Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

On 8 January 2013, the CAT team come to my house for the first time. After I reported daily panic attacks and suicidal ideation to my new GP, he has pulled out all the stops. I am self-conscious. Surely I’m not that bad, am I? But he points out that’s what the system is there for. So I think ‘fuck it, I want help’ and accept it. 

I am 35 years old, and outwardly my life looks pretty good. Engaged to be married to my long-term boyfriend, we had planned to buy a house and have kids together. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Isn’t that what the whole point of life is? More and more, I seem to be surrounded by people whose only goals in life are these things.

The only problem is that deep down, I don’t really want to do any of that, and lately my body has been rebelling. I’ve been waking at 5am flooded with fear and desperately wishing there was a ‘way out’. Why do these seemingly normal actions feel like a coffin lid shutting?

For two weeks, the CAT team’s visits and phone calls are the only thing that get me out of bed. I write daily ‘to do’ lists that consists of ‘eat breakfast’, ‘shower’, ‘eat lunch’ and ‘eat dinner’. These actions feel surprisingly hard to achieve some days, but each day I do a little more.

My doctor has started me back on antidepressants, after 12 months spent detoxing from them in the hope of having a child without medication. My adrenalin-filled body reacts violently to the new medication, and I suffer nausea, physical aches and mental confusion, but after six weeks the fog clears.

I write a list – what would I really do if I wasn’t so scared? Top of the list is the one thing I’m most scared to do: ‘Come out as bi and (potentially) date a girl’.

However, at first the guilt eats into me like acid. My boyfriend – fiancé – is a ‘nice guy’. How could I do this to him? And what will my parents and family think? Brought up to view the end of a long-term relationship as the ultimate failure in life, I am torn between two equally fearful options – being the ‘good girl’ and staying, or being authentic to how I feel inside at the risk of losing what feels like everything.

I make a bargain with myself. I can give up on life entirely, but only after I’ve done a few more enjoyable things – I list the books, tv series and movies I wish to see. I buy a ticket to a concert in July. ‘Just keep going until then,’ I tell myself. I laugh at the absurdity of bribing myself with pop culture, but it works – day by day, I take more and more baby steps.

Flash forward three months, and I’ve moved out. My ex and I have negotiated to share custody of our dog, and I’m sharing a unit in Thornbury. I have a new office space, and I am managing to work enough to support myself, even if it’s not the most lucrative year for my business.

Three months after that, I’ve made lots of new friends in the lesbian community and have even braved a couple of dates, albeit rather disastrous ones.

Most of the terrible things I thought would happen haven’t come to pass. Rather than terror at being on my own for the first time in years, I feel exhilaration. Rather than sorrow at leaving behind so many beloved objects, I find I enjoy living with fewer physical possessions. Rather than feel anxious about the future, I increasingly feel excited by possibilities. 

In August, I fall in love and start dating my first real girlfriend. It feels both completely natural and totally unexpected. Can this really be happening so quickly?

Those first CAT team horror days seem like something that happened to someone else. It is remarkable how quickly a new normalcy asserts itself.

I no longer need bribes to keep myself going, but I realise I don’t have any other life plans – but it doesn’t matter. Whatever I do now it will be more governed by my own intuition and less by what I think I’m ‘supposed’ to do, for I have lived and felt in my own body how incredibly bad that can be for me.

Doing the thing that scares you most, confronting the thing you’re least willing to confront, can be the most liberating action of all.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

That’s my passion – social justice, and that’s what I usually write about. But, this piece is an exercise fromThe Gunnas Writing Masterclass. It is fictitious, and any connection to the facilitator of the class probably has some Freudian explanation (but little foundation).

Once upon a time there was not much life for women – apart from ornament or trophy. However, the woman in the picture I drew from the lucky dip (I will call her Ella for now) looks like she has a bit of ‘attitude’. The era looks Edwardian, maybe Victorian, and Ella is showing some leg, for heaven’s sake, and her dress is hitched up over her knee by a non-domestic animal from the cat family.

This animal (I assume is male and will call Milos) would no doubt run with feline grace if he had open space and freedom to move. Every day the woman would need to make sure her companion got exercise. Otherwise, he would become stir-crazy and might make a run for it, possibly causing considerable damage to himself and anyone or anything in his path.

One day, Ella decided she was sick of having to wear hats and dresses and meet the expectations of lady-hood. So, she whipped off her clothes, exchanged them for the gardener’s, put Milos on a lead, and they both made a run for it into the hills beyond the homestead.

