Back after a Blog Break

Apologies for the long gap between blog posts of late. And for also deleting a previous post – something I’ve not done previously, as far as I remember. An explanation for both is needed!

First, about the break. I’ve started to get a couple of my comment pieces published online. This is fantastic – however, a few caveats. I’m not getting any editing work, and the number of hours that go into an article isn’t commensurate with the pay (who’d have thought?).

I’ve had three articles published in online newspapers/journals, and two of these were on paying sites (well that’s what they’ve promised). Of course two paid gigs do not a writing career make!

If the editing work starts back up (and it’s usual for me to have gaps, especially at the beginning of the financial year) then it would be a nice little combination – the writing satisfying the creative genie, the editing work channelling the left-brain-dominated control freak (and paying much better per hour).

But it is great for my confidence. Truth is it couldn’t have happened earlier.  I just wasn’t ready. I can’t help wanting to use the word ‘maturity’ at this point, which is a bit sad considering that I’m 51 years old.

Blogging alone has helped develop my writing – just doing it – but the willingness to bend my own concerns to the needs of the journals just wasn’t there earlier. Getting my point across in 800 words or less? Where did these people get off? Any subject I was interested in required at least 2500 words.

Now I am slowly developing the art – not unlike haiku, or any kind of poetry – of making my points succinctly. After a while you realise that it actually takes less time to write a short article than a long one, so it’s an advantage.

But it’s bloody exhausting in a way that blogging is not.

Now about the little um blog entry deletion. Self-censorship? Perhaps.

The entry was about the revolution underway in the mental illness treatment community. These changes are both exciting and controversial. (As an aside, there doesn’t seem to be a consensus in the psychiatric community at the moment about what causes mental illness, and this in itself is all at once interesting, promising and disturbing.)

I originally started the article before moving house in May, and then other concerns intervened. When I went back to it a few months later I didn’t really think the issues through before completing and publishing it. Much of the impetus had come from reading the book Anatomy of an Epidemic and the blog Mad in America.

But the issues that these changes bring up are challenging and potentially life changing for many people. As someone with OCD, who is always concerned about the effects her writing may have on others, I’m more aware now of the caution that it is preferable to exercise when covering this area.

I’m probably overly cautious, but that’s my hang up – the internet is scary in its ability to disseminate information, and change the way people behave, very quickly. When it comes to mental health, that makes writing about it a big responsibility.

The other thing that made me pause for thought was that the health system in Australia is so different from the American one. The Australian system is a chaotic hotchpotch of public and private services, and everything in between, while the US system is, in my understanding, almost completely controlled by health insurance companies.  It’s quite possible that there is more mismanagement and a greater reliance on drugs in the US, and therefore much more angst among consumers. In fact in Australia some of the new approaches, such as peer support, are being adopted by mainstream services, which is very exciting.

This doesn’t change the fact that the public system in Australia is desperately under resourced. My impression from the limited reading I’ve done is that psyche hospitals, which should be soothing, welcoming havens for recovery, are for the acutely sick only, and that after being stabilised on drugs you get kicked out quickly, leading to a revolving door syndrome for those without adequate community support (there are good community services available in some areas, but I’m not sure how comprehensive these are, and they are in flux right now).

The other problem is that I don’t find myself in either of the major narratives – the biological idea of illness and the anti-psychiatry push. Not that the anti-psychiatry movement denies the existence of acute mental suffering at all. It's just that for me, labels themselves aren't the problem - it's the kinds of treatments that they too often give rise to which need monitoring and review.

Anyway I am not going to weigh into any debates for the minute. I am very interested in writing about  new treatments, but my OCD is a factor that I need to take into account. Still, it is an exciting time that may well lead to a synthesis of the best of old and new treatments.

And whether my other writing leads to a new 'career' is something that only the future can reveal!

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Stress City: A Melbourne Tenant Moves On

The unforeseeable, the impossible has happened. After almost ten years I am to be moved out of my unhappy little nest and forced to search for another.

The owner is selling – or at least her kids are. They are not turfing me out exactly but they may as well be. The new owners could be either home buyers or investors – if they’re the latter, they will probably turf me out anyway because the place is in dire need of much more than a spit and a polish to make it look decent, and they’ll get much more rent that way.

I have no idea how this is all going to work out. They want to sell in early May and I will be looking for somewhere to live and presumably packing while the sales manager holds open for inspections (or ‘opens’ as the lingo is). Life is about to become very interesting. Where will I hide the boxes and the washing when potential owners traipse through the house?

I got the phone call on Friday afternoon when I was looking at DVDs in an op shop. The only thing I felt for the rest of the day was numb disorientation. I wasn’t very well organised so only had time to look at two properties on the Saturday. It was a shock to discover that, if I want a two-bedder, there’s no way I’m going to be able to afford to settle on this side of town.

Private rental in Australia is almost uniquely unregulated. There are few restrictions on when you can turf tenants out (unless they’ve signed a lease, which is usually a maximum of 12 months) and you can put the rent up every 6 months, to whatever the market rate is. Tax breaks for investors encourage the cashed-up to buy properties for investment purposes. In a tight market due to high rates of immigration (a business lobby policy, nothing to do with asylum seekers) the cost of housing to buy and rent far outstrips inflation and wage rises.

