Tuesday night. A full table. They’ve run out of chairs. A bar stool is pulled up for a late comer. This family dinner of friends. Laughter, as they struggle to carve steaming chunks of bread baked too late in the day. Flour, salt, yeast, water – left to their own devices. It is magic. Their jousting and joking voices trip over each other like clear water over ancient rocks.
If I could bottle the alchemy of this teen mealtime I’d decant it into two bottles. The first I would hand to the naysayers whose eyebrows migrated towards their hairlines, when I was in the mind-numbing grind of toddlerhood and they sniffed ‘Just you wait ‘til they are teenagers. Now that is hard.’
I’d offer the second bottle to a newish mother swamped in those merciless early trenches. I would say ‘Just you wait ‘til they are teenagers.’ Then I’d tell her ‘That is when it all makes sense. The guessing games of early childhood will be behind you. They will have the words. And you will have had more than a decade to discover exactly who they are.’
I’d choose a day with my teenage children over a day with them as tiny kids every time.
Babies and toddlers might be adorable… in small doses… when you can hand them back to their parent. But as the parent amid baby and toddlerhood, my joy was tinged with claustrophobia. When overwhelm threatened, you might get to leave the room. But not for long. Parenting very young children is a lot of basic problem solving (Hungry? Tired? Wet/dirty? Sick?) and accepting things you cannot change. Repeatedly for long stretches of time.
Warning young parents that everything gets worse in the teenage years is a bit like smugly telling pregnant women birthing horror stories. It doesn’t serve a purpose. And it is NOT a truth universally acknowledged by those who are living through this life stage.
Most teens sleep through the night, can go to the toilet independently, feed themselves, book many of their own appointments, and organise their social lives without parental involvement.
As my children fly towards their own adventures, I don’t feel loss. They are doing what they are meant to do. The snippets of time I get to share with them mean a lot to me. Our conversations play between the silly and the serious.
And they are comfortable enough to share their experience of childhood with me. The good, the imperfect, and the ugly traumas that were borne of challenges even their adult parents had no control over.
They articulate things I was deaf to in the early years. When I was so rigidly set on giving them a great childhood that I was unable to accept that sometimes my best would not be good enough for them. When I couldn’t see that putting in the effort and not intentionally harming them would have to be good enough at the time.
Some of those days remind me of managing a catastrophic abdominal wound. One with organs protruding through ragged edges, open to infection. A good surgeon won’t immediately stuff everything back in and neatly stitch the skin back over the disaster. They will flush everything, control the bleeding, and then they will pack it all with laparotomy sponges. They will dress the wound but leave the abdomen open. It won’t be pretty, but it will be good enough at the time. They will come back when the patient is less critical, when dead tissue can be excised, when it is clean enough to close safely. Their patient may end up with a big scar, but they will have survived.
For me early parenthood was complicated. It included not making it home with my first baby until she was four months old. Post-natal psychosis followed by the beginnings of bipolar 1 disorder meant we spent this time in the mother baby unit of a psychiatric hospital. Since then, bipolar episodes have landed me in hospital for weeks or months every 2-3 years.
Our family is open about mental illness. I have excellent insight into my symptom pattern. We have always had supportive family and friends to help during my hospital stays. My access to good mental health care means that in between episodes my mental health is better than that of many parents without a diagnosis.
I used to think – naively – that doing all of these ‘right things’ meant my children would make it through maybe with skinned knees but never wounds nasty enough to pack at the time and close later.
Yet here I am. At times confronted by the scar tissue my teenagers show me. But I am also deeply grateful to be in a season when they are old enough to have the words and the trust in me to speak their truth.
They bombard me with joy, and noise, and friends around for an impromptu dinner on a Tuesday. They head into the world and return at odd hours. And my heavily medicated sleep is no longer broken by the cries of babies demanding everything of me all of the time.
If you enjoyed this post, you can find more of my writing at the links below:
Prague 2002 – years before Lithium entered the chat
I remember the first time I became aware of Lithium. Not the battery kind. Lithium carbonate, the gold standard treatment for bipolar disorder. Especially bipolar 1 disorder. It was before I had a definitive diagnosis. In the murky months after I was introduced to mental illness by postnatal psychosis.
My psychiatrist had said from the beginning that I could have an underlying bipolar disorder, had mentioned Lithium. I rejected this potential differential diagnosis.
We never got as far as Lithium that first time. I was sucked into a rebound depression that spread from dullness to catatonic in days. It was the necrotising fasciitis of psychiatry. It needed more than pills to stop it. A course of 12 electroconvulsive therapy treatments recovered me to the point of being able to go home with my then four-month-old baby.
I fully recovered.
18 months later I gradually came off all my medications and was fine. I risked smugness. So much for an underlying bipolar disorder. My psychiatrist reminded me patiently that I would have to be symptom free for 3-5 years to rule out bipolar disorder more definitively.
I didn’t make it to 5 years. I got sick again with my second (and last) baby 2 years later, and went on to have classic bipolar 1 episodes every 2-3 years.
By the time my psychiatrist suggested Lithium again, I was in the throes of psychosis, delusional and still in the stage of lacking insight common to early episodes of severe mental illness.
I laughed.
‘I’m not sick enough to need Lithium.’
I was convinced I was being offered it as a test, and that to pass the test, I needed to refuse to take it.
