The bigger questions that hinder wellness

I am a follower of a fantastic global Linked In group, NESTA based of course out of Europe. We are currently having an interesting discussion arising from an initial post about 'why companies still use pen and paper' to attempt to map innovation.

This is the URL for anyone interested.
http://www.linkedin.com/groupItem?view=&gid=1868227&type=member&item=52893607&report.success=62WUlrnddR6bgwSqXhj6sMCTLzs-Mtpi3fLJWbNsWtuooxKwgTL8r5xsvgkbozKwEkXBakadko

What astonishes me so far is how few people have found the time or seen the benefit of engaging in this dialogue. I am also surprised that I appear to be the only woman and one who is not already an ongoing employee of a company or institution.

For me so much of humankind's wellness issues spring from workplace interactions and practices. I particularly take umbridge at Tony Abbott's latest words (and this is not party political... it is content driven) and I am paraphrasing "to allow those on welfare, particularly sole parents and disability recipients, access to the dignity of work.

What a patronising middle class slap in the face. Does all work provide dignity and self-esteem? How does this fit with Australia as a 'knowledge nation' in a globalised economy where work is increasingly casualised and unstable. Does that provide dignity and enhanced self-esteem or work-related stress caused by not knowing what the future holds and the inability to budget for 'aspirational'goals ... you know like keeping a roof over your head and feeding the family?

I heard on talkback the other day a salesman, whinging that because he has chosen to study, pay his education and mortgage debts, chooses to live in an Eastern Melbourne suburb, commuting distance from town, makes sacrifices to send his kids to Private Schools and is able to afford a stay at home wife/partner still whilst earning over $150,000 per annum, why should he be denied access to Federal Government Family Tax Benefits? Is this not middle-class welfare? He saw it as getting something back for his own tax dollar!

Whilst this selfish, non-community spirited middle-class attitude remains pressuring the politicians policy moves, we cannot expect to have a compassionate welfare safety net system where full employment is achievable with everybody able to truly access the dignity of work.

To Paul from Doncaster... I say. I have studied over sixteen years, and worked paid PAYE taxes in an era when there was no superannuation for casual, session or part-time workers, nor sick leave or holiday pay, and have taken on over $70,000 HECS debt as investment in my own future, been privileged enough to be granted nearly $80,00 0 in Federal student stipend, I remain trapped in a poverty cycle of DSP safety net-reliance due to the casualised labor market.

I have as a younger person pulled beers at pubs in London, have swept floors, taken in ironing and done much manual labour, but now as a 50 plus aged woman with a fine education and ability to work cognitively at the highest level, 90% of the time, with only 10% annual illness periods, where is my access to the dignity of work? Doing physical jobs I am over-qualified for, physically unable to do, mentally unchallenged?

I do not want to be on DSP, but until our Corporations and Institutions stop bemoaning a looming skilled labour crisis, and adequately structure their workplaces to accommodate the skills and abilities of the older workforce (remember retirement age is now 67)... how can we as a Country offer dignity of employment or indeed lead the world in innovation and global economic contributions no longer reliant upon the exploitation of natural resources.

Lastly, why after 37 years since the Equal Opportunity Act do women still comprise the bulk of the casualised workforce?

And why in this time of neuro-plasticity and ongoing brain research via MRI's can we still not convince powerbrokers of the usefulness of all workers, male, female, old and young alike. Women are supposedly good communicators and listeners after all.
http://www.pnas.org/content/early/2010/07/13/1008662107.full.pdf

Image reference:
http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://blog.thirdeyehealth.com/images/human-brain-and-stress-11.jpg&imgrefurl=http://blog.thirdeyehealth.com/human-brain-limbic-system-and-the-symptoms-of-stress/&usg=__Ojlp6MVLkv4F7gMTDQKIQUQMfQo=&h=344&w=424&sz=23&hl=en&start=45&zoom=1&tbnid=A0QkwvlnKTz23M:&tbnh=169&tbnw=203&ei=Ov3NTZiCN4S6sQOvq5yzCw&prev=/search%3Fq%3DBrain%2Binnovation%2Blobes%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DG%26biw%3D1056%26bih%3D515%26gbv%3D2%26tbm%3Disch0%2C1680&itbs=1&iact=hc&vpx=360&vpy=159&dur=57&hovh=202&hovw=249&tx=89&ty=180&page=5&ndsp=9&ved=1t:429,r:5,s:45&biw=1056&bih=515

Fantasy...

First let me acknowledge this beautiful and tranquil image from Angelwave 06 at Deviant Art:
http://angelwaveo6.deviantart.com/art/The-Runaway-Bride-129637313

Pity she's a bride... I just like the long flowing gown and saddle-less stead. After last week I have so many of those fantasy moments... you know...
How did Tony Mokbel gate a false passport?
How did ONJ's ex create a new identity?
How can I just become someone else from now on and live elsewhere?

