Life on the hill: anxiety

Showing posts with label anxiety. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Salt water

In the past when I've been caught in the sea of emotions, and the waves start rolling in, I've tried to out run them. I'd get caught, and picked up and tossed around, turning over and over, lost in the turbulence. Or I would try to jump over them, only to get a slap of emotion across the head, the force throwing me off balance.

This time I trying something different. I'm diving into those waves. Sometimes there are only moments to catch my breath before I have to dive again. And sometimes I get to lift my face to the sun, and it dries my tears before the next set of waves arrives.

Diving under those waves doesn't feel as chaotic as trying to outrun them or jump over them.

Everything is just TOO...

The sun is too bright.
Temperature too hot,
or too cold.
Blankets too heavy.
Voices are too loud.
People take up too much space.
Clothes are too restricting.
Skin tingles too much.
Smells are too sweet,
too putrid,
too delicious,

too disgusting.

Touch is too demanding.
My senses are too heightened.
My emotions are too intense.
I'm too uncomfortable.
I'm too hard to love.
I have too many feelings.
It is all too much.

The conversations I didn't think I'd ever be having

I had to go to the ladies when I was out to dinner with my daughter and her partner, so I could let my tears fall without having to give an explanation.

I didn't want to tell my beautiful girl that I was crying because I'm terrified that I won't get to see all the magnificent things that she is going to do. That I
was crying because hearing others making plans a year into the future, both terrifies me, and makes me sad. I don't make plans that far into the future any more.

During dinner someone said to me, "You can come too." as they discussed plans for a cruise. I quipped back,"I don't even know what I'm doing next week.

Every feeling I have is often quickly followed by another. Staying in one feeling is difficult. My feelings are like a butterfly flitting from flower to leaf, leaf to flower.

The one consistent thing about cancer is that the treatment is fucking relentless. Surgery. Radiation. Chemotherapy. Medication. They all come with their own set of side effects and consequences. My life now is a constant process of managing them.

I dodged the chemo bullet. Not the others though. The one plaguing my life right now is hormone blockers. Fatigue like I've been rolled over by a steamroller, repeatedly. Aching joints, bones, body, and that's just getting out of bed. Mood swings, where the tiniest things will irritate me, or tears will roll down my cheeks, just because. Eye things, that make me clean my already clean glasses constantly, because I'm sure that it will remove the annoying visual disturbance. A decrease in my bone density, making my bones brittle. A vagina drier then the fucking Sahara desert. (Did you know that your vagina can hurt from dryness WITHOUT EVEN HAVING SEX??!!?! Who'd have thunk it?!)

I had a conversation with my beautiful girl about hormone blockers. About stopping taking them. It wasn't received very well. I'm not stopping taking them. Just thinking about it at this stage. I'll wait until I have a bone density scan in December and depending on the results, discuss it with my oncologist.

My daughter said to me today, "I don't think you'd survive it a third time Mum."

These types of conversations are ones that I never thought I'd be having with my children. I thought I'd see all the things, Do all the things. I thought i had time. Instead now I feel like a ticking time bomb, managing side effects and the potential for cancer to return. Everything I do, from yoga, to the gym, to the supplements and medication I take, to the food I eat, is all done with that in mind. Stop cancer coming back. Again. For round three.

It's Complex

I have two types of people in my life. Those that have known me for a long time, and those that are relative newcomers.

The people in my life that I've known for over ten years have seen me fall down, pick myself up, and carry on. There are a handful who have seen me do it numerous times, from the very first time 12 years ago, when the light of hope that lived in my heart had been extinguished, and my strength to carry the facade that I had been living behind ceased. And with it, my will to live.

Apparently the universe had other ideas when my psyche shattered 12 years ago, and sent me an angel who rescued me from myself. A month later, after 17 days in the local psych ward, and two weeks away resting, the light of hope had been reignited, albeit, a tiny little flame, the façade had been laid down for good, and the real VICKY took her first few faltering steps out into the world, to live in all her authenticity.

Its been a journey these last 12 years, full of triumphs, victories and tears. Marked throughout it have been periods of time when I have fallen down and travelled through the dark tight space that I now understand to be my amygdala, the part of my brain responsible for processing emotions relating particualy to survival, and determining where memories will be stored. It is this part of my brain that switches into overdrive when certain events trigger it, and responds with overactive fear response. I used to call it my impending sense of doom. Now I call it what it is - Complex - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

What's the difference between Complex PTSD and PTSD? That's an answer I went in search of when I fell back into trauma in March last year. I needed to know why that wench anxiety had its tight grip around my throat - yet again! And why does it keep happening??

