Category: raphaela

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!

Why didn’t you Tell?

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The arm in this picture tells a powerful story.

Why didn’t you tell? Why didn’t you say something? Let me have a think about it…

I guess the teachers, family therapists, doctors and ICU staff don’t count. Nor do the parents of friends, police officers, Health Dept. It was almost a full-time job as a young person, writing reports and speaking to the relevent agencies. It takes such bravery to speak out in the first place, and to simply keep living after you have been dismissed or threatened for doing so. It took over a decade for someone to finally hear me. It took longer to start the healing process, a journey which is ongoing.

To those not able to speak out when the horror first occurred, I completely understand. These monsters may be in your family, they may employ you, or be in a position of power. To survive, you disassociate. You must, in order to stay alive. You have an out-of-body experience, your brain’s way of coping. Your words catch in the back of your throat, leaving you silent. If you are shouted down by HR, for example, it can take many months to open your mouth again. You have to get your head around filing a statement with the police, knowing that court may await you, bringing with it an opening of your wounds. If the person who committed the vile act is regarded by others as a convivial individual; community-minded and respected, you can feel very alone. There should be no smug questioning of the individual as to why they didn’t come forward sooner. There should only be praise that they did at all. It is so very hard.

This year has seen The Reckoning come to pass. I have waited my whole life for such an event. It has given allowance for those silenced in the shadows to speak, and to heal. I know how it feels to be a girl with a spotlight on her, people ridiculing, turning away and accusing. I know what it feels like to be the arm in the picture, timidly speaking out, but unable to reveal my identity. We have tried to speak out for many years, in many different ways. We have tried to change the culture and what is allowed by powerful individuals. Now is the time of being heard. Within ten years, my daughter will have joined the workforce, and be out there in the world. I am beyond relieved that it will most likely be a workplace with respect as it’s ethos, rather than creeps being able to do whatever they want to whomever they want. I look back at my younger years, and read my medical notes. The amount of times I had frank conversations about what I was enduring is astounding. I tried to tell, but nobody listened. It was all too hard. I am so glad that I survived to witness The Reckoning. It is changing the culture for our children.

Depression, Grief, Animals and Butterflies

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I saw my bus coming, and stepped aside so an elderly woman could climb down. She paused at the door to compliment the driver on his thoughtfulness and driving ability. A conversation began between two older ladies, both of whom reiterated that he was a safe driver, steering the bus smoothly. He said goodbye to his passengers down the road at changeover, giving a cheeky wink to these two, and the ladies gushed some more over his impeccable manners. One of the women was born in Portugal, the other, Italy. Both had lost children in road accidents when the kids were seventeen years old. The people responsible were each handed a suspended sentence. The shared horror saw the women sit in stunned silence at their chance meeting, until the other lady departed the bus at a shopping centre. The Italian lady’s daughter was a girl called Lisa, and she had died alongside a young friend. Lisa’s father, overcome by grief, took his life shortly after her death. Her friend’s mother also took her life a few years later. The Italian lady, Rosa, felt she had to keep going for her other children. She knew she couldn’t do it alone, and found help with the aid of counselling and medication. I was so moved by her openess, her courage and quiet dignity. I squeezed her hand as we said our goodbyes. I thought of her Lisa at the train station, and how astounding it was that Rosa had survived that dreadful volume of tragedy. At that moment, a Monarch butterfly fluttered down to my daughter and I, resting on the bench beside us.

We were on our way to a special event, the vision of which was spurred by a young war widow whose husband had sadly taken his life. We were going to sing; to gather for these families, and all service men and women, past and present. I posted photos that evening, and a particular friend liked them on social media. I smiled, knowing that we would be seeing each other soon at a mutual friend’s get-together.

The next morning, I was alarmed to find what read as a farewell on her Facebook. A group of loved ones were beside themselves as her phone rang out. We were all eager to hold her, to talk her through the crisis. To simply be there… Tragically, we received word that she had taken her life. The events, people and conversations of those couple of days seemed intertwined. Grief and depression, butterflies, PTSD, remembrance…

Depression is a filthy liar. It wants us to believe that we are alone, isolated. It tells us that nobody can help us, that nobody cares. It assures us that strength is only found in standing alone, keeping our pain to ourselves, and sharing with nobody. It says that we are a burden, an unsightly stain on otherwise blissful lives. It is a liar.

