It’s 7.00a.m., already 17oC. The sky is clear, and the air is crisp as I walk from the car park, dog in tow, excited to be outside. So many smells to smell and things to pee on.
I’m on a mission today. It’s the first day of a training program that will aid me in running 10kms. It is unclear to me why I want to do that, but there you go.
Step one is a 10-minute warm-up, walk or a light jog. The dog on leash, I break into a little jog along the gravel path. The birds chirping in the scrub, the surfers bobbing in the water like shark bait on a line.
The waves are crashing in and there’s a lot of people, all dressed in black wet-suits. And I pause to think who is crazier, the 60+ year old pretending to jog lightly, or the 60+ year olds dangling their legs in the cold water. Waiting for the right wave to ride to shore, so they can then paddle back out and wait for the next one.
My watch beeps and I ‘recover’ from my light jog for 30 seconds before leaping into cadence drills, a concept that eludes me really, then into acceleration-glider drills. I’m convinced that I would be better at dangling my legs over a surfboard.
Before too long, my watch declares that my workout is complete. I head to the sandy beach, let the dog off and watch her run madly along the sand, stopping sporadically to dig a hole because, she’s a dog.
I spend a lot of time out on the road these days. I see plenty of cars zooming past, all shapes and sizes. It’s the main way we get about, rushing from home to work and return.
Most of the cars I see have one person in them. We have built these great big massive machines, able to sit up to about 5 people and carry heaps of other things, and in reality, they make short trips for just a single person.
Some households even have two of the things.
Our world teeters on the edge of catastrophic climate change. We know that things have to change if we want to limit the destruction heading our way, less carbon emissions from fossil fuels. Yet, day in, day out, we jump in our car, drive to work, leave the car in a car park, then drive it home again and park it overnight.
So, what’s the plan?
We are a one car family, with an electric car. I have an e-bike that I ride to and from work every day, and use the bike to get elsewhere too. Sometimes, riding to the train station, taking the bike onboard and then riding the last bit on the bike again.
If we all know what needs to change, why are we still waiting?
As far as I know, this is it for us. The one planet that we all call Earth. For all life, this is all we will ever know. We evolved here, and like water in a puddle, the environs are perfectly suited to our needs.
As much as I would like to, I can’t save the planet for Homo sapiens. Yet, collectively, we seemed to have made a right mess of it. We all know it, even those who deny the impact on climate, they know that the planet with us on it is a mess.
I want to do my bit to reduce my impact on the world around me. For the household that Michael and I share, that means reducing our carbon footprint. To that end, we have gone all electric. We ditched the gas stove, central heating and hot water. Put some solar panels on the roof, double-glazed the windows, bought a battery to use our own energy overnight and got an electric car.
This is what we can do, not every one can do that.
We did this to do our bit in reducing the impact of our lifestyles on the world around us. It’s not much, and single-handedly we won’t be stopping climate change.
There’s those who don’t get it, that say it will never pay for itself. The battery, for example, only lasts 10–15 years and we will never recoup that cost.
I think that’s the wrong approach. If the only reason you are installing solar panels, heat pumps and batteries is to save money, then you may need to question your motivation.
The planet needs saving from us, and those of us that can afford to do our bit, should do it. Yep, it’s going to cost you money. Yep, it will help the environment.
All the money in the world won’t help when the Earth becomes inhospitable to Homo sapiens.
The last time I wrote about my depression was February 2021 – just over two years ago. Since that post, I have only written two other blogs. It’s not that I don’t want to write, just that it has been difficult to do so. I’ve written so many blogs in my head over the last couple of years, I’m glad that I have the time and capacity to sit down now and do some writing.
Thinking about sitting down to write, I am again sitting in a room in Victoria Clinic having maintenance TMS for my depression. This is the eighth visit to the Victoria Clinic, and I think I’m now settling into a routine of maintenance.
I came in Friday after work and will leave tomorrow morning, Tuesday. Really, just a weekend of treatment.
Before I get into the current phase, let me back it up a bit, as so much has happened to all of us since I last wrote.
The medical intervention for my depression took a real toll on me. There is no doubt at all that the TMS has helped me ‘find myself’ again. I feel like it has come at a huge cost to me, a cost that has been well and truly worth it.
I was never able to really return to my work at the ASRC. I did try, and ultimately decided that it was beyond my current scope. It was stressful to leave, I fought so hard to stay in the role; however, it gradually dawned on me that I wasn’t able to do the role justice, this wasn’t fair to the people I lead, worked with and the people who came to the ASRC for help. My separation from work was ugly and, possibly, one of the lowest points in my life. I left feeling misunderstood, rejected and alone. It has taken me a long time, and possibly still more time, to come to terms with that.
One thing that was evident to me, through the battle of leaving, I was no longer cut out for an executive role. That was a hard reality to face.
I did say to myself, when I left Family Life, that I would never return to a management role. Then, the very next job I took was a management role! I really should have listened to my inner self.
