Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

The smell was as always, that aroma of sunscreen and fly repellent.  The sounds were the same, tea trees bending and creaking in the sea breeze and the sharp snapping sound they made as they broke under foot.  Slow trekking along a narrow, shady and sandy trail, hearing the sound of fellow trekkers wearing their thongs and the smack as they hit the soles of their feet.

I can hear the occasional gull and the odd crashing sound of a wave in the distance and can sense the anticipation of fun as I see a boy getting closer to the clearing.  He does not know that he is being watched and I am enjoying my moment of quiet study, wondering what might be going through his mind, as he gets closer to the beach.

We find ourselves on an outcrop of reeds and sand and are presented with the majesty of a beach, late in the morning.  The sun’s warmth is perfect and the sand is so white and soft and tickles between the toes.

We stop and gather together to select our spot from our small cliffy outlook and the tide is out.  Gulls are swooping through the surf, desperately trying to catch a fish in the shallows while there are not many people in the water.  The darkened sand has only a few strands of seaweed and we decide on our place.

Slowly and carefully treading down the small descent we pace heavily through the dry, soft white sand as our feet sink deeply.  That beautiful calming rhythm of the waves becomes all too clear and soothing to hear, feeling like a gentle massage for the mind and the soul.

We find our place in the sand that thankfully is not too hot and we lie down on our towels and sink toes further into the sand in the hope of drifting away.

There is a plead and a hand out stretched and a calling for company at the shore.  No one’s steps are in line and the footprints are ramshackle as I look along the wet sand.  Small prints from feet accompanied with large.  Large footprints of those well travelled, guiding and taking control and showing the way, while the small footprints are mismatched and a mess.  Twisted steps that show excitement, wonder and uncertainty as they get closer to the water.  You can sense how tightly the hand grip must be of that precious young child, clutching to their elder as they get closer to the roar of the sea.

The crashing of the waves and the sea becomes more and more demanding, beckoning all new comers with impatience and rumbling, toppling on top of itself to gain attention.

It was not so much a fear that held the little boy back, but more an inquisitiveness.  He stood as tall as he could on his tip toes to see out further, stretching his neck in an attempt to see over the crashing waves and spotted a small group of men on surf boards, lying on their stomachs, drifting up and down with the swell of the sea.  He wished he could be there.  He dreamt of the courage to fight the anger of the white foam and to be there with them, they looked to be at peace.

Out in that isolated place, it was a time to be at peace.  As much as the squeals of the children on the shore could be heard, it was a world away and a place that was not a concern for them.  Here, there were no rules, there were no responsibilities, there were no requirements, the only requirement that they had to follow, was watch the swell and obey the sea.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

My fear of flying has come on with a vengeance and I am scared that I will never be able to get on a plane again. It consumes my thoughts almost daily.

I am trying to have a goal of flying somewhere this year.  Last year I went to see Mr Professional who deals in fear of flying and even though I found it to be extremely useful, I still couldn’t get up in the freakin air.

Looking back on my last session now, I can find some humour in it, though at the time it was terrifying and nerve racking. Maybe I could turn my last experience into a funny story to share with people and be able to laugh at myself but I would still prefer to be able to tell people that I was successful in getting on that plane……Oh wait, I DID get on that plane.  Mr Professional and I decided that the shortest flight I could do would be 45 minutes to Launceston and given the fact that it was over water, I would have to get back as well.

It was a stormy and windy day and the wind gusts blew us into the plane, feeling panic stricken I made my way to my seat, sat down and started plotting my escape! Mr Professional said I can do this, but I decided no I can’t do this, got out of my seat and went up to the cabin manager just before the doors were closing.

She tried everything to get me to stay on board but I had to bail. Probably one of the more humiliating moments of my life and once off the plane, my panic is turning into anger, sadness and just being down right pissed off with myself thinking what a bloody loser I am.

