Through the looking glass

I recently had a new built-in wardrobe constructed at my place. When I was presented with the different options available, my main concern was with the idea of mirrored sliding doors. "Won't it feel really narcissistic looking at myself the whole time?" I asked various friends. "Oh, you'll get used to it" was the most common reply. So, I went with the mirrored built-in robe. A man with a truckload of tools came by, and after 4 hours of measuring, sawing, drilling and sweating, I had my new wardrobe, and, surprisingly, a quite different way of looking at things.

A younger me, mum and a mirror

You see, back a year or so ago I had decided to interview my mum about her life. I found a website with a whole bunch of questions that are good to ask people, and whittled the list down to what felt like a manageable number that would relate to our mum. Then the interviewing process began. As we sat together on the verandah, she diligently shared stories about her childhood, life as a mother, and her spirituality while I listened, typing as much of it as I could onto my little laptop.

Then, following a gap where life got in the way, I began the editing process. It felt intimate and special to be pulling together my mother's words, and helping them to take shape. My aim was to keep her phrasing intact, but take out all the questions and have it flow as if she'd said it as one stream of consciousness. On her birthday a year after the process had begun, I gave her the story, profressionally bound and complete with a picture of her and her grandson on the front. Mum was quietly excited. She'd go home and read it that very night, she told me. 

It took mum about a week to contact me again after that night when she read her story. The truth is, she hadn't liked it. "It was like having a mirror held up in front of me and finally seeing myself the way others must see me."

I recently had a similar experience to mum. I was contacted on a dating site by a very promising man. I immediately resonated with a lot of what he said and how he saw the world. The first time we spoke, the conversation lasted 4 hours. It all seemed to be going quite well, so we made a plan to meet when I'd be in his city.

In the meantime we exchanged long emails and continued with our enjoyable phone conversations. We would each make ourselves a cuppa and drink our tea while we chatted about the state of the world, feminism, literature, making music, Winnie-the-Pooh, and the stories of our lives. We shared some of our most intimate secrets, and the experiences that gave us real joy. 

Just as mum was excited at the prospect of reading her story, I was becoming more and more hopeful that our date would signal the start of a splendid story of my own. But then, with our interstate date only a week away, he called up to cancel. "I just don't think it's going to work". 

I hung up the phone, burst into tears, and lay on my bed while the grief of unfulfilled expectations washed over me. Sitting up, I glared at my reflection. Eyes blotchy with tears,  hair disshevelled, and those extra holiday kilos defiantly bulging out of my house dress, what I saw in the glass was suddenly not in any way the picture of romantic possibility or the confident woman I'd imagined myself to be.

The next day at work, eyes still a bit blotchy, I endured the mundane, and busied myself with the tasks at hand. Occasionally, when my colleague was chatting about this and that, my eyes would well up a little, and I hoped it didn't show.

It was only when I was packing up my things at the end of the day that I noticed a purple envelope slipped into my bag. It was a thoughtful note from my colleague, reminding me of the qualities she admires in me. Not knowing what was wrong, but sensing my pain, she had held a different mirror up in front of me, reflecting a more positive picture of who I am and the direction my story might take. It helped me see my situation in a much more positive light. The downside was that it only made the blotchy eye situation worse!

A thoughtful gesture can change everything

As for mum, after some time she told me she had re-read her story with fresh eyes as well. She could be compassionate with the parts of herself that she'd initially felt repelled by. She was thinking of writing more of her story...filling in the bits that I hadn't yet captured. She, too, wanted to hold up a kinder and more generous mirror to the narrative of her life.  

So, I've decided that my next home improvement project will be to put a few affirming messages on the looking glass. I want to be sure that the image reflected back at me is of the beautiful, courageous and kind person who my friend sees. 

Under wraps

"Can you keep a secret?" I type the text message, then pause. I've been told that the news is embargoed until Monday, but I'm eager to tell someone. After staring at the words for a few minutes, I decide not to send and the message just sits there as a draft. There have been a few occasions recently when I have hurt others by revealing secrets that, while having an impact on me, are not mine to tell. I've also experienced that sinking feeling when you realise a trusted friend or family member has told one of your secrets to somebody else.

It got me thinking about secrets, though. There are pieces of juicy gossip, skeletons in the family cupboard, confessions we tell a lover, and those shocking revelations that only come to light after a person dies. These days we think of our society as generally being less secretive than it was even half a century ago. Unwed mothers are no longer sent "down south for a while" in a veil of shame, we don't hide our political beliefs as reticently as our parents did, and people don't disown you if you come out as gay. But there are a lot of things we still like to keep hidden.

