A full circle moment

Last night, I sat in The Great Hall of the University of Newcastle watching an interview with Australian writer, Tim Winton, when I was catapulted to just under 30 years ago – a time when I sat in The Great Hall for the first time. It was my first day of uni and I was there to become a journalist. It was also the first time I had experienced a panic attack.

Mental health disorders were not a ‘thing’ in 1995. Clearly they existed, but no one talked about them, or really understood them.

I had been heading down, what I now realise, was a really rocky slope since mid-1994 when the pressure of the impending HSC, my perfectionism, and the lack of my perceived post-school options collided in an almighty shitstorm. I spent months studying until midnight, waking up at 4-5am with chest pains and a vomit or two before heading to the loungeroom to manage the angst with hot tea and re-runs of Neighbours. There were no special considerations. No one at the school knew. The day my HSC finished was the day my chest pains and vomiting stopped. Now that I could eat again, I celebrated with a bottle of Coke, and some Jatz with French onion dip. Little did I know that the end of this chapter would be just the beginning of a lifelong skirmish with fluctuating mental health ‘issues.’

Things got a little dark when I moved from my tiny country town of 3,500 residents to a city with around 300,000. I gave zero fucks about being accepted into uni even though it was all I had aimed for after slogging it out to achieve a magic number. I was flatlining, which by today’s standards would’ve been diagnosed as depression. Then there was the panic attack on day one that snowballed to 3 years of panic attacks.

My first panic attack was like nothing I had felt before. I had to get the hell out of that Great Hall, immediately, and take refuge in the bathroom. With lightheadedness, thumping chest, and gulping breaths, it was the epitome of fight or flight. I’d dived off a cliff and it was on like Donkey Kong. I was now in a long-term battle with myself.

My parents tried to help by sending me to a psychiatrist and a hypnotherapist, but it was a different time. The medications were hard core and there was no language around what I was experiencing. I didn’t tell the uni – I didn’t even know if it was an option. I couldn’t let my friends know – the shame would’ve killed me. Instead, I decided I would manage it myself – no medication, no therapy, no telling anyone. I developed workarounds and stealthy avoidance tactics. I had some healthy coping mechanisms such as digging my fingernails into my skin if I felt the panic rising in order to shift the focus from my thoughts. I kept showing up to classes (mostly!) and held down a number of jobs. I was a high functioning lunatic. Was I thriving though? Absolutely not! I was languishing and just scraping through.

God knows how I finished my degree as there was so much effort going in to appearing ‘normal’. But I finished it, graduated, and created more and more coping mechanisms (not always ideal) that allowed me to live a pretty good life. But the way my brain is wired means that the ‘crazy’ would keep rearing its head at the most inopportune fucking moments. It was becoming inconvenient, irritating, and exhausting. I’m sure it affected (and still might) every part of my life – from my career choices to my relationships, my parenting, and my motivation (or lack thereof).

As the years went on, I spent quite a bit of time ‘in therapy’ but it wasn’t until I said enough was enough at the age of 35 that I finally gave medication another go, and what an epiphany that was! With anxiety taking more of a back seat, I began to flourish, and even when shit went down – and it did go down (as it does for everyone) – I could keep my head above water.

Is it a perfect solution? Not at all! I’ve had to accept that my anxiously wired brain will always throw some curveballs. There’ll always be a niggling little voice inside that second guesses something I’ve said in a conversation or worries that I’ve overplayed a strength. There will always be an underlying fear that I’m simply not ‘good enough’. There will be times when people may need to talk me down from the ledge if I think I’ve upset someone. There will be a tendency for me to default to the ‘safer option’ (particularly career-wise), and I’ll still need to take the odd Gastro Stop tablet before I board a plane. But, time, age, experience, medication, and a sense of humour have been great healers. They have helped me to embrace my unique brand of ‘crazy’.

I can’t go back and be kinder to 17-year-old me, but I can now sit in The Great Hall, albeit still not a professional writer and still looking for escape routes.

I can now sit in The Great Hall and stay.

Some advice for my daughter

·         Despite the occasional crucifixion from peers, there’s nothing wrong with being the ‘good girl’. Good girls might finish last initially, but eventually they win.

·         However, don’t be so good that you never have fun. Revel in life! Push a few boundaries, take some calculated risks and try not to fear failure. You might discover something (or someone) amazing!

·         Intelligence is not something to be ashamed of. Don’t dumb yourself down to gain approval from others, but try to use it wisely and humbly.

·         If you dress like trash, you will attract trash. Embrace your body and adopt your own style, but always leave something to the imagination.

·         Always remember you are beautiful. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel otherwise.

·         Be resilient in the face of adversity. I will always walk by your side but I won’t fight your battles.

·         Don’t begrudge anyone their success or money. If you want something, work hard and earn it! You will be eternally dissatisfied if everything is handed to you.

·         Be gracious. Manners are the most important lesson you will learn and they are the attribute people will remember.

·         Appreciate what you have. So many people have so much less. Try to give something back.

·         Try not to form preconceived notions about others. Everyone has a past.

·         Take responsibility for your actions and own your mistakes. It takes greater courage to admit fault and apologise than blame someone else.

·         Food is one of life’s greatest pleasures. Never make it your enemy!

·         Surround yourself with music. It will move you, inspire you, heal you and take you to places you could only dream of.

·         You will meet many people throughout your life, but will end up with about a handful of friends who you will trust enough to share your innermost thoughts, desires and fears.

·         There is no shame in seeking help. Suffering in silence will only hinder you.

·         Never be afraid to love deeply and passionately, but don’t be blind sighted! Ensure the person you love has common core values, treats you with respect and loves you with as much depth and passion.

·         Don’t underestimate the power of laughter. It will regenerate you.

