The Twenty Ninth Year - A Schwannoma Diary.

Where to begin with this...

So...I've had to digest a lot of news in a short space of time this past week, so my thoughts are a jumble. I'm probably going to struggle to express myself coherently here. But, bare with me. Okay?

There's a background to this story that I'll relate to you in a potted form. It's a story that began back in 1989 when I was 14 years old. 

I was a reasonably active kid. Good at swimming, average at football. Decent at cricket - though nothing to write home about. I was always a little clumsy, uncoordinated. I had a terrible drop punt and I used to trip and fall over myself a bit. It was embarrassing sure, but I didn't get too worried about it. My Star Wars game was always better than my Australian Rules game. One morning in late May, during a junior football match, I suddenly collapsed and was rendered unable to walk. After a flurry of medical examinations and a series of scans, I was diagnosed with a tumour in my spinal cord - a schwannoma. It was growing out of the spinal cord itself, it's parastic tissue intimately emeshed with the cord. It was to turn my teenaged life upside down for the next two years. 

I had two operations back then to remove the tumour and clean up some scarring that caused some issues afterwards. I had to re-learn how to walk. I had to manage a few functional issues involving my bladder and bowels and I somehow had to navigate the psychological comprehension of a traumatic experience that upended my adolescence.

I was told at the time that this tumour was a fluke - a once off. Owing to its slow growing nature, there was zero likelihood of this thing ever returning in my lifetime. Aside from a few functional issues, I should be able to lead a normal life.

Twenty Nine Years later...

I've documented my recent *exploits* here with my throat - how a dysfunctional branch of nerves in my neck caused havoc with my ability to swallow, speak and breath effectively. Having largely conquered that episode, I was referred to a Neurologist to investigate the underlying aetiology of this nerve dysfunction 

I was concerned there was an inflammatory causative factor for the whole throat thing. Some additional symptoms I'd been experiencing - including visual deterioration in my left eye, a sudden inability to taste or smell, some incontinence and *other* dysfunction - led my neurologist to want to rule out that very inflammatory pathology. We discussed Multiple Sclerosis, even Parkinson's Disease.

I agreed to undergo a battery of tests in order to build a case against these. A series of blood tests, urine, a lumbar puncture, neurological exam, an MRI. I underwent these tests, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, because I didn't want it weighing on me any longer. This had been two years out of my life, in which - you know - I would've rathered been focusing on something else. 

I'm at a stage in my life where there's not a lot that shocks me anymore. As an Intensive Care Nurse, I've seen a fair bit - maladies, trauma, disease, the expected and the unexpected. 

I received a phone call from my GP last week, requesting that I make and appointment to see her. I sat down with her after a long night duty shift on Wednesday morning.

The MRI scan found a tumour, located in my lower spinal cord - very close to where the original schwannoma had been found in 1989. 

A tumour - that was never supposed to recurr.

I was shocked, stunned, numb.

Remember? This was never supposed to happen. 

Things have moved fairly quickly. I have met with a Neurosurgeon, and we have discussed my options, which I might say, are pretty straightforward. I will have to undergo surgery to remove the tumour. Plans are afoot in that direction and I'll be undergoing a second series of scans later this week to *map* out the exact geography and extent of the lesion. It is growing out of the spinal cord itself, so the surgical team need to know - to the millimetre - how emeshed this mass is.

At the moment, I'm approaching all this with a clinician's mind as much as I am a patient's. It's a confusing state. I've expressed little outward emotion about the diagnosis so far. Rather, I've been digesting the reports and the MRI films. I've mulled over the technical aspects of the prospective surgery. I've weighed up the chances of this thing being a malignancy. By erecting a veneer of distance between the diagnosis, I can keep my emotions in check.

This is not to say that I am completely divorced from them. This recurrence has implications beyond the mere presence of the tumour - implications that I can't bring myself to process just yet. There is, deep down, a maelstrom of emotions.

There is fear. There is disbelief. There is anger.

My mind teeters on the edge of this chaos so I'm doing everything I can to focus on the process dispassionately.