Everything I had read about PTSD indicated that after the trauma that had triggered PTSD had been processed, "normality" returns. How come my "normal" keeps getting disrupted, time and time again??

A website I discovered, Out of the fog, described it perfectly:

"Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) is a condition that results from chronic or long-term exposure to emotional trauma over which a victim has little or no control and from which there is little or no hope of escape..."

"The "Complex" in Complex Post Traumatic Disorder describes how one layer after another of trauma can interact with one another."

"C-PTSD results more from chronic repetitive stress from which there is little chance of escape. PTSD can result from single events, or short term exposure to extreme stress or trauma."

http://outofthefog.net/Disorders/CPTSD.html

A week ago that flame that had be reignited went out. Again. The pain of continually falling into trauma was like being caught in a set of dumper waves, thrown down to the sand, spun around, frantically searching for the surface, only to be picked up and dumped again.

I now know that a contributing factor to the descent of my mood into wanting to exit this world and stop the pain - for me and for everyone around me, was being put on a new medication Mirtazapine. If I had known it's brand name Avanza, I would never have agreed to go on it. I had taken it before and went back to my Doctor two weeks later telling her I had to stop taking it as it was not just making my mood lower, but was making me feel constantly angry.

Thankfully the doctors here have listened to me, and I am no longer on it.

I will be here for another week, and in that time are hopeful that I will connect with support and resources to help me swim out of the set of dumper waves, and learn new skills and tools to help me from being triggered into trauma.

And with that I will leave you with this:

If I could be you and you could be me for just one hour
If we could find a way to get inside each other's mind
If you could see you through my eyes, instead of your ego
I believe you'd be surprised to see, that you'd been blind

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
And before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

Now your whole world you see around you is just a reflection
And the law of karma, says you reap, just what you sow
So unless you've lived a life of total perfection
You'd better be careful of every stone that you should throw

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
And before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

And yet we spend the day throwing stones at one another
'Cause I don't think or wear my hair the same way you do
Well, I may be common people but I'm your brother
And when you strike out and try to hurt me it's a-hurtin' you

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
And before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

There are people on reservations and out in the ghettos
And brother, there but for the grace of God, go you and I
If I only had the wings of a little angel
Don't you know I'd fly to the top of the mountain and then I'd cry

Walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
And before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

Walk, walk, walk a mile in my shoes
Walk a mile in my shoes
And before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

Walk, walk, walk a mile in my shoes
Walk, walk, walk a mile in my shoes
Before you abuse, criticize and accuse
Walk a mile in my shoes

- Brian Ferry "Walk a mile in my shoes"

Fragmented

I can feel myself fragmenting

Piece by shattered piece.

To be put back together

Like a puzzle, battered and chipped in places,

The picture still beautiful when complete.

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Disconnected

Going through the motions,

Doing the best I can.

Feeling disconnected,

From my body. From the land.

A thousand pictures shows

Keep running through my mind.

I don't want this track to keep playing,

I thought you were of my kind.

I tremble, not with ecstasy

Not like I once did.

I tremble with the unknown

Of things that I have hid.

There is a weariness in my body

That I haven't felt in the longest time.

Don't surrender to it Vicky,

Don't walk that dangerous line.

Like a ball in pinball machine...

I said it aloud today.

I am afraid.

The fear that has been rolling around in my head. The fear that shot out of the ball chamber, ricocheting off alarms, pinging off buzzers, like a pinball machine. Except there is no exit. The ball of fear just hits another bumper, spinning off on another tangent, hitting another alarm.

He is going to be released, and he is going to come looking for me.

I wish saying it aloud, writing it down, made the fear feel less. But it doesn't. It feels very very real. It clutches at my throat, makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, my skin crawl within.

I want to run away. Disappear. Change my name. Identity. Place.

How can he still create so much fear in me?

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Can't see the forest for the trees (and other cliches)

image credit

Even though I like to consider myself a relatively intelligent person, sometimes I can't see the forest for the trees.

For the last couple of months I have felt like the medication that I take to help keep my anxiety disorder under control, hasn't been doing its job. I've experienced this before, and have usually undergone a med change. It seems that I am one of those lucky people who a particularly type of anti depressant works effectively for 12 to 18 months, then, for whatever reason, it stops working.