Not only had I let myself down, I feel I  let my family down who were all waiting for a phone call to see how I went, and there was  Mr Professional who was probably thinking, well this is a hard nut to crack. I had also just blown 2 plane tickets and a extended session for Mr Professional.

Where to from here, keep on trying and keep on trying until I succeed, have faith  that I WILL get to the South Island of New Zealand.  Remember that the brain can change the way it thinks with some hard work and dedication.

I can go through the black door, the longer the journey the sweeter the reward.  STAY TUNED

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Once upon a time, in the great Land of Oz, where the kangaroos and sometimes the people roam wild in the high paddocks, there was a benevolent and noble Queen. She was admired throughout the land; or at least throughout most of the ALP.

It was 2010. All the blokes and sheilas in the kingdom were free and prosperous. They were the lucky country, in part due to a treasure trove of rocks and minerals; a ravenous and increasingly wealthy neighbour; and the economic savvy to be the only country in the developed world that avoided a recession in the global financial crisis. Indeed, World Leaders had recognised the small kingdom as perhaps having “cracked globalisation’s secret code for prosperity.” *

Despite this prosperity, there was a palpable malaise that permeated the land. Some called it Affluenza. Others called it mere greed. Others called it a dislike for gingers. Or women.

Crisis was the word on everyone’s lips: Asian Financial Crisis, Subprime Mortgage Crisis, Global Financial Crisis. And soon the happy Australians became jealous of their friends around the world. Those places get all the attention from the important people, from the World Bank and the IMF to the Twitterati and Media. A latent angst began to develop amongst the population.

There was another group in the land who called themselves the Coalition. They had a voracious appetite for power, as is the won’t of political parties. They were not content to wait at least eight years for their turn in office, as had been the recent political convention in the kingdom.

Soon enough a clever group of political rabble-rousers from the Coalition began to scheme for power, led by the great Father Abbott. One day they met together and Father Abbott, supported by Sir Hockey, the Feminist, told their team “we haven’t had much to offer the Australian people for quite some time. They will not provide us with their vote (the great arbitrator of power) unless we can give offer up something that they desire. Let us consider what may be the subconscious desire within the people: what can we offer beyond unprecedented prosperity and social harmony?”

Not long after, Father Abbott and Sir Hockey were cheering along Frances Abbott the belle of the netball tournament, when the Eureka-moment hit: the people need a crisis! We all know crises bring people together. We unite against common foes. ‘Tis easier to speak to next-door neighbours once the dividing fence have been torn down by a tornado or the tides of the tsunami carry one’s kitchen table into their yard. Subjects will at least have something to speak of at the water cooler beyond the Footy and Miley Cyrus’s latest self-made scandal.

Abbott is a stellar sociologist.

He went back to the Coalition. “We must present the Citizens of Oz with a special Made-in-Australia crisis. We shall call it Fiscal Crisis” announced Abbott. “Hear, hear, wise leader” cried the team. “If the people remain unhappy in prosperity we shall serve them fear.”

From that day forward Father Abbott travelled throughout the land, visiting their town halls and teleporting into their living rooms, proclaiming his vision of Fiscal Crisis.

“But our great kingdom is perhaps the most prosperous in all the world!” the Ginger-Haired Queen cried. “Fiscal crisis means high debt! Our net debt-to-GDP ratio is less than 12%: dramatically lower than Canada’s 34%, Germany’s 57% and pennies compared to almost 88% in the United States. We have a triple-A credit rating and foreigners are flocking to our country to bring us their tribute of FDI!”

Father Abbot and Sir Hockey continued their incantation “We have a Fiscal Crisis! We have a Fiscal Crisis!”

Abbot is not a stellar economist.

The power of their cries, echoed by News Corp., proved too strong for Sir Swan, the Apparatchik, with only his numbers and statistics.

