Reluctant changes
Have you ever badly needed something but didn't even know it? Have you ever had something or someone literally push you through a door and slam it shut behind you leaving you to face what was there whether you wanted to or not, only to find it was the best thing that could have happened to you?
I have.
This actually happens to me a lot throughout my life, especially in recent years.
Often those things that you really need come disguised in the most unlikely forms.
Let me elaborate:
When I was a small child my father repeatedly sexually abused me, exposed himself to me, touched me where a father never should, even tried to have sex with me. My mother never said one kind word to me, never hugged me, didn't want me, blamed me for her marital problems and other bad choices of her own, and did her darnedest to repress me throughout my childhood. I was rejected. Unwanted. Ridiculed. Abused. Molested.
Sounds pretty bad huh?
Yes, it was. At the time. And for some years later.
Until I realised that I had learnt resilience because of this. I had learnt to stand up for myself, to never let anyone use me or abuse me again. I had learnt to be strong. In my later years I also learnt not to blame myself for what happened. My parents' issues were not mine. Their actions were because of their own faults - not because of a fault or lack in me. In fact, their actions gave me wonderful gifts of strength, courage, resilience and self-reliance.
In later years I was to experience an indifferent husband. This resulted in a separation and divorce. Without that, I would never have been in a position to accept an invitation by a newly met half-brother to come visit him and his family interstate. I would most likely still have been in Queensland and perhaps never have discovered the land of my heart as I did in the state of South Australia. No one up there understood how I could upstakes and move to the other end of the country like I did. No one up there knows what this place does for me, what it means to me and how it speaks to my soul. I have lived here now for 19 and a half years and am still content. It would not have been like this without enduring that separation and divorce first.
One could say that perhaps if I had been happy in my marriage I would not have missed what I have down here. Perhaps. But what I feel about this land is different from the contentment of a good relationship. It soothes my spirit, speaks to my soul and somehow nourishes me.
It has been just over four years now since I was first diagnosed with bipolar typeII. I haven't only 'had' it for that long, but have only had it finally labelled and nailed for that long - and even that nailing may not quite be right either. I have been affected by whatever my disorder is for most of my adult life. In hindsight I know it contributed to that marriage break up prior to my move down south. I know it has caused more than a few relationship breakups in the past. I know it caused me to drop out of my hard-won place in a unique course at Uni that only accepts 25 applicants a year, dashing my dreams of becoming a specialist psychologist. I know it meant I lost more friends in the two years after my diagnosis than I have ever done in my life before - not from any bad behaviour of mine, but from their own inablity to handle knowing someone with a 'mental illness'. Because of my bipolar I cannot work full time, or handle deadlines or pressure. Rather than flying high in a specialist medical career I am reduced to living on a disablity pension.
At first glance it appears that my disorder has blown a lot of hopes and dreams out of the water, doesn't it? And yes, it has. It has slammed some doors shut very vigourously.
But it has done so much more than that.
Yes, I lost that hard-won place at Uni, shattering that dream. I realise now though that dream would not have been a good one to pursue. Psychology would have drained me immensely. Yes, there would be some whom I could help in my practice, but many I would not. Some would be willing to learn and grow. Many would not. I can see now I would have been drained dry in a short period of time, disappointed that so many were unprepared to help themselves, but were more comfortable enduring their pain because it was familiar. I would have wasted six years of hard work getting a degree that would have seen me burnt out and disillusioned in the long run.
And yet, it was while on sick leave from uni that a friend suggested I try a writing competition he did annually. I thought, 'well, I have the time spare, so I might as well do something to fill it in while I am off sick.' Thus the door opened on one of the utter passions of my life - writing. Unlike psychology, writing does not leave me drained or disillusioned. It is like a drug that scalds my veins, the story raging through my body, boiling to escape through the keyboard and onto the screen of my monitor. I LIVE to write!
And that is how it happened. One day, a casual suggestion from a friend and my whole life path changed. That change would never have happened had I not been ill in a bipolar episode. I would have been far too busy with my studies to enter a writing competition, far too worried about word counts on essays and exams to worry about word counts on novels. A whole vibrant talent would have never seen the light of day if it were not for my bipolar.
