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.

Hiking the Overland Track (getting back away)

I spent six days hiking Tasmania's Overland Track to get away from it all. To stop the rush, to disengage, to "Tweetox".

On the second or third day I sat quietly in a small wooden hut with no electricity as wind and rain provided a gentle reminder of the relative comfort it offered when I saw a perspective shifting quote at the bottom of the hut's information board.

I don't remember it fully and can't find it through Google for the life of me (so I'm not sure it actually exists) but the essence was: "(in the wilderness) you are not getting away from it all, you are getting back to it."

It all depends on what it is to you I suppose.

The night before flying down to Launceston Damo sent me a text from Sydney reminding me to pack the essentials: tent, pegs, sleeping bag, food, etc. I was out enjoying Wilco at the time and put off packing until the morning. I may be a little disorganised at times, I may have missed check-in for my flight to Launceston by five minutes, but I'm not completely incompetent.

Besides, I only had one essential item and it was none of those things, which could be begged, borrowed, shared or stolen if the desperate need arose. I could not forget, nor lose, my Xanax and Pristiq (medication). I'm all to familiar with the special hell abrupt withdrawal from Xanax is for me, and how quickly it knocks me down. If I lost it I would call for the chopper. Seriously.

The team, morning day two

But these were the basics and in the end I had it covered: food, shelter, warm and dry clothes, music, water, whiskey and human interaction. A waterproof jacket would have been handy, lining my pack with a waterproof bag would have been smart, doing some homework on the hike and not relying entirely on my three walking buddies would have been sensible.

But they all live in Sydney, so while they planned together I was in Melbourne doing stuff. I only met the other two when they arrived at Launceston airport; luckily the wilderness it's an easy place to lose people if you don't get along. Luckily they didn't do that to me.

I was in the middle of a discussion or two on Twitter on Good Friday when our charter bus entered the national park and reception dropped. And that was it, no social media or email for a week: would I be missed? No news: would Australia have a new Prime Minister when we emerged on the other side? No Google: how would we live without answers to the important questions that come up in conversation, like "Why are they called gators"?

The Overland Track is iconic among anyone half-interested in hiking. So much so it seems to be played down a little to counter its popularity and relative accessibility. I get the impression it's one of those things in the hiking community - tell a hiker you're doing the Overland Track and they might struggle to meet your enthusiasm, but say you've never done it and they'll be utterly aghast. Kind of like telling a music lover you just bought (or don't own) OK Computer.

I'd never camped more than 20 metres from a car or esky, let alone hiked, so should have really done (some) homework, but the others were well prepared.

Even some of those we encountered who seemed more experienced were caught out taking weather forecasts at their word, only to lament leaving behind that not-so-heavy second set of thermals when it snowed on Eastder Sunday. It was an Easter miracle that punished them for their paganistic faith in so-called "meteorology".

A knowledgeable, acclimatised local

What seemed to be a well-spoken yeti who crossed our path at Marion's Lookout told tales of waist-deep snow at Cradle Mountain last December. I heard of others who did the hike mid-winter in t-shirts. We were all fine, just. It may have been a different story without the ability to get clothes dry in the huts over night.

Inclement weather settled in and persisted through four of the six days but it did bring small graces. Every time the rain eased, stopped or - praise Gaia - the clouds let some sun through, I smiled a little and walked a little lighter.

Secondly, it was a camera deterrent - the one piece of technology left to capture distract from the stunning isolation and it's gift of space for quiet contemplation - allowing us to just walk and soak it up, literally.

It also prevented us from getting more than halfway up to the summit of Mount Ossa (the highest peak in Tasmania). It was too wet, cold and windy for the climb and the low visibility would make taking a camera up there rather pointless anyway.

The others were disappointed and I played along half-heartedly. I was beaten that day. The kilometres, kilograms and insufficient sleep conspired to overwhelm my body and mind. Feeling constantly dehydrated, I guzzled water from my camel pack like a camel. Even Easter eggs didn't lift my energy or mood.

And I was becoming a little cynical.

Honestly, I didn't care that we didn't reach the summit. On a clear day it would have been amazing to sit up there and look out over the world, I'm sure. But besides being absolutely buggered, I didn't see the need. Why are these things even named other than for people to say they've been there? Would we have tried at all if we couldn't take our cameras?

I felt at times as though we were on a mission to get to the next summit or waterfall just for the sake of it, expecting animal sightings as if it were a zoo, camera always at the ready to capture a moment never really lived. I took far too many photos - the curse of the digital camera and convenience anxiety - and have taken pleasure in posting and sharing some of them (including here), but it's just about getting the focus right ... so to speak.

Sunshine!

The best thing about this hike, which the weather couldn't dampen and may have even enhanced, was the isolation, the removal from daily "convenience" distractions, the peacefulness, the time to think and quieten life down for a week. It was fantastic to cherish small luxuries like water and shelter and a pack of cards, forget stupid problems, forget myself and take in pure life without the toxic additives. To get back to it.

Astoundingly, I barely listened to music all week, though had a wide range of relevant songs constantly in my head, most commonly A Little Fall of Rain and Under the Boardwalk. Strange, given the days I forget to take my earphones to work are the most horrible of all days. I thought I needed music. I got away from needing it for distraction, back to appreciating it with a calm mind.

We felt as though maybe we cheated a little by not pitching the tents once, but the huts were a godsend; a great place to rest up and relax at the end of each day's hike and meet/catch up with fellow hikers. I even made a Facebook friend!

