Category: PTSD

Gurus

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Gurus, how I love to loathe thee… They are a virulent force on all social media, utilizing platitudes and photos of streams and forests, vandalizing them with glib and meaningless words. Do you want to be a winner? Follow them! A warrior? Do the same. They will hypnotize and deprogram you. They will use the collective energy of the  people gathered to make you succumb if plucked from the audience. You may very well do things you wouldn’t ordinarily. The worst of them play on people’s discontent and lack of self-esteem in order to reel them in. Once at the seminar or ‘free talk,’ they will push hard to up sell their books, programs and future events. It won’t end until the end of time itself.

I have had these characters on the periphery of my life, tap, tap, tapping; trying to get my attention. Apparently, they can make crooked spines straight, reverse heart disease and set mind’s right. They can make all your dreams come true. It is not only insulting but ineffective. Somebody very close to me spent thousands on books, programs and seminars, and tried to cajole me to do the same. Sadly, this individual has nothing to show for all this expense and effort, and their already fragile mental health has suffered even more. I have had friends-intelligent people with beautiful lives follow particular gurus around the circuit as though they were rock stars. I have known tragedy to befall some, and the gurus have been strangely silent when it happens. They have already moved their circus onto another field.

I heard that a particular guru learned of a participant who had been sexually abused as a child by a family member. He thought it a sterling idea to get her to talk about it, then picked three strangers from the audience to be her ‘uncles.’ I wonder what happened after the show. What trauma had been revisited and stirred? This guru insisted that winners don’t have pasts, at least not ones that should in any way be acknowledged. I vehemently disagree. I remained sane by not only acknowledging my skeletons, but getting them out of the closet for a samba.

Walking barefoot through hot coals doesn’t make you more capable; it is how you conduct yourself everyday. I know a dear soul who grew up in an orphanage. She cleaned houses for a living, and dreamed of one day opening a book store. She scrounged and saved for over twenty years, and sure enough, her dream came true, and the fine establishment of Di’s Book Exchange came to be. I know a gentleman who has lived with mental illness all his adult life. Professional help, the right medication, good nutrition and exercise all playing a pivotal part in his wellbeing. A slight wind can tip him, but its the measures he takes each day that steer him.

The seminars the gurus are fond of, bring together a spectacle of sound, lighting, fist pumps and the shouting of core words, not just for effect, but to flood the body with feel-good hormones. Sadly, these wear off, and one ends up chasing the next fix. The recent conversation regarding the fellow in the above footage, and his response to the Me Too movement, has to be seen to be believed. Pretty women are virtually unemployable? He used his height and strength to intimidate the woman featured. In my time, I have had many, many gurus approach me. Some have stated that they can ‘fix’ my life, and make me a winner. I drolly laugh, and respond that I am already a winner, simply by merit of surviving a huge amount of crap. Like my lovely friend in her book store, I chip away, day in and out to educate my child, clothe and feed her and I, keep myself healthy, put aside money for her future, see my friends and make grand plans. It starts with a drink of water or a dollar coin. Success is in the small steps, not grand gestures in front of thousands of people intoxicated with the spectacle they are attending.

Sound-bites and gurus should be avoided if at all possible, and futures created from one simple step, rather than treading through hot coals or spending thousands on seminars. Particularly if the guru leads you to have to spend time in therapy afterwards…

 

 

Bree’s Army

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A beautiful 21-year-old dancer fell to her death a few years ago on the Gold Coast. When I first saw the news, there was a cacophony of feelings. Sunday Night screened a detailed segment regarding this tragedy on the weekend. They showed us who Bree Robinson was, who her remarkable family are, and certainly who her boyfriend is.

It is astonishing that a certain individual has gotten away with so much, for so long. If you know a little of my history, you will understand why this is personal for me, and I take it very personally indeed. I was hoping that over twenty years since my fall, the legal system might have caught up to public expectation.

Bree’s family and friends have started a Facebook page, Bree’s Army , to collate information, support, and to demand justice for Bree and for many other women. Please like and share the link. This young lady’s family deserves  justice, and her life deserves to be remembered for bringing about lasting change.

