Seven years with Rose

There is a curious thing about getting to know a person. We often think of it as a linear process, a step towards them, slowly getting closer. More truth, more unfolding of their history, more revealing of their self.

Maybe this is true for the first year, but after that… There’s change and flux it’s hard to account for. It’s not like getting to know a book. It’s more like getting to know a river. Some seasons flooded, others maybe dry. Riverbed changing course. Unless you understand the changes, you don’t really understand the river, only a snap-shot of it. How the river was at that moment, in that time. It’s real but it’s limited.

Rose is still who she was 7 years ago when we first met. Her passion for adventure, creativity, love of children, and zest for life remain, like flags flying high. They are the heart of who she is, whatever darkness, chaos, or pain storms through her life.

She’s also changed so much, shifted course in ways I hoped for and others I couldn’t have predicted. I find, seven years in, that I’m still surprised, sometimes confused, or delighted by the process of unfolding, growing. She’s different because life has happened – birth, death, loss, wins. Different because she knows me, and in seven years we’ve woven each other into the heart of our worlds, which has changed us both. Knowing her remains a principle rather than a goal I can achieve, a process of listening and asking, holding lightly to my memories of who she was last year, last month, giving her space to keep changing. It’s surprisingly hard to do. But so astonishingly rewarding.

It’s easy at the start, before you’ve let each other down. It’s much harder when pain dims everything and you’re both stumbling through how to heal wounds you didn’t mean to inflict. And yet, I sometimes wish I could show her to you in those moments. Because the things I can easily tell you about – her bright spirit, her beautiful smile, her amazing crafty arty skills, they are things everyone can see. Everyone who knows Rose has seen her amazing capacity to care for children, her wonderful adventures. Few have seen her courage to face down her own demons, to confront terrors, learn hard truths, accept losses, and take charge of her life. Her trauma therapy has been a full time job and her incredible bravery and willingness to dive into the most awful experiences imaginable in order to deal with their impact on her life and family is frankly inspiring. Watching her fumble through painful conversations to find the magic to unlock hope and connection makes me love her far more than the qualities any idiot can see. Her devotion to our family is spectacular and we would be devastated without her. In the incredibly dark times we’ve faced of death, loss, and serious illness, her humor and tenderness remain like bright jewels. Like stars, they shine only brighter.

She is a tree, savagely scarred, very beautiful, providing shelter. Her roots were once shallow but sink deeper each year. Watching her soothe our crying child, create magic learning spaces for friend’s kids, and wrestle to really hear someone who’s hurting because of her in some way – her integrity, and quiet strength are foundations of our family, the timber of the boat we sail in. I am blessed to love her.

Damn gallbladder

Hanging out in the ER again tonight, incredibly lucky to have good support from staff and friends and family. I’m poked full of holes and apparently a vampire’s nightmare but feeling much better than I was a few hours ago.

Image is of a white woman with short brown hair and a wry expression, in a hospital bed

I concluded my casual position providing support to NDIS recipients with Uniting SA today, which I would probably have more feelings about if I hadn’t started having a gallbladder attack in the middle of my last meeting! I loved the work a great deal and will miss the team.

I’m continuing working with TACSI in their chronic illness project and finding it grueling but incredible. My studies are also going well, my current class is about policy advocacy which I have adored. We had a 5,000wd group assignment recently graded at HD which was satisfying.

I’ve decided to take things slower during September and give myself some rest and recovery time. I’m reading some great books and looking forward to more studio and family time. Frankly right now I’d be happy with a week on the couch in front of Netflix!

Family traditions

We planted this simple tripod made of stakes and string at Easter, and have been harvesting snow peas all through the middle of winter. The colors are richer purple the more sun they are exposed to. Rose found the seedlings and was tickled by their unusual color, they certainly taste delicious.

In a small way they are emblematic of values in our family: a delight in the unusual, the desire to plant and reap, an appreciation of simple joys, the willingness to try and fail and try again. Easter is a mixed time for us with our histories of painful religious experiences. Making private space for those and giving Poppy traditions of family, planting and harvest is one way we are navigating our uncomfortable heritage.

At times it takes great courage to continue to live in a world that has dealt so much pain and uncertainty. We work hard to weave what Poppy needs: stability, love, compassion for imperfection, joy in each other. From courage comes life.

Happy Birthday Poppy

I took yesterday off, mostly. Apart from some admin and a therapy appointment that made me want to sleep for a week. I went back to bed and read some book and listened to music and it was glorious. Tuesday night at midnight I submitted a 5,000 word group assignment of Policy Analysis and Advocacy. And the weekend had the wonderful birthday parties for darlings Poppy, who turned 3, and my adorable niece, who turned 1!

I had a rough week last week and some kindly folks reminded me that baking cakes was only for people who felt up to dealing with the dishes, so Poppy’s gorgeous octonauts cake is a couple of supermarket mudcakes and a lot of tasty buttercream icing. It was a fantastic day.

Three is a special age, and somehow Poppy feels so much older so suddenly. I’ve been out a lot lately and missing her. The sweet cuddles and silly games we play when I’m home are the most wonderful things in the world. She is pure magic.

Public Health Quote of the Day

I’m in the final days of a group project report for my advocacy class. I hated this project for the first several weeks when I couldn’t get a single person in my group to respond. Now, in the final days, with 4 separate contributions to knit together cohesively, some idiosyncratic (mis)interpretations of the brief to work with, and a lot of references to get into one referencing software, I find myself surprised to be enjoying it. Our report is vastly different from anything I’d have written myself, including our choice of topic, and yet it’s been fun to let go of the usual goal of top grades and instead focus on engaging and supporting and the usual herding-of-cats that is pulling together a group project.

Tonight I am reading up on Advocacy strategies and I laughed out load at a quote from pg 16 of The fight for public health by Chapman, S., & Lupton, D. (1994).

Looking at the vast literature on health promotion programmes, it is almost as if there is… an inverse analysis law operating in public health: the more trivial the intervention, the greater the research interest; while the greater the potentional for population-wide effect, the scarcer the analysis.

Simon Chapman

Complexity is tricky, folks, and we don’t like it much. I was inspired recently by a conversation about one of the biggest challenges in health is trying to move from linear (one cause, one outcome) to systemic thinking (multiple causes and multiple outcomes including vicious or virtuous cycles). Systemic thinking is hard when you are used to linear, like going from juggling two balls to ten. But in a way it’s also much more intuitive, we know that the context of a person’s life is crucial to their health in multilayered ways that go far beyond the reductionism of simple cause and effect, even in the realms of trauma.

I do love this work.

Everything is happening and a lot of it is on fire

There are times in my life when things seem to reach a quiet kind of calm. Perhaps I’m on uni holidays, my main projects finished… I’m looking around for the next thing to do, hanging out my shingle, contemplating my book or the next art exhibition. Sometimes it turns out to be the eye of the storm and all manner of hell starts raining down on me. It does make for a hard time scheduling my life.

I had a week like that recently. I’d gone for a job, not heard back, moved on and put in other applications. I picked up the TACSI project. Then got a call and offered an entirely different job but still great work, so I jumped in.