Because of this escapade, Ella was grounded for two weeks, and Milos was sent to the zoo. And because of that, Ella decided to abandon her inheritance, and remake herself as an artist.

Ella is now a stand-up comedian, writes, teaches, runs classes for people like me, and has changed her name to Dev. She lives happily ever after – with no superannuation fund, no private health insurance, no private schools, a wreck of a car, lots of love, and the minimum of housework.

I think the shift has been a good one.

Thanks, Catherine Deveny for a great day, great material, and great facilitation.

Joan Beckwith writes about social justice on her website and Facebook page as follows:

Website: www.2020socialjustice.com

Facebook page: www.facebook.com/2020socialjustice

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

“I don’t want to wear these pants. I HATE these pants.” She stamps her bare foot on the floor, crosses her arms.

“What’s wrong with them honey?  They used to be your favourite pair. You wore them yesterday.” Feigned patience.

“I hate them. They are too small, and they are itchy. I have ALWAYS hated them. I was faking it.”

“Well, Mummy hasn’t had the time to do any washing. I am afraid this is your only choice.”

When did I start talking about myself in the third person? And using the word Mummy? I throw the pants on the bed, leave the room; defeated.

Kids are like dogs. They can smell fear.

“You’re the WORST mum in the WORLD!”

“Thanks darling.” I secretly wonder if she is on to something.

“And I hate it when you are sarcastic.”

Self-hatred for lack of self-control. Pride in the insightfulness and eloquence of my five year old daughter.

Through gritted teeth;

“Listen. If you don’t get dressed now, we will be late. The bus is leaving for the excursion at 9. We have to go soon.”

Deep breath, soft voice, pleading;

“Please put the pants on darling.”

“NO! NO! NO! I hate THEM, and I hate YOU!”

She is red in the face, shaking. I want to hold her to me, comfort her.  Let her know I understand frustration.

My mobile phone rings. It is the client I am supposed to be meeting in an hour. Against my instincts, I answer the call.

“Good morning. Jane Buchanan speaking”

“Hi Jane, it is Sarah Mayne here. I was just wondering if…”

I can’t hear her over the ear-piercing screech. I go in to the bathroom and lock the door.

“Sorry Sarah. What were you saying?”

She speaks slowly, like you would to a very old person, or a very young child.

“I was just asking if we could make the meeting a bit earlier?”

I do my best to sound normal, but the pounding on the bathroom door is distracting.

“It might be a bit of a push Sarah. I’m so sorry!” I don’t know why I am apologising. I haven’t broken any commitment. Not yet, anyway.

Her voice is cold. “Ok. See you at 9.30”

“Bye.”

“MUUUUUUUUUM!”

Unlock the door, rip it open.

“Couldn’t you see I was in the middle of a call? For Gods sake Amelia, why do you have to make life so fucking hard.”

That will come up in therapy. I wonder whether I should document it for her myself, so she doesn’t have to waste too much time wading through the mystery of her low self-esteem.

She puts her hands on her hips, eye contact, standing firm.

“You shouldn’t say bad words to me. That’s illegal. And it will teach me to say them.”

“You’re right honey. That was very bad of Mum. I’m sorry. Please, can you just get dressed now?”

She complies with every request. She puts the itchy pants on, and the ugly t-shirt that makes her look like a boy. She eats the cereal she hates, because I haven’t managed to go shopping and buy bread. She even lets me put her hair in a ponytail.

She is smug, self-righteous.

The bus is about to pull out of the drive when we finally get there. I have to park in front of it to alert the driver he can’t leave yet. He smiles, opens the door. Waiting doesn’t bother him. The teacher steps down. Her face is stern, voice brash.

“Come on Amelia. We have already waited for five minutes.”

Amelia reacts to the coldness, clings to my leg, buries her face in my hip.

The old bag grabs her, pulls her toward the bus.

“Come on, stop being silly!”

Amelia goes, but as she looks back at me, her eyes are teary, her mouth pursed tightly.

