TRAVELS IN THE UK – PART ONE

I’m straying from my normal postings and turning this into a travel blog for now.

If for no other reason, than my poor memory means all the little details of our long awaited adventure will be forgotten if I don’t write it down.

For five years we’ve planned it – three months in Europe. I’ve yearned to travel since I was a little girl but finances made it impossible. On my 40th birthday I had my first overseas holiday – a week in Thailand with friends. Since then I’ve managed three more trips plus a very luxurious cruise. So this adventure is number six and it’s a big one. Big because we can (money put aside from an inheritance) and big because we may never do it again.

After five years of planning, the trip was almost cancelled at the eleventh hour.

Our house flooded and needed to be gutted and repaired, which left me short of breath and puffing on an asthma inhaler all day long. But more worryingly, two weeks before departure, my husband was told he couldn’t fly without having heart surgery. It seemed impossible. But as others have said, the word impossible is literally I’m Possible. Then everything fell into place, his surgery was ten days before we left, recovery good and cleared for travel. Phew!

I finally relaxed when the wheels left the ground in Melbourne – we’re off! I’d paid rather a lot of money for our premium economy seats so was not impressed mine was broken – no footrest, the armrest constantly collapsed, and it wouldn’t recline. Halfway to Perth my back went into horrible spasms and I spent the rest of the flight curled up backwards on my seat sobbing my little heart out with the nice flight steward asking my husband if I’d be okay for the next leg of the flight to London. Yes I’ll be fine, I sobbed! As if I was going to cancel the trip now… I rummaged around in luggage and the newsagent at the Perth airport and found all the useful drugs I could scavenge, then swapped seats with my husband. For the next 17 hours I was a lot more comfortable, and due to the quantity of pharmaceuticals I’d salvaged, I even slept. We landed in London at 5am and headed straight to our airbnb apartment.

It was fabulous! Brand new and up on the 23rd floor with views overlooking London city. We spent five days meandering around London with no clue what we should do or look at. Found all the famous things and pointed them out to each other – ooh look, Big Ben covered in scaffolding! I saw Matilda the Musical (love, love, love!). We went through the Tower of London as I wanted to do at least one touristy thing. Caught up with two friends and generally recovered from jet lag and back pain. I found the most wonderful, kind, caring osteopath, who specialises in remedial sports massage and she spent a delightful 90 minutes realigning my back. As she gently lifted my legs to wiggle something or other into place, I gently farted in her general direction. I was so mortified. She just laughed and said it happens all the time. It was just a little odorless puff, but I was still  apologising half an hour later.

Apparently we very cleverly arrived in the UK during a heatwave – near 30c most days.

This was not part of my plan. The UK was meant to be our gentle introduction with nice mild temperatures before we go to hotter climes. Not so. They specialise in heating, not cooling. So I was hot, hot, hot. Even the apartment with aircon didn’t really have aircon – just a portable thing that didn’t work efficiently. I’m looking forward to Jordan so I can cool down a little.

We also spectacularly found the worst food and coffee London has to offer. After catching up with friends, we learned where to go, but left to our own devices we apparently consistently choose dreadful food. And I mean – dreadful. I’m now a convert to Wagamama – thank you Ben! If in doubt, I hunt one down and eat there. We haven’t had any bad culinary experiences since.

After our five days in London, where we walked at least 15 kilometers a day, photographed everything that looked British, became accustomed to the new time zone, and bemoaned the heat, we headed to Salisbury to collect a hire car and explore the English countryside. I’ll waffle about that in the next post 🙂

MADE IT

Through all sorts of therapies and chats with the wickedly wise and wonderful people who support me during various times of crises, I’m always reminded that intense feelings pass. No matter how distressed I am, hanging in there and waiting for the wash of emotions to fade will see me through the other side. There are so many cliches. Urge surfing. Riding the wave. Sit with the emotions. This too shall pass. Blah blah blah. And they’re true. Each and every one of them.

This time last week my frantic levels of anxiety were receding. I had a sense of things finally coming together and falling into place. I dared to hope the dream would come true.

This time two weeks ago I was a mess.

I’d cracked under pressure – again. Filled with suicidal ideation and a desperate need for sleep. I over-medicated twice – an overdose I’m told. Although that was not my intention and I required no medical intervention. But apparently I could have accidentally died. I didn’t care.

The trouble with cracking wide open and falling apart, is cracks take a long time to heal. And they’re fragile. When stress comes along, logic doesn’t help. The anxiety is overwhelming and sometimes the chaos so complete, there are no thoughts. Just all-consuming dread and fear. And the hardest thing is knowing it doesn’t make sense. Of course, this too shall pass, but fear consumes and acceptance is a distant concept.