Virtually all landlords these days are basically profiteers (except my father, who still charges a mere $140 a week for his tiny one-bedroom investment property, in effect subsidising someone he doesn’t know from Adam, whose rent comes out of a trust fund (!), to the tune of about $100 a week. It is confusing having a father who will drop everything to help you and who says things like ‘you can come and stay with us if you need to’ but who has absolutely no sense of putting family first when it comes to charity (especially when the family member has a psyche disability!).

It means that the question of responsibility – of how much power I have over my own situation, and the extent to which my difficulties stem from the immaturity that is an offshoot of my illness rather than the illness itself – constantly exercises me. But in a way my father’s own immaturity – he acts with similar blindness towards my mum – frees me. It doesn’t really matter whether the neoliberal state and my father have both let me down. The fact is I must bear the responsibility, like it or not, and make the best of things. This is actually freeing for me. It’s taken me far too long to realise that not only can I not rely on my family, but that they are also difficult people to actually help. Better late than never to understand the truth.

 Allied with this knowledge is another strange irony. I’d convinced myself that I was stuck on this side of the Yarra, dutifully close to my ageing parents. On this side there’s East Malvern, where I currently live and which is very white bread, and a range of suburbs that are increasingly less boring, culminating in St Kilda and East St Kilda which in the seventies and eighties were hubs of Eastern European Jewish people combined with penniless artists and musicians. It was a magic combination and one you couldn’t find in any other part of Melbourne. Its particular feel was completely different from the much more studious, serious dissent of the inner north, which basically houses those of my generation who went to Melbourne Uni – they couldn’t afford to buy houses in inner city Carlton or Fitzroy so they just kept going further north, and now the likes of Reservoir have inner-city style contingents.

But yesterday was a reality check so profound it has put me off this side for life. The maximum rent I can afford is pretty low for a two-bedroom and the place I saw in Elsternwick, next door to East St Kilda, depressed me so badly that I broke down in tears on the standard investment-flat carpet that you find in these places. But it wasn’t just the cost – I realised, traipsing to and from the real estate agent’s office to pick up and drop back the keys, that I don’t like Carlisle Street any more. There are few rebels left in St Kilda, they’re mostly young male backpackers here for a good time and a root. All the interesting shops are gone, and it’s mostly cafes, bars and two dollar shops. In fact, there’s nothing of street life that interests me on this side of town any more.

And this means that, after resigning myself to staying on this side, it may just be marginally more affordable to go back to my beloved inner city, the place I feel I truly belong. Moving all that way seemed too hard and self-indulgent until I realised it would be slightly cheaper to live in West Brunswick than in Elsternwick or even the slightly daggier Caulfield.

As I walked towards my car after seeing the Elsternwick flat, remembering that I’d put on mascara that morning, I thought ‘You’d better check your face’. At the same time another thought occurred, not so well articulated – that I might very well forget to check my face. I knew that there would be something deliberate about that. I felt extremely sorry for myself, and at times like this – the sense of crisis of having nowhere to place your head – part of me reverts back to the needy child who expects the entire world to look after her.

And guess what? Overwhelmed as I was, I did forget to check my face in the car mirror. It was only as I jostled my way along Carlisle street back to Wilsons that I remembered. I hoped it would be okay.

When I handed the key over, and told the receptionist the property wasn’t quite what I was after, she said ‘All the best for your search.’ Oh dear. I rushed back to the car and things were even worse than I’d imagined. I didn’t have just black under my eyes, but a grey mascara 'tear' down the lower part of my left cheek. Oh yes, the world was going to be made aware of Catherine’s dilemma, like it or not!

I despise this narcissistic part of my personality, but I also understand it. It has taken me so long to grow up, but the trouble with life in Melbourne these days (and I suspect most Western cities) is that simply being realistic and aware of how to get by isn’t enough anymore. The rental situation really is very challenging, however much I adjust myself to its realities. What makes me sad and angry and one of the reasons that I will try to fiercely guard that childish part (rather than parading her) is that if I had not been so immature I could have done okay. In the seventies and early eighties, if you were white and lower (or upper) middle class, it was very hard to stuff up getting on in life in Melbourne, but I managed. I am still suffering for silly decisions that I made decades ago, when I really didn’t know any better. Now that I do know better, and the inner odds aren’t stacked against me to the same degree, the outer odds are more stacked against me than ever.

Still, I know I’ll be okay. As my father assures me, I can always stay with my parents for a small interim period although I would rather die than do this. I have Grow meetings in which to air my problems. I have my intuition, which I have honed to a fine art in the last ten years and which I can use to help me sort out which flats to bother seeing, and to help me make my ultimate choice. I have a very open mind. I will continually test out ‘the universe’ – the energies, if you like – by trying things out and looking, and will keep adjusting to whatever realities I find. I truly believe and hope that life in the inner north will be better than here – not perfect of course, but better.

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Facing Machiavelli: Nicole Kidman’s Botox-Flavoured Success

I’m currently at the tail end of a mild obsession with Nicole Kidman. It started when I watched a DVD of The Hours and realised that there were moments in that film when she transcended Nicole Kidman-ness and became a serious actress.

