"I'm not dead yet.... I'm gettin betta".
Ah Python. A great way to begin the day. I need a laugh today.
I am again thinking outside of my own head space which is good. I am very sorry for a friend who has lost a close friend from her golden days, Malcolm McLaren. Cancer is such an insidious disease and takes people far too early (or makes them suffer far too long). Having just encountered my own 'would be glory days' last Wednesday I can only empathise with you dearest Clare. How those days in London would have wreaked havoc on many of your soulmates lives.
Yesterday on my Writingnetwork.edu.au response to the student editor of the month's first post, I spent time reflecting on the whole cliched madness creativity nexus as it applies to my own mental health. To then later in the day hear of the death of Malcolm from a physical illness, it seems that any of us who aspire to great heights (whether achieved or not) are somehow blighted to be victims of Fate in some way.
In Australia Fate comes in the hands of the Mr & Mrs Averages that just want areveryone to be perfect, especially if they are annointed with the mantle of 'superstar' or 'hero/ine'. It is the tall poppy syndrome that makes it even harder to live in Australia as a creative soul. Don't dare stick your head up above the crowd, it will be lopped off. Don't dare to be different or you will be viewed with suspicion as deviant. Don't dare to challenge the status quo or you will be deemed 'too radical' or even 'mad'. On the local ABC radio Friday wrap, Liberty Sanger summed it up well, in the week when Malcolm Turnbull announced his retirement from the Liberal Party, and Joe Hockey flagged a possible re-organising of his priorities putting family first. She said: "There appears to be no place in Liberal party politics for people of principle.. no room for the small 'l' liberals anymore."
How sad that I could say that this appears to be the case in both major political parties. The same Mr & Mrs Averages who chop down our tall poppies are the same people who determine our political leaders, and we wonder why we no longer get colourful leaders, flawed but visionary policies and attempts to make Australia a better Country.
Being a Libran, I know that things swing in both directions before finding equilibrium... please when is society going o tilt towards social justice, equality of opportunity and empathy again? Did I miss it recently, and this is 'equilibrium'. God I hope not. Race card being played on poor old asylum seeker issues again on front pages of both broadsheets and tabloids... seems nothing changes.
Is it any wonder I prefer the sanctuary of a hospital ward and my own wellness focus. At least I feel less powerless on these issues. I have choices. My choice now is to re-enter the 'grey zone completely' and not let this crap through, or to roll with it and allow my inner demon free, to react with anger, vengeance and calls for revolution, thus repositioning myself as 'mad, bad' and as my previous boss added, 'rad'. At least anger at injustice gets me to a keyboard... maybe how I can complete this bloody PhD.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Ah the wonderful Glenice reads my mind again
Knowing the likelihood of a slp backwards today, she invited me up to her home for dinner. I am sure that being with Glenice on her deck sipping a glass of sauvignon blanc watching the sunset over the waterway was the perfect way to ensure natural endorphins and seratonin levels remained high. We are always able to laugh at the ludicrous things life throws our way. That keeps things in perspective and assists in maintaining rational thought patterns and self-talk. Then to arrive home to find a positive and reassuring FB post from an old school alumnus was again a push towards the positive scale.
I feel that should I manage a 'normal' nights sleep and a not so fraught beginning to the new day I just might be able to take care of some academic housekeeping that may be the first baby steps back. Good to close a day feeling positive and light at the end of the metaphorical tunnel.
I feel that should I manage a 'normal' nights sleep and a not so fraught beginning to the new day I just might be able to take care of some academic housekeeping that may be the first baby steps back. Good to close a day feeling positive and light at the end of the metaphorical tunnel.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Yesterday
A dear friend called and offered me a ticket to see Mamma Mia at the dear old 'Maj'. I knew that laughter would be the best possible medicine for me to lift my mood scales. I just had to get there. Amazing how once dressed and in the car the energy seemed to return like magic. As the torrential rain subsided and the sun made its presence felt I knew that the day would work out for the best, as I had successfully donned 'my outside world' face. This is the look that says, self-confident, don't f with me, and ready to take on anything. It brings sparkling eyes, fast repartee and an attitude of 'bring it on'. (all very +3) Very similar to manic-phase but only a temporary phenomenon with a major cost to pay on the down afterwards. (-2)
How challenging to enter the Maj after so long. I couldn't even remember the last time (I hate to think that it may have been 42nd Street, oh so long ago... but then maybe it was). I have been that disconnected geographically and economically from the Melbourne Theatre scene. What was once to painful to contemplate, buying a ticket and revisiting the scenes of my early hopes and dreams, was yesterday okay. I allowed the nostalgia to flow but not become debillitating or maudlin.
