Let's hear it for SSRI's!

I think taking control of my mental health is one of the most sensible decisions I've made all year.

I guess there's still a stigma attached to antidepressants. Maybe people see it as admitting defeat, that you're too weak to cope on your own, that you really are seriously losing the plot. I didn't *really* want to take them. My prior experiences of them weren't really the most positive. I felt like a bit of a zombie, looking at life around me through a glass box. I felt neither happy nor sad, excited nor down. I just felt...nothing. Just this disinterested observation of life around me; just going through the motions like an automaton. The only thing I could feel was a soaring libido which was annoying more than anything.

I didn't want that again, especially this time when I was about to embark on a ten week Art program for people who experienced anxiety and depression. I wanted to be able to tap into emotion and draw on it to be able to produce good art. I didn't want my art to be a reflection of disinterested observation.

But I knew I needed something to help me undertake some necessary changes in my life. Mental health is just as important as physical wellness. Let's face it, if you presented to a doctor with a broken leg the doctor wouldn't just say, "Cheer up! Things will get better! Just keep going and your leg will get better eventually!" No! You'd be treated, your leg set and encased in a cast and you'd be given a pair of crutches to help you get around until your leg totally healed. Perhaps you'd even be sent off to a physiotherapist to help with the healing.

So why do we think that when we have a broken heart, or broken emotions and an overwhelmed mind we should just carry on? We shouldn't! For me, I knew that I was on the right road, but with my current mental circumstances I was easily going to get overwhelmed and just keep traipsing around in the wilderness, never fully healing, never getting anywhere. So I went to my doctor and I told her where I was at, told her all the practical things I was doing to help myself heal, explained how I felt on the last course of antidepressants, and together we formulated a plan to help me on the road to holistic health.

This time I've been dedicated to it. I've stayed consistent with my medication, my exercise plan, my diet and building relationships. The medication has helped me balance everything. I'm not a zombie looking through a plate of glass. I can feel all emotion but it doesn't overwhelm me like before. I can plan and think logically. I still tear up at touching, emotional scenes in movies and at beautiful, joyous moments in my own life. I feel more like ME - and I like it.

So, that's the reason why Lexapro is my friend right now and one of the most sensible things I've done for myself this year. I hope one day I'll be healed enough to be weaned off it but for now it's part of my daily routine. I like the way it's helped me through an incredibly trying year. I like the way it's helped me give myself a break and enabled me to learn that I am ok just as I am.

Teenage wasteland

I think one of the hardest things about being a parent sharing the same genetic difference as your children is watching them experience the same things as you did as a teen, remembering how hard and hurtful it was and feeling powerless to "save" them from it.

I've come to the conclusion that childhood/teenage friendships can be as fragile as gossamer thread as well as being wonderful and fun. When it's all good you feel good and strong and happy, but when things are in their fragile, changeable state you feel alone, as if the whole world is against you, worthless, unloveable.

For the first three years of her Secondary School life, my youngest daughter has enjoyed a happy friendship with another girl she met in Year 7. Both of them share the same name but they've developed pseudonyms for each other - Bailey and Riley. I forget who is who.

Unfortunately this year, their friendship has been tested with my daughter having to have a good part of first and second term off due to her spinal surgery. Then when she did return to school it was for half days. It's only been in this final term has she been able to go full time.

In the natural progression of things, the other G has had to develop other friendships in my G's absence. These friendships have now replaced the one she had with my G and now she's feeling left out as her friend now chooses to spend her free time with the new friends in an area of the school grounds that is inaccessible to my G. Naturally my G is dreadfully hurt and spends her days at school alone, trying not to look alone by looking busy and purposeful, as though she has somewhere to go and something important to do.

I remember those days. I hated those days. They were the loneliest days of my life. It's hard being in an environment where being part of the crowd and feeling like you belong is of utmost importance and you feel as though you are invisible or, even worse, an outcast. It wasn't until I was in Year 11 that I found a friend who stuck around, who bonded with me just as much as I bonded with them. Alas, we drifted apart as adults.

G and I have talked about everything. I have listened to her hurt and wanted to be able to help in some way, to do something, to make it all better. I also have to remember that I am only getting my daughter's side of the story and, although it is valid, it doesn't make up the whole truth. I have to remember that, as painful as it is, this is the way it has been for teenagers since the beginning of time and my daughter's experiences are shared by billions of other teens - disabled or otherwise - all around the world.

G is a reader and gains inspiration and hope from others who have gone before her. Yesterday she told me that she "had a crap day" but found this little gem from one of her literary heroes:

"Getting socially outcast can be the best and most informative thing that can ever happen to you because you have to learn who you are separate from the pack."
- Ezra Miller

Reading this encouraged her. This experience has opened the doors for many deep conversations between the two of us, and with her siblings. We talk about the value of learning about who you are, learning what you like and what you don't, what your passions are, what your goals are, learning that you are OK on your own. Being OK with being alone but not lonely.