I have been thinking lately about mandatory reporting, and the times when there are not just emotional but legal implications of keeping and telling secrets. We are seeing the life-destroying impacts of institutional child sexual abuse coming out of the Royal Commission. And, the continuing theme in those historic incidents was the secrecy surrounding it. Children were encouraged to keep the incidents a secret, and mostly they did - for a very long time. Perhaps they kept quiet under threat of violence, perhaps because they didn't feel they would be believed, or perhaps for fear of what would happen to the perpetrator.

I remember reading the memoire of a woman who had been groomed as a child for a sexual relationship with a much older man. He showed her attention and kindness that other adults didn't, and they increasingly found ways to be alone together. She was eight when the first incident happened, eleven when things got more serious, and eighteen when she began to break away. He died when she was in her early twenties. Writing the memoire many years later, she could reflect on why what he did was wrong, how it impacted her, as well as the circumstances of her life that meant she was particularly vulnerable to the abuse. She had kept the relationship a secret throughout their time together.

The Royal Commission reveals, if nothing else, that child sexual abuse is far more prevalent than any of us could have imagined, and its effects are still strongly felt by survivors half a century later. These are secrets that need to come to light in order to give a sense of justice and closure to survivors.  We need to shift the culture in our institutions from one of turning a blind eye to one of open-ness and of acting swiftly and professionally to address issues before they escalate. We need to send a clear message about what sort of behaviour is appropriate and what is not, especially when it comes to children.

So, I think about the secrets in my life. The ones I've told and the ones I've kept hidden for many years. I'd like to get better at knowing when to tell and when to refrain, who to trust and whose trust I need to earn back. Sometimes the unsolicited sharing of a secret can spell the end of a friendship. Other times it's just a blip in the road. And sometimes telling a long-held secret can be a way to find healing and comfort, and bring two people closer together. 

And as for that embargoed piece of news? Well, I'll tell you on Monday.

Oh captain my captain

My favourite movie for many years was "Dead Poets' Society". Being a drama student I guess I felt I could relate to some of what the boys went through. Theatre was my mode of self expression, and I was also trying to find that balance between being brave and seizing the day, while at the same time being expected to fit in with societies norms and structures.

The film was also my first introduction to Robin Williams, and he quickly became a favourite actor of mine. I loved the passion, the integrity and the courage of his character in Dead Poet's Society - I, too, wanted to be challenged to rip out the pages of the textbook, emerse myself in poetry, express anger wholeheartedly and be encouraged to go think for myself.

In many of his roles Robin Williams seemed able to capture complex elements of the human spirit, whether it is the heartbroken yet tough-love psychologist in Good Will Hunting, desperate father in Mrs Doubtfire, or radio presenter in Good Morning Vietnam. And his comedy always had a depth to it.

The most memorable scene in Dead Poet's Society for me was the one where Robin Williams' character returns to collect a few personal items after he has been asked to leave the school quietly. He has been scapegoated as the cause of his student's suicide death and the class has gone back to using the textbook and thinking within the box. You begin to wonder whether the teacher had any impact at all. But one boy dares to stand up, to express his gratitude and sense of injustice as a small act of civil disobedience, and gradually the others follow. I am always in floods of tears at this point.

So, as I mourn the departure of a man whose life work touched so many people, I give thanks for the ways that he made us laugh, encouraged us to seize the day, and bore witnessed to the complex realities of being human. I want to stand up on my desk and address him with the respect he deserves: "Oh captain, my captain".

Another

I heard the news the other day
Another gentle soul
Made a devastating exit

He is added to the collection
Of young men whose lives
Are consumed by the black dog

I remember those already gone;
Artists, dreamers, wanderers
Who loved with big hearts

And i try to find a way
To be there, again, be real
When all I feel is numb

The cuckoo's nest

The other day I found myself on a bus sitting next to a guy whispering "coo coo" into a used macdonald's bag. No, he wasn't crazy. He happens to be one of my closest friends. Actually he had just rescued a baby bird which had fallen from its nest, and was attempting to calm it down. But as I sat there it occurred to me that other passengers might think we were both a bit cuckoo ourselves. I grinned at the thought.

I recently read "Veronica decides to die" - a book about life, death and what it means to be "mad". Veronica is a young woman who doesn't have anything particular going wrong in her life, but decides it would be best to die while she is young and healthy, as getting older she anticipates life only getting worse. She is plagued by the boredom of her uninspiring job and dreary day to day life. This is coupled with the belief that she was on a miserable trajectory where she would eventually marry, have a few children, become lonely, her husband would cheat on her, she would become fat and depressed, would consider suicide but wouldn't have the guts to go through with it, and in any case would have the children to think about. She reasons that it makes more sense to die now, before all that unhappiness unfolds.