 

What I missed when I was a Hermit

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I went through a long period as a hermit,  both out of necessity and for health reasons. The outside world became a terrifying spectre, one I feared may swallow me whole. I read books and wrote of my experiences whilst inside hospital wards and in my room. Worlds can be contained in a small space, and I lived a hundred lives and died a thousand deaths whilst awaiting my return to the outside world.

I dreamed of performing simple tasks and going to ordinary places. The thought of going to the bakery and asking for a seeded loaf, or opening my own bank account, terrified and enthralled me. The thought of ordering food in a café or requesting a movie ticket was unthinkable. I would go through the actions required to get public transport from Point A to B a million times. Going to the letterbox made me feel vulnerable, let alone going down the street. I missed conversations, and the strangers whom you bumped into as part of a day. I missed the aromas streaming out of restaurants and the music of street artists. I missed the harried workers rushing to the station and building a rapport with the people at my favourite places, until they had become friends.

I don’t regret my years of hermitage. I was unencumbered by other’s input. I wrote stories which weren’t savaged by critics and dressed in my best clothing, styling myself without popular opinion playing on my mind. I was ruler of my thoughts and if a bad pain day or stalker caused me want to scream or weep, I could, freely. I knew where I started and other people left off with regards to boundaries, as I was the only one there! Much was given, but there was also much taken away throughout those years.

I didn’t travel, nor dress to be seen. I couldn’t think of anything worse! I could be dressed in electric blue, though still invisible. One day, the doors were flung open, and there I was, out in the world. I was eighteen years of age. I took note of the prices at the local shops, writing them on a notepad and memorizing them. I had to learn everything, from how to ask for services to how to talk on the phone. Everything was new and thrilling, terrifying and stultifying.

Circumstances have seen me recede at times. I may have had surgery and am not strong enough to go out into the world, or circumstances have conspired to push me into a constrained space. When I am able to open the front door, I am greeted by sunshine and fresh air. I have had enough of living inside; of living within my imagination, and not out in the world. I am privileged to have been given the gift of knowing that I don’t need people to fulfil me, rather I delight in being with them. There is a marked difference.

To go to a movie or concert by yourself; to travel and dine singularly is still a lovely experience. To have been a hermit and not enjoyed your own company would be a nightmare! Fortunately, I can still laugh at my own jokes and bounce ideas off of myself. I look forward to seeing more of this world, what with its questionable leaders, crazy politics, beautiful folk, glorious art and delicious food. I have merely dipped my foot into the waters away from hermitage valley. I look forward to being fully submerged.

Youth Mental Health

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I read the following piece with sorrow in my heart, and a mind churning out memories.

I was once a troubled teen, the result of mismanagement and abuse. I was put in the care of a private adult clinic at fourteen years of age. I was the youngest person in there, and it was without a school, teacher nor any tools to deal with a young, frightened and damaged psyche. As a result of this horrendous oversight, I was preyed upon by more than one violent adult, the end result being that I was abducted and thrown off a building.

Meetings were convened in the aftermath, and much hand wringing and reflection was had. All I asked (demanded) was that no child should be put in an adult facility in future. I advocated and I campaigned. As a result, rules of conduct and considerations to minors were tightened. At least, I was assured that they had. I breathed a sigh of relief, with the assurance that some good had come of my experience. I believed young people would be together, healing from the depression and pain which had sought to destroy them.

At a time when we require swift access to mental health services to keep our young alive and allow them to heal, we are instead given headlines such as this:

The full story can be found here.

What the hell! There should be more units opened for children, not less! I find it unfathomable that the Health Minister had no idea that this was going to occur. It shows a lack of cohesive and inclusive services and certainly a lack of communication. It takes time for a young person to open up to a mental health professional, and requires funding to ensure they have consistent support. They need to be with other children and teens, and have access to schooling, or other activities. It seems that time and funding are both in short supply. I feel for the professionals at the coal-face, and can’t imagine how difficult their job must be. The indisputable fact of the matter is that kids should never, ever be put in clinics or wards with adults, ever. You are dealing with one of the most vulnerable sections of society, and we have to ensure an environment conducive to healing.