Once the natural light runs out though, there's little to do and after the sun goes down there's not much to do. So everyone was in bed soon after dark, around 8.30pm, everyone would be in bed, side by side on wide wooden-surfaced bunks. 

I can never lie still in bed for long, nor without my iPhone singing softly to me and tempting me with interesting discussions online, like a group of friends chatting in the next room. If I follow you on Twitter we go to bed together most nights. With just a self-inflating mat on a wooden board, sleeping bag and sleeping bag case stuffed with clothes for a pillow, and nothing to stir my "monkey mind", I found it easy to lie completely still for at least half an hour or so each night. Yet it wasn't until the last couple of nights that I achieved reasonable chunks of uninterrupted sleep.

My dreams were strangely vivid. One night I dreamed of all the things I missed most - I was at a gig with friends, drinking beers before heading into the footy where my family were saving me a seat. Mos nights something entirely random that was part of my dream would be spoken of or appear the next day, most notably the bottom-emptying bins hung on poles that I wasn't aware Hobart still has. The clean air had restored my oracle powers.

It is an amazing experience. If you do it, be prepared. People seem to talk about it being mostly boardwalk, which was only true of the first couple of days. The sales assistant who sold me my hiking boots said I could do it in my blundstones. He is a liar. Even the boardwalks get pretty slippery - I had the bruise on my arse to prove it.

It's gets much more interesting under foot after the first couple of days as you scramble up and over rocks, navigate webs of slippery tree roots, gracefully dance from tiny rock to tiny rock to avoid mud and water, and leap over large puddles. You can't afford to get ahead of yourself, I had the mud all over my pants to prove it.


I could slip over lying down though. On the last day I counted around 20 kicks, trips, slips or stumbles. When the terrain was more difficult and I concentrated on careful footwork I was fine, but when things eased up and I stopped concentrating I tended to be at greater risk. The problem was you tend to not be aware when you stop thinking about something because you're not thinking about it.

Narcissis Jetty sunrise

We spent the final morning sitting on the Narcissis Jetty contemplating the past six days and keeping an eye out for platypi, while mother nature put on a spectacular sunrise, as if to make it up to us for all the miserable weather along the way.

And then the little ferry came to take us away again.

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.

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?

The people who light up the dark, and why I adore them

My favourite people are the ones who aren't afraid of the dark. Life is fucked up, and so am I; thank god. We all are at least a little bit and that's what makes us beautiful creatures. It's the so-called 'normal' people who are boring (or in denial).

John Darnielle bared his soul on a stage in a corner bar in Richmond in front of a few hundred people, as he has on countless records, but seeing it live is something else. I realised just how many of his songs are about depression, alcoholism, death, abuse and the strange things people do to get by when their life is truly fucked up - all with an uplifting undertone of love. It was by no means a sombre mood; it was a celebration of making it through, happier and stronger. There's something special and instinctively perverse about a crowd cheerfully singing "I hope we all die". Because we will, and I don't know why so many people think it's 'depressing' or strange to talk about life's only inevitability.

Life begins at the acceptance of death.

Modern existence can so easily feel like a cave, artificially lit by distractions on TV and in shop windows. It's not ideal, but getting out into the sunshine often requires delving the depths of your own darkness. When you're ready to go though, music is an amazing companion.

Maybe we should consider ourselves lucky, those of us that have been forced to expose the darker corners of our mind to give the black dog nowhere to lurk. I admire those who simply do it out of curiosity, a yearning to experience life to the full without the constraint of fear or bitterness.

Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems to me that so many of the most creative, open, humble, honest, loving and happy minds have stared down demons in their life. I guess that's why I feel so disappointed every time I see Andrew Robb playing petty, superficial politics after his public battle with depression.

These are the people I want to populate my existance with. In a world increasingly full of people and shallow competition for our attention, I'm blessed to have people in my life that inspire me to live it. I'm grateful to the strangers I've connected with on Twitter who are open and honest without being self-absorbed about their own journeys through the darkness. And I'm happy every time I'm in a room full of like-minded people smiling, dancing and singing about how fucked up this life can be - cos it's even more fucked up if you can't face up to it.

Who cares about the people don't get understand and make their misjudgements - there are too many people in the world to give a fuck what they all think. It's awesome to share those unshackled, joyous moments of not giving a fuck about any of that shit with the like-minded; and to show anyone still struggling to look into the darkness how much fun it can be.

(I saw The Mountain Goats at The Corner Hotel in Melbourne on 10 May. It was awesome)

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.

Sad music is not depressing music

Radiohead fans worldwide are used to hearing it.

'That music is so depressing.'

'Music to cut your wrists to'

Dismissive, naive, flippant bullshit attitudes at least; maybe even ignorant, closed-minded, shallow and insulting - to the artist and appreciator.

Not everyone has to, can or should like Radiohead, or any particular band/song. Music (as a whole and individual songs) is a subjective experience, heard and enjoyed differently by different people. Maybe if less people liked Radiohead, less people would hate them. And I could see them at a decent, smaller music venue for a reasonable price.

Yes yes, I have been diagnosed with depression. In fact it was at its worst around the time I was getting into Radiohead. And I started on anti-depressants the day after I saw them live in 2004. That's a nice little irony. Be careful about the parallels you draw though; at the earliest onset of my anxiety my favourite singer was Johnny Farnham.

