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Friday 14 November 2014

The Fruitful side of depression.



There is a fruitful side to depression.
Amid the fog of despair, the crippling numbness and soullessness, the dark vortex of depression feels constant, endless. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, because there is no tunnel, only a perpetual riptide dragging you ever further from shore. You clamber to stay afloat in an ocean of dejection. No longer can you see the land, the solid ground of happiness, ambition, future. The sharks are circling, licking their lips at the life you bleed into the water, and you are tempted to let them take you.
Before you give up, before you stop struggling to keep your face above the surface, and sink into the abyss, bleeding and broken and letting the sharks devour your forsaken carcass, look up. The lifeboat is there. You may not see it at first, but keep kicking, keep your head up until you do. It will come. Don’t seek it out, don’t waste the precious little energy you need to keep afloat searching for the lifeboat. Just stay afloat, stay put and keep your eyes open, it will come to you.
When at last the lifeboat arrives, it appears not as a lifeboat, but soon you recognise it. You feel the tug as it slowly drags you back to shore. Do not toil to hold on, or you risk expending the little energy you have left and letting go before you get to shore. Simply let it take you, keep hold with a gentle grip and let it take you. And enjoy the view as you are towed back to the coastline of a contented future.

This may all sound a little too metaphorical for your liking. And if you suffer from depression, believe me, I know you’re probably reading this and thinking, it’s all well and good to say this crap, but this doesn’t do a thing to help me! I ask you to reread the last sentence… “And enjoy the view as you are towed back to the coastline of a contented future.” 
I’ve been there, I’ve been out in that ocean, and I couldn’t see a way back. I couldn’t see how the numbness, the emptiness of my soul, could ever thaw. But it did.
For me the lifeboat was a combination of moving closer to the support network of family and old friends, a little bit of yoga, and the acceptance of a death I had spent years trying to overlook.
When you find your lifeboat –and you will– the thaw will be slow. It will take time to heal from the amount of bleeding your soul has done. The reason I want you to read the last sentence over and over, many times if you need to, is because that’s where you will find the profit behind your years of suffering. Enjoy the view. Enjoy the view of the world around you, and you will find new wonder in the simple things. Enjoy the view of the people around you, and you will see you are not alone in your struggle. But most of all, enjoy the view of yourself. The blood in the water is you, parts of you that have been exposed. After years of pain and anguish, you can see inside yourself. Examine these parts of yourself, analyze them, decide which parts you want to let go and which parts you want collect on your way back to shore, and put them back in place. And they will be even better than before. You will be better than before.
This is the fruitful side of depression.
You will come back to shore knowing yourself in a way someone who has not been there can never do. So hold on, your lifeboat is coming. Hold on, and you will come back to shore and you will love yourself. This is your reward
As long as you don’t forget to enjoy the view.

Wednesday 13 August 2014

ONE NIGHT



Do you recognise the best time of your life while it's upon you, or only as you look back from an arbitrary future? 

Everyone has one moment they look back on, the one moment we wish we could relive over and over. A fleeting whisper in which everything else melted away and, for that brief flash, all the hidden corners of our heart and soul were shared with one person. A secret realm witnessed only by the two, which the rest of the world would never be privy to. Like an island of the purest perfection in an ocean of chaos, we close our eyes and revisit that moment, feel the nirvana again for an instant. But alas, we must open our eyes, and it’s gone. If we could go back, if we could live in that moment forever, we would happily stay, frozen in time, drinking in the serenity until our last breath. 

Sixteen years ago I had such a moment. One night that has lived in infamy beneath the surface of my consciousness all these years. An exquisite moment in time which rises above the turbulent waves of my existence at the mere mention of his name. I dare not speak of it for fear of corrupting the memory. I dare not let it out for fear that its release into the world would taint its beauty. While it stays locked in my heart it remains mine, remains shaped to fit the space inside me where it burrowed sixteen years ago. It can’t be poisoned by disordered thoughts, or broken by tumultuous emotions. It remains a warm place I visit when the world is icy, a small beacon to light my soul when all is dark. 

So I close my eyes. I relive my moment. I feel the warmth, see the beacon, and experience nirvana. And when I open them the world is that much colder, that much darker, for having recognised the best time of my life… too late.

Wednesday 11 June 2014

The world is full of Gonna Do's!

       

 Over the past couple of years I have begun more frequently to define myself as a writer. Since I no
longer work, due to an injury, when people ask me what I do I prefer to have an answer other than "I'm unemployed". No one wants to be defined as "unemployed". So, though I have yet to be published, I tell people I am a writer, if for no other reason than to save face. I, like most every writer, have written in one form or another all my life. I wrote random tales of fantasy as a child, I wrote poetry and arbitrary prose as a teen, and now I write novels. I haven't taken literary courses or been to college, but I have always had a knack for the written word. Since starting the process of writing novels I am constantly seeking knowledge about the art of writing, and I continue to learn every day.
          I don't care if you have written one hundred bestsellers or one chapter of your first book, if you have advice, or an opinion, I will listen with an open mind. I may not agree with you, but I will think about your words and consider your opinion before I make that decision.