I loved my job at Family Life and the ASRC, I really did. I was good at it. Not only that, but I loved leading, I loved working with dedicated people, supporting them, and making a real difference in the lives of the people who came to our doors for help and assistance.
It was heart-wrenching for me to come to understand the price I was paying was too high. My mental health was suffering in a major way. Even though I had the drive and the passion for my work, depression and anxiety were significant barriers that worked away in the background, grinding me down, until I just stopped.
I took a break. There was a little money in the bank, and Michael was supporting me. It was a safe space for me to be. Uncomfortable, but safe.
Then gradually, as the sun started to shine every morning again, I knew that my next job needed to be radically different. Low-key, no stress, part-time and no strategies!
I am now a Postal Delivery Officer, a Postie for Australia Post. I put letters in letter boxes! And I love it. Nobody asks me to read contracts, interview new staff, look at financial spreadsheets, review the risk register or make an important decision. I don’t have anyone trying to bend my ear for a few minutes. I don’t need to sit with people over a cup of coffee to break some bad news. My job now sees me up at 4.30 in the morning, I get to work by 6 a.m., spend a couple of hours sorting my mail for the day,
then on I get on my three-wheeler electric delivery vehicle and deliver mail to a commercial/industrial area. I’m home by midday, have a nana nap and ready for the next part of the day.
My daily stress is misdelivering a letter and batting off the occasional snappy Jack Russell.
I do at times miss the work I was doing. I wish I had something that would let me use the skills I’ve honed over so many years, maybe one day, for now, I’m happy being a hyper-organised Postie.
So, here I am again, at the end of another weekend of treatment. The first to notice I was on a downward spiral was Michael, I ignored him, and told him he was wrong, I’m perfectly ok. As is so often the case, he was right, and I did need some help. I am grateful to have such a wonderful man in my life. I really should listen to him more!
I wasn’t really prepared for the ongoing impact of my mental health. I sort of thought I was ‘cured’ after a couple of intense treatments. I’ll get there one day, for now, I will continue to focus on healing, I don’t know how long that takes any more. I recall the disappointment I felt when I realised I was slipping again, the dark clouds gathered once more. This time, I’m hoping that the early warning signs have helped get me here sooner. Being aware of my own feelings can be difficult, self-deception can be pretty easy. Listening to others can be frustrating. Sometimes those closest to me, know stuff about me, before I even know myself.
The treatment has worked well. The last few weeks, the thought of getting out of bed, and going to work has filled me full of dread. I would get home and spend my afternoon scrolling through YouTube shorts, waiting until Michael got home, so I could eat and go back to bed. This morning in one of our group sessions, another patient remarked that today was the first time he had seen me smile since I arrived. Michael, when he came to take me out to dinner last night, made much the same remark.
Lockdowns are hard. Even for the likes of me, who enjoys his own company, and perfectly happy to sit at home looking out the window.
I accept the reasons why I’m here. It’s for of my own physical health and that of my community.
And it’s tough. Really tough. For the second year in a row, I had a birthday in lockdown. I missed my family and having a nice quiet dinner.
8 month Chris
I haven’t seen my daughter or her son for so long. I miss them. Video, calls, messages, photos, that’s not the same.
I haven’t seen my other child since I gave them a haircut between lockdowns. We haven’t sat in the same space and watched a bit of sci-fi on the telly. We haven’t been out for a pizza and a beer in forever.
I miss Michael’s family. For the second year running, Rosh Hashanah has been food lovingly prepared by Naomi and collected by Michael. The celebration arrives in plastic containers with personalised labels on top. We eat alone in our home, dipping our apple and enjoying the treats. It’s not the same without the noise of family.
I miss my sister and her oldest daughter turning 18. I haven’t heard or seen from them in yonks. Sure, we talk on the phone, send the odd messages, but the yearning to put my eyes upon them is unmet.
Family is important. I know that we’re all in this together, and we’re doing it tough. Unless, of course, you happen to be the Prime Minister. Then you get to make up the rules, and if they’re designed in such a way that permits you to travel, then you can claim to just be playing by the rules.
The Prime Minister, Scott Morrison, has done just that. He works in Canberra, apparently. He jumps on a RAAF jet and heads home to Sydney for the weekend, to spend it with his wife and two children, oh, and it’s Father’s Day.
He says ‘it’s a cheap shot’ for people to point out how unfair this is. He says, ‘they’re the rules’. Rules that have been designed to favour the political class. Sydney is in lockdown, Canberra is in lockdown. Yet, somehow, the Prime Minister is permitted to not only go home, but to return to work. The rest of us would need to spend two weeks in quarantine, both ways.
It’s a hollow man who wants to be playing by the rules. The office he holds needs to be seen to be with the people, not creating loopholes for his pleasure.
This isn’t about doing the ‘right thing’ according to the rules, this is about consideration for those not able to have the same privilege that he has. The families who had to gather on either side of barricades on the NSW & Queensland border to see each other on Father’s Day, the grandparents missing their grandchildren, even though they live in the same area, the important religious celebration that has to be held in isolation. So many people are doing the right thing, following the rules, minimising the risk. And yet, the PM has no hesitation about seeing his family, and makes no apology for it. He hides behind his role. He uses his important role as PM to justify his actions of seeing his family. The man is tone-deaf to the anguish all around him, and fails to see the clear double standard.