Eventually the trust in my psychiatrist penetrated the delusions, and I was persuaded.
It came with warnings. Stay hydrated. It can give you a metallic taste in the mouth. We need to monitor your kidneys, and thyroid, and most importantly blood Lithium levels. Too high and you risk Lithium toxicity, which can be fatal.
The list of potential side effects is long…like for paracetamol. I weighed them against the potential benefits, which included reducing the severity and frequency of my symptoms. Each bipolar episode had left me sifting the ashes of myself through once capable fingers. I was tired of working hard to re-establish my life only to be levelled again and again.
It’s been fifteen years since I tentatively welcomed my first dose of Lithium into my body. It’s not a cure. It is not solely responsible for reducing symptoms. It is a main character in my cast of management tools. I still get sick enough for hospital every couple of years, but not as severely and not for as long.
Lithium steadies me. It leads when I am the autumn leaf, caught in the whirlwind of my special brain chemistry, crunchy and fragile under life’s boot. It steps back when I settle, just a steady presence, swallowed twice daily. Solid ground in the house of my life. I don’t think about where I’d be without it.
It hasn’t asked for too much in return…so far…
Fine, intermittent hand tremors wobble my liquid eye liner. I could no longer perform surgery… if I still worked as a vet.
My thyroid function is compromised. Thyroxine is an easy fix… Even my endocrinologist agrees it is easier to supplement the thyroid than to attempt my life without Lithium.
Individual responses to Lithium like so many psychiatric medications are variable and fickle. I know someone who almost died of Lithium toxicity, many with impaired thyroid function, others whose kidney function meant they weren’t compatible with lithium, or it just didn’t work for them. It’s not for everyone.
My Lithium levels have always been where they should be. I don’t take that for granted.
But then came Thursday last week, and the unwelcome news of elevated Lithium levels. Not rush me off to hospital high, but high enough to have my psychiatrist and I contemplate the house of cards that is my medication regime.
Neither of us like this. We know from experience that even a gentle tug of one card can send my next several months toppling around my ears. So, we agreed to an almost microscopic reduction in my Lithium dose, hoping to bring the levels down without angering my brain into symptom mode. We’ll recheck levels in a month.
My dance with Lithium has been one of many things that have gifted me a beautiful quality of life. Fingers crossed it stays that way.
CW: minor mention of severe bipolar 1 disorder symptoms – no detail
It is World Bipolar Day again. Some years I’ve celebrated and advocated. Others I’ve greeted the day with anger. Others again it has barely registered.
I first became aware of WBD around 2018, the beginning of Thought Food and my training as a peer ambassador with SANE. The beginning of my mental health advocacy era. Over years I have poured thousands of words borne of my lived experience and opinions about this illness into Thought Food. Some perhaps a little naive, but they felt right at the time.
For the last year or so I have had nothing new to say about this slippery illness whose symptoms and response to treatments vary from patient to patient.
But my algorithm made it impossible to forget that WBD is today, and I didn’t feel averse to a spot of writing. So here we are.
My bipolar disorder keeps me humble.
It reminds me I can’t shove myself through brick walls driven by ego and will, the way I did before it joined me.
How do I feel about living with it?
I won’t sugar coat it. My last hospital admission was 6 months ago. Except for a brief period off medication between having my two children, I have been medicated – some would say heavily, but it’s all relative – for 18 years. My thyroid gland has malfunctioned on some of the bipolar medication. Brain trumps thyroid. So, I take thyroid medication to negate the effects of that bipolar medication. I have regular blood tests to monitor other organ systems for compromise from the bipolar medications. If my kidneys take a hit, I will have some big decisions to make. My lifespan is likely to be 10-15 years shorter than the general population courtesy of bipolar 1 disorder, a little less if I manage to dodge suicide.
If this sounds bleak – read on. It’s not all bad.
When I am not symptomatic, which is most of the time, my quality of life sits between good and excellent. I am psychologically healthier than most people I know who don’t live with mental illness. I have worked to get my relationships into good shape. I don’t tolerate toxicity or a lack of self-awareness in those relationships.
I know how much energy I have and where I want to put it, always. Exercise is non negotiable for my health, so I do it and reap the endorphins. For me the idea that bipolar medications stifle creativity is a myth. I fully enjoy my creativity when my brain has been unscrambled by my medication. I am not particularly worried about possibly living for less time because I have the tools to make whatever time I do have great.
In the beginning bipolar 1 disorder threw everything it had at me. Horrifying psychotic episodes, unstoppable mania, catatonic depressive episodes that only responded to electroconvulsive therapy, and suicidal ideations.
I can’t predict what it will challenge me with next, but I have learnt that developing insight into my specific symptom patterns and responding quickly to recognising those patterns when they occur, rather than denying they are happening – as I did in the early years – is key to avoiding the worst ends of the bipolar spectrum.
Early intervention for each episode is crucial. For me that usually means hospital admission to monitor symptoms and adjust medication as needed. My early hospital admissions were often months long. My most recent admission was two weeks.
Now for a bit of advocacy.
If you know someone newly or not so newly diagnosed with bipolar disorder, give them patience. It takes appropriate treatment and support from loved ones to gain initial stability.
In the long term, it also takes hard work and time for the person living with this illness to secure two of the most important contributors to well managed bipolar disorder:
The insight and acceptance to allow them to live with respect for this illness and the space it will occupy in them for the rest of their lives.
