Girl on the Edge
Page 25
Therapy also forced me to revisit Coolah. I explored how the differences were so great between: home and school; my family and other families; working class and upper class. Why wasn’t I content with what I had? To simply accept things as they were? But I couldn’t. I yearned to understand these differences. So with my turbulent, uneasy and challenged mind I attempted to find answers. But answers were not forthcoming. This was the life I chose, or maybe this life chose me.
In therapy I explored whether my unexpected arrival in the world, when my mother was nineteen, had stolen the years in which she could have built her marriage, got ahead financially, or had a job that may have firmed up her sense of identity. Instead, she had experienced a teenage pregnancy to a handsome rogue and a rushed marriage to combat shame and stigma. I robbed my mother of her ability to choose motherhood, which was thrust upon her before she was ready. I had sensed a sort of grudge from her and her own mother towards me while I lived at home and on holidays at my grandmother’s. Her attempts at character assassination and her black and white worldview have never ceased. She has remained hard, fixed and definite about everything. I had to break ties with her for my own wellbeing. She was left with my father, three sons, gossip and Mills & Boon. I got out.
Finally I have also explored in therapy how my strained marriage became further strained as the illness robbed me of my previous self. This type of illness debilitates the sufferer, but also has a profound effect on all family members. One of the big challenges is how to tell children, how much, and in what context. There have been many times when I am just trying to stay alive and my capacity for family duties barely exists.
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This illness is so severe that to this day it can leave me in a state of paralysis. My sense of self, my core being, broken for weeks at a time. I have spent many weeks in hospital, trialling various medications. Experts are working with me intensively, providing me with the skills and education to manage this debilitating illness.
For so long I kept it hidden from everyone. I was worried about judging eyes and the stigma and stereotype attached to mental illness. The judging eyes were mine and mine only. Just like the year my thyroid went crazy, I hid it so well and boxed it up and threw away the key.
But now I have finally listened to the health professionals. I can say the words “depression” and “mental health.” Finally I realise it is not my fault and I am underserving of this illness. Now, I am on the long road to recovery but I still wake up every morning with trepidation and my first thought: is it back? I am angry and at times full of desperation as mental illness hijacked many parts of me, and there is no ransom for me to negotiate their return. I have been told that one day my illness may return the hijacked parts of myself to me, but many days my hope wears thin.
I have read that some depression survivors often state, “For every single day that I am well, I am grateful, so very grateful. I now notice the colours, smells, wind, sun and the tiny details of my life that previously went unnoticed.” I have never felt this, possibly because their depression is managed, contained and less severe than mine. However I continue to put one foot in front of the other, because despite everything, one day I could be well again. Writing about the big ordeal may have triggered some bout of the illness, but the story had to be told.
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I have survived trauma and damage from a medical misdiagnosis, from being raised in a family without the skills or ability to deal with it appropriately and from living in a non-supportive community. On the flipside, the survival skills and resilience that I gained have driven me in interesting directions. I’ve ventured into what no-one ever imagined to be possible for a townie girl from Coolah with a failed Higher School Certificate—except for maybe Mr Richards and Anthony. The Year My Thyroid Gland Went Crazy was the working title of this book. As the ink flowed and the words hit the page, I realised that the story was bigger than that one year of my life. My thyroid required a context, a before and an after. This meant thinking and writing about living my late teenage years in a small, isolated community: gender roles and expectations; class divisions; culture; wealth and poverty; the power of the medical fraternity; wellness and sickness; sibling order; family expectations; and the education system. Most of all, it required me to confront the lack of a mother-daughter relationship. Even today, I am envious of respectful, functional and loving mother-daughter relationships. I notice my friends with their daughters and I compliment them on their relationships with them. I missed out and it still hurts. Life throws curve balls at us all. The challenge is how to catch them, accept them and make peace with them. Many balls I never caught; they hit me so hard that I simply never recovered.
Time healed and the claws loosened their grip. As this thing retreated, I wanted to name this book The Big Ordeal. That title captured my experience, how big it was—so very big for a seventeen-year-old girl living in a small community. But again, I realised the big ordeal might be more than the two years of my misdiagnosis. So I chose to rename it Girl on the Edge instead, to reflect how felt uneasy in my family, my school, my town; even in my own skin. These feelings have stayed with me.
I wish I had written about the big ordeal earlier. The number of Dr Desmond’s patients may have reduced significantly. Some medical practitioners, after reading about the big ordeal, might re-evaluate their interactions with patients. I’d like to see medical practitioners engage in an open dialogue—where girls can ask questions and be listened to with respect. I couldn’t write about it, at the time, for many reasons—the feelings upset me, I was on the run, and I was busy with my new life.
Five years after starting, the final paragraph of this book was written. I looked up Dr Desmond. I wanted to send him a personalised, signed copy. Three phone calls later, I discovered that he had died years ago. I had mixed feelings about that. I wanted him to acknowledge his role in the big ordeal, but I was also relived that he was gone.
Suzie, my twin friend, had said many times when we were house-sharing in Sydney that she knew things were difficult for me in the final two years of school. All I ever responded with was, “Yes, I had a hyper-active thyroid that required surgery,” I just could not tell her any more than that—I could not even talk about it. We are still friends, and I know it’s time to let her and her twin sister Sam in on what really happened. In retrospect, thirty years ago I needed to let them in. Both friends would have been non-judgemental and supportive. But I just could not find the words. So, instead of sending a copy to Dr Desmond I’ve posted Suzie a personalised copy. I found Mr Richards again and I have phoned him a couple of times about this book. I finally did thank him for inspiring me. Rather than meet up with him in Sydney, I chose to keep the image I had of Mr Richards when I saw him in the university corridor twenty-odd years earlier— with his suit, tie, handkerchief in pocket, and polished shoes, slightly grey, wavy hair and groomed beard. That was the memory I want to keep of him. I have posted him a signed copy too. Many times, over the years, Anthony had also raised this time in my life with me. We never ever talked about the night of the ordeal; my strategies to shut down or to divert the conversation had worked every time. Now, I have spoken to Anthony about it and writing this book. My fondness for Anthony has never dimmed. I still love him as a friend. His copy of this book will come bundled up with my love, for looking for me, for finding me, and for taking care of me on the night of the ordeal. I wish all young men had Anthony’s traits, rather than those of Creepy Wayne. Anthony now resides in the south of France with his partner and children.
Finally, the big ordeal is not so big anymore. Now I can finally move on.
BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS
1 Which aspects of the story resonated with you? And why?
2 How were the adolescent years challenging? Why were these years more challenging for Kim?
3 Identify the aspects of society that have changed from 1970s compared to contemporary society. What aspects have remained constant?
4 Identify the limitati
ons for a townie female adolescent in the 1970. Have these changed in contemporary society? If so how?
5 Could the Big Ordeal have been prevented? If so how? If not, why not?
6 Why did the Big Ordeal resurface two decades later?
7 What aspects in the book stood out for you?
8 Which aspects of the book did you like and/or dislike.