To Look Forward To
Book 2 of my kids’ trilogy is all converted to first person, and the beginning is rewritten entirely.
The fart book is reworked for a younger audience, and sent to a manuscript assessor. (Quicker than the planned schedule, but I promise to have a two-month break from it later on.)
So here’s what I’m currently waiting for, in estimated chronological order:
Any day now: group certificates for me and my partner, and then money (probably), yay!
One week from now: the fart book critique
Any day/1-3 months: Ilura Press responds to the opening of my realist novel (it’s been there three months)
1-3 months: Harper Collins responds to my YA novel (it’s been there 2 and a half months)
3-5 months: Random House responds to my kids’ novel (“Waking Dead Mountain”) – it’s been there 2 months
When I grow up, I want to be a fish
Rationality, as it turns out, is not a given right – not by God, anyway.
Every so often, like a ray of light, I have a moment when I understand things.
The other day, I accidentally crawled into part of my husband’s head – the part that would grieve if I died. (He’s told me this often enough – it’s pathetic that I need to be told at all, and worse that I simply don’t believe it except with the three remaining rational synapses in my head – which are severely overworked.) I understood for the first time that the best part of his day is curling up next to me at night – and that if I died each night would be a dark island of mocking emptiness that he would be hardly able to endure. My death would damage him forever.
All of this is obvious, but I rarely see it. I often have to work out logically that I’m happy – which goes something like this: ‘I’m sitting in a comfy chair facing a very beautiful clock that gives me pleasure, and my cat is purring. Nothing major is wrong. Therefore, I must be happy. The fact that I feel like repeatedly bashing my head against this pretty wall means nothing; it’s just a mental-illness thing – not real. Really, I’m happy. Honest.’
I know a couple – let’s call them Bob and Mrs Bob – very very well. They’re family friends, and have known me since I was six years old (and they weren’t so old themselves). We see each other as if we’re family, and help each other with family-type things – babysitting, moving house, looking out for each other, etc. When they built a granny flat and tried to rent it out for a ludicrously inflated price, I decided to move in – partly because it was a nice place, partly because I knew I wouldn’t have landlord issues with them, and partly to protect them from their own stupidity.
Similar things happen all the time – usually them giving me money for flights to Jakarta, since for twelve years I planned to move to Indonesia as an (unpaid) aid worker (and I visited frequently as an unpaid volunteer – while still studying and also supporting my own independence).
I was still living in their flat when I became mental. (By this stage, the price was market-reasonable, but still a lot for me.) I realised (after already getting into plenty of rental debt to the Bobs – who charged no interest, and set no time period) that my mental illness wasn’t clearing up as quickly as I’d hoped (I originally thought it would last a year and then I’d get better). Naturally enough, since we are close and since I knew I was incapable of keeping the financial independence I’ve fought so hard for (I have often gone hungry, and sometimes walked – instead of bussing – up to four hours in a day, once until my feet bled) – I asked them to cancel the cost of rent, and let me continue living there for free.
I know it’s a big ask, but these are people I’m very close to (closer than family, really), and the fact remains that I needed help from SOMEONE.
Mrs Bob told me that they were perfectly willing to cancel rent – but she didn’t think it would help me “grow to become an adult.”
*pause for thought*
This was particularly startling since (a) Mrs Bob also suffers from anxiety (less than me I think, but of course I’d think that). (b) Mr Bob is financially supporting Mrs Bob (which to me has always seemed a little selfish on her part).
Later, they cancelled rent and let me continue living there. Which I believe was always the right thing to do. (These people, incidentally, are not poor – though like every Westerner, they think they are.)
Another year passed, and my attempts to erase my debt to them were literally making it worse (eg I took more work, got more stressed, and this caused a car accident which cost me $900 – pretty significant when my total income last year was $8000, including Centrelink money).
So, late last year I begged them to cancel my debt, pointing out that I wasn’t gonna pay it off anytime in the near future (and possibly would never pay it off), and that it was making me sicker. (I understand that young people are often in debt – I am not. I’d rather go hungry than borrow $5 – but being crazy has done hideous things to my usual self-control and made me spend more money, mostly because I “spend” all my self-control on not telling people how much I hate them all).
Mr Bob told me that he “saw no evidence that you are sick”. Mrs Bob told me that being mentally ill was like being hard of hearing – it was an inconvenience, and I could live with it.