I knew I would be sitting in an audience watching a generation of performers (predominantly) that were strangers to me. That distance and strangeness, was at first disconcerting until I saw the caricatures in the bar! So many faces from the old days. Actual people I used to be on speaking terms with, and now I am a forgotten member of the (then) in crowd.
I always knew that live theatre is the playground of the affluent middle classes but that was certainly brought home with a vengeance yesterday. All those mothers who were able to afford children's tickets at nearly $100 per head for 3 hours entertainment! These were the Sorrento/Blairgowrie tourist-folk at play in town. The ones I avoid down here on holidays. How far I have become removed from the old lifestyle (and expenditure). Not necessarily a bad thing but quite a shock to the manic side of my personality. Oh for those shoes, clothes and regular city outings! Glad I wasn't in mania as I had checked out the hotel deals in town ($150 at Windsor would you believe?), and managed (dutifully) to pay my bills instead. I AM GETTING WELL... or at least able to approximate sensible thinking occasionally.
Loved the show despite its obvious limitations. Would have adored it more at night when only the grown ups were out to play. Mothers dancing in aisles with ten year olds just didn't drag me to my feet... Other fifties who had lived the seventies and the lycra.. now that's a different story. I was one of the first on my feet at Priscilla!
I miss the theatre so much, especially with the Comedy festival on and knowing that many of my old friends and acquaintances have the benefit of the 'pink dollar' and can just go beserk. It was so much a part of who I was.
On the downward drop this morning, it is more depressing that everything which could ensure my personal mental wellbeing has a dollar value attached, and that it is threatened by returning solely to disability pension. Private Health Insurance must stay, but so too must roof over head costs and car payments. Food less of an issue nowadays ;-). How great it would be to not have to think twice about planning for and budgeting for Fernwood, Yoga, Day Spa, Massage, even 'art therapy, my style... galleries and theatres, let alone social dinners out? Ah days gone by now sadly.
I am beginning to feel caged again. Caged inside my house unable to get out to the world. Sure I can walk down the shop 1 kilometre each way and splurge on a coffee but it is not same alone. I can no longer sit and read the daily broadsheet as I feel self-conscious that I am on my own and taking up table space (and 'wasting time').
I guess over the coming weeks and months there will be a lot of time to 'waste' as I am unable to work in a normal manner. My supervisor just tugged on my electronic (email) strings pointing out that I had been off the radar for six weeks (well yeah... that's the minimum hospitalisation time for breakdowns). I am now expected to just jump back up on the PhD horse and 'pull my proverbial finger out'... as if it were that easy... If only...
How challenging to enter the Maj after so long. I couldn't even remember the last time (I hate to think that it may have been 42nd Street, oh so long ago... but then maybe it was). I have been that disconnected geographically and economically from the Melbourne Theatre scene. What was once to painful to contemplate, buying a ticket and revisiting the scenes of my early hopes and dreams, was yesterday okay. I allowed the nostalgia to flow but not become debillitating or maudlin.
I knew I would be sitting in an audience watching a generation of performers (predominantly) that were strangers to me. That distance and strangeness, was at first disconcerting until I saw the caricatures in the bar! So many faces from the old days. Actual people I used to be on speaking terms with, and now I am a forgotten member of the (then) in crowd.
I always knew that live theatre is the playground of the affluent middle classes but that was certainly brought home with a vengeance yesterday. All those mothers who were able to afford children's tickets at nearly $100 per head for 3 hours entertainment! These were the Sorrento/Blairgowrie tourist-folk at play in town. The ones I avoid down here on holidays. How far I have become removed from the old lifestyle (and expenditure). Not necessarily a bad thing but quite a shock to the manic side of my personality. Oh for those shoes, clothes and regular city outings! Glad I wasn't in mania as I had checked out the hotel deals in town ($150 at Windsor would you believe?), and managed (dutifully) to pay my bills instead. I AM GETTING WELL... or at least able to approximate sensible thinking occasionally.
