thoughts, Inner Soul, but I thought I’d post a slightly edited version of it here, too. (Why the hell not?)


Rather than following a strict Health At Every Size philosophy, I now practise just listening to my body (or you could simply call it self-care or being kind to myself) which is what I believe was the core of the original HAES/intuitive eating concept.

In recent months, I have seen:

a) people in the medical community who supposedly support HAES assert what amounts to a moral obligation for fat people to practice HAES, and

b) people whose underlying medication conditions don’t allow them to be in perfect health, feel excluded or judged by the moral imperative they believe is inherant in the term Health at Every Size.

I’m sure neither of these things were the intention of the people who coined HAES, but somehow it has been co-opted or twisted into an alternative diet philosophy with side-serve of puritan morality.

There is no moral imperative for health, nor is there a moral imperative to eat a certain way or exercise at a certain level.

I am a firm believer that one’s body knows what works best for it, regardless of your base level of health. There is nothing you ‘should’ be doing, only what you could be doing if it fits with what your body and soul needs.

So, I listen to my body about what and when I eat, and how and when I exercise. And I also to factor in my emotional and mental well-being into those decisions.

The goal then becomes not perfect health (or perfect compliance, because some days your body and soul WILL tell you to lie on the couch and eat chocolates), but living in the here and now in the healthiest body FOR YOU, which means the best health you can have with your underlying conditions.

I hope this helps.


Fatadelic

 

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