After hitting the wall last week I knew I needed to make an appointment with the doctor. My reluctance to do so before now is part of the whole anxiety cycle for me: anxiety increasing because meds are working - anxiety about having to change because changing over is such a pleasant experience - anxiety that I have to take the fucking things at all!

Its wasn't until someone asked the right question that I was able to make the connection between an event, and how I have been feeling. As I spoke to the doctor, explaining how I have been feeling, he asked me what had happened in the last couple of months, what had triggered the change. I answered, thinking aloud, I've started working and juggling that has been interesting, but I love where I work.... I'm having problems in my relationship but my anxiety was spiking before that started.............

My breath caught in my throat, my chest constricted, tears tipped over my eyelids... Fear ran ice cold through my veins.

The parole hearing. That was when anxiety started shadowing my every move. When my limbric kicked. Again.

FLEE... FLEE...FLEE...

Such is the joy that is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The demonic monster that resides within

Sometimes, no matter hard you try, the fake-it-'til-you-make-it veneer cracks, and the raw, ugly, confusion, sadness, anger, and any other damn negative emotion that you have been desperately fighting to keep in, erupts.

Slowly at first, a trickle, tears sitting on the rim of your eyelids, that you frantically blink away. Then you head starts to thump. Probably from all that gritting your teeth you have been doing for the last few weeks - a grimace that you pretend is a smile. Noise, even the tapping of the key board, starts to make your skin crawl from the inside. You rub at it frantically, but the sensation doesn't stop. Your agiatation increases. Questions from the people you love and care very nearly turn you into the scary monster that you work so hard to keep at bay.

Mum where's this? Mum can you ...? Mum, he's ... She's...

for fucks sakes just LEAVE ME ALONE

The crack widens to a gaping hole. The force of pent up emotion spews forth like water bursting through a dam. You recognise that the monster within is about to swallow you up and replace you with it's spitting venomous ugly prescence. You battle with it, running frantically to your room to let the monster bellow and spit it's poison, hissing at the people you love as you flee.

Anxiety. The demonic monster that resides within me.

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Branded.

There are some dates that are branded into my brain. Seared into the soft tissue, a deep, dark ugly scar.
21 March is one. 18 October 2013 is another.

The first is the man that is my fathers birthday. The second - the day he is eligible for parole. It marks 9 years that he has been in prison. 9 years from when 12 complete strangers believed me and sentenced him to 12 years imprisonment for the abuse he committed against me.

How did that nine years go so fast? Why is the monster still even alive?

Today I finally contacted the victims registrar to change my address details. Something I've been meaning to do for the last six months. Something my mother has reminded me to do numerous times. Something that I kept putting off.

I called the registrar, as grown up Vicky. The woman I spoke to explained the process, but after her telling me the date of his parole hearing, 16 August, 2013, my body went into flight response. When I hung up, little Vicky had arrived. She was biting her nails, holding her breathe, trembling.

I walked out to the lounge room, M looked at me and before I could say anything, asked me what was wrong. Through my tears, I asked him for a cuddle. He came and held me and asked again. I explained what I had just done. He kissed the top of my head, "Let's go an lay down and have a cuddle," he responded.

I curled my body into his embrace and cried. "How has it been 9 years? How is he still alive? He was supposed to die ... I want him to die..."

As I lay there in the safety of his arms, I wrapped my own around that small child within. She is not alone. I am not alone.

Naomi over at Seven Cherubs talks about being a victim, a Survivor, a thriver. Most of the time, I'm thriving. Sometimes, like today, I feel like I am only just surviving. There is a lump in my throat. One that hasn't been there for a very long time.

Fasten your seatbelts ladies and gents. We may hit some turbulence.

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A stranger broke my veneer

I've been living in struggle town for the last few months. In the month leading up to moving house, and the month after I had moved, anxiety had its gnarled claw firmly around my throat. For the first time in a long time I found it hard to go into shopping centres, and avoided them like the plague. Being around people in general was hard, so I isolated myself, and did what just needed to be done on a day to day basis.

Not long after i moved, I finished my medication for the month, and remembered too late that I no longer had any repeats for the prescription. The thought of seeing a new doctor sent me into a panic attack, and I ended up on the phone to my old GP, in tears. Thankfully she is extremely empathetic, and faxed a script to my nearest pharmacy.

The anxiety has settled, thank fuck. I even have a new GP, and can go to the shops now without feeling sick. Unfortunately, anxiety's bedfellow depression has arrived to take over, and like the wet heavy blanket it is, it lies over me, an incubus, sucking the joy and colour out of life.

