PTSD, Fairy Lights and Healing (Trigger warning)

A migraine descended on Friday. My head holds a portent for storms, the barometric pressure in the atmosphere causing excruciating pain. My spine decided to be in simpatico and on Saturday evening, my right leg went from under me. I managed to hit a sharp edge of a piece of furniture in the living room. Dazed, I sat on the floor as my daughter rushed over. She told me I was bleeding and she helped me into the bathroom. There was an incredible amount of blood gushing from my lip and when I removed the gauze for a closer look, I saw that I had a gash trailing from the bottom lip, down. Unable to stem the flow of blood, I arranged an Uber. I thought I was doing okay, albeit a bit stunned. I couldn’t talk in the Uber, so my daughter relayed information to the driver. He had a baby seat in the back and was a lovely fellow. We were his first customers; he needed to earn money for his family as the lockdown wore on.

I was seen by a nurse and instructed to take a seat in the waiting area, after being told the wound would probably need stitches. A couple in their 70’s were sitting nearby and my daughter and I whispered that they were the sweetest, most devoted couple we’d ever seen. The lady laughed as my daughter pulled out umbrellas, water bottles and assorted detritus from my handbag, as she searched for her headphones. “We sure cram a lot into our handbags, don’t we,” she said. My daughter chatted to her and we looked on as she fussed over her husband, her arm around him. A pregnant lady sat with her partner and they were holding hands. At one point, we began to laugh at the absurdity of finding ourself in casualty, on the first day of a long weekend. The outburst caused more bleeding from the gash and I had to have the gauze changed. We were sitting on uncomfortable chairs and the wait was long. In spite of this, nobody went to the window and asked how much longer, nor did they complain. The couples settled in and held onto each other. It was apparent by the creases around eyes, that we were all smiling at one another, underneath our masks.

An hour turned into three, turned into four. My spine was screaming, and I paced the waiting area, as the elderly couple and the pregnant lady were called in. New people arrived, with one family bringing in a very sick teenager. Poor little darling had endured surgery a week prior and it looked like an infection had set in. I started to feel panic, a chill rising from my feet. Agitation began, as did the deep desire to escape and go home. I felt trapped; I couldn’t leave without being seen to. My wound was still gushing and I could taste blood in my mouth. We were called in at 11pm and the staff were lovely. They took a picture of the gash and sent it to the plastic surgery department. I was lucky, as I was on the cusp of needing plastic surgery. As it turned out, cleaning and sealing the wound and being shown how to dress it, alongside meds, would suffice for now. We left after midnight and found ourselves stranded. There were no taxis, nor Uber drivers available. My anxiety reached a crescendo, as I realised that we would have to walk home. It was cold and drizzling, but even so, I had no idea why I was feeling so ghastly. I had been through so much worse. We have a motto, ‘The Angelou girls never give in, nor give up.’ Walking home wouldn’t kill us.

Spine aching, leg not working properly and still suffering a migraine, I paused in the empty main street. It was sublime; the golden fairy lights strewn through the trees, casting a magical glow. You could have heard a pin drop; it felt as though we were the only people inhabiting our town. I took a picture at this unfamiliar scene. Usually, the area would be bustling, but due to the late hour and Greater Sydney’s lockdown, it was a ghost town. Cheering up, I thought well, this covers both Saturday and Sunday’s walk, so I’d fulfilled my commitment to keep active through October.

We finally arrived home after 1.30pm, me castigating myself for not having driven to the hospital. I was in shock and just didn’t think of hopping in the car. I would have been in no fit state to drive, anyway. Redoing the dressing, I looked into the mirror in the bathroom. The sink was smattered with blood from earlier that night. I unravelled, as I remembered other times my lip had been split, my mouth filled with blood. On the ground the night of my fall at 15 years of age, my lip had been split; my teeth having pierced through when I landed. I spat up blood, as I tried to survive. There were other times; punches landing on my face and my head being rammed into a door frame. On a cellular level, I remembered. I recalled not only those traumatic events, but also, the conversations, sensory details and emotions. As I crawled into bed, it all came back in technicolour. No sleep was had. Sunday, I stayed in bed all day, unable to move. Whenever I drifted to sleep, nightmares would ensue.

