up and up into the light (+ an update)

me… literally sparkling!

Two months ago, I was dug deep, dug dark, lost in a hole from which I could see almost no way out.

Two months ago I began a journey, a dogged, determined journey to claim wellness, to make my way out of the hole.

Eight weeks ago, I wasn't sure I could ever make it out or up. Some days I simply could not see how to make it into the light.

Just eight weeks ago.


Today, here I am.

Out. Up. In.

And it's unbelievably gorgeous here.


Oh, there have been dips and spills. Aren't there always? But I am coming to see that these hard moments, stumbles, anxious minutes, dark memories or trials are just moments. They just 'are.' They are no more powerful than days of shine.

And my days have, quite simply, come to feel like a river, flowing. All moments flowing on. And when I talk of this feeling, I literally move my hands, like a ribbon, like a snake, like a river. I do it all the time; I keep doing it.

Because life has come to feel…like water.



And I know I've mentioned before what I've been doing to make my way out and up and in, but I've realised the core of my wellness boils down to four simple things:

I have moved my body. I have talked. I have eaten, and I have breathed. It sounds too simple, I know. And in many ways it isn't simple—to remind and encourage myself to move, to take time to be still and focus on the breath, to create meals that are good all the way through, and to talk to others and ask for help. But it hasn't been nearly as complicated as I thought it might be.

I move my body, every day.

I focus on the breath, and take moments of stillness, every day.

I eat delicious and healthy food I have mindfully prepared, and take natural supplements I believe work well.

I talk with people who care and those I love.

And these things have simply (and not so simply), made me well. They have given me joy.


So much so,

that I decided to have myself a little adventure.

I entered a triathlon!

Yep. I really did.

I'd been exercising every single day for two months—swimming, walking, and bike riding. Two weeks ago, a friend mentioned she was going in a local triathlon. And at some point in the conversation she said, "You know, Helena, you could totally do this. You're basically doing a triathlon every week when you exercise. It wouldn't be that hard at all."

I came up with at least three reasons why I shouldn't. She came up with three answers why I totally could.

And I thought, "Oh, why not. Why not?!"

"Yes" came leaping out at me. Or perhaps I leaped at it?

So I've been 'training' extra hard the last couple of weeks. Walking plus swimming, riding longer, that sort of thing. Excitement has been building until yesterday morning, the day of the race. I wrote on my Facebook wall: "It's like Christmas, and exams and a surprise party all at once! Happy butterflies. :) "

I drove before dawn to the race start. There was the dark freeway, white road stripes coming into view like rabbits, running. Lights of the cars in front glowed red. Quietly, and alone, I moved through the dark.

But then I looked to my right. There, gliding beside me in the simple night, was the moon. Full. Peaceful. Sending love. How full I felt in that moment. How grateful. How utterly filled with Grace.

We registered as the sun rose. Stripped down to swimsuits and bare feet and oh! the grass was so cold. We stood talking, all these women and men—all of us smiling, connecting, giving support, arranging ourselves, our gear, our bikes, our minds, to Be Ready.

And then it came. The race! The start! The beginning! Just before the horn blew I stood at the water's edge with my hand shading the sun, breathed in, and quite suddenly,

felt calm to my bones.

8.33 a.m. and there I am, second from left!
(all photos taken by my lovely husband, hooting and clapping along with my kids.
They cheered me almost every stroke, step, and cycle of the way)

The water felt beautiful. Really. It felt like swimming hard, and not swimming. Like moving but not moving, like gliding and racing and powering forward and floating. At some point I felt like I was alight. Alive, truly, and completely. Utterly occupying my own true self.

there I am in the front (but not in the lead, no no), sort of almost running

We got out of the water and I was like, 'Oh! More race? More to do? Really, you say?' 

I think I smiled through that whole bike ride. Couldn't stop. Could not stop thinking, Wow. I'm really here. Riding. Claiming. Moving. FLYING.

Somewhere in the third leg of the ride, a woman zoomed up and glanced over at me. She did an immediate double take, and called out, "WHY are you grinning?!" I didn't even know I was. I couldn't stop. I couldn't help myself. The joy just kept busting out.