Having the joy and colour sucked out of your life leaves you numb. A paper thin shell of yourself. I get up, sometimes have a shower, get dressed, get the kids sorted, put a load of washing on, take Aston to school, come home. Have all these plans to do things to pull me out from under that wet heavy blanket, but I've become so entangled in it that I can't seem to lift it off. Instead, it pushes me to the bed, where I lay under it for a couple of hours. Sometimes sleeping, sometimes watching TV mindlessly.

About an hour before its time to walk to school to pick Aston up, I will drag myself from the bed, hang the washing up, clean up the kitchen, contemplate dinner. Do the reverse of the morning, go to bed, get up, do it all again. Interspersed amongst that is taking Laura to work, picking Laura up from work, taking Laura somewhere, picking Laura up from somewhere, taking Nathan somewhere, dropping Aston off, etc etc etc.... I do all that needs to be done... Numbly.

I realised that what I was feeling was really depression only recently. Writing about my experiences of PND, a flicker of recognition occurred. But still I diminished what I was feeling. Once I find a job I'll feel better. Once i settle into the area, It's only been three months since you moved. Once I adjust to living with a man again. Once he adjusts to living with a family. Once Laura has finished her exams. Once I rehome trixie. Once...

A complete stranger broke through my veneer. By simply being a compassionate individual. They were just doing their job. But they did it with empathy. After the appointment, I got into the car and cried. The paper thin shell had cracked.

I made an appointment to see my counsellor back on the Sunshine Coast. I knew that I needed to talk to her. To work through my head. To finally speak the truth to someone. When I saw her, I sobbed. With shame. With relief. With sadness.

How I'm feeling isn't going to be fixed instantaneously. God how I wish it would be though. But, the veneer is broken. I have spoken truth, to not only my counsellor, but to some soul sisters as well. I'm not living a lie anymore. Feeling is returning. Not all joy sunshine and happiness, but being able to cry...It's a relief. Shedding tears is so much better then being numb.

It means I'm still alive.

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He screamed, She screamed, I screamed, We all screamed

The baby screamed from where he lay in his cot. The three year old screamed and banged on the bathroom door. And I sat on the floor on the other side of the bathroom door, sobbing. This is not how it is supposed to be. What is wrong with me?

I faintly heard the knocking at the door through Nathan's screaming. Laura had gone to the door, and come back to the closed bathroom door to tell me that Deanna, my next door neighbour, was here. Great.

I looked in the mirror, and a stranger stared back at me. There was no point trying to hide the puffy eyes, she had obviously heard all the screaming. No point denying that it was all fun and fairy floss at my house! I opened the bathroom door and Laura's scared and confused little face peered up at me. I could see it in her eyes, Where's my mummy gone?

I grabbed the hic-coughing Nathan out of the cot. Hot white shame washed over me with each step I took to the front door.

Are you OK? She asked through the screen door. No, I replied, but it's OK. Martin will be home soon. Just having a bad day. Her look of concern cut through me like a knife. Don't pity me. Don't pity me. Don't pity me, played through my head on repeat. I could see what she saw as she stood there looking at me. bedraggled mumma, with baby on her hip, that was crying that quiet little cry that they do when they have been crying for so long there is no longer any sound - you know the one, intake of shuddering breath, sniff - Toddler wrapped around her leg, with a look of utter bewilderment on her face.

This was so far away from my first experience of motherhood. This wasn't motherhood. This was a nightmare that never stopped.

She reluctantly left, after I assured her repeatedly that I was OK, that Martin was going to be home soon, that it was just a bad day. I closed the door,and heavily leaned against it. I can't do this anymore. I don't want to do this anymore. Make it stop.

Nathan had fallen asleep against me. Exhausted. I lay him down on the Laura's little fold out lounge, and put the ABC kids shows on for Laura. When Laura was born my best friend, who was learning to be a midwife, had given me a book written by a mother after her child was born. It talked about all the changes and feelings she'd experienced. I had only glanced at it after Laura was born. I hadn't needed it. Life after Laura had been idyllic. Life after Nathan was anything but.

While Nathan slept, and Laura watched TV, I went to the bookshelf and searched for the book. I flicked to the index and scanned the pages, anxiously seeking ... something. An explanation? An answer? I don't know. Just.. anything. I found what I was looking for Post Partum Depression, Post Natal Depression. I read each reference, including the long list of symptoms, and for the first time in 8 months since Nathan was born, everything became blindingly clear.