I for one demand that funding be made available as a matter of urgency, to cater to the needs of our young. I would very much like this generation to not have to survive what I endured. It is preferable that it isn’t allowed to happen in the first place. I survived despite  my treatment, and not as a result of receiving adequate help. That is a miracle in itself.

To make your feelings known, please contact the Health Minister, Brad Hazzard.

 

 

I am more than my pain

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Last week, I watched a young woman jog by my house. We exchanged greetings, and I was hit by a body memory which revealed itself as sadness. I recalled that I had once roller-skated, rode a bike and horses, gone on amusement rides, danced, done yoga and aerobics. I was a very active kid, and loved to jog. These were my happy times, when I celebrated being in my body, rather than feeling detached. I loved putting my headphones on, and running for miles. I loved being able to contort my body, skating on ice and in the rink. I even loved the war wounds from falls off my bike after performing a hazardous stunt. No wonder I so enjoy watching my child perform extraordinary feats! She reminds me of myself as a kid.

When my spine broke, it all stopped. It was like a grandfather clock seized ticking when it’s owner died. I told myself that none of it mattered, that being alive was reward enough. It certainly was, but there was nobody to confide in for the grief of what was taken. It took years to overcome the panic of having a spine entirely fused. It feels unnatural, like somebody has glued you together as a statue, with immovable parts. Your mind craves the liberty of being able to stretch and bend, only you can’t. It was worse when the rods and Hartshill rectangle were inside my spine. I could feel the wires and screws, and desperately wanted them gone. For somebody that had been so active, I now had to go back to basics, applauding myself when I walked a hallway or up a solitary stair. Cheering myself on when I managed to lift my arms. It took years to retrieve the pieces of my psyche that had been thrown in the air. It has taken years to not feel trapped, as if I was in a permanent body cast.

I have done my utmost to feel like the spirited, irrepressible girl I had once been. As I age, my spine is getting worse. Taking deep breaths is breathtakingly hard. Sitting hurts, walking hurts, everything hurts, all the time. The recent diagnosis of Trigeminal Neuralgia has been hard to take. At a time in my life when I need to steer my daughter towards her high school years, and kick my own goals, my head is now complaining. Where once I would have climbed a tree or gone to the rink to skate as an emotional release, it is now found in theatres and cinemas. The bar was forcibly reset when I was fifteen, and triumphs are uncovered in how I get through my days. There is my daughter and I, doing life together, alongside a fragile spine, neck and head.

She went bowling a while ago, and when I told her friend’s mother that no, I wouldn’t be able to take part, she answered, ‘there’s not much you can do, is there?’ It took my breath away, such was the punch in the gut. She boasted of all the physical activities that she shares with her child. I know she didn’t mean to hurt me, but it hurt nonetheless. I have had to drown out the opinions of others, and remember that I coped with pregnancy when they were concerned I wouldn’t be able. I coped as a new mother, training in preparation by carrying around bags of potatoes and oranges whilst still pregnant. I did weights so my arms would be strong enough to hold her. My triumphs are quite different to other’s.

I fulfil my obligations to the best of my abilities and find joy in each day. Pain and gratitude can live together within one’s body. There are weeks that are truly horrendous, and not just due to pain. I require catheterization, and sometimes, there just isn’t the money to  buy the necessary amount of disposable’s for the week. That alone costs over $100. I ration myself,  to the point where my bladder isn’t damaged. Medications, specialist appointments and tests all cost above what my private health fund covers. Then there are the aides that make life easier. To be able to laugh and enjoy life in spite of it all, requires some doing at times! It can be devastatingly lonely, and frustrating. The stuff you don’t see on social media. I tend to go to ground, readying myself for the next round, particularly when I know there are busy days ahead.

I can cope with the medical stuff, and am preparing for quite a wild ride this year. There will be having fractured teeth pulled, root canals, impacted wisdom teeth, possibly having spinal cord stimulation and surgery for the TN. There will be medications to keep me going also, and trials for this and that. I just wish I could join my daughter in her trampolining and acrobatics. I wish I could go skating with her and climb trees. It’s funny, even though I am frightened of heights, I was never panicked whilst in the canopy of a tree. I felt safe. There is a tightrope to walk between acknowledging one’s pain and limitations and living life large. Concessions must be made, such as spacing out activities and factoring in rest. I am not ready to wave the white flag yet. Schooling my daughter these past four years has been a joy, and has given me such a wondrous gift. I know the best is yet to come, for her and I.