This may seem strange, but I'm more worried about more fundamental things - like, how I'm going to get through the next little while - I mean, it's bloody Christmas. I have to pay the bills, support my family, give my kids a Christmas to treasure - this Christmas is certainly going to be interesting. 

I want to get back on my feet as soon as I can. I can't stay idle. It'll drive me nuts. I can't allow this thing to upend my life again. 

The stakes are too high.

Is this a diary? I think this is a diary. Let's call it a diary.

I can't breathe now. I need to stop writing. I'll talk a little more soon.

DFA.

Adelaide - The Inspired City.

I'm trying something a little new this week. I'm a member of really lovely little writers group here in Adelaide that started as an informal forum on Facebook. We have since began having get togethers once a month in the flesh and I've been encouraged and inspired by the people I've met from the group. They are a diverse and really interesting bunch of people.

After our last meet-up, the group agreed to set a challenge for July in which we would choose a topic to blog about. The concensus fell upon the question - How has living in Adelaide inspired your writing and/or your job?

In all the years I've been posting to this blog and writing, I don't think I've ever explored this question publicly or privately so I'm actually pretty chuffed to be able to share it here for the first time.

Even after 20 years of living and working in the city of Adelaide, it remains to me, a city that hasn't quite revealed itself fully to me. I haven't gotten her full measure. Perhaps that's on me.

Like the Sting song, "An Englishman In New York", I feel like a "legal alien" here. I've actually lived here longer than I have in Victoria where I grew up, but I still feel like I don't belong. And yet, it's because of Adelaide - because of living here - that I achieved all that I have in terms of career and family and creativity. So, I am thankful to this place. It has inspired me.

As a Nurse, I've experienced more variety as a clinician than I could have imagined when I first arrived here. While the medical community is small, Adelaide does punch above her weight in many medical specialities on the world stage and it is recognized as a leader in a number of fields. I've done and seen so much - particularly in the fields of Intensive Care where I have nursed premature lives at their most precarious and adults facing the most dire of diagnoses. I've had the privilege of meeting and falling in love with my wife and raising our two children in relative comfort, making our home in the city, close to the epicentre of culture and art and entertainment. And, as a writer, Adelaide has served as the setting for two of my four novels. In writing about Adelaide, I have been able to peel back the layers of this city and discover things about it that have been inspiring, illuminating and confronting.

I have delved into her recent past to observe and document stories of marginalized people, the powerful and influential and work-a-day people like myself - those of us who are trying to serve both ends of the "people spectrum". In creating the characters and situations that appear in my novels, I have drawn upon my experiences as a Nurse working in the community among Aboriginal Australians (as I did for Gifts of the Peramangk), among transplant recipients & intensive care patients (as I did for The Recipient & The Hambledown Dream) and among children experiencing the often overwhelming environment of the paediatric emergency department (as I did for The Artisan Heart). By portraying these clinical experiences into my writing, I've been able to lend a significant level of authenticity to my stories without neglecting the dramatic elements that make for good fiction.

Adelaide is a city of contrasting moods and aesthetics which rival any of the great cities of the world. Walking through her streets and among her architecture one can feel a classic European sensibility even as her soul beats with an Australian heart. There are these nooks and crannies along the cultural precinct of North Terrace, under the swaying boughs of plane trees and the monuments to notable figures from times past that are ripe with anecdotes. There is personality and sound and climate whose moods shift from the early morning as the sun climbs over the Adelaide Hills to the fading light of dusk as twilight falls across the city and the streets are bathed in the aritficial light from so many street lamps. The city is at once cosmopolitan and vibrant even as it remains sometimes stubbornly quaint and painfully conservative.

Adelaide inspires me and my storytelling because it is tactile and immediate. I have embedded myself in this place, observed her moods, her shades, her ebb and flow. The old maxim that says writers should write what they know remains evergreen in my estimation. The internet may have afforded me the ability to travel anywhere in the world without leaving the comfort of my office chair, but nothing can compare to being able to throw on my jacket, step out of my house and be in the place with all its attendant sights and smells and tastes and life.

As I said earlier, I have yet to get the full measure of this city. Perhaps I never will. Perhaps I'm not supposed to. I will continue to discover Adelaide for as long as I live.

