Category: Hope

Dismantling of Mental Health Services in Australia

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It is with dismay and disbelief that the following came up on my news feed yesterday.

Headspace is the National Youth Mental Health Foundation, providing early intervention services to 12-25 year old’s. The centres are located in major cities, as well as regional and rural areas of Australia. They don’t look like a mental health facility, and therein lies their beauty. The service is free or has a low cost attached. There is an online and phone service. They also have a program that works with school communities. I could go on…

I know a young man who accessed their services after a near-fatal suicide attempt at seventeen. He was a sensitive, whose family had been through a great degree of trauma. He now works with Headspace, giving talks. The team are accessible to young people; they are not clinicians in a drab setting, who seem out of touch. Headspace work with those who suffer eating disorders, drug and alcohol addiction, bullying, schooling issues, depression and other mental illness.

This is extremely personal for me. I was a youth before Headspace was created. I had attempted suicide for the first time just after my thirteenth birthday. It was so serious that I was in Intensive Care for a while. More attempts followed, and I was diagnosed as having reactive depression; a response to deep trauma and strife in my personal life. I would oscillate between pure joy through to deep sadness on a weekly basis. Kids like me only had the hospital psychiatrist to chat to, and mine were all elderly males. The rooms were grey and dark, and they managed to get limited information out of the young, as the vibe was so grim and threatening. Twenty plus years ago, you saw the staff doctor after a suicide attempt, and then were dismissed- in my case- with Valium. There wasn’t a centre to call nor drop into. There wasn’t a service to confide abuse or bullying to.  Certainly, schools were under no obligation to recommend a centre nor assist a struggling youth.

I was put in a private clinic at fourteen (long story), and I was the youngest person there. DOCS had wanted me to go to a centre for adolescents so I could attend school and start my healing from having lived a dark dream. Instead, I was sent to a place brimming with adults. There were drug dealers and perverts; dangerous individuals, whom I had to fend off on a daily basis. There were even those there by arrangement of their lawyers, in order to beat criminal charges. I had people sneaking into my room at night. I developed a raging eating disorder after patients twice my age schooled me in the dark art of weight control. Suicides occurred, and I learnt more about the evil this world holds than a child should know. I was raped and eventually, almost had my life taken. I live with the ramifications of this year on a daily basis.

You bet I am angry. I have been extremely vocal over the years on this subject. Youth should never be in places designed for adults. Two decades ago, this clinic cost $500 a day, just to secure a bed. Free services were non-existent or scant throughout Australia. The young are made to grow up quicker, and the pressure brought to bear is harsher than ever now. We need to roll out more services, rather than tear them apart! Please stand with me in being vocal regarding the need for more funding for youth mental health in Australia.

I look back on my hellish adolescence and shudder. I survived and am now a contented mum and woman. I want this generation to be able to access support designated for their age group. They deserve to reach adulthood with adequate support.

 

 

 

The Wish Game App

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 I have always had a healthy cynicism regarding the positive thinking movement. I think most survivors do, having repeatedly heard such chestnuts as “forget the past, look to the future.”  I once took a call at a luncheon from the IVF scientist in charge of taking care of my two precious embryos. They informed me that one of the two had perished. Heartbroken, and left with one chance of successful implantation, I went back to the table. “What’s the matter?” a companion asked. I told them the news, and they smiled. “Chin up!” they said, and went back to their conversation. I felt dismissed, and certainly my grief was unheard. I felt almost embarrassed, as though I shouldn’t have had a reaction at all. Platitudes don’t help, and are almost certainly entirely damaging when one is fragile, whether it be through grief or other trauma. Positive thinking can sadly be an escape for those who aren’t comfortable supporting and hearing another’s pain. Throw a person a platitude and then walk away. Being happy and planning for the future is altogether different.

It was in this spirit that I tried out this particular app. I was cautious, not expecting much at all. I punched in my desire to travel, and was pleasantly surprised at the result. The game took me through my desire, and then looked at how I may be sabotaging the realization of this goal. I realized that I have a fear of flying, and also am hesitant about travelling due to my health. Even the hassle of obtaining a passport has put me off! Once I looked at all the obstacles, the game allowed me to break down the steps into workable pieces. It is going to send me reminders on the dates I set! I see this game as a useful tool to get me to where I want to be. When you look at your dreams, they can seem too big and overwhelming. It is only when you break them down that you can see a way to achieving them.

The Wishing Game App is available here.