Likewise, if I were not bipolar, I would be required to support myself in a job of some sort, working 35 - 45 hours a week to earn the money to pay the rent and support myself and my daughter as well as run our home. Any would-be writer will tell you how debilitating that is, how it destroys the soul of a writer, the mundanity of a 'normal' life sucking the inspiration from the very heart of them so they end each day collapsing into bed in exhaustion just from the effort of providing for their family.
But that door is firmly shut to me. Deadlines, office hours, work demands and responsiblities all destablise me so I am instead granted a disablity pension. Yes, it is meagre, but with careful management we make do. It allows me to keep a roof over our heads, clothe us, feed us and have a little to 'live'..... and it allows me to do all this and have time to WRITE!!!
What an amazingly, fortunate thing I have been given. Many, many writers will tell you the clash they have been needing to work to pay the bills and keep a roof over their heads, and yet keep time and energy to write. Yes, we don't live the life of Riley, but we DO live and I CAN write as well! So not only has my disorder saved me from pursuing a path that was NOT good for me, but it has given me the opportunity to work on a passion and talent that sears my blood AND still keep a roof over our heads!
Yes, I have lost friends who simply could not get over their prejudices about mental illness. But really, I think that has only saved me from disappointment at some later date, as it is clear their hearts were not in the friendship. I have less friends now, but the ones I DO have I know I can rely on. I know they work hard to understand me and accept that some days I just do not want company. They know it isn't personal.
And frankly, less friends suits me. For years after my last bipolar episode (the one that led to a diagnosis) I suffered from social phobia. I no longer have that issue, thanks to some intensive hypnotherapy last year. But you know the funniest thing? I no longer stay home alone because fear compells me to. I stay home alone because I PREFER it! I LIKE my solitude. I like my space and time to myself. And of course, my writing requires it. It would have been so much harder with more friends wanting to see me, wanting to spend time with me and do things with me. The friends I have now understand and respect my liking of solitude. They really ARE my friends, friends who accept me just how I am.
So yes, throughout my life there have been things literally forcibly taken from me. I have been shoved through a door so reluctantly at times that it's been nearly brutal, and that door has been slammed resolutely behind me, making it loud and clear there is no going back. And yes, at times I have resisted going through that door, and have turned and hammered on it demanding to be allowed to go back to where I was. I have sat on the doorstep and wailed in despair at what I have lost, at what I had and which is now denied me.
But you know, as reluctant as I may have been to stand up and look around me and go where the new path led, I have never, ever regretted it. I have discovered blessings and bounty such as I would never have known if I had stayed safely on the other side of those doors. Yes, there has been loss, but none of it has been unsurmountable, or unendurable, and always, ALWAYS it has led to a much, much better life.
The change doesn't happen overnight. The new life is never discovered while I stay pressed to the door that has closed. I have to find the courage to take those first tentative often reluctant, steps forward before I discover what lies before me. It does take effort. But I would never have made that effort if my bipolar had not forced me to do so, forced me to change.
But force me it did and I am so, so grateful. Sometimes surprised at where it has led me, but very grateful. I believe I can honestly say I have never regretted being shoved through a door and made to follow a different path - always in the long run it has led to something better than where I had been headed if I only have the courage to let go of the old way of being and move foward into the new. But move forward one must. If I were to refuse to do so, if I were to stay there, cringing on that doorstep pining for what is no longer ever going to be mine then I believe I would slowly wither and crumble for I would not be of anywhere - neither what I was, nor of what I could be. I would be trapped in that moment of transition, stuck in a time warp, melded to that moment of change and never ever growing. That, I imagine, would be a hell of a place to live.
I sometimes wonder how many lives are like mine - struck by change that they are reluctant to accept, and wasted by clinging to the old way of being, or seeking always to be like others rather than accepting the wonderful gifts that the change brings if only they had the courage to move forward and into a different life.
I strongly believe change comes for a reason. Rather than resist it, go with it and discover what it may bring. Don't cling to security as you peer into the possiblities, fearful to let go of what is familiar until you are assured what awaits you is what you want. Often it's not what you want for you don't know you want it until you experience it. Let go of security and go where life wants to take you. You might be surprised at how amazing a journey it could be.