The doctor asked if I was worried about the scarring, which would surely take hold. No, I am not afraid of scarring on my skin. My body is a depository for scars. I had not thought of the times I had a bloodied mouth, until Saturday night. Those scars are deep and much, much worse than the ones on my skin. The loneliness of endless nights, filled with flashbacks, is awful. It isn’t a collective trauma, something you share with others. At that time, as now, it was you battling to survive, alone. Saturday’s actual events were filled with beautiful imagery and shall be remembered fondly; there was the couple expecting a baby, the lovely family gathering around their child, the elderly couple whose devotion to each other was on display. There was the compassionate nurse and kind doctor. There was my daughter, calmly trying to stem the flow of blood and whose tenderness reached into my heart. There were twinkling lights and the quiet, reflective walk home. No, the spinal pain, migraine and injury weren’t traumatic. The memories this night conjured up, were what made me unravel. The violence that caused the wounds from long ago…

I scrubbed the clothes I’d worn, which were covered in blood, wiped down the bathroom and washed towels and mats. I am in the process of cleansing my soul, now that the sludge has surfaced. There is no way around what I am experiencing. You can’t avoid it, outrun it, drown it, nor drug it into oblivion. All you can do is feel it; sit with it. Run warm baths filled with lavender and rosemary for remembrance. That girl deserves her experiences to be honoured. She deserves her courage to be acknowledged. A dark night of the soul can return when you least expect it; even whilst walking empty streets, filled with twinkling fairy lights. In insurance cases, specialists are asked to provide percentages of how much certain injuries were caused by a singular event. How many panic attacks, sleepless nights and dissociative episodes have had their origins in my bloodied mouth? I hadn’t thought about it, before Saturday night. Will I be a little more healed, now it has burst open, from it’s hiding spot in my psyche? Has it been consolidated? A week ago, I felt like a falcon, flying high and free. Today, I feel like a fragile little bird, who has fallen a long way, without being able to fly. I shall hold that chick in my hands and nurse her whilst she regains her strength. Like I have done thousands of times before…

Babushka Dolls

The psychologist observed that when her client wasn’t attempting to mentally escape the room or indeed, her own mind, there was a child seated in front of her. “That is all well and good, but I can’t work with her. She is your responsibility, now that you are a woman. You need to comfort her. She is not in charge anymore, and you need to be.” She grabbed the Babushka doll from her desk, and took it apart, revealing a young adult, an adolescent, then all the way down to an infant. “All these ages are contained in you, as well as the experiences, good and bad. They are waiting to be sorted and acknowledged. I need to talk to the Matryoshka doll, the one who contains all the others. Do you think that is possible?”  The woman nodded, trying to coordinate her breathing (which she had been told was far too rapid), and look at things from an adult point of view, not as a frightened child. A child who didn’t have a choice in anything, from where she was to whom she was around.

“Let me talk to the Matryoshka doll, the strong matriarch; give her the job of guiding your life.” It seemed like a plan, a better plan than anything she had cooked up previously. Rather than the dolls being left in a line, disengaged from each other, they were put back together, contained in the elder doll. Back together, where they belonged. The angry adolescent, frightened child and vulnerable young woman weren’t left behind. United and celebrated. All the ages were back where they belonged, with Mama handling business from a grown-up’s perspective and experience. She seeks solutions, whereas the younger dolls seek only to run, to escape discomfort. It may have kept her alive once, but not now. No, not now. She is finding that it’s a comfort to be an adult; to take charge, and stop scaring herself to death.

 

Therapy, the Past and the Future

Continued…

The therapist wanted to see me weekly, and in the meantime I practiced breathing like a normal human would. Damn, it was hard! I saw the pain doctor for an initial consult, and he was knowledgeable and lovely. I told him about my studies; the training and travel it would involve. “I just need to be able to function,” I pleaded. I told him I required solutions that wouldn’t zone me out. After perusing scans and examining me, a deficit in the strength in my arms was noted. I had noted it too, for a long time, a hangover from the second time my spine was broken. A new medication and regime was implemented, and I left with some hope. As long as I can keep writing, I am okay with whatever comes.

