Crush

14th December 2016

I was considering writing something Christmas-y for my final blog post of the year (twelve posts quota met! Woo!) And I should be getting all warm and silly over the festivities, and the food, and the Christian/Pagan/Commercialist hybrid of a holiday - but I’m not: partly because the near forty-degree-Celsius temperatures are warming me quite effectively; and, also, because I’m getting warm and silly over someone who is quite effectively trumping any Christmas-appropriate thought in my dopamine-drenched brain. They’re actually trumping every thought in my dopamine-drenched brain. Why you gotta do that?

Do you remember getting your first crush? And not the crushes where you’re like “they’re hot, I would probably snog them.” I mean crushes where you’re borderline vegetable because your capacity to do anything productive is severely impacted by their indescribable capability to dumb you down to a legume.

I don’t remember my first crush: I think it gave me some form of neurological trauma. In fact, I’m only able of remembering two crushes at a time: the last crush and a current crush. And if there is no current crush, then I only remember the last one and pray I don’t ever run into them because our most recent conversation probably went along the lines of…

Crush: “Oh, hi, Meg!”

Meg: “Did you know that all duck sex is rape? It’s because the drake has a corkscrew penis and it doesn’t fit right in the lady duck’s nu-nu.”

My relationship prospects are not bright. Which I’m not all that fussed about, really; but is it so hard to not bring up poultry porn around attractive people? And can you believe I’m not like that just around the people I’m attracted to? Okay, you probably can. I have the social prowess of an eggplant. (I really like my vegetable analogies at the moment. Probably because of all that fibre.) Back to the point: if I’m speaking with anybody I consider remotely pretty, you can bet your arse I’m telling them about how I was stalking them on Facebook only two hours prior.

And, like, I mean what is the appropriate protocol for initiating any communication with a person of desire? I don’t know what it was like two hundred years ago (because, fun fact, I wasn’t alive), but I imagine it would have gone something like…

1816 asker-outer (most probably a dude):

“Good morrow, beautiful lady, I must have you to make me my dinners and to bear my children. I have your parent’s permission to ask you to marry me. Here, have a flower.”

1816 recipient (most definitely a woman because, I’m pretty sure, guys couldn’t get married back then. Oh wait, they still can’t…):

“I would rather go to university and have a career, but societal expectations dictate that I say yes. What for dinner, and how many children?”

The accuracy is questionable, but you get that it’s really awkward. Now, it seems, people ask you out like this…

2016 asker-outer:

*Sends photo of penis*

2016 recipient:

*Vows never to use Tinder again*

I don’t have Tinder, or a penis, so that’s not really an option for me. How do I do it then? Should I send them a message to suggest we meet up for coffee? Or salads? Or Netflix? Or should I premeditate a route so to run into them at their place of work, and then ask them in person, and pray I don’t vegetate right then and there? If I ask them in person, am I supposed to suggest that it’s a date? What even constitutes a date? Is it a date if I give them a flower, like old mate 1816? Do I have to confess my infatuations via poem? And what if it goes well? Do I have to ask them out again? Having to do all of this twice does seem excessive. And is it only a date the second time? And was the first time just a hangout? Or “chill bang” as the youths call it (okay, I call it). I haven’t even asked the all-important question of how to successfully flirt for months online.   

This would honestly be so much easier if talking about duck sex was acceptable.

Merry Christmas, guys. xx

Help

2nd November 2016

It’s been so nice to hear from a number of you following my last blog on being bipolar. I understand just how important it is to network with people who aren’t health professionals when you’re not in a good place (because, as lovely as they can be, they’re not going to be able to catch up over a coffee every time something shitty happens – that’s why we have friends). Having said this, I’m neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist (or a general practitioner, or a paediatrician, or a dentist, or a gynaecologist, or anything that requires a form of science degree – I dropped out of general maths in year twelve because it was too hard).

I say that because a few of you have been asking me “How do I know if I’m bipolar?” And I haven’t been able to tell you, because I’ve only just been diagnosed myself. It did get me to thinking though that there are plenty of mental health awareness campaigns going around, and very few practical solutions on offer. I mean, it’s all very well and good to share “RUOK” posts on Instagram, and post Facebook statuses about Mental Health Month, and write blogs about our problems: but what the fuck are you supposed to do when you come to terms with the fact that you need proper help?