Loved the show despite its obvious limitations. Would have adored it more at night when only the grown ups were out to play. Mothers dancing in aisles with ten year olds just didn't drag me to my feet... Other fifties who had lived the seventies and the lycra.. now that's a different story. I was one of the first on my feet at Priscilla!
I miss the theatre so much, especially with the Comedy festival on and knowing that many of my old friends and acquaintances have the benefit of the 'pink dollar' and can just go beserk. It was so much a part of who I was.
On the downward drop this morning, it is more depressing that everything which could ensure my personal mental wellbeing has a dollar value attached, and that it is threatened by returning solely to disability pension. Private Health Insurance must stay, but so too must roof over head costs and car payments. Food less of an issue nowadays ;-). How great it would be to not have to think twice about planning for and budgeting for Fernwood, Yoga, Day Spa, Massage, even 'art therapy, my style... galleries and theatres, let alone social dinners out? Ah days gone by now sadly.
I am beginning to feel caged again. Caged inside my house unable to get out to the world. Sure I can walk down the shop 1 kilometre each way and splurge on a coffee but it is not same alone. I can no longer sit and read the daily broadsheet as I feel self-conscious that I am on my own and taking up table space (and 'wasting time').
I guess over the coming weeks and months there will be a lot of time to 'waste' as I am unable to work in a normal manner. My supervisor just tugged on my electronic (email) strings pointing out that I had been off the radar for six weeks (well yeah... that's the minimum hospitalisation time for breakdowns). I am now expected to just jump back up on the PhD horse and 'pull my proverbial finger out'... as if it were that easy... If only...
Monday, April 5, 2010
FOUND IT.
GRRR. This was supposed to be my ease-into-the-daylight-hours. I have just spent 45 minutes just learning how to add a new post. Apparently I had signed out of my blog yesterday and needed to sign back in before I found the NEW POST icon. Sheesch... this for a non-luddite.
It just demonstrates how my mood-states do not cycle sloothly in one direction or the other. Today, I would say I have gone from Blah to GREY ZONE. Problem with grey zone (zero) is that nothing is resonating. I am, however, feeling run-of-the-mill standard anxiety. My hands are shaking, I want to gnaw on mmy finger nails and eat nothing but Belgium Chocolate. (See I never lose my Standards Mr W!). I really would like to know if this is my body de-toxing from the valium and temazepams but I know the answer will be a resounding 'no' as they do not have that length half-life (or not since the 70s, when I was addicted thanks to very caring but unknowing GPs at Flinders University).
I am going to try to work today as it is soooo grey outside I cannot draw on the necessary sunshine or colours.
I have altered some of my wall in front of my computer in the study. My inspirational pics and postcards are up there now. So it is time to immerse myself in these wonderful places/times.
I didn't have the energy over Eostre (Easter) to paint the walls a more creative colour, so I am living with 'sand' or whatever the bloody neutral is. I also haven't had the cash to buy the set of square dividers/shelves to place along the wall behind me to remove from my direct line of sight all my work and study ring binders and folders. This is a next baby step.
Then the big one. Hiring a skip and decluttering all my teaching material from the boxes under the desk. For those who haven't been here, think of a pine desktop a metre in depth running 2.5 metres along one wall with shelf above. Think of a whole garage wall - as that is what my study was. The narow end of garage is already a wall of inbuilt bookshelves straining to hold all books. (That also needs a makeover. Less anal retentive cataloguing and more colourful archive boxes and some pruning of older texts.)
I have to let go of the past. This is fear of what lies ahead and what is holding my recovery back. I must declutter and look at one day at a time. I refuse to acknowledge that my ONLY future is teaching secondary English, IT or media studies again. I must let go.
I am also not looking at the need to teach University level Cinema Studies, Media Studies or Teacher training. I can aim for a different challenge rather than return to comfort zones. This is not a dig at my colleagues who are doing this teaching, it is just a recognition that for me it would be a retrograde step. I have been there!
