Anxious and grateful

General Anxiety Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, depression: I wouldn’t wish them on anyone, yet they have shaped considerably the person I am – someone I am generally relatively happy with, even kinda proud of. So it’s difficult to say I don’t appreciate being born with a little faulty wiring and, more so, what I’ve learned through fixing it.

To be appreciative does seem somewhat dismissive, insulting even, to the many victims of mental illness and those who haven’t made it through yet; even to my past self. I’m only appreciative because I finally can be. I didn’t need to waste so many hours – accumulating to years – on unnecessary worry to reach this appreciation, but it is what it is.

Having depression forced me to work out how to be happy; crippling anxiety left me with no choice but to finally embrace uncertainty. I feel like I wound up more relaxed and happy than a lot of people out there in this chaotic world who have no underlying mental health issue. The fact I will probably always be somewhat vulnerable to anxiety helps me to not take it for granted too much.

Everyone feels some level of stress, doubt and anxiety sometimes. Most people don’t require intervention, but they’re no good for any of us. So perhaps those of us that have had to learn how to keep these things in check might actually be better placed to deal with the everyday crap that gets people down than the so-called ‘mentally healthy’! Hooray!

And is it just me, or do some of the best perspectives and lessons on life come from people who have had struggles with their mental health? Maybe it’s because they tend to be more comfortable (or at least familiar) with curiosity, sadness and uncertainty – all healthy and essential, in their appropriate form. Maybe I just relate to them more.

Yet, so often do these people tend to be deep and considerate thinkers that I am genuinely let down when someone who has come through depression or anxiety turns out to be a crap person. I’m generalising, but only because it’s generally true.

Occasionally I do wonder how much anxiety held me back, what I missed out on as a result or how my life might be different. How much more capable and knowledgeable would I be, how much more could I have absorbed, if I had paid attention to the people, words and world around me rather than the constant, disruptive pulse of anxious thought in my head; if my mind processed information rather than obsessive, worried thoughts?

It’s interesting to consider but pointless to lament. I’m more interested in how it still affects my thinking (changing thought processes can take a while, ok) and continuing my improvement.

Yes, I would have a lot of strong advice for my 10-27 year old self, but regrets and wishes are a waste of energy, and without the experience I’d have no advice to give on how to live a better life.

The most important thing I learned was to let go of unnecessary, unconstructive thoughts and feelings that hold you back. It’s not just good for dealing with the irrational fear of an anxious mind but a bunch of other stupid things like cynicism, hate, anger, frustration, restlessness, etc. So, having pretty much dealt with the irrational fears, I’m using my new skills to try and let go of those other things a little more – especially cynicism and restlessness (procrastination).

On Saturday I had a chat to one of my yoga instructors after class. I lamented the fact that I haven’t been able to get back into the routine of going to 6am classes for almost 12 months now.

“Just do it,” she said, inadvertently quoting that fantastic bastardised phrase.

And I know that I can.

The doubt I have about whether I will actually do it tomorrow, the uncomfortable feelings that will urge me to make the stay in bed another couple of hours, the discontent mind that tries to convince me it is not ready to face the day – all of these things mean nothing and will pass. I know that for a fact. It is a very basic example of what I have learned about how the mind works but it is, in short, why I’m grateful for my now-minimised anxiety.

Though I’ve been thinking about all this for a while, I must acknowledge partial inspiration by a post Anita Heiss published on her blog about being grateful for depression.

Meeting Tweeple People - Attending my first "Wonk drinks"

“I did something a little out-there and weird on Fridaynight,” I admitted to a friend on Sunday during a round of golf. “I met up witha bunch of people from Twitter for drinks.”

“That is weird,” he agreed.

“What the fuck?” Iretorted … silently (body language is 55% of communication).

It’s not weird. I only said it was to be self-deprecating anddemonstrate my insecurity and lead you into reaffirming validation that I’ddone something cool. You oblivious arsehole!*

Rewind a week or two. I’ve heard about ‘Wonk Drinks’. I don’treally know what it means but I know some interesting people I follow onTwitter, some who are even kind enough to regularly interact with me, mayattend. I think it’s based around politics. I think, given I’m all aboutpushing my comfort zone and getting out there (sometimes) perhaps I should liketo go along. So I tweet this thought, hoping someone will encourage me to go(validation). This happens. Hooray, I will ‘know’ TWO people attending.

The saying goes that Twitter is where you meet people youwant to have a drink with, and Facebook is the place you know people you want tothrow a drink at. I am finally going to properly test this theory. Welltechnically I have, and the first part passes because I’m going to a drinksevent; I am yet to throw a drink at a Facebook friend but just give me the chance…

People at work on Friday ask my weekend plans; I say nothingof the wonks the same way nobody used to talk about online dating. Plus beingbased around politics adds another level of social judgement.

I look up thedefinition of ‘wonk’. I am immediately intimidated. What have I gotten in for.Better do some reading. I don’t.

Friday 5pm rolls around and I consider my strategy. Meetingpeople is scary. A socially awkward introvert by nature, this will not bewithin my comfort zone. Hell that’s partly why I use Twitter to engage withpeople, so why am I even doing this?!

Meeting people is dangerous. The initial liberating,unshackled obscurity of not really knowing your followers, which allowsrelatively unrestrained truth – one of the great joys of Twitter – would likelybe reined in a little further. Necessarily constructed and scarcely informed illusionsof who these people are in my mind will be shattered by reality.  If these are terrible people I will leave andstart a new Twitter account in the morning. But I am still excited to go, or atleast excited to have been. And Ishould go, it’s good for me to push my boundaries.