Sure music - like most artistic professions - attracts its fair share of tortured souls (at least those who open up about it). Well, I think it attracts them anyway, rather than making them so. But depression is tragically prevalent and maybe the proportion in sport, for example, isn't so different, just more suppressed.

Humans love to travel and explore places; but we're not so good at looking inward and exploring our own minds and emotions. I think music (art generally) help do that consciously and sub-consciously. Clearly I'm not talking about Justin Bieber or Nickelback here.

Radiohead's popping up on my radar around the time I was in the depths of depression may have been a coincidence; the vigour with which I explored the music was not. I don't know what half the songs are about - it doesn't matter - but their mood resonated. Some of it was angsty, some a little terrifying, some exhausted, some hopeful, some hopeless, some just beautiful. Actually, all beautiful. Things we all feel.

The sounds got into my head, my heart, my psyche, my soul and shook them all up. I connected to it because it reflected things going on in my head that I hadn't figured out yet, let alone been able to express and here it was on my stereo. So I sang along, learnt to play along, danced around my bedroom, exploring it all. It was fucking liberating. I still lose my shit dancing (flailing about) my room to 'I Might Be Wrong' when it gets into me and takes over - it's an amazing release.

I want to share these little gems when I stumble across them or someone is kind enough to share them with me. Not just for the shared listening experience, but also because it helped me feel understood. And I liked to fuck with my poptart-chart loving friends by making them endure 'Fitter Happier', a song I didn't initially like/appreciate myself but actually do now (I think that fairly qualifies me as music snob).

So when someone calls a sweet song like 'No Suprises' the most miserable song ever, it makes me sad. You don't have to like it, and I probably shouldn't need you to understand, but it'd be nice if you'd try.

It exudes a sweet sadness. The world - life - is fucked up sometimes. Ignoring the fact doesn't make you happier, and acknowledging it doesn't have to make you depressed - the opposite really. I'd rather find ways to acknowledge, explore, understand and accept the shit in the world and my head than repress it. It's the only way to move on; Thom Yorke himself talks about using "music to move on, to progress through life".

It's why we play sad music at funerals, right? Ironically, I'd like at least one or two fun songs played at mine. Why be self-indulgent once you're dead?

Sad songs can be amazingly beautiful, uplifting, sure even life-changing. Sadness is in inextricably tied to happiness. If you can't let yourself be sad, how can you fully appreciate happiness? It's okay to identify at times with Elliott Smith's desperate solitude (difficult as linked performance is, there's a fantastic moment when he sings "give me one good reason not to do it" and someone in the crowds responds "because I love you" - love is the greatest thing we have, yet it's bound up with so many of life's difficulties).

Is 'Good Woman' a pitiful anti-love song or one of the most powerful, beautiful love songs ever written? Obviously, it's probably somewhere in between and I'm just using polarisation for effect.

Lots of people find Dirty Three's instrumental music, or Sigur Ros' foreign language music inpenetrable and boring. Again, not to everyone's taste but putting in the time to feel the message from the music can reap massive rewards.

Music is a subjective experience. Everyone hears in with their own ears, in the context of their own life.
I like these artists and songs because there's no bullshit. It's real human expression of emotions I feel and want to explore at the right times, rather that let them fester at the back of my mind.

It's not for you, that's ok. I think you're missing out on something special. That said, there is plenty I'm missing out on as well. We shouldn't slam something just because we don't understand it.

And try not to judge us Radiohead fans too much, we can be fragile beings.

Implementing Human Rights in Closed Environments conference - Psychiatric Settings

Extract of article written for RightNow, find the full article and others on the conference on their website.


"Detainees, whether deprived of their liberty for justified or less justified reasons, belong to the most vulnerable and forgotten sectors of our societies."

These were the words of Special Rapporteur on torture and other cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment, Manfred Nowak, in 2010.

In this parallel session on psychiatric settings, the panel discussed Australian forensic mental health facilities and their international comparison. It was suggested that those in psychiatric facilities are absent from the public mind more so than any other detained group. The issues that affect them are not well understood by the majority of the population and, after all, they have committed a criminal offence.

The session focused on the work of Tom Dalton, Chief Executive Officer of Forensicare. Dalton discussed his experiences working in local forensic mental health care with Oliver Lewis, of the Hungary-based international human rights organisation, the Mental Disability Advocacy Center; and Natalie Pierce, Legal Advisor to the Chair of the Independent Police Conduct Authority in New Zealand.

Full article  

Running with head space

Pre-run

Running isn't fun. It's not interesting or mentally engaging. That's why I always hated it, and why I love it.

Some runs are scenic, especially on a warm day, but that's just more incentive to stop and take it in.

On a run there's nothing but your thoughts. My thoughts haven't always been the most pleasant companions. Being absolutely beholden to those 'bad' thoughts in the past, sustained running felt pretty much impossible because I couldn't devote sufficient energy to obsessively fighting them; it made me feel nauseous.

So I always preferred - needed - exercise that offered an opportunity for flight - consuming me with distraction and pulling my mind outward.

Basketball is good. It's fast-paced, continuous and competitive. Tennis, on the other hand, offers more time to think and get caught up in doubt, which will kill your game whether it's irrational OCD stuff or regular doubts about your ability. A natural game is the best game, thoughts just get in the way. It's very much a mental game, like golf. I suck at both. I'm not too bad at basketball, or at least play closer to my potential; it's more instinctive and adrenalin based.