And even times when it was possible to admit that not only did she successfully portray a fictional neurotic, English writing genius resembling Virginia Woolf but that it was fair to say she successfully portrayed Virginia Woolf herself, despite the double insult of her wildly unsuitable physical appearance and ridiculous fake nose.

If someone in the public sphere attracts your attention it may be because they portray a characteristic you've not developed fully. When it comes to Nicole Kidman, I have no trouble working out what it is – her untroubled, lighter-than-air Machiavellianism. This basic human trait (well, primate trait actually) is something I’ve always struggled with.

It also interests me because the sister just below me, I’ll call her Frances, has always had a very healthy Machiavellianism – perhaps even a bit too developed. And I hated her for it. I thought she was outrageous and I fought her bid for status and attention every step of the way. I have no doubt that my hostility, from the time she was only about two, strengthened that Machiavellianism, hardened it in her and made her see life as a fight to survive in the world.

I wonder whether my own Machiavellianism is somehow stuck at this early stage. Even now competition for me always has a pathological aspect. There is a bitchy, childish side to my dealings with the world that sees success as a zero sum game – I’m still working on the template of: if I win, Frances loses; if Frances wins, I lose. What about cooperation in an environment in which it’s safe to reveal you own skills? Other people seem to be able to do this effortlessly, yet it’s a mystery to me.

It’s not that I was devoid of Machiavellianism in the wider world; at school my social phobia meant that I was ultra-conscious of social hierarchy. I was just incapable of using this knowledge to advance my cause, my life, myself; indeed I used this knowledge against myself: I was low on the social hierarchy at school, therefore counted myself as lower in value. There is such a thing as good, healthy Machiavellianism. This is what I find so intriguing about Kidman: is her Machiavellianism pathological or not?

My sister actually looks a bit like Nicole Kidman. I watch Kidman in scenes with the great actors of ‘our day’ – Jude Law, Shirley MacLaine, Miranda Richardson – and wonder: how does she dare? (How come my sister is so different from me? How come she is, partly due to my early influence, Machiavellian to a fault?)

When I started researching this topic, what I discovered surprised me. Machiavellianism is almost always portrayed as a negative thing, a pathology. Wikipedia reports that it’s now lumped in with narcissism and psychopathy as part of a Dark Triad, with researchers claiming that there is significant overlap between these traits; some psychologists believe it to be a subclinical version of psychopathy. Yet interestingly it's never been included in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. Does this suggest some ambivalence about it on the the part of researchers?

This illustrates what bugs me about the way psychiatrists look at personality. With a focus on pathology, they don't seem interested in character for its own sake. Yes, they talk about 'subclinical' and bicker over what that means. But surely a characteristic such as Machiavellianism is fine within a constellation and only a problem when it gets out of hand? And perhaps insufficient amounts of it could also be a clinical problem? A lack of Machiavellianism – taking everything at face value – could be the very definition of unworldliness. Perhaps mental health researchers need to start concentrating on the factors enabling societies to grow balanced human beings with the right proportion of each characteristic.

Defining Machiavellianism

But what is Machiavellianism anyway? Wikipedia defines it as 'a duplicitous interpersonal style associated with cynical beliefs and pragmatic morality'. I’ve always had a more benign view, assuming it was simply the human desire to advance your chosen interests, combined with the social skills needed to assess the environment you’re in and to use it to advance those interests. That usually means being part of a group, and using the group to get ahead. Even at a non-pathological level, Machiavellian motives have the potential be in conflict with the interests of the larger group.

That all sounds calculating and negative, makes Machiavellianism seem an unpleasant fact of life; perhaps it also demonstrates the gap between the way the world operates and the way we would like it to. Many workplaces are seething hotbeds of the overambitious; the more unequal society gets and the more tears in the welfare net, the rifer Machiavellianism will probably become.

But Machiavellianism is clearly necessary for the complex social groups primates form, and the advances we have made as humans. And we label people who don’t have this ability as having Aspergers, and all too often we let them know in no uncertain terms that they don’t belong.

Machiavellianism is not the same as personal ambition. Someone could have a great deal of ambition, a great desire for success, and be hopeless at using social groups and people to advance those ambitions, or just be average at it.

But nor is it necessarily always about self-interest. If it involves a knowledge of how power works, much depends on what you do with that knowledge, and whose interests you try to advance in using it. Bob Brown, former much-revered leader of the Australian Greens, was and is Machiavellian down to his last pore, but not in a venal way. He wasn’t interested in accumulating money or power. Instead, he cleverly used the structures of power – parliament in this case – to advance the interests of a larger group: his fellow Australians and indeed all the future citizens of planet Earth. Not only that, but he tried to use his position not to consolidate his own power, but to share power around more freely – to make Australia more democratic. So simply a knowledge of how groups work and using that knowledge to advance your cause doesn’t make Machiavellianism pathological.

Perhaps we have to distinguish between the Machiavellianism of a Bob Brown and that of the average, self-interested person who wants their share of power and wealth – let’s call this self-interested Machiavellianism. Even here, it isn’t easily divisible from a healthy interest in one's own welfare and that of one's family. At what stage does Machiavellianism, whether self-interested or not, descend into evil rubbing of palms together and a sinister cackle? At what stage does the calculating type become the stereotypical villain? 