So my strategy. Well it starts at 6pm and I figure I havetwo options – safely  early or safelylate. There is no ‘safely on time’. Early means a good half hour ahead of time,with a book to read and hoping the first attendees realise what I’m there forand take me under their wing. Assuming they are nice people, it’s an easy in.It also gives time to warm up (drink down). But I don’t know the pub set up orwhere they’ll congregate.

Late means ensuring I arrive after my known ‘tweeps’ –possibly leaving at least one of them out to dry for my own security – to ensureI have a  conversational entry point. Ihate small talk and can never think of anything to say and will likely standacross the room against the wall with a beer in one hand, pretending to use thephone with the other, figuring out how to get amongst the group in the leastembarrassing way. So really I should challenge myself and arrive on time, but Ireally don’t wanna look like a dick.

On the tram at I check the #melbwonkdrinks hash tag for anyactivity, particularly from my tweeps. It’s on. One of my friends is there, theother on the way in, just ahead of me I think. As the tram pulls up at PigdonStreet I look up and am surprised to find it has arrived at Pigdon Street, andrush towards the rear door where a man is disembarking. He looks over hisshoulder at me and I try to look like I’m not stalking him.

He looks familiar. Could he be Ross? I’ve only seen an old thumbnailpic of this guy and I don’t wanna look like a dick so I leave my earphones inand we stand in the middle of the road waiting to cross east from the tramstop. I think he’s wondering what I’m wondering. We walk towards the pub. Okay,this is probably him so … I walk ahead to save the awkwardness, especially ifwe wind up tweeting at each other.

I cross to the north side of the road and look back to seehim on his phone. A minute later my Twitter friend Ross has tweeted at me andour mutual friend Steph that he thinks he and I were standing next to eachother at the lights, both too embarrassed to ask. I look up and wait for him tocome to my side of the road and meet my first Tweep in real life.

Not weird at all!

And! Now I am entering with a friend; I have a wing man! Weenter and Steph recognises us. Wow, thank God.

We have a lovely chat that barely touches on politics earlyon. Then I meet others; some I follow, some I don’t – none follow me. Not thatthis matters, for here we are real people! And rarely do we all avoid Twitterfor so long at the same time! Many are not really what I imagined, because whatI imagined wasn’t real – especially for those without facial images online. Iwonder what those who did know of me are thinking now, compared to how I comeacross online. I should ask, but I don’t really think to.

Some of these people truly know their shit. I will notdebate these people. I will offer opinions and listen intently to a range offascinating conversations, and possibly look like a fence-sitter but I amtaking it all in, mulling it over. I could just listen while sipping on my pintall night. Such an interesting collection of “strangers”; how else does thishappen these days but for something like Twitter?

Meeting people is easy. 

Maybe not normal orusual, but it’s pretty natural,people socialising with other people around a common interest. You might evencall it healthy. Sure beats sitting alone at home glued to Masterchef.

*He’s not an arsehole, this is dramatic effect.

Anxious and Catholic cathartics

Into the bin old Catholic burdens!

They are just symbols. Inanimate sculptures of metal, pieces of fabric, with no inherent meaning other than that which I choose to allow them. No magical powers. Yet a source of heavy burden for many years, a burden assigned by the mind - influenced by the world outside it - and reflected back with greater intensity as neurons fire and anxiety pulses through the brain.

For years now, they've been packed away, close but virtually non-existent. I couldn't throw them away. I don't know why, it just felt ... wrong. Out of sight to spare my mind. Left sitting in a dark place devoid of meaning.

This is the one aspect of my 15 or so years of chronic OCD that I never thought I would publicly disclose, or at least not for a long time. Honesty is fine, but some things people just don't get. It was the most absurd and personally embarrassing. But, the hell with it.

On the wall just inside the door to my bedroom at my parents house, just above the light switch and in direct line of sight, less than a metre away as you opened the door, was a crucifix. I think I received it as a First Communion gift.

I was raised a good catholic boy. God fearing. I was more superstitious than religious now I think of it, so perhaps it was inevitable that I would reject it when I realised it didn't satisfy my soul. I feared the unknown power of God, hell and religion more than anything else ever. It was so abstract and so overwhelming it was one thing my obsessively rationalising mind could not combat when anxieties kicked in. The 'what ifs' were endless. And, at times, terrifying.

I couldn't look at that crucifix much of the time for fear of thinking a 'bad thought' and feeling like I'd prayed for it. So at any time I feared I might slip into prayer (basically any time I thought about it) my thoughts went into lock down, heavy control, so I didn't inadvertently ask the almighty for something bad. Something like the Mr Stay Puft scene in Ghostbusters. Over time I developed measures of avoiding these outcomes, though each time my mind found a loop hole and they are too many and absurd to describe here. I had internal debates about what constituted praying. When did a thought become a prayer.

Religion was the bane of my life. It was made more torturous by the fact I 'knew' no one else had these concerns. Still, I couldn't rest easy or allow free thought until I was absolutely, beyond any doubt convinced four, eight or sixteen times over that I had nothing to worry about. Welcome to the world of OCD.

Thought suppression is not just essentially impossible, but counter-productive. Looking at that crucifix made me think of prayer, which brought anxious thoughts of things I didn't want to pray for, which made me try to not think those thoughts, which, of course, made it impossible to get those things out of my mind, which made me *want* to think them just for the relief, which created more tension as I desperately suppressed those thoughts more tightly, thinking in explicit, super-conscious, 'front of mind' words to avoid my worst fears potentially coming to fruition.