Rosa and the lady from Portugal gave me a gift when they talked of their lives and their grief. I now know these women at a profound level, and look forward to many more conversations, deepening the friendships on our bus journeys. I know about the children they lost, and shall keep them in remembrance. The young war widow who inspired a new way of honouring our soldiers has spurred needed conversations about PTSD and the care of our men and women. A woman in her seventies talked to me-a stranger-about her husband’s suicide and her subsequent deep depression. We need to keep talking, reaching out and sharing. Whenever I see butterflies, my thoughts shall turn to those whom we have lost to the insideous scourge of depression and PTSD. Keep the conversation going; visit those whom are struggling. Make contact with those who seem to have retreated. We are not islands, nor were we ever designed to be. My suicide attempts were serious indeed, and quite frankly, it is a mystery as to why I am still here. All I know is I’m thankful beyond measure that I am.

I sat by the river near my home yesterday, filled with sorrow. Tears pooled in my eyes, and slipped down my face. Within moments, a duck had waddled up, sitting at my feet, quacking away as though it were telling me the secrets of the universe in duck language.

It was soon joined by a dragonfly, a willy wagtail  and then this guy.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I smiled at the motley crew assembled. It had been the first time I had left my house in several days. I had finally remembered my own advice to others, that whatever depression and grief urges you do, you must do the opposite. I no sooner desired to go for a walk than I craved root canal surgery, but I knew that was what I had to do. I would never have met my erstwhile friends had I not. Keep reaching out, keep talking, and know that life simply wouldnt be as grand without you. You are wanted, you are loved and you are needed.

Triggers and PTSD

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We have to share with each other; it’s an absolute necessity. I have seen people retreat, building a fort around their minds and hearts. I can tell you from experience, it is the absolute worst thing that you can do. I have seen brilliant people rescind mid-way through stellar careers and lives,  eaten alive by depression and the aftermath of  trauma. I am often too busy to deal with my memories and triggers at the time they come up. I admit it’s a state I am not only grateful for, but prefer. I then wonder why I burst into tears in the shower, crawl into bed, unable to converse at the end of the day, or am irritable and bereft. I sat down and wrote some of my triggers, and then sardonically laughed, incredulous that I ever questioned why I am exhausted and crave space at the day’s end.

Here are some of the places, aromas, music, etc, that bring forth strong memories and emotions:

Suburbs: Concord, Bondi, Auburn, Greenwich, Lane Cove, Katoomba, Westmead, Parramatta, Revesby, St Leonards, Manly, Ryde, Lidcombe and Kogarah.

Scents: Anais Anais, Tabu, sandalwood, Aramis, cigarette smoke.

Songs: Run for your Life, Sorrow, Hard Woman, Dear Prudence, Stairway to Heaven, Belladonna, Oh Father, Stray Cat Blues, Ruby Tuesday, Comfortably Numb and so many more.

Conversations about crimes and offenders, falling, abductions, crimes against children, abuse. Seeing famous people and institutions fall one-by-one, some of whom I once looked up to.

Hearing people scream or argue loudly, having to climb stairwells or go over bridges; anything to do with heights, and being unable to avoid such. Hearing trains in the background or the wail of sirens, winter and feeling cold, certain herb teas that I used to drink as a teen, seeing strangers that remind me of past villains, sharp knives (I don’t own any, nor do I have a knife block), two-minute noodles, toffee, apple pies, carrot cake,

Too many movies to mention.

In any given day, I have to deal with at least one trigger that provokes unpleasant memories and emotions. I am often in a situation where I simply can’t avoid said trigger and have to somehow plough through. It is at home when the mask can fall and you can let it all out. How do you explain to someone the cologne they have spritzed has brought up unpleasant memories, particularly if you only met the person five minutes ago? What do you do when you are in a restaurant and a song comes on that hooks you straight into the past?  It is a minefield and I step on them all the time. A portion of my brain explodes, as does my heart. I pick myself up, and stagger home.