Perhaps this depends on what exactly you’re willing to do with your knowledge of power structures to advance your cause. Are you willing to manipulate others? Pit people against each other? Sabotage their careers? Lie about them? This is clearly Machiavellian behaviour at the unhealthy level, regardless of whether your motives are selfish or selfless. Perhaps a healthy institution is one in which an individual's ability to succeed depends on their ambition, hard work and talent more than it does on their degree of Machiavellianism, whether healthy or unhealthy.

Bob Brown’s version means that his own personal ambitions are not easily separable from those of the larger human group; he positions himself and his struggle as part of the struggle of humanity for a better world. But self-interested Machiavellianism, however seemingly benign and non-pathological, always has the potential to be in conflict with the needs of the larger group.

Botox and self-interest

This leads me back to Nicole Kidman. She is obviously ambitious – nothing wrong with that. She has worked very hard and taken carefully calculated steps to build her career. She has done so to the extent that if you think of her mainly as mediocre, as I do (not in lighter roles – she is perfect for light comedy), her success has prevented much better actresses from playing the fascinating gamut of characters she has portrayed. Who knows what Hilary Swank, Chloe Sevigny, Tilda Swinton or even Cate Blanchett might have done with some of her juicier roles?

This is not something peculiar to her of course. Gwyneth Paltrow did the same thing for many years. Remember her in Sylvia?

Despite her very public breakup with Tom Cruise, Kidman has always struck me as someone who, when compared with a lot of other celebrities of similar prominence, had a high degree of psychological health. Her father is a psychologist, her mother a teacher; the family are close, and Kidman talks about her parents and sister with great warmth. She has never appeared to have a serious drug problem, made inappropriate remarks, or fallen into the traps of celebrity, except in one area – her use of Botox and other ‘fillers’.

And this is part of the question that exercises me – given her apparent psychological health, why has Kidman been willing to distort her face to the extent that she is now the butt of unpleasant YouTube videos? Her balanced personality sits at odds with this extreme.

My answer: Kidman's obsession with Botox isn't the result of some deep-seated childhood emotional deprivation. She's simply Machiavellian enough to know that in a toxic industry that rewards youth and cookie-cutter Barbie Doll beauty, her career will benefit from the regular application of Clostridiuim botulinum. And this canniness has paid off: at 44, she landed the role of Grace Kelly in the forthcoming film Grace of Monaco, directed by Olivier Dahan, a role every female actress in Hollywood was surely drooling over.

I say this not to denigrate her but to acknowledge that Machiavellianism is the ability to judge the particular environment in which one finds oneself and to work out how to succeed within it. That Kidman has judged her level of Botoxification necessary demonstrates that her healthy Machiavellianism is at the upper end of the scale; but also perhaps that the environment she is working in is toxic for women.

Now, bear with, as Miranda would say; this is where things get interesting. As I’ve said earlier, self-interested Machiavellianism is usually in tension with the broader interests of the group. While our toxic societies tend to reward unhealthy Machiavellianism, in our public discussions we applaud those who put the interests of the group ahead of their individual advancement. Not everyone has to make this choice of course, but sometimes a clear choice has to be made. And Kidman, while seeking her own career advancement, is a tiny bit responsible, along with the other legions of the facially adjusted, for making it difficult for women as a whole, and female actresses in particular, to succeed without taking a syringe to their faces.

So, while her Machiavellianism is not pathological in itself, the decisions she has made to appease it are the result of her immersion in a toxic environment. If we still insist on seeing Kidman as part of a community, part of a society, she has failed us. Not only by making an ironed face the norm, but by providing a poor example to the millions of young women who consume Hollywood gossip. Stars are role models, whether they choose to be or not; Kidman has put her career above this consideration.

This is not to say she makes decisions any different from a number of stars. Kate Moss posed topless in a blonde wig for the December 2012 issue of Vanity Fair, in photos accompanying a long  article exploring her career longevity; now that we're saturated in porn culture, it's simply what you do to stay ahead if you're a supermodel. In 1994, Kylie Minogue went raunchy in the video clip for her single 'Confide in me', and stripped naked for the follow-up single, 'Put yourself in my place' (below, looking uncannily Kidmanesque). Unfortunate choices, but plenty of men would have done the same if facing the same constraints; women are no more Machiavellian than men, we just make choices within more difficult circumstances.

Yet these are choices, albeit made in misogynist environments. I don't want to give the impression that you need to do bizarre and antisocial things to succeed in life. Some people are strong and talented enough to carve out their own niches simply by being very, very good at what they do. Australian comedian Magda Szubanski has had a self-admitted weight problem since the year dot, yet through sheer talent, and probably a healthy dose of Machiavellianism in other areas of her life, this aspect is part of the charm she brings to her most memorable characters.

So why was Kidman so damn good in parts of The Hours, I hear you ask? Ha! That's another story and another blog entry.

And, no, my sister Frances doesn’t use Botox – as far as I know.

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The downside of anger

I’ve recently been forced to confront just how uptight I am all the time. This often translates into anger, but there’s always an anxious edge to it.

Recently I met a friend at a popular gallery in Melbourne’s green, hilly outer east. I got there almost exactly at the allotted time. In recent years, mainly because I hate the tension of driving along glancing at the clock every other second and feeling ridiculously guilty, I’ve become highly organised when meeting up with someone, ensuring I leave the house at a time that enables me to arrive at my destination neither early nor late.