I know I will miss my home place, this beach suburb, but really I grieve for its older self, with less development, pristine and wild coves, shellfish and wildlife everywhere the eye could see, not raped and pilaged by generations of humans, and poluted by fossil fueled play toys. I hate the houses that have left such large footprints that the water table has dropped so far that I would have to sink a new bore to get access to the groundwater. And what of the massess of cut down scraggly ti-trees and willful gum trees dropping branches as nature decides. Not now. We have indigenous gardens, not in themselves a bad thing all, but they have a sameness. The native grasses and conrolled native flowering plants. Where are the wild crazy coloured banksia species and native parrots?

No this is beach house landscape as determined by "Better Homes and Gardens" and when looking beyond the architecturally designed angles and false stonework, the houses are basically upper middle class kit homes built on spec by very canny tradie business people laughing all the way to the bank whilst living in the really expensive seaside vista homes. It is no longer my wild place yet my heart is here, indelibly.

Yet every-time I have the choice to turn north towards the City from the Beleura Hospital in Mornington, it is only ever the low level of petrol in my tank that forces me to make the u-turn south. Same when I drive away from home just on a shopping expedition, the house is shrouded when I see either of the two other residents cars. My heart skips a beat when there is no-one home except the cats. I have those brief moments of respite without which I just could not keep up the battle.

I also know that I must seek fulfilment and happiness from within and acceptance of my own illness and flaws but it is all so self-help manual and they never hint that it is a lifelong journey and battle. I could virtually write the CBT manuals myself by now, and psychologists and social workers wonder why those of us in psychiatric care absolutely dismiss their 'advice' and pseudo science.

Perhaps I should have taken to fictio writing as a younger woman and gone the fantasy genre, or the highly marketable Barbara Cartland romance fiction, but alas I am too old and scarred from failed romance to suspend belief long enough for a full novel of this genre... perhaps that's why I am more into Nanna lit... these old birds like me have been through it all and survived, usually without Prince Charming holding the reigns of the partner stead for the escaping 'bride'... also shouldn't prince Charming have long flowing golden locks and enough money for Ashley and Martin in true Warnie/Hurleystyle?

Tough Week... some of you will understand.

Read on if you really wish to understand the darker side, otherwise ignore blog... look at the pretty Royal Wedding Blogs

Some readers will understand these thoughts... others will not. Such is the life of a person with BMD. I do not know how to chart the last seven days, my moods have been so labile, ranging from -4 through to possible +1 on the highest level.

Such small things to some people but huge for me. I cannot, no matter how hard I try, shut out the sort of aura generated by people around me. On one of my wellness clinic days there is one woman who is like a black cloud of maudlin self pity. I can empathise with her yet she makes me so angry that her attention seeking poor me behaviour virtually destroys the whole point of the wellness group, to actually get our feelings aired and cleansed without the need for words or tissue boxes. Why does she have to be so needy? She is 'acting out' for admission to an inpatients ward, and I know how desperate one can become for this respite. I know I SHOULD (there's that problematic word again) have a more caring and supportive attitude but bugger that, she makes me and others there feel worse. She is a black cloud! I used to think it was autism spectrum and so self isolated and gave her the benefit of kind thoughts... but now I am just angry and turning it inwards... as I always do, and feeling guilty I cannot express my anger in any positive way. I can't even have the confidence to say "It would help me to have some ambient background music... so we all struggle on victims of her deathly silence".

On another day, I attended a wellness talk fest and it just happened to be after a 'fight with my son'. I saw it as a fight. I had just gone to bed to read peacefully IN MY SAFE SPACE... my bedroom, my sancturary before embarking on my yoga session to wind down. I was having good old laughter therapy with QI, Adam Hills, Spicks and Specks ... and confessionally lusting after the actor who plays crime writer Rick Castle. My son felt he had the right to enter my bedroom, no knocking of course and berate me for being a Telstra client because HIS internet connection had dropped out. I am always being blamed that Telstra is not a good enough ISP (to his liking) yet I am of gthe opinion if Telstra owns the hardware and the whole family is gaining advantage through Tesltra via bundling and options that save over $100 per month... that's a positive despite a four month battle with the TIO and their billing system (which is also wearing me down).

Apparently the storming into my room was to see what I was doing either on my laptop or streaming via my T-box that could be causing his drop outs and latency whilst gaming online. I was doing neither. My laptop in my study where it stays... it does not come into my bedroom sanctuary unless I am very ill. The T-box was simply replaying already taped programs... yet he felt he could enter and abuse me for my choice of ISP and virtually demand I divide up everything again, without even offering to pay the difference... with him twice before having caused $900 and $500 excess charges without any offer of repaying! The he becomes more abusive and he tells me to "get fucked". I say I am in my bedroom "You Fuck Off... how dare you". Doors slam. I am a mess and yoga is totally useless after that.