A Wedding Brimming with Love

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My daughter and I attended the wedding of a dear friend a short while ago. It was fortunately scheduled exactly a week before wild weather flooded our area, making road closures necessary. In the spirit of the couple, the wedding was held inside a barn, and had a rustic, low-key vibe. There was even a photo booth! I trembled at the sight of my friend being escorted down the aisle by her teenage son. She looked gorgeous, in a beaded gown the hue of champagne. It was made all the more precious because at one time, my friend teetered on the precipice of hell. Through her own tenacity, she found her way through, and into a life beyond her wildest dreams. Her fellow had sent her a random Facebook message, and they had started chatting, this stranger and her. I have never seen a woman look happier, nor a groom look more at peace. It was an honour to be there. They held a sand ceremony, where each of the family poured coloured sand into a decanter, symbolizing their bond.

The reception was held in a country town’s community hall, and old-fashioned games were set up for the kids. They didn’t stop playing all afternoon! The adults talked of their hopes and visions of the future, and lovely connections were formed. This was my kind of wedding! Informal and fun, love infusing the air as the sun beamed down.

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Happy endings are achievable. It often requires a risk; a suspension of disbelief. Happy endings are possible. My friend taught me that.

My Beautiful Town is Flooded

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When I first came to this area, it was a little country town. I was sick of the expense of renting in Sydney, and went for a drive. I found this magnificent town, and sat at a park, drinking coffee from my thermos. I decided then and there to pack up and move here. This was before I had my daughter. I didn’t know anybody in this town, and wondered on occasion what on earth I had done. It was lonely and disorientating at first. Slowly, I made friends, and my new doctor put me on a pain relief medication that revolutionised my life. I found I could travel longer distances, and thus, it freed up my world. I walked 7km along the river bank of a day, then dined at one of the local restaurants or pubs afterward. It was a simple and glorious life.

I started IVF, and fell pregnant. We had to move house, and local friends readily helped. When my daughter was born, there were flowers, meals and gifts streaming to my door. There was a real sense of connection. Friendships deepened, as did the love I felt for my town. Since I began home schooling at the beginning of last year, we have spent a large portion of the week in Sydney. A sense of disconnection from our community grew, and it saddened us. In school holidays, we try to catch up with as many familiar faces as we can, and walk that glorious river path.

The weekend past, the rain pelted down, and was merciless. Three of the bridges into town went under. Roads were blocked, and tragically, people were lost as their cars were swept away. Animals were stranded and our local caravan park was evacuated. As the news of the disaster unfolded, tears pricked my eyes. Vista’s which had been admired a week ago were no more. The town next to us had its main street flooded, and all the businesses destroyed.

It has been driven home that wherever you may roam, there is a place that you consider your sanctuary. This town is mine, and I adore it. There is a sense of helplessness with us all, as we wait for the waters to recede. This quirky little place has a sense of humour all its own, and that, along with the community spirit, shall see it through. What has been lost shall be rebuilt, of that I have no doubt. It is a place where people truly care. I mentioned in a post here, how ironing is painful with my spinal condition, and a local got in touch, offering to iron for me! I have been flawed by the kindnesses shown time and again. Whatever befalls, this is one town that remains strong. I love Sydney, but this town is my home. Please spare a thought for all who lost their businesses and homes, and the families of those lost in the floods.

 

Raphaela’s Picks of the Week

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Here is what transported, transfixed and transcended the everyday this past week.

A hummingbird dress. I want one!

We are in the midst of floods in Sydney at the moment. The following advice is important if one finds oneself on a flooded road!

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Vintage Clothing and a Ballerina!  https://www.buzzfeed.com/xmonix/this-ballerina-is-mixing-ballet-with-vintage-2efu6

Sacred Whinging Spot

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I used to live near a lush reserve, groaning with Weeping Willows. I had a sign on my front door, advising (pleading), for guests to let all the negativity go at the threshold, and come into the house with fresh energy. As a hermit, my house was sacred, a place where I was protected from doom and gloom. A sanctuary where magic existed alongside art and the sound of my typewriter clanging away. I had a business, Avalon’s Gnome, and created a world away from the everyday. Heaven knows, I knew that irritations would arise, as would anger. I just didn’t want to pollute my space with the residue.

I came up with the idea of a having a designated Sacred Whinging Spot. I went for a walk, and found the perfect place. It was a covered area with seats, nestled in amongst the Weeping Willows. I would stuff a cob loaf with ricotta, tomatoes, basil and garlic, and take it along with a thermos of Irish coffee to this space, and when nobody was around, I would let it all out. In between operations, I would relay my fears. I wept, I raged, I told people off in my mind and I expressed my irritation at circumstances and situations. I would eat my Cob loaf and drink my coffee, and leave refreshed. Heck, if you are going to have such a sign over your front door, you have to practice what you preach! I lived in this Federation brick house until it was knocked down to build a unit block. It was one of the happiest, most serene of my many abodes, and I am pretty certain that a part of that had to do with my rule. There were no arguments or words spoken in haste lingering in the rooms. Once my aggravations were expelled at the Sacred Whinging Spot, they were pulled into the earth and transmuted into pure energy.

