Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
(Note from Dev. This is one of the first pieces I ever posted from my masterclasses September 2012. It got over 30,000 hits)
At 8:30am this morning I sat down with Catherine Pham the acting manager of The Melbourne Clinic “Outreach Program” in Richmond.
Struggling to meet her fixed gaze, I nod robotically while she gives me her diagnosis:
“It seems to me that the future is looking fairly bleak to you right now Alex. From the little time I’ve known you it’s become apparent that there are many different pieces to your personality that you’re not quite sure how to put together…but I think you already know this.”
I keep nodding. I already know this.
“There’s a child in you that’s hiding away scared, that is afraid to fail. That craves nurture, care and shelter. But the adult Alex is ready to throw caution to the wind and start working towards your goals as a journalist. There’s a part of you who’s is trying to take care of everyone who is around you and a bigger part of you who knows you’re barely taking care of yourself. I imagine it feels a little bit shitty Alex, trying to put all these pieces together?”
I don’t answer for a few moments. Not usually one who’s short on words I do my best to decide and to vocalise how ‘this feels…’
“Yeah,” I begin, faltering. I clear my throat and start again.
“It just feels fucking frightening…” I hear myself say.
The Melbourne Clinic runs a program called “Outreach” which has been set up for patients who have recently been discharged from an in-patient facility. The idea is that inside the safe and secure compounds of the Melbourne Clinic, the “mentally ill,” (or the old, the drug and alcohol dependent or disordered) individual is able to seek daily one-on-one care from a dedicated team of psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers and in my case, nutritionists.
When one has completed their forty day stay, walking through those front doors feels like diving deep into a dark and wondrous unknown.
This is where Outreach steps in. “The Outreach program provides support and assistance at the recommendation of your treating doctor,” says the brochure I’m gripping in my shaking hand.
This morning my fractured and fragmented self is sitting in front of Catherine Phem. I am hunched over and curled into myself like a scared infant, being “assessed”.
It feels a little bit like a psych session and a little bit like speed dating. Catherine is helping me find my best suited “Outreach Support Worker.” Another attachment to my expanding support network which assists to shift things from “fucking frightening” to “a little bit shitty”.
Catherine has thick square glasses and a mop of dark hair that she periodically runs her hand through. She is sitting facing me, knees crossed, a Chanel scarf wrapped nonchalant around her neck. Her fixed stare, professional attire and thoughtful insight stop my mind wondering too far away and my eyes from resting on the floor.
“I imagine it’s very frightening Alex…not only are you trying to figure yourself out, but you’re searching for an outlet for all those emotions the eating disorder once provided. Our aim is to help you direct those emotions in a more positive and fulfilling way.
But you know these new ways are not going to provide the instant gratification that your old coping mechanisms once did. Drug use, alcohol abuse, binging, purging, risk taking and breaking the law are a great way to feel whole for a little while. But I’m guessing you were feeling pretty empty the day you decided to self-admit…Am I right?”
“I still feel empty,” I reply.
“I feel hollow and numb and scared.”
But even this feels better than how it felt fifty two days ago when I first dragged my tired, skinny self through to reception at the Melbourne Clinic.
“What scares you the most Alex?” Catherine gently inquires.
I don’t have to think too hard about this one…
“Fucking it all up again.” I reply straight away.
I think back to two days before when I sat with my hands cuffed behind me, sobbing and shaking in the back of a divvy van. On my way to the Fitzroy police station to be punished again for acting out on those “quick gratification” behaviours.
“At least you didn’t end up binging that day.” Had been the retort from my psychiatrist after I’d finished fessing up in my session the following evening.
“Granted, you did ride your bike half way across Melbourne, minimize on your meal plan and get done for shop theft, but at least there’s still been no purging.”
52 days.
“You should congratulate yourself for that.”
Back in the room with Catherine I find some words to put to these fears.
“I just feel like I’m incredibly vulnerable right now. I feel like there’s not much pushing me towards what seems like an invisible finish line and I feel like one more false move and I’ll spiral completely out of control again.”
Catherine nods encouragingly. She has seen hundreds like me before. All or nothing, black and white thinkers who succeed, succeed and succeed until one too many bumps in the road leads to complete derailment.
I nearly got there under the gentle eye of Constable Mitchells as I cowered in the corner of the Fitzroy interview room on Tuesday night. But following the questioning, the finger printing and the anxiety evoked shaking fits I dome how got back up on my bike…quite literally.
At 7pm while I was supposed to be attending my first “post hospitalisation-binge-eating-information-evening” I was tearily making my way through the dark, back to the surrogate family who have opened their home to me for a short while.
Trying to out ride the shame, guilt and fear my latest “fuck up” had conjured I was “car doored” on the way home.
The unseeing driver had nearly thrown me off my bike and I’d just kept riding.
“Fuck you!” I screamed either at him or to myself.
You’re a fucking disgrace, the voice in my head yells back. “Why must you keep on making it so much harder than it has to be?”
But at least I hadn’t purged that day.
“I’ve sat in on a few of your ward rounds Alex and I know the demi-circle of professionals sitting around telling you what to do with yourself can be an intimidating environment. But I don’t think you’re one who is very easily intimidated. That’s why I’m thinking of assigning Ainslee as you’re “Outreach worker”. She’s going to be able to give you the push that I think you want.”
I’m nodding again.
“Just so I have something to pass on to Ainslee, can you tell me some things you like to do?”
“Besides eating, getting high and exercising?” I mumble, using that familiar defence of sarcasm to deflect from what I’m really thinking. Which is that I haven’t had time to enjoy too much else for the past few years…
“Ummm reading, writing, climbing, feeding my brain, I dunno, I like sitting in cafes for long periods of time and I like taking trips away from myself somewhere in the outdoors.”
“That’s a good start,” says Catherine. “Now I’m aware that you’ve got a writing class to attend so I won’t take up much more of your time. We just have to do a risk assessment which I’m sure you’ve done before.”
I have.
Catherine contrives from my “yes” “no” “yes” “no” answers to her (insert dangerous behaviour) questions that I’m not about to do myself or anyone else any harm and she stands up to open the door.
“You’ll be hearing from Ainslee in the next few days,” she says signalling it’s time to go.
I return her smile and make my way back outside the safe walls of the Clinic.
Outside in the sunshine, “Adult Alex” slings her back pack over her shoulder, fastens her helmet to her head and sets off to meet another Catherine.
“Today I’m doing something productive,” I almost smile.
This is how it feels to be only just ok.
Here is Alex’s email. She’d love your feedback alwix@hotmail.com
Go Back
When I was younger, maybe 21 or so, I had this brilliant blue bike. It was such a fabulous bike. Cost me only £10 and I bought it from a dope dealer down by Camden Lock. The wheels were slightly out of alignment and the brakes squealed whenever I squeezed them. But it only took a couple of hours of labour and three bottles of stout shared between me and my flatmate to mend it, and then that bike was mine.