That was two weeks ago. Now it too has passed, I surfed the urges (mostly), rode the emotional tidal waves, and made it here. To London. To the beginning of the holiday we’ve planned for five years.

I sobbed most of the way from Melbourne to Perth – mostly with waves of pain cascading through my back. But partly letting go of the emotional buildup to our departure, filled with the angst of travel plans (not fun), post-flood renovations (also unfun), and my husband requiring heart surgery ten days before departure. When the wheels lifted in Melbourne, it was all behind me.

London has been underwhelming.

It was always our jumping-off point for the big adventure. Somewhere to recover from jet lag and begin the trip without too much stress. And it has done just that. We’ve wandered around aimlessly each day, returning to our little haven to nurse various aches and pains. We’ve spectacularly discovered the worst food and coffee London has to offer. The skies are blue, the sun is shining, the sunset views from my bedroom window are truly spectacular.

Monday we collect a car and the adventure begins. Exploring the English countryside before heading to Jordan, Turkey, Sarajevo, Budapest, Krakow, Berlin, Berbigueres, Paris, Lucca, Lisbon and Porto.

Today I visit an osteopath and sports massage therapist to sort the severe pain in my back and legs. Limping my way from Salisbury to Paris was not part of the plan. Nor was medicating myself into a state of oblivion. I’m hoping for miracles this morning.

I feel calm. I know life awaits at home, but for three months I’m in a bubble of spoiled privilege. I want to soak up every moment – the best and the worst all rolling into one big adventure with tales to be told later on. After five years of planning and saving and wondering if it will ever happen, I’ve made it. After five weeks of panic and stress and cracking apart at the seams, I’ve made it.

ME TOO

Eurydice Dixon was raped and murdered last week. I confess, prior to hearing the news, I had never heard of the fledgling comic – despite her fabulous and memorable name. She was just 22 years old when the violent and fatal act was perpetrated in the wee hours of the morning in a Melbourne park. It was a truly horrific and senseless crime, and my heart goes out to all her loved ones. I cannot even imagine the depth of distress accompanying such a violent, and pointless death, only to then grieve that loss under the watchful eye of “the public”.

Eurydice was a young woman, walking alone in a park late at night.

Predictably there has been media focus on whether her “behaviour” contributed to the attack. Quickly followed by discussions regarding men not taking responsibility for their actions. And I wonder – when did it come down to us and them? Are we not mature enough as a society to accept heinous crimes are unacceptable and blame lies solely at the feet of the perpetrator?

As a natural-born peacemaker, I want to defend not just the women (or men) subjected to sexual crimes, but every man who never considered committing such a horror. Women should feel safe walking down the street any hour of the day or night, dressed in any manner they see fit. How they’re clothed or behave is inconsequential. Yet if I had daughters, I would caution them to be careful late at night. To never walk alone or let their friends do so. Maternal fear and cautions come into play, just as I warned my teenage sons not to walk alone late at night for fear they’d be a target of a random act of violence.

I didn’t teach my sons “not to rape”. It’s part of common decency and respect for humanity. Violence against others – particularly those unable to defend themselves against you – is never okay. I certainly hope – and believe – these basic moral standards were messages my children absorbed from all the influential adults in their lives. Of all the men I know and love (and many I know and don’t love), I can’t think of a single one who is overcome with an insatiable desire to violently force himself upon a woman, simply because she is alone and wearing a short skirt. While the vast majority of rapists are men, the vast majority of men are not rapists. And when the senseless and violent deaths of young women like Eurydice become public knowledge, it seems an easy fact to forget.

Rape is the most violent form of sexual assault against women.

I know – there is sexual violence against men too, but it is far less prevalent. Sexual harassment and assault arise in many forms and to an astonishing array of degree. From the statistics on sexual harassment and crimes, the #metoo movement was born – promptly followed by #metoo backlash. Depending on your definition of sexual harassment, a huge percentage of women have experienced some degree of harassment.

I am ever so grateful to have never experienced violent crime – sexual or otherwise. But I can definitely raise my hand for the #metoo movement. Up until now, I’ve barely given it any thought, but today I think I’ll share. My experience is trivial, and a lifetime ago, but the normalisation of abnormal sexualisation of women, is unacceptable.

