Episode 5: Toothy fish, teenage diaries and the act of unbottling

In which our protagonist comes up for air to realise she’s been lifted by others

So, about last time…

Dear reader, before I get into this episode let me please say one thing: Thank you. Thank you for your concern, your support, your love, your cheer. I knew that committing to being totally open about my journey would mean some hard truths for me, but in all honesty I never thought about what that would be like for someone to read. That’s the curse of the depressive, really: we can be incredibly self-oriented.

So thank you for staying with me as I open up; it means more than you could know. I haven’t had a great track record with honesty about my mental health. I was once told by a senior at work to “take a pill and get over it”; in one company I was told I “couldn’t be put in front of clients because I might get volatile”; in another, people just stopped trusting me once they found out I struggled with depression. Thankfully, times are changing and the wonderful work being done by organisations such as Sanctus and Minds@Work are bringing mental wellness to the fore. And for me, freelancing helps me to cope.

Today is better than yesterday. And yesterday was better than the day before it. As much as my dive into the deeper recesses of my mind is necessary, I will undoubtedly experience some resistance as I go. Before I hit the bright neon colours of the deepest depths, I need to come face to face with a few of those ugly fish full of teeth and horns that live in the murky middle. Last week was full of horned fish; this week, I can see the light in the distance.

I feel I am making huge strides, and I can point at exactly where the wind pushing me has come from. It’s writing. 

I’ve always felt that writing was my super power, that secret skill I could tap into when I needed to escape, to process, to emote. It was the one thing I (smugly) knew I was good at. But I was never much of a diary-keeper. Sure, I had those teenage diaries - the ones with the not-very-hard-to-break locks where you would squirrel away your gripes about the bullies at school and wonder when prince charming would arrive - but I’d never considered the grown-up version to be something I did. 

Many mental health professionals you talk to will advise journaling as a way to process and deal with the churning of your brain, and I tried every now and then but always gave up. I have a bunch of notebooks that are blank save for the handful of pages I started scribbling in before I abandoned the practice. Too busy. Too boring. I’ll do it later. When I get around to it.

I should’ve listened.

The act of unbottling

I ended 2020 with a bunch of journaling workshops that provided prompts to reflect on the year that had been and dream about the year ahead that could still be. It was a great way to start my sabbatical and figure out which fork in the road I need to take now. I then decided to start the practice of “Morning Pages”, Julia Cameron’s concept of the artist’s way to start each day: three pages of brain dump, first thing in the morning. I’d been hearing a lot about them since joining the London Writers Salon - my guardian angels; beautiful humans sent to me by a universe that understood my struggle and the necessary remedy - and figured it was worth a go.

Dear reader, those three pages are useful, yes, but what I’ve found more useful is guided journaling. It’s a sort of free writing, where you’re given a word, a sentence or an idea and you just start writing. No questions asked, no time to think, just write. Even if your page is filled by “I’ve been told I have to write about this but my brain can’t think of any words right now so I’m just filling the page with this drivel” - even if that, still just write. You’ll find the act of putting pen to page - and it must be pen to page, for the manual act has some weird magical connection to the bit of your brain you need to access - this simple act will eventually get the cogs turning. The ideas coming. The bottle uncorked, the pain and the guilt and the shame comes pouring out onto the page. 

And you may never look at it again (it’s better not to, really), but it’s been released. It’s no longer blocking you, and your energies are more free to dance to a healthier rhythm.

Here are some prompts that you might like to try in setting up your own journaling practice. If you don’t feel moved by these, you’ll find plenty of Instagram accounts (try a hashtag like #journalprompts) and blogs that provide inspiration. Set a timer for five or 10 minutes, and just start writing in response to these questions:

• How are you feeling, really?

• What is it like to be you today?

• What are you grateful for in this moment?

• What do you want to leave in the dark?

• When was the last time you felt truly joyous?

• What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you are free?

The endless search for belonging

This was the subject of my morning pages today: Last night I had the strangest dream. I’m taking the fact that I had a dream as good news; I’ve always said I don’t have them, only to be told I must do only I don’t remember them. 

