rain, umbrellas, metaphors and feelings about depression. .

I don’t want this to be one of those “this is what depression is like for me feel sorry for me because my life is truly awful” posts but I felt deeply inspired by Caity Fowler’s “White Light Black Dog” EP. I  figured if the woman could bare her soul enough to write such incredibly poignant beautiful songs about depression, surely I could type some words into a computer screen.   Also,I am convinced that people don’t get the grind, the fucking terribly painful, every joint is aching self loathing that comes with a disorder like major depression.  that  For what it’s worth, I have officially been diagnosed with cyclothimia. It’s not major depression but a form of bipolar disorder. I don’t experience the grand highs of bipolar, my highs are less euphoric and more the hyperactivity type of elevation whereby my house can be cleaner than Buckingham palace, but rent on said house has been unpaid for months. I never really knew what it was until someone explained it to me, but a long with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, it seems to be the only thing that explains my crazy whirlwind mind. Mental illness is terrifying, for you, for everyone around you who’s witnessed your highs and lows and in betweens, but I think a great deal of that terror comes from simply not knowing what to do, or say, how to act or not act. Quite frankly, I don’t have that figured out myself yet, when depression hits, and it often does, like a tun of bricks, I am not in a position to know even how I feel, because, equally frankly, I am too busy trying to summon the energy to put on pants rather than figure out how I should feel about putting on pants, or even if pants are the right course of action for that day. In short, if you want to know how to feel about my mental health, you’ll have to figure it out. There are many things I can’t do for you. This is one of them.

Yet, the overwhelming irony, is that there’s almost an expectation isn’t there? of people with mental illnesses, that, illness aside, we will be able to just get along with our lives and function as if nothing is going on inside us. We internalize this point of view, so as to appear to the people who don’t know, that we ARE fine. We come to deny the fact, to paraphrase Stephen Fry, that it’s raining, rather than say, it’s raining, and eventually the sun will come up.  We become masters at putting up walls, convincing everyone we’re fine, shrugging our shoulders nonchalantly when people ask us how we are, when really, some of us are just holding back feelings of complete despair. When I get depressed, I often hide it by becoming even more bubbly, effusive and sociable, even though that sociability comes at a great cost to me.  I liken being social when depressed to running with a sore ankle. if you take painkillers you may not notice it, until they wear off, then you’re hobbled for weeks.  I digress. There’s an expectation that unlike someone with a visible illness, we’re told ” get on with it, stop moping, what have you got to be sad about”, in a way that just would not be tolerated with other illnesses. This is called stigma. Stigma operates in so many ways to keep sufferers of mental illness mystified, to keep us from being able to not only get the treatment we deserve, but talk about our illnesses openly and as if they were like any other part of our lives. I have had every stigmatizing epithet thrown at me, from battling self harm to being in psych units to having to deal with less than sympathetic treatment providers,  it is all part of the cycle that stops the mentally ill from participating in society.  We are othered, told we don’t matter, abused in institutions and blatantly misunderstood. 

When I first experienced depression I honestly didn’t believe it’d last this long. I thought it’d be something I’d go to the doctor and get fixed with medication. It wasn’t until I entered psychotherapy that I realized all this crap that was just getting pulled out of me like one of those clowns with a never ending handkerchief.  The one thing this psychotherapist taught me was, depression is real, a hugely normal response to a body and mind being placed under enormous stress and trauma.  What she said was that no matter how I experienced depression, whether it was as a feature of cyclothimia or as major depression, it was a real and  valid expression, condition, and feature of my life – but not all of my life.

People ask me how I survive, what I do to get through, honestly… Honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder the exact same thing.  I think everyone has an inbuilt survival mechanism that sometimes takes over when It comes to things like this. Suicide happens those mechanisms are just too overwhelmed or depleted to cope. This is why it’s incredibly vital to ask people you know have had depression, not in a patronizing way, but in the most genuine way you can muster, how they are. Be truly prepared to hear the answer.  When we shrug our shoulders non chalantly try and see through that to someone who’s probably hiding a great deal from you. Us depressives, we worry, we worry about how everyone else will cope with our illnesses, but what we don’t do is often worry enough about ourselves.

This is what I ask… worry about yourself, be as kind as humanly possible to yourself, and often that includes the very painful task of having to ask for help. To be faced with  faces that say ” I don’t know how to help”.  But the most important thing to do is ask.