Trouble is, my friends are often late. And increasingly I’m feeling an irrational amount of anger when this happens.

The friend I was meeting with at the gallery, D, isn’t always late; in fact, I can remember being a bit late when I met up with her a few months ago. Further back, I’ve been easily 10 or 15 minutes late and she’s always taken it calmly.

In this case, I realise it’s because of a growing neediness on my part. All my friends lead either busier or more emotionally fulfilling lives than I do (sometimes both). In the case of D, she often complains of being lonely and wanting a better social life as well as a partner, but her job as a primary teacher is hugely complex and involving. So I don’t see that much of her, and when she’s late I automatically take it as a sign of her low regard for me (I’ve just realised this, so perhaps I won’t react that way in future).

Ten minutes late, I know, is nothing. In fact it didn’t even inconvenience me; I didn’t even have to wait for her. I just paid, and went into the gallery, looking out for her at the entrance once in a while. No problem.

But I still – even though I tried not to – had a miffed edge to my voice when I greeted her. I apologised later on. But I can’t afford to alienate my friends; I don’t have that many! Why are my expectations of others so high when I frequently can’t live up to my expectations of myself?

D isn’t actually late all the time, but I have another friend, J, who is routinely late. Ten minutes after the agreed time is really pretty good for him. But he rides a bike and so I make allowances for him. I also think I understand his lateness – like me in the past, I reckon he is overly optimistic about the time it will take him to do whatever he has to do before leaving the house. I made these kind of miscalculations myself for years.

Given how reliable J is in his lateness, the simple thing to do would be to plan to turn up ten minutes past the time we’ve arranged. I tried to do this once and it didn’t work; there was so little traffic on the road and I still got there on time despite my best efforts. He was a good ten minutes late as usual, and I sat there reading the paper yet again (I’ve learned to take a newspaper along so at least I’ve got something to do).

I swear the episode at the gallery with D was meant to force me to a point of self-awareness about my anger. For another, small trigger occurred a couple of hours later when we queued for the cafe at the gallery premises. Recently renovated, it’s a stark modernist design in black, with sleek glass walls so you can see all the goings-on inside, and a paved outdoor area surrounded by a low wall. Lone cafes at recreational destinations are notorious for being poorly managed and ripping off their customers, and this one was a shining example. A good excuse for my underlying anger to come out and put on its own little show.

We joined the tiny queue, a patient young couple slouching resignedly in front of us. Glancing through the window, an empty table, and a few minutes later another two, became evident. The young waitress, who had kind, smiling eyes and was wearing a long butchers apron, patiently explained that the tables were being cleaned and they’d be ready any minute.

I moaned and groaned to D, admitting that I was becoming like the men in the TV show Grumpy Old Men (without the slightest bit of rancour, she agreed with me). The couple in front of us were stoically silent.

After the couple had been let in and more and more tables seemed to become empty while we continued to queue, I asked the waitress if we could go inside, and then I asked her if we could sit at the table before it was clean. Luckily for my sanity she agreed both times.

Despite my irrational response, it’s doubtless that these kinds of places are organised with the convenience of the staff in mind rather than the customers. D and I agreed that in the favourite inner city precincts we’re used to, as soon as you set foot in a place they rush you to a table, spirit a wettex out of thin air as they say brightly ‘are you eating today or just drinks?’, wipe down the table with slick efficiency and then before you can say Jack Sprat, park a bottle of tap water and two glasses in front of you.

Finally we were seated, table cleaned and orders taken, and the waiter managed to be overly generous with my mineral water (they’d run out of small bottles so he poured me two generous serves from a large one) and stingy with D’s cappuccino (served in a cup that was conspicuously smaller than a standard tea cup). But I’d confided to D that my anger – my inability not to take the world’s unending imperfections to heart – seemed to be getting worse and I wanted to do something about it.

Apart from my neediness, I think part of the source of my anger is a deep-seated anxiety, a sense that if I don’t get to do what I want when I want the world will collapse into chaos. Often as I’m preparing for some social event I’ll notice that my shoulders are hunched. It’s as if I’m unconsciously preparing for World War Three instead of meeting up with a few people. My brain’s on alert, expecting some social catastrophe to develop if I don’t steel myself.

At these times I consciously relax my shoulders and start telling myself that there’s no need to be tense. This helps a bit, but it’s a very strong habit. While social anxiety is different from the anxiety I felt waiting for a seat in the cafe (perhaps it would be hours before we got in ...) they’re both about wanting to maintain control of an outcome – a futile goal.

I think that lack of control is why I also have a problem with mobile phones. I hate it when my friends’ phones ring while I’m socialising with them (I get particularly angry when this happens while they’re at my place).

But I’ve devised a new strategy to deal with this – I hope it’s not passive aggressive, but the jury’s still out. From now on if a friend’s mobile rings I immediately busy myself doing something, whether it’s checking my own phone messages, reading the paper, or writing a list of some kind. If they’re visiting at my place and their phone rings, I can leave the room while they’re talking and clear dishes, or even hop on the computer if it’s already on and check my email. If I’ve run out of things to do, one option is to simply go to the loo and take a few deep breaths.

