The Cerebral Mum

Some people post about the bigger events in their lives. I rarely seem to be able too. When big things are happening, blogging doesn’t. Which I guess is why I’ve never kept a journal. So Week Zero (O-Week) was last week.

O-Week is “Orientation”. There aren’t any classes: It’s just time to hang out, get used to the campus, sign up for clubs and unions, go to information seminars, change your courses, sort out your books, ID card etc, etc… I only went in on the Monday, because I’ve done this before, right? And 5 hours on public transport is a lot to pay for a sausage sizzle. But I did write some scribbly notes on my home, and here they are…

Late last night… Still not organised. Should I even go to O-Week? There’s a host to meet at 9am for a “challenge”. That means I have to leave home at 6:30am. All my clothes are in the laundry. I have changed my mind 4 times already about whether I’m going to do it all or just go in for a couple of later sessions. Then it’s 2am and I still don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’m finally excited instead of just worrying about being organised.

And then today… I wake up. It’s 8am. I guess that’s my decision made for me. I say to Big Sis, “Nope. Definitely not going.” I look at my O-Week program again and see that the Arts Faculty welcome is at 2pm. I can make that session.

I have the luxury of showering while Big Sis runs around stopping Cas from pushing all the buttons on the television. And the stereo. And the computers. It’s cold. the weather and the only clean items in my closet dictate what I’m going to wear. I still haven’t plucked my eyebrows. I take tweezers with me so i can do it on the train. What’s a few eyebrow hairs between commuters, right?

I finally get there, 2 1/2 hours later, and the weather has changed. I’m wearing a skirt as a top, smock-like over a black turtleneck, and a heavy winter coat. I take the turtle neck off. Still too hot. The coat has to go too, so it’s off to the bathrooms to remove my bra as well. Not exactly perky but a strapless “smock” hides a multitude of things, and at least I’m no longer sweating. I obviously wasn’t organised enough for Melbourne weather.

I have a list. The queue for ID cards is too long. The queue to even get into the bookstore is too long. I buy a latte and hang out watching the band. And then to the lecture hall.

It is far larger than even the largest lecture hall at my old Uni. I take a seat in the centre of the 3rd row. That’s where I always sit at the movies. I ask the girl in front of me if she went to the “challenge” this morning, just so I knew what I had missed out on, but she hadn’t gone either. The girl beside me starts a conversation, an American living in the Halls of Residence for her first Australian semester but planning on moving out once she gets her bearings. She’s lovely. But a photography major, so I’ll probably never see her again…

That’s where my notes leave off, but I did get my ID card and my books. And I was completely spellbound listening to the faculty welcome and all the phenomenal opportunities which are ahead of me if I want them… Internships, study tours and even an overseas semester with, wait for it… The fees covered by HECS! So now I’m dreaming of an extraordinarily cheap semester a Harvard. I just have to take a breath here and savour that thought.

Not only that, I also found out that I could switch to a double degree and get a Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Education at the same time in stead of just following my BA with a Dip. Ed. Now that’s a plan!

And not only that, I can factor in a Graduate Certificate of Arts & Social Sciences while still an undergrad as well. I’m not sure yet if I can do all 3, but if I can, I’m sure as hell going to!

By the way, my first actual real lecture was today, and fantastic, but I’m going to have to tell you all about that tomorrow….

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I’m stressed at the moment and it is getting in the way of me getting things done. I haven’t been meeting my own deadlines for getting the WinterWarm site finished, even though I’m so close. I’ve hardly written a thing on my other blog, and what I have published has been uptight and, well, basically pretty crappy.

And another thing is stressing me out. Feel free to stop reading now because there is nothing tackier than whining about money and that is what I’m going to do.