In an interesting turn of events, after taking enough sleeping tablets to kill herself, she wakes up in a psychiatric hospital and is delivered the news that her heart is now so frail that she only has about a week to live. She begins to interact with the other patients. Some of them ignore her, some are confronted that somebody so young is waiting to die, and others become a comfort to her with advice about how to spend her remaining days, based on their own low points, regrets and experiences of finally "breaking free" of convention. With encouragement from her new friends, who view "madness" as just a more extreme case of being yourself and living life honestly, Veronica reasons that, since she's going to die anyway, she may as well do some of those things she wouldn't normally do. She slaps a man in the face when she disagrees with him, she gets naked, starts up a friendship with a young man who never communicates with anyone, and takes pleasure in the simple things - playing piano, a beautiful sunrise and seeing the city at night. She begins to see that life is full of choices. She doesn't have to live a dull, normal life. She can be as "mad" as she likes, she can inspire others, and experience the world around her with wonder...regardless of how many days she has still to live.

And so I think of my friend on the bus, and wonder how many of us are too frightened of what others will think to do what comes naturally - caring for other creatures, making a fuss about injustice, and being willing to live our life with integrity, passion and a bit of "madness".

Neurotypical but nice

The other day I was chatting with a friend whose partner has Asperger's Syndrome. While I knew it was a mild form of autism, it was only when she began describing the symptoms that I realised how many people I know might be living with this condition. Misunderstandings and hurt feelings started to make more sense. According to her experiences, and some reading and talking to friends afterwards, I've learnt that people with Asperger's Syndrome (AS), tend to have difficulty in recognising social and emotional cues, and are known to frustrate coworkers and family members with their inflexibility, preference for routine, and sometimes pedantic adherence to rules or logic. But there are plus sides, as people with AS tend to have excellent auditory and visual perception, and are very compassionate and empathic, particularly when injustice has occurred. Sometimes they lack the skills to deal with strong positive and negative emotions and so avoid situations that might bring on these emotions, thus causing others to mistakenly claim they lack emotion and empathy. Some develop a fixation on a special interest, such as train timetables, the natural history of bats, or super heroes. The condition can often go undiagnosed into adulthood, with the person just having a vague sense that they're different.

Naturally, I went home and did the online test to see if I featured anywhere on the autism spectrum, but no, it seems I get the diagnosis of neuro-typical (NT) or "normal", whatever that means. Some female friends who have been diagnosed with Aspergers are not so sure I don't fit somewhere on the spectrum, as females with AS have slightly different symptoms to males, and are diagnosed less frequently. But either way, the discussion caused me to pause and think about how we as humans interact socially, how complex the mind is, how nice it is that people are different, and whether diagnosis is helpful or limiting.

It is incredulous really that our brains can compute the subtle messages given in body language and facial expressions that convey emotions the person is feeling as well as cues for how to react. As somebody who doesn't struggle too much with reading other people's emotions, I still don't think I could articulate in any scientific way what it is that tells me somebody is annoyed, or sad or offended or bored, or how I detect the nuanced ways that it varies from person to person. And there are times when I get it wrong and misinterpret or make assumptions. One of us gets offended or sad or annoyed and the cycle of guessing emotions begins again. Given how much we rely upon these non-verbal cues, it's quite incredible that any of us manage to get along with one another at all.

When I was an undergrad, I took a unit in "Abnormal Psychology", a term I am pretty sure would be considered politically incorrect today. While I was fascinated to think about all the different syndromes and spectrums and conditions lurking in the psychological etha, I found myself wondering where is the line between normal and "abnormal" as I quietly conducted self-diagnosis for each and every disorder. So, naturally, recently armed with information about this new condition, I began to see myself on the autism spectrum along with just about everything else. Let's see. I am sometimes socially awkward, I experience strong emotions when injustice occurs, I can retreat into my dream world, and obsess about strange things at times, though haven't developed a focussed interest in superheroes just yet. But at what point would I have enough of the "symptoms" to warrant a diagnosis? Luckily the online test put a stop to those musings, but it caused me to ponder how useful a diagnosis is anyway.