So bright and sparky along I go to yoga next day after dredging up semblance of 'normal person' then find younger inpatients who are at that very early hopeful stage of parenting attempt to tell me that my son should grow up and own his own shit.... Really tell me something I don't know! Also walk in my shoes first. I walk on eggshells with both people I live with. the older 80 year old only sees and complains about the emotional damage being done to him by said son, whilst being unwilling/unable to cut purse strings as he knows that is his only connection AT ALL with son, then he bitches at me that the son won't/doesn't ever say thanks or ask after his health.

I cracked it and said... it's not just about you.... two parents are being hurt here but you only care about yourself. I was then told by older one to "fuck off and get a job" in other words stop being a bludger bringing in not enough income for household... this with me on DSP and paying off my own car, the family health insurance, and old ones funeral plan and not costing a cent to feed as i get my meal replacements via the health insurance.... then to have a young Mum claim how she is able to 'break cycle of domestic abuse'for her daughter by just growing up and being an adult. I saw red.... ever heard of frontal lobe development occasionally delayed in young men... I still believe generally that before age 25 damaged young men CANNOT act rationally and see consequences of their actions... hey girl know the full story before passing judgement... then I disintegrated in boxes of tissues and tears. Post script... she latter shows me phone pics of her bruising by her partner as result of domestic violence... yep definitely breaking cycle for her child! Angry again and turning it inwards.

I should have made a weekly appointment with my psychiatrist but no... I am strong, I am on leave from my studies, I am free to get well.... yeah sure.

Last week it all began with me underestimating the impact it would have on me attending my University work space and packing five years of research material (and personal memorabilia) into three very large suitcases as a form of separation. Well boy did I underestimate that sense of loss of belonging after doing this.

So together they all came out in one explosive crying session which almost began at yoga. It suddenly occurred to me that when we lay in savasna (repose) I noticed that the soft comfy blankets are square and I always have to decide to have shoulders out or arms palms up covered. Often my feet fall out, and the yogi comes around and tucks the soft blanket under my toes. I am immediately transported back to childhood, like when a Mum tucks in a child at night. These two sessions are the only times a week I feel ANY HUMAN CONTACT.... it so overwhelmingly alone'ness'.

The day of this realisation I learn that another acquaintance with child same age as mine could no longer stand the chronic pain (or that's how the normal people described it) and suicided. I know the pain he was in and it is more than physically chronic it is beyond that and once it has gripped it is unstoppable. Even his passion for the arts could not counterbalance this 'black dog'. Please dearest W I hope you have found peace at last.

http://mindblog.dericbownds.net/2011/04/self-control-makes-us-angry.html

Aiode speaks again

Today I will work on my artefact. After mapping her narrative structure with Glenice last week, I see I need to be less a free writer and take on the hard stuff, the actual structuring and plotting. But as usual procrastination... a re-read to remove unnecessary/inadequate adjectives and replace with more metaphorical and illustrative phrases or words... should be fun BUT OH SO TIME CONSUMING. I cannot possibly judge progress via word count.


Today I need to work both sides of my brain... the analytical with all the mind maps and narrative graphing, and the creative... just playing with words, ideas and forms of showing not telling.

I am almost ready to begin playing with the very difficult second person narration of one protagonist.. she is calling out to speak at last after all these months of authorial unwellness and turbulence.

Is the Muse possibly returning and could it possibly have anything to do with the fact I am now spending cash (I really haven't got spare in my budget) to frame my own artworks as I learn to play with different vis arts media? Are they connected?

Perhaps I have rreconnected with colour and have finally accepted that the beauty out there is real, and what normal people see and the much lamented intensive tones and shades of my mania are really only 'dreamstates'and hallucinations. These colours are perhaps not real after all, so why have I spent over twenty years mourning their loss. My other senses seem to be sharpening now and I am definitely having more common moments of synaesthesia. I never query that my dreams are in colour... they just are. I hear sounds as colours. I feel the very air around me as electric charged or pulsating. I love this new 'me'.

Could yoga be doing this or is it new meds and another form of man-made bio-chemical brain inbalance.

Hey, I'm just going to enjoy it while its lasts. I can't believe this can be mine forever... but if this is the plus 3 to plus 4 state just before hypomania... role along.

Am I allowed to position this rating as 'normal happiness' and not a clinical sign of mood lability?
When can I stop judging my moods as abnormal? When will THOSE OTHERS (you know who you are) allow me the freedom to be both sad and happy... and not always position me as 'mad' or in a dangerous space?

