International Women’s Day

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International Women’s Day started way back in 1909, and grown into the massive celebration as seen today. My daughter and I attended a wonderful 30th birthday celebration of a womens’ hub this March 8th. The womens-only centre is the only one of its kind in an area whose population is growing rapidly, and it is very much-needed. Not only does it provide free counselling services, a nurse, doctor and legal advice, but also workshops and groups, caseworkers and a referral service.

We listened to eloquent speakers, and were asked to reflect on the women whom we have loved that are no longer with us. Those who passed after a life of service, and those whom we have lost in tragic circumstances. Suddenly, the wind picked up, and caressed our faces, as though our ancestors and friends had been summoned.

Last year on this date, a doctor I had been seeing was arrested for the sexual assault of several patients. Today as we rode to the women’s centre in a bus, a young mother struggled on with a double pram. She managed to fit the pram into a corner, but the fellow sitting near her refused to tuck his legs in so she could sit comfortably next to her young ones. He had a look of scorn on his face as he deliberately stretched out further, and she struggled to shrink herself into less than half the leg space she should have been allotted.

We got home a short while ago, and I was looking forward to a rest. There was no sleep had last night, due to pain; the result of violence suffered long ago. As we alighted our bus, I sighed. Our neighbour was with a group of men smoking and playing loud music out the front of our place, at the same time as they were revving a chainsaw. They saw us, and continued chopping down a shrub, watching it fall onto our driveway. They then walked over and stood in our drive, ignoring the fact that we were there and had to walk around them. We weren’t even greeted, just glared at, as though we were unwelcome intruders. I was too wary to ask questions, and it can be rather intimidating to have six burly men on your property. I just wanted to get inside, away from them. The irony of it being International Women’s Day wasn’t lost on us. We hadn’t even been informed that they were planning on doing what they were doing. In my room, the music from their van was streaming through the closed window, and so I put on an ambient CD at full blast, resplendent with harps and harpsichords. I can imagine it delighted them, as much as their actions delighted me. Is there any noise more hideous than a chainsaw or leaf blower?!

We still have a long way to go, women and men and together as a community. Attitudes must be checked. Women are allowed to take up space! In fact, we must! As I watched my daughter drumming this morning,  my heart swelled. Here’s to women and girls, and here’s to friendships and the future. May our girls grow into women without shame, unafraid to speak their truths. May they have equal pay and equal rights to men. May old paradigms be vanquished and may we be able to stretch out comfortably in our seats next to men; afforded equal space. May we be able to walk into our front yard unabated.

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.

Living Life on your own Terms

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She knew what it felt like to be owned, or rather, how it felt when others presumed to own her. She had never felt as free as when she placed her most treasured possessions in a suitcase and left the detritus of her old life. The wardrobe was crammed with dresses and coats she would never wear again. The comforts of times past were still sitting on the shelves, her linen on the turned-down bed. She looked around her room one more time, and then closed the door, not looking back. One suitcase and a pocket filled with dreams were all she carried. She would never again see photographs of herself as a child, nor read through old schoolbooks. Stories were contained inside her mind, recollected at a moment’s notice. It is much more fun to belong to oneself. She thought of who she might be as an older lady. She hoped that she would have honed her own style, after years of discarding what hadn’t worked. She hoped that she may have found what did. Whether that be becoming a Lady in Pink, or the Chick in Green.

Perhaps, there would be the wistfulness that comes when one has had to make hard but true choices. This Iggy Pop song would take her back.

There is a price to pay for freedom, whether it be emotional, material or everything in between. One must not think too much about the risks, or one would never be brave enough to leave. All it takes is a deep breath, and the knowledge that the centre isn’t holding and is actually giving way. The trip into the unknown is the only way to survive. To be one’s own master, not owned nor contained. Twenty years pass, just as in the song, ‘Candy.’ She is ever closer to reaching her golden years. Perhaps a lady in pink awaits, or maybe she will become a rainbow. She wonders whether she has used up her quota of colours in younger years; maybe she will instead cloak herself in charcoal and grey? She knows that birds, dogs, a wild garden and books shall feature heavily. Wherever she ends up, and whomever she is evolving into, she can say she has lived life on her own terms. She was always an unruly spirit, unconstrained and certainly never owned nor boxed in. No matter what they thought…

 

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.

