I had booked an aisle seat in row 2 .... hoping that I might have the 3 seats to myself On boarding I saw that the window seat was already occupied by a young woman. "Ok" I thought "she won't bother me .... she will leave me alone" Soon after seating the middle seat was taken by a woman about my age.... "Ok" I thought "she won't bother me .... she will leave me alone" I settled down and began to write a new poem ..... After
a while I noticed that 'window' was doing some serious artwork on her
phone! It wasn't idle doodling .... it was clearly very skilled
purposeful image manipulation..... I was intrigued and kept half an eye
on the work being done ... wondering what app was being used? ... what
was the purpose? By this time I had finished my poem .... I noticed
'middle' lean over to 'window' .....and ask the questions which were
churning in my mind. 'Window' was clearly happy to discuss and I
listened closely .... the motivation for the artwork was clearly aligned
with my poetry .... so when an opportunity presented, I asked if my
poem - written while she drew - was of interest. Very much so! .....
and so began a two hour 'escape from the world' where we shared
history, interests, motivations. Her artwork over the past twenty years
is amazing.
She shared how this flight was a last minute booking
to spend some time in Bali .... filling in time till her next FIFO
contract in project management was to commence. If various circumstances
... my delayed flight .... her delayed contract start .... had not
conspired .... Peta and I would never have met.
Both of us
clearly wanted to continue our time of sharing .... and we exchanged
contact details to stay in touch and perhaps meet again on a future
trip.
This is a chronicle of the experiences and feelings while I was attending this retreat for elder men.
Day 1 Tuesday 5th
I'm struck by the quality of the men involved. I'll list the attendees later as they are all men that I will want to keep in contact with.
We have gone straight to the nitty gritty with each of us sharing deeply.... definitely not chit chat.
Tomorrow I will probably be sharing the claim story.... I know that it will be very hard so I've asked Gary to physically support me as I read it. I've realised that my poetry.... which is the cherished item..... doesn't make much sense without the other to give background.
I'm really gobsmacked by the timing of this retreat. When I committed to coming, my stage of healing was totally different. Since then I feel as though I'm in a very different place emotionally.
Thursday 6th
Pre breakfast with Washie, Gary and Ross.... talking about dealing with the detritus of passed parents.
Several of the group are excellent musicians .... and I have audio of Washie playing a very old Japanese flute.
During breakfast a small earth tremor struck ... and Washie ... who has lived through serious earth quakes in LA .... gave us this song in thanks for being alive ... Song to the Earth
Next.... as pairs... we shared the essential elements of each of us.... and then relayed what has been learned to the group. It was amazing to find that the person I was sharing with has walked an almost identical path to my path. The time has been a difficult breaking down of walls and working at being vulnerable.
(Gems from this time ....)
The man I am, the man I was
She loves them both
But surer is of "was" than "am"
I wish she'd tell the difference.
THE TWO WOLVES
Negative thinking is normal and sometimes
it’s even helpful. However, if this way of thinking becomes incessant, it can
lead to depression and self-destructive behaviour like addictions, derailing
you from what your values and what you want most in life. Negative thinking
saps your energy and erodes your self-confidence.
Two Wolves is a Cherokee Indian legend and
illustrates the most important battle of our lives – the one between the
thoughts that are consistent with your chosen values and the thoughts that lead
you away from the man you wish to be. Here’s how the story goes:
A Cherokee elder is teaching his grandson
about life. “A fight is going on inside me,” he said to the boy.
“It is a terrible fight and it is between
two wolves. One is evil – he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance,
self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and
ego.”
He continued, “The other is good – he is
joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy,
generosity, truth, compassion, and faith. The same fight is going on inside you
– and inside every other person, too.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute
and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf will win?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one
you feed.”
Some of your thoughts can be your own
worst enemy. That is, if you let them. Think about how you may be “feeding”
your negative thoughts by allowing them to rule your mind.
Next time you have a negative thought,
catch it and ask yourself, “What is this thought doing for me?” You will find
that the answer is that all they are doing is disempowering you. You can
immediately feel more empowered by focusing on your values, reflecting on the
big picture and cultivating the practice of gratitude.