I got frustrated and desperately angry with myself. Often I would hit myself in the head with the heel of my hand to teach myself a lesson.

Once I threw Jesus across the room and broke his arm. I later placed him back up on the wall, a bread bag wire holding his arm on the cross, and wondered what mum and dad thought when they saw it.

As an aside, this history of religion-related OCD might also explain for my friends who were with me in Munich where I drunkenly and joyously yelled abuse at God and the Church as we stumbled home from Oktoberfest one night. It wasn't hatred so much, or even grandstanding, but a primal uninhibited release harking back all those years. Why that night, I don't know - I was happy and free of worry perhaps. It wasn't cool, but it was harmless. And it feels good to break the shackles of your oppression.

I started trying to get out of going to mass in my mid-late teens because it was such a tortorous experience. It wasn't until a few years later that I became disillusioned with the Church, and later realised I didn't really believe in it. Not believing in it was no reason not to feel the anxiety though. That went on a few more years along, or in interchange, with other fears. I still couldn't prove beyond obsessive doubt that I had nothing to worry about.

So, when I moved out, for some reason I took pieces of religious memorabilia with me. They never saw daylight, just sat in a cigar box I souvenired from my Dan Murphy's days on a shelf. A sense of foreboding unease prevented me throwing them away. I couldn't think of it, it had a bad feeling to it.

Until this weekend past. Cleaning out all the crap from my crowding bedroom I found an old communion plaque, a card from my confirmation and a scapular I wore religiously in year 8. Discarding them out was not easy, per se. I didn't want them, but there was an instinctive discomfort with throwing them out. And not because I'm a hoarder. Other than band t-shirts most other things can go when past their usefulness.

Overriding that though, was the fact they no longer reflect my identity in any way, and it was empowering to toss them. What would my parents think? It doesn't matter.

These were reminders, not of joyous times, but of pain. By throwing them in the bin, where they still sit in my room as a sustained show of strength, I'm not running from those memories but prioritising my energy and focus on things that reflect who I am. It was liberating. I felt my 15 year old self smile. I'll never forget. But I have no space for oppressive symbolism.

Anxious and travel

We're all prone to lying to ourselves sometimes to avoid uncomfortable or unpopular truths.

I reckon there is a massive myth around the way we travel. Few people ever admit to not enjoying a holiday - it’s sacrilege.

Each year over the last six years I’ve taken three-to-five weeks leave and gone on adventure, almost always overseas. Every time I’ve suffered a bout of depression and anxiety at some point for a variety of reasons – one time so bad I was painfully close to flying home a week early – but I always returned home with a smile and revelled in the photos and stories of a wonderful adventure. I do love travelling; I had just never found the right way for me. But I think I’ve cracked it.

Right now I’m in a Munich hotel, with about 24 hours left of a three-week journey through Germany and Eastern Europe, and this time I can genuinely say has been a fantastic trip; easily the most enjoyable yet. I’m not gonna lie, it hasn’t all been easy, but it’s the first time I’ve consistently forgotten what day it is; the first time I haven’t struggled to occupy my mind when travelling alone; the first time I haven’t started counting down days in anticipation of getting home (though I am now ready). Never before have I been able to so completely forget about home and my comfort zone for such long periods of time.

There are a few reasons. Partly it’s just being in a better place mentally. These trips have always been somewhat of a benchmark of where I am really at in my management of anxiety. I think I’ve kept doing it because I like challenging myself, or I’m a maniacal optimist.

But I’ve learnt from previous mistakes. This time I did things differently. I did it the way that worked for me, not how other people do it.

I mixed things up.

I started with a bang at Oktoberfest with friends, one of the craziest experiences I’ve had and one we’ll be talking about to the point of boredom for those who weren’t there as long as we hang out.

I then spent a week or so on my own. I knew I needed some relaxation, downtime and my own space on this trip. That meant taking things a bit slower that I have in the past and slashing my list of places to visit so I could enjoy those I did and relax as well as get out amongst it. In that time I splashed out and stayed in hotels. I can afford it and the trip was short enough that the extra cost was worth maintaining my sanity by paying to have my own space with the basic luxuries.

One of the lies I’ve told myself while travelling is that people always have fun in hostels - that I’ll meet people and we’ll be friends and maybe I’ll even hook up with someone and it’ll be awesome. Maybe it’s true for confident extroverts but I’m socially stunted when it comes to meeting people, lack the energy to engage with strangers, hate small talk and have had few conversations in the many hostels I’ve stayed in, let alone made friends. In fact, once I start to feel mental fatigue and the downs of travel – detachment, isolation, boredom – hostels suffocate me. I feel like there’s already friendships established so why would they want me talking to them (talking to people in the lobby these days means interrupting them while they’re checking the Facebook on the free wi-fi anyway)and I don’t sleep well from paranoia about snoring and pissing people off. I don’t want to have to flee my base to get the space I need.

I realised if I want to relax, I needed my own comfortable space. It’s not the cool or youthful way to travel, but fuck me, it worked a treat. And I was quite happy being anti-social for a week, especially while I dealt with the mind explosion that is Berlin. It also allowed me to address the single most important element in keeping my head – getting plenty of rest.