Just a little about the image... supposedly Hesiod ( a male poet.. why do the blokes always think they are in a story... even image... is it Hesiod's anima?) and 'a' Muse, hopefully Aiode???

Now the wikipedia entry for Plutarch's original three Muses (Boeotian):

In Greek mythology, Aoide (Ἀοιδή) (or in Latin Aoede) was one of the three original (Boeotian) Muses, though there were later nine. Her sisters were Melete and Mneme. She was the muse of song. According to Greek mythology, she is the daughter of Zeus, the King of the Gods, and Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory. She lends her name to the moon Jupiter XLI, also called Aoede, which orbits the planet Jupiter.

Long, long restful blogging break but only electronically.

I have not forgotten my early promise to keep friends and interested parties up to date on my yearly ride on the Bi-Polar Mood Disorder Roller Coaster, but somehow pen and ink felt a safer space to allow my thoughts to wander where-ever they took me than here in Cyberspace.

I am now catching everyone up on what has been a unique and interesting period of my life. If there is one thing I can say it is that PhD studies, it is that creative writing and generally living in a twenty-first century world still seem highly incompatible.

I refer to the fact that I would consider myself as one of the most feminist women I know... yet the gender stereotype thing is so ingrained I cannot shake the usual female maladies.

You know the ones?

• Getting yourself between spouse/partner/ex and child to save male on male all out war zone (which others can screen out by not a BMD person susceptible to the slightest atmospheric changes and charges).
• Trying to absorb mood swings of adolescence/young adulthood, at the same time as dealing rationally with the frustrations of aging, hearing loss, hair loss, fragility and arrogance that "there is nothing wring with me, I can look after myself" after third return to kitchen from car, before driving off on short shopping/ medical trip. Hence increased anxiety (of the normal variety); my constant fear that in either mood neither males should be behind the wheel of a car, yet fearful of if they were at home, just how much worse life would be for me.
  
• Add to this my increasing less patient/pleasant dealings with so many debt collectors at the door and on the phone, plus filing all types of fiscally related legal documents gathered throughout a prolonged period of offspring deviant behaviour, whilst offspring still remains incapable of 'owning most' of the responsibility despite the fights of TOUGH LOVE! I still walk on eggshells fearing violence and prefer (for my own safety and sanity) the apathy, and avoidance through either laziness, ignorance, or reliance upon parent to fix... or simply a lack of development in the frontal brain cortex... Anyway, Mum does her best as if she were a 1950s prototype compliant little homebody.
• Did I really just confess that self-image?
  
• OMG... I can almost see myself in starched petticoats, full skirts, neatly hair-rollered and brushed out, complete with white frilly-pinny at picket fence... after having indulged in a afternoon sherry or two, a bex (or modern equivalent) and a 'good lie down' (Nanna nap thanks Barry Humphries!)
• Putting self last (especially indulging in the small pleasurable things that others see as being work-avoidance, or financially wasteful, or even malingering).
• Putting everybody's else's wellness/happiness/calmness/emotional stability first.
• Try getting a telephone message through when one householder is wearing noise reduction headphones and gaming solidly for the best part of forty-eight hours straight, attending class the next forty-eight, then golfing and sleeping the remainder of the week, whilst choosing cooking and house movement times between 2am and 6am!
• Add to this the older one takes the messages, doesn't write them down, or ignores the phone because a horse race is on. The' state of the art' phone having had the message listened to, then gives no audible hint that there is actually a 'saved' message. Thank goodness for email and txt or I would never hear from or about anybody.
• Finally add to this a tendency on the part of said BMD woman, to conflate global crises with local ones, mount political crusades against all forms of injustice and simply see significance everywhere others see none.I am tired and emotional, in the true sense of the phrase!
  

SOLUTION....time for a good long holiday.

But not for me the Peninsula Hot Springs and Massage, the Ella Bache full beauty regime, and the constant desire for copious good quality wines, champagne, new jewellery, shoes and clothes or the boxes upon boxes of Belgium dark chocolate... not even the wild manic rampant sexuality of full blown mania, my drugs and body image has shattered that little stress reliever.

No, it is sedate walks along Patterson Lakes with a good friend, a gallery visit or two, a Wheeler's Centre talk (free) but on DSP week to afford the train ticket, a wander through the Coolart Bird hide, and furtive out of control paperback book buying instead of paying pressing bills. (Even my meds can't seem to curtail that one). It's as if I am not alive unless I own and hold copies of women writers work from around the world. It's as if I am not truly a lover of literature and reading unless I at least accumulate a bedside stack for future indulgence.

My wellness regime... great. Let me just catch you up on that little saga. September, birthday month, Footy Grand Final and of course ageing, plus the inevitable plateau of weight loss on the lap band diet.... More exercise they cry.... more wine I crave... and a little cheese and bickies with that also... savoury of course.