Indeed, the people loved the Coalition’s idea. “Finally we too have our very own crisis! ‘Tis an excellent excuse, among many, to oust the Red-Headed Wench who shames us for her womb that has never known a child and an honorific that has never known the enchanted letter R. We all know that among the Great Global Leaders, if one is not a Mr then one most certainly must be a Mrs.”

Anyway, she is often too busy charming the Chinese or battling Father Abbott in Parliament, that one imagines she has forgotten her loyal subjects.”

And so, on 7 Sept 2013 — with the prodding of the Great King of Doublethink Mr Rupert Murdoch, the Shock Jock media and the Flunkies of News Corp. — the people cast their votes of trust for Father Abbott and his cronies.

For many weeks there was great rejoicing in the land. As the people watched the great Liberal and National parties ride off together into the sunset they “thought, yes we now have our very own crisis. We are finally rid of the ones who would spoil our fun with talk of Climate Change, mining taxes and people with disabilities. We will trust these new leaders to address the great Fiscal Crisis that is proclaimed throughout the land. They will undo the bad policies of the previous leaders, and we will live happily ever after.”

Now, happily in the Lodge, all Father Abbott would need to do is maintain the illusion of Fiscal Crisis. For if anyone were to pull away the curtain and reveal the empty threat, he would face the wrath of the people.

*George Megalogenis, The Australian Moment

Stay tuned for

A FISCAL CRISIS FAIRY TALE PART 2: BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Twitter @notrocketscience

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

Is this the world we really want to live in? Supermarkets packed full of chemical and preservative laced cardboard food, mining waste being dumped and destroying the beautiful barrier reef, and no disclosure by the authorities of the health ramifications and environmental impact of the pesticides being used to grow our fruit and vegetables.

Sustainable and environmental food practices are vital to keep us alive. And it is our responsibility to be aware that our choices have ethical consequences, be it for our children, the vegetables and animals we eat, the future, or plain and simply you and I.

Despite what the politicians try to convince us of, we don’t own the earth. We are just visitors here, and if we respect the earth it will repay us with all that we desire, and what we need to live a blessed life.  I don’t proclaim to have all the answers. I don’t know what will change people’s attitudes. I don’t know how to change the world. But all I do know is when I touch and nourish the earth I feel better.  Walking into my garden on a summer’s evening, reaching down to pick a lettuce I’ve grown, and brushing off the dirt is a simple connection to something real, something natural, and something else, maybe even spiritual. Now, I’m not trying to get all down and dirty in some hippy shit . It is spiritual, but in an empowering way, coming from an awareness of how our food decisions impact our world, our life and our heart. Life should be about the greatest things in life. Eating and preparing great food for friends and family is a simple celebration of life everyday. I suppose I hope these ideas can open your heart to a greater sense of empowerment to change your world.  Let’s get excited through the love of food, knowing we are caring for us and respecting the planet in our little way. We are blessed. Sometimes we just need to stop, breathe and realise what we’re doing.

The fact is the ethical food choices we make help define us. It’s very easy to hide behind what we’ve been told to think, eat and accept without questioning. But we are not faceless robots – yet – and there are direct consequences to what we do. We can change ourselves by making a decision, that might mean leas chemicals, less inhimane treatment, or less pollution. We can choose, it’s not the outside influences choice.  The multinational companies are even trying to control the seeds we need to grow our own food. Food equals life,  and if you control the food, you control the man. Unfortunately, these are not extremist or paranoid ideas,  governments are making these decisions on your behalf. We have somehow been conditioned to not question it. What passes for food now is often more chemistry and plastic packaging then something that grew. How much of what we eat is actually real food? Straight from the earth to your mouth? Where have we gone wrong? Sharks are being culled, mining waste is being dumped into the barrier reef, our farming land is being out at risk by gas exploration by fracking, shelf-stable food is laden with chemicals, our clothes are covered in chemicals to keep them looking good, our oceans are being overexploited,  animals kept for slaughter in horrendous cruel conditions, all for money that none of us will ever see. And do the means justify the end anyway? The reasons just don’t cut it. Beyond all of ethical food choices,  simplicity and eating vegetables with little or no processing or packaging equals less chemicals in our bodies.

