So as the year that was 2013 is drawing inexorably to its conclusion, my mind can't help but wander back to this time last year... July, August, September, October, November, December... where I was at, what I was thinking, what I was doing, and how I was dealing with the impending move up here to the sunny state...
It's been an interesting reflection indeed. It was early July last year when the idea again took its annual hold on my sunshine starved brain that I really should get the heck out of dodge, and start living my life authentically, and year round to boot. And it's taken until about July this year for the whole metamorphosis to truly click into place...a whole 12 months of being in the receding tide that was Melbourne, coming out of their winter, the enormous process of the move itself, all the emotional rollercoaster that was a huge part of it, only to arrive here to a sodden Queensland, and to tolerate two months of endless rain and a heap of other challenges I simply hadn't imagined when I'd made my decision to come here.
The basic premise was to do the hard work, shift up here, then once I made the arduous journey, the pain was behind me and I could start to relax and enjoy the life I'd envisaged. I'd be oh so happy, frolicking in the sunshine and in the surf. I'd write my book, make a squillion, and buy a house on the waterfront perhaps. Ha-ha. Life rarely comes to the party dressed in the colours you assign to it though.
The feedback I get constantly is that it's such a gutsy thing to do, to make such a move. I hear, "I don't know if I could have done that." "I wish I could, but I'd have to leave everybody." "My kids won't come." "My ex would never allow me to do that." "The kids would hate me." "I can't afford it." "What would I do for a job?" "It's so hard to make friends in a new place at our age." "What if I didn't like it?" "I wish I had your guts, because nothing scares or phases you." That last one, I wish!
I'm going to take you a little way into the workings of my mindset, beginning in July 2012, when this whole (and at the time many would have said, had they known, crazy) idea began quietly germinating in my consciousness. At that time, having come back from a week in Noosa, my annual thaw as I called it, I actually stood back from myself as an observer, and allowed myself to slide into whatever state of mind I did, this time without fighting it or trying to wrestle myself on to a better or different or more acceptable path in order to make it out the other side to another Melbourne summer. So the road my psyche slipped effortlessly on to was depression. All I can say is that my depression had enormous energy in it, because it marched me effortlessly down the dark tunnel to Depression Central within the space of about two weeks. By the time my birthday rolled around on July 22, I was wallowing in it.
Now one thing I am damn good at is hiding this sort of thing, so all this might come as a bit of a surprise to those reading this. I've had many years of practice at basic functioning, going back to when I was a child living what has been termed a horror movie of alcoholism, family violence and abandonment. No pity required here; it was the only childhood I knew. Great training, not one I'd recommend, but as someone I know used to say, what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. Which was fine to a point, but the last few years, my strength was wearing out, my spirits were drooping, negativity was creeping in, and a big case of Is This All There Is For Me, was setting in for a long stay. Midlife crisis, perhaps.. midwinter blues, definitely. Usually controlled somewhat by forcing a smiling face through it, socialising, trying to get out and walk as much as possible, drinking myself into a coma on my nights out, and striving to not spend night after night in front of the telly next to the heater, eating chocolate. Heaters in every room in the house, bright lights, electric blankets, lots of hot baths. These are things I'm told are the "joys of winter." To me they're merely the necessities to stay alive and make it out the other side. Just so you can do it all again the following April.
So back to July 2012. My birthday was fast approaching. 49 this year, and I'm looking it. I'm feeling about a hundred though. Aches, pains, sleeplessness, fatigue. What will I do for my birthday? Hmm, I don't really care. A very old friend, as close to family as I have, suggests joining her on a whale watching cruise down at Phillip Island on my birthday weekend, joining her and her two daughters, bringing my daughter as well. I have a caravan at San Remo that we can stay in; it's my summer party base, and when I'm operating in summer mode, it's a very fun place. Birthday weekend at San Remo? Sure, I shrug. Somewhere to go, something to do. There's good heating in the van. We might see some whales even. Fresh (biting) air, as only the Great Southern Ocean can provide, to snap me out of my doldrums. Company. And then there's always alcohol, with two pubs within close proximity. Why not?
So we did the cruise, bundled up like Eskimos against that savage arctic wind, and enjoyed the violent seasickness that only a cruise around Seal Rocks can bring. The boat was pitching and falling, especially when we paused to look at the seals on their rocks, the ocean angry as always, hurtling our SS Minnow from shambling highs to spectacular lows. My daughter's head is in my lap, and I'm stroking her hair, focusing on her sickness rather than mine, which was the only thing keeping me from letting it all go. Sitting on a hard plastic chair out on the Antarctic deck of the boat, because if I didn't have that cold cutting through me like a blade to distract me from the rolling of the boat, I'd surely throw up. I'm pulling her coat and mine around her, trying to warm her frozen little body. I'm just one big silent icicle, and I don't even care. I glance over, and see my mate's daughter Jade has found a new and novel way to keep warm in her black parka, which actually raises a frozen grin on my face, because I can't even see hers, it's so buried in that parka. Anyway, it was something to do. Even the whales weren't interested that day, any more than I was really.