Once inside my sanctuary, a few things happen. I turn on gentle ambient music, light candles and drop some lavender oil into my diffuser. I play with my birds, and prepare a healthy dinner. I then soak in a bath filled with salts and essential oils, slip into pajamas and dim the lights in my room. Breathing deeply, I try to sort through what has transpired throughout the day, and what has come up for me. I let it be, assuring myself that it is of little surprise that I felt adrift, and that it is completely normal. I try to sleep, aware that I may have nightmares, if the triggers were strong enough. Waking, I will have a herb tea and hot shower, and start the day, hoping that the triggers go easy on me. This is PTSD, and trying to navigate through it.

When I was a teen, I met many returned military personnel and emergency responders, damaged by what they had seen. I met scores of people who had been in notorious orphanages. I met people who had encountered unimaginable horror as young people. Back then, knowledge of PTSD was in its infancy. These folks were thought to have ‘shell-shock’ or a nervous disorder. I regret not having my PTSD acknowledged for many years, as it is crucial to seek treatment early. When I open the paper and see an institution or individual I had encountered finally being brought to justice, a part of me rises, and yet another part of me falls. Why did it take so long, and why did so many have to suffer? Why weren’t we heard way back then? I take comfort that the world my daughter is growing up in is slowly but surely changing. The treatment we were told to accept would be deemed outrageous now. At last, at last.

I live with chronic pain and will require more surgery. I haven’t been able to run, rollerskate nor do many other things with my daughter, and need to be supine more than other mums. My daughter has borne witness to tears brought on by my constant pain, and seen my whole demeanour change when faced with a trigger. It is a wicked burden for both her and I to carry. It shouldn’t have happened. The times are changing, and it brings me such comfort. As I endure my nightmares and flashbacks I am at least assured that the days of being silenced are coming to an end. I feel like a bird with a broken wing, trying to heal and trying to fly. I am slowly getting there. The public outing of personalities whom had hurt and damaged many people has helped. No more dark spaces in which to hide. Suddenly, there is light.

Suggestions for Christmas Gifts

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These lovely folk are my mates, but even if they weren’t, I would still buy their wares.

First we have Lover and Dreamer, which sells candles and resin-ware. Natasha’s candles are made from soy, and gorgeous in both aroma and colour. Her resin products are exquisite;  much experimentation, love and time has gone into her products!

Next we have Jan Wallace pottery. I met this dear lady when she donated three ceramic birds to sit atop a cake for my friend’s wake, and have loved her ever since. She has many pieces for sale in her Etsy shop, including these beauties.

Last but certainly not least, we have Science Sayz. The incomparable David Everett started this business, spurred on by modern medicine saving his son’s life in the most extraordinary manner (read about it here). A passionate advocate of science, he wants to spread the word about evidence-based medicine.

$1.00 from each shirt sold will go toward scientific research. These are but a few businesses that are run by splendid people, making a difference in this world. Check them out!

Peace Project, Bondi Beach and RSL Commemorative Youth Choir

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On the 11th November, we attended a special event at Bondi Beach. We couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day. The RSL Commemorative Youth Choir sang with the Army Band for an hour,  before we walked onto the beach.
Sunrise filmed the event, and it was also shown on the nightly news. It was a very special morning, displaying to military families that we care and that they matter. Afterwards, the choir kids plunged into the ocean. A new form of remembrance was born, and these young people are leading with love. Next year shall be bigger and better than ever. We will never forget.

 

Rotorua, Sulphur, Mini Golf and Flemish Rabbits!

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My daughter and I travelled to Auckland airport from Sydney to attend a wedding in Rotorua. It was our first international flight, so we were excited! We left home at 5am, and got to our lodgings after 8pm. Fortunately, I had prepared my spine -full of arthritis, spondylosis, etc- for this epic adventure, and after a hot shower, crawled into bed.