No wonder my reasoning of once my mother in law goes home everything will be alright, once Christmas is over everything will be, once the christening is over everything will, once Nathan starts eating solids everything, once he starts sleeping through the night, once I had finished this assignment, once this, once that.... was amounting to fuck all. I was so far away from OK, that I didn't even know what OK looked like.

Standing there hissing at Nathan to just go the fuck to sleep, and then standing in my back yard crying so I had removed myself away from him was not what OK looked like.

Walking around the block with gritted teeth and clenched fists the minute Martin got home from work was not what OK looked like.

Hissing for fucks sake more times then I care to remember as I heaved this lump of a crying child on to my hip because I had dared to put him down for two seconds and had left his field of vision was not what OK looked like.

Snapping my beautiful girl's head off because she had asked me to play with her was not what OK looked like.

Dreaming of getting in the car and driving away - anywhere but where I was - was not what OK looked like.

I had isolated myself from people, everything was too hard. It was too hard to have people around, and too hard to go and visit people. It was too hard to do anything. It was too hard to even breathe.

I made an appointment with my GP for the next day, and with my own self diagnosis in hand went and saw her. And cried. She agreed that it was Post Natal Depression and prescribed an anti-depressant that had been approved by the World Health Organisation as safe to have while breast feeding, but did suggest I attempt weaning Nathan. Nathan wasn't up for that suggestion, and when I went back two weeks later for follow up she advised me to leave it. The stress of trying to wean him was not worth it.

the picture I held until I met my son

A month after I started on the anti-depressants I started to feel better. The world that had all its colour leached out, started to return to its full techni-colour glory. I could feel the sunshine, and my soul didn't feel as black and hollow. A couple of months after starting medication, I remember taking Nathan for a walk in the pram along the river. It was a gorgeous late winter's morning, one filled with the promise of spring. He fell asleep, and I sat in the shade writing out a list of all the things that I had felt contributed to me ending up the black hole of PND, and then worked out which ones I could actually do something about.

holding Nathan for the first time

There weren't a lot that I could change. Most of the things were circumstantial. I couldn't change him arriving early, or me not seeing or holding him for ten hours after he was born. I couldn't change not seeing Laura meet her little brother for the first time. I couldn't change getting an infection in my Cesarean section site, or mastitis. Or the myriad of other things that happened. But I could defer uni, I could put him into day care one day a week, I could start exercising, I could start looking after me without feeling guilty and I could accept and let go of the things I couldn't change.

I remember so clearly how I felt that day. Relief. And hope. Relief that I was going to be OK. Hope that I was going to be OK.

Hindsight - the ability to understand, after something has happened, what should have been done or what caused the event - enabled me to be able to take action when I was pregnant with Aston. I knew while I was pregnant with him that I was suffering from depression. I chose not to take medication while I was pregnant, but started 3 months after he was born. I also started counselling. If there was one thing I would do differently during my experience of PND with Nathan, it would be that. I would go to counselling. I wish that my doctor had recommended it, and that I'd gone. In my opinion medication isn't enough.While anti-depressant medication will get you to a place where you no longer feel like you're going to drown, I believe that it is the combination of both medication and counselling of some sort that will be of the greatest benefit.

Look at my eyes - they tell the story

I have written this post as part of PANDA (Post Ante Natal Depression Assoc.) Postnatal Depression Awareness Week. I truly believe that information is empowering, and that sharing our stories helps to reduce the stigma associated with mental illness. The feelings of isolation and shame are greatly lifted when you know you are not alone. That you are not the only person feeling this way. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

PND is not limited to women. 1 in 7 Mums and 1 in 20 Dads are diagnosed with postnatal depression each year. If you, or someone you know, is experiencing any of the following, I strongly encourage you to reach out. PANDA NATIONAL HELPLINE: 1300 726 306

1. Signs and symptoms of postnatal depression - general

Symptoms can begin anywhere from 24 hours to several months after delivery

·Sleep disturbance unrelated to baby’s sleep

·Changes in appetite

·Crying - feeling sad and crying without apparent reason OR feeling like you want to cry but can’t

·Feelings of being overwhelmed, out of control, unable to cope

·Irritability

·Anxiety

·Negative obsessive thoughts

·Fear of being alone OR withdrawing from family and friends

·Memory difficulties and loss of concentration

·Feeling guilty and inadequate

·Loss of confidence and self-esteem

2. Signs and symptoms of postnatal depression - men

Symptoms can begin anywhere from 24 hours to several months after delivery

·Tiredness, headaches and pain

·Irritability, anxiety and anger

·Loss of libido

·Changes in appetite

·Feelings of being overwhelmed, out of control and unable to cope

·Engaging in risk taking behaviour

·Feelings of isolation and disconnection from partner, friends or family

·Withdrawal from intimate relationships and from family, friends and community life

·Increased hours of work as a part of the withdrawal from family etc.