The run leg was funny. Because I was the only one walking. I thought there'd be others, but no. Me walking, being overtaken, literally, by everyone. The old, the young, the infirm: off they all went! I thought, 'Should I run?' Then I thought, 'No. I would rather not. It's so beautiful here. Look! There's the sea. There are surfers. Dog walkers. Children. And the sky is so blue. The sun so warm.' I walked and smiled at everyone I saw.

I crossed the finish line and my cheeks hurt from smiling. My whole body was filled with joy. I was so happy.

9.26 and I'm done!
And in the spirit of full disclosure I have to tell you: I came last.
Totally utterly, gloriously smilingly last*. 

Ah.

What a beautiful day.

What an incredible journey.

What an extraordinary life.




.


* the results came out today. Turns out I didn't, in fact, come last. I came 6th last, or 330th out of 335 awesome triathletes. Well. That changes everything! Might enter the Olympic-level race next…  :)

hello, Life

How beautiful.

It keeps hitting me.

As the sun rises and casts the day into warmth that goes deep, so deep.

As the mountains lift up and up, and the trees glow green.

As the water hits when I leap with my whole self, my whole heart

straight in without pausing to think of the cold.


As the car whooshes the known road home, children chattering in the back seat, sun on my skin, radio on, husband beside and every window down,

and I put out my hand, out into the warm wind and let it ride and leap like a dolphin.


As I sit on the lake in summer rain, in a canoe,

and all around is blue and dusky green

As my daughter sits in her own small boat marvelling at the feel of the water on her flat fingers

As we lift up and down on this big blue powered by only our own hands, our own dreams.

As I laugh with a friend in a chair and she speaks of her shoulder angels,

As her children and mine play for hours, never tiring, never ceasing to love being, simply, Together.


As I listen to a song never heard before, sitting at the computer with the kids standing beside,

and the tears just come.

As the tears come forth with joy, with joy,

As my children smile and touch my shoulder and stay so close,

As they say, Oh Mum. Mum. We love you.


As I ride the bike hard and feel my skin and my sweat and my feet moving under me

As I walk along the beach path with my son early in the morning, and he chats like a bird in my ear, calling like a song

As I lie at night with the window wide open, door wide open, listening to the breath of the man I love, and the whirr of the fans in the children's bedrooms


As I swim and swim, and feel how the water slides along the line of me,

As my hands carve my own, good path through the water, marking, pointing, guiding, claiming.


As I walk with a new-washed dog and he finds the Just Right patch of grass in the park to roll and roll in

As his tail swipes wildly from side to side and his tongue lolls out,

And he smiles up at me,

as if to say,

Isn't it just wonderful?

The feel of this? This light? This sun? This Earth? This Life?

Isn't it?


It is,


it is.

Wonderful.

Written to the soundtrack of James Vincent McMorrow.

Recently discovered just two days ago on a car ride, with the radio on and windows down, with my hand riding the wind. Wind made by moving, by taking life with both hands, by claiming it for my Very Own.

a step back…then forward

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Sometimes you begin the climb without realising. 

Suddenly you look up and all around

and see what you have begun.

It's startling. It's scary. 

Do you turn back? 

You want to, badly.

Go to the comfort of all you know, the easy paths, 

the ones without overhangs or slippy bits, 

or those cliff edges where you look down and see the drop below.

You don't want to look up, and see the rise and rise…

the endless, impossible rise…

of where you need to go.

Sometimes it's a conscious choice.

You begin to climb because if you don't, you're already falling. 

You climb because staying here, in this place, doesn't work. 

The climb begins 

and it's extraordinary how quickly you feel terrified.

The incredible heights! The drop below! 

Unreachable! Impossible!

Fear fills your chest and hurts it. 

You weep at night with your husband. 

You say, I don't know what's ahead. 

What if I don't make it? What if I fall? 

When will it be better?

He says, There's no rush. 

He says, There's no time limit on "better." 

He tells you a good, simple story, and it speaks of small steps. 

Steps taken with faith, with openness, with hope. 

His words slow you, stop the fall.

He sits with you. He scoots his chair forward so your knees can touch,

so his hands can touch, 

so you can see his face and his eyes connecting with yours. 

His eyes and hands and heart hold you. 

You begin to breathe.