Then comes Spring Racing Carnival.... no I didn't go or watch... but my dress size had gone up so even thinking of going to the Mornington Cup socially became a disaster in the clothes shops! Oh well let's just have a few more nightly 'non-nutritional fluids' and eat less real food just lots of Greek Yoghurt (good call that one... up goes weight further)....

DOWN SLIDES SELF ESTEEM.... straight to near-rock bottom depression at the very time I am supposed to be gearing up to return to study, whilst barely making ends meet on my own financial commitments (all of car, health insurance, funeral plan, home and car insurance.... you know all those little luxuries!).

Lifestyle tip for thinner people, it's cheaper to buy $2.99 bottles of Aldi wine than nutritious food! Bang there goes November and it's time for the usual Conference attendance that usually tilts my mood scales back upwards... but not this time... as there was no TAX REFUND TO SPEND GUILT FREE!

Despite the heaps of praise and encouragement and feeling accepted by coleagues from most Unis (except mine), I am drawn back to the world of the night people... in Wellington of all places! I told you about touching base with Richard O'Brien and my mind regressed to the exciting seventies in London, broke but happy and carefree (and most likely fully blown manic).
The theatre feels like home. I feel at home. I do not feel like an outsider or imposter as I do in the Uni... but unfortunately I must return home and face the accusations of money wasting, selfishness and malingering on my studies. the inner voice is screaming... just write the creative...get the novel finished, whilst the other voices are saying why bother, it's no fun anymore. I am not doing it for me anymore. I am doing it for a bloody bit of paper that for me might just prove useless in the current employment climate at my age.

Down and down I go... then wham!

Christmas in all it's dysfunctional glory. Why even try?

Because I have to stay out of a psychiatric ward as that would confirm negative professional opinion of my academic capabilities and personal lack of self determination. . Add to this tourist season, enforced hibernation and a mild case of agraphobia... well I held on with doctors propping me up despite a false accusation resounding in my ears.... "You know you always fall in a heap after Conferences"... implying that I am manic at Conferences, not simply stimulates and energetically charged with my mind in overdrive of thoughts and ideas... no I am thus abnormal, dysfunctional and downright certifiable. If this one voice only knew me when I was manic, the suggestion would not be thrown around in such a cavalier manner.

Luckily for me in February at the very end of a fraught beginning to the academic year along comes the timely onset of chronic and recurrent blood disorder, requiring medical attention, another hangover from an earlier era 'pernicious anaemia'... I assume it is similar to having a shorter bout of Chronic Fatigue Synnrome, one cannot even summon energy to do normal daily activity.

Beware the ides of March!

You see once you declare yourself publically as BP then watch out... do not be "too happy", or "too enthusiastic" as it could be concealing ideas of grandieur... yeah, sure get like Charlie Sheen don't I? Me with my Tiger Blood! Oh and don't get "too quiet or introverted"... that's not allowed either. One must not be sad for any reason (deaths, earthquakes, tsunamis, nuclear meltdowns, senseless road trauma.... you are NOT TO RESPOND TO THIS IN AN OUTWARD MANNER)

Can someone tell me how I measure the 'normal' emotions on an outside world scale?

Or can I only measure it on my own scale?

My own scale says time off, more yoga, more excercise, positive diet, alcohol cut down (severely), more art classes and more serene walks.

Bugger PhD timelines... I need to re-discover the joy of surviving to the age of 55 with BMD and enjoying who I am, warts and all. So F*** you world.

This time of year is mine, poverty or not... there's more to life than just getting by.

Always more to learn

My silence over the last month continues to be explained by the write up phase of my PhD. This phase is desolation. Even my GP said the other day that 'PhD's are enough to drive sane people insane, imagine the stress you are under'. How interesting, when one lives with stress as a daily partner it becomes normalised. That doesn't mean it is any less debilitating but just a part of the mental torment to control and 'get through' in one's normal routine. Turning is desperation to people whose words can describe the things I find hard to encapsulate adequately in my creative writing, and the things that sound cliched in my academic writing, I find that every time I open their books new things jump out at me.

It's as if... I feel even more inadequate> How could I have survived with this condition this long and not seen or understood the obvious things being spoken about. For example throughout my life I have had suicidal ideations and indeed taken a perverse pleasure in them. It was as if my safety was thinking about suicide rather than acting upon it. I was not and am not alone. Apparently this is the very stuff of suicide ideation, a form of wish fulfilment that promises and imagined respite from the unbearable pain. Yet to act upon it is vengeful. It is to purposely hurt others... along the lines of Spike Milligan's "I told you I was ill"...a sort of see, you wouldn't believe how real this was, now you can feel guilty.