To move forward from my current state of paralysis I must take baby steps forward into the unknown. I am frightened. This is perhaps why I have hit the GREY ZONE...
I slept hours (fourteen) last night and it was an effort to even rise out of bed again today. But this blog calls me to the keyboard and makes me face my demons. I will not give in to a complete shutdown day today! I can power through, and up away from this down cycle.
It just demonstrates how my mood-states do not cycle sloothly in one direction or the other. Today, I would say I have gone from Blah to GREY ZONE. Problem with grey zone (zero) is that nothing is resonating. I am, however, feeling run-of-the-mill standard anxiety. My hands are shaking, I want to gnaw on mmy finger nails and eat nothing but Belgium Chocolate. (See I never lose my Standards Mr W!). I really would like to know if this is my body de-toxing from the valium and temazepams but I know the answer will be a resounding 'no' as they do not have that length half-life (or not since the 70s, when I was addicted thanks to very caring but unknowing GPs at Flinders University).
I am going to try to work today as it is soooo grey outside I cannot draw on the necessary sunshine or colours.
I have altered some of my wall in front of my computer in the study. My inspirational pics and postcards are up there now. So it is time to immerse myself in these wonderful places/times.
I didn't have the energy over Eostre (Easter) to paint the walls a more creative colour, so I am living with 'sand' or whatever the bloody neutral is. I also haven't had the cash to buy the set of square dividers/shelves to place along the wall behind me to remove from my direct line of sight all my work and study ring binders and folders. This is a next baby step.
Then the big one. Hiring a skip and decluttering all my teaching material from the boxes under the desk. For those who haven't been here, think of a pine desktop a metre in depth running 2.5 metres along one wall with shelf above. Think of a whole garage wall - as that is what my study was. The narow end of garage is already a wall of inbuilt bookshelves straining to hold all books. (That also needs a makeover. Less anal retentive cataloguing and more colourful archive boxes and some pruning of older texts.)
I have to let go of the past. This is fear of what lies ahead and what is holding my recovery back. I must declutter and look at one day at a time. I refuse to acknowledge that my ONLY future is teaching secondary English, IT or media studies again. I must let go.
I am also not looking at the need to teach University level Cinema Studies, Media Studies or Teacher training. I can aim for a different challenge rather than return to comfort zones. This is not a dig at my colleagues who are doing this teaching, it is just a recognition that for me it would be a retrograde step. I have been there!
To move forward from my current state of paralysis I must take baby steps forward into the unknown. I am frightened. This is perhaps why I have hit the GREY ZONE...
I slept hours (fourteen) last night and it was an effort to even rise out of bed again today. But this blog calls me to the keyboard and makes me face my demons. I will not give in to a complete shutdown day today! I can power through, and up away from this down cycle.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
I promise...
Just received a very touching email froma dear friend/colleague in the ACT.Thank you dearest BME.
Also a touching email yesterday on the unstable day from dearest GW. I am truly blessed with kind-hearted friends.I must remember this at all times.
Oh how reliant my life is on the very same technology that permits my work/study to envelope every waking minute. Work/life balance? Well that's my next battle after ill/well. I promise also to try to re-read what I have written and edit out the typos before I press PUBLISH...they even annoy me, as I look back.
Also a touching email yesterday on the unstable day from dearest GW. I am truly blessed with kind-hearted friends.I must remember this at all times.
Oh how reliant my life is on the very same technology that permits my work/study to envelope every waking minute. Work/life balance? Well that's my next battle after ill/well. I promise also to try to re-read what I have written and edit out the typos before I press PUBLISH...they even annoy me, as I look back.
Blah!
I guess I should explain my absence yesterday from my "DAILY" blog. Well the mood state swung from -3 to -4. Yep, despite my best efforts and intake of Omega 3 fish I still fell in a heap. Why? No rationale reasons. But I can list the irrational ones (not as justification, more to illustrate suceptability to strange thought patterns).
1. Got angry that news broadcasts were covering the whole Easter Egg thing. Still cannot reconcile the whole Spring rebirth Christian symbolism in the Southern Hemisphere. As if to balance the commercialism there was token coverage of the Christian church gatherings (no Orthodox pics even thought the Easters co-incide this year).