          The funny thing about calling yourself a writer is, once you say you're a writer every monkey with a keyboard is, too. Since calling myself a writer, I can't count how many people have told me they "want to write a book", or are "writing a book". There is a way I have found to sort the "Gonna Do's" from the "real writers". Talent aside, because talent is not something we can judge by talking to a person, Gonna Do's want to discuss their writing by telling you how brilliant they are and how much, and how well, they have written. Gonna Do's will always find a way to turn the topic back to their awesomeness, without any discussion of your writing or the trials and tribulations we know accompany this fickle art form. Real writers, on the other hand, want discuss their work, and yours. They want to talk about the brick walls they've hit along the way, the way in which they and their conversational-counterpart (you) have overcome these walls, they want to talk about all aspects of the writing process, like the options for plotting, character definition, plot holes, the pros and cons of character profiles, the challenges of publishing. The list goes on.

          I came across one such "Gonna Do" a few days ago. Now, I don't pretend to know everything there is to know about writing the quintessential bestseller, but I do know the mistakes I have already made, and am happy to pass that knowledge along to someone who hasn't had the displeasure of making them yet. I was happy to hear about his experiences, and what he was writing. But, like all good Gonna Do's, he only wanted to talk about his own writing and how fabulous it was, despite only having written two chapters. Still, I didn't hold this against him, and continued to listen to what he had to say. However, when I tried to interrupt his self-aggrandising diatribe with a suggestion based on my own experience of completely destroying my first novel by doing exactly what he was doing, he politely explained that he knew better. He told me it was just how he wrote. Okay, we all have a different process, I can dig that. But I thought I was just "doing what I do" when I made that same mistake. If someone had given me that same advice when writing my first novel, it would be published now instead of being a beloved project that I poured my heart and soul into which is now doing nothing more than taking up space on my hard drive.

          So, what did I do? I let him go, let him tell me how fabulous he was, and didn't offer another word of advice for him, all the while with the knowledge that he was heading for disaster.

          And that, boys and girls, is how you spot a Gonna Do! Someone who thinks they have all the answers but will never accomplish their dreams for the sake of self-reverential pride.

          I'm ashamed to admit, in the past I have made the mistake of thinking I had all the answers, only to find out down the track how wrong I was. So, for your own sakes, don't dismiss the advice of other writers regardless of their accolades. Just listen, take on board what they have to say, question them if you have doubts. But never be so absorbed in your own knowledge that you can't learn something knew by listening to someone you never thought to seek advice from.

          I guess before I leave you I should tell you what the advice was. He told me he edits as he goes, that, although he's only written two chapters, he's already edited numerous times. I advised him against it, and told him I killed my first novel by doing exactly that. I even quoted Iain Banks, "Get it finished and then you can go back. If you try to polish every sentence there's a chance you'll never get past the first chapter.” But he told me he knew what he was doing. There were other signs, but that's when I knew he was a Gonna Do.

Have you ever met a Gonna Do?










Monday 2 June 2014

PLEASE HELP ME FIND RESIDENTS OF THE 1976 CEDAR BAY RAID!



Some thirty-eight years ago, three years before I was born, a terrible injustice befell a group of people whose only crime was to throw off the shackles of modern society, to deny the subjugation of the status quo in peaceful solitude… and maybe puff on a joint here and there.
Relying only on their ingenuity, hard work, and the cooperation of community members, these people, happily claiming the title of Hippie, created a veritable utopia in the rainforest, by the beach of Cedar Bay.
They grew their own food, built modest dwellings, and lived in harmony with their environment and their fellow man –we should all be so lucky.
Their happy paradise came to a terrifying end when the government sent a swarm of police and Navy to remove them from the bush and destroy their homes –a swarm, to remove a few peaceful Hippies. But it didn’t stop there –what ensued that day is an affront to human rights and dignity, and a clear message that we are not free. 
  
I was raised by a mother who also claimed the title Hippie. She taught me about the healing powers of plants before it became a fashion statement of the wealthy; she taught me the importance of caring for the world around us, the world that sustains us; and she taught me to accept others no matter their background, beliefs, or colour. I was fortunate to be raised by someone who was willing to indulge my dreams and encourage me to follow them.
My dream was always to be a writer. A great author who writes great stories, stories that impact how others see the world. And when I learned, only two years ago, of the atrocities inflicted upon a group of peaceful Hippies, I immediately felt a connection to their story. This was a story worth telling, and worth hearing. And with a little luck, and some long hours on my part, it might just be the kind of story that makes people think.
So I began to research, reading every article and snippet I could find on the 1976 raid at Cedar Bay. I even came across a university paper, and a recording of a radio interview with two of the victims. But, alas, every lead eventually came to a dead-end.
I tell you this with the express intent of reaching some long silent members of the Cedar Bay community, and imploring them to come to me with their story.
Your story will be told with dignity, exemplifying the truth of what you were subjected to as you tell it. I have no impulsion to exploit the victims, and will change the names of anyone from whom I am unable to gain consent, to avoid misrepresenting them.
If you were there, or know someone who was, please contact me. Comment here or find me on G+, Twitter, or Facebook. Search Alana Harbison and send me a private message. Thank you.