To have that much anger seems counter to the despair and enervation that is upon one when suicide ideations occur. Why have I not been able to see it before reading famed entertainment industry attorney Terri Cheney's book, Manic: A memoir. Or another, Darkness Visible by the late author William Styron.

I have felt comfortable re-reading Kay Redfield Jamieson's 1993 Touched with Fire as an academic search for knowledge, and previously her memoir, An Unquiet Mind. It is as if these people are publically successful and safe to speak about their depressions and manias that make me stop and reflect on what I am actually doing in my own PhD. Is my lack of public profile good or bad? Does it mean that what I have to say will be less valued? Can there ever be an 'everyone' voice of the disease BMD, when it is so idiosyncratic in its shifts, phases, cycles and even within the polarities themselves, let alone the individual differences in reactions to and success with medications and pharmacological interventions.

So in the academic sense what can be my contribution to new knowledge as demanded of a PhD? What can I say that these highly skilled and intelligent wordsmiths and successful professional people have not said?

Maybe it is simply to let people share a glimpse inside the world of madness, and that it is not unrelenting and there are times of absolute psychological normality. We are not all the same. I am not my illness.

It has been a revelation to me that the sexual promiscuity that can accompany mania is less about feeling desirable and sexually powerful and is more about a desperate need for human connection... the need to feel connected with someone. Communication being the goal however when the libido is freed from normal rational constraint, it becomes the equivalent of 'beer goggles'.... sex becomes confused with connection.

is that what my PhD is about and also this blog... my need to connect as I am alone in life and have no partner to be strong for me throughout the ups and downs?

"Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die." Howards End 1910 by E.M Forster.

Like Rita in educating Rita, it finally makes sense to me too.

Part two: Letter to a troubled soul

I had to leave the first blog today as it could not logically be followed by the second part of my veg out moment yesterday. After, my son left to go to his mate's for a private wake, I sat and watched a doco I had taped. I did it because to be honest I wanted to feel good about myself by watching another person's very public downfall... as if to prove to myself that no amount of money in the world can buy happiness.

In another life, I knew this person. We both turn 55 this year and we met when we were both turning 21. There was a magnetism that drew people to this man and I was likewise attracted by it/him. I was often out and about in what I now see was my manic phase and his craziness, unpredictabilty and downright dangerous side was highly alluring. I saw something that I couldn't recognise or name at the time, but there was some sort of connection, at least on my end. A close friend years later said that 'no such connection existed and that I made it up'... but I knew and still do that there were inner demons driving us both.

At the time I realised that despite being charismatic he was actually quite despicable in his entrenched attitudes verging on the anti-social. But it was all hidden beneath a carefully constructed veneer of Mr Nice Guy, Mr Talented. The gay guys wanted to sleep with him and some (including my friend) was quite bitter about his heterosexuality, proclaiming that he wasn't promiscuous (to the point of mysogny) and that all us actresses were just fantasising about him.
Yet as they say 'in vino veritas'. When alcohol was allowed full reign (this other ignorant gay friend also proclaimed publically that this person was tea-totaller!! Rubbish!!!! I know different), some of his opinions and attitudes were positively frightening to me now as a mature-aged woman. In the seventies these attitudes were so anachronistic I chose to think he was just baiting everyone for a response and a little bit of 'drama'. How sad that I now see his beliefs expressed under the influence of grog and times of pillow talk, or when he felt at ease in his own bedroom/lounge space, he was actually letting everybody in. We did not realise that this young man was so deeply troubled.

Thus I moved on in my life and was quite happy to say to those willing to listen, "I knew him before...". I watched his meteoric rise with fascination and a sense of rejection. I was one of those women he deemed beneath contempt and not suited for marrying or breeding with (not that I wanted either at that stage). His rise to me was just party talk cred and cache. I now sit and cry over my ignorance and what has happened.

He literally deserves all the flack he is copping now. After all his money made him immune from criticism. No-one would stand up and say "NO"to this man. No-one said this was unacceptable, and his dysfunctional family (particularly father) allowed him a sense of the world is wrong and we the family know the truth... so trust no-one. Sounds so similar to a religious cult and indoctrination. Yet the demons were no assuaged. Money and privilege allowed him to self medicate with alcohol (perhaps drugs.... I have no idea as I have not met him in over 24 years) and nicotine.

He hid behind a mask of stability and family. Only when his one anchor said "enough is enough" and "I am leaving" did his world begin to disintegrate. This one woman who had sacrificed so much of her life to keeping this man in balance had finally walked away for the sake of their children.

Suddenly the demons have broken free and now I feel saddened and indeed pity. Somehow I also feel a traitor to my own beliefs. I do not condone mysogny, homophobia, rascism, anti-semitism, radical religions or right-wing political blind-spots... yet I still feel that connection with this man from all those years ago.