I know I am...:)
Red.
I have.
This actually happens to me a lot throughout my life, especially in recent years.
Often those things that you really need come disguised in the most unlikely forms.
Let me elaborate:
When I was a small child my father repeatedly sexually abused me, exposed himself to me, touched me where a father never should, even tried to have sex with me. My mother never said one kind word to me, never hugged me, didn't want me, blamed me for her marital problems and other bad choices of her own, and did her darnedest to repress me throughout my childhood. I was rejected. Unwanted. Ridiculed. Abused. Molested.
Sounds pretty bad huh?
Yes, it was. At the time. And for some years later.
Until I realised that I had learnt resilience because of this. I had learnt to stand up for myself, to never let anyone use me or abuse me again. I had learnt to be strong. In my later years I also learnt not to blame myself for what happened. My parents' issues were not mine. Their actions were because of their own faults - not because of a fault or lack in me. In fact, their actions gave me wonderful gifts of strength, courage, resilience and self-reliance.
In later years I was to experience an indifferent husband. This resulted in a separation and divorce. Without that, I would never have been in a position to accept an invitation by a newly met half-brother to come visit him and his family interstate. I would most likely still have been in Queensland and perhaps never have discovered the land of my heart as I did in the state of South Australia. No one up there understood how I could upstakes and move to the other end of the country like I did. No one up there knows what this place does for me, what it means to me and how it speaks to my soul. I have lived here now for 19 and a half years and am still content. It would not have been like this without enduring that separation and divorce first.
One could say that perhaps if I had been happy in my marriage I would not have missed what I have down here. Perhaps. But what I feel about this land is different from the contentment of a good relationship. It soothes my spirit, speaks to my soul and somehow nourishes me.
It has been just over four years now since I was first diagnosed with bipolar typeII. I haven't only 'had' it for that long, but have only had it finally labelled and nailed for that long - and even that nailing may not quite be right either. I have been affected by whatever my disorder is for most of my adult life. In hindsight I know it contributed to that marriage break up prior to my move down south. I know it has caused more than a few relationship breakups in the past. I know it caused me to drop out of my hard-won place in a unique course at Uni that only accepts 25 applicants a year, dashing my dreams of becoming a specialist psychologist. I know it meant I lost more friends in the two years after my diagnosis than I have ever done in my life before - not from any bad behaviour of mine, but from their own inablity to handle knowing someone with a 'mental illness'. Because of my bipolar I cannot work full time, or handle deadlines or pressure. Rather than flying high in a specialist medical career I am reduced to living on a disablity pension.
At first glance it appears that my disorder has blown a lot of hopes and dreams out of the water, doesn't it? And yes, it has. It has slammed some doors shut very vigourously.
But it has done so much more than that.
Yes, I lost that hard-won place at Uni, shattering that dream. I realise now though that dream would not have been a good one to pursue. Psychology would have drained me immensely. Yes, there would be some whom I could help in my practice, but many I would not. Some would be willing to learn and grow. Many would not. I can see now I would have been drained dry in a short period of time, disappointed that so many were unprepared to help themselves, but were more comfortable enduring their pain because it was familiar. I would have wasted six years of hard work getting a degree that would have seen me burnt out and disillusioned in the long run.
And yet, it was while on sick leave from uni that a friend suggested I try a writing competition he did annually. I thought, 'well, I have the time spare, so I might as well do something to fill it in while I am off sick.' Thus the door opened on one of the utter passions of my life - writing. Unlike psychology, writing does not leave me drained or disillusioned. It is like a drug that scalds my veins, the story raging through my body, boiling to escape through the keyboard and onto the screen of my monitor. I LIVE to write!
And that is how it happened. One day, a casual suggestion from a friend and my whole life path changed. That change would never have happened had I not been ill in a bipolar episode. I would have been far too busy with my studies to enter a writing competition, far too worried about word counts on essays and exams to worry about word counts on novels. A whole vibrant talent would have never seen the light of day if it were not for my bipolar.