Today she said to me, "When I find a boy, I want him to make me feel pretty before he makes me feel sexy." So I told her that the most important thing was to know that she was pretty without someone telling her that she was. After telling her that though I then went on to tell her she was beautiful, inside and out - because she is. Very much so.

I think my girl is on the right track. She'll be ok.

In the woods.

With the events of the past week and my reactions to them I've realized that although I'm in a good space at the moment I'm not entirely out of the woods yet.

Fragile stability I guess you'd call it.

The desire to isolate has been strong this week. I realize it is a reaction to perceived angst, criticism and disappointment. I've become unsure, hyper-sensitive and slightly anxious. Again, I realize that some of this is also hormonal which is why I've also committed to giving it some time to balance out before I start looking at seeking help.

I don't want to see my family most of all, because they are the ones I want to please the most...and somehow I feel as though I am failing them or letting them down or disappointing them, which heightens my anxiety.

And that mirrors my relationship with J. I wanted to please him more than anyone. HIS acceptance of me was of critical importance and if I felt I didn't have it the anxiety would soar and I'd feel as though I had to find the ONE THING that would secure that for me. But now he's not here anymore and I've found that that insane need has transferred to my birth family. I don't feel it with my kids. At all. Being my nutty self with them is easy. They accept it and I feel their love easily reciprocated.

So the intense desire to escape is what I feel right now. Where I don't have to perform and prove and seek...or even make decisions that may affect others, although as a mother I know that they do. Even if I act on the need to escape and G and I take off for a while and take a year off & she does some natural learning, exploring, self research and enquiry, this will have an impact on her, whether it be now or somewhere down the track....

Not out of the woods yet, but at the same time I recognize that this is all part of the journey. I'm still discovering things and with each discovery comes an opportunity to face the issue and learn how to deal with it. It's all part of moving forward. It's not a step back.

Half a story, half a picture doesn't mean a whole truth.

Amongst my siblings and I we haven't had much of the above picture as adults. As kids, yes, but with there being seven of us you just found someone else to play with while you forgot about what the problem was and then you were friends again.

Dynamics change as you get older...and you add partners into the mix who come in with their own ways of doing things, own preconceived ideas, own ways of looking at life, own baggage. What was once a fairly functional, non-functional way of doing things and relating with your family of origin eventually becomes something that is questioned and challenged by the new-comers.

The hardest thing to deal with is when people only get half a story and half a picture and they come to a conclusion which becomes a whole truth. Offence is taken, feelings are hurt, accusations are hurled and the "innocent" party is left with their head spinning wondering, "Where the hell did that come from?" The hardest part is when the offended party refuses to communicate, refuses to hear an explanation, refuses even to hear a genuine, heart-felt apology for being unthinking and perhaps a little insensitive. Everything just gets blown out of all proportion and the event that was the cause of the angst is now tainted because of the offence taken.

How often do we all form our own truths from half a picture, half a story and a whole lot of assumption? Whatever happened to believing the best in people?

Total midlife crisis?

No, I don't think so.

It's more about me exploring things, letting go of long-held conventional thoughts, looking within and finding what I think and believe.

I don't feel bound by anything anymore.

So, I did this. It may adorn my face for the rest of my life; it may stay a couple of months. (Hope it's longer. I paid $55 for this baby!)

Maybe this is just my own symbolic gesture of being free.

I heart my body

I didn't always used to heart my body.

In fact, I hated it.

As a child I couldn't have cared less. See, the fact that I had achondroplasia meant nothing to me. Sure, I was littler than everyone else my age. Most times I was littler than kids younger than me; but I could play and run and ride my bike and swim and climb trees and do pretty much everything that kids did at that age back in the 70's. God they were great times!

But then the teenage years hit, and hormones were let loose and there were changes in my body. And those changes were causing someone who was remaining the height of a 7 year old for the rest of her life, to develop the chest, hips and thighs of a woman.

And although I was in no way fat, to me it LOOKED fat, because all that womanliness on thighs that were less than 30cm long...well...it looks bigger than it really is.

Sometimes there were insensitive things said by people who I loved and admired:

"Little people shouldn't wear bikinis."
"Little people don't look good with long hair."
"You have short, fat feet."
"I'd be worried if a tall man/boy showed an interest in you because I'd wonder what they were after."
"Don't worry Leisa. Your brothers and sisters might beat you in height but you'll beat them in width."

So that left me with the impression that I was a freak, ugly, fat & not worthy of an "average" statured persons love - or anyone's really.

As a result I developed a pretty intense eating disorder, characterized by restricting what I ate, purging and intensive exercise. I continued this even as a young mother. My weight dropped to a tiny 31kg, my periods ceased...and I wasn't happy, because the need to be super skinny consumed my every waking moment.