The week I started the new job, I spent a night in ER in a pain crisis being pumped full of fentanyl. Follow up ultrasound the next day gave me a new diagnosis of gallbladder disease. I have one very large stone, a very inflamed gallbladder, and a lot of, and this is apparently the correct medical term, ‘sludge’. I’ve had to radically alter my diet and I’m in a fair bit of pain most days. I have appointments coming up with a surgeon.

Okay, curve ball but I’m still in with a chance.

I went to a medical which turned into a ptsd nightmare I’m still dealing with.

Horrible, but I’m still hanging in there.

I tried to access Disability Employment Support and spent weeks jumping through pointless welfare hoops to prove i was able to do the work I’d already been doing. The support turned out to be far harder to get than the job was.

Infuriatingly stressful but I’m nothing if not stubborn.

I got home from day one of induction to learn that Rose’s Mum (foster Mum) has been diagnosed with a particularly aggressive lymphoma and is starting chemotherapy immediately. Round one of chemo kicks her around so badly she winds up in the ICU incredibly ill, at which point I cry uncle and take a week off work plus put Poppy in daycare, so I can do visits, support Rose, cry, and catch up on laundry.

I’m in a group project for my studies where no one would start work until the final week the project is due, which is now.

I just had emergency dental work on a decayed tooth because it’s part of a TMJD flare I’m in that’s so bad I have tinnitus from it.

I am still standing dudes. But August had better get easier.

The new job is as a Lived Experience Mentor with Uniting SA. It’s a brand new, experimental pilot program, working to create an interface between a dedicated team of employees and a group of folks receiving support through NDIS funding. The people we are supporting, and the team are the clear highlights of the work. The administrative nightmare I’m in of multiple forms of reporting using different measures, rates, and software between work, NDIS, and welfare, is considerably less awesome.

So, this is me, doing my best at self care, advocacy, scheduling, caring, and figuring out what I can eat that doesn’t make me want to die. Don’t call me, I’m not in.

The little details of a good life

It’s been a hectic few weeks. Tonight I’m finally playing catch up with the ever growing collection of socks I keep ignoring when folding the washing. It’s a peaceful enough job, especially if you have company on the phone.

I recently had a particularly fun evening. Poppy scooped a handful of petroleum jelly out of a tub, and ran shrieking around the house wiping out over everything. Rose was napping in the bedroom so I put Poppy in time out in the bathroom for 2 minutes. She was not impressed about this and locked the door in protest. When allowed out, her hands were too slippery to unlock it. I grabbed a screwdriver but the lock jammed! Fortunately Star was visiting and climbed straight through the window and into the sink like a champion, saving the day.

Speaking of sinks, every evening when we brush our teeth together, Poppy insists on putting the sink plug in and leaving a little pool of water “for my leopards”. I have no idea what the leopards are about, but sometimes it’s best not to argue.

We had a lovely time out at the local waterfall recently. Winter had been dry but it finally rained enough to wet the creek briefly which was fun.

In and around the big things in our lives are these little ones, cooking meals, hanging washing, looking for opportunities to have adventures or learn something new, to wonder or find gratitude and beauty. It’s very hard work but also such a good life, so wanted. The joy is in the details, these so forgettable tiny moments of day to day life. Making a starfish together from playdough.

Chopping ingredients for dinner together. Sitting on the couch with Rose at the end of a long day and holding hands. The little squeeze that says I see you, and I’ve got you. The highs and lows of the big dramas of our lives, and the little bumps and dips of the daily mundane world. They all add up to something incredibly precious. Life lived deeply, breathed into, not flinched from or dulled down.

Here it is, my little girl brushing her teeth and carefully making a pool for the leopards. Washing the same 10 mugs for what must surely be the millionth time. Making time to cry when there’s sad news. A hot cuppa and a journal to write in in a quiet moment. Talking with a friend online. Noticing how beautiful the clouds are, the feel of sunshine on your skin when hanging yet another load of washing. A stem of jonquils from the garden, filling the whole house with perfume. The last winter rose and the first winter lily. Going to bed at night with a very good book and a very fluffy cat. This is a very good life.

Finding Ways out of Burnout and Overwhelm

Poppy and I went adventuring in a creek recently. It was so peaceful. There are struggles and difficulties all around, then there are these islands within it all that are so precious, where everything is still.

I clear a space and ignore my phone. No multi tasking. The curse of the freelance life – work creeping into every waking moment, is deliberately put aside. I don’t problem solve, plan dinner, handle admin. There is a rare clarity, ice clear and deeply refreshing.

Since I last burned out a couple of years ago, I’ve been quietly exploring a private project: what creates overwhelm, and what reduces it? Burn out is bigger than overwhelm, but for me it was the biggest and longest issue I had to deal with. I see overwhelm everywhere, not just at work but in everyday life, most especially for parents. It’s often framed as part of various mental illnesses and disabilities, but it’s such a common and difficult experience I feel it needs its own name and space to be understood.

For me, overwhelm is a chronic state of exhaustion, scattered thought, poor concentration, emotional intensity and changeability, and inability to grasp or manage tasks.

Reflection

I’ve been borrowing ideas from many sources, and using my own therapy as a kind of compass to treat my own overwhelm. I try things out and notice if my overwhelm deepens or eases. I’ve found reflective journaling is ideal for this. Each day or two I journal and notice what’s helping and what’s making things worse. I get an overview that’s nearly impossible for me to find any other way.

Some days when my overwhelm is high, I can barely walk into my shed. It’s way too much to handle, a million things all needing organisation I simply don’t have and I feel such panic that even opening the door makes me want to cry. Other days when my mental space is going well I can walk in and my mind is clear. It’s really not so bad, just a few bits and pieces. I can see what needs to be culled or sorted, packed better, given away. It’s so manageable. The difference can be startling!

Trying harder doesn’t help

For example I’ve found overwhelm is often embedded with false beliefs about productivity – that doing more and working harder and longer are essential to productivity. So my intuitive solution for the early signs of overwhelm (one of which is reduced productivity) is unfortunately to do a bunch of things that are likely to make it worse.

As counter intuitive as it feels, rest, doing something completely different, and setting aside proper time to deep dive instead of scattered multi taking are all very useful for productivity.

Understand the weight of the invisible mental load

One of the challenges about burnout in life rather than work is how difficult it can be to get a break from it or even see it clearly. Some of us find a lot of our work isn’t only unpaid but unrecognised, even by ourselves. We feel exhausted but can’t name what we’ve done all day, can’t take time off but don’t use the concept of being ‘on call’, and end up fitted to the gaps in the somehow more important activities of study or formal paid employment being carried out by those around us. Being able to notice what we do and who we do it for can be essential to recovery. I have found simply tracking my time has been eye opening in terms of things like how much sort work I do for others on a daily basis. This isn’t a bad thing – unless I don’t factor it in. This is a very interesting article on the topic of invisible mental load.

Executive function capacity is a limited resource

I’ve also found it useful to consider ideas around ‘executive function’ from the autism community (here’s a great post about an adult autistic’s perspective on his struggles with executive function limitations). Executive function issues also turn up a lot for folks with ADHD, trauma, and dissociation. They relate to our ability to plan, sequence tasks, keep track of time, and prioritise.