Which wolf are you feeding? Remember, you
always have a choice...
FRIDAY
AM. This morning we shared very deeply about the hurts and pain that we have each carried with us in our life. We heard of one man's pain of his father's violence to his mother. I told the story of the abuse I have lived through. R shared the pain of his estrangement from his son. Many of the men shared the same story..... and the feeling of closeness is palpable.
(note ... nearly all meals are meatless .... it's a different experience for me!)
..... and we have a VERY large gecko living in our room..... he is very noisy and wakes me up many times in the night when he comes near my bed and BARKS!
PM
Further sharing of our separate individual issues. Much of this involves role play in order to draw out the hidden depths of the person. The process can be deeply moving for all involved.
I am moved by the appreciation shown by the men for the way I have been open and shared my pain and abuse. In the exercises with other men, it's apparent that my history has given me some wisdom that I hadn't understood ... and this wisdom is being appreciated also.
Saturday
AM.... Letting go of the items that are not serving me in the road forward.
My story cannot be erased.... but the next step in the path is waiting. Walking the path need not be hindered by my story. I lay the story down and move forward.
PM
Free afternoon followed by a meditation sunset.
The heart voice which once spoke as poetry in a time of pain.... has been silent since as I struggled to absorb my story. Now I feel the heart voice stirring once again. The ideas are shaping and I'm ready to speak again.
In time past my heart voice cried out
in a time of pain it burst out
.... the words spoke of my inner turmoil
and of my pain
The heart cried out to be heard and understood
by any who would listen.
The heart spoke of the walls that surrounded it
It begged for acceptance.
Once it had spoken, the heart fell silent
It listened to the echoes of its cries.
The echoes reverberated through years
And the heart could no longer speak.
Silence
Silence
Then the heart began to stir.
The words are bubbling
through the potent mixture
Of hope and anticipation
The steps are seen.....
and the steps are waiting to be trod.
The heart voice is forming
And soon will be heard.
Sunday
Am
This morning has been powerfully symbolic for me. We rose at 4am and travelled to Padang Bai where we watched the dawn ... the beginning of a new day. We then went a short way to the place at Padang Bai where in the 8th century, the first Hindus came to Bali. In the cave at the ocean edge where those men lived, a shrine remains ... and there each of us cast into the ocean an item representing the thing we wished to be left behind. Mine was a copy of the Redress Claim. I watched it sink to the rocks at the bottom. I will now remember where it remains.
Afterward, I wrote this .......
I remember
My story has not served me well.
It has tormented me
and wrapped me in invisible chains
.... chains of remembered pain
.... chains of relived feelings
But my story has been cast away
.... and now I remember where the story lies
Waves now wash the story
where it lies in the rocks.
The water dissolves the paper
On which the story lives
The pain of the story washes into the ocean
Peace.
Monday 10
AM. Pura Dalem. A 2 hour walk. Up at 5am to drive to "the water walk"
Beginnings
This morning I reached a point
Where my body told my head to stop
So I retraced my steps
Back down the path
To where there journey began
Along the way my heart was light
I sang some songs
I drank in the sight
Of dogs.... and ducks
I watched those ducks
With all my might.
I saw the way
Mr Big Duck took control
Reached high
.... and flapped..... and quacked
And cared for every single duck
Eventually I found the start
Where we all began
And waited for the other guys
To find the place
Where we all began
And it struck me as I sat
How though we all began
In the same place
Somehow
We had found a different beginning
As we each walked in our way
PM at the "Castle without walls"
Tuesday 11 December
AM. Death
The only certain thing in this life is death.
It seems that a preparation common to most men in their senior years is that of accepting and preparing for death. I realised that I accepted the reality of death when I was 6 years old.... and I have been preparing for death ever since then. I am ready whenever it calls me.
The difference for me is that... till now.... I thought that I would be only grieved for by Naomi. But now for the first time I have a circle of people who I know will be saddened to see me go. Thankyou.