So there you have it, the blasted conundrum of living within an altered body. Feeling frustrated and angry, sad and exhausted, whilst also having a spirit of gratitude and wonder. Yes, wonder; at how you have adapted to your changing circumstance. Wonder at how beautiful life is. Gratitude that the arts have been able to replace physical feats as a means of release. I see my wounds as a gift of sorts. Animals and strangers come up to me routinely, as though they sense the vulnerability of a wounded person, and are drawn to it. It makes you approachable, and others tend to see you as someone they can confide in. It is a privilege, a compensation for the piercing pain. Time is too pressing and life too extraordinary to waste on nonsense; pain teaches you that. Time is a master that needs to be obeyed, and is followed to the second. My mind can cope if I prescribe it a timetable, and it knows that rest is coming up shortly.

I am learning as I go, often making up new rules on the spot. I am in it for the long haul, and can adapt as needed. I grieve when memories come up of skating and bowling, riding bikes and running. I grieve as needed, and acknowledge as required. There may be activities I can no longer partake in, but doing life isn’t one of them!

The Ring Walk

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I have always had a terror of heights, and had to be excused from excursions featuring walks across Sydney Harbour Bridge, Centrepoint Tower and the footbridge at Darling Harbor. The mere thought of traipsing across walkways was too much to bear. Of course, my acrophobia became much worse after I soared to earth and broke. You can’t easily explain to other people what it is like to be jostled up a stairwell, nor set on a ledge. They can’t understand how it feels to soar through the air, knowing you will crash to earth within seconds. They don’t know how any of it feels, for the simple reason that they haven’t felt it. My survival is due to a combination of things; I was able to talk him down from the roof, and to the next level. There were bark chips (rather than concrete), underneath this new level, and the few metres less gave me more chance of surviving. I have taken for granted many things in my life, but my survival has not been one of them.

When memories are stirred, and flashbacks take place, I am usually alone. I make a concerted effort to be alone at such times. I get through it, in my own way. Yesterday, I had probably one of the worst anxiety attacks of my adult life. The day started pleasantly enough. I was taking part in a walk with a group of people, and we chatted happily as we strolled through parklands. Two kilometres in, we turned a corner, and I was caught up in the group. To my horror, I found myself to be on The Ring Walk, a circular walkway 550 metres in circumference and 18.5 metres above a sandstone floor. The panels either side were transparent, allowing a complete view of the drop below. My heart beat wildly, as I summed up my options. I couldn’t turn back, as there was a sea of people approaching from behind. The thought of advancing forward seemed unthinkable; I still had such a long way to go.

The Brickpit Ring Walk at Sydney Olympic Park

I stood paralysed until a friend noticed my discomfort. She asked how she could help. I said that if she could link arms with me, and keep me chatting, I could cope better. We walked quickly as we talked about anything other than being on this walkway. It seemed to take hours to get to the end, but I kept my focus on gratitude; that this stunning woman with raven curls had noted my anxiety from afar, and instinctively knew what was happening to me. “We are at the end!” she cheered, and as I let go of her waist, my body felt like lead. I was dripping with perspiration and shaking uncontrollably.

There are many things I can control in way of responses, thoughts and emotions. My acrophobia is not one of them. I have a daughter who delights in heights, and is skilled at ascending without fear, and descending in a safe manner. My acrophobia affects nobody but me, and I am pleased about that. I crawled into bed, nauseous and exhausted last night, and it took 24 hours to still the surge of adrenalin coursing through my veins. No matter how many times I assured myself that I was safe, that there were no baddies behind, ready to throw me below, my body recall wouldn’t have it.

I usually fight the past alone. Yesterday, somebody stepped into the fray and not only acknowledged my past, but how I felt in that moment. It was a gracious act, filled with empathy. This lady has no fear of heights, but put herself in my shoes. Not only did I survive the Ring Walk, but I was given the gift of being completely vulnerable in front of another, and not only being seen and heard, but held up. I did something I never would have dreamed I could, with a dear friend lending me her strength.