Many higher level brain processes are limited resources. If I’m living such a chaotic life that I need to use a lot of thought to plan hanging out my washing, that’s a lot of capacity being used up on tasks of daily living. Routines, structures, and rhythms are ways I can take those tasks out of intense intellectual activity and into habit, which is largely mindless and takes little mental energy. (which can help explain why some folks become very wedded to routines – if you have limited executive function your routines are your safe way of keeping life going)

It’s the same process that makes driving an intense intellectual process for a new driver, and something that can be done on autopilot for an experienced one. Autopilot frees up capacity for other tasks, or mental rest.

The impact of decision fatigue

Decision fatigue is also an important aspect of overwhelm, and one that burdens those of us in poverty much more than others because poverty involves constant trade offs – and these are the most mentally exhausting decisions we make, between two or more important things when we can’t have both (like food or medicine). There’s a great article here that unpacks this more as well as a lot of interesting research behind the ideas.

Sometimes the job is impossible

Overwhelm is often a response to a catch 22, or an impossible ask. Parenting through adversity of any kind often involves trying to accomplish very challenging tasks, such as supervising very young children while severely sleep deprived or ill, or trying to provide quality childcare and household management simultaneously,or meeting the physical, social, and emotional needs of several children of different ages/needs, at the same time.

I sometimes find it helpful to think of parenting as if it was a job, and thinking about what my union might be asking for when they want better, safer conditions. Do I need less tasks? More time? More skills? Rest? Support? All of the above, of course, but some weighed more than others, and some easier to find solutions to.

When I ask myself ‘What’s usual in thr paid versions of this role?’ sometimes the pressures and catch 22s emerge in a way I couldn’t see before. It can also help me to see and articulate difficult concepts such as I love being with my kids but I hate trying to create fun safe times together and also sort out all the washing. When everything merges together it can hard to figure out where things are actually working because it all feels awful.

‘All or nothing’ is a game you always lose

Another thing I’ve been finding helpful is to watch out for the ‘all or nothing’ mindset that kicks in when I’m overwhelmed. I know I need a break and I’m dreaming longingly of the weeks away on camp, but turn down the opportunity to have ten minutes to myself because frankly, what’s the point.

I have been finding it difficult to make ‘wild time’ since the kids came along. I miss my long late nights writing poetry, driving under stars, and sitting by the sea. For the last month I’ve experimented with 10 minutes by myself in the bedroom each night, with candles and my journal. Part of me hates this – where’s the spontanety? The stars overhead? The long hours? How can wildness be scheduled?

That part is right, it’s not the same.

And yet, it’s better than not doing it at all. It’s still a candle, a bone pen, a sacred space. It might be a snack instead of a full meal, but it still nourishes my soul. And a nourished soul speaks its needs louder, is more playful, resilient, and certain. It keeps seeking a heartful and passionate life. 5 minutes of painting is better than not touching the brushes for 5 years because you don’t have the time.

‘Freeze’ is a type of threat response that looks like overwhelm

I’ve found helpful with overwhelm to understand what scares me. This is much harder than it sounds. Sometimes I know I’m scared, sometimes I just get sick, or develop new pain or symptoms. As someone with childhood trauma I have the common but deeply frustrating experience of sometimes learning about my feelings through problems with my body and health. This means having to interpret the myriad of random symbolic issues that turn up. It can be a slow and frustrating process.

Other times I’m well aware I’m stressed, panicked, frozen, blocked. But I often have little idea why or how to get past it. Why is it that some days emails make me freeze and are impossible to reply to? I’m sitting at my desk in tears, humiliated and full of frustration and self loathing, but I cannot make myself do the un-doable task. We’ve all heard of flight and fight but are less familiar with freeze. If you are scared and don’t feel up to a task you are facing, some of us freeze and shut down.

Overwhelm can be a response to abuse

Not being able to think straight, remember, plan, or use higher mental facilities around an abusive person has long been recognised as a common problem for people being harmed. Making plans away from them is often essential because deciding what to in the moment can be impossible. There nothing wrong with you and it’s not unusual

It’s also not uncommon when the abuse is internal. For example, if I’ve often used a ‘stick’ to motivate myself with, forcing compliance even when I’m frightened, tired, or overwhelmed, using meanness and bullying to push myself through hard tasks, I’ve set this scenario up. Overwhelm at some point is as inevitable as a plant wilting without water.

Empathy is restorative

Making safe spaces to deeply listen and empathise with myself has been crucial. I’ve been working with an art therapist on this, instead of trying to push through or problem solve, instead to deeply and non judgementally listen. It’s harder than it sounds!

Deliberately seek the opposite

There are many opposites of overwhelmed such as calm, content, flow state, and confident. Some of them will resonate as more important to you than others, and you can explore more about those ones.

For me one of the biggest costs of overwhelm is in my confidence, so a side project that’s developed out of this one has been: what builds my confidence? I’m finding resources like this TED talk insightful. Repetition builds confidence which is useful to be aware of given how often I work at edge of skill, seduced by the appeal of a challenge. I adore challenges but I’m also anxious, vulnerable to imposter syndrome, and discouraged by failure and rejection. Learning to pull back on the challenges a little and build on more successes is helping greatly. Intentionally working to reduce my overwhelm this way has been incredibly helpful for me.

If you are struggling with overwhekm or care about someone who is, take heart. I hope there’s been some useful food for thought here. Our interdependence is invaluable in situations like this. Someone we can swap scary tasks like booking each other’s dentist appointments. Sometimes the one with more executive function can help break down a task or sequence a series of goals for someone struggling. Many articulate people with these challenges are sharing their strategies so others can borrow and build on them. You can tweak and change and develop things so that the overwhelm eases and you can think again. Best wishes.

Acing Public Health

Happy Dance! I got back my grade for my major assignment of the trimester, a report into the health impacts of different systems of income redistribution (welfare). The subject is at Masters level and I was given 96% for the report! 91% for the overall subject. That’s despite wrapping up the trimester with pluerisy.

I am so happy to have found Public Health, the bigger picture thinking suits me so much and it links across all the projects I love, whether that’s policy level advice or direct client work. All of them need to be underpinned by this understanding of the context in which people are crushed or thrive. Social determinants of health are so crucial and I’m stunned there wasn’t a whisper of them in my mental health peer work trainings.

So that’s a big confidence boost! I’ll be graduating at the end of the year and then will have the option to continue on to the grad dip or Masters – or go sideways into a different field like philosophy which is also pretty tempting. There’s a lot of philosophy in what I do, really we’re all philosophers at heart in some way even if we never verbalise it. We hold beliefs about people and life and live to them. I have very fond memories of some of the conversations with the hearing voices group around a campfire in my backyard, that rare space in which it was possible to break the social conventions that normally silenced us and talk openly, if we wanted to, about how we experienced the world. Even if it was just to have a whinge about the stress of being on welfare.

Studio as a sacred space

Glorious studio days recently. Even by artist standards, I have a pretty intense relationship with my studio. Moving into this space, it took me a long time to let go of my previous space and fall in love.

I will be moving to a bigger, brighter, better space in the same building in July and I’m so excited about it. It will also mean I can integrate my office and studio spaces together and have everything under one roof. This should stream line all my processes considerably, mean I don’t need a lot of duplicate stationary anymore, and make it easier to move between admin and art on the same day.

In preparation I’m sorting, tidying, and planning. I have a pinterest board of studios for inspiration. I’m keen to create something both functional and aesthetic. One thing I’ll make sure to do is set my oil palette up on the right hand side of my easel, so I’m not constantly crossing over myself for new paint.