Wednesday 12 December
Thursday 13 December
The last day
I woke at three I woke at four Maybe I woke at even more
I woke at five And my heart was overflowing So I poured that love away I used it to water my heart who is far away
She heard my overflow And answered for a while An oasis of passion in the desert Flowers bloom
But now we men.... We men gather to say farewell Some of us will meet again.... And renew this sweet soul touch
Where do you go when you're afraid you'll kill yourself?
By Honor Eastly
Usually when we talk about suicide, we say those four magic words "just ask for help". But it's not always that simple.
In this story Honor talks about her experiences dealing with suicide and the mental health system. If you are struggling these resources can help.
Cheese to a psych hospital is what cigarettes are to prison. To understand this, you need to know one thing: there are almost no good snack options in a psych hospital.
Besides the vending machines full of junk food (an oddly depressing detail), the main snacks on offer are individually-wrapped packets of three savoury crackers. The kitchenette drawers in each ward are full of the things, as if maybe the hospital won a lifetime supply of crackers in some late night dial-in TV game show.
The crackers also come with these tiny squares of individually plastic-wrapped cheese. But these little golden squares of joy are in limited supply, which is why there's something of a cheese-based economy in here.
A few days after I arrive, one girl tells me there are a couple of wards - geriatric and, well, eating disorders - where they're not that interested in cheese. So you can raid those wards for their supply.
I've spent the last week hiding these cheese parcels in my room, and I've accumulated quite the stockpile.
I'm something of a Cheese Baron in here.
All the things you don't say
This stuff about being a cheese baron is exactly the kind of thing I tell my family about the two weeks I spent in a psych ward. I tell them the light stuff.
'Cause, y'know, it's more fun to tell my family about my cheese proclivities. It makes for a more palatable dinner table story.
So I tell them about how the hospital's shower heads don't come out of the wall, so that taking a shower means pressing my body flat against the bathroom tiles.
I avoid talking to them about the time I thought I was going to kill myself by the side of the Princes Freeway.
Or that my two weeks on the ward are spent under suicide watch.
And it's not just the story I tell my family. This is most of the story that I tell the world. I package it into consumable chunks because the reality is a lot more sad and weary, rather than funny or witty.
Sure, I know it's serious and I want to die and everything, but also I don't want to bother everyone with how desperate and self-pained I am. It's like when you have a break up and you just can't stop hurting. Until you can't bring yourself to tell your friends about it any longer.
I've only been in hospital 10 minutes when I realise it is not the place I thought it was going to be.
In the intake interview, the nurse asks me if I would "give it up easily in here?"
By which she means: am I going to have sex with the other patients?
She then tells me that my self harm isn't "that bad" and that "usually people with my diagnosis are cut all up and down", using hand gestures to explain her point.
Given this, I shouldn't be surprised that it takes 72 hours of being in hospital, surrounded by people being paid to help me out, before someone asks me how I am, and seems like they actually want to know the answer.
Her name is Pam, she's a middle-aged woman who stops me in the hallway and asks me if I'm 25-or-under.
She is pleased when I say yes because this means I can join her group for young people.
We talk for a long time, perhaps even talking over some of her lunch break. Pam tells me it's going to be two years of work to get better.
I've been on this track for 10 years now, so I'm not entirely sure what "getting better" would be at this point.
But I do know that two years seems like an eternity when I'm crawling my way through the days.
Right now though I'm just glad someone seems to know what to do and is talking to me like I am a person, rather than a walking disease.
On the third day in hospital my twin sister brings in my ukulele for me to play, some better snacks, and a family photo of both of us when we were toddlers. Neither of us can decipher who is who.
I wonder how I ended up here, and her not. This is not a new thought. This is perhaps one of the most worn out grooves in my mind; a desire path in my brain that cuts a deep line. A wanting for an answer, explanation, redemption.
The next day the nurse comes in to check on me, and seems disappointed to find the picture frame. "You can't have glass in here", she says. "And if you self harm in here you'll be sent to public, you understand?"
That same dog-eared question rolls around my head: Why me? Why not her, my genetic identical? Why just me?