My daughter was scheduled to dance with her senior troupe, but the event was cancelled at the last moment. The dance school had managed to enrol in a festival to be held somewhere else. It was a place and a town I had avoided for the past 25 years. The man that threw me from the building, his family lived there, and every family function was held in this club. In fact, he had been arrested on charges relating to me whilst having dinner there. Now my daughter was going to this place, accompanied by me. I was conscious of my breathing leading up to the event, and was also more aware of my coping mechanisms, thanks to my one session of therapy! However, once enclosed within the walls of the club, I thought to hell with being conscious of breathing. To hell with being present. It was a mausoleum to gambling and drinking, resplendent with its very own forest, lagoon and faux train station. There were hidden corners and booths everywhere, and I scanned each and every one, searching for him and his family, whose transgressions matched his. I finally found my people, and instantly offered to find a chemist for one of the young dancers. Down I marched, becoming lost in the cavernous space, until I was directed as to a pharmacy outside. I walked through an alley, my heart beating wildly as I turned to face the train station, where he once sold drugs. Was he there?!

I raced back from the chemist, and after giving the supplies over, I ate my body weight in sugar. Salad wasn’t going to suffice today, no way! Ice-cream was devoured, as was caffeine, followed by lollies and chocolates from the vending machines. The noise of this club and the lights offended my senses, which were already going into overdrive. Had he seen me? Had he followed me into the auditorium? Anyone could come and go from here. He had followed me before, after seeing me on the street, once trapping me in a laneway, another time, a public bathroom. It may seem silly, but my sapphire blue walking stick became a magical staff. I could use it to trip him up, if need be. I sat at the back of the room, hyped on sugar and adrenaline. I told nobody about what I was experiencing. Where to begin? Realising that I was isolating, I walked to where the other parents were sitting. I enjoyed their company and banter; it was rather like an elastic band snapping me back to the present.

We got a lift home with another mum, and in my tired state, I stopped paying attention to our whereabouts. Glancing up, I realised that the shops looked familiar. I had been here before. Oh no! We were on his street! A place where cruelty had occurred, or should I say, more cruelty. Every day was a battle of wits and a struggle to survive.

I threw up when I got home, then took out my box of comfort tools. They consist of pyjamas, bed socks, essential oils, music and my bed. I had done it, and it was over. I knew I would never go back. I saw my daughter dance with her friends. It was a triumph. I feel as if I live in two worlds, the inner life keeping me busy, even as I socialise. No wonder people experiencing this duality are often exhausted. Remembering what that kid went through… Nobody cared and nobody rescued her, amongst the many who knew what was happening. To experience it all again felt like a respectful thing to do. It is my way of telling her that I am sorry for what she endured; that it was wrong, so wrong. To have to feel it, and then move on, is hard. It feels as though I am leaving her behind. I had nightmares for a week (when I managed sleep), and tried to go easy on myself. I am doing the best that I can. I have learnt that once I re-enter a place or hear a piece of music, for instance, it loses it’s hold over me. I would have to actively avoid most of Sydney to not encounter a place of trauma.

In the time since this experience, I have met with friends, and we’ve laughed and shared stories over coffee. I have relished the warmth of the mug coursing through my hands. I have delighted in the visiting birds, and watching the leaves falling from my trees. There is no reason why I survived that time in my life. Other young girls hadn’t been so lucky after having met him. I have completed a module of my health admin course, and am confident I could save a life if I needed to. It wasn’t because I’d performed CPR on a model at the Health campus, it was because I’d already saved a life previously. It was my own.

 

Therapy, the Past and Present

Pieces of cloth are strewn over my bed. Here is broderie anglaise from my christening gown. There is my favourite blue shirt I wore at fourteen;  a square from the white jumper I wore the night of my fall… Blood and mud-stained fabric, some pierced with bark chips. Strewn across my bed in no decipherable order. For twenty-five  years, I’ve attempted to sort through them. I had been wanting to make a patchwork quilt, to offer warmth and comfort. Trouble is, I hadn’t been taught how to sew, so had no hope of constructing it by myself.