And perhaps that's inspiring.

DFA.

Please visit the next blog in our group's chain "Adelaide - An Inspired Life For Writing" from Ryan Peck. 

The Snore Of Destiny Part Quatre.

The glow weave shirt, the nice pants and boots, the teeth brushed thrice. We're going to the surgeon today...

again...

fuck...

***

It's numbing, sitting here in the waiting room, ruminating over the fact that I'm here again. After 18 months, I'm back to square one. I've feel as though I have not advanced a centimeter. I've merely turned a circle. 

I'm reminded of a bee I saw a few days ago whilst out for a bike ride with my daughter. It was turning a circle on the kerbside. I guess it must have slapped into a passing car and, somehow, survived the impact. There it was, turning this futile circle, probably brain damaged, unable to do anything else. I feel a sense of camaraderie with that bee in this moment. 

Futility. Damage. 

I feel I've reached a point where I feel as though things seem irreparable, and no amount of surgical 'tinkering' will get me back to that state where everything just worked. 

I fear sleep because every time I lay down, I wonder if this is going to be the night when I drown in my own fluids? 

I fear speech because of the crass stares I get when my voice begins to fail & it looks as if I'm going to throw up. I see how they look at me. It's a mix of incredulity and disgust. They take a step or two back, fearful of being in the firing line. 

I look at food with ambivalence because I can't taste it, or smell it. I can't smell a flower, or register the scent of Chanel on my wife's skin. There's no olfactory pleasure - just an occasional 'meaty' nothing taste on my tongue that occasionally hints at something rotting. 

I wonder if that's me? Am I rotting?

It's a curious thought, isn't it.

The waiting room is full. It's a nice space, if a little full. There are lots of people around me. 

I wonder if they're warring with their own minds, the way I am right now?

***

Impairment of the right inferior constrictor and laryngeal muscles related to a neuroma...

Recent increase in dysphagia...

A tendency towards micropenetration/aspiration events...

For modified barium swallow with speech pathology...

***

More study. More intelligence gathering. More planning. 

For what?

DFA.

Father.

Running the brush through my 4 year old's pony tail this morning, separating each strand, enhancing each one, I marvel at how soothing this act is for both of us. No matter what may be happening in the world, at this moment, there is just us. 

How did her hair get so long in such a short time?

*

Her grasp of the world around her constantly amazes me. More-so are the questions that confound me. 

"Dad - What is metamorphosis?" 

I can't remember if I ever even pondered such questions when I was her age. Mind you, I can't remember if I had a second cup of coffee this morning. 

*

Accidental art while painting balloons for Halloween. She sneezed. This happened...

Sure - she was proud at first but then we freaked each other out as the face on the plate started to move. 

*

From 6AM on Sunday morning, my 8 year old was at the living room window. 

"It doesn't look like rain Dad." 

6AM... I am not supposed to be awake yet. 

"It doesn't look like rain." 

I have my doubts. He has his tears. Those tears break me every time.

We go. Raise the mast. Hoist the sail. And launch. By the time we're on the water, the sun shines down - almost as if he has willed it himself. 

Look at him will you...

The sail was filled - as if by his own hand. 

How could I argue with this?

*

This may seem disconnected but, this morning, I am reminded of a scene from the movie "Raiders of the Lost Ark", when Indy and Marion are bidding farewell to Sallah on the dock in Cairo. 

In a final moment between friends, Marion draws Sallah close and kisses him on the left cheek...

"That is for fire," she whispers softly. 

She kisses him on the right cheek...

"That is for your children...and this is for you..."

Her final kiss is a long and tender one, placed upon his lips with affection and gratitude...for a passionate man. A passionate father. A passionate human...

*

I am nothing without my children. 

DFA. 

The Stir Of Echoes.

My grandfather owned a Gladstone bag - a robust, leather hand held case with stainless steel locks and rings for a shoulder strap. In the 21 years I knew him, this Gladstone bag was a recognizable fixture - a mark of the man if you will - which he took to work with him every night of his 40+ year career with the State Electricity Commission in Victoria, Australia. 