·         One day your eyebrows are going to look like mine and despite the fact my mother told me mine were beautiful like Brooke Shields’ circa 1984 – they weren’t. They needed to be waxed. And so will yours…every few weeks for the rest of your life. Believe me, you won’t regret it!

Colouring outside the lines

I thought it was only my husband who was cultivating a household full of nerds - prepping them for a lifetime of geeky pursuits and school yard crucifixion.

And admittedly he has played a major role.

Case in point:

1.       The Ranga’s OBSESSION with Star Wars. He has only ever seen snippets of the movie, but can still re-enact pivotal scenes using Mega Bloks, plastic golf sticks as lightsabers, and a fake pumpkin as an explosion (flip one over and believe it or not it actually looks like one). He can name all of the characters, and can be found meandering around the house dressed as Darth Vader, draped in a quilt and wearing a bucket on his head.

2.       Miss C’s anal artistic endeavours. Pineman and I both have creative backgrounds. However, I am not the one who paints armies of miniature figurines and teaches the kids bizarre colour names.  Miss C dropped a pencil from our back deck the other day and when I asked her which colour it was so I could go and look for it, she responded with, “snake leather bite”. 

“What the hell is snake leather bite??” I demanded of Pineman who nearly collapsed with laughter (obviously some nerdy in-joke) and replied with, “I think she means ‘snake bite leather’”. Because that sounded far more reasonable!

Anyway, The Ranga banging on about how he can only be addressed as Han Solo, coupled with Miss C’s eternal meltdowns about people using the WRONG colour for faces and everyone colouring outside the lines, got me thinking.

If my children are this anal/nerdy/obsessive then perhaps there is more than one gene pool to blame. So I took a good hard look at myself and this is what I discovered…

I was not cool at school – maybe not the lowest common denominator - but certainly not far off. I played in the school band and sang in the choir. I took part in school musicals (anyone who has seen Glee will understand what that did for my reputation). I represented the school in debating for the annual interschool ‘sports’ visit (yes, in my mind it was a sport). I lived across the road from my high school and my dad was one of my teachers!

Amongst other achievements, I used to have to get up in front of the whole school to accept an ‘attendance award’ each year. Yay for me, fellow students – I have been to school Every. Single. Day. This. Year. Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed, that’s my dad who just kicked someone out of the assembly.

Any wonder I never had a boyfriend?

And while everyone at university was wrestling in a jelly pit or sculling beer from a communal yard glass, I was in the library conducting research for my assignments. Need I say more?

But what I have found is that years of achievement in my youth has lead to years and years of underachievement in adulthood.

I have hopped from job to job to job, never knowing what to do next, never staying long enough to climb any ladders, terrified of failure, terrified of success.

I have realised that the types of people who truly succeed in life are the ones who are not afraid to push boundaries, take risks and dream big. The types of people who truly succeed in life wear thick raincoats to weather all manner of storms.

I am not that type of person.  My raincoat tears very, very easily, and I’ve never been a big fan of drowning.

I continued to ponder all of these things recently whilst attending Miss C’s school orientation session.

What do I want for my daughter as she embarks on this new and formative part of her life? We are so painfully similar in some respects that it’s excruciating to watch.

I keep telling her that it’s okay to make mistakes and there are different versions of ‘right’. But I’m not sure I truly believe half the stuff I tell her.

I want to let her know that there are so many pathways to achievement. That she has so many options. That failure is not a catastrophic event.

I want her to find something she is passionate about – anything at all – and not be afraid to pursue it.

I want her to feel like she can colour outside the lines, jump in the jelly pit and scull from the communal yard glass (or maybe not the latter – it just sounds naff!)

I want to send her to school armed with a bulletproof vest and the world’s thickest raincoat, to weather all the storms.

I’m not sure what ticks away in that little mind of hers - but when the previously anal artist presented me with a picture of a rainbow coloured mouse recently and said, “I’m going to start doing my art differently because it’s art” – I thought: perhaps the raincoat I’m sending her with is thick enough?

When life hands you lemons…

Sometimes life hands you lemons. Sometimes it hands you the whole friggin’ orchard!

Seven years ago today we lost our first baby at fifteen weeks gestation to a congenital birth abnormality. It was a little boy. And when he died, a piece of me died too.

His condition was called Megacystis, which in simple terms meant he had an enlarged bladder. In reality, it meant death was inevitable. We made an impossible choice.

At the time I felt like a spectator watching a car spiralling out of control and slamming into a tree. Except I wasn’t a spectator, I was driving the car.

I tried desperately to crawl out of the wreck, grasping at anything that could help me escape my situation, but when pregnancy number two (another son) ended abruptly at fourteen and a half weeks gestation for an unrelated chromosome abnormality, I was emotionally spent.

It must have been some overwhelming instinctual desire that took over after that, because there was no good intellectual reason for trying again – the odds were certainly not in our favour. In that time I juiced thousands of lemons.

My third pregnancy was different from the beginning, but the vice-like grip around my chest never really allowed me to believe it. My focus was always on the finish line, and when I found out the due date was three days before today’s date, I knew my baby would be born late.

As I laboured through the night, I realised my prophecy was coming true - my first living child was going to be born on the second anniversary of my first son’s death.  I felt the planets align that morning.

Five years ago today I gave birth to a daughter. She was my daughter and she was tiny and pink and breathing, and when I held her to my chest, she urinated down the front of me just to let me know that her little bladder was working.

And now she is five, and she is one of the sweetest, most complicated little people I know. When I look at her I see myself, which both delights and terrifies me.  She is creative and inquisitive and caring, and at the core of her being is someone who loves with her whole heart – and I love her with all of mine.

Five years ago today, with the scars from the squeezing indelibly etched, I learnt how to make lemonade.