Rest and relaxation

Again the sun was beaming and I had promised myself yesterday, no matter how I felt, I would rise, shower and get moving. After sleeping through the alarm again today, I finally woke realising that with a hurried shower and phone booking I could make it to yoga.

I am so sick and tired of being sore and in pain I thought yoga could not make it any worse, and I definitely needed the relaxation excercises. Driving up to Mornington I began gnawing at my fingernails.

My anxiety levels are out of control.

Walking in to the hospital I did not feel my usual relief at arriving at my safe place. Sitting in the admission booth I felt nervy and uncomfortable. Of course the computer would go haywire and make the admission process tedious and sluggish. The printer refused to print my labels for my wrist band.

I began to feel that it wasn't meant to happen and that I should just turn around and go home, which made me angry that I had just spent my last twenty dollars on petrol for the return trip.

After trying to reassure the agitated booking clerk that I was okay with the delay, when I actually wasn't. I had to smile politely and head directly to the staircase to go towards the yoga session after the recalcitrant printer had spewed out enough labels for a seven week stay.

They were expecting me, thanks to the hurried phone call and had left one door ajar. The session had not begun and Felicity was arranging chairs, mats and blue cubes and straps. My curiousity was piqued. We had never used this equipment before. Felicity explained that today we would be working on lower backs and she hoped that it wouldn't be a problem for me. Again she reinforced that if any of us felt discomfort or pain she would adapt the stretches and poses.

My day began to look up after I realised that any discomfort was only temporary and after the breathing and relaxation had taken hold I suddenly had no pain! How good it felt to work the lower back and spine, loosening all the previously throbbing hurt places. I began to smile and my face totally relaxed.

It was a fantastic start to the day.

Add to this that two of the younger in-patients were women I had shared the ward with earlier this year, I felt instantly at ease. We enjoyed catching up and felt a solidarity that can only be experienced by women who know intuitively what it is like to be struggling to stay well. We then sat together with one of the nurse counsellors, Brigit, and had a long de-brief session, particularly about wellness in the outside world. I really miss these sessions on the days when I have to attend Lilydale for work meetings.

The contradiction that I feel is quite curious.

On the one hand I need to feel connected to my old workplace and alma mater, but on the other I am drawn to being with people who have 'walked in my shoes'. We are apart from the people in the outside world yet together we feel that we are the normal ones. I miss this sense of empathy and understanding, but I know I cannot rely on living in an artificial world where the 'real world' is held at bay and problems left outside.

It is just that I am tired of fighting for every moment of quietude, sanity, logic and stability. I am tired of some important and influential people thinking that over my three and a half years of PhD candidature I have been slack. Every 'normal' worker gets four weeks annual leave and a similar amount of sick leave. Do I? Have I?

In the last three years I have used only one week of my holidays for that purpose; the week I booked in 2007 for a brief stay in Portugal after my Madrid conference presentation. Yep, a holiday. The very one that was put on hold because I fell down the marble steps at the Conference venue.

That same holiday which had me attending the Hospital Principessa in Madrid, having xrays, and my archilles tendons encased in bandages and moon boots whilst I reclined on the bed in the Holiday Inn, drugged with anti-inflamatories and pain killers.

Hmm relaxing hoiliday, that's fore sure.

So the following two years worth of annual leave?

These weeks were spent hopsitalised battling clinical depression.

Yep, great holidays those, also.

I guess I did have one week off last July after lap-banding surgery... or was that only four days in Ballarat, in winter with me checking emails morning and night to ensure my boss had what she needed whilst attending a Conference in Paris.

Then again this year another hospitalisation, for the same reason, clinical depression. A great time of relaxation with me accessing the internet everyday formatting a difficult thesis for a colleague and friend, much to the cost of my own recovery.

Another one of my famous 'holidays'.

• When do all these medical certificates be seen as legitimate interruptions to my PhD candidature?
• Am I being delusional counting these times/weeks/months as normal candidature times?
• Am I mistaken to count them as annual leave?

The other mistake I have made and paid (am paying) a substantial price for doing, is thinking that any Conferences I have attended are actually holidays!

Yep, the single days before or after the Conferences that allowed me to see the beautiful and exciting cities that was hosting these events, may not actually constitute holidays.

I always underestimate the intensity of focus required for actively listening to presentations and papers for three or four days consecutively and ensuring that my notes are summarised clearly at night, just to ensure I have everything in a useful form, for use on my return and ongoing study.

What on earth made me think that simply going out to dinner with other delegrates meant that these were holidays?

Every dinner held times for spontaneity and laughter, but also insightful intellectual discussions. They are no different to workplace conversations and brainstorming... part of work!

Yep, again these were definitely holidays weren't they?

Is it any wonder I am mentally exhausted? I need a break.