One friend adamantly insisted that we are in an age where we over-diagnose. The number of children diagnosed with Aspergers Syndrome or ADHD (attention deficient and hyperactivity disorder) is apparently on the rise, he argues, and in most cases only serves to provide parents with an excuse for bad parenting and people with an excuse for bad behaviour. I agree that society seems to be over-diagnosing us with a range of psychological conditions and then racing to find medications that will treat the condition rather than looking to behavoural and cognitive tools. It all seems very passive and slightly dangerous to me. Another friend who works in early childhood believes that it is a welcome relief for many parents to realise that their child is different and their parenting is not at fault. There is a place for diagnosis, she argues, given that awareness and a willingness to change are important steps in the success of behavioural treatments. I agree that, as with many other conditions, the person has to acknowledge that they are struggling, want to make changes in their life, and be given the appropriate tools and support to be able to make those changes. A quick perusal of AS blogs suggests that many people diagnosed are in happy relationships, and living full and fulfilling lives. So, perhaps awareness and developing coping strategies are important. But how does all this affect me?

As one Quaker who isn't fond of labels put it, "perhaps sometimes it's useful to know what works well, or doesn’t work well for people who are a particular way”. I think in my future interactions with the variety of people in my life, (both AS and NT) I will endeavour to be more compassionate and clear speaking. If I want people to know how I am feeling, I can simply tell them rather than expecting others to guess. And I will try to remind myself that, on the whole, people aren't trying to be difficult or rude, and probably don't realise when they have upset me. All of us are really just responding to the confusing, wondrous complexities of life as best we can. After all, who of us is "normal" anyway?

New Year's Intentions

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.(Serenity Prayer)

New Years is a good time for being intentional about self-improvement, and to reflect on what we can change and what we can't. A quick google search revealed that the top ten most common New Year's resolutions people tend to make are: get organised, help others, quit smoking, quit drinking, learn a new skill, get fit, lose weight, get out of debt, have more fun and spend more time with family and friends. Many of them remind me of past resolutions well kept and not so well kept. One year I wrote down everything I planned to do before I turned 30 and methodically went about achieving them. Last year I lost ten kilos, went on a yoga retreat by myself, started riding my bike again and completed more postgraduate studies. This year, I thought I would be courageous and share the "adventures" I plan to embark on, and it seems there is something for the mind, body and soul!

Firstly, I plan to be more deliberate about how I nurture my mind. With studies out of the way, I can choose my own sources of mental inspiration. One friend likes to send me links to songs or movies that he thinks I might like. It's nice - gives us something to discuss later, and reminds me that I'd like to do more sharing of inspirational and thought-provoking music, books and movies. So my plan is to join a book-club or movie club so I can get ideas for interesting reads or films and talk about them with others afterwards. Also, I've booked two tickets to see the wise and beautiful Archie Roach in concert!

For my body I've already set myself the physical challenge of walking the Overland Track, a 6 day hike in Tasmania. As with planning for any big adventure, it seems as if the universe is checking how determined I really am to achieve this goal. For example, when planning a one day hike with my mother as part of my training, we were faced with gloomy-looking rain clouds, the fear of mum falling down midway through and me having to somehow carry her out to safety, and the threat of "noticeably steep hills" written into the track notes. We seriously considered giving up and doing a shorter day walk. But we did the hike in the end, and the sound of mum's voice from the kitchen when we had returned saying "what a glorious achievement!" over again reminded me that sometimes it's important to feel the fear and do it anyway.

Nurturing the soul is just as important for me. Many inspirational figures such as Gandhi, Jesus, and the Dalai Lama have talked about times of retreat and stillness that nourish them so that they can go out into the world to be and act. We all need time to reflect, meditate or pray in between times of intense being and doing. So I plan, yet again, to develop some kind of regular spiritual practice, whether it ends up being meditation, yoga, or reading. I might enrol in a Quaker Learning course. Whichever way I go, I have chosen serenity as my aspirational quality for the next few weeks. I plan to get better at accepting the things I can't change in life, and taking more time to smell the flowers.

So, how will I ensure that I keep these resolutions? Perhaps the fulfilment of these goals will be a bit like the sunflower that I photographed in our garden late last year. The first step is to plant the seedling and tell people it's there. Then encourage everyone around to water and nourish the goal, letting the sun shine on it. And hopefully one day it will open into full bloom and sing out to me that with a little courage, serenity and wisdom great things are possible.

Black dogs and bath mats

Some people are visited by the black dog. Others talk of feeling "low". The early Quaker George Fox wrote about an ocean of darkness. Whatever the euphemism, let's face it. We're talking about the good old elephant in the room - depression.

Most people have experienced some low points in life. For some, they are triggers for episodes of depression. Many sortof carry on as best they can, managing to maintain the illusion of normality, and eventually come out the other side. Others who can't are made to feel inadequate or even guilty because it's not possibly to snap out of it or even conceive of a life beyond the blackness.

A few years ago a friend who knew from experience lent me a book called "Taming the Black Dog". It's a comic book designed for people suffering from depression or anxiety and those close to them. It describes the negative thoughts that tend to take over, and how they become a cycle whereby more negative things tend to happen as a result of the negative thinking patterns.