But running ... running offers virtually no mental engagement; it's an entirely insular experience, where all those doubts, questions, uncertainties, silly thoughts and feelings that come and go can thrive if you let them. So I never understood how people run to wind down.

I guess it's about getting away from life's demands and luxuries - no Facebook or Twitter, email, phone (tucked away at least), television, or chatter of a busy world. Maybe an iPod or a running buddy. But there's only so much talking you can do on a serious run, and music is for focus or help tuning out (for me anyway) not distraction; sometimes I don't want it, or don't want the distraction of lyrics - I must be the only person who gets around The Tan listening to The Dirty Three. Inevitably the mind comes back to your own thoughts and feelings - strains and lung capacity and the desire to stop and walk.

Two years ago I couldn't run more than about 1.5km continuously. The thought of running the full 3.8km of The Tan track seemed impossible. One day, after some encouragement and advice from a random girl in a bar I suddenly ran the whole 3.8km of The Tan. My first thought was: 'Crap, now I have do this every time.'

Training run through Albert Park

Another day some months later, I started running to and from the track rather than walking, turning it into a 7km run. Sometime later it turned into 7km circuit from home to the track and back. Stepping up wasn't actually as physically difficult as expected - I tend to run conservatively to make sure I've got enough in the tank to finish. Mentally, though, I kept thinking about how far there was to go and how I couldn't wait to be finished. It doesn't help.

Last year for some reason I did the 10km run in the Run Melbourne. It was daunting - doable but difficult. After just under an hour of physical strain and restless mind, despite the high of achievement, I was adamant I would never run further, and wasn't too keen on running 10km again. It was too long more so than too far.

But, of course, at some point over the Christmas break I got talked into doing the 21km this year. All it really took was the suggestion from a running buddy and encouragement from a cute girl at work who did it last year - I'm a sucker for peer pressure. It took until my next run to regret the decision.

Fittingly, I'm raising money for Headspace. I haven't raised any yet, but I should. Not just because they do great work and I wish they'd been around when I was in my (age-defined) youth, but also because they sent me a great, free running singlet.

I've upped the training to a couple of 8-10km runs a week, even christening the singlet on a 16km run last weekend. And something's changed. Maybe it's been gradual, I'm sure the mindfulness I've learnt through yoga has helped, but I've actually enjoyed those last couple of runs. Not just the naive pre-run anticipation and the post-run relief and pride, but - at least parts of - the actual run itself.

To be painfully cliched, I think I found my head space. It feels damn good, liberating even.

Increasingly, running is as close to meditation as I can get outside of yoga. Giving attention to passing thoughts requires too much energy, so I have to let them go and am getting better at it all the time. At the finish line you have yourself a physical high and a clear mind. And along the way you free your mind from the normal constrained though process, letting a natural subconscious flow to take over and all sorts of corners of the mind to be subtly, quietly explored - this is sometimes when the best thoughts and ideas pop up.


The best thing about running for me is that it's as much, if not more so, about breaking through mental barriers as pain thresholds - not just a simple simple test of mind and will, but a way of improving them.

This is, basically, why I choose to run.

So my greatest fear about running 21km has not been how the body will fare, but how I will occupy my mind for (hopefully only) two hours. It will absolutely be tough, but I'm almost looking forward to it now.

One of my mates doing the run is talking a marathon next year. I've sworn that is one thing I will never do. But, I wonder, someday if ...


http://runmelbourne.everydayhero.com.au/sam_ryan_7

The circuit breaker

Among the thousands, millions, billions or however many thoughts fly through your head every day there are plenty of scary ones, carrying doubt and seeking to play on the deepest insecurities.

Most of the time for most people (I think) they pass with maybe a fleeting awareness, a shiver at the thought and a fix of rational perspective. Some evolved people even embrace these thoughts to stare down their fears, and as a deep, dark and brooding Scorpio I'm partial to dabbling in darker areas of the mind when I feel capable. Probably why I struggled with my anxiety for so long.

Like many people, thoughts that frightened me often got caught up in a web of uncertainty and anxiety that demanded thorough reassurance before they could be released. I'm no scientist but I believe it's partly thanks to an overactive amygdala. Simple chemical reactions lead to entirely misguided attempts to attain feelings of certainty, security and confidence. Just because of a shot of anxiety.

The thought itself isn't important - it could be the self-conscious anxieties we all get about appearance or safety or acceptance, or an absurd irrational fear like what if I walk under a ladder and there's a poisonous spider in my cereal?! The anxiety caused is dependent on the brain, not the cause of the fear. And what's important is how you react.

It's that moment when you should step back and take a deep breath, but the instinctive response for those of us habituated to anxiety is 'fight or flight'. To fight is to confront the thought by addressing it, answering it, thinking through it, rationalising it. Flight means trying to push it out of your head, by controlling or suppressing certain thoughts, or engaging in distructive distractions. Try to not think about an elephant for a minute. Fight or flight can bring temporary relief but in just feeds the beast of anxiety, making it stronger and/or more regular. Jeff Bell has a good analogy relating to OCD he calls Octopus Chewing Doubt-nuts.