My new Heart

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I met the most extraordinary lady a few years back, from the USA. Tall and elegant, with twinkling blue eyes and a mischievous sense of humour. This lady had seen it all. She had been beaten up and had her face broken. She had experienced homelessness and then employed as a cocktail waitress. She had her own graphic design business, before coming to Oz and travelling to the Far North. On her return, she taught troubled kids, believing in them until they could believe in themselves. Starting another business, she lived on two-minute noodles and water whilst ploughing away. She endured more heartbreak and found salvation in riding her motorbike and attending Cosplay events. Beguiling and independent, I had never met a more free spirit. She raised her daughter single-handedly, something to be immensely proud of. No family to back her up nor support her. Now, her daughter is grown, and my friend is leaving to  be nearer her. It happened within weeks, and not only did she notice the signs that it was time to move on, but she listened. She heard loud and clear through the notes that were left in her building, neighbours abusing one another over minor infractions. She heard it through her listlessness, and when she added up what seven years of rent had cost her, in a place she didn’t love. It had been the longest this free spirit had stayed anywhere.

We arranged to meet with her, shortly before she left. She gave my daughter this ring, saying that if she wore it, it would remind her of her worth and strength, just as it had her. It is Lapis, and fitted her perfectly. My friend didn’t have anybody to buy her jewellery, and so she bought it for herself as a young woman. I love that she didn’t wait to have it gifted her.

To me, she gave her Cosplay belt, fitted with pockets, so I could travel lightly. She made me promise to go to festivals in her place. She also gave me a gift which reduced me to tears. One evening at her place, a glass heart I was wearing slipped from the cord around my neck, and smashed on her tiled floor. Picking it up, my friend vowed to fix my broken heart. I had forgotten all about it, until the moment I opened the hessian bag and saw this:

My new rose quartz heart and my old, shattered glass heart.

It was quite simply, one of the most poetic and symbolic gifts anyone has ever given me. There was my old heart, shattered and black with all it had absorbed in the past. Here was my new heart, bigger though lighter, and certainly untainted. I shall keep both, as a reminder that one can heal with the right people around you. My friend has taught me many, many things in the past few years. She has taught both my girl and I to always believe in our dreams, to rejoice in being independent and free-thinkers. She has shown us how to survive on very little and how to celebrate when fortune enters one’s life. She has taught us how to be brave, and how to have fun. How learning never ends and what a joy it is to study new things. She has taught us that when life kicks you into the dirt, you can not only survive, but thrive. This woman had nobody to help her, nor cheer her on. Whatever she has accomplished has been done with determination, self-belief and a will of iron. My darling friend, the Lapis ring and my brand new heart can’t wait to bask in your glow upon our next meeting. xxx

Sanctuary

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I was fortunate enough to find a few sanctuaries around Sydney in my tumultuous youth. I find that if I neglect my visitations, I can’t settle. The first time I discovered this place, I was fourteen years old. I had run from the institution of where I had found myself. It was summer, and I looked longingly through the gate, incredulous and transfixed by the fun and frivolity I saw. These people had not a care in the world as they reclined on the sun lounges and waded in the water overlooking Sydney Harbour. I was both enchanted and detached from the spectacle, a few minutes by foot from my own nightmarish existence. A bird in a gilt-edged cage, put outside to witness other birds flying free.

The place where I was living cared little for me, and I later discovered that they hadn’t even noticed I was missing, such was their lack of interest. The next time I wandered, I had managed to scrounge up the modest entry fee to the baths. I was safe here. No monsters laid in wait, just fish, weaving between the people. The salt water cleansed my body, as it did my mind. I floated, I waded and I reclined. I could plan a future here. I could dream big, and imagine living to sixteen. I could imagine I lived in one of the lovely homes nearby and had slipped out for a dip. I would cry as I left to go up the hill, back to my prison. The baths were sacred ground, untouched by evil.

My sanctuary never left my thoughts or heart, and when I had my daughter, I couldn’t wait to bring her here. I had a moment, when I first saw her as a toddler, playing in the sand, and swimming in the water. I survived, and had introduced my daughter to my paradise. As nonsense once again rained down on me, I took my daughter back to the baths.