In closing, a woman on twitter (who knows who she is but I won’t name) asked people with mental health problems what they need… what I need the most Is for people to feel supported enough to be able to talk about their illness as if it was a part of them, not something to be stigmatized and feared, not to be ignored or shut out because of.  I hope this blog is a fraction, a tiny inch closer to doing some of that.

also. if you’d like to purchase white light black dog  “like” the wonderful caity fowler on facebook at (caity fowler projects) it is such a goregeous set of songs.



Losing sight, gaining perspective (a few reflections on going blind)

(cheesiest blog title ever.. don’t worry  i groaned at it myself when i wrote it)

Here’s the thing. As most of you would know I am 28 years old, a writer, performer, community activist, youth advocate, feminist, sexual assault survivor and many other things too. There are so many markers for self definition they are most likely too numerous to list here.

But what a lot of you wouldn’t know is that I am losing my sight.  I have selectively told people and then decided to go public on the internet. I decided to do this because I don’t consider disability to be a great source of stigma or shame and honestly, i owe it to the people around me to be upfront.
 I have a benign optic nerve glioma. I have had it for the better part of almost two months and it is completely inoperable because of significant vision loss and associated risks.  I have elected to go on a drug trial to shrink the tumour but there isn’t anything that can really save my sight. In the next 18-24 months I will be completely blind. Optic field tests put my right eye at 14/20 and my left at 16/20 and despite the efficacy of the trialled drug that is expected to fall by the end of the year.
 The past few weeks have been a blur of neurosurgeons, oncologists, radiotherapists and people deciding what to do with my once again problematic body. I am significantly impaired by Atvistan, the trialled drug i’m on, with nausea vomiting and hair loss.
(about to shave the mop off as soon as this is written)

am i scared?

fuck yeah… 

I keep an outward sense of optimism, a sense of being able to weather the storm, cope with anything that comes my way. But honestly, if someone were to say to me i’d wake up tomorrow and be completely sighted and without tumor growth, it’d make me more happy than any drug or surgery or therapy.   I am wracked with feelings of uncertainty and having to sit back and recieve news, and treatment. Not being in control of my body frightens the hell out of me. It brings up old wounds that even though they have nothing to do with the physical process of blindness are related to the incredible sense of helplessness i feel most of the time and the sense of helplessness that i grew up with.  I hate being told there is nothing we can do, because there always has to be something. Possibility is how I’ve chosen to live life,  and to be told that possibility doesn’t apply here, that we are in territory that doesn’t deal with possible, is completely destroying.

However, I think what this has done has made me more mindful. I’ve begun to actually look at things, physically and emotionally. To take in my surroundings, because i know i will not be able to soon.  We all have things that we see, both with eyes and with our hearts. I hope my eyes, when they fail, will be replaced by the vision of my heart. (sorry, turning on the cheese again, but i’m in that kinda mood) I am now starting to realize what a beautiful city I live in. I am lucky to have had 2 wonderful years of seeing it all.  I hope as i start to be unable to see it it will still remain beautiful and I uncover that beauty in different ways.

in closing, i guess for you all now, the most important thing to remember is that I will change. But i still remain a person of integrity, dignity and value. That will never change.




Shrouded in Silence – my battle with self harm.

here goes absolutely nothing.  read with caution if this has been an issue for you. If you need to speak to someone or are at immediate risk stop reading and contact lifeline at 131114


On last night’s 730 report a young woman, Nellie Worringham, discussed openly and candidly her battle with self harm. I watched, and found myself misunderstood no longer. In fact I was actually nodding in agreement with practically everything she said. This is my attempt to put into words what i’ve felt for so long to be completely shrouded in silence, shame and stigma.  So readers, please take this as the opening of a dialogue. I want people to listen, sure, but to discuss this issue in their workplace home and sc hool – to make sure that sufferers are heard, understood and accepted as part of their communities

I honestly don’t remember the first time. It was somewhere around early adolescence, which I am told is typical.  What I remember was needing an escape route for a myriad of feelings that began to well up inside me. I had just experienced what was to be the beginning of a long period of sexual abuse. It is absolutely no coincidernce in my opinion that trauma survivors make up an incredibly high number of those that self harm. Unfortunately I am part of the statistic. In fact, research has shown that the younger the survivor of trauma, the more likely they are to go on to exhibit self harming behaviour.  For some of us it’s burning, for some of us it’s overdosing, for me it was and still is, cutting. Although not so much at its mercy anymore, self harm began as a way of dealing with post traumatic stress disorder. The rituals associated with self harm gave a soothing balm to my thoughts, order and control amongst disorder and chaos. The deeper it was, the more likely it was to actually be of assistance.