When it comes back it is even harder to ignore, its demands even greater. And so the cycle begins. A downward spiral that gains momentum and becomes harder and harder to stop as anxiety grows and hits more often. There are only two ways out: play it out and hit the bottom when you get so exhausted or even sick you no longer have the energy to fight or run and gradually realise how useless the whole exercise was; or you find a circuit breaker to get out early. The first is obviously not recommended. The second is necessarily difficult. Sometimes painfully so, as anxiety grows along with the urge to give in, but it's damn rewarding - resist the urges and the anxiety does fade, thinking habits are altered and the actual structure of the brain starts to change. Stick to it and it gets easier each time.

One of the awesome things about your brain is its plasticity, you can literally change the way it functions to make you happier.

Finding a good circuit breaker can be a good way to do this when it comes to 'bad thoughts' that lead into a downward spiral. I understood all this for some time before I found the technique that works best for me - mindfulness. Learning to accept the anxiety-inducing thoughts for what they are and let them go in their own time rather than waste energy thinking them through or pushing them out.

I knew about and understood mindfulness for a while before I was able to actually learn how to practically implement it. For me the two best methods are yoga and running. Yoga forced me to let go of thoughts that held me back and find the moment with a clear mind. That helped me get into running and practice it in a non-structured environment. Knowing I could let them go, I eventually brought the practice into my regular thinking.

In 12-18 months my thinking has changed dramatically. I can recognise the thoughts that will throw me into that dark pit and let them go a lot easier. Not all the time, but I don't get caught in extended downward spirals for days and weeks like I used to. Where I do feel anxiety and overthink (overthinking is my one major lingering issue!) my circuit breaker kicks in much earlier. The urge, the absolute need to address some of those thoughts, 'normal' and irrational, is no longer really an issue.

After 15 years of conditioning my brain to debilitating, pain-inflicting ways of thinking and responding to my anxiety, and about five years of trying to figure out how to implement some of the cognitive therapies I was learning about, I have now significantly rewired my brain and overhauled those negative thought processes.

Finding the circuit breaker is the first step. 

2011 - The Year I Overcame OCD

The year’s end is a pertinent time for reflection, and such personal reflections belong more in a personal journal than a self-indulgent blog post. I don’t intend to run through highlights, lowlights, top-10s or any of that shit, but it was a significant year as far as my OCD and anxiety goes. And a primary purpose of this blog is to document my recovery from those afflictions.

Indeed, 2011 was the year I beat down my OCD, from a menacing beast to a humble, quiet dog. A little black dog that still lets out a yelp or two, but sits, largely restrained, in the corner. It may return – almost certainly will threaten to – but I now have the tools to manage it. Mild anxiety still lingers at times, and probably always will, but I continue to pursue a calm, happy life, knowing now that I can. The dog's days are over.

Most important was the understanding that recovery was not a fight (as depression so often is) but rather the ability to accept and let go, rather than waste tense energy fighting, which merely gave strength to my demons.

I’m now almost eight years into my ‘recovery’ so the progress made this year has been a long time coming. Where did it come from? I can’t fully know. Partly from the natural desire to change as time passes and the implications of resisting change become more uncomfortable.

It’s fair to say the acceleration in recovery was kick-started by a girl I became close friends with late in 2010. She understood me like few, if any, other people I have ever known and demonstrated the required tough lover to unashamedly and relentlessly push me in the right direction.

In January this year she walked away. So 2011 started amidst a fog of heartache and confusion; yet through it I could sense a newfound notion of clarity, and was equipped with a determination to pursue it now that I knew in which direction to head.

I started yoga in November 2010, at her behest, but moved to a new studio early this year. Yoga was something I’d long considered, and quickly saw the benefits. Some of those first classes taught and forced me to let go of my OCD/anxiety safety net (my mental compulsions) and were emotionally challenging to say the least.

Once I settled into my new studio in Hawthorn, which is a fantastic place run by friendly instructors, I gradually got into a routine habit. I came to crave the peacefulness it provides and sought to translate it into everyday life. Compared to this time last year I have a clearer mind, sharper focus, better health and fitness, and calmer thought through (finally) successfully practicing of mindfulness and being better able to let go of irrational, obsessive and unwanted thoughts. I have changed long-ingrained thought processes, something that takes time and effort but it enormously rewarding.

Yoga didn’t necessarily teach me anything I didn’t know about my OCD and anxiety or how to combat it, it just helped me (enormously) to put the pieces together, and forced me to let go of those damn compulsive thoughts, thus minimising the obsessive part.

2011 was also the year of my grand ‘coming out’. After telling all to this blog, in April I was featured on a Hungry Beast story on OCD. Other telling immediate family and a few select friends, I didn’t make a big deal about it being on, but the response from people who saw it was amazing. Even in the last couple of weeks I’ve had a former colleague tell me she saw it but wasn’t sure what to say at the time (when we worked together). With the secret out, a massive burden lifted from my shoulders and my perspective shifted. No longer was this in any way something I battled alone and bottled up. People, friends and strangers, actually contacted me for advice. I felt in a very good place and wondered why I’d been so secretive about my depression in the first place; but really I know – there are millions of people still out there, including people I know, no doubt, battling on in silence, unaware that there is far more help and understanding waiting for them than they realise.

Unfortunately, my TV appearance did not lead to stardom…

As a result of all of this, 2011 has been the best year of my life. I have achieved more than any other year so far. I’ve written more, read more, exercised more and played (even recorded!) more music. I got a great new job. I’m the fittest I’ve been in my adult life. I am surrounded by beautiful and inspirational people.