Every day my social media accounts are invaded by things I didn’t ask for but tolerate as part of the bargain inherent in using them. Some are charming timewasters. Clips of cats and kittens come to mind. Most of these digital interlopers are benign space occupying things I let slide.
But occasionally something snags my attention. And so it was recently.
The algorithm has sniffed out that I have high school aged children and served me up an earnest looking young man who claimed he could give my children the opportunity (via his webinar) to get high ATAR scores. Using the techniques in said webinar he claimed he had achieved a 99.25 ATAR (the highest possible score being 99.95).
This information was interspersed with a montage of stressed looking students cradling their heads in their hands and covering their eyes. He explained sombrely that many students wouldn’t get the ATAR they needed for the university course they wanted, the implication being that this would be a disaster no parent would want to inflict on their child.
My immediate thoughts?
He should be out in the world living his best life, making some life lesson yielding mistakes, and not measuring his self-worth according to a number that doesn’t mean a lot in the scheme of a life.
Then there are the schools, most of whom are complicit in perpetuating the myth that a high ATAR equals success. Having as many of their students achieve high ATAR scores as possible apparently draws future students and their parents to them like kids to cupcakes, as though the school’s ‘success’ ensures their ‘success’.
The pressure begins subtly with year 9 information evenings about subject selection and increases with each year. By year 11 and 12 the shove for students to consider which subjects will get them the highest ATAR scores is blatant.
What the webinar advertiser and the schools fail to address is that the ATAR score needed to get into a university course doesn’t equate to having the skills necessary to succeed at the job the course qualifies you for.
Take medicine and veterinary science. Both need high entrance scores, but unless you go into research, the academic skills required to obtain the high score are not the most important skills needed to be a good vet or doctor.
Clever on paper does not necessarily guarantee a good bedside manner.
In my experience the high score that gets you into vet science won’t help you deal sensitively with people who are grieving, or who can’t afford first line diagnostics and treatment.
The schools and earnest young webinar touters neglect to highlight the many paths into university that don’t involve an ATAR, nor that a university education is not essential for a happy successful life.
I did grade 11 and 12 in the dark ages. We had TE (tertiary entrance) scores. I knew I wanted to be a vet from grade 10 onwards.
Entry into vet science required a TE score of 980. I got a 975. Did it sting to miss out on my first choice by 5 points. Absolutely. Did it ruin my life? Yes…for a few hours.
But I got into my second choice – a Bachelor of Science. I worked hard in my first year and got the marks I needed to upgrade from a Bachelor of Science into the Bachelor of Veterinary Science.
The role of parents of kids in senior school also seems to have shifted in the 33 years since I finished high school. The onus on parents now seems to be to coddle, cajole, and coach their children towards academic ‘success’.
When I chose to headbutt my way into a university course with a high entry score requirement my parents were supportive but not pushy.
Their quiet confidence that I would make my life work with whatever I did, launched me into a future where I knew that wherever I went it would be through my own decisions and effort.
As for my children?
I keep their aspirations private beyond the people we have chosen to share them with.
But they won’t be mindlessly squashed into ATAR shaped holes. Likewise, if they are passionate about a career that needs a university education we will support them with kind words, hugs, good food, gentle suggestions to sleep well, get some fresh air, and to have fun with their friends.
I will not be shoving earnest young men with an agenda in their face, and I will encourage them to disregard any pressure their school puts on them regarding AATAR scores.
If you liked this post, here are a couple of others of related topics:
CW: Sanism, recent news cycle, mention of violence
It’s been nearly a week and I have intentionally held my horses and my tongue.
The news cycle has generated a flurry of hot takes on the horrific events at a Sydney shopping centre last weekend. It stumbled many times in its race for the truth and now appears to have moved on to fresher fodder.
This week included a first for me. I have wished for a bipolar disorder flare up severe enough to render me unaware of the above-mentioned news cycle. I have craved the security of being in hospital. Usually when I long for the hospital, I am too unwell to be at home.
Right now? I am stone cold sane.
I imagine anyone with a pulse, access to the news, and a shred of empathy has been devastated by the deaths, injuries and trauma that stained last Saturday afternoon. Me too.
I’ve also wished I could find comfort in plunging my head into the sand. However, for now, I am well enough to find that prospect more unbearable than having word projectiles launched at me.
It is easy for me to sink into the comfortable feather bed of my friends, family, and acquaintances who are supportive, who don’t other me, who see all of me. It is easy to feel complacent, to believe that yes things are getting better out there, that we are reducing stigma surrounding mental illness. But things are not getting better when psychosis is in the picture.
The minute the media spewed out the words ‘mental health issues’ and ‘schizophrenia’ in relation to the knife attacks, I braced myself for what was to come. And it came alright. Those words lit a match to the petrol-soaked kindling held by people paddling around in all of the news outlet and social media comments sections.
If you haven’t lived with what I have, you might think – ‘Don’t read the comments. They are rubbish.’
Yes. But they are also a barometer and thermometer. And if you are someone who walks through the world with a severe mental illness, knowing the temperature and pressure of your surroundings matters.
We all come at the comments sections from the launch pads of our life experience.