At 18, I had my first pap smear. As it was the first time I’d had to strip for a doctor, I simply accepted it was normal to strip naked and have a breast exam done at the same time. Now I would simply say no. Or report the doctor to the appropriate authority board. Or both. But at the time I was young and naive and creeped out by an old man feeling me up inside and out. On the upside – the pap smear was clear – as were my breasts. This incident was five years after a stranger reached his hand between my legs to grab at my crotch when I went to my first concert – Midnight Oil live at the Ballina RSL Club. And that grubby hand up my dress may have been the first, but was by no means the last. These days the owner of the hand would receive a cold glass of whatever was at hand promptly poured over his head.

I absolutely do not want to compare the violent rape and murder of Eurydice Dixon, to my comparably minor experiences as a teenager. But I think as a society – and perhaps if you’re a man in a male-dominated culture and have never experienced the normality of being sexually judged – we forget the smallest acts of sexual subjugation can normalise sexual crime.

So what can society actually “do”? We can continue to teach young men “not to rape”. And to teach young women to stick together and “stay safe”. But perhaps we could encourage every man, woman and child, to report each and every inappropriate and uncomfortable sexual encounter. To normalise healthy behaviours and teach anyone who isn’t quite sure, exactly where the boundaries lie. We don’t need to blame victims. Or men, computer games, magazines, the internet. Let’s teach children to understand and respect personal boundaries for themselves and others. Let the children carry the message to those they live with. Let’s remember the horrific price paid by Eurydice Dixon – made famous for all the wrong reasons. Let’s turn #metoo into #wedo – we do know about personal boundaries, we do know about moral standards, we do know how to behave as a society.

RIP Eurydice.

CLOUDY WITH A CHANCE OF SUNSHINE

I’m struggling with a malaise of melancholy.

Surrounded by blue skies and sunshine, all I see and feel are clouds.

I know the clouds will lift, revealing bright days and good times. The malaise is temporary and for the most part, of my own making. After spending an hour or so with my psychologist today I was reminded I need to acknowledge and feel the feelings – whether I consider them valid or not.

My inclination is to run and hide and bury my head – old habits die hard. But if there is one thing I have achieved this year, it’s to stop using eating disorder and self-harm behaviours to numb my emotions. They are becoming non-options. That’s not to say I don’t think about it, miss it, want it, and feel tempted to slip. I’m moving closer and closer to accepting they’re no longer an option for dealing with life.

There are a dozen healthy coping tools I could reach out and grab, but no – when the going got tough, I slipped sideways and chose a new bad option. It didn’t feel that way – still doesn’t. I just wanted to sleep – not eternally. Just for a day and a night. But my psychologist disagreed with my assessment. She deemed I’d taken an overdose – twice. I still don’t concur. But I will admit I deliberately took significantly larger doses of prescribed medications than would normally be considered safe. Definitely not taken in lethal doses, but certainly in lovely sleepy doses. I have been reliably informed this is an unhealthy manner of dealing with distress.

I was coerced into handing over all my medications to a friend until my husband returns from his surgery.

And I’m being babysat by my eldest son until Friday when I meet with friends for a long weekend of socialising. If I failed to do either of these things, my doctor would be contacted and the crisis assessment team involved. It all seems terribly dramatic. I think I’m fine. Miserable, yes. Aware this too shall pass, yes. Suicidal ideation, yes. Suicidal, no.

Apparently my job now is to focus on healthier, longer term coping mechanisms. Reminding myself all feelings pass eventually – the good, the bad, the ugly. Utilising walks in nature, reading, writing, socialising. Cleaning and clearing my house. Planning and preparing our sojourn overseas. Keeping busy. Staying safe. And most importantly – sharing how I feel when I feel. Not letting things build up. I guess if these are good things for other people to do, they are good things for me.

I do know one thing I need to be cognizant of – making sure I deescalate distress long before I’m at a ten. By then, it is all too much. There is no logic. No rationality at that point. I really need to practice the skills when I’m at a six or seven – instead of thinking things will just get better or blaming a head cold, a bad night’s sleep, or a broken stove.

I feel sad right now. I know this. I know it won’t last. I’ll feel joy soon. I know this. I know it won’t last. Nothing lasts – the good nor the bad. In the meantime, I need to play more safely. Apparently.

COMING UP FOR AIR

It needs to be said, I have not coped fantastically well the last week or two.

While the array of stressors I’m experiencing are neither extraordinary nor extreme, collectively they dragged me into a precarious position.

I’m trying to decide if I’ve completely reverted to poor coping strategies, or if the improvements in my overall mental health allow me to regress without completely collapsing. I have an incessant need to analyse and work out if I’m “getting better” or “getting worse”.