We found shade under a grand old tree, and ate the most splendid chips. We swam with the great-grandchildren of the fishes I had once encountered, and experienced the reunification  only a sea breeze can offer. I was home.

Falling, Heights and Pemberton

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I have always had a fear of heights. I would have nightmares about those I loved being thrown off balconies as a child, and wake up crying. I refused to walk over the Sydney Harbour Bridge on a school excursion, as well as the footbridge at Darling Harbour. I have never liked open escalators and glass lifts either. Staying on the ground was the only choice I allowed myself. It was a cruel irony then, that when I was abducted at fifteen, I was made to climb a staircase and set on a balcony. It is a cruel irony that I was thrown off said balcony. I had many surgeries to put my body back together. My fear of heights is still with me (understandably), though I can tackle staircases and some footbridges now.

Fast-forward a decade, and I now have an adventurous daughter. She is unafraid of anything, and has a love of climbing. I have had to put my own fears aside to applaud as she ascends to the sky, doing stunts along the way. I have had to reassure tourists throughout Sydney that she is fine, and knows what she is doing. She is happiest sitting in the canopy of a tree. I have had to remain silent on many occasions, resisting the urge to let out an audible gasp or holler out to “be careful.” This kid knows what she is doing; she always has. The most challenging time was still to come…

She was asked to accompany her friend to Western Australia for a holiday. The family was going to visit the Quokkas on Rottnest Island, snorkel and climb a trio of trees in Pemberton, the tallest at 75 metres. Here is an apt description of these beauties. Apparently, only one in three tourists make it to the top. My daughter was determined, and started training immediately. I was filled with trepidation, and had to resist the urge to say no. In my heart, I knew she could do it, and that it would provide an important life lesson. The more goals a kid can kick and the more challenges they accomplish, the better. It provides a great foundation for their lives. Afterall, if you can do something hard, it proves you can do anything! I wasn’t going to let my fears stand in her way.

Imagine my delight when she Face-timed me from the top! The look of absolute joy on her and her friend’s faces said it all. They can do hard things. I must say, allowing her to climb an apex has been one of my hardest parenting moments. To encourage, rather than daub her skin with my phobia has been challenging. I am so proud of both these girls!

I was struck by two recent incidents when writing this piece:

#1 A fellow serving us at an inner-city coffee shop watched as my daughter performed a back-bend and other tricks. He told me that he had been a trapeze artist for the past 19 years, travelling the world with his wife, until a shoulder injury rendered the demise of his career. He urged me to put her in a school where she can learn more, and said she would never be a day without work when older if she pursued her love of climbing, such as is the demand for these skills.

#2 An older man watched as she joyfully climbed a tree near Sydney Harbour. He glared at me, and remarked that I was “a reckless parent.” My heart sank. The friend I was with urged me to not pay any mind to this stranger, but I still hurt. He had no idea that I suffer anxiety so severe that it rendered me house-bound before I had her. He had no idea that I had fallen from a height, and have had to work hard to applaud my child as she ascends. My grandmother was a very nervous person. She would holler to “be careful! Don’t fall!” as we climbed down her concrete back steps. Sure enough, we would be so alarmed at her hollering that we would indeed fall. It takes everything you have to not do it.

When I saw the look of pride and joy on my girl’s face, I knew it had been the absolute right thing to celebrate with her, rather than douse her enthusiasm in my own fears. As I said to her at the time, “you did this amazing thing; can you see that you will do anything you set your mind to?”

Christmas and Stress

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I recently lost a young friend, unexpectedly and in the most shocking of ways. It shook everyone to their core, including those whom never had the pleasure of knowing her. There seemed to be a collective sigh as masks fell, revealing the truth behind the smiling Instagram pics and depictions of lives filled to the brim. Life is part joy, and part sorrow. Social media accounts don’t necessarily lie, but rather they tell the polished version of lives. We don’t want to burden others with the challenges and pain. Throughout the past month, I have had many people apologize for telling me that they are doing it tough, and I have insisted that ‘burden’ be reframed as ‘sharing.’ We have to share. Spells are broken when we speak aloud, and we hear our voice speaking that which was hidden. I came into December feeling that I knew more about my friends. Even strangers on the bus have become more than acquaintances through the act of sharing. What people had once kept hidden astounded me. No wonder the smile slipped on occasion, and indications of anxiety peeped through!