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After years of stagnation, suddenly the lights turned green. I am studying for two degrees. A pain specialist with a fabulous reputation opened a practice in my town, and by a miracle, I was booked in to see a psychologist specialising in trauma. I turned up to her office with trepidation, afraid that by picking at the scab, I would bleed all over the place, and not heal. Perhaps, I would be left with a bigger scar. A Chilean lady came out to greet me, and my fears were cast aside. She admitted that she was puzzled at how I came to get an appointment, as her books had been closed for a while. She was taking no new patients on. I explained that a local support service had recommended her, and she laughed and said that gremlins must have gotten into her computer, opening up a space. I gave her a run-down on my life, checking off trauma as though I were reciting a shopping list.

She in turn asked about my digestion, if my mind raced, if I found it hard to concentrate on one thing at a time, if I was late to the party, having delayed emotional responses? Does my heart race? Do I breathe so quickly that I feel faint? I asked her how she knew? My digestion has always been a fragile flower.  My mind is always racing. I told her that sitting in her office for fifteen minutes, I had planned meals for the next week, my daughter’s schedule, done my budget and planned the next three chapters of a book I am writing. In fact, I am writing four at the same time. My bed has a pile of books on the floor, and I read a chapter then discard the book, perusing the next book in the pile. I even find it difficult waiting at a red pedestrian crossing, sitting through a movie, sitting still at all. As for emotional responses… I am commended for my calm at times when others fall apart. I have lost many dear friends, and can endure my grief, then a year or so later, I will be inconsolable when I see a photo of them. I am late to the party when it comes to boundaries too. Others will see things before I do, and back away from a person. When I went for an assessment earlier this year, so as to obtain a report for NDIS funding for trauma counselling, these traits were commended and cited as proof that I was coping splendidly. This lady was incredulous when I stated that NDIS had knocked me back because of the report, stating that I was a high-achiever who was coping very well indeed! My new psychologist sent me the following article on the Vagus nerve. It is the tenth cranial nerve, and interfaces with the parasympathetic control of the heart, lungs and digestive tract. It controls several muscles of the throat and voice box, and carries sensory information from the internal organs back to the brain.

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As you can see, it’s tendrils are long and reach deep. She noted that I squirm a lot and when talking or answering questions, my eyes dart upwards and side to side. It is a common response, when you have PTSD. She could see the little girl I was come out at times. I told her that now my daughter is reaching the age I had been when the most horrid of experiences started occurring, my mind is reminding me of what happened to me. I need to reach deep, as though unplugging a clogged sink, so that generational pain won’t besmirch her wondrous life. Eating disorders, alcohol misuse, utilising prescription medications to quell emotional pain, I had already dealt with it all. Now here I was, wanting to up my game plan. I want to do it for my daughter, so I can be the best mum I can be, for my friends so I can be present and healthy, for future employers and for myself.  The battle had begun.

As she emailed me the article on the Vagus nerve, I caught a glimpse of the ring emblazoned by a ruby on her finger. My mind was suddenly back inside a bathroom when I was fourteen. A man of unparalleled evil had been introduced into my world, and a woman I had known for only a short while gifted me a ruby ring. She insisted that I wear it, assuring me that it would keep me strong. “You will need to be,” she said, glancing at the man hovering over my shoulder. Always hovering… I took the ring off to wash my hands, and forgot to put it back on. When I went to retrieve it later, it was gone. “What will keep me strong now?” I asked in dismay. This memory led to others, too numerous to mention to the therapist, though she noted that I had drifted away. “You disassociate often, don’t you?” she smiled. She told me that it was quite a clever ploy of my brain, in order to protect me from horror and terror as it happened. It has also meant that I have put up with intolerable situations as an adult, for longer than I should, without further damage being done.

I was instructed on how to breathe, so I could transcend the flight response I was caught in. “We need to start from the basics, and that for you is learning how to simply breathe.” It took forty minutes until I was able to breathe deeply and slowly. Of course, my mind dove deep into the past, to the moment I first heard anything about “the horrors,” as PTSD was formerly known. I was fourteen and had met a gentle soul called Dennis. He couldn’t sit still, and his arms shook, and he tapped his foot involuntarily. “I’m like this because I’m a vet,” he whispered. “Oh, I love animals!” I exclaimed in my naivety.  Dennis smiled bemusedly. I didn’t know what he was talking about then. Now I know.