As someone who has lived experience of postnatal psychosis and lives with well managed bipolar disorder, here is a snapshot of where I come from:
My experiences of psychosis have been the most terrifying of my life. I have dry retched and screamed with fear in the middle of them. And I have been safe and receiving the best care when they have happened.
I can’t imagine how I would have survived, let alone felt, if I had been experiencing this awful symptom, without care and treatment, while homeless, in the throes of addiction, or without the privilege I live with. If I were still alive, I don’t know what path I’d be on.
Over the last 17 years I have written and talked about not only my experiences but the failures of the public mental health system that are at least partially responsible for thousands of people having a poor quality of life when they don’t need to. I have pointed out many times that these failures almost always contribute when tragedy is the last stop on the derailed train of a poorly managed or unmanaged severe mental illness.
I have gone on ad nauseum about stigma surrounding severe mental illness, and the barrier it forms between people who need good care and their ability to access it.
And I am far from the only one writing and talking about it. Yet here we are.
Here I am feeling punched in the gut by two words that popped up frequently in the comments sections this week. One of my most hated pejoratives used to be ‘psycho bitch’. This week ‘psycho bitch’ was toppled by ‘these people’.
‘These people’ is less in your face than ‘psycho bitch’ – but more sinister. Where ‘psycho bitch’ is aggressive, ‘these people’ drips with contempt. ‘These people’ can be applied to any demographic the speaker or writer has a problem with. When I read ‘these people’. I picture the words tripping out of the mouths of people like Pauline Hanson, Adolf Hitler, Donald Trump,
To clarify, this week ‘these people’ in the comments sections was not a descriptor of knife wielding mass murderers. ‘These people’ referred to people – like me – who live with severe mental illness.
And the gist of the recommendations for ‘these people’ was that we should ‘be rounded up and locked away, or burn in hell’ and that we are like ‘vicious dogs who should not be let out in the community.’
While these sentiments frustrate and sicken me, I am not worried about me. I have an accurate diagnosis, access to good care, insight, and know how to look after myself.
I worry about people who are having a first or early experience with symptoms of a severe mental illness, who read this poison when they are alone, who soak it up and believe it to be the truth. This stigmatising language is enough to stop someone who is new to this, or entrenched in a stigma spiral, getting the help they need. This is particularly disheartening knowing that early interventions, especially when it comes to psychosis, give the best outcomes.
Most people who don’t get the help they need will never hurt anyone else, but they are at risk of having a poor quality of life, or not surviving their illness.
And anyone who includes stigmatising language in their vocabulary actively contributes to this cycle of suffering.
Last Saturday’s perpetrator may have been a misogynistic arsehole, capable of violence, regardless of his history of a mental illness.
Or his actions may have resulted wholly from unmanaged or poorly managed long term mental illness featuring psychosis and little help from the public mental health system.
Or it might have been a combination of both.
Most of us will never know.
So, do we need to?
I used to think so.
I used to think that the more detail in reports about a perpetrator’s mental ill health and areas where the mental health system had potentially failed them, the more the public would understand.
But I no longer believe there is any benefit in feeding a baying-for- blood public, click baity snippets or even more detailed information that they don’t appear to have the experience, compassion, or education to process rationally and fairly.
Consistent bad reporting on mental illness and its repercussions hurts vulnerable people. We may as well slide back into that dangerous fertiliser for stigma – silence.
I have written several posts about media reporting and stigma surrounding complex mental ill health over the years. Here are some that you might like to check out:
I know people who don’t consume the news anymore. Others avidly click, swipe, and share and demand the shares be shared and that donations be made.
A sense of needing to ‘do something’ beats like a heart behind our screens.
Some say the carnage and its causes are complex. Others claim it couldn’t be simpler. Meanwhile, powerful, malevolent toddlers masquerading as leaders extinguish lives with their belligerent tantrums. This kind of hellish tit for tat has been going on all over the planet for aeons. There’s nothing new about our news.
The atrocities we were clicking and swiping and enthusiastically sharing and donating to a year or two ago, are far from over. This trauma has not stopped. It’s just not as fresh as what we are fed from further south right now.
While my bipolar disorder sleeps, I choose to neither soak myself in headlines nor bury my head in our (increasingly hot) sand.
I have always struggled to understand warring over a homeland, because (regardless of my genetics, birthplace, or heritage) I don’t identify as belonging to a country or a people. I was taught to be a chameleon, a grateful visitor wherever I go. It has been drilled into the DNA of my family who moved around a lot, who has flight in its history, whose ancestors have done their best not to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I don’t believe humanity has quite enough humanity to ever achieve world peace. If we had the capacity to resolve conflict without collateral civilian casualties, we’d have done so a long time ago.
Our individual lack of control over global catastrophes and atrocities can feel depressing. But we can each control how we react to our feelings. Providing we are not experiencing a severe episode of clinical depression, we can feed our sense of hope by turning a microscope on our own lives and surroundings.
Good stories play out near us all the time. I witnessed one on holidays at the beach recently:
A not so gentle day. Dumping waves boiled the water. One after the other. If you got caught up in one of those you became an ingredient in a soup of flailing limbs. A bit closer to the shore we laughed and played in the sea foam bubble bath, eyes always on the incoming, legs resisting the drag out into the angry ocean.