People have told of the challenges of having two separate Christmas celebrations for children, of estranged family members whom they have to see separately. They have told of poverty and housing stress, ill-health and exhaustion. Trying to hold it together when inside, everything is falling apart. I was diagnosed with a neurological condition a short while ago, an extraordinarily painful chronic illness. I can’t even pretend to have it together at the moment, and the relief is palpable! My daughter is in WA with dear friends of mine. The mum and I did IVF together, and we ended up with daughters, who have been best friends since they were babes. I minded this little girl earlier this year, and I had tears when I heard the girls discussing how they knew they were wanted because their mums went through so much to have them. The understanding of how we longed for them shall hold them in good stead, even when the world tries to beat them down. It is a wondrous foundation to have!

My little girl has climbed the tallest tree in Australia; she has been snorkelling and visited Quokkas. In case you don’t know what a quokka is, here is a picture.

Cute, aren’t they?!

I am trying to manage my pain, in the midst of writing a book and organizing Christmas. There is much I have had to let go of for the sake of my sanity. I have ordered a few gifts online, but for the most part, have had to go easy on myself. I won’t be up until midnight, writing out cards for everyone, as much as I would love to. I simply can’t. Events have been planned in advance, and preparations for everything from travel to what I need to bring have been arranged into bullet points on a notepad. Christmas to me is all about connections rather than gifts, and I am hoping to be up to visiting people next week to check in on them. I had been planning to catch up with a group of ladies whom I haven’t managed to see all year, and invited them around for afternoon tea. I bought some fresh fruit and a little platter of cheeses and mineral water. We had a lovely time, and it cost less than $20. Christmas doesn’t have to mean expense and maxed-out credit cards. I have known many homeless folks, and those without family connections, and believe me, being invited to a Christmas lunch is worth more than gold. The best gift is being seen and heard.

One lady apologized for how harried she felt, for complaining about the stress leading up to the main event, and felt bad for her anger. I told her to stop apologizing! “Anger; unadulterated rage, kept me going in the early years after my fall,” I told her. “It can be a way of saying that a situation isn’t right, nor is it fair. It spurred me on, to work hard on my rehabilitation.” We are allowed to be angry, particularly when too much is expected of us. I love the saying, ‘If you present as strong and together all the time, much is expected of you, and then you have nowhere to go.’ People assume you will say yes to their demands, not realizing that you too have a breaking point.  We may want to retreat and that is okay too. I know many folks who take themselves away at Christmas time, to avoid unnecessary stress.  We have this notion that the Christmas season should see us morph into someone larger than life; a version of us on steroids, where we need to find more money, time and energy than in the other eleven months of the year. Not only is this unrealistic, but impossible, without burning ourselves out.

My daughter and I have a tradition of going into Sydney on the last day of November. We walk around, taking in the decorations and sights. We hardly spend anything, just take festive pictures, talk to strangers and listen to pianist’s play on the Grand Piano in the Queen Victoria Building. We come home feeling as though the veil has been lifted between the hum drum of the rest of the year and the heralding of the festive season. We walk around neighbourhoods admiring light shows at night. We sing along to Christmas carols and watch Christmas movies. It is a wonderful season, when you turn down the volume on expectations and what you should do and feel. Open calls to the beach and swimming pools, taking along a picnic hamper and catching up with friends. Reviewing the year past and planning for the fresh year ahead. Allow yourself to feel what is brewing inside your mind and soul. Allow yourself at least five minutes of peace each day. If we are open and honest with one another, we will find it easier to cope. Look for the beauty around at Christmas time. It costs nothing, and brings such joy.

I am honest about the challenges I face regarding this season. There is grief for those lost, sorrow for what has come to pass, and pain for expectations unfulfilled. There is also light; a belief that the best is yet to come. There are friendships and invitations to sit at people’s tables. There is tinsel and pool parties, hugs and carols. There is reflection and gratitude. I own each in equal measure. My fervent wish is that you have a blessed Christmas, and please, be kind to yourself!