In my dream, hubs and I were at a remote music festival we often attend, only it was a very, very stripped-back version of it - one tiny stage, a handful of food trucks, all a bit more county fair than big festival life. I felt a pull, a need to leave for some reason, and was suddenly back in the city looking for my car. I was worried because I couldn’t find the car, and it was my way back to where I’d come from. But the “city” wasn’t London, it was my home town of Adelaide, and it was the Adelaide of my adolescence (the place is much-changed now). I realised it was my mum’s car I was searching for, and I had her purse, so I opened it up to find the ticket thinking that would be a clue. The “ticket” turned out to be a receipt for petrol from a place I had never heard of, but that I instinctively knew was in Scotland. So I still didn’t know where the car was, and I was stuck in the Adelaide of the past and couldn’t get back to where I left my husband and my life, and I could feel him having a panic attack and started feeling guilty that I wasn’t there to calm him down. All the while the streets were simultaneously both incredibly crowded and completely empty, and I felt utterly bereft and alone and full of anxiety. And then I woke up.

So, dream experts, what do you make of that?

He thinks it’s a symptom of the world we’re now living in, my uncertainty over what the “new normal” will look like. I think there’s an element of that in there, for sure. But, as I journaled to reflect on this strange anxiety dream, I also came to think there’s more to it.

This work I’m doing, this journey to self(ish), has seen me unearth an awful lot of STUFF. I’m working through things, deep-seated things that have been there a long time and that are so ingrained they are proving buggers to budge. As I do this dredging up of historical pain and shame and guilt, I’m also feeling increasingly disconnected from my home. I know a lot of people on Plague Island are feeling disconnected from home and upset they can’t see their family - I’m not even able to attempt to see mine. The country is closed. There are tiny limits on the numbers able to disembark at an Australian airport, and tens of thousands of citizens still stranded overseas unable to get back to the lives they were actually leading before the pandemic. Me, I left my life there 15 years ago; I’m at the back of the queue to get in. 

I had always intended to make a surprise visit for my brother’s 40th birthday… which is next month. It’s all being unearthed, all the anxiety and disconnection and other fun stuff both because of the pandemic and because of my process of reflection and recovery. That process is bringing up a lot of questions of identity for me: Who am I? Where do I come from? Where do I belong? Where am I going? 

I’m getting to the heart of the matter now. I hope you continue on this journey with me.

This bumper episode has been brought to you by the emojis 🙏 and ❤️.

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On the stereo 🎧

The Lava Lamp playlist

One of Spotify’s branded playlists, these gentle instrumentals provide a gorgeous backdrop to all that journaling and reflecting. Side note: being a branded playlist, it’s updated and changed regularly, so there’s always something new to discover. My #SpotifyWrapped is going to sound rather different this year!

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Off the shelf 📚

First, We Make the Beast Beautiful, by Sarah Wilson

Raw, yet heartbreakingly beautiful. The Australian writer is probably best known over here for her “I Quit Sugar” journey and accompany books/blog, but this dives deep into her lifelong struggles with anxiety, OCD, bipolar disorder, and more. It’s a tough read, but it’s important. And so, so, so helpful, like a tight hug from someone who expects nothing in return, but gets that we’re all on unique journeys. She’s incredibly open, and an inspiration for what I’m trying to do here. 

Side note: Wilson’s latest, This One Wild and Precious Life, has just hit the metaphorical bookshelves. In her own words: “I head off on a soul’s journey through the complexities of climate change, coronavirus, the racial inequalities and our disconnection from what matters…to find a way back to life. As in, big, wild, vibrant, connected life, the life we feel we ought to be living.” 

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Visual confirmation 📷

This popped up on my Instagram feed this week via @mellow.doodles, just as I was coming out of the fog of that last episode. Wellness Insta can be full of toxic positivity, but this one resonated. It got shared; it got further appreciation from others. It’s now in my saved photos and I look at it when I feel the pull of people pleasing.