Most people don't get top-of-the-line mental health care like this. I know I am lucky to be here.
Still, I thought something magic would happen in hospital.
I thought that once I was here people would take me seriously.
That people would care.
That I'd be enveloped by the warm hug of humanity I desperately craved.
But once inside I am just someone else's job, and a potential nuisance.
So I skirt a fine line the entire time.
After sixteen days I pack all my sadness into my suitcase again, pay my pharmacy bill, and wait for my sister to come get me so she can trundle me home, to the next part of my daytime soap opera life.
The last order of business is to fill out the exit survey, which asks me if my "emotional problems" have "interfered with [my] normal social activities" in the last two weeks.
Somewhere between ambivalence and smugness, I tick "quite a bit".
The nurse hands me back my shaver and the glass for the photo frame, and tells me "I can come back any time I need to".
I'm not so sure about that.
Hospital isn't the place you go to get well, I think to myself.
It's the place you go to not die.
"If someone does not want me it is not the end of the world.
But if I do not want me the world is nothing but endings"
It's been almost three years exactly since my hospital stay, and I find myself standing on a nature strip, begging my boyfriend Graham not to go to work, because I'm afraid to be alone again.
I'm afraid of what I might do.
Endings. Endings. Everywhere. Possible endings.
That pervasive thought: "Is this the end?" cuts through in a shiver of excitement at the possibility of escaping all this.
This day turns into a week, then a month. It's not all this scary, but we are limping through. I stop sleeping in my own bed. We all, Graham and I and our psychologist, decide I shouldn't be at home right now. Not alone anyway.
This is on me - Graham Panther on what it's like to love someone who is suicidal.
Graham and I agree I need to go somewhere.
But we also agree that hospital isn't an option this time.
Not just because I no longer have the health insurance to cover it, but because this time around I'm much more wary of the nature of that kind of help.
I know how sensitive I am to shame when I'm in this hopeless place, and I know how often the help, particularly at the more acute end of the spectrum, can exacerbate that shame and leave me feeling more hopeless. This leaves me without many options.
Since last time round, though, I've actually spent a few years working in the mental health system (as has my boyfriend Graham), so I now know more of what's available and how to navigate it.
I know there are inpatient services that are kind of like hospital lite.
There's nurse on staff 24 hours, and cooking classes during the day.
But you can come and go as you please, you can keep going to work and go see your friends.
And you don't even need to tell your boss or your mum that you're in there.
As luck would have it, there's one of these hospital-lite places right around the corner from where I live. A four-minute drive away. I could even pop home if I needed a jumper.
I call them and explain that I'm suicidal. They tell me I need to either be registered for National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) - which takes about six months - or with a case manager in my area, which could take up to a month.
I ask my psychiatrist if she can get me in any earlier.
She tells me that not only can she not refer me, but if I do get referred to this service I would have to stop seeing her, as well as the rest of my support team.
My life at this stage has been centred on just getting to my next appointments.
So giving up my lifeline for a service and people I've never met is not an option.
Where do you go when there's nowhere to go?
Where do you go when the mental health system doesn't have anywhere for you?
On a road trip with your boyfriend, of course. Singing Disney songs along the way.
We go to a friend's house in the country.
Graham has become something of a trip sitter for this journey.
We spend a week out there and read and write stupid songs and when it's raining all of a sudden we run outside naked and yell at the sky.
We take pictures of kangaroos and cook good food and play cards and have arguments.
We write and walk and philosophise about what it means to be hopeless, and what the value of hopelessness might be.
My sister and her boyfriend even join us for some of it. When I tell her I suspect my life may be ruined she says that doesn't make sense. I agree that it doesn't make sense, but that it is also my whole world right now.
Sometimes people don't have to understand, but just be there. My sister is remarkably good at this. Even though she doesn't understand, she is good at staying in that precious non-judgmental space with me.
The place where the answers are hard to pin down. Maybe this talent is in our genes.
It's pure, unadulterated good fortune that I am here.
That we have a friend who has a country house. And that the house is free. And that Graham is free enough to come with me.