I wear glasses, and I know how frustrating it is to be slightly separated from the real world – yesterday some people waved at me in the car, but I couldn’t see them clearly enough to know if they were friends of mine or not. I hate going to public places, because I don’t recognise people as easily as they recognise me (so I’m unintentionally rude – or unintentionally friendly, in some cases). I panic a little at fast food places, because even with glasses it’s hard to read the menus (for this reason, I’ve developed a lightning-fast decision-making process). I’ve been humiliated and devastated as I prayed to be healed (believing that was what God wanted) and wasn’t (many times).
But it really is just an inconvenience. Mental illness has stolen my hard-won independence, stolen several friends, and sucked away my ability to be happy even when things are going well. The fact of the matter is, I am now dependent and there’s just nothing I can do about it. So much for being the girl who wanted to move to Indonesia and make the world better – now I am a burden on the world’s back.
Mr and Mrs Bob then cancelled over $10,000 of debt.
But I’m still angry at the things they said. It was rude, selfish, and wrong of them. They called me a liar and a thief – two things that are the opposite of who I am (even now).
I know they’re wrong. . . but only with those three remaining rational cells in my brain. Everything else in me says they were right to say what they said (it’s worth noting that although they made my debt go away, they never apologised for what they said or told me they believed I really was sick enough to reasonably make that kind of request).
Which is why I’m blogging about it. Because when I blog I get a sense of what readers will think, and it bolsters those three rational brain synapses to almost four.
I still get these moments, every few days, where those Bobbish comments in my head change from a self-loathing background hiss to a sudden glorious epiphany: They’re right! I’m not really crazy at all!
Suddenly I can work! I can see my friends without “measuring” my self-control beforehand to make sure I don’t admit how I really feel! I can be a force for good in the world again! I can actually enjoy my husband! I don’t have to be unhappy or ashamed or afraid any more!
And then I realise the truth – or most of it. None of those things – independence, happiness, pride – belong to me any more. That’s just the way it is. Even my precious intelligence is noticably less (it’s hard to focus when I’m working so hard on my rationality all the time, and feeling so scared for no reason).
The only true thing I don’t realise – not really – is this: it’s not my fault. My three good synapses just don’t stretch that far.
Because I still believe what the Bobs said rather than what they did.
Superheroes of 2009: Paranoia Girl wins the day!
Is it paranoia if you’re right?
I’m housesitting a two-storey townhouse for a friend all this week while she and her family enjoy a jaunt in sunny Queensland.
It’s part of a row of identical townhouses in which there are sets of two mirror-image houses. Pairs of balconies face one another over a tin roof, under which both households park their cars (so the result is balcony, two-car shared carport, and another balcony). The cars face the bathroom windows, which have sills.
I figured out more or less instantly that I would, at some point during the week, lock myself out. It’s kind of what I do. My friends weren’t comfortable with the idea of me leaving a spare key in the carport or letterbox, so I came up with a cunning plan: I left a key on the balcony. I was confident that climbing up the balcony would be a breeze – because of the bathroom window sill. Like a convenient step up to the roof, which is as good as being on the balcony.
My friends accepted the terms (foolishly thinking I was too smart to lock myslf out), and my SO (who knows me better) asked me to call him (if possible) before attempting the climb.
Sure enough, I locked myself out today while checking their mail.
My attire: pajamas (with a hole in a fairly important area); limited underwear; unbrushed hair and teeth; thongs and brilliantly-striped toe socks.
My useful tools: no money of any kind; no phone. Possible fire-starting or lock-picking glasses (if I broke them, and could pick locks).
My surroundings: a park. a carpark. Friendly neighbours who’ve never seen me before.
I took a wheelie bin and moved it between my friends’ parked car and their bathroom window. I removed my thongs and socks for improved mobility and grip. I tucked my ankle-length skirt up into my undies (my pajamas include an ankle-length skirt) for improved ability to move (ie so I didn’t attempt to swing my leg up, get tangled, and fall to my death). For some reason, this made me think of Indiana-Jones type movies (probably because of the traditional ripping-of-the-business-skirt trick).
I achieved the bedroom window in three steps: ground, car, wheelie bin –>window. I’d never noticed that the window sill isn’t flat, but at about a 45 degree angle.