And I can only expect 2012 will be even better. I have much more growth and progress left in me, and some exciting challenges for the coming year. I don’t ever want to be a ‘grown up’, it implies no room left to grow – growth and learning are what life is about. I’ve learnt so much from my experience with OCD and anxiety; I never want to live through the worst of it again, but I wouldn’t remove it from my past.

I’m not going to go into goals and resolutions for 2012. I have a few things I’m focusing on – better and more regular writing, being more assertive, continuing my mental health improvement, maybe drinking less…

But I don’t believe in resolutions as such. The end of the year is an opportune time to reflect, and 1 January is a milestone date, but not one to be used as motivation for change. If you have identified necessary change, now is the time, not on New Year’s Day. I don’t know, I just feel like those milestones just provide excuses to put things off, and demand sustained change, where it often takes a few tries.

Anyway, happy New Years to anyone reading this. Thanks for dropping by during the year, I’ve enjoyed it. There’ll be more to come in 2012.

Travelling with anxiety, and why I'm at it again

Here I am again.

When I started writing this, 'here' was the international departure lounge at Melbourne's Tullamarine Airport. Three dollars only got me so long. The way my mind operates, I need much longer than 'only so long' to filter my thoughts and feelings into a somewhat comprehendible blog post.

Approximately 45 hours later I now sit alone in the swank, empty house of a friend, somewhere in New Delhi. After 33 hours or so in transit - including a 14 hour stopover in Doha, having flown past India only to fly back - I arrived in Delhi at about 4am. In the darkness and utter chaos of the early morning Delhi streets - I mean, why have lanes, indicators, speed limits, or rules at all if they're widely ignored! - it was impossible to get any sense of bearings. With my friend away until tomorrow on business I had about ten hours to myself before heading to Varanasi, leaving this little cocoon and finally get a true taste, smell, feel of India. I am excited and cautious.

As always Mum and Dad dropped me at the airport. This is one of the most excruciating parts my overseas journeys. It's convenient, but the goodbye lingers so long and their undisguised anxiety - particularly my mother's, who unintentionally bestowed upon me my own natural anxiety but - makes me tense. After checking in I graciously allowed them to buy me a 'coffee' (hot chocolate) and we held stunted conversation. I do love them dearly, I just wanted the goodbyes out of the way so I could relax for the long flight. As we hugged and I turned towards the doors through to customs, Mum said, 'We love you Sam' in that in case anything happens kind of way. Well intentioned as it was, this made me feel neither assured or additionally loved. Just tense and reactive. I told her I didn't want her stressing - firstly its making her unwell, thirdly I'm away for a total of three weeks in India and the USA and they're more likely to be in an car accident while I'm away than I am to be seriously harmed, and most importantly I didn't want to be worrying about their worrying and at such times almost callously refuse to encourage it.

Truth is I am carrying a mild anxiety - one that wasn't aided on Sunday night before I flew out by my four year old nephew presenting me with a drawing that was an early birthday present (next week). 'It's a bee called Sam,' he said, 'and it's dead'.

'It's a bee?' I asked graciously.
'Yeah a bee called Sam. And it's dead,' he said without a smile but with genuine love, unaware that this had the potential to freak me the fuck out.

This is my first overseas trip in a little over two years. By the end of the last one, a five week trip to Canada and the USA, I was a mental wreck and not sure I would leave Australian shores by myself again.

I should really have known. I remember sitting in the departure lounge at Tullamarine writing in my journal that I wasn't really sure why I was undertaking the journey. Yes, it was to visit my brother for the second time in three years, as well as a Canadian friend that I had previously quite fancied, carrying on with plans made between her, myself and a mutual friend from England who had earlier pulled out without much explanation. I also had a few days planned in Vegas with a friend from home that were so much fun we missed our flight out. And I genuinely wanted to see the Canadian Rockies.

However, I spent much of that trip alone. Solitude was something I had looked forward to, especially in such beautiful and cultural places as Vancouver, Quebec and the Canadian Rockies.

I was aware of the possible impact of prolonged isolation after my month-long trip to Britain a year earlier had brought me emotionally unstuck. But I believed there were other issues at play there. The first week was spend with the same English and Canadian friends and it was here I confessed to the Canadian I quite liked her. She rejected me in the soft and super friendly way that only Canadians know how. But I was now alone for the best part of three weeks and my melancholic, irrational mind had already bolted. And I hadn't the tools to reign it in, especially without the distraction of familiar connections.

By 2009 I was back in regular touch with my shrink and making progress. I was also off medication. It was decided the one I had been on wasn't working and we gave 'going clean' a brief trial. A sufferer of anxiety possibly shouldn't have exposed myself to the harsh mental terrain of prolonged solidarity in this circumstance. But, as I said, I was doing relatively well (for the time) and both myself and my psychologist thought it would be good for me. Still, while I was excited for all the fun, beautiful and adventurous things, I still wasn't aware of a true reason for going. Did I really need one though? Travel is what everyone does when they get the opportunity.