In that time I also made sure I had things to keep me occupied in my downtime that weren’t Facebook, or the internet in general. Previously I’ve thought the way to stave off boredom and anxiety was to keep a busy itinerary. But I think, for me, it’s just the opposite. Take time, and have time to myself where I have things to do. Sightseeing is the main activity, but you can’t feel guilty taking a break from it. It should be an experience not a distraction. Don’t drive yourself nuts getting to all the sights listed in Lonely Planet because you feel like you should. See what interests you. Spend a few hours reading or writing or just people watching in a bar and soaking up the vibe of a city. Whatever.

I didn’t want to spend two weeks on my own, and I know I need a bit of force to mingle with strangers, so I signed up for a tour for the following week. One that was long enough to actually get to know people, but not too long that it wore me down. In 2009 when I was ready to pay whatever it took to fly home early, the saving grace was a four-day tour of the Canadian Rockies. It got me out of my own head after a couple of weeks mentally isolated in hostels racking up a massive phone bill looking to Facebook for human connection and made me actually interact with real people.

Once past that awkward initial stage I’m a social animal. I made up for my lack of getting-to-know-you skills by never shying away from activity, especially involving that social lubricant, alcohol. After a few days you realise a few cool people actually like you and you wonder why you doubt yourself so much, because really you are pretty fucking awesome.

Now it’s over and I’m missing a bunch of random strangers who happened to pick the same tour as me that I’d never met a little over a week ago. People I had deep and diverse conversation with that I wouldn’t have with family or work colleagues, and many of whom I’ll likely never see again. I don’t have the stomach to do that over and over for a few months. At least Facebook makes it easier to either stay friends or gently slip away. 

Maybe there are lessons here for others, I don’t know. A lot of people get stressed out when they travel, much more than they’ll admit. Do be confined by how others define the experience of travel. Find your own way. It should be a fun, joyous thing. But as little as it’s ever spoken, there’s a lot of stress that can come with travel.

Modern tourists get caught up worrying about schedules and itineraries. We visit tourist sites because they’re tourist sites, take their photos and leave, not actually really enjoying it. We race from city to city to say they’ve been there so they can partake in masturbatory conversations about the best city in the world (I personally think its Berlin). Even though my travels have been largely based on it, I don’t think three or less days does any city justice, even Canberra. We see places through a camera lens, desperately trying to capture a moment for fear of forgetting it - or so it can be relayed to others (not possible unless you’re a mega creative photographer) - rather than actually immersing ourselves in it with all our senses and soaking up the atmosphere, which a camera can’t do.

Travelling alone makes you more prone to taking too many photos because you want to share all the little interesting moments with someone. I actually find it relieving when places don’t allow photos because I take it in without thinking about the camera.

I don’t care that I didn’t experience an onslaught of cities through booze-wearied Contiki eyes. Better to experience a few places properly than visit a lot briefly.

I’m not bothered that I never spent my youth travelling and/or working in Europe as seems to have become a rite-of-passage for many young Aussies. It’s great for some, it’s not for everyone and it’s sure as hell not an automatic ticket to maturity or worldliness. I know people who never left Australia that are more world-wise than others who’ve been to 20 countries. 

Travel is a fantastic learning experience though. It offers a chance to get outside your comfort zone and away from the daily grind, see different cultures, meet new and diverse people, gain perspective, learn about life and reflect on your own. Do it your own way and learn from the inevitable – sometimes painful, sometimes fun, sometimes hilarious – mistakes and it’s one of life’s greatest activities.

I’ve learnt a lot every time, and no less on this trip time, about myself and this crazy, messed up world and time I randomly find myself in.

Anxious and dating

I've never even seen Mad Men. But I like whiskey.

First dates are horrible. Two people getting to know each other, sussing out whether they want to see the other person again, while often being too nervous too reveal particularly much of their personality.

It's worse when you're predisposed to anxious thinking. Even having learnt to deal with it pretty well now, there are certain situations that deem themselves important enough to grant it power.

The doubts, the questions, the 'what ifs' - all return a little, then a lot if you let them. The pressures outweigh the prospects. The ruminations outweigh the romance.

In five years of singledom I've covered many dating scenarios - the online dating date, the friend of a friend date, the work colleague date. I've courted, been courted, rejected, been rejected. Had a couple of one-night-stands, even more one-night-spoons, even a short, intense quasi-relationship.

I don't date a lot. I don't feel the need and, well, I'm no good at it.

There are compounding factors to the whole anxiety thing. It took me a long time to be understand females. I grew up with two brothers and no sisters, went to an all-boys high school, had no real female friends through my teens (or fake ones for that matter). I had not the slightest idea of how to talk to girls. All I knew was to avoid the failsafe schoolyard conversation topics of farts, footy and gay-jokes.

I did grow up with the fantastic notion that a girl would waltz into my life, see through my crippling shyness, and make me happy, distracting me totally and perpetually from all those stupid thoughts and constant 'worrying' (later to be diagnosed as OCD and anxiety disorder!)

Somehow I found myself (sadly that's not much of an overstatement) in a relationship when I was 18 that lasted six years, and I came out the other side at 24 with a much better understanding of women, a growing number of female friends - actually many of my closest - but still no real dating experience.

Five years on, things are quite different. I'm far more confident, capable and calm. I am surrounded by women at work and in social life, they probably more than half of my closest friends and confidantes.

Still. I don't enjoy dating. It's bad enough with someone you've gotten to know, decided you like, clumsily courted, built up the courage to ask out. Meeting someone from the online dating world is a whole other experience, and one I'm going through at the moment.

I find much more intense meeting a person with the immediate pressure of prospective relations.. You might call it 'intimi-dating'. Perhaps not. But I don't enjoy it.

