Today, 30 November, is uncharacteristic of late spring here in Heavenly Beverley. Cool and blustery with the occasional splatter of a light shower, I am actually revelling being in my passion killer (dressing gown) and ugg boots as I watch the drama of the scuttling clouds across the sky.
A day to pause, a day to breathe, a day to regroup.
Yesterday was the catalyst for this post. An event did not go as planned. Conversations spilled out. A final phonecall was excruciating as I battled to maintain my calm, listen attentively and respond objectively.
An observation by a friend that I was a positive and cheerful being. She was stunned when I responded that had been a journey for me, from a breakdown in 2005, with frequent slipups, to change my automatic thoughts and emotional responses. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy 101.
I have Major Depressive Illness. I have had depression since my late teens. I was first prescribed Valium when I was nineteen. I have seen countless psychologists and a few psychiatrists. Some were empathetic and useful, others were just bloody awful.
My response to my mental illness has always been to fix. Family, friends, dogs, unfair or unjust circumstances, battles with departments and agencies, open warfare with a respiratory specialist who nearly killed Michael, and a lifelong desire to help all and sundry.
Whether they wanted it or not. So, I suppose it is all about me.
Writing was the sweet catharsis from the time I was a child. I wrote rambling narratives in the style of Enid Blyton to escape from the chaos of home and bullying. I "learnt" how to journal at the Kalparrin Mothers Weekends, but only wrote when I was on the edge of despair. Horrible, miserable, dirgeful, self-centred rubbish, so I abandoned writing for years.
And then along came Michael.
Here comes an interpolation I recently bought a beautiful little art piece from Sally Watts, an Artist-in-Residence at Beverley's Station Gallery. A paper mache boat with two dogs in the cockpit. One of the dogs has a lifebuoy around their waist. Sally asked me who was saving who. Without hesitation, I replied that Michael and I had saved each other.
Anyway, I've diverged. In October 2009, I kept a diary of our first trip to the Goldfields. Unbeknown to me, Michael was testing my willingness to join him on his outback adventures. He planned the trip with meticulous precision. We set out with camp beds, swags, a padded toilet seat with a shovel and a large round basin for bucket baths. As a clumsy city girl, I promptly fell over whilst procuring a huge dead branch for our fire at Mount Palmer. Michael was seriously concerned until I started laughing. And that was the beginning of "Love Amongst The Goldfields" - my ability to look on the funny side whilst injuring myself in stunning outback locations.
Over the last eleven years, we have travelled through the Wheatbelt, the Mid-West, the Goldfields, the Murchison, the Gascoyne and the Pilbara. We have journeyed to Queensland and once to Bali. We have met some extraordinary characters and marvelled at fantastic experiences.
In 2014, Callum, my city-slicker son, advised me that I was using Facebook as a blog. Apparently, FB was only to be used for short, sharp entries. I could ramble to my heart's content if I had a blog. He and equally computer-savvy daughter-in-law-to-be Bronwyn set up "Heavenly Beverley" for me.
This morning, I actually looked up the definition of a blog. Way back in 1997, some bloke coined the word "Weblog", which another bright spark changed to "We Blog". Thus "blog" became an expression to describe a webpage or site that was regularly updated and written in an informal or conversational style.
Bingo.
In the great style of other slow learners, I have finally realised that blogging is an integral part of my personal journeys. In order to boldly go where I haven't been before, I must have an outlet to process and review what has happened to me. Somewhere I can laugh, cry, rage, despair, endure and rejoice.
Like my paper mache dogs in their boat, writing and I have not been a haphazard choice. Writing has become essential for my well being.
Me...