I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying knowledge is power, and so let’s start asking some questions. Why are so many chemicals being used? Why are they necessary? Life is simple, let us make the decisions.

Blog: Kitchengardenlove.com

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

It had been a long time since I had looked forward to coming home after work. I was very good at finding excuses for my tardiness – deadlines, drinks, shopping. Anything to delay the inevitable awkwardness that waited for me; the silences, the resentment, the faking sleep – anything to delay the awful cliché I found myself living. I was suffocating in a cloud of what had recently been diagnosed with a proper and serious name, but actually just felt like trying to drive through the rain with no wipers, always.  But today, Wednesday, I rushed home. 

We met her three days earlier at the RSPCA adoption centre. Quiet and sleepy, she lay in the corner of the large, cold cage. I picked her up and as she rested her little head on my shoulder, I felt that feeling some people call home.  We arranged to pick her up after the mandatory neutering. So that night, Wednesday, I rushed home to the newest member of our family. 

Groggy and pained from the surgery, and sneezing blood from the cold she picked up, Freya (our Norse goddess) slept on my head. She literally slept on my head, all night long. Wrapped around like a furry turban, she purred loudly in my ear. I woke often that night from what sounded like a tiny helicopter, and every night after that for almost a year. Each time Freya readjusted herself (always on my head) or changed the tone of her helicopter purring, I would awake, smiling. She purred so fucking loudly, but always, I’d smile, in the dark night, in my warm bed.

She brought smiling back into our home. Once again we laughed together. Slowly, as we cuddled Freya, we cuddled each other more too. Every morning we’d have Family Cuddle Time ™, the three of us held tightly in a bubble of tenderness – Freya meowing protests in my arms while he squeezed us both with just the right amount of tight. 

Slowly, there was no more pretending to be asleep. Instead, moans interrupted with bursts of giggles as we felt her hot breath on our naked thighs. 

I rushed home again, always. To my happy home, so filled with love and laughter. The three of us – a perfectly happy family.

I rushed home that night, too, late after a class, and found my beautiful Norse goddess unmoving on the floor. We sobbed all night and the next morning as the vet told us it was most likely a brain aneurism. We held each other tightly, crying together, in love and heartbroken, all at fucking once.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

My favorite first line from a book was “I had a farm in Africa, in the foot of the Ngong Hills.” The film of “Out of Africa” just blew me away. The ancient flat topped acacia trees, golden plains, herds of antelope, giraffe and lions. In one scene they fly over a lake covered in pink flamingos.

Now I have a farm in Australia, a very small farm on a steep block in the Dandenong Ranges. The back of the house has tall glass windows looking out into the gum trees.

Some of the trees are hundreds of years old and have deep hollows. In the valley there are over 80 hollows that possums, gliders and birds use for nesting. One night we found a baby sugar glider came in the bathroom, it’s tail curled around it’s back like a silky soft plume. There are birds here every day. Sometimes yellow-tailed black cockatoos fly over the garden. They cry out to each other as they fly and their wings make long slow strokes through the air.

This valley is densely vegetated, surrounded by steep slopes on both sides. So why choose to stay in a place surrounded by forest, a forest full of eucalyptus oil that burns with the heat of a nuclear explosion? Why stay in a place where the winter storms roll in, the trees fall, the power goes off and the rainfall is twice that of Melbourne?

Water, beautiful water, the consistent, reliable rain. That’s why we have so many tree farms and vineyards up here. There are creeks and streams in all the valleys and moss grows on the rock wall outside my kitchen. While I cook I can look out into the tree ferns with their massive Gondwanaland fronds. Smaller ferns spring up on their trunks and yellow robins fly around pecking insects in the mulch.

