I spent all of last night and most of today going through my immense digital photo collection searching for sawdust. Yep, that's right, sawdust, as I knew I had taken pics. Along the way, I wrote 5 pages of notes as memory triggers for my books plus culled some raw videos I didn't need anymore (from my YouTube vlog).
I finally found the sawdust compliation, a photo essay of Dad's tools when they were in use in October 2017, to build me a set of drawers. Dad thought I was odd I was taking photos (bipolar mania episode) but he didn't mind. Just including a small selection of those photos in this blog post, with what I think they are called.
A tradition in my family was to watch the old home movies Dad recorded, back in the days of film. We used to crowd around the tiny fridge to see the image projected onto it. Or in the lounge, with the old movies (without audio) were projected onto a rollup screen.
Dad recorded home movies from over 15 to 50+ years ago, switching technology a few times. Dad died a few weeks ago but what he captured, lives on.
I still haven't done everything on my list, since I published my book. Partly because I haven't felt motivated to, as my Dad died the same week.
Last night I cleared out a few things from my wardrobe. I came across some notebooks with amusing anecdotes from when my son was little. This anecdote keeps playing through my head.
I'm not gonna say much on this blog post. Too angry to.
My Dad died two weeks ago.
A few people this past week have said, 'She (my mother) lost her soulmate/best buddy'.
I said, 'I lost my Dad.'
'That's not the same,' I was told.
Over and over, told my grief doesn't matter as much. Or than I'm grieving the 'wrong' way as I don't feel safe showing intense emotions in front of others (PTSD).
I am not going to detail the shitstorm that continued to get worse these past few weeks.
I deleted the semianonymous tribute YouTube channel after two family members who consented to it had a tantrum over it. It was snippets of my Dad with his children and grandchildren from years ago. Some family and friends said they'd enjoyed it.
Heck, I'm not even allowed to grieve the way I want to.
I'm sick of others trying to control me, a fifty-year-old women. And trying to control how I grieve as well as dismissing that I am grieving too. Well, yes, I'm angry. Mostly at the entitled selfishness.
I can't even say publicly what's really going on, effectively muzzled by those who throw their power around. Gaslighting bullies.
I have very restricted options, with my disabilities. I long to be free.
Posting the last pic taken of me and my Dad. Anyone who objects can farkoff.
That is all.
Note: this is not legal advice.
I was going to write these tips at the end of my previous blog post, You Need to Make Your Will. But as I tend to have a lot to say, I decided to make a fresh blog post.
I am a very intuitive and visionary person and I had already thought about this recently, before my Dad died. Yes, I can be melancholic at times.
Your writing may or may not endure, if you die. I'll tell you why, as I've learned this in my journey of blogging then writing books. I've set things up, so my heirs inherit my copyrighted works, whether they want to try to make money from them or not.
Note: this is not legal advice.
I have been avoidant about doing my will since my marriage breakup and divorce. I've been processing grief (mainly from being separated from my son by country) for years. The grief was tangled with my trauma and I am grateful that I had paid for therapy over the past 5 years, which has helped me to be able to cope with recent events.
My Dad died just over a week ago. He had a will and made known verbally his wishes, yet after the shitshow that happened (which I am not going to detail), I have made it an urgent priority to do my will. I also hadn't bothered as I own hardly anything.
After talking to a solicitor, he had me come in the next day. My will should be ready to sign and it will be lodged in secure deposit by Monday. I shouldn't have to ever do another one.
My Dad died less than a week ago. His death was peaceful yet still a shock. I am glad that I got to know my Dad for fifty years. He gave me this compass forty years ago and also made the little wooden box for it. I wore it as a pendant to the funeral service.
An online friend asked 'What now?' after he saw I'd published my book. By the way, he said he's not going to read it (even though he's is in it), or he might 'burst an artery or three.' (Not all your friends will be a fan of your books). I did send him the parts where he's mentioned and he thought it was a fair assessment, neither embellishing, nor demonising.
I'm going to answer some of the 'What now?' in this blog post.
I recently published a memoir. After the intense focus to get it finished, the frustrating parts of the self-publishing process, the triumph after finally achieving some huge goals, I felt down. This tends to happen for me, with accomplishments and it can be exaggerated with bipolar disorder (now managed best I can).
I had therapy today and I want to touch on that. I'm now at a stage where I'm more maintaining my mental health, rather than actively processing trauma. Hence moving beyond advocacy.
The ebook and paperback formats of my memoir, Bipolar Courage: Are You Sure You're Not Autistic? is already live on Amazon (all major platforms), just a few hours of publishing it. I'll link some of the main marketplaces at the end of this blog. There is a free app to read on any device, if you don't have a Kindle (I don't have one).
I've included a sample chapter 1 in this blog post, free (I can't get the paragraph indents to align in this blog but they do in the books). It's an unconventional love story, in the world of autism and mental health advocacy.
I was aiming to publish it in September, the beginning of a New Zealand Spring. I've done it! (Incredibly challenging with my disabilities).
Disclaimer: the author of this blog is not an expert by profession and her opinions should not be taken as expert advice.