For me, I’ll go back to video calls, phone calls, instant messages. I’ll stay away from my 8-month-old grandson, who is only 45 minutes down the road. I won’t see my children, I won’t see the in-laws, I won’t see my sister. Likewise, I won’t look for a loophole or ask for special consideration because, we’re all in this together.
I have a friend, well several, ok, 5 or 3, I’m not certain. Could be way more or way less. Facebook says I have 756 of them, and as we know, Facebook knows everything about everyone. How easily distracted I am, this isn’t a post about Facebook and privacy, or more importantly how my ego is faring with my friend numbers and whether my posts get sufficient likes to show me how valued I am. No, this is a blog post about the bush, getting out of the city, escaping, running away, claiming that the rabbit is dynamite and learning to count to 5, or is it 3?
For some time, my friend, as mentioned above, I will call her Marcelle, as that is her name. I have been known to call her other things. One day, I’ll compile a list of other things that I call her, perhaps I’ll expand that to all my friends, all 756 of them. Might be quite a list. Anyway, for years, Marcelle has wanted to go snow camping. I don’t really think that’s a thing. Who would pitch a tent in snow? However, she is very insistent, and quite frankly, I’d run out of excuses. I wasn’t working, my weeks just stretching one into the other. Any time I think of escaping Melbourne, we’d end up in another lockdown. So, finally relenting, I agreed to this rather preposterous notion of finding somewhere so cold that the rain turns to snowflakes and falls on you.
We dragged out a map, not like the old days when we’d have a paper map or a copy of the RACV Vicroads Country Directory. No, I went to Openstreet Map, and we selected the Mt Baw Baw national park. We stared at the map on my tablet, using our fingers to zoom in and out. Decided on staying at Mt. Erica, or if we didn’t like that when we got there, Mt. St. Gwinear. Great. Plan set in motion. It was only the next day, as I was dreaming while looking at the map, that I looked at the button that said, “This area has reported issues”. I could feel for its issues, I have lots of them. So, not really feeling up to taking on the area’s issues, thinking they should pay for their own therapy, my pointer moved across the screen slowly and clicked. Sure enough, road closed because of recent storms. There goes that idea.
Not that I was entirely disappointed. I figured that we wouldn’t be able to go right now, and should wait until the road was clear. Maybe it would be summer by that time and the cold snow would have melted!
I knew as that thought crossed my mind, pushing aside a bunch of other things going on in my head at that moment, that it was foolhardy to think we’d give up that easily. I know, I say ‘we’ and wonder if I really meant ‘she’. Alas, though, we have history. In the 1980s, we went to the Grampians to spend a weekend camping and bushwalking. When we got there, we found that the Troopers Creek campground was inhabited by a bunch of young people, so that’s people slightly younger than us in our early 20s, and they were making so much noise. We put all our stuff back into the Holden Belmont HQ and drove to Wyperfeld National Park. It was only a 3-hour drive away. That’s a story for another day.
And I was wrong, within moments of the grim discovery and the thought we might postpone, we’d found another place where the roads were open! Our attention had now moved from Baw Baw to Buller. Carter’s Mill Picnic and camping area. Not too far out of Mansfield, not on top of Mt Buller, so, you know, not as cold.
Time to hit the garage. That’s where my camping equipment is stored. Neglected for the most part. I’d need a tent. Something to carry water in. Mattress, sleeping bag, focket knipe (don’t ask), shoes, gaters, small items in dilly bags, something that rattles, an emergency space blanket. Not that I was going to space, I guess it’s called an emergency space blanket because if you did happen to be ejected from a star ship you could use it as a sort of parachute to float back to earth, or because it keeps you warm if you should get so cold, you pick which idea suits me best. A little spade with toilet paper on the handle, torches, matches, plates, forks, cups, containers with lids for storing things in, ropes, long-johns, coat and another coat in case of snow, assorted things that might be handy should we come under moose attack or get a nasty nick from a hakea bush.
Before I knew it, I had enough gear to allow me to set up a small village and grow carrots. Most of it made sense as I was retrieving it from tubs on the shelves. As I have done so many times, I picked up each item, turned it over and then asked if I really needed it. Luckily, most of it went back into the tubs. I really should throw some things out. I mean, I’m never going to use that torch that takes 3 D cell batteries and clips to the tent roof with a magnet.
Marcelle and I catch up to discuss our menu. I’d like to think of it as a planning meeting. Alas, no printed lists, no creating a menu and then ingredients. Nah, we’re too good for that stuff. It used to be easy, drop into the supermarket, pick up a pack of surprise peas, deb potatoes, kabana, cheese, salada biscuits and packets of chicken noodle soup. I guess it’s still pretty easy, the focus now is on healthier options. We sorted that out. I dropped into the supermarket and picked up some freeze-dried food, muesli bars and a bunch of apples.