I've spoken to many people over the years and heard them pine for something like this. A place where they can go and be crazy and also be normal. Where they can walk around and tend to plants and cry and breathe out.
"I'm about to be hospitalised, in a psych ward, again. I've cried all day every day for four months now. I feel more alone than ever in my life.
"I want to know, how on earth did you get out? Any advice at all would be deeply appreciated. It would mean the world to me. I'm terrified that I can't do this."
This could easily be something I wrote. But it's not. It's a message in my Instagram inbox from a stranger.
I've gotten many messages like this over the years, ever since I started talking about my experiences publicly. These messages are from people in psych hospital. People in France. People I haven't seen since high school who ask me how I fixed myself.
But I don't think I've fixed myself. This current trip to Doom Town has made me sure of that. But here's the thing, even now, in the thick of it, I also don't think I'm broken anymore either.
Back in hospital all those years ago, I wanted to be medicalised. I wanted someone to name my pain and for it to be a thing that was real and written down in a text book somewhere. I wanted the answer.
But now I know it's not that simple. Having someone explain your pain is not the same as having someone understand it.
Each time I go through this thing, I never know exactly how I make it through. But one thing is increasingly clear. For me, understanding and compassion, those precious ingredients are key to coming out the other side intact.
It's why I have spent hours speaking to these internet strangers about their deep existential pain. Because I know how healing it can be to find those other people that 'get it'. People who, like you, are asking perhaps the biggest questions of our human lives: why do I find life this hard? Why is my life this way? Why am I alive?
A year ago, before this current existential black hole, I realised that I couldn't keep up with all the people in pain who were reaching out to me. That's why Graham and I started The Big Feels Club.
We describe it as a "philosophy club for people who are sad or scared a bunch of the time".
The very first meeting of the Big Feels Club happens in our living room. It's a smattering of 15 or so people who identify as having big feelings. Some are friends, some are strangers. Almost all of them brought snacks without prompting.
Since then it's gotten a lot bigger, and quickly. We now have thousands of people in our little online community, sharing those big questions together.
The Big Feels Club is my way of making that sacred space I wished I could find when I was back in hospital.
It's not a fix-all - it doesn't make the day-to-day realities of scrambling for life any less exhausting - but it does help me remember something vitally important. That there are many ways of making sense of these experiences, and that I'm so very far from being the only one who feels this way.
Who knows if all this will happen again, or what I'll do if it does.
But I know this, that whatever services or supports I lean on, I hope they help me feel like I belong on earth.
I hope they help me see this stuff for what I now believe it is: not a sign of weakness or illness, but a desperate struggle for meaning and existence.
A human struggle. One I'm never alone in.
About the author
Honor Eastly is a writer, podcaster and professional feeler of feelings. She is the co-founder of The Big Feels Club and previously created the cult-hit podcasts Being Honest With My Ex, and Starving Artist. Her latest podcast, No Feeling is Final, explores the same experiences as this piece and is produced by ABC Audio Studios.
Credits
Words: Honor Eastly
Photos: Honor Eastly and Margaret Burin
My girlfriend told me she was suicidal. Here's what happened next
ABC LIFEBy Graham Panther
Updated about 5hrs ago
"I'd known for weeks she was struggling, and I'd been worried, but I thought I'd understood the shape of it," Graham writes. (ABC Life: Luke Tribe)
Just a heads up, this article is going to be heading into some 'heavy feelings' territory.
My girlfriend and I have a strange new nightly ritual.
She'll close her eyes and sing a little song, while I retrieve her sleeping pills from the latest hiding place. Then I hand one to her and hide the rest.
The songs are usually pretty good — she's a singer after all. Over a borrowed pop song melody, her made-up lyrics will riff on the weirdness of the situation:
Where do you go when you're afraid you'll kill yourself?
Writer and podcaster Honor Eastly talks about her experiences dealing with suicide and the mental health system and the lessons she's learnt about herself and those around her.
Read more
My boyfriend is fetching the sleeping pills,
I'm not allowed to keep.
'Cos I may be suicidal,
but a girl's still gotta sleep.
Catchy, right?
