R U OK? R U On Time?

This morning I was meant to attend the Perth R U OK? Day event at Gloria Jeans and live blog it, but there was a slight problem (other than me not prepared to share the ins and outs of my own story)...

According to the event invite I was sent, the whole thing was starting at 6:30am and there was buckley's chance I was going to get there that early so I checked if it would be OK if I could get there around 8:30-9:00am. Yes that's fine, they said, but could you please be available til it ends? No problems. Let's rock and roll.

It took me a whole hour to get there so I was ten minutes later than I expected. Being late is one of my major fears. I pride myself on being reliable and on time, so if I'm late for anything (including flights) I freak out. I walked in to find the dregs of a crowd milling round and having a chat. It was all over. Panic stations.

I walked up to the roped off area and was looked up and down by the manager. I smiled nervously. She completely ignored me and continued talking to who ever it was that was standing next to her. I asked if I could please get through and she looked at me like I was just there to try and score a free coffee, and took a half step to the side so I could squeeze through.

The few people left were chatting in their own little groups so I stood there alone feeling like a third wheel. I started having a bit of a panic attack. People with R U OK? Day shirts looked at me and with my body language and face saying "help me", they quickly looked away. Did I have something on my face? Was there spinach in my teeth or something?

Standing there, very obviously not OK at an R U OK? Day event and no one gave a shit, too consumed in their own conversations. The irony is not lost on me.

Only one person came up to me - Will, a Gloria Jeans employee. He asked if he could help me and after telling him I was late and I'd missed it he asked if I'd like a drink. I considered asking for vodka but settled on a hot chocolate which he went and got for me. One bloody person spoke to me because they were being paid to.

I was really aware that I'd said I would be there and blog it and that I was letting people down. So I sat down, drank my hot chocolate while blinking away my tears (sending texts to Map Guy telling him what was happening) and calmed myself down before asking a volunteer why it was over so early. She said that it was always going to be 8:00-9:00am. Right.

So why was I told turning up at 9:00-11:00am would be fine? I was no longer sad... I was angry. I organized a babysitter and drove for an hour to do this. All for nothing.

I decided to get proof that I'd at least gone so I had a paparazzi moment and a quick chat with Hockeyroo Rachael Lynch who was lovely and not only knew what a blog was but has one herself and asked what I blogged about.

Rachael Lynch looking gorgeous and me with puffy eyes from nearly crying

I looked around and everyone was packing up so I saw no point in staying around any longer so I left. I'd been there fifteen minutes. So much for an 11:00am finish.

Overall, I was really disappointed. If you want someone to live blog your event an accurate time would be helpful. And if you see someone trying not to cry at your event about depression, maybe you could start practicing what you preach.

My bad experience aside, I still believe whole heartedly in the concept and the meaning behind the day, even if it is somewhat lacking in tangible ways to finish or continue the conversation they're asking us to start. So ask someone. Start that conversation. Do it today and keep doing it.

EDIT: I'm thinking that they never received my email checking that I could come at 8:30-9:00am and only the original one when I was talking about arriving at 8:00am. I have to believe that. Otherwise I feel too let down. Still would have been nice to know that an event with a four hour time span according to the invite was actually only one hour.

What is OK, anyway?

With R U OK Day just around the corner the blogosphere is exploding with posts about mental illness. I was approached to blog and tweet the Perth launch thanks to the ever wonderful Madam Bipolar passing on my details to people in the right places, and such is my ability to over commit, I said yes... but before that, I wasn't planning on writing anything. But now I feel obliged to share at least something...

I have resisted writing anything so far because it makes me uneasy. Words and images spiral around my head a thousand times making me dizzy. My chest tightens, my vision blurs, my stomach churns and my hands go numb. Do you know how hard it is to type with numb hands?

See, things have not been so good lately, and I am most definitely not OK. There are a number of factors, but the cumulative effects of a year of stress: watching my precious Tricky have two lots of surgery, my Dad having major open heart surgery (that has fixed only one of his heart problems) and seeing my grandfather get sick and watching him die a few weeks ago have contributed. That's three of the four major male players in my life. I tell Map Guy he should watch his back, he's the only one who has been fine. So last week, after two years drug free, I started taking medication again.




Surely, someone like me, who has spoken, albeit briefly and not in any detail, about having a mental illness, would be jumping on the bandwagon straight away, right? Sharing my tales of woe and recurrent hospitalizations and then the subsequent triumph, the survival. Beating my drum about how the stigma of mental illness needs to be torn down brick by brick with great celebration. Quite possibly even involving David Hasslehoff singing on the sidelines. But I just can't.

I applaud those who have been courageous enough to share their stories, but I must confess I have trouble reading them. Their words bring it all back for me so vividly I can taste the desperation that was my constant bed fellow for so long.

The brain is a funny thing, you see. Especially in someone as broken as I am.

One of my peculiar quirks is the inability to have any sort of closure. Every emotion for every significant event is just under the surface, despite years and years of therapy to try and "get over" things, it all remains there, waiting, just below the surface.

For me, talking about any of my trauma is like picking a fresh scab. The moment I think about it, the mouth of the wound will yawn open and fresh blood will pour out. There is no toughened scar tissue yet, and unless you count my Red Hot Chilli Peppers CD, there probably never will be.

My story, even though the biggest, scariest chapters are a few years old, is still too fresh. The wounds too raw... and, they will always be that way.

So no, I'm not OK, and I never will be... and that's OK (but what is OK anyway?). Don't feel sorry for me, I have accepted that this is what my life is. Therapy, medication and having to be constantly vigilant for triggers. Sometimes I succeed at this, sometimes I don't.

I hypocritically encourage you to share your stories though, ask R U OK? and to answer honestly when someone asks it of you, even though I can't.

R U OK?

If you're experiencing a mental health crisis at the moment
contact Lifeline on 13 11 14