On hot summer nights I can open the door of my bedroom. The night air is scented with eucalyptus and mint bush. There is a hint of moisture from the creek down the hill. I grow big angel-trumpet bushes in pots on the deck. At night they smell rich and sweet. In their native environment in Central America they must be pollinated by moths.

Our fire plan is simple. We will leave and take our dogs and our photos to the big dam by the winery. There are shady trees by a quiet swimming spot and somewhere to set up some banana lounges. The hills around the dam are planted with kiwi fruit and grape vines, chestnuts and raspberries.

What happens to the elderly when it’s over 45 degrees? The authorities tell them to stay inside and keep the air conditioning on. Not everyone can afford air conditioning. It’s expensive to buy and to have fitted and it’s bloody expensive to run. Medical advice for those with chronic conditions is for them to stay cool, turn on the air con and drink plenty of water.

But these are the people with low incomes, often just the tiny invalid pension. Poor housing, thin walls, few shady trees, less insulation. These are the people who die in the heat waves. We had 4 days over 45 degrees this summer. Four days in a row where the heat was unrelenting. As the ambulance service struggled the triage system failed us. An old woman waited over 2 hours for an ambulance, lost consciousness and died. Fifty children were locked in cars and ambulances had to get to them. People living in poverty, people stressed as they try to get to work or shop in the heat become angry and forgetful.

Out in the Wimmera and the Mallee where the temperatures get much higher the ground bakes and cracks. The grass that grew long in winter turns gold. People on hard scrabble farms hang on year after year. In the Grampians a fire broke out that sent a huge plume of hot air up into the atmosphere that generated it’s own weather. Struggling to make sure that people in Halls Gap would survive, the police evacuated the whole town.

So when the heat waves become more frequent, when the climate refugees begin to leave their sinking Pacific islands how will we respond? Will we offer them housing, schooling for their children. Employment and a safe home? Or will we continue to turn back the boats?

Will we redesign our cities so that people have access to good housing? We can’t all afford to escape to the bush.

One climate expert recommended that everyone buy a farm and buy a gun to defend their orchards and food crops from marauders. Will the the vast majority become the marauders, the hungry and homeless or will we rise up together to stop climate change?

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

I feel cold thinking about New York especially after seeing Lou’s photos on Instagram yesterday. Streets deep with white snow. Cars become Igloos and bicycles are held captive against lamp posts. I miss America. Mum asked me what I’d do if I won the lottery. I told her I’d buy a ticket to the USA and make my way straight back to Austin, Texas. I’d hire a car and collect Paul and together we’d drive to New Orleans. He always said that I should return and together we could take a road trip. Before I left Austin he gave me a weathered copy of The Witching Hour and said that one day he’d take me to the very house described in the Anne Rice story. I really miss the crazy heat of summer in the South. Plants come to life and seem to swallow the city whole. It is so different to the heat of an Australian summer. The grass isn’t green here anymore. The land is brown and grey and yellow and sunburnt. Everything is crisp and brittle and in need of a good long drink. Not like the overgrown grass and vines that swallow the houses and streets of Austin. The urban landscape is submissive there. The homes and power lines shrink beneath the swollen greenery of their summer months. The dry heat of this summer will soon be over and another winter will settle in. December, January and February always seem frantic and aggressive and the winter always takes its time, holding everyone hostage.