Again, I’m not a doctor or anything fancy; but these are some things that I’ve personally found to be quite useful in coping with yucky brain stuff, and some other things that may help you to get the correct diagnosis.

Tip Number One: List Your Symptoms

For me, this has been the most useful tool because whenever I’ve found myself in an intimidating office or an emergency room with some stranger probing and prying, I forget everything. What’s more, is I find myself questioning why I’m there at all; and I dismiss my problems altogether. I think that I’m wasting their time and that “it’s all in my head” (which is funny, because it is their job and it actually is in my head).

So write everything down, even if you think it’s not important. Write down the things you feel in your body; like a racing heartbeat, sweaty palms, headaches, stomachaches, la di dah. And add to the list what you were doing. Does it happen when you’re driving? When you get into an argument? When you wake up? When you smoke a cone? When you’re eating a piece of chocolate cake? Even if the series of events doesn’t make logical sense, it’s good to get to know the ins and outs of your mind and body.

It can be hard to put your feelings into words, but try it out anyway. Write them however they come out at the time and try not to judge yourself. It might even clear a few things up for you. Like, I know now that I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol (tragedy) otherwise my brain’s all like “Meg, are you sure you want to exist today?”

Tip Number Two: Have a Safety Plan

When you’re feeling pretty okay, come up with a plan for what to do when you’re not pretty okay. A crisis can be anything for anyone. It might be a panic attack; it could be impulsiveness; or paranoia; or feeling like you want to off yourself. Basically any feeling that makes you uncomfortable and unsafe.

Have a list of contacts for when these situations arise. Who can you call that will be empathetic and helpful? You don’t want somebody who will undermine your struggle (they can fuck off). Let them know that you’re having difficulty being alive at that moment in particular, and let them know in advance what you would like for them to do should the emergency come up. You might just want them to be with you, you might want a hug; you might want to talk to them, or for them to talk to you. You might want them to suggest you having a shower, or that you eat a peanut butter sandwich, even a reminder to breathe. It’s basically whatever will comfort you.

If you feel like you’ve handled the emergency (congratulations!) and you’re able to have a nap, or watch TV, or read a nice book, eat some chocolate and drink some tea; then do that. Because crises are exhausting.

If there isn’t anyone you can talk to, or if you still feel on edge and at risk of yourself; then you can call one of these helplines:

Lifeline: 13 11 14

Beyond Blue: 1300 22 46 36

Suicide Call Back Service: 1300 659 467

Kids Helpline: 1800 55 1800

MensLine Australia: 1300 78 99 78

Headspace: 1800 650 890

Mental Health Online also has some state specific contact details.

The person on the other end may refer you to your closest emergency department if they feel that you are incapable of keeping yourself safe. They may also refer you to your community mental health team for future treatment.  

If you are desperate, do not hesitate to call 000. You don’t even have to wait for somebody else to calm you down. Call them right away if you need to. An ambulance will soon be there.

Tip Number Three: Find Some Professionals

This is a huge step for anybody. I’ve been surrounded by health people my entire life, but I remember when my Mum first told me to make my own doctor’s appointment. I’d honestly forgotten how to use a telephone. I know it’s scary, but you can do it. If you don’t want to go alone, ask a friend to come along to hold your hand and stroke your hair. If you want to go alone, plan something nice for yourself afterwards. Like eating your favourite dinner, or taking bubble bath, or having a tea party with your sock puppets.

Once you’ve made your appointment, take along your list of symptoms, and ask for a referral to a psychologist and/or psychiatrist. Doc may give you some fliers about some cost friendly public mental health facilities and groups that may be of use to you (Headspace is a good one); or, if you can afford it, some referrals to some private people. If the professionals aren’t so professional, or you feel as though you need a second opinion: then go and get a second opinion. You’d get a second opinion on a dress you’re wearing, so why wouldn’t you get a second opinion on your brain?

Tip Number Four: Also

Once you’ve got your doctors and psych’s and medicines (if necessary) sorted out: take time to learn to love yourself again. Do a little soul searching to understand your own beliefs, morals, self worth, wants, needs, goals, and favourite kind of ice cream. Find an exercise that gets your endorphins going, eat deliciously healthy food for all of the good gut bacteria, and hug more people (if you don’t like hugging people, then hug yourself). Just be try to be nice to yourself, really, because you’re a really likeable kind of person.