I like the black dog analogy. My mum was telling me once about a black dog (an actual dog that happened to be black) that she was looking after. This black dog would follow her around wherever she went. There was an element of comfort to it being there, but sometimes its presence got annoying and restricted what she could do. A defining moment was when she stepped out of the shower, and there was the black dog, sitting on the bathmat, and there was no room left for her feet.

The metaphorical black dog can be a bit the same. There's a comfort in the familiarity of the negative thoughts following you around and the fact that they give you an excuse for inaction and cowardly decisions. But sometimes you have a moment where you open the shower door and realise that the black dog sitting on the bath mat leaving no room for your feet is no longer helpful. You can't just get rid of it, but you can tame that dog.

The book my friend lent me offers tools for "taming" the black dog and suggestions for showing support for somebody caught in the fog of depression. It doesn't attribute blame or suggest unrealistic goals. It just offers a few steps for thinking differently, acting differently and for celebrating even the smallest indicators of progress. While I can't bring back the people in my life who eventually succumbed to the illness, I can try to be a supportive presence for others, and hopefully live my own life as a confident dog tamer rather than a wet bathmat when times get tough.

ANZAC Day - J'accuse

I will admit it. I am the kind of person who likes to commemorate ANZAC Day by listening to Eric Bogle's song "And the band played Walzing Matilda" or Redgum's "I was only 19". These songs speak of the horror, the lies, the blood and the trauma of battles fought by Australians in far off lands. And they remind us that soldiers, whether they live or die, are casualties of war.

In Europe they seem to do a better job of teaching children about the futility and reality of violent conflict. I was reading that in France the message is "J'accuse" meaning I accuse the men, the decision makers, the war, the whole thing of being so incredibly stupid. In German schools, they teach children the full story of the war, and don't hide from the evil decisions of a past regime.

Yet, in Australia ANZAC Day seems to have turned into a glorification of war. When I attended the Dawn Service one year, I was horrified to see private school boys parading around Martin Place in their cadet uniforms while middle aged men talked in fake somber tones about the justification of war. Clearly none of them had actually been in the trenches, and yet it seemed that they were using the old men who had been through so much as justification for current deployments in Afghanistan and Iraq. They spoke of the courage and the sacrifice of the young war heroes of almost a century ago, and suggested to us that they had been fighting for God, and for our Country.

But in those tales of heroic deaths, and sacrifice and supposedly having God on our side, where is the space for the soldiers who were really, really scared? Or those courageous enough to refuse to take part? Or those who began to doubt the existence of God because of what they'd seen humanity do to one another? Or those who returned home legless, armless, blind or insane, and were expected to just get on with life?

So, when we say "lest we forget", I hope we mean that we will listen to the digger's stories, and always remember and acknowledge the experience of every soldier in every war, whether heroic, tragic or just plain miserable. I also hope we mean that we promise to work towards a world where these experiences really are part of our history and not our future.

Biggest killer

A recent campaign involving 2010 Australian of the year Patrick McGorry highlighted the fact that suicide is the number one killer of Australians under the age of 45. The figure is roughly double the number of people killed on the roads each year, and yet is rarely talked about in public. In the two years since my friend's death to suicide, I have been disappointed by the lack of concern about such a serious nation-wide problem.

I have heard people joke about suicide or dismiss it as selfish, immature or attention seeking. It's none of those things. Depression is a debilitating physical illness that puts people at an increased risk of death and it is not something that they can easily "just snap out of". Medications for depression have their own problems, including some which - and I find this utterly incredulous - increase the risk of suicide. I believe that if my friend had been given better medical care during that final week, his death could have been prevented. 

While doctors cite time constraints, limited numbers of beds, and lack of support as reasons for mental health patients slipping through the cracks, I wonder if lack of understanding  plays a part as well. I am concerned about the number of people who, having taken the brave step of seeking medical help, are not taken seriously enough, or are turned away too soon. Once they are discharged, families and partners don't seem to be given the information or support that would help them identify signs of distress or situations of increased risk. 

Thanks to government funded awareness campaigns we all know that speeding and drink driving increase the risk of fatal road accidents. We draw comfort from the fact that scientists are busy developing cures for cancer, the AIDS epidemic and even the everyday flu. Yet, previous campaigns around mental health have done little to raise awareness about the causes and treatment of suicide. 

So I was glad to hear that this recent campaign resulted in some Government funding being directed towards mental health. I hope it includes not just an increase in beds and further research into appropriate treatments, but a comprehensive mental health education program that better equips health professionals and friends and family to prevent future deaths.