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Maybe its time to resurrect the notion of a Sacred Whinging Spot, to ensure my home is acoustically clear. Letting it all out whilst surrounded by nature and trees that sway sympathetically in the breeze. There’s magic in that!

Raphaela’s picks from the Internet this week.

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Things I have found inspiring throughout the week. Look at this fellow below!

A fabulous article on Sydney’s Vivid Festival by Elissa Blake. If you are planning to go, read this first!

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Hello Kitty Café, Friends and Sydney

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Sydney in Autumn is a sight to behold. We walked around to drama, dodging trucks and construction of the light installations for Vivid, which starts this weekend. There were buskers and tour groups taking in the history of The Rocks. My daughter has a ritual before her class. I give her money and she buys a strawberry donut from a takeaway shop at Circular Quay. The elderly Vietnamese man sees her approach, and has the donut in the bag before she asks. My daughter says they are the best donuts in the world. We weave our way through wedding parties and photographers, my daughter entranced by the gowns, but grossed out by the romance and smooching. I call our day in the city my caffeine day. When you have such extraordinary coffee and barista’s at your disposal, why wouldn’t you indulge? To redeem myself, I order the best salad in Sydney. Spoilt for choice, it is hard to settle on one, and they are a triumph of assembly. The sort that you wouldn’t bother making yourself at home, unless you had a spare hour or so.

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Scenes such as the one above take my mind off my physical pain. Thank heavens my daughter’s balance is better than mine! On this particular day, I decided to travel over the Harbour Bridge on the train, to see friends. I insisted we try the quirky Hello Kitty Café at Chatswood.

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My friend and I are under the care of an endocrinologist. Both of us are sugar-impaired, shall we say, and we try to behave. This was something of our last hurrah on that front, which is just as well.

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Yes, I drank/ate the Freak Milkshake above, and was suitably buzzing and silly afterward! To my delight, they had a tofu burger on the menu.

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It was a sweet little café, and we enjoyed our outing. It has taken me two days to get over our big day out, but you gotta live, right? I had seen this place had opened over a year ago, and determined to go one day and check it out. It niggles at you, doesn’t it? The events you miss and promise to get to the next year, the things you want to do and people you want to see. Sometimes you just have to do it. We are looking forward to the next adventure! Sydney is brimming with them!

A Jar of Marbles

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We had seen a video on how to make fairy lanterns, and went to a discount store to find the jars, tissue paper and glitter required for our project. I had felt the need to apply a mixture of turquoise, blue and purple to my hair. Now, when you front up amongst a crowd in a quirky manner, certain people gravitate to you. The artists, the poets, the dreamers…They see in you a kindred spirit. I stood in front of an aisle of craft supplies, discombobulated at the wide array, uncertain of which to choose. I noted a lady facing the same conundrum, next to my daughter and I, and smiled at her sympathetically. She was tall, with bohemian clothing and a funky short hairdo. “Excuse me,” she said, “could you help me?” She had a bag of marbles in one hand and a jar in the other. “Do you think these will fit in this jar?” “Afraid not, especially the bigger marbles,” I replied. She explained that somebody very dear to her was facing a deluge of sorrow, and was hanging on by a spindle. They had expressed that they were afraid they were losing their marbles. “I want to present them with their marbles,” the woman stated. “I need them to know that I care; that what is taken can be replaced.” I squeezed her hand. “You are a good person.”

I guess my fairy lanterns are also thematic. Here are these little fairies, highlighted with a background light, illuminating the way.  When I was in the clinic as a teenager, I was privy to many stories. I recall that the term PTSD was rarely used back then. It was called ‘the horrors’ instead. I was fourteen, and quite naïve. I became friends with a gentle fellow called Denis. He was kind and funny, and also severely traumatized. He quietly told me that he had been a vet. “How wonderful! I love animals,” I smiled. “Bless you, kid,” he laughed. I learnt over time what he actually meant as I heard him scream throughout the night; witnessed him slip into catatonia for days on end. I was told I had a strong mind, which bounced back like an elastic band, no matter what I was enduring. I wasn’t even clinically depressed, according to the experts. Rather, I railed against cruelty and abuse, to the extent that I would prefer to leave this world than remain in suspended animation. As my own PTSD began, I thought about Denis often, how despite our generation gap, we had this horrendous condition in common.

