Ramblings of a Wannabe Author

I’ve always wanted to be a writer. Ever since I was a child. I used to write poems and stories and tell my mum that one day I would be a famous author. One day.

I still want to be a writer, though now days I’d forgo the famous part to just be the kind of person whose words get under someone’s skin, leave an imprint on their brain, or better still, their heart. Yet, as I sit here at my computer for the first quiet time I’ve had in what feels like forever I stare at the keyboard and the flashing cursor on the screen and I realise how hard it is to write when you don’t know what to say.

So I look around the room for inspiration and my eyes rest on the calendar that mum got me for Christmas last year, one of those ones where each month is a cheesy or sarcastic saying, in other words me, and August declares “I USED TO BE DECISIVE BUT NOW I CAN’T BE SURE”. Fitting, and yet, kind of rude. Clearly the makers of this calendar are unaware that caps = yelling. Calm your farm, calendar makers. Calm. Your. Farm. And now I am rambling.

I wonder if my favourite authors sit at their dining tables listening to a random “chill out’ play list on Spotify and try and write words that matter. Or that don’t matter, but that are at least interesting. To someone. ANYONE.

There is so much competition out there. I’m a parent, but there are a bajillion parenting books and blogs out there. I could write about how I’m overweight/trying to lose weight, but again, no real points for originality. I could write about my depression and my journey into the (relatively) shallow end of the pool that is mental illness, but I have done that and seriously that just makes everyone else depressed along with you. Do I REALLY want to be THAT person? I guess that’s the tricky part isn’t it. Finding your, I mean my, thing.

I guess I could keep crapping on with my own personal tale of “Wah” but maybe I should just shut the computer down for a while, turn the brain off for a bit and maybe that elusive idea will come to me when I lease expect it. I might still have that amazing book one day. Today, however, is not that day.

We're all stories

It gets very loud in my head, trying to filter out what I need to be hearing or thinking from all the other noise. I often describe my brain as an international airport or Grand Central train station, so many arrivals and departures that it can be hard to concentrate on that one plane (or train) that will get me to my destination. I live for those moments when it’s quiet, when the noise is just a low ebb and I am able to sit down and take a deep breath and for that one split second, I can relax. I mean even as I am sitting here typing this in an empty house with nothing but the dishwasher and the wind blowing through the trees outside to keep me company it’s still loud in my head.

I wish I knew how to make it stop. I wish I could say that I could always put my brain to rest but it’s not the case. Don’t get me wrong, I realise in the scheme of things having depression and anxiety with an entrée size serve of OCD is really not a huge deal, but it is MY deal. It is my issue that I have to face every day. And I am getting better. I really am. Five years of medication, psychology appointments, advice, mental health days and a 28 day stint at a retreat for these (and other) kinds of issues and I think, that I am starting to deal with everything at a much more “normal” level.

It’s funny how these imperfections become an integral part of you, so much so that you can no longer remember who you were before the shit hit the fan. You have to stop and try and figure out not only who you were but, more importantly, who you ARE. I know what the person I often present myself as to people is the person that I think will receive the least negativity and I guess, therefore, I will be liked more. And then I bullshit my way through saying I don’t care what people think of me, but hey, I’m human, and whether we like to admit it or not we all want to be liked.

There are things about me I don’t like and there are sure as hell things I suck at.

For example, I’m a crappy friend. I struggle to stay in touch with the few friends I have even if they live nearby. It’s not that I don’t care about them, or I deliberately separate myself from their lives, I just struggle with having to dump my crap on them when I know they have their own issues to deal with. Then, before you know it, so much time has passed that I simply do not know HOW to reconnect. Making that call and saying “Hey it’s me, yeah I know, I suck…..” is HARD. And I desperately don’t want to get the inevitable “It’s OK” in response, because we both know that it’s really not. Being depressed doesn’t give you the right to be a total shit to those who care about you. It doesn’t excuse you for being a crappy person in general. It’s an illness, not an excuse.

And so now am doing the thing you’re not supposed to do which is belittle my own thoughts and feelings. Shit, you just can’t win with this can you?

These friends, they stick around. They’re the first to ask if you’re OK when it all falls apart. First to offer a shoulder to cry on, something to punch, or just tell you they are simply THERE. This has never been more apparent to me than these last few days.

I spent those 28 days last July in QLD, avoiding the brutal Canberra winter, getting to know more about myself, others and humans in general. I learnt how to be more honest with myself, more compassionate and, in some ways most importantly, less judgemental towards others. 28 days away from home. Only Skype to stay in touch with the husband and children that were still at home. I wasn’t alone though. Far from it. I had my rag tag bunch of fellow “inmates” along for the ride.

The retreat catered for a variety of issues, mostly focusing on depression and anxiety, with a strong slant towards rehabilitation. When I first got there I felt like the odd one out. The only non-smoker having quit in February 2014. The only person there “just” for depression and anxiety. The only one with no addictions. Took me a while to realise I had as much right to be there as anyone else. My journey was no less significant, it was no less challenging, it was just different. It was MINE.

For 28 days I woke up, ate with, talked to and slept near my fellow inmates. Some I gelled with, some not so much, but by the time I checked out, as much as I wanted to go home, part of me was hurting. These people, this motley crew of people, had become my family.

Like family, some I have just kept a quite eye on via social media, checking in on them from time to time making sure they’re still good. Others, I have more regular contact with. It doesn’t mean I care about the others less, it’s just we live our own lives, we NEED to. These people, you see, get to know you. REALLY know you. You share things with them you never normally speak about. They don’t care about who you were, what you look like, or where you are from, they just care that you are there. You are there with them. It’s something that is profound really. Only this handful of people have been on this part of your journey with you. They get it.

So, when you find out that one of you has died, it fucking sucks. Bad.

I found out on Saturday night that one of my inmates family members had died. Via Facebook (thank you Facebook, you do serve a purpose for something other than the sharing of memes and Candy Crush) no less. I found out on the 9^th. He died on the 4^th. Overdose is what I heard. I don’t know for sure, that’s not exactly something you DO advertise on FB. As a result Saturday night equalled a flurry of text messages, PM’s and phone calls between the rest of my “family” and I. I had been so focused on another one of us who had returned to retreat that it never crossed my mind that something was amiss with anyone else. Whilst keeping my eye on S, worrying about him, hoping he would be OK, another one of us was drowning. And none of us saw it coming.

I’m not angry that he died. I am sad though. I am sad that he felt that this was the only way to find peace. I am sad that this is how his story ended and that he could not see himself for the amazing human that everyone else saw in him. I don’t blame myself, or anyone else for not picking up on it. He had to live out his own journey. Write his own book. I just hope it’s not a story I ever have to read again.

That noise in my head is a bit louder this week. I’m sad he’s gone, frustrated I can’t go up and say goodbye, and to be honest, a bit lost. I’m giving myself time, but not mourning him forever. I think he deserves more than that. It does make me question myself though. Maybe I am worth more than I feel like I am. Maybe I too would leave a void. I’m not planning on finding out though. I still have a lot of chapters to write for my story.

Jacqui

In Memory of Peter van de Heide (9/03/81  -  04/01/16)