I hate small talk. I hate talking about work. I play it safe, don't bang on about issues I'm passionate about that they might have no interest in. I actually had multiple dates with a girl who said she would never talk politics. Oh the thought of it!

I get ahead of myself, my mind fast forwards, I project thoughts, doubts and feelings. She's talking to me and my mind is trying to run three simultaneous processes: trying to think of something to say when silence falls; trying to assess our compatibility; and finally - given least importance in my tense, distorted mind - listening to what she's actually saying.

I'm naturally cautious. I don't want to throw uncertainty to the wind and find myself suddenly in a relationship I never really wanted. Past mistakes haunt me.

If I'm somewhat interested, then there's a new collection of doubts. Should I kiss her? When? How to do it without awkwardness (impossible!)? What if that leads her on? What if I don't and she thinks I have no interest? What if I do and it doesn't clear my head of all these goddamned thoughts?!!?What next? And when? Will this lead to inevitable hurt? I remember when I was 12 my parents got me a dog after years of me pestering - when we got her I was consumed with the painful thought of becoming attached to this creature that would die and hurt me someday. If the present didn't provide it, I could find sufficient anxiety in the future.

I warm to people slowly, and it's an amazing, crazy few who see through my (now much thinner) veneer of anxiety-riddled bullshit to the comfortable, awesome person I really am. So my initial assumption is the date's gone badly and she won't want to see me again. Mostly I've been right - hooray! What's wrong with all these girls that they can't see that I'm a catch, I'll wonder. A few times I've been wrong. Then I get suspicious. What's wrong with her if she thinks I'm worthy of more time after a pathetic, fumbling performance where I let her buy my hot chocolate?! Do I want to date someone who would choose to spend more time with me, especially having only met the socially inept me??

The level of interest she shows will influence the doubts and questions prodding my mind. I absolutely do not endorse the 'Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen' advice, but there is a little anxious logic (which may be an oxymoron) behind it.

Where she's showing clear interest and the ball's been pretty much in my court to make the move, often all my thoughts are drawn to reasons not to pursue it - my anxiety monster reminds me of things I may not find attractive or elements missing that I adored in others.

What would my friends think of her? What would I have thought of her if I'd just spotted her in a bar or on the street without this whole context messing with my mind? What of my cherished, now well-established independence!? I don't want to be tethered to any single person. I want to continue to draw inspiration, love and life from a range of people in my life.

But then there's also been those I fancied who were far less forward with their interest, and all I could think of were the things I loved about her! Over-analysing the number and content of messages, trying to figure out her real feelings. And then she'd give me a little rope and I'd start wondering whether I was just overplaying my feelings and looking for a relationship for the sake of a relationship because I think it would be a good distraction from my anxiety, despite the fact this whole line of thinking is driven by anxiety.

Anyway, the solution is quite simple. Just take things as they come. Live in the moment. Enjoy the company of a nice person. Be honest with them, and yourself, and not worrying about what you may or may not feel. No expectations, no disappointments.

But that doesn't mean you can't dream a little. Indeed, if you find yourself doing so, it's a  good sign.

My experiences have taught me to never let my own doubts and insecurity affect my relationships, or potential relationships, with others. Let go of what you can't control, cherish what you have and be excited by what could be without a care for what will not.

I'm still learning to put that into practice though. I still get anxious feet.

What's more harmful - Xanax or Channel 7's coverage of mental health?

I'm angry with you, Channel 7. Yesterday I ran my first half-marathon and was on a high. I wanted to write about it - the pain, the achievement, the music, the reasons for and against doing it again. But then I watched Sunday Night's alarmist story on the anti-anxiety drug Xanax. A drug I take.

I don't like being angry, so I'm furious that this trash tabloid journalism made me mad.

I knew as soon as I saw the promo it would rile me and I'd tweet frustratedly, but I couldn't ignore it. I guess Channel 7 will count that as a win.

The premise was, basically, Xanax is more addictive than Heroin, it destroys lives and should be banned. Oh, and traces of it were found in the blood of Heath Ledger, Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson when they died! (Well yes, among various other things, but let's not mention that)

It was an irresistable hook and seemed to shock a few people judging by responses on Twitter. Fear-based outrage sells almost as well as sex. The more - dare I say - irrational responses to the show's question of whether Xanax should be banned were comments like: "yep! aniety (sic) can be helped if people were allowed to relax and people showed care and concern more.", "Xanax is scary! Doctors should be held responsible for giving out a drug that is known to be more addictive that heroin", and my favourite "yes! We lost Michael Jackson from it".

Fortunately, just as many tweeters defended rational consideration of the issue, many of whom had actually dealt with anxiety. It was a pleasant irony for us to be the (at least relatively) rational ones.

The misleading emotional use of dead celebrities, was just the first giveaway of a rubbish story. At no point did it address the dangers of mixing drugs without medical advice, which happened in each of those cases. I suppose truthful (respectful?) representation of those tragic deaths, rather than insinuating one drug's responsibility, would lessen the emotional affect of mentioning them.

They also spoke of side-effects like blackouts in absolute terms as though they happen to everyone who takes it. I've never had a blackout in four years on a relatively high dosage. Maybe I'm on the placebo.

Not only was there no test of the premise (just run with it), there was no acknowledement of the many lives Xanax has undoubtedly saved from suicide, or helped get back on track from various levels of anxiety. Nope, not even considered. Has that actually happened ever? You wouldn't have thought so.