There’s roughly half a metre between the bathroom wall and the inside edge of the carport roof. Unfortunately, the roof was high enough that it was above the level of my chest – definitely above my centre of gravity. I spent a significant amount of time holding myself propped against the carport roof, shivering and barefoot, wondering if I could actually jump high enough to get enough of me onto the roof to be able to get at least one leg up – or would I simply dangle off the roof until I fell?
The SO’s workplace is about an hour’s walk away. My nose began to run in the freezing wind. I couldn’t help but notice that the near side of the carport roof was rather sharp all along the edge facing me. A bus drove past, and I hoped they couldn’t tell that my skirt was tucked into my undies. Several cars also drove past. I examined the picture windows of the row of identical townhouses directly across from me (no significant plants, just carpark – a plain of bitumen only a few metres across). As far as I could tell, I was not being watched.
I imagined my SO and friends’ reaction if I tried to push myself up off their security light, breaking it (and possibly myself) in the process.
Had to jump. Had to scrape leg. Better than walking an hour in Winter to show up at my husband’s work while not wearing shoes, underwear, or intact clothing.
I ALMOST jumped.
*repeat* *repeat* *repeat*
I tested the security light with my foot. It was bolted on pretty good. I tried to push it. It didn’t budge.
Took a breath. Pushed off the security light and landed on the roof. Got my left leg up, and the other leg was easy. I vaulted the balcony fence, found the key just where I left it, and let myself in!
No one will ever know. . .
And for the record, paranoia DEFINITELY pays.
Australia’s most important book?
I’m a fiction reader, so my most chilling “experience” of historical trauma is through books such as “The Doomsday Book” by Connie Willis, and “The China Coin” by Allan Bailie.
Yesterday’s book was far more horrifying, because it was historical fiction set right now, and in Australia – and the atrocities detailed are both preventable, and still happening. (I believe comedian Ahn Do has written an autobiographical book on his own family’s journey, which will probably be read by more people – and no-one can claim he’s being implausible, since he was there.)
MORRIS GLEITZMAN
Boy Overboard
Girl Underground
These books are very funny and action-packed, with boy/girl-next door characters that every kid will relate to. Boy Overboard has some extremely scary scenes, while the second book’s emotional core comes through letters (which strike hard, because Gleitzman is a world-class writer).
I love Australia, and – like anyone who’s travelled elsewhere in the world – I am proud of belonging here. A huge chunk of my mind still struggles with the concept that we – the good guys – are putting refugees in jail. YES, some are rich (rich people can still be killed for having the wrong religion). YES, many are delusional about how great Australia is (is making Australia worse really the best way to combat this?). YES, many don’t talk English more gooder enough (shockingly, not everyone who’s desperate is educated). YES, there are millions of others who would come here if they could (and I’m sure that OUR kids are more important than THEIR kids).
An Indian aquaintance of mine was held for three months because he’d screwed up his paperwork. (And of course he wasn’t told how long it would be – which is particularly worrying, since he had serious anger issues before he went in.)
One of my best friends (from Kenya) was deported with two weeks’ notice because, despite driving herself to top every other recorded score on a (required) computer skills course, and despite being brilliant, beautiful, and compassionate (with perfect English and an ambition to join the UN), she also screwed up her paperwork. When someone that smart can’t make sense of the system, something is wrong.
Another close friend of mine married an Indonesian, and had to struggle for over two years (usually separated) to get permission for her to live here. This one’s the happy one, because eight years later, they and their kid are loving life.
Yes, children are held in “detention” centres. Yes, our system is stacked against ANYONE who tries to come here (apparently, conducting a gay relationship in the detention centre does NOT prove that someone is really gay enough to be in danger in their criminally homophobic home country). Yes, this is really happening here – not in the wacky US of A – here.
The only moment in either book that didn’t ring true was the bit where the general public of Australia stands up and says, “Hey, no! Holding refugee children in jail is wrong.” Of all the things that happen in the book, that’s the only bit that hasn’t happened – and still isn’t happening. At that point I almost threw the book across the room, because I was so upset.
Rating: PG (very scary scenes) – G for Girl Overboard
Recommendation: 8 and up, definitely including adults – kids will laugh; adults will cry.
Felicity Banks 