Basically, my income doesn’t actually cover the bills I need to pay. I put in an application a while ago to draw down some of my home equity to clear some debts and help me fix a few things at the house so I could sell it but nobody ever got back to me. Needless to say, my credit card company has had enough and I now have a month to come up with $8,500. That’s pretty hard when, after paying a home loan, a personal loan and some of your minimum cc payment, all you have left for the rest of life’s expenses (you know, like food and electricity, or replacing glasses) is less than $200 a month.

So I get on my bank’s case and ask what is going on with the loan. I get a message back simply saying, Sorry but it was not approved. Er, thanks for letting me know.

But I understand. My credit rating is screwy. It all went pear-shaped after the indecent assault by an employer, when I left my job (obviously) and went spiraling into depression.

However, the things that shits me is that I have, at a minimum, $60,000 equity in that house. There is no danger to the bank. Especially because drawing down on my home loan will actually reduce all my expenses each month making it easier for me to pay the damn home loan. Especially because drawing down on the loan would make it easier for me to sell the thing and give them all their damn money back.

Basically they’re saying, We don’t trust you to pay less than you do right now. Does that makes sense? Well, no. But banks have their little ways.

So I wrote back asking what I could do. Could I go higher up and appeal the decision? Could I reduce the figure being applied for? And so on and so on. They have said they might approve it if I can get a family member to be a guarantor. Um, yeah.

My mother lives in Sudan: I don’t think they’ll want her signature. My sister is living on income insurance because of her spinal injury and has her own home loan to pay. And she’s already stretched from paying the bills for a household of 3 because I can’t afford my fair share of the utilities.

Does trying to find a solution to this feel too hard? Yes, it does. Is sitting here whining about it going to help? No, it’s not. Right at this moment, can I think of anything better to do? In a word… No.

But c’est la guerre, right? C’est la guerre…

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Yes, that dastardly ISP did it again. There I was, Caspar tucked in with his bottle for a morning nap and where was the internet, I ask you? Oh, it was there: Just long enough for me to start testing the coding on some elements of the new blog. And then it was gone.

What was saved and where I was at? Good question. Instead of having one more thing ticked off my list and an afternoon of fun, what did I do? I dug my heels in good and deep.

I spent three and a half (yes, that’s 3 ½ ) hours on hold listening to something that soundly vaguely reminiscent of muzak echoing through a mile of rusted pipe, interrupted only by a saccharine voice saying, “We are sorry for the delay. Your call will be answered as soon as possible”. And you know how much I love saccharine.

Of course, it might have been me digging my nose in to spite my face, rather than my heels. My call might have been lost in the ether. I’ve been told on good authority that can happen. (Big Sis. She worked in call centres until her spinal injury.) But, dammit, they’re a communications company! They should be better communicators.

I am stubborn.

(Unfortunately this story doesn’t have a dramatic ending and I can’t recount to you all the scathing things I said to them, the things I know everyone has wanted to say to “service” providers at some stage and gets vicarious enjoyment from hearing, because the connection returned all by itself and I hung up.)

But I have work to do. Just a little bit more tweaking over at Blogging Personal to get it ready for launching. In truth, I could have launched it by now. I have some things written and the site is functional. But I’m scared.

Writing a personal blog and writing a blog intended as a resource are two very different things. No matter how much you frame it as a conversation, because it’s your space it is in some ways a claim to authority. But I’m opinionated and I have convictions and if caring about something constitutes authority then I’m okay with that. I guess.

Another thing that makes it scary is that, even unlaunched, the site has already had a great response and I think that shows how many of us want someone to be talking seriously about personal blogging, not just calling it noise and moving on to how you can make the most money. That feels like a big responsibility and I really hope that I don’t disappoint anyone.

Yes, that sounds megalomaniacal. I’m not saying the worries are justified. I’m just saying that I feel them.

So to get over that, I’ve set the launch date in stone. The first post is being published on Tuesday, January 15, come hell or high water, so I’m off to spend the evening tending to my new baby, making sure everything is perfect for its arrival.