As part of this preparation, I’ve overhauled my watercolour and oil painting set ups. A friend suggested standing for my large watercolour paintings and I’m already noticing the difference; more confident gestures, better blending, and finally making progress on an image I’ve made 5 versions of that I wasn’t happy with so far.

This drawer beneath my glass desk keeps my palettes and paint protected from dust while I’m not there. The large white palette on the left was an op shop find, a flat porcelain plate which is is wonderful for watercolours and much cheaper than specialty art palettes. Watercolour handles so much better on porcelain than metal or plastic, it’s much easier to mix colours and shades accurately.

My oil paint set up is also much better now. This little glass top table was a steal from the local garden supply store. I lifted out the glass and backed it with a few sheets of neutral grey pallet paper for easier colour mixing. It cleans off while wet with a baby wipe, or once dry, with a wall scraping razor.

I had partly completed this artwork in a class last year about painting in the style of the Old Masters. It’s a copy of a painting ‘Arachne’ by Diego Velazquez. This week it was time to finish it.

She still needs a few more glazes but I’m very happy with her.

It was fantastic to get back into oils, I’m looking forward to my next one.

I have a number of irons in the fire at the moment for my next projects and so far there’s promising feedback on a couple of them. I’m excited about starting the new financial year with a better working space to meet whatever comes. 🙂

Poem: Walking with the Wind

I went walking with the wind last night
Under the white and golden street lamps
Ears pricked with excitement,
My spirit dog went before me.

Behind me, just out of sight
Followed the ghosts of old friends and lovers
The wind spoke to me of the night
My spirit dog inhaled the grass.

Music poured from a shuttered house
We circled the ruined incinerator
Time wheeled overhead with the stars
My spirit dog dug under the trees.

I smiled to myself and turned towards home
Back to the house that would open to me
The light and the warmth of the living world
My spirit dog pissed on the neighbour’s daisies.

Ink Painting: Flight

I have greatly enjoyed creating in a range of other mediums lately; white ink over black, watercolours, even posca pens. But there’s something deeply satisfying about coming home to my teal ink paintings. They are my oldest and most familiar medium, started back in the days when I could only afford one colour of ink, a fountain pen, and a single size 6 brush.

When I sit down with my ink, I don’t know what I’m going to create before I start. I create the opportunity and something emerges. It’s an incredibly precious process for me, a kind of therapy. I love that spark, the uncertainty, the sense of not being in control and planning it out but rather, letting go and allowing space for what comes. It’s reflective and magical and sometimes extremely painful, depending on how safe I feel and how well I can process what comes. Sometimes nightmare images take me more than 6 months before I can look at them. More rarely, I connect with the work right away. Often they tell me than one story and I learn more about them over time or find different stories in them. I usually work at night, often by moonlight or candlelight, in a space full of poetry, a kind of altered state. Sometimes I can see parts of the artwork in the white paper as I begin, not a true hallucination, but yet real enough to trace the path.

‘Flight’ builds on a theme about wings that was present in my work back was I was 16 and used to dream of myself walking alone in school with vast useless black wings trailing behind me. Too freak to fit in, but not freak enough to fly.

They remerged at points throughout my life, such as when I gave birth.

I’ve been exploring my giftedness lately, what it means to not be neurotypical but function differently in ways there’s almost no research on for adult populations. It’s taken me a long time to own it and acknowledge how much it impacts my life. Unlike other differences such as my chronic illness, speaking about being gifted brings with it a taint of bragging and a memory of making others feel threatened and rejecting me. It’s vastly misunderstood and surprisingly vulnerable.

There’s little to guide someone struggling the way I do. Speaking to a gifted specialist recently I asked about the adult population, where can I learn from others who struggle? Ah, she said, there isn’t one. Gifted adults who succeed don’t come to see psychologists. Gifted adults who struggle usually assume their struggles prove they were not gifted after all. We know almost nothing about the needs and best supports of the gifted struggling adult.

We know what puts gifted kids at higher risk, such as not having friends or peers, not being academically challenged and getting used to the feeling of being a student who must learn, bullying, perfectionism, performance anxiety, feeling valued only for their grades and skills… We know they are often emotionally intense, vulnerable to existential crises very young, sensitive, and asynchronous in development. But we don’t know much about how to reverse harm or support adults to thrive. I’m trying to figure out that pathway.

Wings, useless, broken, or bound emerge as a metaphor for thwarted desire and unrealised capacity.

I’m glad of my strange, wild art. It was important to me to protect it from college and other artists and the homogenisation that happens in exposure to others. It’s not the only way to make art, even for me, not the best or holiest. At is made in many ways and meets many different needs, it’s a form of mindfulness and intense observation, a emotional catharsis, a complex development of artisanal skill, a way to play, and more besides. All are real. I was speaking with a lovely artist recently who is going through something tough. I mentioned that I explore terrible pain at times in my art and suggested they could do the same. They gave me such a brief hunted look, a flash of anxiety and an absolutely closed door that I understood immediately: art is their happy place, where the joyful and whimsical live. It would be a kind of sacrilege to take their darkness into it. For me, I adore darkness and love in art, all the notes of the song and colours to paint with. Lightest to darkest pitch. It’s what feels authentic to me and it heals something in me that otherwise merely bleeds.

Reclaiming Self Care

I meditated this morning because I couldn’t sleep. I’m still sick and low on coping. Curled into a tiny warm nest alone in my bed I would drowse to sleep then wake with a tiny start a moment later, like surfacing from warm water into a cold breeze. I needed that sleep, so badly. Heartbroken I settled for rest. Finished my ebook – re-reading Miss Smilla’s Feeling for Snow by Peter Hoeg, translated by Felicity David, which is both lyrical and brutal and contains lines such as


Deep inside I know that trying to fathom things out leads to blindness, that the desire to understand has a built-in brutality that erases what you seek to comprehend. Only experience is sensitive.

Peter Hoeg

Stunningly succinct. There are many ways of knowing, none of them are complete and few can even be translated.

There’s no simple arithmetic for life’s distribution of happiness and sorrow, no such thing as a standard share.

Peter Hoeg

How often are we told this when we talk about resilience? How often is resilience treated as an individual heroic quality when it is about invisible resources of community, about the luck of the share of sorrow allotted us.

Mother’s Day yesterday was strange, full of unexpected things. We all have the flu or some mix of head colds, flu, sinusitis, tonsillitis. Rose and I woke up to a cold sunny morning still full of the stunned wonder of being parents and no longer feeling like our hearts have been raked over on this day. There has been so much illness lately our gifts were small. We are too contagious to join any gathering, too exhausted to make any fuss. We spoke to mothers and daughters on the phone, exchanged a small painting and some warm socks. Tag teamed Poppy all day who is better enough to need activities but too sick to have much cope. It was not a bad day, if a little lonely, constricted by the weather, slightly sad. I kept myself busy with a movie while Poppy and Rose napped in the afternoon and when it ended found myself down a rabbit hole of the mind and feeling suddenly skinless, vaguely suicidal, and terribly vulnerable. I woke Rose and we played a small card game and the world tilted back on it’s axis and normality returned.