·Increased use of drugs or alcohol instead of seeking treatment for depression

For more information and resources visit the PANDA site.

Flying is ok as long as you don't have to do it in a plane

I'm not a good flyer. Why, I haven't quite worked out, because I've been on and off planes since I was six weeks old and left my birth place New Zealand.

The fact that I would have to actually get on a plane to get to Canberra to participate in the Human Brochure was something I kind of buried away in the back of my brain until Thursday. Then as I started working out what I was taking with me, throwing clothes onto the bed, the anxiety started leeching in. I tried ignoring it. Hah. Ever tried ignoring anxiety? It's like telling someone to not think of pink elephants.

The anxiety just continued to amp, as well as the excitement. And the self doubt. "Who do I think I am? Some refined travel blogger/ social media queen/ writer even?!" Then I reminded myself that I was chosen to go on this trip. Everything else is irrelevant. After trying to pack my bag, which succeeded in me running around from room to room forgetting what it was that I was actually trying to do, M said to me come and watch some TV. I had to pick Laura up from work at 9 anyway I told myself, I'd pack when I got home.

Instead I decided to go to bed, and dreamt of Eden and her trip to India. Who knows why. I've given up trying to figure out how my brain works. All I know is that I think she's a legend, even if she doesn't. And she inspires me to be better, speak louder, use my voice.

We set the alarm for 4.30. Kind of needed to, as otherwise the clothes that I had dumped on the lounge to take were not going to make it into the bag. I have a few lessons still to learn on being poised and organised from Nikki over at Styling You.

We managed to get out the door at 6.15, a good idea, because as soon as we hit the highway so were 1000s of other people. We arrived at the place we were leaving our car just before 7am, and took the free shuttle up the road to the airport. As I get closer to the airport, anxiety starts really letting itself known. Feeling my blood pumping, throat closing, skin tingling, we approached then Qantas check in.

This looks like the face of someone eagerly waiting to fly doesn't it?

Everything is becoming automated now. None of this walking up to a counter and speaking to a human. There are banks of check in machines - type your name in, select your flight, out spits your board pass and luggage stickers, which you have to stick on yourself, obviously. In amongst that process, as we were shown the seats we were allocated on the plane, there on the screen is one seat highlighted in one row, and another highlighted several rows back. I don't know what my face did, I just knew the rest of my body was about to launch into outer space! Thankfully M grabbed one of the humans milling around to assist and told them that I have panic attacks and are not a good flyer. He directed us to the customer service counter and they very kindly seated us together. Thank god, because I was shaking at this stage, and tears were very close to falling. Needless to say, I had another Valium.

Once we had ascended, and I was able to let go of my claw like grip on Ms thigh, I read. A few minutes out from descending into Canberra we hit some turbulence. My eyes slammed shut, and my claw returned to gripping Ms thigh. there was a little boy a few rows in front of us who squealed with delight, while I gripped Ms thigh harder. Stupid anxiety.

We arrived in Canberra at 11.30am. We had been told to look out for the humans carrying the The Human Brochure sign. It wasn't hard to miss. There were several different participants from different streams coming from Brisbane, so we had the opportunity to see which hotel each stream would be staying at. According to the twitter stream, all streams were happy with their accommodation. I was ecstatic with ours.

The Arts and Culture stream were staying at The Diamant, originally built in 1927, to house parliamentary staff. The building has been fully refurbished with some amazing artwork displayed throughout. The service was impeccable, and I would have to say probably one of the best hotels I have ever stayed at.

Chocolate Rocks came with the bill!

As we had a few hours to kill before the opening function at 6pm that night, I was able to catch up with family. They own a printing company Prinstant, and had very kindly made me my business cards. They gave us an impromptu tour of Canberra after we lunched at Rodney's in Pialligo, a lovely cafe set amongst the Nursery area.

Metaphorically wall hitting

Getting up at 4.30, and losing an hour resulted in M and I hitting the metaphorical wall at 3pm, and a much needed nap on our lovely king size bed was required. Otherwise I would be a babbling incoherent human at that nights function. (Who am I kidding, I was still a babbling incoherent human.)

Where to now Charlie Brown?

What am I doing?

What are my plans?

Where am I'm heading?