You look up again. And around.

And,

at the path in front of you.

Not at the height above or the drop below 

but at the path, here

where you are walking,

now. 

All you have to do 

is take a single step.

Then

another. 

•

Yesterday was my first session with a new therapist. 

Later, at night, when the dark loomed and monsters began to shift and creak under the beds,

the past opened like jaws and wellness seemed suddenly out of reach.

But there was a man, and he listened and told a story,

and sometimes that's all it takes for you to lift your head again. 

Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

These words, from the glorious movie The Princess Bride, have been flying around my head for the past week, as I've wondered what to write here, in this space.

How to 'splain? How to describe the past month? How to describe moving out from the white water ride that has been my journey through severe depression and crippling anxiety, into the mostly-smooth water that seems to be my Now?

Well, there really is too much—so, so many tiny details. Steps back, steps forward, steps back again. So, let me (try to) sum up.


I'm heading into better.

I've spent the last month head-down, treating an illness that I've realised is real, and can be as life-threatening as any I've heard of. Sound kind of melodramatic? Not when I look back at what Rock Bottom was like. It was terrifying. I didn't end up in hospital, but I got close. I didn't try to leave off being, but I got close.

Yup. Terrifying.

And it was heartbreaking too, because I have an amazing family. Like, extraordinary. And I have love. Gobs of it. To feel so bad with the life I have—that told me this was an illness. To have doctors and counsellors calling almost every day, to have a mental health team come to my house, then call every few days to check in, a team who got concerned if I didn't call back—that cemented it.

I have always known logically that depression is an illness, but looking back, I think I believed I could just will it away. When the signs started to appear again, I thought, "I'll just flip it. I'll just think of the good things; I will find the joy. And if I want it to disappear, then it will." Poof! Gone! Magic.

Not so simple.

I have been very ill with a very real illness. It's all encompassing—it's chemical, neurological, psychological, physical, and environmental. It's not something I can just wish away. And I'll probably always be dealing with it. For the rest of my life, I will always have to monitor and keep up my seratonin levels, exercise exercise exercise, eat right, and check in with a counsellor or doctor on a regular basis. If I stopped all the treatment and self-care I've set up, I am certain I would get sick again. Maybe not immediately, but sometime.

But I am one of the lucky ones: this is treatable. Isn't that amazing? That's what the psychiatrist said—This is treatable. It is fixable. Those were such welcome words.

The best part? By treating this illness, by asking for help and doggedly claiming wellness, I get to be part of the grand adventure that is "Saving My Life." Yes, it feels that big. Hand in hand with kind others, I am saving it.

And every single day, I am finding my way out.

It feels…it feels…?

Like waking up.



These are some of the things I've been doing to find my mostly smooth water, to find my mostly better.

These are my small steps forward:

First, I asked for help.

I have spoken to doctors, counsellors, naturopaths, acupuncturists, and psychiatrists.
I've talked about everything with my husband.
I've explained things simply to my kids, so they aren't confused or scared.
I've talked to friends and family, and let them know how much they mean to me.
I have reached out. The support has been unfailing, and incredible.

I go see a psychiatrist every week. 

He's the kind of capable that feels like someone is literally holding a net beneath me. His office is in the oldest building in my town. It's gorgeous. It has a wraparound veranda and an inner courtyard filled with ferns, lush plants, and a huge old fig tree; its branches reach out like the curved arms of a dancer. So beautiful.

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I should mention: My psychiatrist has assessed me thoroughly, and last week said that I do not have Bipolar Disorder II. I have all sorts of other medical-sounding labels, but I don't have that. Howabout that. Howabout that?

I'm about to start treatment with a clinical psychologist. 

He specialises in anxiety, and does something called ACT — Acceptance Commitment Therapy. It's based on mindfulness—a lot like meditation is based on mindfulness—and that's about all I know, for now. But I have so much hope for it. I hope it'll help me mend the breaks inside me, the ones I've kept blocked and locked forever. (Think of someone holding their hands to their ears and saying, La! La! La! La! for oh, about 35 years.)

I have begun natural therapies. 

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Woah, acupuncture—it's been extraordinary.