Likewise, if I were not bipolar, I would be required to support myself in a job of some sort, working 35 - 45 hours a week to earn the money to pay the rent and support myself and my daughter as well as run our home. Any would-be writer will tell you how debilitating that is, how it destroys the soul of a writer, the mundanity of a 'normal' life sucking the inspiration from the very heart of them so they end each day collapsing into bed in exhaustion just from the effort of providing for their family.
But that door is firmly shut to me. Deadlines, office hours, work demands and responsiblities all destablise me so I am instead granted a disablity pension. Yes, it is meagre, but with careful management we make do. It allows me to keep a roof over our heads, clothe us, feed us and have a little to 'live'..... and it allows me to do all this and have time to WRITE!!!
What an amazingly, fortunate thing I have been given. Many, many writers will tell you the clash they have been needing to work to pay the bills and keep a roof over their heads, and yet keep time and energy to write. Yes, we don't live the life of Riley, but we DO live and I CAN write as well! So not only has my disorder saved me from pursuing a path that was NOT good for me, but it has given me the opportunity to work on a passion and talent that sears my blood AND still keep a roof over our heads!
Yes, I have lost friends who simply could not get over their prejudices about mental illness. But really, I think that has only saved me from disappointment at some later date, as it is clear their hearts were not in the friendship. I have less friends now, but the ones I DO have I know I can rely on. I know they work hard to understand me and accept that some days I just do not want company. They know it isn't personal.
And frankly, less friends suits me. For years after my last bipolar episode (the one that led to a diagnosis) I suffered from social phobia. I no longer have that issue, thanks to some intensive hypnotherapy last year. But you know the funniest thing? I no longer stay home alone because fear compells me to. I stay home alone because I PREFER it! I LIKE my solitude. I like my space and time to myself. And of course, my writing requires it. It would have been so much harder with more friends wanting to see me, wanting to spend time with me and do things with me. The friends I have now understand and respect my liking of solitude. They really ARE my friends, friends who accept me just how I am.
So yes, throughout my life there have been things literally forcibly taken from me. I have been shoved through a door so reluctantly at times that it's been nearly brutal, and that door has been slammed resolutely behind me, making it loud and clear there is no going back. And yes, at times I have resisted going through that door, and have turned and hammered on it demanding to be allowed to go back to where I was. I have sat on the doorstep and wailed in despair at what I have lost, at what I had and which is now denied me.
But you know, as reluctant as I may have been to stand up and look around me and go where the new path led, I have never, ever regretted it. I have discovered blessings and bounty such as I would never have known if I had stayed safely on the other side of those doors. Yes, there has been loss, but none of it has been unsurmountable, or unendurable, and always, ALWAYS it has led to a much, much better life.
The change doesn't happen overnight. The new life is never discovered while I stay pressed to the door that has closed. I have to find the courage to take those first tentative often reluctant, steps forward before I discover what lies before me. It does take effort. But I would never have made that effort if my bipolar had not forced me to do so, forced me to change.
But force me it did and I am so, so grateful. Sometimes surprised at where it has led me, but very grateful. I believe I can honestly say I have never regretted being shoved through a door and made to follow a different path - always in the long run it has led to something better than where I had been headed if I only have the courage to let go of the old way of being and move foward into the new. But move forward one must. If I were to refuse to do so, if I were to stay there, cringing on that doorstep pining for what is no longer ever going to be mine then I believe I would slowly wither and crumble for I would not be of anywhere - neither what I was, nor of what I could be. I would be trapped in that moment of transition, stuck in a time warp, melded to that moment of change and never ever growing. That, I imagine, would be a hell of a place to live.
I sometimes wonder how many lives are like mine - struck by change that they are reluctant to accept, and wasted by clinging to the old way of being, or seeking always to be like others rather than accepting the wonderful gifts that the change brings if only they had the courage to move forward and into a different life.
I strongly believe change comes for a reason. Rather than resist it, go with it and discover what it may bring. Don't cling to security as you peer into the possiblities, fearful to let go of what is familiar until you are assured what awaits you is what you want. Often it's not what you want for you don't know you want it until you experience it. Let go of security and go where life wants to take you. You might be surprised at how amazing a journey it could be.
I know I am...:)
Red.