The week that was…

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There was this story, which filled me with the hope that good people are listening to the plight of renters.

This poetry slam, which was extraordinarily powerful. It says it all, really.

 

Finally, Rosie Batty has released a statement. She has done more than a team of thousands in the past four years, as documented here. Rest well, beautiful Rosie. xxx

The Physiotherapist

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I have spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on physiotherapy in the twenty-plus years since my fall. I have done weights with physiotherapists, been placed on stretching racks, been in body braces, calipers, body casts, had my muscles shocked, been in hydrotherapy pools, and so much more. I still have the initial regime on paper, that I was instructed to do ten times a day, on top of swimming, hydro and physio sessions. It went on for years. To be honest, I was now full of hubris, believing I knew all there was to know, and could do the required moves in my sleep.

When my doctor set up a health plan for their physiotherapy department, I procrastinated. I was too busy for such indulgence, and besides, I knew everything there was to know! In spite of myself, I made a booking. My, how I laughed at the new patient form I was required to fill out, with minimal space in which to answer how many operations I have had, and what my injuries were. I had to resort to miniscule writing, to make it all fit.

The physiotherapy department really knew their stuff, massaging and kneading and coaxing trapped nerves to yield with subtle movements. They explained how the various muscle groups had compensated for my injuries, and what the plan was. Of course, they asked how on earth a teen had managed to obtain such injuries in the first place, and I told them in a matter-of-fact manner about the abduction and attempted murder. There was shocked silence, until I broke the ice, and then we all laughed as I regaled them with tales of the characters I met throughout the months I was in the rotor bed. It is a hell of a tale to lay on a stranger!

One of the fellows has a partner, and this week, I asked what they had done for Valentine’s Day. I was expecting the usual; that he had ordered red roses and chocolates and that they had gone out for dinner. Instead, he replied that after work, he had met his partner in the city, and they had purchased crates of fruit and water. They had then handed out bags to 200 homeless gathered near Central Station. “We don’t need gifts,” he explained. Apparently, they did this every birthday as well. “We don’t spend money on useless stuff, we buy things that will really help someone else.”  I said in reply, “that my friend, is real love.”  Not only have he and his colleague gifted me with their knowledge regarding my spinal column and neck, but he also revealed  what real romantic love can be in this world. Sacrifice, kindness, humility. I could picture this gentle man and his equally lovely girlfriend smiling as they handed out water on a blisteringly hot evening in Sydney. We talked of the lack of affordable housing in our city, and wondered aloud how greed has been allowed to become master and major consideration in all things. If he were to run for office, I would be his campaign manager. Imagine if everyone repurposed a fraction of their wants and put those resources toward others. Miracles could happen, just as surely as muscle groups yield to a physiotherapists’ masterful hands. I left buoyed with the thought that hundreds of people in this city felt loved on Valentine’s Day because of this dynamic duo.

After more than twenty years, I still have a thing or two to learn from physiotherapists. I rediscovered the difference they can make as to how I manage my pain. I have also rediscovered the gold one uncovers when you have nowhere to go and nothing to do but be in the moment.

Happy Galentine’s Day!

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What is Galentine’s Day, you ask? It is a celebration of friendship. Read more here. Those precious souls who call in when we are at our lowest, make us laugh and cheer us on. I am blessed to have many gorgeous friends who do the above. This year, I have been remiss, as life has been busy. I have to attend to a few medical issues (boring and laborious), but next year I vow to get together with my tribe to celebrate how awesome they are. Love is a precious gift, not found in red roses or a giant teddy bear. It is found in the everyday overtures of affection, given without condition and with joy. Thankyou to all who make a difference in someone’s life.

If you are alone today, know that you are a miracle and are loved. The odds of you being on this planet were against you, and yet, here you are! Make yourself a pot of tea, have a luxurious bath, listen to your favourite music. Above all, be kind to yourself. Fill your cup today.

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