Then to my right a little girl, five or six, began to cry. The wash after a wave swallowed her and spat her back up like an acorn. Spluttering, she looked wildly about. I assumed the woman near her was her grandmother. She scooped up the crying girl and pointed to some other adults nearby. The girl shook her head, sobbed red faced, hair plastered to her head. I just caught the older woman’s words above the rush of water.
‘Can you point to your mummy or daddy darling?’
The girl was crying too hard for speech, too hard to point. This was not her grandmother.
Yet she positioned the girl on one wide hip and purposefully strode away from danger. Finally, where the waves petered out onto the sand, the girl’s father appeared, and a narrative that could have played out so badly, ended well.
While the brutality of the news can suck the happiness out of our heads, good things still exist. And they don’t need to be stories. Simple snippets suffice:
Taking refuge from a storm in a second hand book shop.
Sleeping cats.
A tidy bedroom and a good book.
The sound of cicadas.
Wildlife visitors.
Converting ingredients into a meal.
Having a kitchen to cook in.
A warm hand to hold walking in the summer breeze.
A rainbow, thunder, and lightning occupying the sky all at once.
The clink of ice cubes against a condensation beaded glass, and the first sip.
Clean pyjamas after an evening shower.
Children growing into themselves.
Free will and choice…
When I disengage from my screens for long enough to look around me, snippets appear everywhere.
I have at times been guilty of outrage in response to what my screens feed me.
But, for me, outrage on its own achieves little. It is hot air shouted into a furnace. And it is a luxury I can’t afford or sustain, because ongoing outrage can convert into powerful fuel for a bipolar episode.
On the other hand, deciding to tend the happiness in my own backyard builds the strength to do meaningful things for myself and the wider world.
PS: If you are clinically mentally unwell, then the suggestions in this post to focus on the positives around you apply only if you are well enough to do so. Symptoms of severe mental illness, especially clinical depression, can make it impossible to focus on the positives without more targeted treatments, such as psychological or medical therapies.
For me, a sign that I need more support than the power of positive thought is when I find it impossible to focus on the positive, and guilt and negative self-talk set in, because I’ve failed to appreciate the positive.
Lastly, if I were currently experiencing a bipolar episode I would not consume any news, and would focus solely on recovery.
I don’t usually pour my energy into the sinkhole that is responding to objectionable social media posts, even when scratching the itchy impulse to sling a vomit emoji or a WATF into the comments section of someone I don’t know, feels irresistible.
But it’s trickier when you not only know but have real life connections and interactions with the authors, re-posters, and likers of problematic posts. To clarify, when I say ‘objectionable’ and ‘problematic’, I mean homophobic, transphobic, racist, and bigoted posts masquerading as ‘I am entitled to my opinion’.
The first time one of these popped up on my screen from someone familiar to me in real life I reflected through my shock and anger. Perhaps it was ill considered? Posted in haste? I decided to let it go.
The problem is the first time was not the last. Over a couple of years there have been enough to show they are more likely to spring from strongly held, hostile beliefs rather than accidental misjudgements.
How then do I react?
Although not extremely frequent, each fresh post is another pebble in the shoe of my conscience, and prompts a quote from a speech given by Chief of the Australian Army, Lieutenant-General David Morrison to roll around in my thoughts:
‘The standard you walk past is the standard you accept.’
It has become impossible for me to just keep walking.
Silence feels unacceptable and challenging these Facebook posts in the comments section would just pour oil on a bin fire I don’t want to give oxygen to. So, this is where I am at:
I don’t believe the people I know who engage in this content are bad people.
It just seems they might be struggling to see beyond their own cramped worldview and demands. They seem to feel threatened and instead of learning to open themselves up to explore their uncomfortable feelings, they clamp down and slam shut the door to curious compassion.
We all love our comfort zones, but when our comfort comes at the expense of the health, safety, and wellbeing of others we need to question whether it is worth it.
I am not going to quote specific content I’ve encountered. But I will probe and push back on one troubling often cited reason for the defensiveness in many of these posts.
The authors claim they don’t want to be made to feel responsible for ‘things’ that happened at the time the British invaded Australia. The lack of awareness that these ‘things’ are still happening and that ‘things’ is a slimy euphemism for ‘atrocities’ leaves me lost… and unhelpfully debating whether to reach for something heavy to throw or a bucket to vomit into.
Then there is the point that this approach to historical events misses completely:
No one is directly responsible for their ancestors’ actions.
But whether we had responsible ancestors or not we can all reflect on the impact those ancestors’ actions had, and still have, on others today. It is the only way to move forward with awareness instead of entitlement.
None of us live in a vacuum. We all have effects on each other. Turning away on the grounds that we weren’t around when something bad happened in history, guarantees bad things continue to happen.
Between the ages of six and thirteen I grew up in Germany, where high school students had excursions to former Nazi concentration camp sites. This was not to make the students whose forebears were responsible for the horrors perpetrated in those camps ‘feel responsible’ but to educate all students about this horrendous period of their country’s history.
It was to prevent the next generations from walking into their future with blinkers on about their past.
Those who have only ever lived in one community might have to work harder at gaining a wider world perspective. It might feel uncomfortable to slip on glasses and see beyond the brand of fierce, Australian, colonial, patriotism that has inflicted and continues to inflict so much trauma on First Nations people and their countries.
When I dig beneath my initial outrage and frustration over these social media posts, I am left…frustrated by my current indecision and the frayed end of this post. I like clean excisions and neat stitches.