The trip to Rotorua. This van was in front of us for a few hours.

The next day, I needed a good walk, so we went into Rotorua, and had a marvellous time looking in shops (which are markedly different to ours), and talking to the locals. The cost of living is a lot higher here, which was evident in the price of petrol and food. Over half  the population exist on the minimum wage, and rents are high. I worried about the local people, and how they manage.

My friends were married at the Black Swan Boutique Hotel, a stunning place overlooking Lake Rotorua. Black swans glided by as the vows were exchanged, and the grey skies cleared and sunbeams touched our skin. The bride was absolutely stunning, and I loved how we were invited to hold the rings, placing our love and hopes for the couple into them before they were exchanged. The reception was exquisite, as were our attempts at dancing afterward!

My vegetarian meal!

We left the Black Swan at midnight, collapsing into bed, and woke early the next morning for breakfast with everyone. The bride and groom were glowing and ever so happy. It filled me with joy. We decided to head to the Polynesian Baths to partake of a sulphur spa, naturally heated to 40 degrees. I lost track of time as my body relaxed and I floated with my daughter, and it was only when we went to get dressed that we noted the sign stating that you shouldn’t stay in longer than 15 minutes! Oops! We drank lots of water afterward, to avoid dehydration, and I went to have a nap, my pained spine temporarily eased.

 

As I slumbered in our Airbnb, my daughter uncovered what she called a fairyland, Mini Golf NZ, ironically on Fairy Springs Rd. The manager, Fiona MacGregor was an angel, she said, and I just had to go and see for myself. On the way, we stopped at the local shops for a takeaway dinner, and met many homeless youth. The weather had turned nasty, and a bitter wind whipped through their thin clothing. We gave them some of our NZ money, so they could at least get something to eat. This is the hidden face of any country, concealed behind the tourist attractions and natural beauty. The operators rake in the cash, but the poor see barely a cent.

I was already entranced by the music, bubbles and fairy lighting I could see outside of the mini golf centre, but when I went in, I was captivated! Flemish rabbits bounded up to us for cuddles and pats, and were very involved as we worked our way around the course.

There was also a tame dove and a rainbow lorikeet! I was in heaven! Fiona has been here a long while, and has not only raised her own kids, but looked after many others. She is very aware of how the community is struggling, and organizes canned-food drives and Christmas hampers for organizations like Food Bank to distribute. Fiona is a good woman with a huge heart. There was something very special about her and this place. She was here for love, an essence that shimmered like gossamer around this slight woman.

Fiona and her Rainbow lorikeet

We met a lot of  Maori’s, and they expressed concern about lack of  job opportunities, homelessness, housing affordability and much more. I admire the local community organizations, who have set up linked charities to tackle the major issues. One of the major ingredients has to be a sense of hope; that things can turn around. If that is lost, mental illness creeps in, aided by alcohol and drugs. As long as hope and good people like Fiona abound, communities and their whanau shall prevail. The rest of our trip was spent in quiet contemplation and thankfulness that we had seen our friends marry, and that we had met Fiona. If you are ever in Rotorua, go see her!

The gorgeous bride and I

#MeToo

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I came across the following article about an exhibition of clothing that survivor’s of sexual assault wore the day of the crime. It seared itself into my psyche, and whilst I found it confronting, the biggest emotion I felt was rage; unadulterated rage. Anger that the public may require visual representations to even attempt to understand what the victim had endured.

Let me tell you a story… Once upon a time, there was a fourteen year old girl, living in Sydney during a typical Aussie summer. A grown man hovered, and she remarked to anyone who would listen that she found his attentions “creepy.” Upon discovering her alone one evening, he mentioned that if he were her, he would make sure that he wore jeans and a long top wherever she went, especially if he was around.  It was said as though it were a warning, and chilled her to the bone. It stuck in her brain, and she found herself wearing both jeans and long top as she prepared for a picnic, despite it being a heatwave. He wasn’t supposed to be coming, but at the last moment, hopped on the bus. Once they had reached their destination, the girl looked about, envious at other young women dressed in shorts and singlet tops, and angry she felt that she had to cover up in the extreme heat. The end result of the picnic was that she was raped. Her exhibit would be jeans and a long top, covered with dirt and sweat… My exhibit. Not only did the adults present not save me, neither did my choice of outfit.  Sexual violence is about power and control, not about what one is wearing. It never was. 