Why should I be made feel guilty for not pushing myslef to complete my candidature by June, just because if I apply to extend my candudature period, I might end up hospitalised in November (because the Xmas period is often emotionally stressful and I am often at risk of mania in November)? Perhaps, I might fall into mania only because people in my workplace have bullied me so attrociously and emotionally drained me, used me and undervalued my skills throughout the year leading up to November?

So many people (academics) underestimate the time certain tasks take to do, and when paid in hourly rates the pressure is on me to finish these tasks no matter how long they take, rather than have me be paid for the hours expended.

The result is unrealistic expectations, undervaluing the actual work being done, lack of knowledge of professional dtp rather than typing,limitations of available software for the tasks, and many more constraints which sees me working many, many unpaid hours.

Of course I break down under the stress.

Anybody would.

Could it possibly be that by allowing myself a bit of slack, to focus on my wellbeing, I just might be able to avoid hospitalisation?

• Am I also not permitted to be like a normal person?
• Who says I need less of a holiday with quiet relaxation for myself than another worker who needs to spend quality time with partner and family when it suits their family timeframes?
• Why are my individual wellness needs of less importance than other people's holidays, people who do not battle chronic illness?
• Are ill/disabled workers less entitled to holidays because they have different needs?
• Should my productivity be gauged by how much time I have off (hospital or not) or should it be judged upon the abilities and competencies I demonstrate at work?
• Since when do workplaces have the legislative right to discriminate based upon a worker's mental illness?

This form of unreasonable reaction and lack of understanding and empathy ensures that as a worker I will fall victim to stress-related breakdowns.

This is an incidious form of workplace bullying.

I am tired of fighting for my rights.


I guess I need a holiday!

A sunny day and a daily whinge...

If only I could quote Barry Humphries... but who knows what a BEX is these days? My good lie downs happen for far too many hours overnight recently. I seem to be falling into the sanctuary of sleep and never want to emerge. I guess that locates my mood state still on the negative y-axis ( It is the y-one, the vertical one isn't it?) God, too long since I have done Maths. But hey, I must need this prolonged state of protection still rather than jump into the day firing on all cyclinders.

Today began around 11 after a long session of old-single-white-woman (I like OSWW better than WASP) patting furry cat (no smart arsed comments here people) for hours rather than getting up. Very much reminded of the scene in the Douglas Sirk melodrama All that Heaven Allows, when adult children present recently widowed mother with a television as a suitable companion for her age. ... She preferred the younger gardener (who wouldn't?), Rock Husdon! Nice idea, but gee her gaydar was as off as mine used to be! Ah, Hollywood and fantasy.

But at least I can reassure myself with the fact that the sexy blonde (I call her) young detective in Cold Case goes home alone to her pet cat and has been seen snuggling together in bed... so that old cliche must be losing power, surely?

Anyway, I am as slow to get to the point in type as I was to get up.

Waking in a somewhat fuzzy state (without the aid of a night on the town last night) I successfully managed to merge both April and May in my mind. I rang a dear friend apologising for missing her birthday (yet it would have been today had if it in fact been May), then confused the Anzac Day weekend, and had a total whinge about why I can't go for a walk in the sun (because I would get pissed off with all the tourists doing exactly that). When it was pointed out that Anzac day was in fact a week away I still managed to dredge up the excuse that the buggers would be down to PREPARE their holiday houses, lawns and pantries for their Anzac weekend guest hosting. GRRR.

See I can find a way out of all excercise even when I need it MOST! I am going to YOGA this Tuesday come hell or high water... I need to become addicted to the excercise endorphins.

Next, I have begun with my usual procrastination. First emails, second FB, now this one. These can change in order but always form the basis of my justification that it is now time for a break from the screen! See how good I am at playing games with myself?

So the point of today's blog is to get my mind into gear. I am now playing with ideas from my general whinge session from the phone call to my friend. So many things in my life scream of the words serendipity and convergence. On a good day this is a positive and generative force, on others it is paralysing.

Whereas last week I was grieving for a past (the performing arts and media), today it is for me possibly a way back to normalcy (in the safe grey zone so relax all).

Having felt decidedly disconnected and alienated at Swinburne last Thursday (mostly through some careless humour and everyone trying to not speak about the bleeding obvious... my breakdown) I felt on the outer and decidedly unwelcome back. I was THAT problem person. Didn't even manage a cuppa with the most level headed of all, Sandra. Missed that one very much.

Attending Swinburne was supposed to be my baby steps back. The first day off Medical Certificate. Earlier, that morning I had told the psychiatrist I didn't want another one from the 15th as I had to emerge from my self-imposed exile.(Even should I need to reach for a settling Valium) Oh good call again, CAC, you were supposed to hasten slowly!