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When the time to leave was nearing some of the usual panic set in. I scrabbled around trying to tidy up a little and trying to make sure I had everything I needed. Those voices just wouldn’t shut up; the ones that say everything needs to be perfect before I can do anything for myself, the ones that make me feel guilty for not crossing more things off the lists in my head. In the end I just left, Caspar’s bag well stocked and me without a jacket.

Ms. S, who I would be visiting on Friday, lives on the other side of the city, not far out but far enough to make it a daunting journey. My cousin lives in Elwood, not far from the suburbs I love living in and will hopefully be living in again soon.

Melbourne, in terms of size, is a massive city. The area it covers is roughly equivalent to urban New York but in comparison to New York’s 18.5 million inhabitants, Melbourne is home to only 3.5 million. Here, with so much distance between people, we rely heavily on our cars. And I don’t have one. Public transport is great if you live within the tram network but outside of that, you’re pretty much on your own.

By car it would have taken me 40 minutes at most to get to my cousin’s apartment. By bus, then train, then another train, it took me 2 ½ hours. That means a 5 hour round trip with a toddler in tow just to have a cup of coffee with my friends. It’s not feasible. This, along with my previous working life, goes some way to mitigating my sense of guilt about the way my friendships have dissipated over the years I have lived out here in this suburban wasteland. Now, with my limited energy and depressive exhaustion, at the very least I can be proud that I went anyway.

By the time I arrived, my cousin had gone out for the evening and I was too tired to go across the road and have some dinner at one of the many cafés. Caspar had fallen into a deep sleep anyway, not even waking when I took him from the pram and tucked him into bed, so I was left to my own devices with nothing to do but watch a television 4 times the size of my own and wait until my cousin came home or I felt the need to go to bed myself. Unsurprisingly, sleep wasn’t on the cards so I waited, studiously ignoring the voices which made me feel abandoned and alone and unloved.

My cousin arrived at about 11:30pm and I got Caspar up to see him and we had a long talk about where my life was at. It was then that my cousin told me to stay the weekend, to have a little bit of the life that I want for Caspar and me before travelling back to the suburb I feel so trapped in, both physically and mentally. And then I slept.

Well, I think.

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Yesterday was my first counselling appointment. I didn’t want to go. I mean, I really didn’t. As the time got closer, I had to force myself to take a shower and find the paperwork and in the end, I left ten minutes before the appointment, feeling panicked and still unable to find the address. Driving there in Big Sis’ car, only knowing that it was next to the hospital, I think I didn’t want to be able to find it. I think I wanted to be able to go home and cry about not being able to find it. I think I wanted to go home and call and cry to whoever answered the phone so I could make not being there someone else’s problem.

But there it was, the Integrated Health Center, looming large and unavoidable. I didn’t have a dollar to pay for parking so I found some dirt behind the bus stop across the road. By the time I reached the doors, tears were already straining and I handed my appointment notice to the receptionist saying, I don’t know where to go, so quietly that I don’t know how she heard me.

Go upstairs and wait in the foyer, I’ll let her know you’re here.

The foyer was a gaping atrium, a large, open, central space, full of people coming and going, the doors to rooms and the elevator constantly opening and closing, staff laughing, running out for coffee. And there were seats, hard up against the wall, with no where to turn away from it all. The tension just grew and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling, exposed in that light and every moment interminable. I watched the clock. I wondered how long I would have to wait before I could justifiably leave. I wondered when I could just say, I’ve been here an hour and I’m leaving, making a dramatic exit and, again, placing the burden of my failure on someone else’s shoulder. Then the counsellor came, and I rose only to hear that they were still looking for a room. Okay, I said in the smallest voice as I sank back into the chair.

When she returned and we crossed the floor to one of the closed-off corridors, she asked me something, I can’t even remember what, and whatever my answer was, no sound came out at all. My words just moved the air and by the time we got to the room, where a second counsellor sat, nothing was left to restrain my sobbing. We got a few of the basic formalities out of the way, me in my smallest voice, and many tissues later I explained that I found the situation confronting. When they asked what they could do to make me more comfortable, I said, Just talk to me like an normal, intelligent human being. Which they did. Sort of.