Whenever I went to visit Nana and Pa, this Gladstone bag would always be in the same place - by the fridge in the kitchen of their Langford Street home - ready and waiting. And on the nights he was on duty, it would be duly packed - a meal placed inside for him by my Nana along with his toiletries, tooth brush and paste, a stainless steel comb, his wallet and keys. Off he would go to work as a night watchman.

For years, I thought this Gladstone bag had been lost in the moves my grandparents made after Pa retired from the Commission in 1983. 

Their first move was from the Langford Street home to a newly built unit in Saxsons Drive in the mid 80's. As often happens, there is a tendency to down scale to save space or because things are no longer needed. 

My Nana further down scaled after my Pa died in  1993 as she sought to de-clutter. She did so again just a couple of years ago when Nana decided her health and well being would be best served by moving into a independent living unit. The Saxsons Drive unit was sold. 

It wasn't until my Nana asked me, very recently, if I would like to have it that I realized the Gladstone bag remained very much in her treasured possessions and, of course, I was honoured to accept her offer. 

For me, the Gladstone bag was such a tangible reminder of who my grandfather was and I reassured Nana that I would treasure it as much as she had for all those years after Pa died. 

Dad delivered to me during a visit home in October 2012 and, right away, I felt the impact of now being a custodian of Pa's Gladstone bag. It was then, and is now, a little worse for wear. The interior has a lining which has torn a little from the seams and the leather needs attention. But as is the case with all things that were made back in the day, it remains sturdy and functional. 

When I got it, inside I found an old stainless steel comb - the same one that Pa always took to work with him. It still has the faint whiff of bryll cream though I am sure that my mind is conjuring up much of that scent. There were some old keys that I assume fit locks in the old Langford Street home. There was an old school bottle opener which I have proudly attached to my keyring and now use proudly with my own beers and, perhaps most significantly, the last wallet Pa ever owned remained inside the bag.

The leather wallet is a veritable time capsule containing ephemera that corresponds with a period in the early 90's when Pa was told he had cancer. There's a card from the Latrobe Valley Hospital showing his blood type, dated 1991. This corresponds to the initial medical work up Pa went through in preparation for the rigorous treatment he would undergo later in an effort to stave off the cancer. There's a scrap of paper with the name and contact details of the Veteran Affairs Liaison at the Peter McCallum Cancer Centre in Melbourne written in Pa's own hand writing. This piece in particular is significant as I hardly saw much of Pa's handwriting. 

Whenever Nana and Pa went away on their yearly grey ghost migration, the post cards I got from them were always written in Nana's handwriting. I think there is one post card (which I still have) that's written in Pa's handwriting. That is why things like this are so precious - both as a tangible sample of Pa's own hand but also his state of mind at the time this was written.  

And there's his Returned Servicemen's League Membership Card - which, ironically, was valid until the end of '93 - 10 months after he died. 

Curiously, there's also a receipt for accommodation for 2 adults at the Cardwell Marine Hotel, dated July 1973 - 2 months before I was born. How that survived in Pa's possession for so long is not surprising because Pa was always keeping receipts like that.

But among all these things that have survived the two decades since his passing, one piece of paper carries something more precious to me than any jewel. 

By the middle of 1992, the writing was on the wall for my Pa. The cancer - having metastasised into his right shoulder when it was first discovered - made the inexorable march through his body. We all knew how the situation was going to play itself out but I don't think I ever understood what was going on in Pa's mind. Deep inside a pocket of the wallet, separate from all the other bits and pieces, cards and reminders was this scrap of paper. 

Written in Pa's own handwriting, it is a passage which I can't determine is original or borrowed. Regardless, its impact is powerful. I can only guess that it was written some time in 1992, at what was undoubtedly a dark hour in the life of my Pa. Faced with the brutal reality of his own mortality, knowing that his remaining time on this earth was short, his focus remained on that which was most important to him. His wife of 48 years...

...and possibly the Butcher.