That's all that has been going through my head for the last month.

Moving home from a place, that while I no longer wanted to live there anymore, it was a place I knew, to suburbia, and all that it entails, has caused me to feel somewhat displaced.

When you have been in an area for 8 years, which is the longest I have ever lived anywhere in my life, this feeling is somewhat disconcerting. I moved around a lot both as a child, and an adult, until I moved to the Noosa Hinterland. Although I moved to three different houses in that time, I was in the same area, same people, same familiarity, same routine for those 8 years.

Now, I am at sea - with everything. Everything is unfamiliar. And if I'm really honest, at times, terrifying. My children have adjusted far quicker, and better then I. There is Truth in that statement about the resilience of children. Me, on the other hand, I have those three questions set on constant replay in my brain at the moment. Instead of pushing me into action, I find them paralysing me with fear.

I read something today over at Work Life Bliss, about the one brick strategy. What the author behind that story experienced was huge compared to the little life change I have had. But the overwhelming feeling, and the consequent strategy can still apply. One brick, that's all I need to take out of the wall that I feel I am standing in the shadow of. Let in a beam of light, and maybe, just maybe I can see where to now....

You're not in Kansas anymore...

So I've done two loads of washing, made lunches, made three lots of lunches, made sure three kids had breakfast, made their beds and gotten them to the three different schools they attend. Packed the dishwasher, cleaned the kitty litter, made myself a cup of coffee to sit and contemplate what to tell you...

Dorothy, you're not in Kansas anymore!

I haven't lived in real suburbia in 15 years, since I left the Sutherland Shire (yes, the one made infamous by THAT show) to live on the Sunshine Coast. Back then suburbia on the Sunshine Coast was nothing like Sydney. But there are definitely areas now that resemble it. I just kept moving further north until I was on a hill surrounded by fields, cows, kangaroos, and various other forms of wildlife, including the slithering kind!

Now, I am bang smack in the middle of full core suburbia. Massive estate that is just continuing to grow, wonderful pathways, and parks, and lakes dotted around the place.

And people. Lots and lots and lots of people.

It's all new and strange, and more then a tad overwhelming. This is the first time since I moved that I have had the house to myself for more then an hour. Until 3pm, the house is all mine. So what to do?

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oh joy, my cat just brought in a bird. A bird! FFS she has a bell, how the hell did she do that!!

What was it Glinda the good witch said to Dorothy? "You've always had the power to go back to Kansas" ..... now, just have to find my ruby slippers, click my heels three times, and I will be home.

(and all the unpacking will be done, and everything will be where it should be, and I'll have a job, and...)

Sharing the load

I have just spent the last half hour typing up and printing off, and will laminate job charts for my three children. After living in our new home for two weeks, I have been feeling very s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d!

My anxiety has been rife, and living on a adrenline overload exhausts you beyond description. This afternoon, I may, or may not, had a small tantrum about feeling like I was the only one doing anything in this house.

My daughter has just returned to living with me after being away for a year at her father's. Different house, different rules - you know the drill. And we are all adjusting to becoming a family again, with an added person M. Needless to say, there has been lots of change going on, and adjustment for every one.

So in the interests of self care, and self preservation I have prepared the lists for all three of the kids. These jobs were all things that we discussed together before the move even happened, so it was a family decision.

Who does the all the work in your house? Is it shared willingly, or do you spend you time nagging the kids to do this, do that etc? Got any great ideas to share? Please do!!

ghosts

The ghosts have been stirred up in the house on the hill.

They are doing what ghosts do - haunting... trailing in the ether, their agitation quivering tangibly in the air.

Things - stuff, photos, books, clothes, memories...- get sorted, keep, give away, chuck.

Tears get shed, memories get disturbed from where I have tucked them away tight out of sight, shrunk to something tiny, small, insignificant...

My breath gets stuck in my throat, getting caught behind the lump that grows there when anxiety is rife in my blood...

My mind stumbles over every thought - stare blankly at the screen as it waits for my password, I can't remember it. I remember the first letter, the last three - but not all of it...

Two voices speak inside my head - the rational one that understands the biological process involved with what is going on with me right now, and the irrational one that speaks unspeakable things. And so the battle ensues...

I have made an appointment with my doctor and counsellor. I know how to take care of myself says the rational voice. The irrational one screams "BY WHY THE FUCK DO I EVEN HAVE TO?!"

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The M word

no I'm not getting Married.

I'm moving.

Well to be precise I'm moving in with M.