That night the plan had been to go to the pub and see a band and ride their mechanical bull, which was something I'd wanted to do but never had an opportunity. However by dinnertime I was ensconced on my bean bag in front of the old style TV, watching back to back repeats of Masterchef. The heater was roaring, I had a doona wrapped around me, and I was simply unable to force myself outside, despite feeling incredibly guilty for my friend who really wanted to go out... she'd had a few drinks to get her "in the mood" (I'd tried that to, and abandoned that also due to lack of interest). She gave up, and went to bed early. I'd given up hours ago.
So we stayed in that caravan, while the wind howled outside, the rain pattered down, and thus it was for my last birthday night in Victoria. No surprises there, it's never warm at that time of year!
The next day, being my birthday proper, we went and got some breakfast, and then there was the birthday gift (wine glasses; good because I hardly have any!) and then it was time to make the drive back to Melbourne. I'd had a couple of birthday texts, and the expected Facebook birthday wishes, but not a birthday phone call till late in the day. This just added to my overall despondency, the lack of actual contact I mean.. Gone are the days when to wish somebody a happy birthday that you actually had to tell them so; these days you can flick over to a person's Facebook wall, write them a short one-liner, and your duty is done. You've remembered their birthday and proven it.... except you haven't, because if you didn't have Facebook reminding you that it's So-and-So's Birthday, you would neve have wished them anything at all, good or bad... I don't apply much weight to Facebook birthday greetings I'm afraid, but yes of course I'm guilty of all the same things. It's the world we live in. I guess it's better than nothing, is about it.
So we arrived home, the daughter went off to bed, and I sat up in front of the heater, TV on, staring unseeingly at the box, tears rolling down my face, for no reason other than I felt sad, I felt unloved, I didn't know what my purpose was, and truly I was just damn sick of living this way, birthday or no. It was like the moment my daughter was in bed or at school or somewhere where she couldn't catch me, I could have the small relief of just opening the floodgates, crying as much or as little as I wanted, wallow some more, weep a bit more, then maybe go off to bed and hope to feel like not crying tomorrow. These were the days of my life, and the sands of my hourglass were fast disappearing.
The other thing that afflicted me at that time was I couldn't sleep anymore. I would toss over and over maybe 50 times or more in a night, wake at least ten times, and that's assuming I got to sleep at all. I would go to bed later and later, and actually dreaded going to bed, warm and snuggy though it was, but knowing my mate Insomnia was waiting there to keep me company once again. Again I was missing the human contact of a warm body in the bed, and yet when that warm body was there, I still cried. I seriously felt I was going insane. Hot flushes - at least they were hot ones! - going into menopause as well, so I didn't know whether my moods were related to that as much as everything else. Nothing made sense anymore, and I was sick of trying to figure it out.
The other thing I did a lot of back then was journalling; my feelings, my blackness, my sadness, my loneliness, my despair. I poured it all out on to my laptop after Nicolle had gone to bed, sometimes while I cried, sometimes just numbly, watching the words spill out, and trying to make sense of it all. For what purpose had a malevolent God put me on this planet, to torture me growing up, to rob me of any sort of childhood, to always make me feel I didn't quite fit in anywhere, to cause me to make such poor choices all through life, to place me into a sometimes abusive and generally unfulfilling marriage with a man I had nothing in common with spiritually, sexually or otherwise, only to come out of it as a sole parent (with not a clue how to really be a parent, but nevertheless determined to be the best I could be) and then cap it off with two long term relationships, one with a clinging petulant vengeful man and one with a tormenting but charming addict where we tore each other's souls to shreds with our respective damaging behaviours. What on earth was I supposed to make of all of this? How could I ever turn it around ? How could I even find any strength to take some steps to do that, in the midst of such a black hole of depression that I was now in. How, how, how? And then, when, when, when? The where was the only thing I knew.
I woke up on the morning of 23 July, and there were two thoughts in my mind. I'm relieved my birthday is over for another year. And I will not have another birthday in Melbourne. I arose with a decision made that for better or for worse, this was my last winter, that going forward, whatever happened, it was going to be different for me in 2013. That was all I was hoping for at that point. Different. Not like this. Not ever again.
"If you don't go after what you want, you'll never have it.
If you don't ask, the answer is always No.
If you don't step forward, you're always in the same place.
If you get a chance, take it.
If it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said it would be easy. They just said it would be worth it."
(To be continued....)