2. Angry that these little kids and their parents have no idea of either the Christian connotations of resurrection (or are marginally better than the idiots who give their kids the Chocolates on Good Friday). Angry that such a secular nation embraces these festivities when really it is another excuse to overindulge in rampant commercialism.
3. Guilty that I have been trying to hand make gifts for a friend and her daughters but have been too down to do it (and ran out of money for the remaining wool I need... would you believe under $10!) Angry again. Angry at being so badly organised financially.
4. Frightened that it will only get worse from now on as I give up work and end of scholarship. This is very much about me... I am angry I cannot and will not be able to afford the very best care I need. Petrol to get to Beleura outpatients, perol to get to Yoga classes, no access to Art therapy at hospital. (Covered as therapy under NSW Private Health Schemes but not VIC). No money to go to and use Fernwood Mornington. I need those external motivators I cannot overcome my own inability to move when on a downer yet if I have to keep an appointment with someone else I can dredge up a phenomenal amount of willpower to get there).
5. Bitter and twisted that all the blonde yuppies can affird regular trips for massage at Peninsula Hot Springs, and girlie style beauty treatments at Ella Bache, Rye. I want to be feminine finally but I do not have hubby's cash or my own wages/playmoney to splurge. Even the retired European mammas manage the private bathing once a week whilst hubby is playing Bocce. I am shitty that I am still battlin after all these years on my own.
6. Guilty when one rined sent me a Happy Easter txt. She would be missing her mother. Her first without her (no Passover tradition to continue for family reasons). Guilty that I am so into my own head space. Sent her upbeat text then realised another close friend was also in a worse position than I am. Her Mum is overseas on what unfortunatley might be her last trip 'home' given her age), and my friend is caring for her ageing father who is not the strong man of old but a frail man needing care and reassurance whilst his beloved wfe is away. How dare I sit back and feel sorry/angry over my own perceived injustices that were brought about by my own life choices.
7. Back to angry again. This time with self. Sent second friend a supportive txt and pressed wrong button and erased all 450 characters. Rang her and took a while to attempt to get her to put down her guard (Ms I Can Handle Anything.... you do not have to do it alone!).
8. Worried that both my oldest friends are having trouble finding themselves away from their life/family career roles. They are more than wives, mothers and employees.
9. Regretful that we were unable to ( or society told us to shut up)share the load with each other for over 20 years when we all needed each other most. What a waste of time pretending we were all coping OK. Crap!
10. Now angry with males in general, how they sap the energy from wives and mothers. Angry at adult daughters who aren't there emotionall for their mothers when they need support. It still all about them, usually under the 'wonderful caring' miss you/love you/need you emotional energy sappers. No way are these young women puttin back into the mothers emotional well! Angry with Gen Y!
11. That lead to me angry with my own son. At least he doesn't pretend to give a stuff about Christmas or Easter. But I am angry he doesn't put in a token effort to create a semblance of family at these lonely times. After all I did... how many years of early rising Easter Egg positioning and wobbly skewed hot cross buns (let's not even talk about reindeer chewed carrots, Santa cookies etc). His excuse... I am really more into the Wiccan and Pagan festivities... well yeah but what does that say?
12. How stupid that I had to explain that it is all part of my needing to reclaim what were essentially female celebrations of fertility and connection with nature/Gaia whatevr name you choose. Humans need some form of ritual and I seem to desire a spiritual connection the older I become. I even attempted this year to recoonect with the emotional ups provided by my old school and the Anglican rituals associated with them. Whilst I challenge the masculist discourse of the formal Church (let's not forget Henry 8 set up CoE just so he could divorce Catherine!), I need at some basic level a connection to some form of supreme being (maybe even genderless). I guess the Jesus figure is so acceptable to many non-believers because he can be constructed as the first ever SNAG!