It was a disaster. The first few days, with my brother in San Francisco and friend in Vegas, were good - at times highly enjoyable. I flew with my friend, on a newly arranged flight, to Vancouver where we spent a day or so together and went our separate ways. I felt like I needed space anyway, as I always tend to when travelling with people, so I wasn't concerned at the time. But the wheels quickly started to shake. All sorts of doubts and irrational thoughts entered my mind, chipping away at my confidence, bringing back old methods of reassurance that served only to feed the beast and push my anxiety to levels not experienced for some time. When this starts there are only two ways for it to end: you find a way to let the thoughts go, or you battle them until they break you and slam you to your rock bottom where you finally find the exhaustion to no longer care and move on. The latter is the easy option in the moment, but obviously can be extremely painful mentally and eat up a lot of valuable time. Unfortunately I'd yet to fully understand the importance of letting go of thoughts, let alone the tools for doing so.

I started counting the days until I could get home, and anxiously waited for hours to pass when I should have been relaxing or enjoying the adventure of a foreign city. Even staying with my friend near Toronto for a few days didn't offer any mental relief. I think escape was still too far away.

About a week before the end of the trip I emailed my psychologist telling him I wasn't sure I could last the next seven days. I made plans in my head to abruptly head home if it got to that point. He reassured me. From thousands of kilometres away, it provided only mild comfort.

A few days later I returned to Vancouver (as planned) and joined a Moose Tour of the Canadian Rockies. I had been off medication for my own anxiety and OCD for a few months and seemed to be doing alright but it all fell apart early in the trip. The resumption of real, meaningful interaction with people and some amazingly beautiful natural surroundings offered the genuine distraction from my thoughts and circuit breaker I needed to move on a little. My mood improved mildly, but I was still keen to get home. When I did, I questioned the value of such travel by myself and realised I will never do the extended tour of Europe that is a pre-requisite for many young Australians. That doesn't bother me, I'm too old now anyway, but I do want to see the world.

Two years on and here I am, temporarily alone and in India of all places to test myself. A challenge, yes, but with the connections and accommodation I have it is far from doing it rough or unsupported. In the past two years I have also made the most significant progress of my life in terms of my mental health. Firstly, I started in new medication when I got home from that trip in 2009, which seems to be the best so far. And twelve months ago I discovered yoga, mindfulness and meditation which has calmed my racing, anxious mind and given me the tools to let go of unwanted, unnecessary and - most importantly - irrational thoughts. Though I'm still learning how to use those tools properly.

I've also learnt through experiences on a road trip last year and, more pertinently, in Perth this year that I need to look after myself to stay on top of it all. That primarily means ensuring I'm well rested, healthy and take my meds.

The next three weeks while undoubtedly throw up various challenges, particularly in periods of isolation, which are no longer than two days this time, but there will be plenty to enjoy about the wonderful and wild adventure (especially over the next six days in India) if I can maintain the right frame of mind. I'm in a far better state of mind and mental health than I was one, two, three and more years ago, and I intend to maintain it! I am thoroughly looking forward to seeing my friends and family: here in India, the (same) English gal and another Canadian friend in New York and Washington, and my brother yet again in San Francisco.

And I am looking forward to the inevitable challenges. It begins now.

The Psychopath Test

I knew before reading The Psychopath Test that I wasn’t one.

Actually I’m practically an anti-psychopath. I saw author, Jon Ronson speaking at the Wheeler Centre before I read the book. Firstly he said that if you’re worried about being a psychopath, then you’re not one. It wasn’t something that particularly worried me, especially the more I read about it, but the question did cross my mind. The more pertinent comment for me was the one I was tempted to have him write inside the cover of the copy I bought 20 minutes later - “anxiety disorder is indicative of moral goodness … OCD sufferers are good people”.

In the seven years since I was diagnosed with Generalised Anxiety Disorder and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder it was the first time they actually felt like badges of honour!

Where psychopaths apparently have stunted emotional response or connection – most importantly when it comes to empathy – thanks to an impaired amygdala, I have it in spades!

I’m constantly, at times obsessively, concerned with other people’s thoughts, feelings and perceptions. Although its important to note the difference between empathy and the need for personal validation; my anxiety has been driven by both. It's the anxiety about other people’s feelings that often has me avoiding confrontation and holding me back from potential romantic dalliances where the other person may want more out of it than I do and I'd eventually hurt them. How pathetic!

So, like Ronson, it’s fair to assume my amygdala works in overdrive, the engine of much of my anxiety. The good news is that it seems it’s easier to shift an over-active amygdala closer to normal than one than activate an impaired one. ‘Possible’ might be a better word than ‘easier’. The book has some fascinating tales of ill-fated attempts to cure psychopaths.
While it had me reflecting somewhat on my own psychology and starting to make unqualified judgements about those around me, the book’s greater effect was scaring the pants off me by shifting the way I view the society.

One in every hundred people qualify as psychopathic. Mostly they are not physically dangerous. The really interesting thing is though, that we have seem to have created an economic model that provide just the environment for non-violent psychopaths to thrive, one that seeks out and rewards their ruthless nature. It seems psychopaths are great to bring in when a company needs someone to make the ‘tough’ decisions.

It would be easy and fun to label several politicians, business leaders and disgustingly prominent political and social commentators, especially given the current toxicity of public debate while people suicide in detention centres, our environment suffers, people sleep out on the streets, etc, etc, but as Ronson gracefully did on QandA when asked about one of our political leaders (the wrong one anyway, I thought), I shall refrain.

The whole thing actually triggered my irrational anxiety to spark up with a bunch of concerns as the book shone a new light on our society. There are psychopaths – many thousands of them – legitimately driving on the roads (a particularly scary thought for a new cyclist), they do hold positions of political influence and power, they work for pharmaceutical companies, and in America (where I'm headed shortly) they legally carry guns for 'protection'. But I've been to America twice before and know I can feel pretty safe.