Today the sun is out and the sky is blue and cloudless, but the air is still cool. Melbourne is such a tease. It’s funny that Martin messaged me the other day and now I sit here in the bistro above his old terrace on Rathdowne Street. I miss him. He said he misses me too in his message. He was great company, relaxed and calm and very easygoing for an American. His house was crumbling but comfortable in that Carlton kind of way. I loved the tall ceilings in his room and the large window, always open and looking out to the courtyard. His bed sat in the corner wedged between the thick concrete walls and the smell of incense always lingered. We’d lie on the mattress without clothes, catching our breath whilst chatting, music always humming in the background. Sometimes his housemate would be home, but he was never a bother, quietly shifting from room to room, the floor in the hallway creaking beneath his steps. I never spoke with him much but I recall his dreadlocks and his wiry frame and his German accent. I’d marvel at Martin and his gentle outlook on life. He always wore a smile and spoke inquisitively, never judgemental. He worked in a cafe adjacent to his house and lived simply. An uncluttered existence. The transient life of someone just passing through. I’d ask Martin to tell me about life in Kentucky and he’d hint at tales of growing up in the States. He lives  in New York now and I guess he’s dealing with that long icy winter. He says he’s happy but that he often misses Melbourne. I am also happy and I also miss Melbourne, but I always feel a warm welcome when I return.

http://fromtownsendwithlove.blogspot.com.au

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer 

“Can you take the dog for a walk?  It wouldn’t fucking kill you?”  I laughed facetiously as I rushed out the door.

It was a perfectly, ordinary day.  So ordinary that none of us remembered what he was wearing.

I got a call from an unknown number…the usual dilemma…do you answer?  An unfamiliar voice asked if I had a small, white dog.  I cautiously admitted to it.  The voice told me that the ‘gentleman’ who had been walking the dog had collapsed.  He was wondering what to do with the dog.  I couldn’t think.  The dog wasn’t perfect.  I wondered if he had sat down loyally or had ran around like an idiot. By the end of the conversation I knew that they were attempting to revive my husband and that he would be taken to hospital.

My son was shopping in a store nearby, I rushed to find him.  He had just found the perfect pair of shorts. I had to decide whether we should spend two minutes buying the shorts or whether that time was more urgently required.  It was a ninety minute drive home.  We bought the shorts.

I had to give my daughter some tough choices.  I interrupted her day.  She had taken the opportunity to ride her bike to a friend’s house.  She had a roast chicken and a bottle of cider in the basket.  She was celebrating perfect spring weather and the beginning of the school holidays.  Your Dad has collapsed.  It doesn’t sound good.  They’re taking him to hospital.  You can wait for us or go to the hospital.  If you go, you might see him recover.  You might get to say good-bye.  It might be too late.  My brave girl went to the hospital.

I love to read.  There always seems to be a miracle amongst the devastation.  I called my best friend.  I asked her if she could meet my girl at the hospital.  She was already there.  She was working.  She would look after her.  I don’t believe my luck.  It is a convenient plot line that I thought only happens in fiction.

I thought I was an optimistic person but I warn my son that the situation is ‘not good.’  He knows I am the queen of understatement and reads my look.  As we drive along the highway my son voices his grief.  If he’d been better behaved, would it have been different?

No I state firmly.

It’s not fair he mutters miserably.  It’s not fucking fair.

You’re right.  Open the window and scream it.

IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR.

Does the universe hear if your sentiments are blown away from a car travelling at a hundred?

He becomes briefly hopeful.  We have a dear friend who was revived under remarkable circumstances only six months prior.

My phone rings.  My son answers.  It is my daughter.  I pull over.  I take the phone.  Mum, I’m in the emergency department.  I’ve waited an hour.  Dad’s not here.  They don’t know anything about it.  I think they’ve made a mistake.

Something tells me he is not going to the hospital because there is nothing a hospital can do for him.  I say I’ll make a call.  The only person I can call is the unknown number.  I tell him my daughter is at the hospital.  I tell him the hospital have not been alerted.  There is a pause.

Haven’t the police contacted you?  They told me not to say anything.  You seem calm.  They could not revive your husband.  We tried everything until the ambulance arrived.  They tried everything.

I thanked him.

I called my friend.  Bring Freya home.  Neil won’t be coming to the hospital.  She understood.  We arrived home at the same time.  Another literary moment.