On the first session, the guy stuck a pin into some magic spot and instantly I burst into tears (and no, not because it felt like an ice-pick but because it was like a tap someone had turned on, or perhaps like a fire hydrant that broke, for all the neighbourhood kids to dance around in).

The acupuncturist looked kindly at me and said, "I think you've been holding that back a long time."
As I kept on bawling, he said, "Let it out. You're in a safe place here."

Every time I get pricked and more hedgehog-like, I feel better. Each time, the effect lasts longer. At some point, the treatments will get further and further apart, and I'll only have to look like a porcupine now and then, for maintenance. That's the plan, anyway.

I'm taking a supplement that has this seratonin booster in it called 5-HTP. It's a natural seratonin replacement and it's helping. My supplement has other things too, but I can't remember the technical names, all of which help lift me up. The cool thing is, my doctor was the first to recommend it, years ago. (I love when doctors believe in, and suggest, alternative remedies. Isn't that how it should always be?)

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I'm drinking Anti-stress Ginseng tea every single day. It brings a single word into my life: Clarity. That's the word it makes me feel without fail. Clarity.

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I make a protein smoothie every day (usually), 'cos I've read that protein helps keep your seratonin up. Right now my smoothies have berries, banana, nectarine, spirulina, oat milk, and big ol' spoonfuls of pea protein powder. That's a lot of mixed colours! Mix yellow, orange, white, pink, red and dark green together, and yep, you get a dark grey smoothie. It's the look of wet concrete. Mmmm Mmmm. It's kind of like drinking wet concrete, too, but I imagine goodness going in, some kind of golden loveliness, and just like that, it turns yummy. For real.


I am exercising. 


Every day. It has been wonderful. I can say absolutely now, that exercise is a truly effective treatment for depression. Not to say it's the only solution, or that it resolves underlying traumas or suffering, but wow, it makes getting better easier. It makes living finer. Clearer. Better. Add it to your day, your every day, and you feel wellness rising. Literally.

My mum loaned me her stationary bike (longer story: she actually loaned it to my sister a year ago, who—the moment I asked to borrow it from her and knowing I was in crisis—got the bike to me the very next day. I love my family). So if I haven't gone for a brisk walk or a swim in the day, I get on the bike. I ride hard for half an hour. I drip sweat. I drip! I ride hard enough that I can't talk while I ride (unlike people in the movies who do all that chatting, flirting or plotting while they jog). It's glorious.

I go to a meditation class.

Every Monday evening I go to my class with a friend. We sit and mindfully breathe. We listen to a talk on an aspect of life, like happiness or acceptance. And then we meditate on an idea, like love, or breathing out the dark and breathing in the light. I think some sessions I've gone to sleep… but it's a peaceful almost-sleep, with the WahWah sound of the teacher's voice floating in the background like waves on a beach at night.

I am still homeschooling.

I think some people thought perhaps I should stop. Even I wondered it, briefly. But the minute the school year started and we went back into our routine, everything settled into place. We have had small weepy moments, like anyone might, but so many more good ones. We've been to the movies, we've read, we've played music and talked about dna, electron clouds, whales getting beached, learned about kittens who can glow in the dark. (True!) We even made a silent movie! (Now that was fun.)

The best part: we have SIMPLIFIED. We've stayed at home when we were expected to go out. We haven't gone to all the groups. We have let go some classes. We haven't said Yes to absolutely everything. The days have space in them again. Sweet, sweet space.

I have been listening to music. 

Which has been like curling into a lap. I put the headphones on, and I'm a cat padding my paws into the soft belly of someone, curling around and around, purring, 'til I am a warm circle. Complete, clear, contained.

(And just this moment I found this video of a song I have completely fallen in love with and listen to every day. It's such a beautiful video—gave me goosebumps.)

Iron & Wine: Boy with a Coin

Finally, I have been given a script for medication. 

I keep it in my wallet. I keep it there as my back-up plan to my back-up plan. I have accepted that if I try all these natural remedies, do all the things I've listed above, get all this help and still get sick again, I will fill that script and start taking medication again. I will not be ashamed. I will not think I have failed. 

It's like a dance, you know? (Though in the beginning it was more like a race, under water, with an anchor tied to my waist).