We both laugh as we perform this nightly task. It's a moment of silliness, of connection, during what has become an extraordinary time in both our lives.
You see, three months ago she told me she was afraid she might try to kill herself.
We were standing on the nature strip outside her house. I'd been loading the car, about to head to work.
Graham says when they first got together, they'd bonded over the fact they had both "spent time in the darker parts of our minds". (Supplied)
As she said the words, I noticed the passers-by on their morning commute, stepping politely around the couple engaged in a deep, tearful conversation. I remember thinking, "Gosh it's a sunny day, isn't this strange?"
Her confession wasn't a complete shock. I'd known things hadn't been great for her for some time.
I even knew she'd been thinking about her own death — in an abstract way.
When we first got together, we'd bonded over the fact we had both spent time in the darker parts of our minds. When she mentioned abstract thoughts of death, I thought, "Oh, she's in the hard place. I'll be here for her while she works it through."
But that day on the nature strip she gave me new information. Those abstract thoughts of death? "They're not so abstract anymore. I'm thinking about actual ways I could do it. And I'm scared."
You know that moment when an optical illusion 'clicks' for you, and you can finally see the duck (or is it a rabbit?).
This is kind of what it felt like, hearing my girlfriend tell me she was suicidal.
Have you supported someone through a dark time in their lives? What helped you stay strong? We’d be honoured to hear about your experience. Email life@abc.net.au
I'd known for weeks she was struggling, and I'd been worried, but I thought I'd understood the shape of it. I thought I could see what the problem was.
There was so much I hadn't been seeing.
And I had no idea what to do next.
'This is on me'
"We are responsible to be honest with each other, to be present, but we are not responsible for each other's actions." (Supplied)
This isn't the story of how my girlfriend figured out how to live again. She tells that much better than I could.
This is a story of what it's like to walk alongside someone doing that hard, hard work for themselves.
In the months that followed, the thoughts of death didn't stop, the cloud didn't lift.
We asked for help, from many parts of the mental health system. We both work in this system, so we know what the options are — but that didn't help much.
What became apparent very quickly is that of all the options — GPs, psychologists, psychiatrists, hospital — none of them had 'the answer'. If you're lucky what they suggest might eventually add up to the answer, but you have to do that math yourself — something which can take a lot of time, energy, and money to do.
It can be done. You can even do it alone. My girlfriend has made it through more than one suicidal crisis without me, without any supportive partner. People make it through this stuff every day. It's just really, really hard.
Even with someone in your corner, it is very easy to feel overwhelmed, lost, and all on your own here. And as I watched my smart, resourceful, persistent girlfriend get more and more frustrated with her attempts to find something that would help, one scary thought began to work its way into my brain:
I'm all she's got here. This is on me.
From boyfriend to carer
Three months after that nature strip conversation, things haven't gotten any easier. Every morning at 3:00am my girlfriend wakes up, filled with terror. I tell her, "You have to wake me up, I'll sit with you."
So this becomes our other nightly ritual. At a party one night, a friend starts describing to me the trouble her new baby is giving her and I quietly think, "I can kind of relate?"
Loving someone with a mental illness
Depression. Schizophrenia. Anxiety. It can be hard to separate the person you love from the disorder.
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It's in the little everyday decisions that I shift from partner to "carer". "Do I skip that much-needed night out with friends? She says she'll be fine at home alone, but what if she's not?"
And that shift in roles doesn't go unnoticed on her side. She stops waking me at 3:00am, because she's tired of making me tired. She stops telling me when things are bad.
It's over coffee with a friend that I have something of a breakthrough. I tell him how exhausted I feel, how desperate it all feels. He simply says: "It sounds like you think you're responsible for keeping her alive."
Oof. Yep.
Honesty is harder than you think
We talk it through with our therapist.
This isn't working. I'm paranoid she's not telling me how bad it really is, so I'm second-guessing her, putting my life on hold.
She sees me doing that, hates feeling like a burden, and so doesn't tell me how bad it really is.
A lovely, vicious cycle.