Having met during the worst days of WW2, George and Dorothy Mayes experienced the full spectrum of the human experience. They raised three good children of whom they lost one far too early. They built a home and a life in a proud working class town and revelled in the lives of their children's children. They travelled together, looked after each other, laughed, cried and and encouraged each other. And in the end, there was this...a small devotional script, a message of feeling from the inner most thoughts of my grandfather's mind. 

These are the stir of echoes that continue in me...

DFA.

The Creative Slump.

I've talked about this before, I think.

There is a period between projects that I go through where I feel creatively drained to the point of emptiness. Though there is a project I am working on, I am mired in a soup of doubt about it and I'm finding it difficult to pull myself out of the quick sand. Thus, the project is moving along at a snail's pace and that fact only feeds into my frustration.

I look around me and see other authors producing works at what I consider to be an astonishing rate. Two, maybe three books in a matter of months. And they are fine works. They are juggling the same life pressures as I am. Jobs, family, school runs, weekend sports. Yet, I can barely crawl while they streak ahead, earning their most deserved plaudits and basking in the satisfaction of having added to their catalogue.

Here I sit. 5 in the morning. A cold cup of tea and a clock on the wall above a gurney in a treatment room where I lay. The clock tick tocks, reminding me that my break is nearly over. I have to get back to my patient in the ICU. My notebook lays on the gurney beside me - open to a page that is fairly filled with scribbles of notes. Random thoughts that I've yet to organize into some semblance of order, for a story that is highly developed in some corner of mind. I just haven't yet found the key to unlock the door.

Fuck.

FUCK.

The light fades on my last great work - a work that has largely been ignored. A shitty ranking on Amazon and barely a sale or two in the past couple months does not a best seller make. I wonder whether this endeavor is even worth it anymore.

I am (figuratively) menstruating.

But I fear I am creatively spent.

And, for a restless mind such as mine, that is a dangerous thing.

DFA.

Unravel - Conversations with Greg Ralls.

There have been a few standout individuals I have encountered throughout my life who have made a particular impression upon me. They have excelled in their various endeavours, be it academic, sporting, arts or humanities, and have done so with a quiet determination, an unfailing drive and discipline, setting a bench mark which I've watched with a mixture of admiration and envy. 

Greg Ralls is one of those people who I have known, admired and envied for much of my life and he is a man who I feel privileged to know.

Greg and I grew up in the same country town together, went to the same primary school and high school, we were Scouts in the same group together. We were friends, but I wouldn't say we were close friends. I had a tendency to regard Greg with awe. In high school, he was academically brilliant, achieving top marks across his subjects. I regarded Greg as musically brilliant as well. He joined the school band from the beginning of high school, first playing the French horn in the orchestra before taking a sideways step to guitar. It was with the guitar that he excelled and I remember Greg becoming somewhat of a high school rock god because he was so damned good. 

He grew his hair long, emulated his rock heroes Brian May, Eddie Van Halen and Angus Young and was basically all kinds a of kick arse. During his band phase - first with a rock outfit called High Voltage, then with a later incarnation "Leather 'N' Lace" - I'll confess I was a groupie. All the while, Greg continued to rewrite the book on how to maintain an academic integrity that was second to none. Greg graduated from high school with a perfect record that would take him beyond the country confines of Gippsland and onto  greater things - further university study that would eventually dove tail into a lucrative career in civil engineering.  

As you do, you lose contact with old friends, high school friends as you move on and pursue life, career and love (or not). Greg's dad "Skip" remained (and remains) a regular at my father's barber shop in Moe, Victoria; their conversations routinely revolved around what we kids were up to and I would get snippets of those conversations from Dad during phone calls. 

With the advent of social networking of course, the opportunities for reconnecting with old friends becomes a simple as a key stroke, so when Greg popped up  in my feed a few years ago I didn't hesitate in reaching out. 

Greg revealed to me in some of those early conversations that he wanted to write a book and he sounded me out about a few practical things surrounding the production of a book, knowing that I had been published myself. I was keen to see how Greg's project would evolve and I was pleased to see that, this year, the fruits of his labours have now been realized. 

I was pleased and also a little shocked...Read on...

Unravel, by Greg Ralls chronicles a period in his late 20's, when he experienced first episode psychosis. After reporting a suspected homicide to police, Greg was straightjacketed and made an involuntary patient in a locked ward of a Western Australian psychiatric hospital. 