13. Next followed anger with Louis (my son's father... Catholic who darkens the door of the Catholic Good Friday Mass for five bloody minutes and does ot even sit or take Communion).. I guess there are far too many "Hail Mary's" to deal with to even up the spiritual slate. Hypocrisy if you ask me. He can't even be bothered to do the "cultural thing"... What I expected was more than roast chicken Sunday dinner... no panetone (because Safeway was closed). He paniced when he got up and saw that I had Buona Pasqua card for him, another humourous yet secular card for Carlo, and had even ensured that Carlo had a bloody card for his Father! He high-tails it to the local shops only to find one card left on the shelf that he thought he could get away with. That's right... my Easter Card reads Happy Easter Mum and Dad... not even pretending to be from Carlo.
14. Insult to injury. He can't find any Easter Eggs apart from (what actually turned out to be delicious)... painted eggshells, which I thought were works of handcrafted art. No they were/are actually painted eggshells with chocolate ganache inside. Pity to have to smash the shells to get to the chocolate. Once I discovered this I asked him how much they bloody well cost.... $7 each. I am guilty now that I smashed one to investigate it's heaviness. Angry also that they really are not totally hand-painted but mass produced somehow and Louis made me feel like a selfish judgemental shit again.
15. Angry/guilty that the ganache has probably used palm oil... as had the Cadbury eggs given out by the CFA on their Children's Hospital collection and the whole Cadbury/Chanel & schtick..... see circular thoughts and emotions.
16. Boss sent me a Happy Easter text message but I felt distressed that I couldn't reply. All this head space stuff was just too exhausting. Ended up in bed asleep the whole afternoon. I had gone there to escape the call of the computer... and to read Sunday paper but fell asleep. This crap in my head really is exhausting. Unless you live those andrealine fuelled angry moments then the crying downs of guilt... you cannot possible understand.
ON PAPER IT LOOKS HILARIOUS... and perhaps today I can begin to see it that way and kick back up the minus scale. At present the sun has disappeared and the grey skies are descending, the 3MBS music has become a tad 'down' amd I do not feel like liturgocal on ABC Classic FM. Too paralysed to actually select a CD to play instead.
Well that's probably all I can dredge up today. Roll on the zero poin on the scale and HURRY THE BLOODY HELL UP!
1. Got angry that news broadcasts were covering the whole Easter Egg thing. Still cannot reconcile the whole Spring rebirth Christian symbolism in the Southern Hemisphere. As if to balance the commercialism there was token coverage of the Christian church gatherings (no Orthodox pics even thought the Easters co-incide this year).
2. Angry that these little kids and their parents have no idea of either the Christian connotations of resurrection (or are marginally better than the idiots who give their kids the Chocolates on Good Friday). Angry that such a secular nation embraces these festivities when really it is another excuse to overindulge in rampant commercialism.
3. Guilty that I have been trying to hand make gifts for a friend and her daughters but have been too down to do it (and ran out of money for the remaining wool I need... would you believe under $10!) Angry again. Angry at being so badly organised financially.
4. Frightened that it will only get worse from now on as I give up work and end of scholarship. This is very much about me... I am angry I cannot and will not be able to afford the very best care I need. Petrol to get to Beleura outpatients, perol to get to Yoga classes, no access to Art therapy at hospital. (Covered as therapy under NSW Private Health Schemes but not VIC). No money to go to and use Fernwood Mornington. I need those external motivators I cannot overcome my own inability to move when on a downer yet if I have to keep an appointment with someone else I can dredge up a phenomenal amount of willpower to get there).
5. Bitter and twisted that all the blonde yuppies can affird regular trips for massage at Peninsula Hot Springs, and girlie style beauty treatments at Ella Bache, Rye. I want to be feminine finally but I do not have hubby's cash or my own wages/playmoney to splurge. Even the retired European mammas manage the private bathing once a week whilst hubby is playing Bocce. I am shitty that I am still battlin after all these years on my own.
6. Guilty when one rined sent me a Happy Easter txt. She would be missing her mother. Her first without her (no Passover tradition to continue for family reasons). Guilty that I am so into my own head space. Sent her upbeat text then realised another close friend was also in a worse position than I am. Her Mum is overseas on what unfortunatley might be her last trip 'home' given her age), and my friend is caring for her ageing father who is not the strong man of old but a frail man needing care and reassurance whilst his beloved wfe is away. How dare I sit back and feel sorry/angry over my own perceived injustices that were brought about by my own life choices.