There are so many steps—so many of them back and back at first—then there is the slow gathering of sound and movement and that sense of rightness and tranquility…as you learn the steps you need to keep the dance going. You learn to keep upright, to move with all those around you. To keep a rhythm like a heartbeat, like a life. A good life.

You learn to move with yourself, peacefully. To see the space ahead and all around you. To feel light again. You smile to see yourself, dancing. 

•

And THANK YOU.

Such deep, big, heartfelt thanks to Karen, Simone, Deb, Lyndell, Ingi, Kim, Debra, Nikole, Susan, Jackie, Misty, Tracy, MJ, Lou, Kimberley, Joanne, Greg, Jan, Alicia, Clare, Sally and Sally, Suzie, Theresa, Hi Kooky, Jessica, Jessie, Adam. Thank you for reaching out, for your comments, your friendship, your messages of love and support. I have felt every warm hug, every smile, every kind thought and prayer. Thank you.


And thank you. To my American Mom and Dad. To my sister. My mother. My son. My daughter. My husband (who listens whenever I need to talk). My husband (who loves me unconditionally). My husband (my funny, gorgeous, inspiring man). My beautiful family. Thank you.

where I have been

Oh, there you are…!

and here I am…

and you look so far away and yet so close
because so many days have been like holding a telescope the wrong way 'round.

Making the days of splashing and beaching and camping and swimming and reading and family time and relaxing
seem so close
and so far away
all at once.

So close I can almost touch it.

So close that some days, the wall of glass lifts and I feel the good that is this, my beautiful life.

Other days…most days…
the world has moved away like it's on trolley wheels and set up stage
on the other side of the wall.

And no matter how hard I've tried, or how much I've willed it, I can't seem to make it through the glass. To feel the good and the beauty and the fine I see, right before my eyes.


This.

is depression.


This is crippling anxiety

and dim, shapeless fear.


This is fog and muddle,

hopelessness and panic and sad.


This

is the part

when the world slides away, or you think it does.

When you find you've somehow stumbled and ended up deep in the hard dark;

when you realise you are, in fact
spectacularly unwell.


This,

is when you call for help.


You do. You do. You must.

You call for the counsellor. 

She in turn calls the Black Dog Institute to see how quickly the Depression Clinic can see you. She calls you during the week to check how you are. She calls on the weekend. She says, "Call any time."

You call for the naturopath. 

She gives you herbs and checks on you within two days. She wakes up, she says, thinking about how you're doing. 

You call for the doctor.
You visit him and he in turn immediately calls an acute care mental health team. They come a few days later, visiting you at home. (Imagine a S.W.A.T team, rappelling—with the kindest eyes—through your window). They in turn call psychiatrists. They find one who can see you as soon as possible. They call you back the next day. They check up. They check in.

You call for the psychiatrist.
He is calm and calming. He suggests medication. He says, "Know this—this is treatable. There is every chance you will get better." He says you need to come see him, every week for a while.

You call for your sister.
She takes you out for the day and has you do silly things, like let her teach you salsa dancing in the movie theatre, right there in front of the screen and with all the people arriving, while you wait for the previews to start. She makes you laugh, and she listens, and together you buy matching t-shirts that you wear for the rest of the day. She drives you home when you miss your train, all the way from Sydney, a three hour round trip, just to see you home safe.

You call for your mother.
She checks in almost daily. She visits and pays attention to every word you and your children say. She says how much she loves you, loves you, loves you.

You call for your children.
You talk of worry holes and how they can grow. You tell them that you are sick, and getting treatment, just like someone with diabetes, or a broken leg. Then you tell them you have to cancel a promised, planned, so-exciting overseas trip to see family, because you are so unwell. And they understand. They understand. They love you, love you, love you. Love pours from their sweet hearts.

You call your husband's family overseas.
Well, your husband does. He tells them the trip is postponed. He says, "But we love you so much." And they say, with immeasurable kindness, "We love you so much too. We understand. Just work on getting better." You feel their love palpably; it flies all the way over the desert, over the ocean, right there to you.

Most importantly,
you call for your husband.

And, with trumpets blaring, he comes riding in. There, do you see him? On his white steed, galloping. Armour resplendent. Spear raised. Flag flying.
He comes for you.
He is there, every single moment you need him. He is your white light. Your saving grace. Your true love.