Next morning, Marcelle arrived at 5.30 to collect me. Don’t panic, we weren’t going to head off in the middle of the night, we aren’t that mad! No, we went for a run in the middle of the night instead. Once that was over with, we had our breakfasts, and then hit the road.
The biggest part of the journey is actually just getting out of the city. It seems to go on forever and ever. Buildings, cars, traffic lights. It does eventually give way to wire fences, sheep, trees and a bunch of grass. As the day wore on, we had to drive through some fairly thick fog, it was pretty low to the ground, probably about 10 metres deep. Above it, we could see the clear sky. It felt like driving in your own little universe bubble.
Our first stop was Mansfield. Well, not strictly the first stop. We had lunch there. Mansfield was pretty packed, which shouldn’t really have been a surprise, as it is snow season and school holidays. We hadn’t thought about it being holidays for kids. It’s astonishing how over the year’s life is organised around your children and their timetables. Now, both of us, clear of that restraint, wouldn’t be caught in a camping ground during such times. While that was the intention, as we don’t have school aged kids, we also are blissfully unaware of when they actually happen. A little sense of dread niggled at me. Will we have to travel 300k to escape a camping ground full of noisy kids? It then occurred to me, that we were trying to avoid exactly the sort of campers we used to be. With our combined children, it was 8, plus two adults. Imaging thinking you’d picked the perfect spot to put up your tent, light a little fire, enjoy the tranquillity only to have two lots of kids arrive. All the running and screaming at the top of their lungs. And that was just Marcelle and me.
We drove on towards Mt. Buller. As we got closer, we could see the white tips of the alps. Sure seems to be snow up there. The thermometer in the car hadn’t risen above 10c for the duration of the trip, and now it was closer to 0 than 10.
You know we have lots of experience in travelling, Marcelle and I have navigated our ways to lots of remote and tricky places. All of that experience, and we couldn’t find the right road to turn off. I must’ve had the map upside down, actually it was an app. I was expecting to turn right, searching the right side of the roadway for the turn. I couldn’t make any sense of it. It was only when we reached the base of Mt Buller that I thought I should whip out my phone and check the app again. Sure enough, the map was wrong, in relation to my understanding of how maps should work. It makes sense to me if I hold my phone that it naturally orientates to the correct direction of travel. What’s so hard about that?
Big signs up at the gateway to Buller saying that you have to prove your vaccination status to go to the snow fields. A great idea, and with only one shot in my arm, it meant I couldn’t go up to the mountain top. Not that that was the plan, it was good to have a fallback position just in case any more insane ideas came from the driver’s side of the van.
The app map now behaving in a way that I expected, indicated that the turn-off was on the right. So, I was right, it was a right turn if you happen to be driving away from Mt. Buller. We found the turn off and took it, it changes pretty quickly from a sealed road to a rough gravel road. That’s good – it’ll keep some families out. Except the ones with four-wheel drives, nothing keeps them out.
We drove towards the campground, and just before was a car park full of four-wheel drives. My heart sank a little – not a good sign. A little sign pointed us towards the camping ground. Also, a right turn to those of you keeping track. The entry was very muddy and slippery, but still passable, even for those of us without a four-wheel drive. Then bang. Sudden stop. In front was a piece of yellow tape baring the entrance to the camping ground. Hanging off the tape was an A4 piece of paper, laminated, with the words “Closed for renovations”. Clearly didn’t check that one on the website! There’s that moment of hesitation where we have a mix of emotions, do we break the rules?, do we go somewhere else?, do we just give up and go home?
We went with option two. I would’ve gone option one or three. Luckily, Marcelle is much calmer than me. The little A4 sign with the writing in font size 16 – not big enough to read from the car unless you squint and hold your head to the left, said that alternative camping was available at the Buttercup Camping grounds. The immediate result of reading Buttercup was to sing, and that little earworm sat in my head for the rest of the trip. Why do you build me up, buttercup?
So, off we went. Following the road until we came to the Buttercup 4 Campground. There was nobody else onsite! A blessing! The sign on the road told us that we couldn’t drive any further as it was for four-wheel drives only. We had four-wheels and a big van on top of them, alas, not a 4WD. So, here we decided was home.
It was in pretty good shape. Plenty of open spaces. Limbs had recently been cut from trees that may have posed a threat to falling on tents. A toilet, picnic tables. What more can a couple of intrepid adventurers need? Across the small dirt track was open farmland, private property. Some cows wandering around doing cow things, plenty of bird life, plenty of water. The Buttercup creek flows through the campground, and beyond the creek the land quickly rises into what is generally known as a mountain. I nodded at it with a sly grin, it was lucky that there were no plans for us to conquer it this trip. I’m sure it breathed a sigh of relief.