7. Back to angry again. This time with self. Sent second friend a supportive txt and pressed wrong button and erased all 450 characters. Rang her and took a while to attempt to get her to put down her guard (Ms I Can Handle Anything.... you do not have to do it alone!).
8. Worried that both my oldest friends are having trouble finding themselves away from their life/family career roles. They are more than wives, mothers and employees.
9. Regretful that we were unable to ( or society told us to shut up)share the load with each other for over 20 years when we all needed each other most. What a waste of time pretending we were all coping OK. Crap!
10. Now angry with males in general, how they sap the energy from wives and mothers. Angry at adult daughters who aren't there emotionall for their mothers when they need support. It still all about them, usually under the 'wonderful caring' miss you/love you/need you emotional energy sappers. No way are these young women puttin back into the mothers emotional well! Angry with Gen Y!
11. That lead to me angry with my own son. At least he doesn't pretend to give a stuff about Christmas or Easter. But I am angry he doesn't put in a token effort to create a semblance of family at these lonely times. After all I did... how many years of early rising Easter Egg positioning and wobbly skewed hot cross buns (let's not even talk about reindeer chewed carrots, Santa cookies etc). His excuse... I am really more into the Wiccan and Pagan festivities... well yeah but what does that say?
12. How stupid that I had to explain that it is all part of my needing to reclaim what were essentially female celebrations of fertility and connection with nature/Gaia whatevr name you choose. Humans need some form of ritual and I seem to desire a spiritual connection the older I become. I even attempted this year to recoonect with the emotional ups provided by my old school and the Anglican rituals associated with them. Whilst I challenge the masculist discourse of the formal Church (let's not forget Henry 8 set up CoE just so he could divorce Catherine!), I need at some basic level a connection to some form of supreme being (maybe even genderless). I guess the Jesus figure is so acceptable to many non-believers because he can be constructed as the first ever SNAG!
13. Next followed anger with Louis (my son's father... Catholic who darkens the door of the Catholic Good Friday Mass for five bloody minutes and does ot even sit or take Communion).. I guess there are far too many "Hail Mary's" to deal with to even up the spiritual slate. Hypocrisy if you ask me. He can't even be bothered to do the "cultural thing"... What I expected was more than roast chicken Sunday dinner... no panetone (because Safeway was closed). He paniced when he got up and saw that I had Buona Pasqua card for him, another humourous yet secular card for Carlo, and had even ensured that Carlo had a bloody card for his Father! He high-tails it to the local shops only to find one card left on the shelf that he thought he could get away with. That's right... my Easter Card reads Happy Easter Mum and Dad... not even pretending to be from Carlo.
14. Insult to injury. He can't find any Easter Eggs apart from (what actually turned out to be delicious)... painted eggshells, which I thought were works of handcrafted art. No they were/are actually painted eggshells with chocolate ganache inside. Pity to have to smash the shells to get to the chocolate. Once I discovered this I asked him how much they bloody well cost.... $7 each. I am guilty now that I smashed one to investigate it's heaviness. Angry also that they really are not totally hand-painted but mass produced somehow and Louis made me feel like a selfish judgemental shit again.
15. Angry/guilty that the ganache has probably used palm oil... as had the Cadbury eggs given out by the CFA on their Children's Hospital collection and the whole Cadbury/Chanel & schtick..... see circular thoughts and emotions.
16. Boss sent me a Happy Easter text message but I felt distressed that I couldn't reply. All this head space stuff was just too exhausting. Ended up in bed asleep the whole afternoon. I had gone there to escape the call of the computer... and to read Sunday paper but fell asleep. This crap in my head really is exhausting. Unless you live those andrealine fuelled angry moments then the crying downs of guilt... you cannot possible understand.
ON PAPER IT LOOKS HILARIOUS... and perhaps today I can begin to see it that way and kick back up the minus scale. At present the sun has disappeared and the grey skies are descending, the 3MBS music has become a tad 'down' amd I do not feel like liturgocal on ABC Classic FM. Too paralysed to actually select a CD to play instead.
Well that's probably all I can dredge up today. Roll on the zero poin on the scale and HURRY THE BLOODY HELL UP!
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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.
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.
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