How to support someone who is suicidal
If youare not a trained professional, trying to support someone who is suicidal can be confronting and can easily leave you feeling out of your depth.
Read more
Where we get to is this: we still don't know how she'll get through this — that's her job, and I'll help in whatever ways I can.
But there's something we do know: if our relationship is going to make it through this extraordinary time, some things need to change.
Here's what we decide.
We've both got to be honest. She needs to tell me when things get really scary for her, so I can do what I can to help. In turn, I need to tell her when I'm feeling worn out, so she can make other plans.
Don't have it all figured out. This whole time I've been thinking, "I'm supposed to be the one who has it all figured out". I'd started to think I really did have all the answers (because the alternative was much more frightening). But the truth is, I've been acting just as much on instinct and fear as she has.
My girlfriend has one particular mental health professional who always seems to make her feel worse. She's been coming home in tears from their sessions. So I'd told her, "You shouldn't go back there, it's not helping".
The thing is, my telling her that didn't help either. She just felt more trapped. She knew that professional wasn't helping, but she also knew she was desperate, and that starting all over again with someone new could leave her feeling even more lost.
We agree that instead of saying, "This is what's best for you", I could say something more honest like, "Hey, I'm scared about you going back there".
This doesn't fix the problem, but neither does pretending I have all the answers.
Responsibility to, not responsibility for
"A few months after that day on the nature strip, things shifted. Neither of us knows the exact moment when." (Supplied)
Having tried all the obvious options, we get creative. We spend a week at a friend's country house. We call it a "hospiday" (a hospital holiday).
We even do a week-long course on "alternatives to suicide". We learn how to have more present, honest conversations about the scariest things our brains can throw at us.
My biggest takeaway from the course is about responsibility. We cannot be responsible for other adults. We can only be responsible to them. We are responsible to be honest with each other, to be present, but we are not responsible for each other's actions.
In some ways, this is the lesson we all have to learn to make any relationship work. You can't control each other.
When one of you is suicidal, that lesson becomes far more urgent, and a lot harder to navigate. But we muddle through.
A few months after that day on the nature strip, things shift. Neither of us knows the exact moment when.
One day my girlfriend feels like sleeping alone at her house. She doesn't even wake up until morning.
Not long after that, our relationship slips back into the easy rhythm we had before all this happened.
This strange and tender passage in our relationship fades from view, but it isn't gone. It's this profound shared history. An extraordinary time.
Graham Panther is a consultant in Australia's mental health system. He runsThe Big Feels Club, a global club for people with "big feelings". He co-wroteNo Feeling Is Final a new memoir podcast from the ABC Audio Studios about mental health, identity, and why we should stay alive.
As a
discretionary and humanitarian act to an individual with ongoing needs,
it is in the interests of Australia as a humane and generous society to
grant this person a tourist visa."
That’s Peter Dutton, then
immigration minister, in the official document by which he intervened to
allow an au pair to enter the country.
Illustration: Andrew Dyson
And
what an incredible sentence it is! A humanitarian act. An individual
with ongoing needs. A humane and generous society. So … a tourist visa?
What humanitarian situation serious enough to require intervention from
the immigration minister himself can be relieved by a spot of tourism?
The
whole thing is absurd. Not truly scandalous, given Dutton acted within
his legal power and that politicians doing favours for people is hardly
unprecedented. But absurd and important for precisely that reason. This
episode reveals just how hypocritical and disingenuous our approach on
immigration in this country really is.
The story here isn’t that
Dutton did a favour for a mate (or a mate’s mate, or a Liberal Party
donor). It’s that in this tiny episode, Dutton revealed himself to be
happy to violate the very principles on which he has based his entire
position on immigration. Dutton's political trade is based squarely on
being a tough, uncompromising applier of rules; a kind of maniacal
preserver of order. He will not be bowed or be swayed except in the most
extreme cases, and even then, probably not.
