The Fence-Painting Fortnight of Destiny: A memoir

by Meshel Laurie

  I couldn’t believe I’d really done it, the Brisbane years had been worth it, and I was home. As soon as my feet hit the ground I started appearing on The Project and The Circle—jobs I’d coveted for years. It was actually happening.

  Television in Melbourne is, in my limited experience, a much gentler affair than television in Sydney. As I started working two to three mornings a week on The Circle I was given clothes to wear, but there were no flashy freelance stylists or shopping trips from hell. Just a beautiful wardrobe mistress called Marina Piche, who took my measurements once and then called around the places where I actually shop. It was a blessed relief and gave me some confidence that I might be able to find a place for myself in television after all. A place in which I wouldn’t have to justify myself continuously.

  What can I say about working on The Cirle? I was absolutely green with envy when I first read about it online. Chrissie Swan and I had become friends when I was on radio in Gosford, and later in Brisbane when she was on radio on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast. We’d have a whinge and a laugh about our predicaments, but eventually she had the guts to walk away and go back home to Melbourne to seek her fortune. Well, there she was one day, a year or so later, on some TV blog with Yumi Stynes, Gorgi Coghlan and Denise Drysdale, about to undertake a job I’d kill for, a morning chat show called The Circle, produced by the inimitable Pam Barnes.

  Chrissie left the show in 2011 to take up a radio job in Melbourne, creating an opportunity for me and several others to work regularly with Pam’s team, and it was wonderful. Like Andrew Denton, Pam Barnes had surrounded herself with a group of young go-getters and empowered them to take ownership of that show. I’ve never in my life been part of a team that loved its product as much as those guys did. Two and a half hours of live television a day is a hard slog for everyone involved, but each and every one of those people put their heart and soul into it, and it makes me so happy that I got to be part of it, even for a few short months.

  Apart from Yumi and Gorgi, whose generosity made it possible for ring-ins like me to thrive, there was always another co-host on the couch, but I never knew who it would be until I got there. Oftentimes it was Colin Lane or Glenn Robbins, who are both delightfully effeminate when surrounded by women. One morning I discovered to a mixture of delight and horror that our co-host sitting next to me all morning would be Tim Ferguson of The Doug Anthony All Stars. I wanted to squeal with delight and run out the door all at the same time.

  I didn’t mention our first meeting to Tim, the one that had taken place about eighteen years beforehand after his gig, in which he shared so much wisdom about the entertainment industry I hoped to join. I didn’t have to, because he did. He recounted, almost word for word, great swathes of that conversation, and I was floored. Fancy Tim Ferguson remembering meeting me. What a gentleman, what a guy, and to this day, what a spunk!

  I learnt a lot on The Circle. I loved it and I hope I get to do something like that again one day, with every single one of those people and with Pam at the helm. I was devastated when it was axed in July 2012 but, you never know, the couch may rise again. (That’s not a clue or anything, just wishful thinking on my part.)

  I felt as though I was at the very beginning of what would be the happiest time of my life. I had in fact made my dreams come true, and now was the time to enjoy it. I weaned myself off my anti-depressants, which took months of horrible brain shivers and sweats, but it was done and I was feeling stronger than ever, and ready to take on the world.

  In a surprising twist, though, Adrian was terribly discombobulated by the move. He started complaining about missing Brisbane, about being cold and wishing he could still wear thongs everywhere. He said the houses in Melbourne were too small, he missed the Leagues Club, and started referring to Brisbane as ‘back home’.

  As was my habit, I didn’t take it too seriously. I thought he was being a contrary arsehole actually, and was in no mood to indulge him. This had been the plan all along. I hadn’t changed course suddenly without telling him. I appreciated the fact that he’d moved across three states with me and had always had a great spirit of adventure about it, but I was not interested in reminiscing about the good old days in Brisbane. That mission had been thankfully completed, and we were finally back home where we belonged. I was sure he’d get over it and get onboard.

  That’s not exactly how it panned out this time around. Adrian stopped complaining about being back in Melbourne, but the trouble was he kind of stopped talking at all. We hadn’t found much time for talking since before the babies were born because he didn’t want to talk about the babies, and I didn’t want to talk about anything else.

  Now he says he didn’t want to talk about them because he was so scared. If only he’d been able to say that at the time, because being pregnant to a man who won’t talk to you, or express any interest in the pregnancy, is the most heartbreaking experience I’ve ever been through. I became very resentful; I felt like he’d robbed me of what should have been one of the happiest times of my life, and here he was three years later, robbing me of another one.

  So the months of waiting for Adrian to get over various developments in our lives rolled into years, until one day in 2012, when I had a sudden and terrible epiphany. I became conscious of the fact that we were two people. We’d acted as a tight unit for so long, always pulling in the same direction, always knowing we were working toward the same goals, but shortly after we returned to Melbourne, the hitherto subtle divergence in our outlooks became undeniable. We were no longer happy with the same things. Perhaps, frighteningly, we were even hoping for different futures.

  At some point you have to accept that you’re just putting up with someone else’s shit, and getting none of the nice stuff in return, that it’s been that way for a long time, and it’s not a phase. At that point, you have to decide what you’re going to do about it. Adrian and I were living separate lives, crossing paths to hand over childcare duties and spending our downtime apart, but as far as the kids knew we were all living together as a family, so it occurred to me that we could just keep doing that.

  However, simply pushing on that way was destroying my self-esteem and putting me through a sort of endless mourning process. I’d be okay for a few weeks at a time, just putting one foot in front of the other, but then I’d find myself alone in bed one night, wondering if I’d ever lie next to someone who loved me again.