A friend once told me at the point of not being my friend anymore that it was obvious I hated being a mother. I find myself swallowing protests when I share about illness – I adore her, I adore being her parent. I wish I was less ill. It has been a hard 6 months for my health. I find myself trawling social media feeling heartsick and alone and diffused with a vague bitter resentment. Catching no flies with vinegar. Trying to hide my rage at what’s been allotted me. Remembering the way the boy who stalked me returned to my school and how we each in our pain asked different things of our mutual friends: me for them to see the profound changes in me, imperfectly labelled ‘PTSD’ and stand by me, connect me to my world again, be comforting.

His silent plea was for a closed door behind us. Let us never speak of it again, let things be as they were before.

How could my need ever be honored over his? It wasn’t and it rarely is. The one who is ashamed asks so little, aligns so well with what we already want – silence, disconnection, ‘moving on’. The one who is suffering needs so much of us, unbearably too much. To find words for unspeakable things, to see the wounds.

I am reading about Indigenous history and health in public health and touching the vague shape of a most terrible fury and despair of the colonised. The tiny words pinned to pages trying to explain the ravages of racism are like withered brown leaves trying to evoke the shape of massive trees. There’s a desolate rage under everything.

I am constantly confronted with the phrase to ‘ask for help’ when in trouble. It is a papercut, a stinging pain, a gathering storm. I recall the diversity of suffering beneath the behaviours of eating disorders when I was a peer worker in that sector. Under one common banner were so many wounds, children staggering beneath the weight of ill parents, domestic violence, sexual abuse, poverty, deep unspoken grief. I would so dearly like to ask for help, some nights. To lay myself to rest in the care of people who will tell me what to do, and I will follow the advice and be healed. But obedience has never led me true.

I can never forget my first efforts to heal from trauma, being given a meditation CD by the psychologist and told to listen to it twice a day and follow the instructions to relax my body, step by step. I did so as my guts churned and the hairs rose on my arms. The choking sense of oppressive control crept over me like a weight. I went back in distress saying the CD was making me feel worse. I was told to try harder and listen more often. After weeks of distress I gave up. The psychologist was frustrated with me. I crept away from therapy feeling like a failure. Years later I read 8 Safe Keys to Trauma Recovery where Rothschild calmly mentions that about one quarter of people with severe trauma find calming/relaxing exercises distressing and need a different approach. Rage bottled in my throat.

Last night at 2am with Poppy still sleepless I exploded from patience into furious, helpless, ashamed meltdown. Rose tagged and took her back to the lounge while I sobbed hysterically in bed, PTSD pulling every tendon in my body so tightly they thrummed. Irritability and anger pushing away people I love and making less safe those who depend on me and should never be made to feel responsible for my feelings.

You cannot exercise enough self care to accommodate being in a house on fire. Rose has had a long road back from the kind of mental health care that medicated her as an 8 year old and left her convinced of her own brokenness, hyper vigilently monitoring her moods and mind, utterly cut off from the story that would have saved her: you look crazy and your abusers look sane. This is the heartbreaking reality.

They are more successful at forgetting, you, despite the pathological blindness of an entire industry intended to address human suffering, you cannot forget entirely. That industry, mental health, can save you. It has the power to see what you cannot and patiently, lovingly, help you reframe what you see as personal weakness. To give context – like a forensic process. This is shape of the knife that made that wound. This is why you are hurting. This is why you hurt those around you. This is how to stop.

When it is blind the power is also blinding. Suffering is stripped of human context and relabeled as illness. Self care becomes a parody of itself, a deepening of this willful not knowing. Meditation as rejecting of the disturbing thoughts, the messages from nightmares. Eating salads and taking antidepressants as an obedience to the social contract that sees health as a virtue, a sign of strong individual moral character, determination, self control.

The psychological distress symptoms of traumatized people simultaneously call attention to the existence of an unspeakable secret and deflect attention from it. 

Judith Herman, Trauma and Recovery

Asking for help evokes the most powerful rescue fantasy I’ve ever known, paralyzing me. Self care is an easily corrupted concept, containing excuses for ignorance by the comfortable, the exploitation of the vulnerable by those who wish to offload responsibility for productivity and efficiency without providing for needs, and the severed mechanical meeting-of-needs of the ‘mentally ill’ who are trying to atone for their inexplicable brokenness.

I meditated this morning not to make the pain or the anger go away but to help myself make room for it. To ease the frantic despair that seeks solutions, resolution, answers where there are no quick fixes. So that I could sit at my table this morning and see the light falling through the leaves of my tree onto my keyboard and feel one tiny step further from shame, a tiny step closer to accepting who and how I am in the world and shaping my ‘self care’ to fit me, rather than change me.

Today it was enough.

Medieval merriment

I currently have pluerisy, a very painful inflammation of the lungs that can happen when an infection hangs around too long. Rose kindly helped me get to my favourite fair of the year anyway and I did my best to stay warm and avoid too much smoke from all the cooking fires. Poppy went as a dragon, and apart from being unpleasantly car sick part way there, had a great time watching the dancing and fighting and playing in the skate park and a big burned out tree. It was lovely to touch base with friends and familiar faces. The campfire space looked after by two Aboriginal women is one of our families favourite places to rest. Today we ate damper and yarned and felt at peace amongst the hubbub. A friends dropped in this evening for 5 minutes and stayed for 3 hours while we ranted about health and science and parenting at each other. 💙 I’m crawling into bed exhausted but sated. Today has carried me along like a leaf in a river and tumbled me gently into exactly what I needed. Rare and precious.

My journal and bone pen are calling my name. Nights like this alone in bed for a little while in the shadows I find myself breathing sweeter air.

Participatory Research

My favourite article of the week has been this one on Community Based Participatory Research by Green and Mercer. I particularly like the discussion on the first couple of pages about the common subjects of research getting entirely fed up of the process and refusing to be involved unless they were treated as knowledge holders themselves rather than merely objects of study. As a person who lives at the intersection of multiple forms of disadvantage, I feel this! I’ve witnessed many people become utterly fed up with being part of research into their experiences and despite their passion for learning and knowledge and health, step out entirely. I’ve participated in a great deal of research myself and it’s incredibly uncomfortable how frequently my experiences don’t fit the framework provided, or are distorted by underlying assumptions I can’t correct.

For example, as a voice hearer I am often invited to be involved in research about voices. Most is predicated on the idea that voice hearing is a harmful experience or that voices are either helpful or harmful in a simple, fixed binary. For those of you who know, my voice is neither. She generally speaks the same phrase on a loop (“I hate myself”) and I would describe her as profoundly distressed. Trying to answer questions about her and my balance of power in relation to her often means I’m aware my data is being warped to fit a theory that was conceived light years away from my experience – and worse, that will not be impacted by my actual experience in any way.

So, participatory research. Fascinating, collaborative. Like so many of these things, it often works better on paper than in practice where lofty words like collaboration and community become code for collusion, petty arguments, and the plundering of the cheese board at the meeting. It’s harder than it sounds and like any genuinely collaborative venture, it’s easy to derail if anyone involved wants to poke a stick in the wheels.

Some of the better research I’ve been part of has given me space somewhere to share what I think and feel or how my experiences do or don’t fit. It also follows up in some way with the conclusions. There’s a relationship, a sense of reciprocity at least in the process even if we don’t agree at all about anything else. It doesn’t have to be participatory to be collaborative in that sense. Nor does participatory research bypass issues of exploitation or harm in and of itself. The nature of community is the diversity of perspectives and voice – it is rare to be able to accomodate each of them.