Between us and that mountain were trees. Big trees. Lots of them. Amazing trees. A kookaburra sits in (an old) gum tree, clearly on guard, maybe for their nest. I drag out my binoculars and watch it for a while. It’s just sitting there. My glasses point towards a kerfuffle going on in another tree. A bunch of plump birds are flitting about. I don’t know what they are, they look like Satin Bowerbirds, but I’ve never seen them gather in a flock before. Bowerbirds they are. A few females and a couple of males. I thought they only stayed on the ground because the male makes a bower for the female. It hadn’t occurred to me that they need to find other things to do between breeding seasons. I can feel the city in me expelled as I soak in the view. The air is crisp, the ground is sodden, the trees are swaying. I can hear the creek bubbling away. It’s icy, so cold, it should be snowing, but it’s not. The ground is its normal self – not disappointed.
We set about making camp. We do this by taking things out of the van and spreading them out far and wide. Not in nice little piles close together. We’re here in the bush, plenty of space. So, we spread out. My tent goes up in no time, as does Marcelle’s. These are small one person tents. Hardly enough room to swing a possum. Marcelle’s is brand new, so we’re both eager to see how it preforms. It’s probably rated for snow camping.
Airbeds unrolled, sleeping bags put in place. Pillow there. All this and it’s only 2.30 in the afternoon.
Someone had recently been here, the stones around the fireplace are still quite warm. I set about starting a fire, without using matches. I’m so good. I throw a bunch of twigs, bark and smaller type logs, get down on one knee to allow me to blow at the nearly dead embers. This causes the ash to rise upward, no sign of smoke, or even a flame. Not one to give up too easily, I persisted until I’m dizzy and need to collapse. Luckily, Marcelle has a portable fire in a gas bottle and the kettle can be boiled. While we sip our much-needed coffee and my world stops spinning, the fire roars into life.
While I’m encouraging my fire, grunting as a true reflection of my ability to make fire, Marcelle’s heads over the Sleeping Quarters of the campsite. There she unwraps this superb stainless-steel fireplace. Ever the prepared one, she’s brought wood, non-petrochemcial fire starters and a match. Within moments, she’s got a fire going in the little fireplace. It’s no match for my masterpiece, I grunt as I throw half a tree into the now well-established flames.
We sit looking at the fire, there’s hardly a breath of wind, so we aren’t dodging around the smokey parts. We natter, laugh, reminisce and glow at our cleverness. Here we are, midweek, feeling like we are in the middle of nowhere with nothing but the trees and the birds. This illusion is soon shattered by the echoing sound of a gunshot. At first, I think that it mustn’t be that. Must be a cocky-scarer or the banging of two bits of wood. Alas, the noise ricochets around hills again and there is no mistaking that sound. We look at each other a bit nervously, remembering that we are in the middle of nowhere. Visions of Wolf Creek cross my mind. Right, that’s what you do when you’re trying to sneak up on someone, fire a couple of shots, so they don’t know you’re coming. Things go quiet. There’s no car noises or breaking of twigs. Maybe they’re hunting rabbits, pig, deer or a goat.
Feeling safe enough, we head off for a bit of a walk along the Buttercup Track, why do you build me up, buttercup? We have the babbling Buttercup creek to the right of us, and open fields to the left. There’s a few cows doing cow things in the paddocks, and we can see some utes sitting at the top of the paddock. Another shot rings out and the sounds bounces off the hills. We continue our walk to the next campsite. There’s plenty of water running here. Little streams run under the road. Birds flit around the freshly ploughed fields and gunshots echo.
A few more loud bangs, and it seems that the gunshots are coming from the same place. Almost like someone is sitting in their rocking chair taking potshots at the rabbits, although more likely empty beer cans.
Back at camp, the chill of the evening is setting in as the sun has gone below the ridge line. We can still see it shining on the hills to the east, but we are deprived of its direct warmth. That means, the already cool temperature drops even more. Darkness is on the way, and we think it’s best to get our evening meal out of the way before it sets in.
Cooking is minimalist, to say the least. We’re trying to pretend we’ve been out hiking in the wilderness all day, and all we have is a pan, some freeze-dried food and some water. Ignore the fact the Marcelle has brought with her a fully decked out van with a 12v fridge, crockery, cutlery, a stove, tea towels, kitchen utensils, and I’m sure the kitchen sink is there somewhere. But hey, I’m ok with this, better than worrying about gunshots.
Just as it’s getting dark, we’re eating our dinner. I’m rugged up in my winter jacket, hat and gloves. We huddle around the fire with half a tree still burning and continue to chat while we finish dinner with a coffee.
It’s dark, it’s cold, the sky is ablaze with stars. I miss seeing the stars in the city. Tiredness creeps in and we both think that it’s about time to retire for the night. It feels really late, upon checking we realise it’s only a quarter to seven. No matter! Mind says sleep, who am I to argue!
Into my little tent I go and try to manage getting into a sleeping bag with barely enough room to sit up. I somehow manage this and nod off quickly, getting up once in the middle of the night to stare at the stars.
The morning light arrives, and I lay in my bed, comfortable and warm. I can feel the cold of the outside air, so I pull my beanie down over my ears and shut the baffles on my sleeping bag. I’m waiting to hear noises from outside. Then I know that Marcelle is up and about. It’s very quiet out there. Just the odd magpies doing their morning calls and the rushing of water. The tent looks icy. I doubt it’s snowed, though. In any case, a bit of light rain has fallen, so not likely to be any snow.