Anyway, whatever the causes of my anger, I don’t want to be that reactive. It doesn’t change the world issues that concern me so much, it doesn’t change my own situation and it doesn’t change the habits of my friends. It just makes me tense and unhappy. I need to learn to step out of my anger and back into the moment, however challenging and imperfect it is.

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Tripping myself up again -- a work and anxiety setback

I've been away from this blog for a little while because of broadband issues (all fixed) and work busyness (ongoing, although workwise I'm in a state of suspended animation at the moment.) But while I haven't been writing the blog I've been dreaming up possible blog posts. And every time I think I have one ready to write, something in my life changes and I have to rethink what I was going to say.

The most recent change was a little 'setback' I had in a work context recently. And this has made me take a fresh look at how I approach my life in general. Even as I'm writing this I'm not sure how to change. I just know I have to.

When I have a setback such as the one that occurred (perhaps later I'll be able to describe it in more detail, but it's too close at the moment), a familiar process follows. I go through a a day and night of utter self-loathing and despair. I become a dual personality -- the 'naughty', shamed child who sabotaged a combined parent-and-adult figure, and the angry parent-adult who sees the child's 'misdemeanour' from the point of view of a shocked, judgmental world. The 'parent' feels the shame but has to somehow bear it, and try to mediate the consequences of the sabotage.

As I write this, I understand that the anger of the 'parent' is part of the problem. I also know that the 'child' badly wants attention. But how do I square my psychodrama with the need to appear adult to the outside world? I know I'm supposed to love my inner child, but what does that actually mean when it has an embarrassing 'tanty' that appears to threaten my already limited professional life (and certainly my image)?

What baffles me is that, despite all the self-growth I've undertaken over 25 years, this dynamic -- a neurotic need for attention that becomes a sabotage -- hasn't changed all that much. (I think this blog entry itself is becoming a bit of a tanty!)

The fact is, I'm extremely high maintenance, and I do try to lead a balanced life, but I probably need to manage things better. This is what I think I'm struggling with. I've been avoiding starting to meditate for months now, and even do a very relaxing mindfulness exercise instead, but there's no substitute. With my many problems, meditation helps me on so many levels. Not doing it is part of a more subtle self-sabotage.

Blood sugar is also an issue. It affects me not just by increasing anxiety, but lowering my self-esteem when I'm vague and forgetful because of it. My diet is limited but I put little if any effort into trying to make it strict but interesting, rarely cook anything remotely appetising, and I've been getting a bit slack lately with the kinds of foods I eat. So it's time to take stock, literally, and start looking after myself in that department. What I've been avoiding, I think, is the realisation that I probably need to eat more meat. As an animal lover I don't like the fact that I have to eat meat at all, but I have more energy and focus when I do.

The other things to do -- and these are the hardest -- are: refuse to beat myself up; talk to myself kindly; and be nice to myself.

I'm sorry that this entry is so self-obsessed. I have planned and half-written entries on other issues. But sometimes I'm shocked into the realisation of my vulnerability, and at such times I need to remind myself of the need to ramp up my self-care -- again!

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On the loneliness of dogs

It’s almost two years since I started walking my sister’s cocker spaniel, Jordan, three days a week. Predictably for someone with social anxiety, we stick to a rigid routine – 11.30 to about 12.15 Monday, Wednesday and Friday (going at other times, and encountering an unpredictable mix of people, would be traumatic, although very occasionally I do a Saturday instead).

I’ve mentioned before in this blog some of the ways Jordan has changed and helped me, not least by simply being a companion to take to the park. And he’s a great distraction when I’m chatting to someone – if an awkward social moment arises, he’s liable to do a pooh, sending me scrabbling for my trusty plastic bag.

But being Jordan’s friend is not without its own problems. Least of all the sadness I feel at his closed-in, often miserable little life.

I’ve complained in this blog previously about how little his family care about his emotional welfare, all too happily piling into the car without him and zooming off to some child- and in many cases dog-friendly destination. He’s left pining for hours on the front porch or, if the weather’s good, barking desperately at innocent strangers as they walk past. The family is too lazy to train him so when they have guests they simply tie up the poor little bugger.

It would be easy to query why my sister and her family, obviously not dog people, have a dog at all, and why they keep it, having discovered the effort involved. Wouldn’t it be better to relinquish it humanely, for example by placing the dog with a rehoming program, or trying to find a new owner among friends or family? But I think the answer isn’t that difficult.

For a start, that so many non-dog people do indeed have dogs illustrates just what joiners we humans are. Non-dog people who get dogs do so because other people, often their friends, have dogs. And because they are non-dog people in the first place, once they have the dog and have begun to neglect it, they don’t really care much about the effects of their neglect on the dog.

It’s therefore logical for them to keep it languishing, just as one holds onto an expensive designer dress one has bought on sale and never wears. (Of course I know that many people do abandon their dogs in cruel ways and this represents another level of callousness altogether.)

I’m being a bit unfair. There’s often, as in the case of Jordan’s owners, a great deal of affection for the dog. My nieces love Jordan, and he gets cuddles and inside-time at night, as well as some inside-time during the day when my sister’s not working, at home for a while and not too busy.