(To be continued)

Recognition

I recognized him instantly, the young man seated at his desk. “Excuse me,” I stammered, “would you mind if I sketched you?” I was at the Correspondence School in William street, Sydney, to meet my teachers and attend classes for the day. These wonderful people would prepare lessons for me, in between my surgeries. The art teacher had suggested I approach his colleague to have some practice. He smiled as he turned around, which was quickly replaced with a look of horror. He had been in the clinic with me when I was fourteen. The last time I had seen him, he was catatonic, one of the patients in the long-term unit. He had been in for nearly a year, on a trajectory of hopeful recovery and devastating lows. He had been my friend, and I his. Now we were out in the world, he a twenty-five year old teacher, and I at sixteen, housed in a body brace. He pleaded with his eyes, not to let slip that we knew each other. The room was crowded, and conversation of a sensitive nature would be overheard. I told him with my eyes that I wouldn’t reveal his past. I sketched his profile as though he were a stranger. He formally bid me goodbye, and I went on my way.

The same thing happened at a department store in the city. A girl I was in hospital with served me at the counter. Her blue eyes sparkled and she smiled before her visage turned to horror. I had wanted to embrace her, and squeal, “you survived!” She had been molested by her Uncle, and her parents had disbelieved her. She had tried to take her life, and ended up in the hospital with me. She was funny, warm, kind and had run away to live with her older sister, before being dragged back. We were forbidden from seeing each other, and I had fretted over her fate. Once again, I promised not to let slip that we knew each other, without saying a word. I only had to look into her pleading eyes.

It happened time and again, my meeting people who had once been close friends. You can’t help but form an incredibly intimate bond with people whom you live with 24/7. On the outside, these people treated you like a stranger, and you were asked to treat them the same. Nobody knew of their prior admittance, nor battles, save for a few family members. It was a given that if people knew their history, it would ruin any chance of employment, let alone promotion. No wonder I had seen executives of well-known companies rescind into the shadows after having complete breakdowns. What a burden it is, to keep up appearances.

I shared the clinic with teachers, models, musicians, nurses, rock stars, people on the board of major hospitals, chefs, actors and many more aside. They became my family, and trusted me with their secrets. There was a disconnect when they went out into the world to regain their place in their industry. It was an unnerving dissonance that didn’t sit well. I instinctively knew that it wasn’t healthy. These were the days before social media, where a famous person could hide their struggles inside the walls of a private clinic.

This year has seen many stressors heaped on me in a short period of time. When one has seen hundreds of people rescind mid-way through their lives, and have heard them table their backstories, one has a tendency to be attentive to the health of one’s own mind. There have been weeks when my brain has been seized by anxiety so severe that I would spend days reading over the same sentence, or forgetting why I went into the kitchen. Depression so crippling that I would want to crawl back into bed within an hour of waking. Social media can help us to feel connected, but it can also make us feel dejected. Witnessing everyone’s highlight reels, seeing people having fun whilst we sit on the periphery of it all can be devastating.

A famous photographer was in the clinic at the same time as I, and I held her sick bowl and pressed cold face cloths to her forehead as she suffered withdrawals. She introduced me to Carrie Fisher’s writing, giving me a copy of ‘Postcards from the Edge.’ She also gifted me a diary, urging me to put anything that made me want to live in its pages. I included quotes, photos, song lyrics and my own musings, and I still treasure this thick diary with its art nouveau cover. She was a truth-seeker and was one of the rare few who didn’t give a flying fig who knew about her admittance, nor fragility.

As for myself, I feel like an Autumn leaf, blowing this way and that. It is time to have trauma counselling. Back when I was a teen, nobody I knew was diagnosed with PTSD, nor anxiety. It wasn’t seen as imperative that trauma counselling begin straight away, to reduce the severity of symptoms going forward. I have rung the centre that was organizing specialized counselling many times, as well as emailing. The trouble is, services are stretched to breaking point. The willingness to assist is there, but the sheer volume of people needing help is overwhelming. I am going to call into this place soon, and talk to somebody about starting this specialized counselling. Receiving what you need is a battle, and you have to believe that you are worth the fight. I know I am worth the fight, and I am also fighting for my daughter, so I can be the best mum to her that I possibly can. We adults need to lead our young to know that articulating our struggles and being honest with our emotions is healthy. They need to see us reaching out to one another, and advocating for services. Contact the health minister and local MP’s and persist until they respond to the call for more services. We are at crisis point in Australia.