Someone I had never met told me my husband was dead.  I called the police, the ambulance and the hospital.  No one knew anything.  Even so, I could not allow myself to think it was a mistake.  We waited for the police.  It took too long, an inexplicably long time.  They came.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

There have been very few moments of clarity during the three years in which I have had PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). Mostly, revelations made on my own or with my therapist will arrive only to be immediately marred by pasts and futures, failures and triumphs, pain and hope, thoughts and feelings. But there has been one revelation that has stayed remarkably and unwaveringly clear: I am terrified of getting better.

I have spent ten years – over half my life – either being traumatised or recovering from it.  Most of my formative moments have been dampened by the strange, tarry soup that is my mind, which too often shares breath with some aspect of PTSD.

My faltering brain makes itself known in many ways. First, you have your daily run-of-the-mill PTSD stuff: nightmares, flashbacks, panic attacks, hyper vigilance, lack of concentration, irrational fears, etc. Then you have the funny-in-hindsight incarnations: everything suddenly going blurry because your brain has decided that the best thing to do is to start shutting down; crying hysterically in a supermarket because you can’t find the lentils; failing to recognise your own hands; forgetting how to turn taps on; battling sudden urges to drive your car into a tree so that everything will be dark and quiet for a minute.

Small things are celebrated as though you just won the Nobel Prize: you manage to have a shower without lying down in the bottom of it; you walk two hundred metres alone down the street without thinking everyone will kill you; you don’t have to clip your fingernails painfully short because you’re pretty sure that this week you won’t scratch yourself until you bleed.

Part of me loves this abnormality. Some days I ache for something to go wrong, because those moments prove to me that I am not okay. It validates me. It makes my past mean something important. Every flashback, every nightmare is proof that I have lived through something horrible. I have suffered and I am in pain. The scratches I give myself are not for other people to see; they are for me. Each brown scar left on my skin reminds me that this is real. “You are suffering,” they seem to whisper. “And it’s okay that you are. You can prove it to anyone who doubts you.”

And so, I stand between two cliffs, balancing on a huge beam: sore, exhausted, bored, terrified, immensely proud of myself for getting this far without falling off. I look down and see the ravine into which I almost plummeted. It is filled with a strange fog, grey and dense and unforgiving. I don’t want to fall in. I can’t fall in; I’ve come so far. I look behind me. Horrific beasts stare greedily at me, the stuff of children’s books – all sharp teeth and multiple eyes – wishing me to fall, lulling me back to them, hoping I’ll die. I don’t want to turn around. I can’t; I’ve come so far.

And so, it would seem, the only thing left to do is to walk towards the other side. But still I falter. Who will I be when I get there? Will I still be me with solid ground beneath me instead of fog, with the creatures behind me, out of sight? Who will be there, waiting for me when I arrive? What will happen to me without the daily reminders of the pain that has permanently shaped who I am? It feels like forgetting your mother’s scent, like forgetting the name of your childhood toy.

PTSD is strangely safe: I know it well. I know how it works and what to do and who I am in its orbit. I have a set of rules, a set of consequences, a set of excuses that lets me say “no” to risk and “yes” to comfort zones. I have become so good at managing it that it feels like I could live like this forever. It means that I am extraordinary: look at me, look at what I can do in spite of my suffering, in spite of my pain. I don’t have to achieve anything great just yet. Getting through each day without dying is triumph enough.

I am terrified that when I am well, when I am healthy, when things are fixed, I won’t be extraordinary, I’ll just be normal. I’m terrified of giving up the fight for a messy, vivid, wonderful life; of settling, of slithering mindlessly into health and the everyday, of getting to the other side only to find out that I am not a remarkable young woman who deals with adversity, but an unremarkable nobody who blends into the crowd.

But I can’t stay here teetering in the middle of the beam for much longer. I am getting too tired, too frustrated, too bored to stand here anymore. I have to make a choice. If I don’t start moving I will fall.

And so, I take a step towards the other side.