Challenging Family Bigotry

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.

You may also like to read:

Honoured, Grateful, And Guilty: A Tangled Family History

The Well Times

What does well look like for you?

I have painted many pictures of myself when a Bipolar episode knocks me out of my life for a while.

But what about my well times?

I don’t identify with the cartoonish cliché of Bipolar Disorder. I don’t spend each day either drowning in depression or being supersized by mania. This depiction of the illness lacks nuance. It’s a stereotype wheeled out for memes or lazy reporting.

I can only speak about the fingerprint of my own experience. Severe, but well managed.  

Sure – when I am unwell, I tend towards very unwell. I won’t sugar coat that.

But, for me…for me – when I am well, I am well…well.

In my well times my life is not a daily struggle. If anything, I struggle less than many ‘mentally healthy’ people. Thanks to my Bipolar Disorder, my box of psychological tools to deal not only with my illness but life in general – is full. But before it thundered into my life, my toolbox contained the equivalent of a pair of tweezers and some toenail clippers.

I am well now.

And it looks a little like this…

It is settling into myself. It is being alert to all I am capable of. It is a beautiful, clear, hard-won self-knowledge

It can be simple things – being able to read and drive and go to the shops, immerse myself in my family.

But it is more than the simple things.

It is actively pursuing my edge, courting the possibility of foundering, because I know the feeling of foundering will be fleeting compared to the dull ache of regret which could plague me for years.

A couple of weeks ago an interesting job opportunity dropped into my direct messages. Both it and I were great on paper. Veterinary qualifications and experience. Writing qualifications and experience. Listed as the first requirements.

 It lit the spark I needed to update my CV, which had been languishing back in 2015.

I applied for it. I was invited to interview.

And perhaps for the first time I thought about what I wanted, rather than blindly throwing whatever I needed at it to get the job.

And so, I clicked ‘join meeting’ with all the skills and experience I could bring (for example writing well) and all that I couldn’t (for example managing stakeholders).

I came away thinking – I could do this, but do I want to? If offered the position I think my ego may have convinced me to squash myself into a shape I didn’t naturally fill, just to prove I could.

Thankfully, being authentic in the interview paid off.

Having a way with words was more important to me, and stakeholder management was more important to them.

And when I got the email thanking me for my time but telling me that I wouldn’t be progressing further in the application process, I felt – a sharp little sting and then… relief, because I really didn’t want to squash myself into someone I wasn’t.

There is always a danger in well times.

It is the fear of what may happen in the unwell times.

There are times, even when perfectly well, I have to resist the pull to sit in a metaphorical corner rocking with my hands over my eyes doing nothing, because I know what has happened to me, could happen again.

I’ve felt that pull many times. I have resisted it many times. Over time I’ve gathered proof that resisting is the only way to have the life I want, even if it is a life lived with this illness. Without that resistance I would lack a lot. My second child and my self-worth top a long list.

Most recently that resistance has gifted me an updated CV and a stronger sense of who I am and what I want.

I know in the last couple of years, mental unease has crept into many people’s lives and distorted their thoughts, feelings, and view of life. It’s a foreign and frightening landscape to find yourself in. And finding your way back to the well times can feel impossible.

For me, the first steps back to wellness always start with a couple of questions:

What does well look like for you?

Does your toolbox contain more than a pair of tweezers and some toenail clippers?

You may also like to check out:

Where’s Your Comfort Zone?

My Mental Health Toolbox

On Uncertainty

The Resignation: One Year On

resignation foto

Just over a year ago I unclenched  and allowed myself to fall. I’d been peering over the ledge of a complete break from veterinary work for a couple of years, eyes scrunched shut against the change. The reality of not being able to do everything at once and do it well, a splinter in my thumb – impossible to ignore.

Continue reading “The Resignation: One Year On”

RUOK Day: Full Disclosure

20190912_093247
Doing the talking, not the asking on RUOK day 2019

 

How was everyone’s RUOK day? Did you ask anyone? Did you get asked? Did you post or share something on social media about it, and feel good about participating?

As someone who lives with a severe mental illness I felt as though I should welcome RUOK day with open arms, that I should be thankful that someone was paying attention to ‘us’… for a day.

But I didn’t feel what the day wanted me to.

What did I feel? For starters, a little infantilised. And please before people send me enraged messages that that is not how they felt and that I am spoiling the fun for everyone, hear me out.

Continue reading “RUOK Day: Full Disclosure”

Where’s Your Comfort Zone?

Related image

When I was eighteen, a boy said something to me that stopped time.

He shouldn’t have been talking. We were in a Maths class. The teacher’s voice, rendered unintelligible by the subject matter, the heat, and the swoosh of the ceiling fans, was no match for the boy’s words:

‘A ship is safe in harbour, but it wasn’t designed to stay there.’

A bubble formed around us. An understanding bloomed…until the teacher’s reprimand broke the moment. But he had articulated who I wanted to be. Someone who leaves the harbour of their life. Someone who wouldn’t get stuck in their comfort zone.

Continue reading “Where’s Your Comfort Zone?”