But it’s a selfish affection. Apart from the narrow obligations of providing food, a place to sleep and basic veterinary care, neither my sister nor my brother-in-law feels, or fosters in the children, a sense of responsibility towards Jordan. My nieces are never made to feed or play with him, for example. An opportunity to teach the children about reciprocal love is wasted: the dog gives love, and the family benefits from that love, but they’re not particularly interested in how their own lives and love could benefit the dog. This kind of love for a pet is ultimately narcissistic.

I see that narcissism in myself sometimes. I’m gratified by how much Jordan loves and needs me, by his refusal to judge me for coming by just three times a week, taking him to the park for a frolic and then effectively abandoning him to his loneliness. Truth is, I’ve had to learn to be callous to keep going on in my limited role. And often when my bucket of concern threatens to overflow to every chained-up, filthy mutt, every overweight, underloved pooch, every dog I see staring out with a mixture of gloom and wretched hope from behind a suburban front gate, I must empty it out for my own sanity.

But I’m not trying to make out I’m a saintlier person than my sister; perhaps I’m just more self-aware. Although I’m a dog person, I know myself too well to take on a pet full time.

I also know that, paradoxically, it is easy for me to spend time with a dog, whereas it’s more of an effort for non-dog people like my sister. Truth is, I could sometimes spend hours patting, comforting and playing Fetch with dogs. It’s so easy to make a connection with them: to see in their pining, eager eyes the simple language of need and love. And it’s not hard to make a dog happy, to answer that need, even if momentarily – all you have to do is scratch it under the chin, stroke its neck and tell it what a sweet and good boy or girl it is. Humans are so much more complex (although perhaps I am made momentarily happy by giving love to a dog).

Recently I wrote a letter to my sister detailing my concerns about Jordan. I was trying to make her understand that incorporating Jordan into her life (including giving the children some responsibility for him) was better than seeing him as a separate duty that she would get to when other priorities had been dealt with, and would actually help her and the family as a whole. All it would take to include Jordan in the family to a greater extent, I urged, was a little bit of planning.

It went down like a firecracker during a monsoon. In fact, there was no response to the letter at all until I broached the subject. This was when I went to pick up Jordan for his walk on the last day of the school holidays. He’d been playing with my nieces outside, but now they were off somewhere fun, and he’d be home alone as soon as the walk was over. We all stood in the backyard, Jordan already on the leash. My sister did not want to talk about the letter, except to say ‘please don’t do things like that’.

‘He’s clinically depressed!’ I yelled as she walked towards the car.

‘Aren’t we all’, she replied.

Dogs are a wonderful resource that our local communities could benefit from in ways that also assisted the dogs themselves. We don’t need more dogs, in fact we probably need fewer, but we should make better use of existing dogs. This is not simply being dog-centric: I think we’d become a more caring society as a whole. Just as retired people can do countless good in the community, lonely dogs could be utilised for many purposes.

So how could we improve the situations for dogs, and make things easier for their busy owners? Below are some suggestions for drastically reducing the amount of bored, unhappy, unhealthy dogs in our community (some a bit outlandish, I admit).

Some suggestions for a dog-friendly world
It should be much harder to own a dog than it is at present. In a screening process as is used in adoption, you should have to prove your suitability, that of your home, and that you are able to spend a certain percentage of time with the dog. If not able to spend enough time at home, prospective owners should have to guarantee the regular use of dog-minding or pet-walking services and prove they had the money to spend on such dog services.

To compensate for the difficulty of dog ownership, dogs could be seen as community assets, and moves made to share them among the community. A non-profit service could be established to link people who like dogs (including older people) but don’t want or can’t afford their own with people who can’t walk their dogs due to age, illness, disability or busyness. These would not simply be casual walkers but would have the opportunity to establish a relationship with the dog, eg playing with and walking it several times a week. For example, disadvantaged families without a parent at home during the day, such as single parents, could form a relationship with a dog that they took out on weekends.

Puppy farms should be banned and pet shops not allowed to sell animals.

All dog breeders should need to have a licence and their premises be subject to regular inspections.

A free service for new owners, rather like the maternal and child health nurse but ideally made up of volunteers, could be established. These trained volunteers would pay a once-off visit to the home to help the family adjust to the puppy or dog by offering expert advice and guidance. They would check that sleeping arrangements and diet were suitable for the size and breed of the dog, and offer advice and help with issues such as house training.

Governments could fund the use of dogs (and other pets) as therapy in prisons and aged care homes, with these institutions having their own in-house pets where possible.

I know some of these suggestions are a bit 'out there', but it's time to think outside the off-leash area of the park! The dog walking and day care industries would flourish if there were tougher rules about leaving dogs alone for hours, the dogs themselves would be happier, and so would the humans who love them.

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Familial angst

Lately I have been wondering if my blog should be called very nutty rather than slightly nutty.

As usual at times like this my thoughts turn to my family but not in a good way. I’m full of blame, angst and bile.

The thing is I am caught between two competing positions. The first is that my parents are responsible for scrambling my brain and therefore should do everything within their power, alter their lives in significant ways if need be, to assist me (even though they’re now in their 70s – shouldn’t I be assisting them? – but this is no longer a new position for me).