I sat transfixed and dispassionate as the cameras revealed the downfall of a flawed man... until the experts began speaking. I did not feel sorry for him when they spoke of his need for alcohol detox and rehab, nor admiration when learning of him reaching out to actors and singers at their times of crisis. I felt that this was simply enabling behaviour, such as the Yes-people around him permitted for over 30 years.

Then one psychiatrist came on and made the comment that she believed his behaviour was consistent with Bi-Polar Mood Disorder!

KERRR CHINGGGG!

My heart is bleeding for him now. When we were both 20 we could not have known that the manic craziness was part of mental illness. We were both undiagnosed. I lived for over twenty years unaware that I was ill, until after a number of failed attempts at suicide (all designed presumably as calls for help) I was finally and correctly diagnosed and medicated.

My life had to virtually fall apart and be at rock bottom before I could accept that I was in fact ill, and would have to decide on living medicated (and muted) for life or living the risk. I still grieve for the manias and do not miss the 'black dog' yet I know it is the price to pay for the highs. Inow understand how such a man could have kept this crisis moment at bay, by being 'protected by wealth' and his destructive behaviour 'enabled' by people in whose financial interest it was to keep the commodity rolling along.

"You poor lost soul. I feel empathy now. At 55 you have to face losing almost everything before you are given the opportunity to be 'set free' by medical intervention."

"I can now see the connection I felt all those years ago, when no-body else could or would, not even you."

"See this as an opportunity. Not simply for the pseudo trendy detox and rehab stints, but the hard yards of psychotherapy and quest for wellness. I hope that you can have around you a few very trusted spirits who will accept no B/S and call it for what it is. It might mean challenging long held belief systems and your own contradictory behaviours. However, this might just free you of a damaged childhood and past, not of your making. No excuses. Your behaviour and rants cannot be undone by the words, "Sorry". They must be faced head on, with courage and strength and the willingness to pull apart all the previously accepted givens. Sometimes our families are not the safe spaces in which to do this."

"I wish you luck and one trusted friend at this time of crisis, and wish I could extend the hand of empathy and understanding across the globe... but I cannot as you are so isolated."

Synchronicity

Hi all, I know I have been (electronically) quiet for a month or more, but I am actually okay. I have been working towards my final draft of the academic component of my PhD and as it requires me to re-read and reflect on my 'writer's journal' and occasionally my Wellness Blog entries it has beena bit of a roller coaster emotionally often dipping well into my minus scales of 'unwellness' and uni-polar depression cycles. I have had to work extremely hard at centering myself, fighting the urge to self-sabbotage (especially with food and alcohol) hence weight gain through being super-critical and losing all self-confidence. It has been a battle to regain balance and control and to work as hard and effectively as I could at my highest cognitive level to produce my best written work.

I cannot stress how critical this is as some very influential people in my career have expressed doubts about my capacity to control my illness, and one in particular hinting that I actually mobilise my illness when it suits me to ensure I do not have to place my work out for public scrutiny, thus I am wasting hers and my time (and University resources). The pressure has been on for the last few weeks as this person has taken annual leave and I am availing myslef of her absence to 'prove her wrong'.

However, this added self-imposed pressure comes at a time when (as we all know) dysfunctional families become even more dysfunctional and lash out at each other. My environment has not been, how shall I say it... conducive of optimum cognitive functioning! Yet, I am slowly getting there, slower than I had hoped but I am alive and re-instilling my sense of self-belief that the PhD is not beyond me and does not belong to a 'crazy person'. I keep feeling that I am being punished for reaching too high, beyond my social level, beyond my personal life role. This is the critic inside my head, speaking at the times when I am most vulnerable.

So it is interesting to see that when I actually went into total procrastination (thus unproductive mode), three things happened to force me to rethink, today. As usual it is the coming together of random and completely separate events that for me provide clarity and a way ahead.

Over the summer I have been playing with some of the new boys' toys in our house. I have been commandeering the T-box and Foxtel IQ when they are out and programing all the crap sitcoms ( Boston Legal etc), docos, and movies I missed at the cinema. It is my guilty pleasure to sit down on my day off (Yes I know the last thing I should be doing is sitting... like a couch potato) and having a viewing feast.

Yesterday my son had a funeral to attend in the morning and I had an appointment with my psychiatrist. Arriving home to find the house empty and mercury predicted to soar to 39, I decided that this was the perfect time to avoid working completely and do a spot of hard-disk clean up on the devices. I loved Denton's interview with Mem Fox and have at least six Book Show eps to catch up on.

then my son arrived home and recounted his experience at the funeral for the father of a golfing mate ( another older father-aged figure). My son had dismissed this man as rich, lazy and miserly without friends. And this sadly appears to be the case. So it was a shock to realise that the wealthy father's funeral was such a big event with VIPs from throughout the State and Country in attendance. My son noted that he and his ex-boss appeared to be the only ones there to support their mate, and how that made him glad he went.