And there are more calls you can make.

To friends—you remind yourself you have them. They will come—you know they will—when you call.

You have the sea too, and the mountains, and the rain.

The dog, who lies on your feet by the couch. The kitten, who lets you lie next to her and hold her paw. The frogs, who have made a home in your pond. The cat, who lets you kiss the top of his head.

Online friends. There they all are: she and she and he and she. Here is love and care and kindness, waiting.


And yourself, of course. You have you.

Calling out,
and keeping on calling.

You tell yourself: Remember, please.

The sky at dusk. How your body feels after a swim or a bike ride. How the sun feels. How the clouds look as they tumble over and over themselves, riding the mountain. The sound of rain on the roof. Your husband's eyes when he kisses you. The feel of your children as they come to wrap their arms around you.

Remember, please, that the fog lifts.

Believe, that it will lift again, and again, and rise until one day…
you will be so busy smiling, the skin beside your eyes crinkling,
so busy laughing with your children and cooking and learning and loving…
it will take you ages to notice the fog has completely gone.



Love to you all. 

'tis the season

Oh, it's been so busy! Hasn't it? Don't you think?

I remember a day somewhere where I lay down and had a nap. It was amazing.

Since then and before, we've been flat out.

What with? What with-n't I say!

(oh, I know that's not a word. I know)

Three story compilations edited and published into little books. One book was of stories by my lovely Tuesday writers workshop, another was of my son's stories, and another was of my girl's (along with sweet illustrations). I thought it would just take a minute to put these together. How funny!

A trip to Sydney where we got to stay in a hotel RIGHT downtown, something I'd never done before. A whole weekend of browsing, present buying, bus riding, movie making, food eating, caroling, hanging out with my mum, and running around in the hotel like silly monkeys. It was so much fun.

Creating dozens of little crocheted bookmarks to give as gifts. Another thing I thought would take just a minute!

Bike riding, on my mum's borrowed exercise bike. I'm supposed to ride it every day. When I don't feel like it, I think, well, I have to. It's part of my get-well-package, like insulin or heart pills might be. Or at least a bit like that.

Getting presents ready, especially for loved ones over in the US. Yes, you heard me right, dear people in Arizona. Your gifts are Officially in the mail!

Getting ready to host Christmas with my sister and my niece. Now the under-the-couch area has been vacuumed, along with the corners of all the rooms, where cobwebs had grown like little spring flowers. The study/guest room that used to be a study/guest room, but had become the place we folded laundry and shoved stuff when people were coming over, is now a study/guest room again. Thank you, beautiful husband. It looks so lovely I might use it as a study again. Imagine that. Plus, food has been bought. And not last minute either: like, two whole days ago. Now we are sitting and waiting for them to arrive. We are twiddling our thumbs and peering out the windows.

There's been jolly and not -so-jolly walking hand in hand. It's the anniversary of two family members passing away. There have been other difficult moments. I've seen my counsellor twice and she has been extraordinary in helping me sift, find the joy, hold it up to the light.

And there's been silly. Just plain laugh 'til you cry silly. I love that part.

We've got jingly reindeer antlers ready to wear; we've got green and red napkins that match the candles; I am planning to bake and host and play games that make our sides hurt with laughter.

I am peering out the window. The stockings have been hung with care, at the least the ones for the pets, on the exercise bike.

Let the joy rise!


And to you all, I hope this season brings love in bucketloads, and peace and the kind of smiling that hurts your cheeks.

a particular day

I almost missed this.

sunset
Samoa, December 12, 2010

With ten minutes to go of the day, I suddenly realised today is the anniversary of my dad passing away. He has been gone now for 11 years.

One year ago, we stood by a rock pool in Samoa, a deeply spiritual place, and spoke of him.

The water was so still while we were speaking. Just before my sister opened the box with his ashes inside, just as she was talking, a wave washed into the pool and lapped at my sister's ankles. 

We spread his ashes over the water. As I said goodbye to my father with my sister by my side, I finally cried. Properly, deeply, hard.

And afterwards? We threw frangipani flowers over the water. They smelled so beautiful in our hands.


Love, and peace, to you all.

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