I look forward to the day when people who have sought help for their mental health can embrace upon meeting outside of their initial contact. They can introduce their friend to their colleagues and share where they are up to now. The silence and shame and the hiding parts of ourselves is toxic. The older I get, the more I see of our fragility as a species. I know  that the parts of my body that were fused and reinforced with titanium are the strongest parts of me. The cracked and damaged parts are the strongest. It is the neck and shoulders, hips and discs in my spine that once were healthy, that are complaining. The same is true for the mind. The brain that can be pliable and work toward a glorious future, can also become stuck on replaying trauma, like a reel of film. It is exhausting to keep a smile plastered on, to disregard the damaged psyche underneath and to play pretend. It is time to stop. It is time to advocate and it is time for shame to be quashed.

The Last Place…

I have returned to most of the places where frightful events took place… Buildings and hospitals, houses, parks and reserves. I have stood at these scenes and wept for the girl who suffered so. I wept for what transpired. I took my power back, and incorporated that young girl  into my psyche. No more feeling discombobulated, as though I had been blown apart, my ashes found all over Sydney. I became a little phoenix, rising with her wings outstretched. However, there was one place I hadnt been back to, couldnt go back to…

It was where I spent a great deal of my childhood, it’s gothic visage, cemetry and vast grounds  seemingly enormous and frightening to a child. I have visited friends at the nearby hospital, averting my gaze from the tower standing high amongst the trees at the end of the road. In the 70’s, the old hospital was turned into a mental health facility and school for children and teens. The family had many visits there, none of them ending well. So many memories; too many memories. I was to be placed there at fifteen, my third such hospital, but the only one catering to anyone remotely in my age bracket. At my pre-admission, an older teen threatened to rape me on my admittance. I couldn’t go there… I had been through enough. Besides, I wanted to work. I had left school a year prior, and my god, I had seen and been through more than most adults. This felt like going back to the beginning. I was to be held here, with nowhere else to go.

A series of events saw the story changing, and my back was broken. I ended up spending several months in an orthopaedic ward. This place is my Sliding Doors moment. What would have become of me if I had been admitted? Would my story have been better or worse? I wouldn’t have had my hip and ribs grafted into my back, to make up a replacement spine. I wouldn’t be in physical pain every second of the day and night. However, I doubt I would have healed emotionally. It was the wrong place in the wrong era at the wrong time. I would have been as vulnerable as before.

My daughter was looking forward to an upcoming camp, as was I, and we learnt where we were to be staying. Yes, it was the place I had been avoiding for over twenty years. Every cell in my body stood on a knife’s edge. Then, I breathed. I thought deeply about the timing, and whether I could face it. Memories came flooding back. The hallways and offices, the conversations and smells. How desperate I felt to live a happy life, away from all this. I believed this opportunity happened for a reason. I am now strong enough to go back, and reclaim that girl. Strong enough to go back and reclaim me. I packed for camp, and then I went to camp. I wasn’t afraid. This time, I was free to leave, and nobody would harm me. I faced the gothic structure with courage and was rewarded with my last retrieval of ash. The phoenix could now breathe fire. The phoenix could now fly.

I am Sorry…

People tend to find it hard to know what to say when confronted by another’s suffering, particularly if they don’t know the person well. They may inquire as to how many children they have, and when the answer is “three; two here and one in spirit,” they don’t know how to respond. It is the same when encountering grief, serious illness, infertility or a survivor of abuse. It is tempting to apply a verbal salve to the savage wound, usually in the form of platitudes such as “chin up,” “you can try again,” “it will get better with time…” These words hold no healing, and are rather like acid being poured onto a vulnerable soul.

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I went to a Bravehearts luncheon the other day, and afterward, one of the women divulged the abuse she had suffered as a child. Those gathered listened respectfully, and afterward, I went up to her, hugged her, and whispered, “I am so sorry that you endured such things; so sorry that you suffered so.” I did this because  kind folk had said this to me. Others wanted to know how far I had fallen when I was pushed off that ledge as a teen; they wanted to know the details to satisfy their curiosity. I treasure those who cradled me, and whispered how sorry they were. It is the ultimate recognition of trauma. You aren’t attempting to fix the situation with glib words, nor paper over what a brave person has divulged. You have acknowledged their pain and the unfairness of what has transpired. “I am so very sorry…” That is all that is needed.