Thing is, I've generally clutched on this naive, idealistic thought that with all but the least sane people you can reason with them and help them feel things from a different perspective (empathise) if you engage them in the right way. But it seems that's just not the case with a lot – a LOT – of people. And there is no cure. So if some of these people are destined to wreak havoc on people's lives in whatever way, what do you do? Lock them up for good once you have a diagnosis? Even if they've yet to do anything wrong? And what if they're behaving legally, they're just an arsehole for reasons that you could contend are beyond their control? Hmmm. Can't do that, obviously.

I couldn't help but be saddened by the thought of an existence that was so emotionally stunted (look, I'm empathising!). To me, emotional connection with other humans is one of the things that makes life so beautiful, meaningful and worthwhile and it's through empathy in particular that we reach out and actually make that connection. How do you enjoy shared experiences without empathy? How do you truly love?

Of course, there are degrees of psychopathy, and not all psychopaths are inherently dangerous people, indeed the majority probably aren’t. And while 1-in-100 is a lot of psychopaths, that still leaves 99 non-psychopaths for every one of them. As sad as it is for someone to be born with a dodgy amygdala, we can surely overpower them when it comes to fucking with our world. We just have to ensure that our own self-indulgent and selfish desires don’t create a culture that allows us to step back and reap rewards from letting - indeed encouraging - people like Al Dunlap (featured in the book) to run amok in the corporate world just because it's good for share prices, while we wash our hands just a step or two back. That's our responsibility as the 99 per cent non-psychopaths - now go out and be a good world citizen!
 

So … do I have at least some psychopathic tendencies? Let’s take the test!

1. Glib and Superficial Charm - I don't know how to be charming well enough to fake it. No.

2. Grandiose Self-Worth - well I am  writing a public blog and scoring my myself here, hoping it's of interest to people that might read. Perhaps not 'grandiose' but I am a quiet attention junkie. No.

3. Need for Stimulation or Proneness to Boredom - Absolutely. I'm already bored with this test.

4. Pathological Lying - well either way I'm going to say 'no'. You'll just have to trust me or judge for yourself on that one.

5. Cunning and Manipulativeness - We all engage in some (at least passive) manipulation of others, but not to the psychopath level. No

6. Lack of Remorse or Guilt - It depends what I've done and how much of an arsehole the person is. 'Occasional misplaced passion' perhaps, but not 'lack of remorse or guilt'.

7. Shallow Affect - uh-uh. I find emotional connection between to be of critical importance in life; I love deep and meaningful conversations over a beer, though usually I'll talk mostly about myself ...
8. Callousness and Lack of Empathy - again, not blowing smoke up my arse by completely ruling this out. If anything, I could be a little more callous, obsess a little less about what others thoughts and feelings might be.

9. Parasitic Lifestyle - I don't intentionally have an 'exploitative financial dependence' ... but do have a reasonable parental debt, payback of which sits on the back burner while I do some more travel...

10. Poor Behavioral Controls - nope. Once more, often too nice if anything. Paradoxically, The Shins may have been correct in their song Caring is Creepy. Just ask my ex.

11. Promiscuous Sexual Behavior - bahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaha. Yeah, no. If only.

12. Early Behavior Problems - the worst thing I did before I was 13 was steal porn ... from my brother.
13. Lack of Realistic, Long-Term Goals - hmmmm, maybe. We'll see.

14. Impulsivity - Hell no, even my reckless behaviour is thought through.

15. Irresponsibility - sometimes, but it wasn't my fault.

16. Failure to Accept Responsibility for Own Actions  - Would anyone ever own up to this one? Maybe at a relatively low level on occasion. Nobodies perfect, but I accept it's shit behaviour. 

17. Many Short-Term Marital Relationships - I'll be happy to marry once, if that doesn't work out I won't be holding out to be lucky enough for a second shot! A six-year relationship and no relationships lasting mere weeks (that I was aware of at the time anyway) has to rule me out of this one.

18. Juvenile Delinquency - Nothing illegal. Well no more than any other kid. Though the high school years were shared with a group guys sharing my lack of popularity and disinterest in it, engaged in our own shadowy mischeif and (sometimes political) railing against the trends of the masses.

19. Revocation of Condition Release - Yet to have the opportunity!

20. Criminal Versatility - I'd like to think that if I were a criminal, I'd at least be versatile.

So my score has got to be somewhere between 0 and 4 (For each item: 0 if it does not apply, 1 if it applies partially and 2 if it is a perfect match). In conclusion, I am awesome.

Obviously, just like a diagnosis of psychopathy itself, most of those items are subjective and vary in degree for different individuals, it's not necessarily as easy as just 'yes' or 'no'. It's interesting to reading in the book how it (I think the actual test is a bit longer) is used in diagnosing certain individuals.

Still, I may be many things, but I'm satisfied that I'm far from a psychopath. I'm more concerned about the diagnosis of modern society and, in particular, our economic system.

As Ronson reassures the reader, if you're worried you may be one, you're probably not. But maybe have a friendly chat to somebody anyway...

Fascinating and fantastic book.

The usual mental health links follow, and a fascinating blog I found about Raising a Psychopath.

Black Dog Institute
beyond blue
LifeLine
GLCCS

And: Jon Ronson at the Wheeler Centre.