Sob
stories tend to find their tears turned to ice upon making contact with
him. You could be a suicidal 10-year-old kid on Nauru who desperately
needed psychiatric care. Dutton would refuse to let you come to
Australia to access it. Indeed, he’d spend plenty of taxpayer dollars
fighting in court to stop it, until finally a judge ordered him to
relent. You could even be an Aussie Digger, desperate to get an Afghan
man who acted as your interpreter into Australia as a refugee because
his life is now in danger after having helped Australian troops. Dutton
won’t even meet you to talk about it.
Au pair case 'a bit rough': Dutton
The
Home Affairs Minister has told 2GB he intervened in the case of a
French au pair being deported because it was a 'common sense' decision.
In
a perverse way, it’s the very heartlessness of it that’s the appeal.
Dutton believes in the law. He believes in policing it harshly. It’s not
humanitarian causes that move him. It’s people who don’t obey and
respect our rules.
Peter Dutton
Peter Dutton intervenes in au pair visa case connected to AFL boss Gil McLachlan
That’s
why the key aspect of the au pair saga is the bit that’s receiving the
least attention. Namely that Dutton has personally waved through someone
who has broken our laws and was about to do so again. Moreover, he was
told he was doing this. But he chose to ignore the advice of his own
department. Don’t take my word for it. Here are the department’s: “There
are clear indications that [name redacted] is intending to work in
Australia and thus, the grant of a visitor visa is of high risk." What
were these indications that she was about to work illegally under a
tourist visa? “The ABF [Border Force] also notes that [name redacted]
has been counselled previously with respect to work restrictions, when
suspicions with respect to her intentions were aroused on her previous
arrival. On 31OCT 2015 she also advised ABF officers of her intention to
work during her intended stay in Australia on this occasion."
So, this au pair had clearly been flagged before. A source familiar with the case told my colleagues at The Project
she had been warned over her previous tourist visa that she shouldn’t
do paid work on that visa, and that, if she did, she would be banned
from Australia for three years. That’s why she was detained when she
tried to enter the country a few months later.
Peter Dutton
Leaked emails show Peter Dutton acted against advice in saving au pair from deportation
The
source says the au pair simply told the Border Force about the
arrangement: accommodation in exchange for babysitting, cooking and
riding the family horses. The officers also found information on her
devices confirming this, and making them strongly suspicious she was
going to be paid money as well.
Separately,
Dutton was told by email that there was detail "which does not support
the minister intervening". Dutton nonetheless intervened. His insistence
that all this is unremarkable because he has intervened in hundreds of
immigration cases simply sidesteps the remarkable features of this case.
It
ignores that it is actually very rare for a minister to intervene for
the sake of a tourism visa. It ignores that this rare intervention was
made for someone who had already flouted the law. And it ignores that it
was for someone apparently determined to do so again. A source close to
the Immigration Department told us it is utterly humiliating for staff
to be put in the situation of allowing people who have broken the law
back into the country. I’d imagine that’s especially true for staff
working under someone like Dutton, who has them primed to regard that as
the highest sin.
Peter Dutton: Chose to ignore the advice of his own department.
Photo: Alex EllinghausenI
don’t know the story of this woman. Maybe she really does have unique
humanitarian circumstances that would melt my heart. After all, I have
nothing against her. But is this what our humanitarian cases look like?
Is the bar really set so that the Iranian asylum seeker nearing death
who has broken no laws cannot even be allowed into the country to access
medical treatment, but a French woman simply must be allowed to be an
au pair if we are to be a “humane and generous society"?
Is there
some principle being applied consistently that accounts for both cases?
Or can we now admit that this posturing of law and order, of national
sovereignty, of the solemn duty to banish “unlawful arrivals" is just so
much bullshit, conveniently dropped for the right kind of people?
I’m
not saying this is the scandal of the decade. I suspect this will all
soon pass without much cost to Dutton and that’s probably fair enough.
But if it passes without a clear verdict of hypocrisy, not just on
Dutton but on the way we frame our public discussion of immigration, it
will only be because we’ve long since abandoned any approach to the
subject that has anything to do with principles.
Waleed Aly is a Fairfax columnist and a presenter on The Project.
Graham says when they first got together, they'd bonded over the fact they had both "spent time in the darker parts of our minds". (Supplied)
