Don’t Suffer in Silence

I haven’t written a blog post for a while; I find that Bartopia is the least natural of my writing endeavours at the moment and so it has been benched. However, it seems the perfect platform for what I need to express now and, as such, it gets to pull the jumper on and run back onto the field.

I’m grieving. It hurts… and I’m dealing with it the way I deal with most things of an emotional nature: I’m pretending everything is ok. It’s more than that though. I dismiss my own feelings, avoid talking through things and bottle things up. Even this, while I’ll talk about what I’m going through, will be superficial and will gloss over the significance of things and their impact on my well being.

Halfway through last month I lost someone who had always seemed superhuman to me. My Nan raised 9 children to adulthood, had 21 grandchildren, 11 great grandchildren and housed over 30 foster children – a truly remarkable person. I miss her dearly.

Thursday was my Poppa’s 90th birthday – we’d hoped Nan would hold out to see it but she never made it.

Saturday was the anniversary of my birth dad’s death.

A year ago a friend, “Sax”, took his own life. Later this week marks a year since two families from my footy club lost people important to them – a father for one, a daughter for the other.

Last year, while much of this was still fresh, my workplace was also rocked by grief. Tragically, a car carrying four students crashed killing two of the occupants. I hadn’t had a lot to do with these kids but I knew all of them in some way, shape or form. My pain at that stage was not from grieving for the boys who passed away, but from seeing the students I was still responsible for going through a world of hurt.

The anniversary of that crash is just around the corner.

Again, I am concerned for my students. Yep, I get that I’m projecting or whatever, that I’m seeking an escape from my own issues by focusing on the issues of others… it’s what I do best.

I’ve spoken to the school about the possibility of talking to the students at an assembly. It’s complicated, and their hands are tied by departmental red tape, but we’ll offer what we can. I’ll offer what I can too. That’s fairly limited, obviously – all I can really offer is a familiar face with an understanding ear, someone who knows a little something about what they’re going through.

Grief is an individual thing, we all process it in different ways. But grief is also a bitch. It sneaks up on you, hits you when you least expect it.

I’m not worried about how the students will cope while they’re at school. We will have extra staff on hand, trained in counselling. They will have friends and trusted adults they can lean on. My concern is next year when that safety net is taken away. My concern is late at night when they’re laying in bed feeling isolated and alone.

I’ve seen the dark side of grief. One year after my aunty suicided, my uncle took his own life.

I don’t want the people in my care thinking that’s their only option. It cannot be an option for me. I won’t let it be an option for anyone whenever I can prevent it.

There are agencies out there invested in supporting people with mental health issues, including the affects of grief. There are people out there willing and wanting to help.

Don’t suffer in silence.

Leaving a Legacy

“If life’s a bitch then death’s a slut. Cos death comes for everyone, and when it’s you turn you’re fucked.” – Hilltop Hoods

I struggle with death. I’ve always struggled with death.

As a teenager, I failed to see my self-worth. I felt I offered more problems than solutions, and I thought people’s lives would be simpler if I wasn’t around. I’d set up nooses, press knives against my skin, and live a life of reckless endangerment.

Then, people died. My aunty and uncle committed suicide a year apart, a family friend died with a needle in his arm. My reactions to these events were selfish, sometimes tinged with jealousy. My mum, however, was distraught.

The suicidal thoughts tapered off after this but they never fully left. Even in my 30s I have often looked at trees and poles and the like while I’ve been driving and thought, ‘how easy it would be to turn the wheel slightly and put an end to it all?’ I obviously haven’t done it yet and I don’t ever plan to but the thoughts linger.

This year I lost two people I wish I had more opportunities to bond with. One was a young girl, the other a man slightly older than me. I wrote about it at the time and that certainly helped me through the immediate grief but I still have moments when it hits me, hard. One of these was on my footy club’s end of season trip in November. You see, the young girl is the daughter of one my teammates and the slightly older man was also on the team. The man’s nickname was written on the bus wheel and, at one pit stop on the way to our destination, I sat next to the type for a moment of peace, reflection and remorse. When we reached our accommodation, I hugged the father and told him I missed his daughter. We all then headed to the local tavern and, once we got there, I snuck away to the car park. I rang my wife in tears.

It didn’t help that both of these two fantastic people died within close proximity to the 10 year anniversary of my dad’s death. Ours was a relationship of regret and lost opportunities and it’s complicated nature has impacted on my ability to find peace in his passing.