Part of me wants to record here all the I-Said, She-Saids, because in truth it feels a little like a dream that I’m clutching to recall the strains of. But it doesn’t really matter. Counsellors 1 and 2, who I’ll call Counsel and Miss Symp, were very different. From those pseudonyms it’s fairly obvious who I liked.

Miss Symp spoke in a carefully modulated tone, drawing out all her words, her pitch slightly raised as though talking to a baby and each sentence ending with with a subtle, inquiring inflection. I hated it.

When I was a child, I had a kidney disorder, which meant 9 years of catheters and daily antibiotics and radiologists and specialists. I will never forget the last specialist, who spoke in such condescending tones to me. I loathed him, I was arrogantly rude to him (even at age ten) and the thing I remember most was his use of the word “panties”, which seems to be a common term in the US but here it is a word only used for children. I ranted and raved each time I left his consulting rooms. My mother tried to explain that he didn’t know that my vocabulary was probably larger than his.

I hate been talked down to, I hate being treated as fragile and I hate synthetic sympathy. It repels me. It does not engage my emotions. Have you noticed how Miss Symp implies simpering as much as sympathy?

I realise this says more about my character than it does about her, and I recognise the intention. I even recognise that for others, this may be exactly the tone of voice they need to hear. But not me. Me, it just aggravates.

And the content was no better. In the end, she became almost unintelligible. I could grasp nothing of what she was saying. She said something about addressing the brakes (breaks?) before dealing with the gears, or the situation, or something. I still have no idea what she was talking about. Like other counsellors, she repeated back to me the things I was saying but I was sensitive to every misspoken word. She had all the hallmarks of listening, but she wasn’t listening. And she pressed me about motherhood with, But really…, and, You must…, in spite of the clarity with which I expressed my love for Caspar, and my confidence as a mother.

While I recognise that patients (or whatever we are) don’t always know the truth or speak the truth, all the visual and auditory cues were there for her to understand. She spoke in nothings, repeating the same nothing words and phrases over and over again. In the end, I had to challenge her to speak plainly when she expressed concerns about my level of distress and said we needed to deal with the distress before we could work on changing the situation. Was she telling me I should be taking anti-depressants? Of course not. She’s not a doctor. But what was she saying? That question was never answered. It was deflected with you knows what best what you need and affirmations of how well I was doing to have been emboldened to ask for help.

What use is that? I know that I am the only one who can fix myself. If all Miss Symp can do is say, There, there…, and tell me things I already know, really, what use is that? At that point, I shut down to her completely.

Counsel, on the other hand, spoke to me just like a normal person. She laughed when it was appropriate, she smiled, she asked relevant questions which opened up the conversation. Like Miss Symp, she was supportive, but not in such a practised, generic way. She responded to me, she gathered information she needed. She treated me as an equal, instead of just paying lip service to me.

I know that seems a harsh interpretation of Miss Symp. I really don’t mean to impugn her but I can honestly say, if she had been the only counsellor there, I might have forced myself to go back but it would only have taken one or two appointments for me to develop a fury and frustration that would lead me never to return.

I’m glad that they had two counsellors present. I think it’s important that after that first encounter, there will be two perspectives to decide on a path for me. Counselling cannot avoid subjectivity so it’s good that there is a system for checks and balances. I can’t help but wonder, though, whether part of the purpose is to see who is the best fit for the person needing help. If that is so, I think it is wonderful luxury to have that burden taken from me. How many people who need help seek it out only to reject when it comes in the wrong form and then never ask again?

I am grateful for my two counsellors. In a fortnight, I will be going back, to see only Counsel, and I know that I will not experience that dread again, that I will not be crying in the atrium while I wait. I know that the light streaming in from that domed glass will feel like a little ray of hope. Now, there is a little space for me to heal myself.