During the last week I had a rapid escalation in suicidal ideation. As each day became more exhausting than the last, the desire to succumb to eternal sedation was overwhelming. I sobbed my little heart out in a manner I can’t recall doing for a long, long time. I could have reached out to any one at any moment in time, but when I desperately yearn death, the last thing I can do is tell anybody. Telling means acquiescing to living and I have to be ready for that. But more significantly, telling someone means burdening them once again with sadness and worry.

I carried the burgeoning grief, the yearning, and the sense of hopelessness for a week. I took medications well in excess of prescribed doses, but hopefully not in overdose. And each day I felt worse. Friday afternoon I made the decision to contact my psychologist with a hypothetical question.

Out of curiosity… If I was really struggling with myself and feeling precariously unsafe, what would you recommend I do?

And that one simple act was enough to turn the decline around. Somebody knew. Somebody cared. Somebody told me what to do. I shared the messages with my husband so the secret wasn’t shackled to my heart, dragging me into the ground.

I am still struggling, but now the struggle is to get back up, search for air, to breathe and find freedom. Before, the struggle was to hang on another hour, sleep away the mental anguish, and to quieten the guilt and shame. Once again I’m reminded how shameful silence is. When I stay silent, I feel shame. When I speak out, I let it go.

I am still exhausted and physically unwell. I still have a house in utter disarray, unfinished travel plans, and a paralysing fear of how I can financially contribute in the future. But I’m breathing more easily, I’m ready to talk it out, and I’m prepared to hope for the future again.

I’m not quite cheery, but no longer so dreary.

I’ve come up for air and I’m ready to move forward once more. I think I shall declare this, Progress.

SWAMPED

I have – both literally and figuratively – been swamped. And as it so happens, when I’m swamped I unravel. Again.

My house flooded. It’s a bit of a bummer really. And caused a lot of angst and stress. We’re fortunate in many (most) ways – floors are ruined but no structural damage, and we have good insurance to cover most of the repairs. But getting flooded is a pain in the arse. Aside from extra expenses insurance doesn’t cover, it’s a week of packing up the house to store in the shed, and several weeks of living without floor coverings while listening to the gentle roar of three industrial fans. It’s also forced us into unplanned, premature, costly renovations. I know in six months time this will all be history and I’ll have lovely new floors and plaster work, but right now, the stress has got to me and my recovery journey is not solid enough to avert relapse. So relapse I have.

I won’t bore anyone with the additional personal stresses that dragged me down, but let’s just say, when it rains it pours. Again – quite literally in the case of the flood.

When I first left the eating disorder clinic 78 days ago, I ate (reluctantly) on a tight schedule. A little alarm on my watch taps me on the wrist at 7am, 10:30am, 1pm, 4pm and 7pm. And it’s my responsibility to eat the appropriate meal at the appropriate time. But I’m the first to admit, after 50+ years of disordered eating, being responsible does not come naturally. In fact it goes against every instinct I have, and I have to fight really hard to comply. And I mean really hard.

When life is tough and stress overwhelms, fighting eating disorder thoughts takes more than I have.

Consequently, over the past month, I’ve whittled away at routines and started to add or subtract meals, and to succumb to the desire for a lot less nutrition. It took just one unexpected comment about my weight to make me stop eating altogether. The desire to never eat again is tantalising and calls to me like a seductive siren from the sea. It’s only with the support of my psychologist, and by finding the courage and strength to talk things through with my husband, I can stop relapse in its’ tracks.

When you’re a middle-aged woman, it’s kind of expected you can feed yourself. But you know what? I can’t. If left to my own devices, I go astray. I need to be told what to eat and when. I need to be told when not to eat. I need to be treated like a child. Because I didn’t learn healthy behaviours as a child, I have to learn them now. And I can’t learn them in 78 days. Intellectually I know the theory, but life is not an intellectual exercise. It’s emotional and habitual and real. And when reality becomes highly emotive, the oldest habits are the first to rise.

But the good news? I have ingrained one new habit – talk about it and reach out. To my psychologist, my husband and my friends. And to you – whoever you may be.

Sharing stops me in my tracks and redirects me to the path I’m meant to be on.

I know those who’ve never suffered the shame of an eating disorder, are unlikely to ever fully understand the depths of depravity and despair we hide. I also know, coming out of hiding makes me accountable and steers me back on track. I want recovery so incredibly badly. And I want to run and hide from emotional distress even more. Old habits die hard, but kill them I will. With the support of those who love me, I’ll whip those habits’ butts, and usher in a new era. It won’t happen in 78 days. It probably won’t happen in a year. But it will happen. I will make it so.