Bipolar

11th  October 2016

In light of Mental Health Week and a recent Facebook status of mine, I thought it would be appropriate to blog about the goings on in my mind. “Again?” you ask. Yes, again. But I’m not going to use euphemisms like yellow minions; or write about the somewhat hilarious bodily malfunctions that have indirectly happened as a result of my malfunctioning brain. No, I’m going to tell you about the highs, and the lows, and the lack of in between bits of bipolar disorder.

Before I go on, I should mention that while I’m speaking about my experience in a somewhat casual manner, some things might be triggering. And if you do find yourself associating with anything I have to say, then please reach out for help. These things aren’t fun at all and a lot of people really love you.

It’s taken a while for my psychiatrist to come to this bipolar conclusion (about thirteen years – yes, the problems started when I was around seven), so for a long time I’ve been calling my array of moods: “depression”, “anxiety”, “hormonal bitch”, and “ridiculously-annoyingly-full-of-herself-but-also-quite-charming-bitch”.

That list is to simply categorize the extremes of my temperaments. They are each capable of fluctuating; sometimes depending on environmental factors and often times depending on nothing at all. I was once happily playing a game of cards with my family, when all of a sudden I had to rush to my bedroom so I could have a meltdown (to give you an idea of the absurdity of it all).

They do, however, come in patterns. It’ll usually be about three months of a high, happy, and positive Meg who is super productive, overconfident, very talkative, extroverted, creative, and expectant of great things to come in the universe. To accompany this jubilant state of being are the moments of anxiety, impulsiveness, irritability and bitchiness that I could only ever put down to as me being an estrogen-fuelled female.

To anybody who has ever lived with me, worked with me, studied, rehearsed, or hung out with me while I’m like this, will know that I can be a pain in the arse. I once smeared Nutella across a friend’s face while we were doing some scene work. Why? I don’t know. I had the urge and so I did it. Smearing Nutella on somebody’s face is one of the minor urges I’ve experienced, along with binge eating and spending money on things that I really don’t need.

On a larger scale of whims, I have made some pretty significant life decisions. For example, my Aunty lovingly suggested I move thirteen hours south to live with her. I took the offer seriously and about a month later I was moving thirteen hours south. Six months after this move, I’d decided I was moving interstate to Queensland (seventeen hours north of my southerly move).

Some people tell me I’m confident and adaptable. I honestly think I’m nuts.

I mean, sometimes it’s fun being loud and conversational; and, equally, being an egotistical butt-sore isn’t fun because you get people offside. But it gets worse. When I become extremely irritable and anxious is when I’m most dangerous because rationality goes out the window. My mind churns through a million thoughts per second and I’ll close my eyes only to have mental images flashing really quickly in my head. It feels like bugs are crawling under my skin, I get crazy hand tremors, and staying still feels impossible because of the sheer amount of energy going through my body. This is when I’m more likely to self-harm or do something really stupid, like overdose on my medication, because I cannot control my thoughts. It feels like my head is going to implode. Not fun. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.

Proceeding the quick period of compulsion and zipping activity will be about three, four, sometimes five months of intense depression. When I was fourteen, I had spent three months in bed before being hospitalised after a suicide attempt (to give you an idea of what it can be like).

Depression isn’t just sadness, like most people believe; nor does it have to be a result of something that’s happened. It’s taken a while for my Dad to realise that my depressive states haven’t been a result of me not getting onto the debate team, or not getting the part that I wanted in a musical. Its actually quite pointless, and lacking in emotion all together. Thought patterns become very unhealthy and existing becomes a complete drag. Feeling suicidal, for me, during a depressive episode is different to feeling suicidal during a high. I don’t feel compelled to be self-destructive; I just become very tired, fed-up, and existential. Memory worsens, I’m incapable of simple tasks like getting out of bed, and I remove myself from all commitments (of which there are usually plenty as a result of the high).