The other kinds of research (and I include interview here) feel exploitative. My experiences are collected as evidence of ideas I don’t agree with and contorted to fit arguments that don’t include me. Or they are simply inept, using my time to educate themselves on matters they haven’t bothered to read about. If I had a dollar for every interview that began “So, what does it feel like to have DID?”…

Research fascinates me. It’s something we all do in our own way, whether it’s asking our friends online, checking out a review, reading a memoir or book, we are all constantly in the largely unconscious and informal process of gathering data and testing hypothesis. How did they do that? Does it work better if I do it like this? Perfecting a recipe, buying a car, learning to ice skate, dealing with grief. We navigate experiences, community, and skill building. Sometimes giving a little thought to that process can hone it in powerful ways for us. Who are we looking to? What questions have we not thought to ask? What’s unsayable? And how do we relate to each other, as objects of study or scrutiny, or as people who likewise are looking at us?

Good research is powerful. May there be much more of it.

Poppy’s green pigs

Poppy and I had the most impossible adventure day of all time recently. My phone gave out. Our bus tickets ran out. All plans went astray. I tried many things to fix our situation and merely wound up feeling incredibly stressed at not being helped by people who could easily have done so. Cried all the way home.

Rose sat with us while we tried to put my head and our day back together. Poppy found a texta and drew me on my left arm. Mummy being sad. On my right arm she drew Mummy being happy. Then she covered the drawing in hundreds of green dashes. According to Poppy, this is why Mummy was so happy. Because she was covered in small pigs. Ha! She’s glorious.

I am so struggling with depression at the moment. It’s invisible one moment and drowns my whole world the next. I feel so alone in it, thrashing in so pain I can’t seem to ease. It’s frightening to show it, to feel like I’m a bad actor trying to play myself and it’s leaking around the edges, ready to overwhelm and terrify people. I feel so angry and disconnected and frustrated. And yet there are green pigs. And tonight, watching Brene Brown on Netflix and laugh-crying at her experiences, feeling her pronouncements – if you are brave you WILL fail – soothe a deep pain in me. It’s raining, the light is strange and stormy. We’re sleeping with the window open, the cold night breeze full of wet garden smells. It’s a beautiful world here. Listening to Rose argue with Poppy about getting into her pajamas. Ruminating on research I’m doing about universal basic income schemes for an essay. It’s good to be able to stretch my brain when my heart is feeling so bruised. At least something makes sense to me.

For a little while the pain eases. I can breathe again, can see in colours other than blood red. Breathe them in, my lovely ones. Try to give them what I have, not only pain but poems, laughter, clean washing, so much love.

Shadows

Locked for precious moments alone and naked in the shadows. I’m safe at last among my ghosts, dreaming of the moments where art is as easy as vandalism. Running laughing along the edge of night with paint and knives in my hands, every window smashed behind me. All the trees burning. The smell of it. The apple trees on fire.

It’s a glorious day indeed when I don’t miss you. My pen runs away on the page, speaking atrocities with a blue black forked tongue.

There’s a wind on my back. Paint under my nails. Crushed by love and broken by hate there’s no trace left here of any of it, absolutely no scar, no signature. I’m free to start again.

I find the truth in the old words, and my hands come back from the netherworld, flickering between broken and whole. There’s sweetness like honey on my tongue, bitterness like tears.

I am not her. We are not her. We are not always her. She is us. Waiting like a skin slipped out of. She lingers in the shape of my mouth, the way one foot slips shyly beneath the other. The season turns. The lightning comes. I remember so many other nights like this.

Uncountable nights where I could not be captured. I ate the world and it ran wet down my chin. In the company of nightmares is the only safety I’ve ever really believed in. The only place I’m whole.

Using language to support parent infant bonding

Language is so powerful. When Poppy was born we found many people would frame our experiences or her behaviour in ways that were not helpful for us. It’s amazing how many of our common phrases ascribe bad intentions to the child. It may seem like nit picking to fuss over a word, but words build the story that impacts how we understand each other. They create the filter through which we interpret each others intentions.

I first learned about attribution theory in uni, studying psychology, and a lot of things clicked in my mind about people I’d known. Most anyone when depressed or overwhelmed sees the world and other people through a filter that makes the innocuous seem hostile and the mildly difficult downright sinister. Some of us are more prone to this more of the time, living in a world where grey runs to black. How we feel can strongly change the way we interpret others and the world around us.

Many of the stories created by common phrases used about children would pit Poppy against us, as if she was indifferent or even cruel. People would say things like she was “being a jerk” if she wouldn’t stop crying, was “too smart for her own good” if she climbed something and fell off, “had us wrapped around her little finger” if we went to comfort her after she fell over.

On one level this is a way to be light-hearted about the stress of parenting, laugh it off, and validate how awful and exhausting it can be! But for some, in the context of stress and sleep deprivation, this can also take the relationship between parent and child into dark and risky places.

It can be difficult to understand just how painful things can get if you haven’t been there. In the early months of Poppy’s life, I was often sick, very sleep deprived, and feeling at the end of my tether. I’ve noticed that a kind of flip in thinking can happen when things are really bad. If you feel stretched past capacity enough, at some point it feels like it’s not possible for everyone to survive. Survival instinct and maternal instinct start to contradict each other. The maternal (or parental) impulse to protect and nurture is powerful and we tend to see it as the norm. But it’s not always the way, and when threat levels are high and bonding is distorted it may diminish or become secondary. The impulse to protect the child may dissipate next to the sense that there’s simply not enough resources for everyone.

Things can get really desperate if the child’s behaviour is framed as a threat in some way to your own survival. The shift in thinking from ‘we are all in this together, having a tough time’ to ‘they are sucking me dry’ is a risky one both for the relationship and the child.

This interesting article, the neuroscience of calming baby explores what’s going on behind a common phenomenon – babies are calmer when carried and held but will often become distressed when put down. It talks briefly about how important it is to understand that this is an inbuilt mammalian response, to “save parents from misreading the restart of crying as the intention of the infant to control the parents”. Soberingly, this is important because “unsoothable crying is a major risk factor for child abuse”. This is not in any way to blame a child for being harmed, or to excuse harm done to children. It is to examine the context in which otherwise devoted, well intentioned parents can find themselves struggling with furious impulses or not coping.

Ascribing bad intentions to a baby starts to activate a sense of threat, that the child is wilfully harming the parent, deliberately denying them basic needs of food, sleep, and relief from distress. When bonding is good and parent needs are getting met, these things don’t matter so much. But in harder times they can contribute to a sense of being tortured by the child rather than by the circumstances. It’s desperately important to see a child’s distress as distress rather than an attempt to control, manipulate, or do harm. Language is part of how we do this, helping to interpret and contextualise so we don’t distort what we’re experiencing.

It’s also critical not to set up impossible expectations such as “when you cry I will make it better for you” with a child. Overburdened by this sense of responsibility, parents are at risk of feeling intense distress in the form of failure, agitation, and frustration if confronted by distress they cannot sooothe or silence.