I have known many girls, whom at puberty, have felt uncomfortable with leering strangers and commentary from familiar people about their changing bodies, and have thus worn shapeless jumpers and cargo pants, even in the height of summer. It breaks my heart. It reminds me of  that time… When I see young people in shorts and singlets in hot weather, I rejoice. They are free, their skin able to cool itself, unencumbered. 

I have watched with dismay as the truth about Harvey Weinstein comes under not only a spotlight, but a search-light. The truth, at last! It can’t be hidden forever, no more than your dress can be blamed for a crime committed against you. I leave with the following from the sage Emma Thompson.

 

Vale, the Birdwatcher

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We received an email from a lovely friend, courageously explaining that she had just been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She also mentioned she would be starting treatment at Chris O’Brien’s Lifehouse, which may gift her more time. We saw her shortly afterward, and my daughter wrapped her arms around the diminutive Scot. This lady knew that her days were numbered, and prepared those she loved. She showed her husband where everything in the house could be found, and planned her funeral. Her dearest wish was to die at home, and we were very grateful that she was able to do so. The petite bushwalker, social justice advocate, swimmer and birdwatcher fell into slumber last Monday, and yesterday, we celebrated her life. She had enjoyed a crisp glass of wine (or whiskey), films and music, as well as the company of children and animals. A life well-lived. After refreshments were served, my daughter and I went for a stroll, and came across the most magnificent bird mural. “It’s a sign,” she said, and I truly believed it was. Our friend was adaptable, moving countries and going on adventures as others might change clothes. She was also reliable and a meticulous planner. Her traits held her in good stead, as well as those of us whom admired them and hoped to emulate them. The Kingfisher is a member of the Australian Kookaburra family, and is a promise of peace, abundance and love. How apt that we stumbled upon a wall filled with such symbolism?

Old Magazines and Time Travel

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Half the folks I read about as having married, have since come out as gay. Not even thirty years ago, people felt they had to hide who they were. Anyone over forty was considered to be of advanced age, and a rare few were celebrated as looking good “in spite of their years.” IVF was still in its early stages, and as ICSI hadn’t been devised, success rates were low. Gluten was considered good in most cases, and low-fat powdered skim milk was the go! Sexual, domestic, financial, emotional and verbal abuse were rarely discussed. If they were mentioned, it was only in brief commentary, advising the person to seek some form of therapy, though adequate help was scant. The postal service was rushed off it’s feet; the internet and express delivery still a long way off. We thought it marvellous if we could have our film developed in 24 hours, viewing the dodgy pictures we’d taken.

We saw Hollywood stars fall in and out of love, just as we did. Some famous folk sadly succumbed to drugs, alcoholism or other tragedies. If only we had a time machine to warn them! Would they have listened? Would we, had we been approached, regarding impending disaster? Some of the ads and features I came across in the old magazines made me smile and reminisce; some made me glad to be alive right here and now. People can be who they truly are without falling foul of the public or media. They don’t need to announce an engagement or marriage to be accepted. Medical advances have seen everything from cochlear implants transcend from one station (leaving only a minor improvement in hearing), to many, which can be adjusted easily for the individual’s comfort. Laser surgery is a thing, as are insulin pumps and scores of other astounding breakthroughs in medicine. A friend of mine was kept alive via an artifical heart whilst waiting for a transplant in the past five years!

Ageing is celebrated, and we are actually seeing people over forty on catwalks, and in the arts, being revered and heard. We live in an age of self-defrosting fridges, little vaccuums, mobile phones, laptops and the internet. Rather than hiring a huge video cassette, we are able to download a film on our IPads. We are fortunate, to be alive at this time. No more secrets nor shame. We are indeed fortunate.