This is the story of an ordinary Australian; a boy from rural Victoria who excelled academically, who as a young man earned double degrees with honours from the University of Melbourne before moving across the continent to Western Australia to work for a successful consulting engineering firm. Four years after moving, his world fell apart; he was unwell, lost his job and was admitted to hospital. 

Unravel invites readers to share Greg's journey, from childhood to his adult years when his life unravelled, and to recovery. He relates his experience with clarity and honesty, and his intelligence and positive attitude shine throughout. 

Unravel is a thoroughly absorbing and courageous account of a man who, through his own hard work, determination and diligence, has the world at his feet and then loses it all as a result of a crippling mental illness.

Simple in its prose and unflinching in its delivery, Greg Ralls explores himself - his construction, de-construction and re-construction - with clarity and honesty, providing a vivid insight into schizophrenia and the incredible challenges he faced recovering from it. His journey through this dark time is peppered with all of the characteristics that made me admire Greg so when we were young and the resultant document serves only to reinforce that admiration. 

In talking with Greg about the book, I started by asking him to elaborate on his motivations for writing such a profoundly personal work.

G.R.: 'Unravel' was written primarily for my son. He's an only child, and I was driven by wanting to provide something of me for him for the inevitable day when I'm no longer here. That said, I'm only forty, so my death will be a while off yet I hope! 

Another motivation was a sense of disenchantment following some of the experiences I've had, and a feeling that writing would show to the world that those experiences hadn't got the better of me. Finally, when I began writing I still hadn't come to grips with my diagnosis. Putting into words all that happened gave me a greater level of understanding in regard to schizophrenia. 

I did a lot of background reading on the topic of mental illness, of various authors and from both psychiatry and anti-psychiatry viewpoints, which allowed me to gain a better perspective on my experience. So the motivation in that sense was to know what had happened to me, to unravel in my own mind parts of my life that felt incomplete. I recall waking up at about 3am one morning and having a compelling need to write. I got out of bed and started doing it.

DFA: In bringing Unravel to the page, what challenges (if any) did you encounter? I was particularly drawn to the deeply personal aspects of your recollections of your acute psychosis. Was recalling details of those and your hospitalization difficult for you?

I only wrote when I felt like it, over a three-and-a-half year period, and was never certain about publishing - but I had a feeling I wanted to. Surprisingly, it was an easy process; however, there were times when I read back through parts of my manuscript that I felt I entered a weird head space of vivid recollection of periods when I was unwell. It was like briefly revisiting the sensation of being unwell. 

Strangely, I thought that readers might see me as somebody who is still unwell instead of recovered because of the way I felt in those moments, as I was observing my own writing. I was projecting my feelings, in my imagination, onto those who in the future would read the book.

DFA: Now that 'Unravel' has released, what are your hopes for the book and what are your plans for supporting the book and raising its profile?

G.R.: The feedback I received following the first limited print run was overwhelmingly positive. People have opened up to me with their own stories as a result of me telling mine. Somebody suggested donating money to charity, so I'm planning now to raise money for community mental health support through continued book sales. I guess my biggest hopes are therefore to be read and appreciated, to bring forth a lot of fruitful dialogue on mental health, and to raise money to help others. As with everything in life, the real underlying desire is to achieve a successful exchange of value.

Greg Ralls has achieved something special in the writing and publication of 'Unravel'. He has contributed an important voice into the conversation surrounding mental illness, unravelling much of the stigma through the sharing of his own journey. His goals of raising the profile of mental illness through the sales and awareness of his own journey are considerable. And in sharing his experiences, Greg has affirmed that qualities I always saw and admired in him and he has raised the bar of human achievement just a little higher. He is courageous and evolved. But most importantly...

He is human.

Connect with Greg Ralls here.

Enquire about "Unravel" at the official Facebook page here.

DFA.

Letters From The Black Dog.

I hate the feeling of being sucked into the vortex that is depression.