  Adrian was quite happily set up in the granny flat, which he’d claimed when we moved into that house. I’ve no doubt he’d have lived there until the day he died if I’d let him, but it was killing me and I had to kick him out (again). That took months in and of itself. I kept panicking, second-guessing myself, worrying I was being selfish and wrecking the kids’ lives, scared to death of living life alone, wondering if I’d given up too soon, and if he’d fall back in love with me if I waited longer, tried harder. So there’d be a lull and I’d settle into those long, lonely weeks in between, which he thought meant everything was fixed because I wasn’t shouting or crying.

  I was so confused. My parents are still together, and I married my first love, so I’d never seen the anatomy of a breakup in all its gruesome complexity until I looked on helplessly at my own. Bewildered, I could only assume that it was entirely Adrian’s fault, and I couldn’t force him to be reasonable and love me again. I just needed to summon the resolve to send him away and give myself a chance to heal and be happy.

  He moved out in December 2012, into a flat a couple of blocks away, and at 39 I was living through my first broken heart. I was shocked and scared, and responsible for the day-to-day survival of two little people. I dragged myself through every long day, but I found it hard to sleep, so at night, when the kids were in bed, I painted the inside of the house, because we didn’t have a front fence.

  Again, I meditated upon my predicament as I painted. Again, I tried to focus on the dharma. The Four Noble Truths that I’d always struggled to remember were suddenly foremost in my mind.
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  One: Life is suffering.

  Two: The cause of suffering is attachment.

  Three: It is possible to end suffering.

  Four: The end of suffering is achieved by following the Eightfold Path.

  It was number two that made the most sense to me at the time. I was definitely struggling with attachment, which in Buddhist terms is more than a loving connection. It can also be defined as ‘grasping’, ‘craving’ or ‘clinging’. It’s not part of a healthy, mutual relationship with another person or thing, but a sort of insecure, undisciplined desire, and I had it bad.

  I remembered something Eddie said on the subject once. He said that whenever he finds himself feeling agitated, angry or upset, he asks himself the same simple question: ‘What am I attached to?’

  So I asked myself what I was attached to and the answers came flowing out with every tin of paint. I was attached to Adrian indulging my whims; I was attached to charging through life while Adrian sweated the small stuff behind me. I was attached to his unwavering support. I was attached to the idea that a job, a house and kids in Melbourne would make my life perfect. I was attached to behaving like my dad had done, to being the almighty breadwinner who deserved reverence and loyalty in spite of some bratty behaviour. When Adrian tired and stopped playing his part cheerfully, I spun out, and I focused on coping with that rather than dealing meaningfully with the problem. Maybe it wasn’t all Adrian’s fault after all.

  Not long after he moved out Adrian threw me a lifeline by making an appointment with a marriage counsellor. It was a powerful gesture, because I was convinced that he really just did not love me anymore. We’re continuing with weekly counselling and naturally there are good sessions and bad sessions, but we generally have lunch together to debrief afterwards. We are talking more these days than we have in years, and we even sit down to watch the odd episode of Ice Road Truckers together, for old times’ sake. Our relationship was so good for such a long time, it would be a real shame to let it go without a good fight, and that’s what we’re giving it. If it doesn’t work out, I need to be able to look my kids in the eye and tell them we gave it everything we had.

  My parents followed us down from Queensland, such is the allure of the Grandchildren, and have set up camp in the next suburb over. Actually, they live six minutes away by car, which I thought would drive me mad, but they’ve proven to be very helpful during the recent upheaval at our place. My father has grown into a devoted Pop and my kids beg to see him and their Nanna every single day.

  Between my parents’ house and my house is the house of a lovely lady named Elsie. She and her husband were the best friends of my Uncle Frank when he lived in Melbourne and he spent many happy hours in her home, which I walk or drive past every single day. I often run into her daughter at the supermarket, who remembers my Uncle Frank as a big part of her childhood.

  My grandmother even flew down for a visit recently and I must admit, I felt a bit more sympathetic towards her and some of her decisions in light of my own predicament. I am terribly lonely without Adrian around, and am overcome with ‘grasping’ for someone, anyone, to come and comfort me and keep me company. I suppose that must have been how she felt, all alone in that house she’d shared with her husband for 40 years, once he’d gone forever. Is it any wonder she leapt into the gentlemanly arms of the handsome widower? ‘Go for it, babe,’ is what I’d go back and say to her now if I could.

  For the first time in my life as far as I can remember, I have no plans. The exhaustion that comes with single motherhood has blessed me with a life that is lived truly ‘in the moment’, because I’m too tired to think about any other moment but this one. I’m not working toward a goal, or chasing a dream; I’m just putting one foot in front of the other, but deliberately and mindfully now. My career is where it should be after twenty years of hard work and I am allowing myself the time to just sit in it, rather than craving the next thing.

  There’s a famous story about His Holiness, who was receiving visitors in his home, mainly other Tibetan refugees who lived nearby, and one of them was gravely ill. The man asked His Holiness for help in the form of blessings and herbal remedies, which he was readily given. However, His Holiness concluded their visit with a very startling instruction. ‘I hope you get better,’ he said to the old man, ‘but if you don’t, remember it is very important to die gently.’

  So I’m trying to let a part of me and my life die gently. Who knows what will be born in its place. As the Buddha himself once said, ‘When you realise how perfect everything is, you will throw your head back and laugh at the sky.’

  I keep working toward that realisation, because I am really ready for a good laugh!