I don't know what made me turn the corner. All I knew was that I couldn't go on like that anymore...and I wanted another baby. So I sought help. I talked to a professional. She wasn't the greatest counsellor in the world, but she helped.

And I began to realize that I was trying to change proportions that could never be changed. I would always look as though I "have junk in my trunk" because I have the stocky build of a person with achondroplasia...and that won't change.

Now, at the age of 45 I can honestly say that I heart my body. I am 36-37 kg - just where I should be. I am strong. I am healthy. I have taken up jogging and I just love it because it's "my thing". Through jogging my cardio fitness has improved so much, I am lean, I am strong.

I have the soft belly of a woman who has had the wonderful experience of carrying and growing four beautiful people. I love my belly with it's softness, pliability and the silvery stretch marks that serve as a reminder of my growing babies.

I watch my face as time carves it's lines and I see my skin bearing similar lines that adorn the faces of my beautiful parents...the two people I admire most on this earth. Although the aging process is confronting at times I am grateful that I have lived long enough to have these lines. I smile and watch my face crinkle and hope that the lines I bear when I'm an old, old lady are the deep smile lines of someone who has laughed and loved and lived.

I still have "junk in my trunk" but I love it. I am alive, strong, healthy. My body does everything I need it to do and I reward it by nurturing it with good food, an appropriate amount of exercise, plenty of sleep and relaxation. I keep my hair the way I want to - it's been super long and looked great. At the moment it's super short and looks great too. I wear what makes me feel good, regardless. This summer I'm going to be in a black bikini simply because I heart my body and wearing one makes me feel good, womanly and sexy. Maybe I'll still be wearing bikinis for another 20 years! Who knows?

But one thing I do know is that I now love my body, my little, achondroplastic body. I live in it and it's served me well. I'm proud of it. It may have taken 40 years to get to this place, but I'm here now and it's a wonderful place to be.

The pull of home.

As I headed down the South Gippsland Highway yesterday I felt the old, familiar tug of my heart that tells me I'm going home. Past the rolling green hills, through the little townships that are so pretty with their huge flower plots in the middle of the road and their sweet little shops and houses, around the windy roads through lush, green bush. The roads are so familiar, even though I haven't driven myself very often. I remember riding them with my family, my Dad at the wheel. Still, yesterday I felt sure of the way; my heart being the navigator. This was the country I was born in, the places my brothers and I explored, the place that my heart longs for and has done for so long. Thirty four years of longing...

And it's the place to which my parents are returning. I think they've always longed for it too. I received news on Thursday that they had bought a fully furnished little cottage in McLoughlin's Beach - 20 minutes out of Yarram, where they both grew up, went to school, worked, got married and had the first five of their seven children. They're going back home and I haven't seen them so excited for a very long time. Yarram will be their closest town. They will do their grocery shopping there, go to church there. I'm so happy for them.

I visited them yesterday down in Port Welshpool where they are preparing my Nanna's house (Dad's mother, who died 14 years ago) for sale. It is the right decision. The house would need too much work for my parents to live in. Over the 14 years that my Nans defacto was living there he allowed it to disintegrate to an apalling state. The bathroom wasn't cleaned one so the walls were black with mould, the soap scum in the shower was so thick that Dad had to scrape it off with a paint scraper. And the junk! Nan was a terrible hoarder. Some of the things would have been quite valuable at some stage, but things haven't been kept well and they've been allowed to rust and rot and break till there's no point keeping them. Sad really.

Nans house is a mystery to me. It stirs memories that I can neither understand nor make sense of. They come from somewhere dark where I think the little me of back then filed them away so I wouldn't have to think of them. Memories of people I choose not to think of too much, names I'd rather not remember, a dark night with a howling wind. I can't make sense of the memories, so I choose not to. Always have. I think it's better this way.

I took Mum and Dad for a drive into Port Albert. I wanted to see the boats and the jetty, another place that holds golden memories. It was beautiful. We ran into my Dad's brother Bill, who we found dozing in his car, watching the water & the boats. My Uncle Bill is a fisherman, always lived boats and fishing and the ocean. He told us that he's been having trouble sleeping, so he heads down to the jetty to watch the sea & the boats and it soothes him to sleep. The pull of the ocean is strong.

We drove into Yarram and passed a house that my Nanna's best friend owned. My mother, my brothers and sisters and I stayed there for a week once while the woman was on holidays. Yesterday I told Mum, "There were ghosts in that house." She kind of scoffed at it, but I know it to be true. Children know these things. My Nanna's friend had lost two sons quite tragically. All of us kids could feel them in the house. It was a sad house.

I'm sure that one day the pull of the ocean and the rolling green hills will take me back there again. The yearning has always been there, since I was eleven years old and we moved here. I'm looking forward to it. No plans as yet but somehow I know that I'll be there one day. My parents look content and happy. Dad looks flat out excited. The stories just poured from him yesterday and the hope was once again shining in his eyes.

Another golden day.