There's no doubt we need to monitor the use of medications. And I don't doubt the genuine suffering those interviewed have experienced. Some drugs are addictive and can have serious side-effects, which is why you need to take them responsibly under professional advice (and I'm not suggesting these people didn't).

But if you are going to call for a ban on a product that manages the suffereing of severe anxiety, you should at least explore some alternative treatments. The report didn't even look properly at why people are prescribed Xanax, other than bandying about the word anxiety.

How many people today will be fearful of the drug and consider stopping usage (a very dangerous course of action)? How many will resist advice from doctors to take it as a result of this unbalanced reporting, possibly preventing recovery? How many unqualified people will advise family or friends to stop taking this "horrendous drug", out of concern but based on ill-informed fear? That could be dangerous.

This was not a story for public interest or information, but a grab for ratings.This kind of sensationalist reporting just fuels hysteria or makes thinking people dismissive, it serves no real purpose. Which is sad, whether or not there is any validity in the concerns raised.

I am not here to defend Xanax. It's worked for me, but I had a period of trial-and-error with other anti-depressants first. I value how it helped me recover from a pretty dark period and start to manage severe anxiety, but feel like cognitive therapies and activities like yoga and running have been the things that really changed the way I think. So I'm hopeful of coming off it sooner than later. I never really liked the idea of a drug that affected my brain, though it hasn't stopped me consuming alcohol.

We should look at the role of medication in various areas. I personally tend to agree that we live in an age of over-prescription, but I'm not an expert, and many people need these drugs to live a normal life.

As a comsumer, I want the media and government to hold the pharmaceutical industry to account. Just as much as I want to see responsible reporting on mental health that doesn't induce irrational fear or reinforce stigma. I don't want to see reporting that prevents people getting the help they need.

Xanax is potent. It works fast. Am I addicted? Well I've never craved it (like I crave yoga after a few days) and I'd deal better going without it for a day than Facebook or Twitter, but if I miss a few doses I do experience physiological side-effects that are not fun, as well as an increase in anxiety. Is it more addictive than Heroin? I don't know, I've never had reason to take Heroin. I do know that when I come off Xanax, it will be very slowly and under the supervision of my GP and psychologist.

I'd rather see Channels 7 and 9 banned from covering mental health issues until they can drag themselves from reporting on extremes and cover them in a fair, considered way, than have Xanax banned. They've demonstrated that they either do not care or do not understand the serious and complex nature of mental illness.

Nobody will avoid depression or anxiety as a result of last night's shameful current affairs story. Hopefully not too many are thrown into mental chaos by it.

But well done Sunday Night, you have set us back some way. I hope you made some money from it.

The best advice is: be sensible. That goes for people taking Xanax as well as media talking about it.

Life begins at the acceptance of death

"As a day well-spent brings happy sleep, so a life well used brings happy death"
 - Leonardo Da Vinci

Ageing can and should be fun

My earliest memory of anxiety is being perhaps five years old with an insurmountable problem. Distressed, I told my mum that I didn't want to die, but neither did I want to live forever. Understandably, she didn't know what to say. Most kids would be comforted by the idea of eternal afterlife, but I was just as uneasy with the idea of eternity as ceasing to exist.

The idea of forever and ever and ever and ever (etc) messed with my mind, like when a camera focuses on a screen projecting it's image so the screen shows up on the screen perpetually and you try and visualise where it ends.

Death was probably central to many of the obsessive fears I went on to develop, whether they related to health, religion, meaninglessness, ageing and achievement or any number of other concerns.

Anxiety turns the burden of proof on its head - a tiny seed of doubt fed by compulsive reassurance-seeking will grow quickly into an all-consuming fear that feels like an all-but-certain truth. Only once the pain of excruciating reassurance finally outweighs the original anxiety of the doubt would I finally let go, which offered a strangely sweet sensation of release - 'all that wasted mental energy, if only I'd just stopped thinking about it,' I'd chastise myself.

It took more than fifteen years before I found a way to do that, but I had the basic idea right. Acceptance is the key to happiness. Letting go is the only way to move forward

When your growing up birthdays can't come around quick enough. And then you hit 18 (or 21 in America) and suddenly want to hit the brakes. But in the long run happiness seems to realign with age, increasing alongside one another. So why do we get so hung up about our twenties (I have five and a half months left)? Some of the happiest, most content people around are also the oldest. They've moved on so many times, they know worry doesn't stop anything.

I think about death every day. I don't enjoy the fact I'm going to die, and I'd rather the thoughts were less frequent visitors, but hey, I'm a natural obsessive and I now know it's better to let them come and go, and to be open about it than lock them up inside or try to outrun them.

So, yeah, I let myself think about death, and sometimes relish talking about it with certain friends - it helps me understand this crazy, unlikely existence. I wish it didn't occupy my mind as much as it does, but it doesn't often cause any distress.

Currently, I'm reading the fantastic official publication of the Melbourne Emerging Writer's Festival, The Emerging Writer, and just this morning got to Maria Papas' wonderful piece 'Forgiving the Dead: Writing as Release'. In it she discusses writing and talking as tools for healing and quotes Hannah Arendt:

'We humanise what is going on in the world and in ourselves only by speaking of it, and in the course of speaking of it, we learn to be human.'

I think this is true of dealing with fear of death, the most pervasive human fear. And as Yoda said in possibly the only memorable line to come out of The Phantom Menace: "Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

Religious zealots, a lot of whom are surely driven in their faith by fear of death, prove this point nicely. Yet Atheists can be just a zealous and aggressive so I wonder whether an underlying fear drives their often religious-like activity. For the record, I'm agnostic and happy to admit I don't have a clue about how we all wound up here, and the question of 'why', frankly, hurts my brain.