It’s been quite difficult for my psychiatrist to get to this point in my treatment; because when I’ve seen him, and told him I was doing really well, has been when I was in a state of euphoria and I’ve assumed that my bouts of mania were just hormones and anxiety. It’s only when I go back to him in three months time, desperate for someone to keep me alive, that he can obviously see that there is a problem. I also find it quite difficult to make and maintain relationships because my life feels so turbulent and random (thank you, patient friends, I love you). Having said that, I’m so used to this to-ing and fro-ing that I’m actually quite scared about stability, because I can’t remember what stability feels like. And what if I’m not stable at all? What if it’s just a mild high and I’m destined to crash again?

The process is very tricky for anybody with a mental illness; I am a testament to that. It feels like I have two minds and they’re wrestling to be in the forefront of my consciousness. But if you are struggling, I implore you to keep on keeping on; because I think it’s our experiences that make the world a more empathetic place. And whether you know it or not, your existences have been, and will continue to be, a motivation to chug on for other people in similar circumstances. Hats off to you. (Group hug.)

We All Are Sheep

30th September 2016

What’s it like to stray from a fundamentally Christian upbringing? Well, in short – no, not really short, this is always going to take a while to explain. To begin with: it’s scary and you honestly feel like you’re betraying your family, and your friends, and your teachers, and, above all, yourself: because, for your entire life, you are made to believe that this code of conduct is truly who you are. You were born into the church, you will grow up in the church, and you will marry, reproduce, and die within the church. And if there is anything about yourself that varies from this Christian ideology of “good”: then sorry. You’re out. God’s undying love is not for you. Go and be your heretic-self elsewhere.

I should probably stop using the pronoun “you”, because I can honestly only speak from my own experiences. I should probably also note that my experiences within the church have not been anywhere near as ostracising as some of the experiences of my friends. Perhaps this is so because I made an effort to separate myself from the hip and trendy youth pastors upon learning that my identity did not fit with what they paraded in their sermons.

There seemed to be a long list of things that you couldn’t do, and I’m not sure anybody had any idea on where this list was; because nobody, that I asked, could give me an extensive answer on why the things that they said were bad, were bad. I was expected to take Bible verse as law; which didn’t make total sense to me, but I was too scared to ask of anything further.

When I was younger, I was obsessed with the Harry Potter books; until a girl from church told me that Harry Potter was of the devil. This terrified me to the point of asking my parents to get rid of all seven of my books, and refusing to partake in anything magical (I even boycotted parts of my school curriculum). It was also common to be prayed for whenever a physical ailment became present. It was common knowledge within the church that my mental health sucked, and so I was often told “that I would be prayed for until I no longer required medication”. Or “I believe that you’ll be off your medication in a year”. I’m sure these people were well intending, but to me it sounded like my faith wasn’t enough. That it was my fault I needed medication due to some lack in spiritual superiority. Church also taught me that sex was not good. I remember hearing a leader say in a boys bible study “it’s okay to want these things”. Where as in my girls bible study, we were taught that wanting sex was disgusting. If this sexual shaming wasn't enough, a woman once told us how she'd told her daughter to not hang out with another girl “because she’s a lesbian!”

It was such nurturing environment: catering to physical, mental, and spiritual growth. (Groan.) 

When I made the observation that I did not fit into the church as I was: I decided to attempt distancing myself from the Christian stereotype, and, at the same time, maintain a sense of spirituality that made me feel good about my existence in the world. So I began to slowly abandon the church in search of a more authentic self by experimenting with life and all of its adrenaline inducing features.

I've allowed myself to read the “evil” books that I've wanted to read, watch the “bad” things that I've wanted to watch, do the “sacred” and "filthy" things that I've wanted to do. I've let myself take medications without fear of going to hell for not believing enough in God’s all-healing powers. I've let myself be okay with same-sex couples getting married (because love is love and isn’t that what Jesus was all about?) And, in turn, be okay with my own girly attractions and my sexuality as a whole (apparently ladies can be sexual beings – who knew?) I’ve even allowed myself to open my own Pottermore account without any fear of eternal damnation. (I’m in Slytherin, and I’m convinced God loves Tom Riddle just as much as he loves anyone else. Voldy’s just a little misunderstood and seeks acceptance. In fact, aren’t all Death Eaters in want of a little validation?)

Once I’d overcome the initial fears of becoming a black sheep; I realised how many other black sheep there are out here. There are even loving and accepting black sheep Christians who will celebrate the unavoidably vibrant differences of humankind. It's nice to know that the flock of black sheep is the most colourful.