I had this very experience just yesterday after I received a letter in the mail that, admittedly, I had been expecting and thus, dreading receiving. I didn't even have to open it and the bloody floor dropped out from under me. With the click of the fingers, I found myself falling into a familiar pall of darkness, where self doubt, self loathing and overriding guilt are free to run rampant. These are all feelings that still cling to me right now as I write this. They are undoubtedly debilitating. I can't sleep. I can't eat. Any thoughts of writing right now have stopped with the impact of a train wreck. These are all familiar symptoms. I've wrestled with them before - have tried to stop them from clinging.


But in all of this, I have begun to consider that maybe I am clinging to them.


I’ve actually begun asking myself the question of whether I have formed the habit of taking absurd comfort in my depression, whether by succumbing to it, I can avoid the outside world and people in particular. Right now, it feels as though there are people out there who are determined to destroy me and because of that, I start to regard everyone with suspicion - even those closest to me. I withdraw. I don't answer the phone. I becone very quiet. And for a time, I'm okay with that - with shutting myself out. There is a sense if safety in that.


But then the darker thoughts come and I revile myself. How could I be so destructive? So selfish and inconsiderate of my loved ones? The guilt returns in a new way. The revulsion and guilt feed off one another and eventually I know it is a place where I don’t want to be.


I read elsewhere this morning about one hearing one's inner voice and finding their way to it in order to climb out of the darkness. The trouble for me is that I've never been good at finding my inner voice. Rational thought in the midst of blind panic that lasts for 12 hours or more is bound to get lost in the maelstrom.


Yet here and now, writing this, I do feel a sort of calm. The maelstrom is still here, but it has moved to the back ground - a sort of big black ball of chaotic energy, spinning.


Maybe it is in writing where my inner voice resides. For it is here where I can take refuge from everything that is dark and threatening. I can regain a sense of rationality and calm and begin to think without the vestiges of panic.


I do sense that I’ll prevail, eventually. I'll deal with the letter in time and move forward.


These feelings really do suck the big one.


DFA.

Dave Grohl Saved My Life.

Rarely, if ever, have I considered people of celebrity to have anything useful to say. Other than promoting their product - their film, T.V. show or their album - I usually find anything they utter beyond that is just hot air, filler, bullshit. Unless of course they've put in an appearance on the now defunct British T.V. institution 'Parkinson' then I kinda think 'Well, yeah...if they're intelligent enough to submit to an hour being quizzed by, arguably, the finest interviewer in the world then I'll take notice. 


Otherwise their only requirement as an entertainer is to entertain me, not give me a running commentary on the geopolitical ramifications of climate change, or the morality of government commitments to foreign aid or whether I should eat meat or not. Go make an album, let the appropriate people handle those other issues.

There are few people who I admire in this world because I'm not really into the kind of vacuous hero worship of celebrity, movie stars, performers or sports people. I think it stems from a couple of instances where I was disappointed as a kid. Like, I met some character from a kid's show from the 1980's - I think it was the kangaroo from Shirl's Neighbourhood' - who, none of you outside of Australia will have any idea of what I'm talking about. But anyway, he turned out to be a complete arse and I do remember being brought to tears - I was 6 years old remember.


And most sports people then, as they are now, are just plain dumb - unable to converse much beyond delivering stupid cliche's during interviews - and that's when they're not busy putting their foot in it.


But I do and have made particular exceptions.

Early in 2005 I was going through a pretty awful time. My marriage had fallen apart after seven years, of which most of the years - I thought - were happy. In the months leading up to the separation, I had been diagnosed with severe depression and I was being treated for it.  Up until that point, I had placed a supreme amount of importance on marriage and I valued it greatly - even though I will admit, that there were times where I totally sucked at it. There was a weight of expectation that I'd place upon myself to succeed and when it all fell apart - my castle, the structure that I had built to house all those expectations collapsed spectacularly. My life, in the first few days and weeks after my wife ended our marriage, spun out of control in a predictable fashion. 


The tranquil life that I had known for the past seven years was suddenly gone, I became withdrawn. I locked myself away from everybody. I indulged in far more red wine than I ever did before and then I discovered brandy so I hit that pretty hard too. I live in a different state to my family so I apart from the phone, there was no one I could talk to face to face which was really isolating. I was essentially alone in the beginning. 