I explained that this was why I had encouraged him to attend, to be there for his friend as funerals are for the grieving not the deceased. What was interesting to was hear his take on a completely traditional Church funeral service with readings, prayers, hymns and the Eucharist.
having been Christened Catholic I asked my son if he took the Eucharist and he said he felt that he couldn't. Such is his disconnect between his own spiritual upbringing and his life-experiences.
However, we were able to reflect on how having money does not in and of itself constitute gaining respect and friendship from peers and colleagues. I also noted that the funeral appeared to be very religious as the man in question was retired from one of the professions and had obviously been a Mason. My son asked how I could tell, and I said the give away was the photograph of him suited and seated in a masonic-style chair. It would of course also explain the number of attendees and the actual content of the service.

It made me stop and reflect on my own father's life and that of my brother and sole surviving male cousin, also Masons, and the underlying community involvement and need to 'give back'to society as an accepted way of life. How much of this has actually been subconsciously adopted by me? It amazed me that I hadn't realised my own compulsion to 'do good' and 'fight for just causes'.

And whilst it seems that it is of comfort, in the sense of shadenfreud, that those of us without money like to bleat the refrain, "see money can't buy happiness", it is so hollow and mean spirited. We need to be honest with ourselves. Is it that we daren't think that should our lotto ticket be drawn, none of our problems would be solved?

So what does this mean for me today... still broke and likely to stay that way for the foreseeable future. Fearful that if I do not succeed at the PhD I cannot be employed in a University and will be forced to work in jobs that do not use my intellectual capabilities... all because I have a mental illness or am perceived deviant in some way?

Why can I not harness this fear and have it drive me on, instead of it becoming a humungous oppressive weight bearing down on me, pushing me to the ground when I want to soar above the clouds?

Do you know what it is like to be driven out of your home annually?

Well, it's that marvellous time of year again on the Mornington Peninsula when our population quadruples. I would estimate over 50% of the newcomers are transient, gathering together to afford the exhorbitant rents required for less than average homes.

Already before being forced to seek solitude for work (writing purposes) elsewhere, I have endured the usual yobbo NY Eve sirens, drunks in the streets despite public place alcohol bans, noisy car engines, sound systems, cans that seemed to find their way into my garden bed. And then one would think a family with small children moving in opposite would have been OK.... wrong. Do you realise just how noisy kids on scooters, bikes, and fathers with oversized off road vehicles (presumably in reverse proportion to existing masculine genitalia) can be? Then add to equation a boat with trailer in a street where a single car meeting another becomes a traffic jam!

Street cricket, that seemingly sedate game from days gone by, is no longer sedate, with a semblance of a twenty twenty match outside MY study door! Many balls hit into garden (no damage), lots of ruckus as ball or bat connects with large upright garbage bins and cheers of that horrid OiOiOi. Meanwhile respectable fathers, not playing, watching from sidelines with bottles of beer in hand on the public street. One can only assume the very large illuminated sign just up on the corner of our main road warning of huge fines for drinking in public spaces does not apply to THESE PARTICULAR holidaying Victorians!

So after requesting that balls not be hit onto the newest car in the household I was advised, less than politely that they had hired the house for the next two weeks and I should P... off. When I pointed out that I was merely trying to work IN MY STUDY and that I LIVED HERE... I was reminded to P.... OFF if I do not like it.

I do NOT LIKE NOISE and nor should I have to vacate annually when selfish tourists arrive for tranquility away from the City and shatter the very tranquility they are seeking to escape. Also couldn't there be some sort of rule that in a three bedroom house, Real Estate agents do not rent it to (at last count possible ten people, two males and presumably partners, two pre-teen smirking daughters, four juveniles under ten... aformentioned cricketers).

The thing that amuses me least is how people assume everyone who does work, does so from a City Office, or during the hours of 9 - 5, and have absolutely no idea how writers battle with the entire task. How on earth does Peter Carey manage it in the Big Apple? I can understand J K Rowling in a lovely heritage estate in rural Britain... but where do I go to before I have made my first royalties or pre-sales?

Heading bush seems to provide only a temporary respite as guess what... beauty, tranquility but no bloody internet or mobile connection. So I am still praying for a Melbourne/outer Eastern suburbs based house sit.

There has to be a perfect work space somewhere. Now Jackie how much are those studios in Abbotsford to rent... oh no good, can't sleep in the studio!

I am really starting of 2011 in a Maxine type mood.