We made this decision three months ago. When his lease is up in mid September we are moving in together. Its taken me three months to not feel both terrified and excited. Now I just feel excited... and a tad frustrated, because I'm not the most patient person in the world, and would just like it to be done!

Why was I terrified?

Well my track record to date in regards to relationships where two people co-exist under the same roof is pretty dismal. A constant internal dialogue chattered in my brain - Are you insane?... No, I don't think this is a good idea, I'll just continue to live here on the hill not going forward, its safer... What will everyone think?... Are you fucking insane?? .... Once, twice, three times???.... I've changed my mind, I'm not going to do it... This is a really bad idea... Why mess with something that is perfect the way it is?... on and on it went 'til it wasn't a question of are you fucking insane, I actually started to feel insane. Cue my old friend anxiety and her sister panic attacks.

Good thing I have such a great counsellor, who is happy to listen and help me unravel the madness that is my mind.

So my view will be changing from one filled with mountains, rolling fields, kangaroos, and cows to roof tops and tv aerials - but the man who makes my heart sing will be in the picture. And I can live with that.

Cranky

If I was physically able to do this I would!

I'm cranky. Just in case no one has noticed.

For the last month, I have been sick and in pain. Firstly with the flu, that turned into a chest infection, sinusitis and asthma, which disappeared but left me with thrush, and then just to add injury to insult - my back gave out on me. Completely. I was giving my 14yo son a cuddle, the 5yo decided to get in on the act, jumped on my back, and it went kaput. That was last Thursday.

I'm at the stage where I'm so cranky that I have zero tolerance for bullshit...

... so when absent fathers make their daughters feel even worse for being brave enough for asking for help, and then make her feel like shit for being diagnosed with depression and anxiety I tend to get a little pissed off. Under normal circumstances - ie, my back wasn't hurting like my spinal cord is trapped in a vice - I would be pissed off, but would hopefully be able to deal with it rationally. Instead, I'm going to rant.

Seriously people, when is the stigma associated with mental illness going to stop?!?! I really shouldn't be surprised that he has taken this stance. He took the same one with me. Its all in my head. Yes you idiot, it is. That's the fucking problem!

I would like to shake this man until his brain rattles inside his huge head. If I thought it would make any difference I would. I fail, (and believe me, I have tried to understand and justify his behaviour and choices), to understand how he can be so thoughtless, and uncaring towards our child, who is struggling, and needs support. Please explain to me how the cost of her treatment is of more importance then the HOW and WHY she is in need of it. For fuck's sake, I'll sell my god damn organs if it is required!

I will never ever understand how the balance of concern can be so skewed... I keep trying to, but all I keep doing is hitting a brick wall. with my head.

I have a mental illness and take medication so that I'm ok

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OK? Got it?

See if that statement said -

I have diabetes and take medications so that I'm OK,

or,

I have thyroid condition and take medication so that I'm OK,

or,

I have a heart condition and take medication so that I'm OK,

it would not get the same response as

I have a mental illness, P.T.S.D. (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and Acute Anxiety Disorder being my "formal" diagnosis. And I take medication so that I'm OK.

If my pancreas wasn't working properly I would need to take some form of insulin, make modifications to my lifestyle in order for me to live a healthy functioning life. This would be accepted by the general populace.

If my thyroid was creating too much or too little of the hormones it produces, I would be required to take medication in some form and make lifestyle changes...

If my heart... well you get the idea.

Well, my brain doesn't work properly. It doesn't create enough of the chemicals dopamine and serotonin, two neurotransmitters that act as chemical messengers that relay nerve signals through the brain. Consequently, I have to take mediation, and make lifestyle adjustments in order to live a healthy functioning life.

For some people, the requirement to take medication to help with this chemical imbalance in their brain, may only be for a short time. For others, the imbalance is so out of whack that they will have to be on medication for the rest of their lives. I'm one of those people.

So don't judge me because I take medication in order for my brain to work properly. You wouldn't judge me if I had diabetes, or a thyroid condition, or a heart condition. Get educated. People who have a mental illness don't just decide one day to "make it up". It's as real as any other organ in your body not functioning optimally.

One of the beautiful things about advances in medical technology is that we now have the ability to "map" a person's brain. Scientific evidence that someone's brain is not functioning properly can now be obtained. As they say a picture can tell a 1000 words.

I have a mental illness and I take medication so that I'm OK.

And that is OK!!

Some Resources - get educated people!

Reach out - supporting someone with a mental illness

Beyond Blue

R U OK? A conversation could change a life