The philosophy I am trying to instill into my psyche these days is all about the living in the moment. It's all you've ever got.

However, knowing that, one day, all will be gone can be a celebration of the wonderful, precious moment. I think half the reason I continue to pay to see Graveyard Train play live (six times in 18 months) is to sing joyously with a bunch of strangers about the fact we are all going to die. It's incredibly cathartic.

Because, well 'it's one life, it's this life, and it's beauuuuutiful'. Don't judge the present, don't dwell on the past, don't anticipate the future - live and love for now in a way that will ensure a happy sleep tonight.
So forget proclamations about life beginning at 30, 40 or whatever the new trendy age is (however old the first Gen Xs are probably); it begins when concern about your expiry date stops taking up valuable mental energy that should be spent living with passion and youthful enthusiasm.

Who knows whether Da Vinci was right in the end. All I know is he was right about how to achieve a happy sleep, and that the most peaceful moments in my week come during meditation at the end of my yoga classes, lying in Savasana, or 'Corpse Pose'. It's an amazing peacefulness, the kind of state I would like to think I'll feel when my time comes - in the knowledge I've lived my days well, and can peacefully release.

But I've spent too much time now thinking about all this. It's time to focus on something lighter for a little while!

When is the right time to open up about your depression? (and my social anxiety)

Humblebrag: People have commented on how 'brave' I've been opening up about my OCD and anxiety here and elsewhere, but generally I shirk that compliment. Not always, sometimes I quietly bask in it.

Talking about your own experience with depression or any personal struggle is a whole lot easier when it's in the past tense though. No shit, right?

At times I've used past tense when I should really have used present, but that's tough - that takes real courage. You feel more vulnerable and sensitive to a perception of weakness, to become a victim of stigma.

Still, it ain't easy at any time and I found letting my long-held secret out of the bag to be incredibly liberating. It put it in a context of the reality outside my head, I don't feel 'alone' anymore and don't get sucked into an inward downward spiral of self-judgement so much as a result. 

However, as much as I'd love everyone with any kind of mental illness to stand up and declare it tomorrow - showing the world just how prevalent it is and the different kinds (all) of people it affects -  it is important when baring your soul to do it carefully, with the right people, especially when you're vulnerable.

It's a paradox. People struggle to talk about it because of the stigma, and the stigma exists because of a lack of discussion and understanding.

To quote a Batman film: 'People fear what they don't understand'. Too many people still don't understand mental illnes and, in some cases, fear it. It's not their fault - they may not (be aware that they probably) have dealt with someone with mental illness, and general education is lacking despite good work by a number of organisations. Some people don't really want to hear about depression because it's, well, depressing. But it's so important because too many people with depression don't understand what is going on or what to do.

That was me for a long time. I didn't talk to a sinlge person about it for over ten years until I figured out it for myself (thank you internet!). For a long time only my doctors, parents and then-girlfriend knew. A few years later I told a handful of trusted friends. A few years after that I put it out there for anyone to find. I don't go telling everyone in the 'real world' - I save that for here and Twitter - but I don't hide from it and it's not that hard for people to find me here.

If we all spoke up, we could help them understand. But for individuals, 'going public' is not necessarily the best option. Hopefully everyone has a trusted person to talk to though.

General understanding is improving though, and I still dream of a day that we can all say I do/did suffer from a mental illness, I'm happy for you to know but it does not define me!
Or something like that.
It's no coincidence that this blog started as I finally started to break the shackles of depression, and I wrote more about it as I felt better about my progress. That's not an entirely bad thing - if I'd been writing in my deepest despair the posts would have been unbearably self-pitying and at least as self-indulgent.
But I was ready because I felt comfortable - safe. Also impassioned and bloody-minded - I was, and still am, fed up with stigma. I don't raise the topic much socially, but I genuinely don't care who knows. It's a nice place to be, I am lucky.

So, it's pertinent I suppose, to mention here the recent realisation that I have one more element of my anxiety to confront: social anxiety.
It's always been the quite pervasive, but I figured it would diminish with my general anxiety - and to a large degree it has over the last ten years. Friends who knew me in my teens say I've 'blossomed' #shucks. It also helped me with other fears in a perverse kind of way - I let go of them where I absolutely had to if I feared how I would be perceived socially.

But it does show itself in a number of ways that I need to address. For example, too often I:

• am utterly self-conscious;
• avoid making phone calls to people I don't know well, preferring email/text where possible; 
• actively avoid conflict and placate people at the expense of my own interests too much (yet am a natural-born antagonist!?); 
• am horrible with small talk, wasting energy frantically thinking about what I'm going to say rather than really listening; 
• use caveats and words/phrases like 'but', 'whatever you think/want/are doing', 'that's cool...', 'if that suits...', 'I don't mind', etc far too much;
• Rarely say 'no'; and
• am indecisive and over-polite - a tendency that runs through my family and frustrates the hell out of me.

Obviously - and most crucially - these behaviours haven't helped my book-worthy romantic life. I've had to rely on my humble charm and good looks.

But this shy thing doesn't suit me - i like people! If anything I talk too much among friends.

Anyway,  it's no biggie, I just wanted to put that out there for myself really because I've never done it before - you know, said 'I am dealing with this ... like, currently'.