My mind takes me to dark places and I regularly fall into deep depression. None is more surprised  than I. I am a genuinely happy soul, who can seemingly bounce back from anything life hurls at me. I call myself a smiling, laughing depressive. I have been around long enough to understand what my triggers are, and try my best to avoid them. I have a delayed reaction to triggers. I may explode a day or two later. I need time alone to process what has transpired. Alcohol is a no-go zone at such times, as it leads to dreadful melancholy when I already feel low. I have to get out in the fresh air and walk. I have to turn off the phone and not have too much stimulation. Now is the time to get out my first aid kit. It contains ambient music, books, exercise, essential oils, candles, soup, a fruit platter, gardening, art, writing, playing with my daughter, the theatre and retreat. I am a happy woman with a tortured soul. It is quite the dichotomy. I have had to save my life many times over. There have been mountains that have seemed unconquerable; events too awful at first glance to be survivable. I have had to make that choice.

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There is hope beckoning to me outside the bramble where I lay. There always has been. I cut through the brackets to reach my friends, and my life. Life as a smiling, laughing depressive can be confusing. It is concealed from other people, and felt behind the scenes. “You are always smiling and appear happy darling,” an elderly friend once said, “but I see the sadness in your eyes when you think nobody is looking.” I told her she was far too perceptive. I think my spirit animal is the phoenix. Ignited by passion and a love of life, and consumed by the same. Perishing and emerging in an endless cycle. You can be the most positive, joyous person around, and still be pursued by depression and anxiety. The two states eye each other off warily. As long as you have a jar of marbles, you will never lose your own. My fairy lanterns are visible proof of an illumination inside my mind which can never be extinguished, despite the odds.

We are stronger than we believe we are, and can survive what we thought we couldn’t. We are also fragile, and deserving of kindness. If you have been through trauma, your brain has been left battered and bruised. It needs love and time set aside in its quest for reparation. I can’t help being an extroverted introvert. It’s who I am. I love people, and socializing and I also adore being alone. The same is true for being a smiling depressive. I love this life, and have had to reconcile the fact I was almost destroyed by it. My path isn’t paved, and nor is it straight. At least I have my lantern to light my way.

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Slowing Down and Crumbling Spines

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I seem to have entered the next phase of my journey. I had been trying to cope with my spinal pain with minimal pain relief for several years, something I can no longer do. My MRI results showed that the remaining discs are reduced to something akin to chalk-dust and my spine is riddled with arthritis, pressing on the nerves. The pain management program has ramped up, and is necessary to keep me moving. I have had a strange sense of vulnerability as a result. Some of the medication makes me tired, and I have had to have early nights. I find it hard to remember the names of people I don’t see often, and find going to large social events trying, as I am away with the pixie’s. I want to be quiet, have rest and not have too many commitments. Sitting for long periods is agonizing and I need to move around. I have to plan everything well in advance, even the weight in the lunchbox I carry when attending excursions with my daughter. I am dreading winter as I know too well the agony that grips my frame. I have to know the time it will take to get somewhere and when I can expect to leave. If I am prolonged, it can mean a day in bed afterward. A day lost. I have left items in stores as the weight would be too much to carry. I have had to pardon myself from the table so I can move around outside. There are hundreds of examples I could give you. Things people without this damage wouldn’t think about at all. My doctor said that elderly ladies’ she knows find their spinal pain excruciating when ironing. I need to dose myself up before this task, and look on with dismay as the laundry basket fills with items needing to be ironed. I have the spine of an eighty year old, and somehow it has to keep me going for the next half of my life.

My daughter and I have a synchronised routine. At the dishwasher, she deals with the lower section. She loads the front-loader in the laundry and puts the washing on the line and takes it off. We have our dance, and it works well, an unwritten love and understanding flowing back and forth. I have high hopes that within the next decade, they will be able to rebuild and strengthen backs with a simple injection. I am walking several kilometres most days, in spite of the pain. Living in a semi-rural environment helps you escape the confines of your body and focus instead on the nearby river, the kookaburra’s and cockatoos, their laughter delighting  my angst-ridden mind.

I need to have some of my back teeth rebuilt, after they came loose on a sesame cracker. I would rather have spinal surgery, the truth be told! You have to laugh; I was trying to limit my intake of bread, so for lunch ate these gluten-free, rock-hard crackers, and lost my teeth! Even if I end up in a wheelchair, I honestly wont mind. I am so grateful for the years I have had being able to walk. I am grateful I got to carry this child, despite the odds. I am happy with my lot in life, even if I have to plan my itinerary of a day as if embarking on a mountain trek! It is about focusing on what you have, not what has been subtracted from your life. I will need to recalibrate my life, and my expectations of myself, but it wont be the first time I have had to do so. The headaches from the Lyrica have finally stopped, just as I have been advised to double the dose. Always a mountain to climb. As long as the backpack holds a tolerable weight, it will be okay.