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I’m trying to figure out where to start this journey. I think I’m thinking too much. Then I think I need to think it all out of me, first. Once there are words, I can have a conversation with them.

What are my brains prejudices and assumptions? How does it filter the world for me? How does that effect my behaviour, my choices, my life? Where do they come from? Should I be thinking about specific events in my life? Should I be mining the past? Is that a map? Is that a mire? Is thinking a way to make a story for myself? I mean, a fictional story? Am I deceiving myself? Am I regressing? Am I finding other ways new ways to trap myself here? Am I wallowing? Should I just go walking on the beach and stop thinking? Should I just “behave” my way back to myself? Well, no to that last one. Reprogramming might look good on the surface, but I’m not Pavlov’s dog. I need to go inward. Or is that wrong too? I need to go outward as well, put myself in situations which will throw light.

I don’t know. I am thinking of these things: Reading old scribbles and dreams; just writing lists of words, whatever words come; feeling my way through archtypes to see which ones resonate now… Oh, I don’t know.

I wonder if I am twisting this process into another burden. I wonder if I am procrastinating. I wonder if I’m anywhere near the darkness. I wonder if there is anything in there at all. I guess that counts as a fear. That’s a big fear, actually. What if there is nothing there? What if I really am nobody? What if my remembered self didn’t contain all those potentialities I remembered? What if I have no convictions, no sense of purpose, nothing to say, nothing that is mine, or makes me me? What if those people who love me are wrong? What if I have no character or qualities that draw people to me? What if there is actually nothing about me to like in myself? What if I am just one big fake?

What if I am faking this? What if I am just trying to seek attention and make myself seem more interesting? What if I am just playing the victim?

But the victim of what? That doesn’t make sense. Why would I play the victim of myself? Wouldn’t that be circular? There is no question that this depression is my responsibility, so what is there to gain by crying, woe is me? Isn’t that circularity of thought evidence that there is some defense mechanism at work, something inside of me, that doesn’t want me to ask questions? Self-doubt is a form of protection.

Protection from what?

Am I scared of people? Why am I anxious? Do I want to be liked? Why would I desire to be liked when I know that is such a negative desire? Do I want to be seen? It’s my job to see myself. Do I want to be seen through? Do I want to be perceived as I perceive others? Do I think that is a gift everyone receives but me? Do I want to be understood? By someone else? But it is my job to understand myself, not anyone else’s responsibility. Why would I want that? Do I just feel disconnected?

Why do I feel disconnected? What would make me feel connected?

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It was hard. And good.

I tend to stress a lot about parties now. They shake my foundations. They never used to. As I have repeatedly said, I have been out of the loop for a long time and that means that many of the people I care about do not hear from me as often as they should and I cannot expect them to jump whenever I set a date. It makes me feel a lonely and insecure and frightened; it is isolating. But it is an isolation which, in this case, I am largely responsible for.

I have friendships which weather distance and silence. I have friendships which do not require consistent attention to remain firm. Those friendships have within them an innate respect for each other, and a deep trust in that respect because it has remained constant in the face of all our human flaws. I treasure those friendships. But not all friendships thrive when starved of sunlight. Sometimes the attachment is not developed enough to withstand the tyranny of distance and sometimes, the nature of the friendship is something else altogether. There are “everyday” friendships as well as lifelong ones; friendships based on shared lives and shared experiences. As we go through life - change schools, change jobs, change hobbies, move away - our friendships change with us. We no longer have those connections which tied us together. I do not think these friendships are any less meaningful because of their dependence on proximity, and they are no less important to us. Currently, I have no “everyday” friendships. No one knows the petty details of my daily life; the minor passions, the small triumphs or the small mistakes. They are all invisible.