Well, at Swinburne suddenly, I have been forced to acknowledge that I (electronically trashed my PhD work... yep all three years worth) completely in a fit of pique (yep Christine you are correct the word rage is far more apt). For me to recover everything will cost around $300 for a software program. The freeware version has brought back MOST of the files, some 52,000 but all in numbered folders 1-670, and inside are files similarly numbered! At least they carry the suffixes .doc, .jpeg, .pdf etc... so I have a small electronic trail to follow but unfortunately not the TIME to do it in my usual hyper-organised obsessive compulsive manner. This stresses me too.

This would be less of a problem had I not been working towards finishing a collaborative journal article for TEXT (now the October edition not April... thanks Jen), and now I am to write a book chapter that I had already trashed late last year just prior to or marking the beginning of total meltdown. I got shitty that my work on this wasn't deemed up to standard so I did a "Mark" ( ;-)and I still love you Mark), and took my whole bat and ball and went home. I removed my chapter from the book submission and my bio. Now my supervisor has asked if I could write it now? Well, yes of course. It is the perfect time to look back and reconstruct a more cohesive piece of text, one that allows for the convergences from my past.

I can look at creativity/deviance, Higher Ed reforms and policy, corporatisation and marketisation of education (Hi, Jane), markets and critical discourse (thanks Janet), and even Branding with Capital 'B' (thanks PR boys) as it all plays out in the Creative Industries discourses. This finds a place for my frustrations as a PhD candidate sitting through middle management level meetings (discussions in camera of course) which allow me insight into Corporate University thinking. I can now bring in and mobilise critically, terms such as strategic, operational, branding, niche marketing and contrast these with terms such as pedagogy, equity, access, innovation, public good, human capital and above all the YARTZ!

My last 30 years may not have been wasted journies down professional cul de sacs after all. Hey guys, perhaps everything old is new again (thanks PA R.I.P.). This is supposed to be 'baby steps' back... heaven help me if I get busy or employed (which is a whole other category of blog/whinge)... let alone the self-esteem blog.

Talk tomorrow.

The rationale for this blog

This is part of my 2010 wellness campaign. Having just spent 35 days in hospital (again) I had the time to read (and reflect upon) the book, Spike Milligan's Box 18, compiled by his friend and editor Norma Farnes. IT occurs to me that like pike I have a secret Box 18 although my recordings are scattered amongst 30 A4 ring binders, numerous hand written and partially completed journals, work diaries, and archive boxes of articles, cartoons, clipping and general detritus that I have saved as inspiration tools.

Over the past three years doing my PhD (and even during my preceding two years of Masters study) I have forced my body to ignore and push through my chronic mental illness. I have only ever allowed myself down time for physical mental reasons... migraine, having been hit by a car, having parathyroid glands removed, having lymph nodes removed, skin cancer removed and finall lap banding surgery. All these have hapily co-incided with severe bouts of clinical depression which I could hide away from, personally and professionally. I live in a household of two males where mental illness remains stigmatised and often seen as self-serving and manipulation.

At work I am only ever viewed as a professional if I can keep my highs and lows within what is considered the 'normal' range, even though I am considered to be quiet 'out there' in my grey zones!. Normalcy just does not enter my vocabulary as it applies to the outide world. I can only ever approximate normalcy and under careful medication.

I am therefore perceieved to be professionaly 'unstable, irrational, unreliable, and at times a total pain in the arse if I am cycling towards mania.' Yet this is how I cope with extreme work loads and actually get things done. The corollary of course is a massive drop from mania to the darkest depths of despair and self-hatred.

Bi-polar Mood Disporder (or my preferred pre-sanitized version Mani Depression)is perhaps one of the most debilitating yet misunderstood of the mental illnesses. Thanks to Hollywood everybody thinks they understand Austism/Aspergers (think Rainman and a Beautiful Mind), they understand psychosis and breakdown (think Shine), or Depression, post-partum depression (how many soapies could I list here), and of course Schitzophrenia ( Sybil), then recently Dissasociative disorder (Altered States of Tara.

Hollywood and pop culture have also pitched a 'sanitized version' of BMD. It afects many 'creatives' who speak out from the height of their achievements and positions of fame. Therefore, like ADHD before it, it is totally over-diagnosed as it is now the 'in' mental disorder for adults who experience reasonably normal mood state alterations across periods of their lives.

Let me disavow any of you self-diagnosing this condition. It is NOT GLAMOUROUS. We are not all GENIUS/CREATIVES. We are everyday people dealing with extremes that NO-ONE would wish to experience. Ask any true Manic Depressive and they will be reluctant to change a thing... they would not contmeplate medication bacause the highs are too intense and to seek a life without them seems to be too high a priceto pay. Even the darkest suicidal despair is preferable to living in the medicated grey zone.