Other deaths and near-deaths rocked my footy club and workplace throughout the year. It seemed as though I couldn’t escape deaths shadow and, as such, I couldn’t escape my grief.

A fortunate side effect of thinking about death is that I’ve imagined what my funeral will look like and what people will say. I say fortunate because it has helped me gain perspective. It has helped me decide how I want to live and what legacy I leave behind.

I want to be known as a decent human being. I want to be remembered as someone with a big heart, someone who helped people.

You see, I’m not seeking death; I’m chasing immortality.

I want to inspire people. I want to be a role model. I want my humour, humility and humanity to serve as traits other people want to see in themselves.

If this happens and they inspire others in turn, then my influence will outlive my body.

Invisible Illness

I’ve been holding off on writing this. I pride myself on my way with words. I teach English, I write poetry. Words are my life and yet, sometimes, words aren’t enough. I’ve been holding off on writing this because I’ve been afraid of getting it wrong, of not doing justice to the people it has impacted. In the novella “The Body”, which became the film Stand By Me, Stephen King wrote:

king quote

The reason our language keeps expanding is because there will never be enough words to articulate our feelings nor to explain the world around us. Whether you’re consciously aware of it or not, most of what we know is defined by what we know it’s not. Don’t believe me? Try explaining what hot is without giving reference to cold, or give a meaning for darkness that doesn’t use the word light; it is part of the reason similes and metaphors exist – because they allow us to explain things we otherwise couldn’t.

 

As I said, I’ve been holding off on writing this. With good reason too, I’m already concerned about how far off topic I’ve gotten and I haven’t really started. This is meant to be about mental health.

 

There’s a stigma attached to mental health that exists only because it’s a largely invisible illness. Many people discredit the resilience of the current generation and, at times, I agree with them. But there is clearly something affecting our youth and, just as clearly, not enough being done to support them.

 

Near where I work there have been 5 suicides in as many weeks.

 

What does it say about us when suicide is the leading killer of Australians aged 15 to 44? We preach ideals of this being ‘The Lucky Country’, of a fair go for all. I don’t think we can still claim that “she’ll be right” when this many people choose death.

 

I’m no stranger to suicide. At a time when I was struggling to find my place in the world and my sense of self-worth was practically non-existent, my uncle and aunty took their own lives. While my mum was crying over their loss my dominant feeling was jealousy – I wished I had their strength. I know now that strength is the wrong word and I have seen the effect their deaths have had on their children but at the time I cursed them for completing actions that I had dreamed of and occasionally prepared for but never attempted.

 

I was in my teens and there was a darkness inside me. There still is. My life is better than I could have ever hoped for and yet I still imagine my own death. I don’t feel the emptiness anymore, however. For much of my life I had struggled to articulate how this felt but a student of mine recently described it as like an apple without its core – it’s still an apple but it lacks that part that gives it life.

 

With that simile I’ll hark back to what I was getting at towards the start of this blog post, that many people lack the words or understanding to comprehend what people with mental illnesses are going through. Another student confided that his relationships with his friends fell apart because he turned to drugs to combat his depression. His friends labelled him as stupid for putting his physical health at risk but they didn’t necessarily understand the ‘need’ behind the drug taking, in that they made this student feel normal – something that had become unfamiliar to him. In our conversation, this student identified that people don’t understand depression because they “can only empathise with the saddest they’ve ever felt”. If you’ve never felt the lows of depression, how can you possibly understand what people are going through?

 

I’m not saying I was ever clinically depressed. I had a low point that was pretty damn low but, for all I know, it could have been just a portion of what others go through. I don’t pretend to understand mental illness. I’m not a doctor. What I am is an empathetic human being with two functional eyes. Any idiot can see that too many people are taking their own lives.

 

I don’t have solutions.

 

But if you have anxiety or depression or any other invisible illness, what I can offer you is advice. The saying ‘time heals all wounds’ is false but time does provide many things. Mental illness is still relatively new, it has only recently been accepted as reality and, as such, the medical industry and the general populous are still coming to grips with what it means and how it may be treated. Time will provide greater understanding and, with that, greater support. Time will also give you a chance to grow. What incapacitates you now may only aggravate or annoy you in future; you will develop strategies to cope and greater resistance to the things that currently trigger a response.

 

Time won’t heal you but it will help if you let it. In the words of Dylan Thomas –

“Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”