However, despite popular myths. I was never suicidal. Self harm fulfilled the purpose of staying alive. Unfortunately, Self harm is often conflated with suicide. Indeed, in some of the literature it is even referred to as “para suicide” yet nothing could be further from the truth. It is a way, a completely maladaptive and harmful way, but a way of processing and dealing with almost unbearable feelings. When I cut, I am really not thinking about the assaults that robbed me of my identity, of all the associated guilt, and mixed up fear, rage, and just horrible gut wrenching shame. I was focussing on the immediate pain, the blood and the sharp object in my hand. It distracted me from all of that. Temporarily of course Survivors of trauma often also experience intense episodes of depersonalization, of not feeling anything at all, at being trapped in a sense of non reality. Seeing physical evidence of my humanity allowed me to experience being human for the ten seconds it took me to commit the act. .  My parents discovered the behaviour as a young teen and attempted to send me to every psychiatrist, pychologist and doctor they could think of in attempts to diagnose me, explain away my behaviour, and of course medicate it. No co incidence once again that i was first put on anti depressant medications when i was 15 and have been on them since then. The damage that’s done to my brain chemistry and psyche are a subject for another blog post altogether, but it warrants a mention. The overwhelming irony is not once was I asked to explain why i self harmed, which to me signified the fact that it really didn’t matter. it fuelled the cycle and reinforced in my mind that self harm was THE ONLY way of coping.

Years went by, and the lack of an ability to constructively deal with my feelings was compounded. I would go through periods of not self harming, to self harm crowding my thoughts.  I’d submerge everything to the point where it came out in overwhelming bouts that were too hard to deal with so i’d self harm. Then i’d feel guilty and the cycle would continue. I never thought this was a normal reaction to abnormal events. I’d go to every length possible to hide what I was going through.  Nellie Worringham talked about not wanting to seek medical help for wounds. I identified very strongly with this feeling. It is not untill now that I have found a doctor who will non judgmentally treat me, look at my wounds without contempt. In fact, we developed code words for if i didn’t feel comfortable telling her straight out but needed some assistance. She understands completely my lack of desire to attend the emergency room. When a sufferer seeks ER treatment the response is never sensitive. They are often met with a huge amount of disdain by professionals, unneccesarily institutionalized, or just plain ignored. The first time i injured myself bad enough to seek medical assistance, I was left with the wound for four hours, which was the standard window for suturing, given first aid,  the number for crisis lines, and ten days worth of valium.  The first psychiatrist I spoke to in my adult life diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder after 20 minutes worth of consultation, and refused to acknowledge the role trauma played in my attempts to cope via self harm.

It is a complete mystery to me why self harm is so misunderstood. It doesn’t take a great deal of time to sit with someone and ask them why they behave a certain way. Yet we continue to presuppose our ideas of why certain people do things, failing to acknowledge this only worsens the problem. It is surely more preventative than arbitrary stigmatizing labels.

“attention seeking”


“trouble maker”

These labels have not served me and they do not serve people like me.  They speak to a system that disregards the distress, the horrible levels of violence and pain people endure to come to a point in their lives whereby self harm is the only option to preserve life.  I often go to great lengths to disguise my scars. I am terrified of the nosey but generally well intentioned remarks. The looks over, the strange whispers, and just the out and out rudeness.  What also bothers me is my more well intentioned friends saying ” just stop” or ” find another way”.  What people must understand is that it isn’t that simple.  I am engaged in the long slow process of unravelling what’s been done to me over years.  There are times when there will be bumps in the road and i’m more likely to fall into old behaviour patterns, but that doesn’t mean I am “attention seeking”  it means I am in need of help far beyond my capacity to verbalize.

The most important way to support a self harmer is to remain open and non judgemental. If you’re a psychiatrist, put away the DSM and listen to what accompanies the behaviour.  Be prepared, whether you’re friend, lover, parent, spouse to  sit with some awful stories, some extremely deep personal tragedies, some stuff you may even be implicated in yourself. No matter how confused you are by what you are seeing, it is just as important that you don’t let that confusion get in the way of providing support. I hate to say it, but my behaviour isn’t about you. I heard countless times growing up the idea that my behaviour was making people look bad, or was “hurting them” more than me.not helpful.  Give the person before you your complete support, let them know that they can come to you.  When i learned I was no longer going to be judged for my behaviour, my life was made a lot easier. I found out I could discuss without shame the things I had been going through. 


slow baby stutter steps

But i’m emerging  from an overwhelming shadow. with your help.