Well my friends, I chose 21 years ago in an attempt to live in the medicated grey zone. I have only attempted suicide once in this period (despite numerous suicidal ideations), and have only reached the very lowest level of mania once (most recently between August 2009 and hospitalisation Feb 24, 2010. For those of you who think I am 'over the top'.... guess what that's my nearest to normalcy I can achieve. To do this I have been on a reasonably stable dosage of daily medications. (Prozac and Epilim). Like an insulin diabetic these are necessary for my survival and I no longer rebel against taking them.

So why talk now? It is because 2010 is my year to live and do more than 'just cope' with life. I cannot worry constantly about financial instability and job insecurity. This alone makes me vuknerable to depressive swings (as it does anyone), however for me the swing is more a plummet... towards paralysis and total disintegration. I just want to die. Although now at 53/4 I can agree with Stephen Fry in his own words... "I want to die, I just do not want to kill myself". This is my current battle... to not just lay down and wish for death and respite. I no longer have the youthful impulse to act on these messages from my brain. I have seen the effects of this action on those left behind and even in my darkest days I cannot wish this on anyone close to me. I do not hate them that much.

Why now yo may ask.... well it was the timely re-screening of Stephen Fry's The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive on the biochannel on Foxtel that made me decide to blog through this coming year. I had of course seen this before on ABC TV but this time my inspiration has been some women he interviewed. The first is a practicing GP who believes that she has maintained mental health through Omega 3, Flaxseed oils and diet. This is something that will be complementary to my dietary changes post-lapband and it also just makes sense to me also, with al the research around brain chemistry and Omega 3s. Also the woman (accountancy background) who is mapping her mood swings and cycles with her partner on a spreadsheet. Oh how organised is that... and does that not play right into my obsessive compulsive tendencies also? Lastly the young girl who together with her family has a chart listed on the kitchen cupboards to monitor thoughts/feelings and attempt to pre-empt major swings.

I know that having been sujected to several medication 'readjustments' over the years I can use a similar tool, although the big guns I feel I need right now (valium and temazepam) are denied me. I am cold turkey after a prolonged stint in hospital. I am replacing these with (sunlight... vitamin D, exercise... endorphins, and lastly yoga for tranquility and breathing techniques to enforce positive sleep routine).

Another timely moment was when the parents of a suicidal girl describes her feelings that she "could never be exceptional again" and her only choice was to jump in front of a train... I really identified with this feeling. My current work and study situation has my thoughts and feelings hovering right there on the precipice... but I can stand back and see/hear these things, therefore I can put in place interventions to not act upon the impulses.

My work and study has probably pushed me to this precipous also. Whereas the GP in Stephen's doco laughs that her workplace likes to see itself as suppotive and modern, by accepting her illness like any other disability... she laughingly calls herself "their token loon"... my supposedly educated and enlightened workplace cannot adapt to a "token loon", despite all the policies to poke a proverbial stick at. I challenge the norm. I defy people's expectations of student/academic/woman. I am the 'problem' needing to be controlled or eradicated... not accepted and allowed the liberties once granted eccentrics in the Academy in years gone by. Is it any wonder survivors of this disease cluster in the creative sircles where deviance is accepted and even tacitly encouraged. Ah the 'night people"... I miss you all so.

But I cannot go back there, no matter how much I long to return to my twenties. I have responsibilities that I can no longer simply run away from, at this stage in life and I am choosing not to.

The other thing is that in the blogs posted after the screening of The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive, many noted how his interviews were skewed because the subjects ahd family support networks and appeared to be financially cushioned... rather than homeless and disempowered by their illness. I sit here in 2010 between both. I am so grateful to have had a PhD stipend as a safety net; yet the emotional price paid for $11.84 per hour/ 38 hour week has been quite disabiling and destabilising with pressure and expectations from 'outside". I am now angry and that is good... anger draws andrenaline and I fight back from the depths. I am worth more than $11.84 per hour. My skills are equal to that of a basic tutor $90 yet as a researcher I can only aspire to an additional eight hours at $33 per hour.... well forget it. Roll on full-dispability pension, and my need to pay my private health insurance. If that means food vouchers so be it!

I cannot work at my most productive at a University where staff earn over $100K (often in dual income households) and expect mature-aged students carrying full family responsibilities to juggle these demands... and that's even the 'sane' ones, let alone those of us with menatl illness. The system sucks!

2010 I am going to survive. I am going to do all I can to publicise the illness I endure and to present at the highest academic level globally WITHOUT the assistance and SUPPORT of my University. They don't give a rats. PhD students only equal government dollars and points on the metrics used to calculate "quality assurance measures" and 'research outputs". I am sick of being seen as a problematic liability not producing at the desired 'output rate'.

Australian Higher Educational corporate managerialism has gone too far and must be turned around for the benefit of students, staff and the community at large. This eof us silly enough (or sick enough) must speak out, and do so loudly.