This position sees my mental illness as no different from a physical one. What if I had been confined to a wheelchair? They couldn’t have ignored the problem even if they’d wanted to. Imagine the ignominy, the opprobrium of their many parish friends if they had done nothing to help me, say by placing me in a home. And of course they wouldn’t have done such a thing. But their lives would have been different – harder, with less time for socialising (they are deeply social people, and in my mother’s case more bonded with friends than immediate family).

My parents have always been extremely uncomfortable with my mental illness because acknowledging it fully would have opened up too many cans of worms. They have therefore never been able to intervene in any significant way to ‘save’ me (more of saving later). At a critical time in my life – the age of 15 – they stood by as I went into a shell I would never fully emerge from (like an obedient child my illness took a form that was never dramatic enough to warrant hospitalisation).

In theory they have always offered sanctuary (ie allowed me to move back home, but very much on their terms) and when I had a breakdown at 21 my mother gave me a fair bit of emotional support. But they’ve never actively assisted me, apart from giving me the kind of practical help they give their other daughters, for example, when moving house. And since I’ve been living close by, my father to his great credit comes around on call to mow my lawns and do any handyperson tasks that I can’t.

So, when I take this position, how would I like my parents to be? My fantasy parents would have long ago renounced their Catholicism, spurning it because its rigid doctrines and twisted representatives had helped to bring about my emotional demise. Instead they would be exploring non-denominational spirituality. Needless to say, they would have come to terms with the fact that their basic incompatibility was a huge cause of my problems and would have reached a level of emotional maturity unthinkable if I had not been ill.

And decades ago they would have urged me to see a psychologist or psychiatrist (instead of the GP and gestalt therapist I mainly saw for years) and to pay for any expenses or at least helped. They would have gently pointed out that I was going to need to pursue a career that could be managed within my anxieties and offered to help financially with any study expenses.

And when they decided to buy an investment property ten years ago they would have bought one with an eye to me moving in there somewhere further down the track (paying rent of course, but with some degree of security). And long ago they would have come to terms with the fact that I probably wouldn’t get married, and given me a nice little payout equivalent to the cost of their other daughters’ weddings.

It’s such a lovely fantasy. Who would want to abandon it? I can’t, not completely. But let’s face it, it’s based on the lives of secular, middle class baby boomers. My parents are religious and more than half a generation older than baby boomers, their lives relatively untouched by feminism and the other social movements. Inexplicably, my father still enthusiastically attends events run by the Catholic, socially right-wing political organisation he so adored when I was a kid.

It also ignores the obvious – that some mental illnesses, or at least the way they present themselves, are the result of family dynamics. In my case, I think I was trying to adapt to some impossible contradictions in the family. So how could my parents possibly be part of the solution? We had one session of family therapy when I was 21 but it threatened to uncover some uncomfortable truths, and my mother put a stop to it.

But there is also another position. This position is partly based on new age ideas about responsibility but it’s also more grounded in psychotherapy. It says that on one level I am responsible for everything that happens to me (I can’t buy that completely) but, on a more mundane level, that I’m an adult and have to take responsibility for myself.

In fact, the last psychiatrist I saw, around five years ago, said at one point something to the effect of ‘isn’t it about time you laid off your parents?’

And this is the nub of it, the sticking point.

Because despite the bad start they gave me, despite the part they played in ‘stuffing me up’, I’d reached a point about ten years ago where I had grown in many ways, and could have made a very fundamental change in my life.

This was at at time when I had finally accessed some psychiatric help (far from perfect, but good in some ways) as well as spiritual help through a 12-step program. I understood that it was possible to go out on a limb – I had seen people in the program grow in amazing ways and take on new challenges. I also had plenty of people who could have helped me make this leap (in fact one of them belatedly tried to help me for weeks).

This leap would have freed me from my emotional reliance on my family, at least temporarily. And I chose not to make it.

Yes, it would have been incredibly difficult – for about 5 minutes. But I decided to play it safe.

Of course there had been many times earlier than that when in theory I could have broken away. But it really wasn’t possible before then. This was a genuine choice.

So I’m stuck between the two positions. I guess in some ways I have no choice but to take up the latter position – that I’m responsible for myself and my life. But this is very difficult at the moment because I can’t work or socialise much. I still equate work with taking responsibility, so if I can’t look after myself financially where do I stand?

Do I need to let go of that connection and see myself as still dignified even if the state is being a parent of sorts and helping me out financially? Of course, but it’s hard. It’s also hard because I believe very deeply that I am never going to be able to work in a way that frees me from this dependence. (Possibly this is in itself deluded but that is the way it feels at the moment.) And that makes me want to turn back around to my parents and shake my fist at them: ‘You caused all this! What are you going to do about it?’

And it’s also hard because I know that at one point things could have been different. I can’t really blame my parents for that, much as I’d like to.

So perhaps there is a dual responsibility? That still doesn’t change my parents’ behaviour or attitude towards me.

When I was in my mid-20s I assumed a faux sense of independence from my parents, convinced it was better that I asked nothing of them. This hid many unconscious resentments, and I slowly came to realise that they did indeed bear some responsibility. I’ve since accused them of all sorts of shortcomings. But that time of acute grief and anger is past. Although I may not stop feeling angry, I need to let go of the belief that some time in the future, they will look after me. There really is no choice now but to do so. That’s what I have to work on.

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