I think I’ve waited enough time, I can hear no noises from outside. I’m surprised. Marcelle is always up at sparrows fart. How could she still be asleep? I sit up and open the fly of my tent, and rather than being greeted by an empty campground, there Marcelle is, faffing around. I can’t believe I haven’t heard her. She’s managed to open all the doors on the van, and that makes a racket. She’s removed the fly from her tent and flapped in the breeze to dry it out, still I heard nothing. Not only that, but she’s boiling some water. “How do you do that?” I query from the safety of my tent. Sneaking around the campsite.
Breakfast is had, we sit around again enjoying the wilderness. Marcelle shows me a bloodied cuff on her trousers. Sometime yesterday a leech had latched onto her ankle, had a full feed and dropped off. She didn’t realise until she saw her blood soaked pants. More examples of our intrepidity. I can only hope to get two leeches to outdo her. The very thought makes my skin crawl, so I’ll just look in awe at her with her blood stains, as if she’s been out bush for months. I’ll have to be content with the black charcoal and ash on my jeans left by kneeling on the ground trying to start the fire yesterday.
We talk about our ambitions for the day. We both want to get home before the sun sets and we want to do a walk. We commence the task of looking at our spread out campsite and bringing all the items back to a central point for packing up. Everything stowed away, we agree to head back to Carters Mill Picnic Ground. We know there’s a few good walks around that area, and we should make an effort to at least claim to have been hiking.
The trip down the mountain was interesting, with a bit of rain there were plenty of puddles to splash water in all directions, and the van mostly behaved itself by sticking to the track.
We arrived at the picnic ground. It would seem that the weather was keeping people away today! A few cars, but not as many as yesterday. We were relieved. This means we don’t really need to interact with other people. These two introverts are much happier in their silence as they trek along the track, and only break that silence for two reasons:
Something interesting to look at.
Something funny to say.
The walk we choose is rather short, as it’s raining. As intrepid as we like to pretend we are, a good soaking, while not bothering us, is really not needed! It’s only a light sprinkling anyway. There are two walks, a 2k walk or a 3k walk. The short one is a circuit. The other is return on the same track. As tempting as an extra kilometre was, we went to the Plain Creek Loop Walk. It was lovely. A wonderful little wooded area, over a little bridge, and through the forest. The rain falling on my raincoat hat, the sound of Plain Creek bubbling away. The odd bird out in the weather.
In no time at all, the walk was done. The two very smoked campers and hikers got into their van and headed back the way they came.
And that’s it, as exciting as it gets. A single night out in the bush, no snow, plenty of water falling from the sky. A wonderful collection of native birds. Trees, fire, smoke and good company.
A great way to replenish the inner workings of my brain with great company.
I thought that telling people I was gay was a tough gig. It still makes me nervous at times. The stigma around being gay is fading out, like a farmhand on a horse riding off into the sunset. Not that I’ve ever been a farmhand or ridden into the sunset. I have, however, been on a horse
Working in the 80s and 90s would have been so much harder for me if I was out. I well recall the homophobic jokes and teasing that I laughed along with. Being gay was not ok.
Until now. Being gay is ok for me.
The stigma around mental illness still exists. I know plenty of people who have an illness.
So, big breath, I too have a mental illness. I’ve been fretting about telling you. In some ways it feels like coming out. The stigma associated with a mental illness feels the same.
The same questions pop into my head
How to tell you?
What will you think of me?
What if you don’t want to be my friend anymore?
What if you change how you treat me?
And that’s just the start.
The answer to the first question is easy – “I wanted to let you know that I have a mental illness”. The real work is then afterwards, that’s when the stigma rolls in, or more importantly, that’s the perception. My perceptions, as I have often observed, are not always spot on, and like coming out, it’s an internal stigma, so the only logical answer to the next lot of questions is “Fuck you” if your answer is anything other than “OK, no probs” to question 1.
I have had depression for more years than I care to remember. For many of those years I have worked with my GP and psychologist to understand the nature of my illness and find ways to mitigate it. The last thing I have ever wanted to do is tell others. I didn’t even want to admit it to myself.
When I left Family Life in March 2017 it was after a long stressful period at work. There was so much going on at the same time, and this became a real turning point for me. I was there for 18 years, and I always enjoyed the job. As my mental health declined, so did my work, so did my mood and so did my interactions with others.
When I made my farewell speech then, I said to the staff that part of the reason for my leaving was my well-being. My mental health. I explained how I was trying to look after it, I had begun some medication, and need to stop and rest for a while.
I didn’t tell anyone else about my reasons, I said that I was leaving to complete my studies.
Work out of the way, I could focus on studying better. I muddled through, I really did. I don’t know how I actually passed. There were many dark days and while medication took the edge off, I was still not very well at all.
It was two years later when I started a new job. I was onto my 2nd medication, and it seemed to work, I was reaching a better equilibrium and felt ready to take on the next challenge.