I was disappointed by the people who did not respond to my invitation, I was disappointed by cancellations. I was distressed by the idea that those who came would have too few people to talk to. I cried. Several times. My anxiety devolved into physical symptoms - a churning stomach, an inability to eat, a tension in my shoulders that screamed at every movement. And I will admit that much of my worry was superficial. In spite of my much vaunted perspective, I reduced Caspar’s party to some kind of measurement of my worth. Worse, some kind of measurement of my popularity. Wouldn’t those who came look around and think how pathetic my lack of people was?

But of course they didn’t.

It is mind-boggling how narrow our focus can become, how self-destructive we can be. How we can ignore all the things we should appreciate and simply wallow, as though our lives were hard. How we indulge our narcissistic depressions as though ennui and anomie were illnesses rather than chosen states of mind.

So here is my wealth of people and my belated appreciation. Please forgive me if it is boring to read. It deserves to be written.

For my cousin B, and all her family, who sent the most beautiful wishes and the most sensitive present, both of which moved me to tears.

For my Uncle J, isolated in truth on the other side of the world, who called me on the phone for the first time ever to give us his love.

For J and Dy, and my cousin D, who had other commitments but would certainly have been here if they could. For my cousin D’s children who are a richness in all our lives.

For R, who by rights should have been a friendship which passed with a change of jobs and yet for reasons unfathomable to me has shown me a loyalty over years which I could never do justice to. And for his family and his brand new son, all of whom I am yet to meet, and all of whom would also have been here if they could.

For C, my oldest friend, and the very measure of a friend, who needs to take care of herself right now, and not feel guilty about commitments she cannot keep.

For T, who stood up for me in court after a sexual assault, even having known me for such a short time; who lost his job, and held my hand for long months and who will always find me whenever we lose each other. Who, although he could not attend, took the time out of his full weekend to bring a present for my son whom he has never met.

For PC, whose love, like mine, is larger than our previous relationship. Who always answers my call when I need him, who provides me with second opinions when I am worried about Caspar’s medical treatment and answers all my questions patiently, even though he chose to leave his doctor’s life behind him years ago. Who, car-less, travelled all the way out here to meet my son in his first few days of life, bringing me French champagne and sushi. Who, car-less, travelled all the way out here to attend the party, although I have seen him rarely in the last two years. Who, basically, has been giving far more than he has received lately.

For H, a friend lost a decade ago, who has memories as warm as mine, and a heart as open as though it had only been days. Who has a generous spirit which made room for my selfish absorption then, and continues to do so now. Whose bear hugs at Caspar’s party brought me back to earth and the reality of all I have to be grateful for.

For K, my closest friend for many years and the only friend I have lost through a situation fraught with anger and broken trust. After years apart, she contacted me and came to Caspar’s party. Perhaps we might begin again.

For my neighbour G, who has tolerated my abandoned house, its overgrown yard and the constant vandalism there, who protected my interests before he even met me and has shown such non-judgemental consideration and support while I work to rectify the situation. Who would have been present if only a pipe had not burst.

For the 5 children who stay next door every second week, who come in to spend time with Cas and me, who pop over to bring us drawings and lollies, who were eager for Caspar’s birthday and who surrounded him at his small table, playing with his hair and pinching his cheeks. Especially for R and K and J, who blew up balloons and amused Cas while I prepared food and polished cutlery. Especially for E, who was distraught that day, as only an almost-teenage girl can be, and who emerged from her barricaded room to give Caspar his present. And especially for K, who gave up part of her own birthday weekend so she could celebrate with us.

And for Big Sis, whose patience with me has been sometimes strained but nonetheless limitless. Who helped me so much that morning, in spite of her spinal injury and her pain and still felt like she had not done enough. And for her B, who would not let me pay for ice and BBQ gas, who cooked so I could tend to the guests and who talked to everyone in spite of his shyness.

And, last but not least, for my mother. Always here in spirit, who loves me unconditionally despite our difference, who is my example and my rock. Who loves Caspar in a way that can never be matched.

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