Rose and I translated a lot of common sayings when we encountered them. Someone would say to us things like:

  • “She’s fighting sleep” and we would agree but shift the intention- “yes, she’s struggling to sleep today”
  • “She’s not a very good baby” becomes “she’s having a hard time settling at the moment”
  • “She’s got you wrapped around her little finger” becomes “she sure is a little cuddle-bug”

This was incredibly helpful for me in a few instances where I was struggling. In early weeks I was prodromal (warning signs of psychosis) partly due to severe sleep deprivation. I would get Poppy confused with Tamlorn, the little one I miscarried. Rose and I would tag team Poppy all night to give each other some sleep. There have been times I’ve handed Poppy over in sobbing distress and Rose has taken her out for a morning drive because my nerves are shredded by her crying and my nipples are mangled from her biting and I’m losing it.

It makes a difference to understand that Poppy is behaving as she is supposed to, not to harm me. Human babies often want to be held all the time and use crying to signal fear, pain, hunger and every need they have. It’s also a biological norm for infant crying to send us round the twist, and being able to see our own limits coming up without hating ourselves for them is valuable. Infant needs can be more than a parent can meet, or impossible to understand at times. Nurtured infants need nurtured parents and few of have invested in those kinds of communities before bringing a baby into the world.

Parent needs are deeply important to meet in order to buffer that sense of threat and reduce the fight/flight response being activated in distress. Staying out of crisis mode is partly achieved by treating adult needs as real and significant, and using language wisely to tell the most helpful story about the situation.

So we found it helpful to say ‘squeaking’ instead of ‘screaming’ for example. “Our little person is squeaking again” sounded less dramatic and helped us keep perspective. We talked about “witching hour” and planned around the time every evening that Poppy would be overwhelmed and inconsolable. We used baby wearing to manage her desire to be close in a way that reduced our fatigue and back pain, learned how to rest her face on our shoulder so her screaming didn’t go right into our ear, and use as a mantra “I’m here with you, you’re not alone” in place of wanting to fix it when nothing was working.

In our case, ‘colic’ was managed by reducing stimulation. The lights went off every night at 6pm, Poppy had a warm bath as soon as she started becoming distressed, and we didn’t go out in the evening for many months until she passed through the phase.

Language is a big part of what helped us navigate these huge challenges well. The risk of psychosis in the early days, serious difficulties with breastfeeding, and a baby with undiagnosed functional lactose overload and colic caused by sensory overwhelm. Combined with 2 deaths in the family and a range of illnesses for Rose and I, it was not an easy start. We were and are ecstatic to have Poppy, she is an absolutely beautiful, loving, curious, adventurous child. Tending to the stories we told and the language we used helped us to bond together during those difficult times.

Many creative projects

I made it into my studio for a few precious hours today. I bought this lovely drying rack for hanging wet artworks, and worked more on my illustrated poem project. You can see some of the pages drying on the new rack here:

I have been often ill lately with high pain levels and have not had as much art time as I’d hoped. The top priorities I’m keeping up with: my time with family, my studies, work gigs of various kinds.

I was very pleased to collaborate recently with the Greens SA and paint creatures of the Great Australian Bight during a listening post. Illustrating campaigns that are close to my heart is a special joy.

I was also honoured to be part of a panel at Uni SA about alternative responses to psychosis. I spoke from my Psychosis without Destruction perspective. I gave a brief illustrated presentation using journal entries from my first two episodes, and the body painting I did during my second episode which resolved it.

I am keeping up with my public health studies and learning French. I’ve just handed in an assignment exploring the social determinants of health and proposing an intervention intended to reduce cardiovascular illness for people with severe mental illness.

I was planning an exhibition for my birthday but I’m going to push it back a month or so and see how my health goes. I’m happy with my priorities right now. Family, study, and work are all going well and art and other projects fit in where and as I can. 💜

An easy life

Some time ago I decided to make some life changes to reduce stress. I went looking for where I could shift things to be on the ‘easy setting’, given how many things I can’t change that are very much on the difficult setting in my life. My propensity to love people who have suffered greatly shifts that dial right the way over to ‘challenging’. But one area I could easily change was my garden. I had a lovely full pottager garden (a busy mix of flowering and edible plants) which I could no longer keep up with since Poppy came along. Last year was exhausting for me with heavy caring responsibilities and my health has been rough this year so I’m glad I got ahead of this.

With some wonderful help, my garden has been hugely reduced. We removed the rosemary bush, a lovely pomegranate shrub, a huge jade plant, many geraniums, and mostly what is left are my roses. It was really hard! Paradoxically, I love this new garden more. I can see and appreciate the roses better, I’m out in it almost every night weeding and watering. Our succulents are coming along well and will thrive in pots among the roses. Now that it needs much less care I feel less overwhelmed and it actually gets much more care than before. It’s a source of joy again instead of angst. And roses I’ve hardly looked at in years are suddenly center stage again and breathtakingly beautiful. 

It’s been a delightful week. I’ve taken a little time off to cope with health troubles and that’s eased the depression and mental pressure. I’m enjoying my studies hugely and excited about my work and art projects. A new exhibition is in the works which is wonderful, and I’ve started writing my Multiplicity book again after a very long hiatus. I’ve also taken up French lessons through the very cool app Duolingo. I’ve started seeing a new therapist. I’m experimenting with antidepressants and herbal supplements. Life is good.

Today we dusted off our bikes and patched up the tyres for our first ever family rides. It was wonderful. I’ve been wanting to get more physical activity happening for myself but unable to stretch the budget to include sporting fees and memberships for all the exciting things I’d love to be doing like dancing, kayaking, kick boxing… When the depression overloads me the obstacles are so overwhelming. Yet I’ve had a bike in the shed I haven’t ridden in years but loved and saved up for a long time to get. I’d still love to learn fitness pole and wind surfing but right now cycling is accessible and Poppy loved it. 

I have been earning enough money to pay for my studio rent, supplies, and a new membership with the Society for Children’s Illustrators and Book Writers. I feel so proud of this, to have my art and work paying its own costs and even easing the tight family budget makes me feel really good. It’s not the full time work I was aiming for, but with part time study and rest and recovery time needed for health, it’s good. It’s a big achievement and I’m looking forward to more of the sense of peace and accomplishment that the shifts and growth have been creating. Some things are very hard but not everything needs to be. 

Illustrated poem

I recently attended a book making workshop by wonderful local illustrator Sally Heinrich. Since then I’ve been working on illustrating one of my poems.

This is exactly what I’ve been wanting to do for years with my illustrated presentations, to convert them from PowerPoint slides and spoken words to beautifully books. I’ve been learning a lot about illustrations for print over the past 6 months and loving it. The synthesis between word and image just clicks for me. I’m very glad that art has been liberated from the requirement of narrative traditions, but I’m also glad to be finding my own passion for story.

The workshop and project has helped clear a mental block that’s come along with a great deal of sickness this year for me. I love good creative training and workshops, the best are safe creative spaces to fill in knowledge gaps that bringing some unattainable desire within reach. I adore being able to learn art for the love of learning without having to fit my work to a schedule of assessments or the limiting ideas of ‘real art’ of a supervisor. After some inspiration at Writer’s Week too, I’m extremely happy to be writing and painting between work and study. Public health has started up again and if anything I’m enjoying it even more than last trimester. It is such an excellent fit with my values and passion. I’m working towards an exhibition for my birthday this year again. I’ll keep you posted.