I'm actually ridiculously excited about it, which is strange for dealing with anxiety but should help I suppose. It's like I have a renewed sense of purpose or found a new point of focus to keep improving myself. I'm feeling a child-like eagerness.

And no band speaks to my enthusiastic, eternal inner-child than Arcade Fire, so this is I kinda how I feel (if you speak music):

So there it is. I better not fail, huh.

Ps. I'm planning on attending the launch of The Emerging Writer at the Emerging Writers Festival on Friday and realise there may be a couple of tweeps there who read this. If so, try and find me and test me out on the whole talking to 'strangers' thing!


http://www.lifeline.org.au/

http://www.headspace.org.au/

http://www.beyondblue.org.au/index.aspx?

On medication, depression and no more stigma

I take anti-depressants.

No big deal right? Not for me, but I'm wary of other people's perceptions. So, while I've been increasingly open over the last year or so about history with depression, anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD), it's a little different when it comes to the meds.

I don't hide the fact but I don't generally mention it even when talking about my condition ('condition'? Ugh). I told a few close friends when I started taking Xanax because I kind of had to. I was advised to curb my alcohol consumption and that was not going to go unnoticed.

'Coming out' about my OCD last year, and subsequently talking more about the anxiety with more people was fucking liberating. It was a little terrifying doing so on national television, but in reality it was relatively easy being able to talk about it largely in the past tense - especially the most 'embarrassing', least understood part, the OCD, which seems to be essentially absent from daily life now.

Talking about medication, however, shifts the issue from recovery back to problem management for me, from past tense to present. At least, that's my suspicious assumption of how some people would respond. And as healthy as I am, as far as I've come on my recovery from OCD and Generalised Anxiety Disorder, I may be on the pills for some time yet.

I worry about how some people might think of me differently if they know. Will they be more wary? Will they think I'm somewhat unstable? Would an employer think twice about my capability? Would a potential romantic interest be put off?

Lots of people still don't understand mental health (see, I don't even want to say 'mental illness'). I'm pretty determined to do my bit to kill the stigma, but it still beats me sometimes. It's difficult not to be wary of the lack of understanding or misguided preconceptions that might influence someone's perception of you if you wear it on your sleeve.

It's led me to lie - about reasons for being late to work when I've had appointments, on forms (mostly emplyment related) where I didn't consider my medication to be crucial information and was concerned about perceptions. Sadly, sometimes the truth can distort a person's perception of a situation more than a white lie.

In 2006 I started a new job two weeks late because it took the organisation that did the medical check that long to send through the 'OK'. I'd told them about my depression and medication, which was being managed. It pissed me right off. I got through school and university with good marks, mostly before getting treatment, so why should I be judged on it now as I'm recovering by someone who doesn't know shit about the circumstances? Does an employer - or outsourced medical checking organisation - have a right to know and judge me on the basis of a mental health issue that does not prevent me from being a fully functioning member of society? Hell no. It is no more reasonable a consideration than any number of other social factors - like use of drugs or alcohol, gambling, addiction to social media, etc - that could impact someone's work.

But things like that made me feel like it was something I should probably cover up as much as possible, and that was counter-productive. It wasn't until last year that I realised just how many people do understand, and that others will try, and the rest don't matter. Unless they're employing you I guess.

I'm increasingly indifferent about people knowing the details of my depression. It's part acceptance, part bloody-mindedness in the fight against stigma. I don't want anyone's ignorance to put me back in my box, the only way to change it is to be more open, even if some take a while to get it and others never do. There are enough quality, open-minded people to surround yourself with that the others don't really matter.

The stigma is all the more tragic though because of the prevalence of depression - it undoubtedly even infiltrates people who actually have depression.

My trepidation with talking about the meds might be a projection of the initial fears I held - that they would alter my mind, change my thoughts, affect my personality. They've done none of those things, at least not directly.  My thoughts have changed, my brain has been re-wired, but I did that myself. The medication simply eased the extreme anxiety I felt on a daily basis for most of my life, so that I could find a more comfortable head space to make necessary changes to my thought processe - naturally through education, cognitive therapy and things like yoga. And it's those are things that will have a lasting effect, the drugs are just a conduit, albeit an important one for me.

Others don't need medication at all, it's horses for courses.

But I hate hiding it. It's a central element of this thing that has been the most pervasive issue of my life. I hope I can come off the medication someday, sooner than later, but I accept I may be on them for a long time, maybe a lifetime. There will always be people who don't - or worse, are unwilling to - understand. No-one can be in my head and compare it to their own. Everyone is just a little fucked up - the interesting people anyway. The important people do, or at least try, and don't judge me on such spurious grounds.

More importantly, imagine if every person with depression came out and spoke up about it, and we could see just how many people it affects, across all sectors of society. The stats are their, but numbers don't resonate like actions. It would change the way people think about mental health, those who will never experience it, and crucially, those who are struggling. We'd see just how wrong we were/are to feel alone and misunderstood.

Mental health issues aren't visible. It is hard for someone who hasn't experienced it to interpret and understand. People's own fears come into play. I can't do anything about that. Except be open - which I'm trying to be more and more - for my own sake, and that of others with mental illness. I want to kick the stigma and misunderstanding square in the balls.

Recently I kissed a girl and she commented on the mild shake of my hands, something I get at times even when I'm calm. For fear of being thought of as excessively nervous or frigid, I told her it was from a history of anxiety - that seemed the lesser embarrassment. A friend was a little shocked I'd said so.

But I don't care. This is who I am, think whatever you will think.

I just. don't. care.

Yes. I take medication. It's no big deal.