I would prefer not to create family rifts but am also not conflict avoidant enough to rule out cutting people from my life whose values and world view feel so incompatible with mine.
Would I make this decision based on social media posts alone? Probably not. I am cautiously open to respectful conversations with the people involved but unwilling to engage in meaningless conflict for the sake of it.
As for future social gatherings, I think I may struggle to just play in the topsoil of pleasantries when I can’t unsee the sinister seeds threatening to sprout from below the surface.
A weekend away with myself, books, writing implements, a beach, and the ticking of a clock in absolute silence (a sound I love in a way no one else in my family does). –
I relished the feel of sand moulding itself to the arches of my feet and the rush of eternal waves onto the almost empty beach. I ran into the bracing water, and it yanked the breath from my lungs. But once I’d dived in, I adjusted quickly to the foaming, swirling rush of it. The plunge through the waves – like moving through liquid glass. And I was alone. Gloriously so.
I could have stayed longer, happily cocooned in my own company. But I came away with a handful of seashells and some jottings about what fifty means for me.
To date I have hungrily embraced each new decade, and I am not bothered by being midlife (if I live a long one). But I wince at some of the connotations the world cloaks this age in.
I grimace at ads for ‘Fit over fifty’ exercise classes and independent living communities for fifty plus people. I am not ready to go gently into ‘age appropriate’ exercise or towards ‘communities’ of over fifties who wander aimlessly through their last decades. And the prospect of fifty rendering me eligible to enter the geriatric wing of the hospital whenever the next bipolar episode strikes, feels horrific.
My view of fifty?
I am grateful for a body that works well most of the time and that exercise has been a part of my life for long enough for me to know what gets my endorphins going. I have no idea what I weigh, and providing my size doesn’t interfere with my ability to exercise I don’t care.
Small age spots have bloomed on the top of my right hand, where sun hits skin when I drive. A recent selfie captured some crepey skin around my neck. And surprise jolts me when I look at it because I don’t feel old enough to have this skin. But I move on. Same with my wrinkles. I don’t necessarily love them, but I love them enough to spend money on books, chocolate, and clothes that fit well rather than on Botox.
I am not into anti-aging products and procedures. Not because I don’t care at all about my appearance. A pretty dress and a good lipstick wrap me in joy when I choose them. But so far, I haven’t turned ‘stopping the visible signs of aging’ into a full-time job I’d be paying money to do.
For me, pregnancy and childbirth did not leave behind stretch marks, varicosities, or cellulite, and my pelvic floor is in great shape. Instead, they triggered my bipolar 1 disorder, which I’d happily trade for some stretch marks.
I don’t worship at the altar of motherhood or martyr myself for it. And I don’t believe in fetishising motherhood into it being the most important, meaningful thing a woman can do. I love my children with a heart squeezing intensity. But that love doesn’t erase the sucking-you-dry-if-you-let-it aspect of mothering.
As for wisdom?
I don’t believe people automatically acquire wisdom with age. If you don’t work for it, you just end up being an older person whose beliefs and opinions calcify into tired well-trodden paths that lack nuance and become almost impossible to break free from.
Some of my rotten patterns have taken decades to unlearn again and again.
I was a perfectly formed perfectionist even before I entered a profession in which the stakes of mistakes are high, and perfectionism is rife and revered. I marinated (quite happily) in the culture of veterinary practice for twenty years. But it has taken a long time to view my perfectionism as deleterious to my mental health rather than as an asset to my career.
I have only recently loosened the white knuckled clench I’ve had on the course of my life and (mostly) relinquished a poisonous, deeply learnt, inbred need for control.
For me, perfectionism and control come with rigidity, and judgement. And while understanding the concept of letting these things go is easy. The work to do it is hard, boring, and ongoing. At times I still slip back into all of them like pairs of comfortable slippers.
The endless pressure to achieve has now mostly evaporated. In its place I recognise that I have more to learn than I ever have and a sense that whatever is next matters.
I have flung open the window toward fifty now and am ready to see what possibilities lie beyond this age for me.
And my birthday wish? That if I put in the work, my words will keep coming.
PS: My second way to mark fifty involves great company and cake. A lot of cake.
It’s been two years since ‘Abductions From My Beautiful Life’ was published.
By the end of last year, I’d finished with promotional activities and hoped to relish my freedom by writing something new.
But I entered an uncertain fog. I felt like never writing anything (beyond a private diary) or having anything published again.
Why?
Let’s go back to the beginning.
‘Abductions’ began unwittingly nearly 17 years ago. I was just over a week into first time motherhood, the inside of my head bruised from the battle between psychosis and antipsychotics. I was an inpatient in the Special Care Unit of a private psychiatric hospital, where rooms were stripped of suicide risks and breakfast toast came in paper bags.
I scribbled my first record of psychosis on one of those toast bags. I wrote with no plan. But the words felt true. So, I held onto the bag.
When I returned to finish the Master of Arts (MA) in Writing, Editing, and Publishing (WEP), which I had started before my pregnancy, I sharpened and submitted my toast packet words as part of my final dissertation. My supervisor told me my writing was good, that I should consider expanding it into a memoir.
I took my first nibble of ego boosting carrot and began writing.