Dancing with depression

I’ve been feeling raw and bleak at times lately. Today I was diagnosed with PCOS (a hormone condition) and PMDD (a sensitivity to certain hormones that causes a bunch of symptoms – my biggest struggle is severe depression on day 1-2 of my cycle. Given I already have mild endometriosis and severe adenomyosis, it’s making Poppy feel like a miracle and I’m holding her pretty close.

I’ve also had a severe digestive virus and a UTI/bladder infection which has knocked me for six.

It’s been a rough 6 weeks for me with many illnesses half of which have me quarantined and infectious. In between illnesses I’m happily enjoying downtime, and sunshine, and art, and chasing up friends for some much needed connection. I’m also about to be back in my studio working on a project dear to my heart which is exciting.

I’ve been rereading Lost Connections by Johann Hari recently which is a beautiful and well thought out book. Strangely enough in the light of it I’m about to try intermittent dosing of an antidepressant to see if it might help me manage the one two unpredictable days a month my head caves in. I don’t have a lot of treatment options left to try.

There’s a strange path I’m finding myself walking. Sadness, grief, loneliness all need to be heard and made space for. Given voice and listened to deeply. And the mind and heart also needs tending to ease them. It’s not a desperate fight against depression. It’s being open to it and the messages of it. Accepting and attentive and compassionate. While also working to be restored. The duality is strange. Burdened by a culture that sets us up to fight with our own mind and tries to numb our alarm systems instead of meeting needs and down regulating over sensitive alarms, I’ve swung far in the other direction of accepting whatever comes. Blown about on the tides. Actively working to change my state of mind or feelings is, in a way, as odd to me as most people find accepting and listening to them to be.

I have been lonely and sad at times lately. Two of my close friends are struggling with severe suicidal feelings. I miss spending more time with them. Did you know loneliness makes you much more susceptible to catching sicknesses? I’m reaching out when I can, being part of things. Glad for many good folks around me. Rose is, when she’s well enough, taking good care of me. We’ve been doing a lot of work to listen and empathise and reconnect and we’re feeling so much closer.

I’ve taken on temporary admin role in a beautiful online friendship group in crisis. I love groups and I’ve missed my groups lately. I’m hoping I can help restore some safety and sense of belonging.

I need some Narnia time out in the wilds, feeling the universe as a poem. I need my hands in earth, my feet in the woods. I need meaningful work and hope. I have a few more weeks before uni starts up again. I got a Distinction (84) in Epidemiology (honours level) so I’m feeling good about that, but I may drop a class to ease the stress if the health challenges continue. There’s a future there for me.

I’ve been struggling under the burden of several complex and sensitive old abuse issues for folks I love that I can’t speak about. A few recent days I’ve allocated to work or a Poppy adventure day, I’ve found myself spending most of it crying and calling helplines instead. I feel overwhelmed by the responsibility of navigating these relationships and conversations safely, compassionately, and fairly. Hopefully I’ll find a new support person soon.

In the meantime, in between sickness and sadness I watch the sun through the leaves. I touch Rose’s fingers, how soft and beautiful they are. I comb Poppy’s silky hair, listen to her stories, keep house.

And it’s the other way around too.

In between the most beautiful and tender life I suffer painful moments of sickness and sadness.

They weave in and out of one another. I’m here, hurting, and bursting with love. Holding it all to my heart.

Poem: The hope of spring

This morning I sat
By the window, in the golden
Light, breathless and heard
Very quietly, a small voice
Inside me, yearning
To go outside
To stand, even for a moment
In the sun.

Oh oh, I thought to myself
This is the voice I have lost
The still, quiet voice of my soul
The one I used to follow so easily
That nourishes my spirit and makes me strong
I can hear it again!

Outside my window the sunlight
Fell golden on the lilies and the world
Was sweet with the hope of Spring

I sat inside
By my window and watched it all
Through the curtains with my heart
In my throat and my breath
Caught in my belly and
I did not go outside.

Sometimes the most human thing is not our capacity to soar, it’s the way we find cages and sit inside them willingly, singing sad songs about freedom.

I wrote this a few years ago and now that I am finding some freedom to both hear and follow this little voice, it seemed apt to share.

Starting the new year with joy

It’s been a wonderful start to the year. I’ve given myself some extra time off given I was sick with vertigo then gout through the Christmas holidays and it’s been delightful. I’ve made back into my studio at last and been having some wonderful adventures with Poppy.

This tidal river was amazing, full of beautiful little wild hermit crabs!

I was gifted some cool patches by friends so I’ve been sewing them on too. Getting a chance to do something with my hands most days keeps me more settled.

I had intended to start up again on my Multiplicity book this week, but I’ve been incredibly busy lately with art sales! Embellishing, packing, and mailing or delivering works has been keeping me very busy and making me very happy. Doing a better job of showcasing my art is one of my major goals this year – as is beginning to offer original works for sale. Off to a great start there!

While there’s always a story behind the art, there’s also always a story behind the purchase. Sometimes a celebration or gift, sometimes marking a loss or holding a previous memory. I’m always honoured when people share them with me, and pleased that my art speaks to some and fits into their story in a way that’s meaningful.

I’ve been in my studio nearly a year now and we are finally friends. I love being there and there’s been a huge burst of tidying and organising lately which means everything has a careful place and there’s space for creating and new ventures. I feel incredibly lucky. I’m paying the rent, I can spend a day at the zoo with friends, and while family health remains a bit up and down, we are muddling along. More good days than bad. Lots of love and creativity. Lots of joy. ❤️

New directions for 2019

I’ve had a challenging end to my year. My first experience of vertigo and then gout! Most unpleasant and a vivid reminder to myself why I’ve been steering towards white collar work despite the lure of engineering fabrication apprenticeships.

Fortunately one of my Christmas gifts from my family was a fantastic second hand laptop (my computer has been ailing for some time and doing a death in stages leprosy type thing despite much coaxing and kind talking to). So while I’m very immobilised by terrible pain in one foot, I’ve been able to read books, install software, and tinker about online. I’ve ordered new business cards:

And made up some new little stickers:

Which I find very fun. I’m trying to think of something short and pithy about multiplicity for my next order, and contemplating setting up a patreon account to send art cards to fans of my work and take suggestions for blog posts…

I’ve been reading about the history of illustrated children’s books here in Australia, which is fascinating. I have a special love of unusual children’s books or ones with a dark subject matter and I have a small collection. I now have a fairly extensive wishlist of new ones I’d like to add! There’s some stunning work out there. I recently bought Hortense and the Shadow while in Melbourne, which is beautifully illustrated with a strange but lovely story.

I have put in new orders for gold leaf, I’ve sold 7 artworks in December and need fresh supplies! I am also considering silver leaf for my gilded prints and artwork because I think it would be lovely and I’ve always wanted to try it. I’m super excited about a new artwork that’s being framed at the moment.

I am open for business again for online mentoring, support, and supervision again, and currently offering discounted rates of $110AUD per session.

And I am making plans for my book about multiplicity. I will be contacting my list and making a call out for interviews shortly! My plan is to get a lot of interviews and reports done before uni returns and I’m busy with assignments. My 2019 is shaping up well. 🙂