And I love my job, I love the work we do, and the people who do it. It ticks all my social justice boxes.
Eighteen months into the job and I could feel the wheels falling off again. I tried hard to keep things under control, but I was slipping.
For a reason I don’t really understand, I came off the medication. While the medication helped, it really made me exhausted, to the point that my brain would just shut down by around 6 every night. I’d have to go to bed, which is just ridiculous, so I’d stay and watch telly for a couple of hours while snarling at Michael for chatting to me.
Initially, when I came off the meds, I actually was pretty good, for a little while. The crash sort of sneaked up on me. Little things at first. It was easy to say the pandemic was causing me stress, and it did, it kept me awake at night, trying to work out how to look after our teams and the people we support. I could put my mood down to that stress.
After I was particularly snappy in one of the leadership team meetings, not rude mind you, just snarky, Kon, the CEO, took me aside and asked me if I was ok. That’s an outrageous question to ask! Indignantly I said, “Yes, of course I’m OK”. The next words out of his mouth are the single most important he has ever uttered to me.
“No, you’re not ok”
Weak knees, tears welling up, head down and a slight stutter as I finally acknowledged the truth. “You’re right”.
What a precious moment. Another person cared enough, not just about my job performance, but me as a person, to tell me he was worried about me, to ask why my responses and actions were out of sync, to check in with me, really check in on a professional and personal level.
There are others too, of course, who have been trying to tell me. My husband, Michael, more on that soon.
I have to say that I love my job, I want to throw myself into it and work hard. I felt like I was working with a team that is making real change for people, and I find that important and rewarding. Furthermore, I didn’t want to mess this up, that’s an anxiety all on its own. The guilt of walking away in the middle of a pandemic was gut-wrenching for me.
Walk away I did, and this time, I thought, I’m pulling out all stops. First stop to the GP – I wanted a real diagnosis, not that his diagnosis wasn’t real. I wanted a psychiatrist to give me the once-over. I really wanted to put a plan in place to help me manage. I knew I could live with depression, I just knew I couldn’t do it by myself.
What’s essential to me in my leadership role is modelling behaviours. Over the course of the pandemic, I was aware of the huge impact it was having on the well-being of the staff. It was really a tough gig for all of us, locked up at home, trying to help some of the most vulnerable people in Victoria and struggling to make sure we could make ends meet.
It felt so wrong at the time to have to take leave. It is what I have been saying, though to the staff, if you’re unwell, take the time off. We’ve got this, and we need you back, so go heal.
Here was an opportunity for me to model a bit of self-care, and there’s little point in doing that if I don’t tell people what’s going on. So I did. I was quite upfront with people. I told them that I’m not well, and I’m taking a mental health break to look after my depression.
I hated taking the time off. I’m glad I did. I think it’s difficult for some people to do this. We’re so caught up in our bullshit that we forget we are only human. There should be no shame in not being at the top of your game. Nobody batted an eyelid when I had time off to have my skin cancers removed. Nobody cared I took time off to have my wisdom teeth removed. Nobody should care that I need time off to have my depression removed, or mitigated, or managed. I don’t know the right word.
So, I did take some extended leave, during a pandemic, where I got to sit at home and do nothing. A dose of mountains, trees, kangaroos and small goats would have been ideal, but impossible. So, home I stayed. Taught myself how to program in Python. Set up a Raspberry Pi, bought some lenses to take photos with it and read.
Diagnosis came when I sat with the psychiatrist who ran me through a series of questions about life. Mild to severe depression he proclaimed. Oh yes, he proclaimed, we had full trumpets, the unrolling of a parchment and the tolling of bells before the big announcement. Well, that’s what it felt like. At last, I had some words. I hadn’t realised just how important this was for me. I think that just popping a few pills wasn’t enough, I needed to know just what I was dealing with. The psychiatrist prescribed a bunch of blood tests and from that my third medication was introduced.
And this time the changes in my mood were so much better. The time off, seeing my psychologist weekly, the psychiatric assessment and a treatment course all helped me to get back on track. It was about a month before I returned to work, raring to go.
Now some months later, I’ve taken a couple of weeks off for an intensive program of TMS. Again, it was important for me to let the leadership team know, and the staff too.
I don’t feel mighty, I’m hoping that my little blog will help someone, I’m hoping that letting my team know they’ll know it’s ok to take care of themselves.
I feel like this is tough for me. Everyone’s journey and experience is very different to mine. I don’t want for a minute to undermine yours.
What I do want, is a world free of stigma. Stigma creates trauma, and we need to let go of the things that cause said stigma. It’s a nice way of saying, if you’re a misogynist, a homophobe, a transphobe, a mental health phobe (is there a word?) to pull your head out of your arse. Stigma sucks and has real life impacts for those at the other end, and you have no excuse for being phobic.
Finally, you know what’s vital to me? Michael. I have told him he is the love of my life. We have been on this journey together, and this wonderful man has waited for me, he has put up with so much while I’ve been to the bottom and slowly back to something near normal. He sees in me something that keeps him here. As I do in him. My relationship with him is an important part of my happiness. I just want to be with him. I want us to be happy. I’m grateful, happy, pleased, thrilled, I don’t know how to express it. I’m rapt that he is in my life.