During the very worst of it all I seriously considered suicide numerous times - even got to the point of actually preparing to go through with it. I had a plan - a way out and I had come to a strange kind of peace with it. When your entire world crumbles around you and you feel as though you're left with nothing at all, not being here anymore becomes an attractive option.

So there I was, sitting in the lounge room of the home I was about to lose, half wiped out after a dozen or so brandy and drys, a bottle of pills on the table before me and then Andrew Denton comes on. 


Andrew Denton is Australia's equivalent to Michael Parkinson. For an hour or so on a Monday night Andrew Denton would conduct one on one interviews with anybody of note in a style that really does pull back the layers of the onion and delves into the person before him in a really satisfying way. Denton's list of interviewees over the years have included the likes of Bill Clinton, Helen Mirren, Sir David Attenborough, Jerry Seinfeld and Rudy Giuliani.

He has also interviewed Dave Grohl.

I've always liked The Foo Fighters though my love from them...(their music I mean)... really solidified around the album 'There Is Nothing Left To Lose'. Personally, I don't think the Foo Fighters have ever released a bad album. And I think that they have only improved with age. Aside from being one of the most disciplined outfits going around, the band also has a sense of humor about them; they've never taken themselves too seriously in the way alot of bands do. It comes through in the many interviews they have done - including their most recent documentary "Back & Forth" - as well as a handful of their music videos, which are basically huge piss takes on the notion of rock stardom. It's totally refreshing.

So yeah, there I was, sitting on the couch in my three day old boxer shot, clutching a bottle of brandy, my mind as black as the night outside and I was kinda half listening to the interview. And the the interview turned a sudden and unexpected corner. Andrew and Dave started talking about Kurt Cobain, the circumstances surrounding his suicide and the impact that it had on Dave Grohl. Through the fog of my grief there was a sudden clarity as my mind switched to the conversation on screen. I knew that Dave had avoided talking a lot about Cobain's suicide in the past, so it was significant that he would begin opening up about it here. 

Dave Grohl at one point said to Andrew Denton "OK, life is so delicate, so short that you really have to take advantage of every day...I am lucky enough to wake up this morning, even if it's the worst day of my life, I still get to be..."

For some reason - those words cut through to my very core. They weren't especially ground breaking words, I mean you hear stuff like that all the time. But, I guess, at that moment it was what I needed to hear.

Grohl went further, "It has a lot to do with why I started this band, because I wasn't done yet. I might die tomorrow, but as long as I spend every day like it's a gift, then I will be fine". I was struck by the quiet intelligence behind those words and the sincerity of the emotion that betrayed Dave's eyes at that moment. For me, he had moved beyond being a fun kinda guy, a cool muso with a sense of humor and had become one of those rare people who a in touch with their own psyche, are aware of their own human condition and have tried to understand it. It is a quality that is common to many creative people and one that resonated with me. For years, I had struggled with trying to become a writer and during those months in 2005 I had all but abandoned it.

There is a moment, a point in the cycle of a negative seismic event like the one I went through where you can either go one way or you can go another. Upon hearing those words from Dave, I decided to choose a path that would be long and hard, filled with set backs and pauses. But, somehow, I knew I had to try and rediscover the best of myself because I sensed, even then that it would ultimately be rewarding.


I began to clean myself up, gradually and I abandoned any notions of leaving this mortal coil. My creative love took a little while to recapture but I did begin to contemplate it again, some I hadn't done for several years.

Depression, deep depression is an affliction that can take years to come out of. I don't know why that is. I'm not sure anybody does. Even now, some six years after I was first diagnosed I still suffer from bouts of deep depression. I don't know where it comes from, it is overwhelming and can often take weeks to come out of. 


But there are certain words that stick in my mind that help me to overcome the dark times that threaten my well being. Dave Grohl's chat with Andrew Denton back in May 2005 was a critical moment in the journey that enabled me to go forward. 


And though I will probably never get the opportunity, I want to say here and now that in a small way Dave Grohl saved my life. And for that I guess I’ll always be thankful...


DFA.