BraveHearts

I attended a White Balloon Day luncheon, to raise awareness and funds for Bravehearts, an Australian organization whose aim is to prevent child sexual assault. Their services include counselling for children and adult survivors, advocacy and support, an education program for children, research and lobbying, and community awareness campaigns. The more we talk and educate our children, the safer our society shall be. I would love to be able to give the gift of safety to our kids, so they have nothing to survive from their childhoods. That is their right and our responsibility as a community. I have hope that the tide is turning. Even a decade ago, such lunches would have been rare. The subject would have been deemed unpalatable. We as a whole are becoming more cohesive, aware and supportive. May it flourish at the same time as predators fall.


PTSD-Understanding Yourself

This article by Pete Walker astounded me with the breadth of knowledge and detail entailed. I could identify with it, thinking no wonder I am tired! Recovery is a full-time job in itself, and by that I mean recovering who you were before the events, and who you were set to become. It is confronting (albeit healing), to uncover why you do the things you do, and respond the way you do. Your beautiful, brilliant mind conjured up all sorts of ways to cope!

Broken Wings and Healing

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A little bird came into my life on Valentine’s Day. She was found on the floor of a cage; her wings had been hacked with what appeared to be scissors. She had no tail and was ailing. Desperate to rescue her, she came home with us. Over the months, I have been in awe of her spirit. The feathers underneath her crippled wings would twist and bleed, causing terrible pain. When they fell out, I would pick them up, and feel how razor-sharp the damaged ends were. Despite the anguish she must have felt, she had a personality that was bigger than her. She whistled the Adams Family theme song, danced and chatted all day. She would run across the dining table when she saw food. Vegemite toast, pumpkin soup and cups of tea were her favorite. We named her Friendly, a fitting moniker.On shopping day, she would see you come in with the bags and dance from side to side in anticipation of a honey stick. She would lock the other cockatiel in their house, run away with Lego pieces when my daughter was playing and generally cause mayhem. She would even pick up a pencil and try to draw in my daughter’s workbooks, just as she had seen her do. When her wings hurt, she would cry, and come to me for comfort. 

Recently, she grew a proper tail, and her feathers grew strong. She became obsessed with flapping her mighty wings. To my despair, she got out the other day. Friendly flew to a tree in the park around the corner, hopping up on the farthest branches, annoyed at any attempt to catch her. We shared information about her on community pages and many kind people shared her picture, in case she flew from the tree. The fire brigade advised to leave her there overnight, as it was now dusk and she was settled in for sleep. They didn’t want to startle her. At dawn, the fire brigade came, and tried to catch her. Irritated, she flew off. My daughter and I combed the neighborhood for hours, whistling the Adams Family theme song, and calling out her name. Despondent, we had set off for home when my phone rang. She had been found! 

Friendly had flown a block away, landing in someone’s front yard. A group of teenage girls had been on their way to school when they found her, and notified the home-owner, who took her inside. They were having Vegemite toast for breakfast, and Friendly ran across to their plates and helped herself! She looked mighty proud of herself, without a hint of distress. After devouring a honey stick, she had a mammoth nap. We held our little bird, watching as she slept. Strangers as well as friends, celebrated her return. It touched my heart to know that so many people were celebrating alongside us.

Today she is singing and dancing, and as I watch her I shake my head, incredulous. I wouldn’t have thought that a frail little bird with butchered wings and no tail would ever be capable of flying as she did; nor of evading the fire brigade! Wings can be clipped and we may not have the rudder necessary to balance. It doesn’t mean that it will remain so. Balance returns and broken wings heal. Just ask Friendly. She has had her taste of adventure and I think (hope), she is now happy to stay put. She just wanted to see how far she could go on her healed wings, and the answer was a long way! The birds she hung out with and the friendships that were formed will remain a mystery, but with her outgoing personality, I am sure she charmed the native birds.