There is no doubt that parenting is by far one of the best jobs you’ll ever have.
Sure, there are plenty of books around that tell you how to do it. If you’re unlucky you’ll have family around who think they know better than you and won’t be afraid to tell you. There are barriers and obstacles, dangers and traps, every single step of the way.
Let me tell you, as a man on the brink of grandparenthood, it’s been one heck of a trip and not one bit of it would I change.
From the moment of discovering that Caitlin was on her way, this has by far been the best adventure of my life. To be present, really present, in the lives of Caitlin and Tomas has brought me such joy and happiness.
I was there when they opened their eyes, I was there when they took their first step, hurt themselves, rode a bicycle without the trainers, thrilled at their first concert, watched their first movie, gazed at their grandparents in awe.
I was there when they threw up in the car, had a toileting accident, screamed in agony in a public place, didn’t succeed at a task.
I’ve been the brunt of their frustration, I’ve been the fixer of feelings, the hugger and carer. I have gathered them in my arms to console them, and hug them and tell them I love them.
As the next chapter of life begins for Caitlin and Glen, I look back at the thrill of it all. I am so glad to have been able to be a part of her life.
It’s at this point, that I feel obliged to reflect about what I would do differently. And there are plenty of things I wished I could do over. However, the best thing I ever did was to be there as they grew up. Sure, it was tough to work part-time, never to have quite enough money, lonely and stressful. Alas, even with that, I’m so glad that I made that decision to be their care-giver. In all of life, raising kids is the best.
Grasp the chance with both hands, get in there and get dirty. Thrill at the pure joy of the unfathomable love that comes unexpectedly when a bundle of joy is passed to you the first time.
Tears streamed down my face as I looked at both my children for the first time.
We started a journey together, and I’m delighted to have been part of it. The best way to be a parent is to be there as much as you can. Take time off work, reduce your hours, do school drop offs and pick-ups, watch them dance, watch them sing, watch them act and play. Just be there, always with a warm word, a hug, a kiss and a glint of pride in your eye.
Rummaging through some boxes I happened upon an old 9×4 manilla envelope, and there inside a box of slides.
May 1983 Rocklands Slide Show is scrawled in my handwriting. It’s an old tatty envelope that includes, not only the box of slides, but a cassette tape, some homemade slides and a running sheet.
I remember when we packed up a bunch of young cubs and headed to the Rocklands Reservoir for a 4-day camp – a Pack Holiday. It was the first time the leaders had embarked upon such a long adventure.
I don’t recall anything specific about these 4 days. The venue we used was a regular place for many camps over the years. Fairly rustic, but functional, not too far from home and plenty of natural bushland around.
The real find, however, was the cassette tape. I played that and listened to my own voice narrating the story of the pack holiday.
It’s dreadful!
Nevertheless, I need to share it with you.
The iconic slide box
We would gather the parents together for a slide night on a cold, dark winters night, a few weeks after the event, as we have to send the film off to be developed. We’d probably show the slides at the end of the regular cub meeting, followed by a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Everyone would sit politely, the cubs would be sitting on the floor and the parents on some chairs.
Lights off, slides on. The show runs just over 15 minutes, and there is no escape.
I have no idea about the timing of the slide show itself. We spend ages looking at some images, and barely 30 seconds looking at others. I added some sound effects here and there, and some trashy music.
There’s only about 30 photos, and they’re not that great. One of the parents took them. I think they were the pick of the bunch. Of course, unlike the digital wizardry of today, you’d probably only snap one, maybe two photos, you can’t just keep taking shots – film is expensive. You just hope that they will turn out ok.
I’d also gone to the trouble of creating some of my own slides to augment the show. I imagine I spent hours putting them together. They’re pretty bad, but at the time, I no doubt thought they were wonderful.
Handmade – ‘The End’
This slide ‘The End’ was typed on my old Olivetti typewriter, then I would photocopy it onto a piece of plastic for an overhead projector, cut it out and stick it into the slide. Never mind that it just looks rubbish. No colour copies in the 80’s. I would have to wait until the boss was out for lunch and then make the copies. Sometimes the acetate sheet would get stuck in the copier and I’d spend ages trying to extract it without having to call the repair man.
Yelling YIK
The ‘YIK’ slide I even coloured by hand, and wait until you see the final slide that’s so wonderfully presented.
Now, the challenge for today, is to watch the 15 minute video, pretend you’re in a cold Scout Hall. I’ve included the slide projector sound for your enjoyment. There’s no way to swipe to the next image, you can’t enlarge it to see more detail, you can’t tag a friend, and you can’t report it to a social media company to have it taken down.
You’ve also got to hang around at the end. You’ll need to have a cup of luke warm tea, that’s probably either to strong or to weak, and a biscuit out of the Arnotts Family Pack – go for an Arrowroot, all the chocolate ones will be gone.