I wrote in small, snatched parcels of time in between veterinary work and looking after my daughter. Gradually the manuscript took shape. I had another baby. The postnatal psychosis returned, carrying with it a diagnosis of Bipolar 1 Disorder.
The book was nowhere near finished now.
I slowly navigated my way around the prickly discomfort of living with this illness. I began some mental health advocacy work. Finishing and having my memoir published became the flagship for that work.
When I got too close to be objective, I paid for a full manuscript assessment. The editor gave me pages of specific, helpful feedback and another chomp at the carrot:
‘You have a wonderful manuscript on your hands here. My job is so much easier when the writer can actually write…’
My ego unfurled.
I worked through all the editor’s notes, confident my book would be published.
I became better acquainted with my Bipolar Disorder. Manic, psychotic, and catatonic depressive episodes rendered me too unwell to write or edit for long stretches of time.
When I finally finished, I asked my former MA supervisor if she could take a look at it.
She liked it enough to pass on to her own literary agent, who loved it and offered to represent me.
This easy start fattened my ego further. I believed my hard work was done.
My agent sent my manuscript to publishers across the country. And I entered an era of nibbling at dangling carrots.
The feedback from publishing houses was consistent. The creative departments were enthusiastic: ‘It’s beautifully written, and an important story that needs to be told.’
Always followed by equally consistent (and devastating) feedback from the financial departments.:
‘It is an important story that needs to be told. But it is not commercial enough for us.’ (ie it won’t sell). ‘Best of luck.’
At one point my agent suggested cutting 10 000 words. I carefully trimmed 10 000 words. It made no difference.
After 18 months of coming close often, but ultimately always being rejected, my agent had exhausted her contacts.
I sent it to publishers who accepted unsolicited manuscripts. Some took six months to reply:
‘It is beautifully written, but not commercial enough for us to publish. Best of luck.’
I’d now come too far to give up. I was looking into self-publishing when my algorithm served me another publisher who accepted unsolicited manuscripts. I thought: ‘Nothing to lose.’ and uploaded my baby.
They replied quickly. They liked it, but also felt it wasn’t commercial enough for them to publish under a traditional model.
However, they offered me a ‘contributary contract’. This meant I’d contribute to some of the cost of publication, and they would provide all the services of a traditional publishing house including editing, copy editing, cover art, ISBN registration, printing, and marketing.
I considered my options. My research into self-publication had so far shown that it could be more expensive than the contributary contract. I also reasoned that I wouldn’t need to outsource the steps between manuscript and published book with the contract.
By now my first words on a toast packet were 12 years ago. I was so thirsty for the end of this road filled with carrots and mirages.
I signed the contributory contract.
I floated on relief.
Covid came. Progress was slow, but I was just happy ‘Abductions’ finally had a home.
My first inkling that all was not good landed in my inbox with the publisher’s cover art suggestion – a grotesque image of a woman’s face half smiling in colour, half miserable in black and white.
It was so far from appropriate (let alone good) that working with the publisher to come up with something better, felt impossible.
My friend Sarah put me in contact with her friend Jerry, a talented freelance designer, who worked with me to create a beautiful cover for ‘Abductions.’
For a while it all seemed to be coming together.
But when the publisher sent me my supposedly print ready proofs to sign off on, unease tinged my excitement. I was expecting more edits, specifically copy edits, before this stage.
Within the first ten pages I found typos, extra spaces between words, inconsistencies. Enough to discredit the quality of the writing. I pointed out the errors and asked the publisher to properly copy edit my manuscript.
The publisher returned my manuscript stating again it was print ready. I found more errors. We reached a stalemate. They wouldn’t copy edit it and I would not sign off on a manuscript that clearly hadn’t been copy edited.
Increasingly anxious, I finally looked online and found accounts of other writers being exploited by this same publisher, a vanity publisher with a terrible reputation.
My ego imploded.
I don’t cry often. That night I didn’t just cry, I howled.
I wanted to wrench my book away from them.
I weighed my options. Pull out, haemorrhage more money and my mental health into a lawsuit and then self-publish or find an independent copy editor to do the work my publisher was meant to do, but get it published this decade.
I choked down bitter, thorny pride and found and hired Linden, a free-lance copy editor.
My suspicion that the publisher had neglected to copy edit my manuscript was proven by Linden’s meticulous work. She found hundreds of errors in her copy edit.
I checked and track changed them all, nauseated by having to read my 90 000 words for the thousandth time.
But I finally felt confident that the manuscript was as good as it could be. I signed off on it and was given a publication date of 30 April 2021.
Worry stalked me after my signature. I was now 14 years on from my toast packet scribbles, and not confident my book would be published.
Yet, a month later a box of books arrived, swathed in bubble wrap and new book smell. ‘Abductions’ had been born against the odds.
Predictably my publisher did no marketing. So, I organised what I could myself.
I celebrated ‘Abductions’ over self-catered book launches with people I knew and loved who brought people they knew and loved.
I sent copies to media outlets, and podcasts, and submitted it to be considered for writers’ festivals, mostly with no responses.
I gave author talks and readings to hospital patients, staff, and nursing students at Belmont Private Hospital, where much of ‘Abductions’ is set, and copies were sold at reception.
I successfully applied to have it stocked in Brisbane City Council Libraries and did a series of library talks. It made its way into a street library in my neighbourhood.
I spent a delightful evening with a local book club who had recently read ‘Abductions’.
I met Kath, a local jewellery designer, at one of my book launches. She wrote me a beautiful letter after reading ‘Abductions’. and offered to display and stock copies for sale in her studio.
I began to receive positive feedback from friends and strangers.
I approached a couple of local independent book shops about stocking ‘Abductions’. One refused to deal with my publisher but was happy to accept a small consignment of books directly from me.
It was a scorching reminder that I could lose readers before they even picked up my book because of my publisher’s bad reputation.
About a year ago I received a long email from a stranger.
It detailed everything they thought was wrong with my writing and my book. There was nothing constructive about this nail bomb of words. They followed up with some equally wounding public Amazon and Good Reads reviews. This semi-troll’s snide references to my ‘vanity publisher’ were a glowing hot poker shoved sizzling into my vulnerability.
I could follow my Gen X instinct and say that in the scheme of my self- shattering Bipolar episodes, publishing woes and word nail bombs are fairy floss flimsy. But that’s a glossy sentence slapped over the bumpy truth, a neat simplistic, disingenuous bow to suggest that just because I’ve experienced objectively worse things, any lesser hurt is harmless.
If that were true – why am I still smarting?
Getting ‘Abductions’ published has thickened my skin and given me a good dose of humility. And regret can’t exist alongside the beautiful messages from readers that I’ve filed away to remind me it’s been worth it.
But it has also been exhausting, disheartening, expensive, and filled with the shame of being duped by an exploitative vanity publisher.
And ultimately, all the publishers who rejected my manuscript for not being commercial enough were right. The bookshops sold none of their copies.
So, on a recent sunny Saturday morning I collected my unsellable books. The weight of their pristine pages pressed me for a future.
I looked up and down the long street.
At one end people with no roofs, shouted with alcohol or madness or both and felt the sharp winter wind whip over their bare, calloused feet. At the other end people dressed in privilege, held their madness close to their skin as they sat clustered in trendy cafes.
No neat endings. But I suddenly knew these books weren’t coming home with me.
As I walked, I scattered my little rejects randomly on benches and stone steps. And I loved the freedom of not knowing their destiny. Read, unread, loved, hated, soaked by rain, burnt for warmth, or used as toilet paper.
By the end of the street my hands were free, and I felt lighter.
In the beginning ours was an abusive relationship. Bipolar 1 Disorder entered my world by clubbing me over the head and dragging me away from myself and my life. There was no informed consent. No polite knocking at my door and asking ‘Are you ok with this invasion? Are you ok with me setting up camp in your head for the rest of your life?’
That first time, it committed horrendous crimes. It stole my most prized possession. All my control. It obliterated my reality, snatched me away from my husband and baby, sped me up and then poured concrete over me. I was convinced it would kill me…
But it didn’t.
When I finally kicked and screamed my way free, I sat panting on the other side of it, scraping all remnants of it out of my brain and off my skin, I vowed never to let anything do that to me again. This was the first and last time. I knew better now.
I knew nothing.
When my doctor told me it was unlikely that this would be my last encounter with it, I nodded but didn’t believe him.
It came, not immediately but in roughly two-year intervals again and again and again. When the early signs of those first recurrences nudged and poked and then slapped me in the face, I turned my back and raged ‘No, no , no this can’t be happening again!’
My denial fed the power it had over me to super levels.
I tried to fight it with sheer will and my bare hands grabbing at the invisibility of it. It laughed and continued to snatch my sanity, drop kicking me into hospital sometimes for months at a time.
In the face of this illness my denial was a house built of dandelion seeds.
Eventually a sliver of acceptance crept in. But only while I was sick. The moment I regained myself after each episode, I ran back into the arms of my previous life. Working and doing and being who I was before all of this. Driven by a need to prove to the world: ‘See I live with this illness and can still do it all!’
I can…but there is a cost.
In 2015 it broke me. It locked me in a torture chamber and made it clear that it was going nowhere. I sped into a brick wall, lost my reality, lost my living brain, had to have it shocked back into a feeble beginning again and again.
I limped away finally understanding that we were shackled together for the rest of my life.
I told my psychiatrist: ‘I don’t know what to do, I can’t keep doing this!’
He paused, then said:
‘Perhaps you have to learn to take this illness as seriously when you are well as when you are unwell.’
He was right.
By then I had learnt to pay lip service to my management of this illness when I was well by diligently taking my medication, living relatively healthily, taking care of sleep etc, But I had not mentally accepted that I live with Bipolar 1 Disorder every day, whether I am well or not. I had made the easy, obvious choices, the choices that have become second nature, like exercising and taking my medications.
But it has taken much longer and been harder to make the longer-term decisions that are just as much a part of looking after myself. Decisions like how to work and what is worth pursuing and weighing up the price I might pay for stress. Things I had the luxury of never considering before.
Fighting acceptance hasn’t served me well. Denial can damage me easily as much as the illness itself.
I have learnt acceptance is not giving up. Acceptance also doesn’t mean that the next time I get sick I will feel nothing but saintly calm. The unfairness of being yanked away from my life with no notice will still sting and ache.
I no longer leave this disorder behind in the rear vision mirror after each episode. It stays in my peripheral vision. But, the less I fight it, the milder the rope burn from being tethered to it.
It doesn’t define who I am, but I no longer expend energy proving it is not part of me. Because it always will be.
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