“It’s okay honey. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Just in case you have forgotten, school finishes early today.” She turns around, guides Amelia up the steps. I feel sick. I can’t bring myself to ask what time pick-up is. I will text Lisa.

~~~

Sarah is waiting at the office. She is early, but I apologise for making her wait anyway.

“Sorry, my daughter was being a little difficult this morning.”

“I don’t have kids.” Voice tinged with distaste, barely discernible screwed up nose. She doesn’t elaborate why. I suspect it is a lifestyle choice.

My chances of winning the contract are getting slimmer with each interaction, but I need this job…badly. I make a mental note not to mention children again.

Unlock the door, motion for her to enter.

“Take a seat through there. I will just go and grab the proposal.”

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

“Write for 10 minutes …”

… or sit for ten minutes thinking about writing? I’m halfway through a day with the Gunnas, trying to conquer writer’s block with a ten-minute task designed to help me face the demon Procrastination. Not an easy task, given that I am just one of many self-appointed Queens of Procrastination. But isn’t that why I’m here – to see if I can break that habit? I’m starting to wonder if it’s something even bigger than that.  Is NOT putting pen to paper really just a slack habit, or is something else more sinister standing in the way? Is it in fact more about adjusting my sense of who I am? Am I a genuine writer-in-waiting or really just a Gunna who fancies themselves as something grander than they really are, but lacks the guts to test the water? Like all good gunnas from all walks of life, if I never actually try it, I can always say I want to be a writer and maintain the belief that if I just had the time, the quiet, the place, I would be a good one, or a popular one. Once I actually go there, I face the prospect of realising that perhaps I have been kidding myself all these years.

Don’t worry, I’ve done all the groundwork – researched whether anyone else had already pinched my cool blog name – they had! Researched what other people were writing in the genres that interest me – they have! Questioned my own capacity to write something worth reading – turns out we’ve ALL been there! And you know what? Whilst it is very possible I will never write the next big thing to sweep the reading planet, I found myself reflecting on some of the shit I’ve read in the name of “research”. And who defines what is shit and what is good writing, anyway? If I’m willing to read what other people put out there, who’s to say my shit won’t make perfect sense to someone else?

So here goes. Who am I as a writer? Dev encouraged us to create a symbolic connection to our writing self – wear a hat, light a candle – whatever works for you, whatever will glue you to your seat long enough to let those words out of your head and onto a page. As someone who has spent their life immersed in language teaching, the idea of creating an identity for the new me resonated – life is all about different identities for the different worlds you inhabit. Just as many of us learn to inhabit different identities in our working and home lives, speaking different languages creates different versions of your identity. The language and the culture of those who speak it shape how you can and do interact with others in that community. Sometimes language will limit your capacity to express some concepts; at other times, it opens doors to elaborate on something in ways you never knew existed. In the past, I felt I needed a nom de plume before I got started as a writer (just another distraction?); hence “The Lemon Queen” was born. There’s a wealth of material waiting to be mined there, due to my propensity to find the lemon in any situation. If there’s a dud in the pile, I will take it home. People who know me well are familiar with my plaintive queries as to why I have to factor in a second visit to the shop for almost all my purchases; and the lengths I have gone to in order to try and outrun the gremlin behind my troubles have provided loyal listeners with a constant source of laughter and perhaps more than a little Schadenfreude on occasion. Mind you, it begs the question – if my eagle eyes are so damn good, why don’t I spot the lemon before I pay for it and take it home?

In the context of procrastination, though, why did the Lemon Queen jump into my head during today’s workshop? Am I really doomed to pick out all the lemons all my life, or am I hiding behind them to avoid using my time more productively?

Take the shoe saga – just one example of the Lemon Queen’s madness! Ha! Why am I writing about shoes in a workshop run by the dazzling Catherine Deveny? She is shiny and bright in red lipstick and full stereo sound, with a gorgeous red dress to match, and all I can come up with as a writing topic is a pair of grotty, dusty walking shoes that I choose to wear like bathroom scuffs.

I returned the bastards twice, each time swapping them for a pair that looked flawless, only to get them home and find I had missed something in all my jumping, hopping and posturing in the store. I even changed colours and sizes during the process! Isn’t it great how shamelessly humans can prance around humiliating themselves in a shop for the sake of a shoe purchase, but lack the guts to send a few words to the printer in case people judge and find us wanting? What the hell is going on there? And with the benefit of hindsight, what was the point of looking for a perfect pair when I was only going to treat them like gumboots anyway? I’m never going to wear them to meet the Queen. And even if I do, I don’t actually care what the Queen thinks of my footwear. I don’t even believe in the monarchy!

Which takes me back to this dedicated search for perfection – what’s it all for and whom does it serve? Why wait till something is perfect before you set it free for others to see? Why did I waste so much energy on seeking perfection in a pair of functional shoes that is now filthy and scuffed – by me? Why can’t I let go and work around the many lemons that clutter my life? None of the issues they raise are life threatening. That time could have been spent writing! As Dev says, “perfection is the enemy of good”, and the search for perfection in many ways is just another form of procrastination. Life’s too short to be worried about when we will be good enough. So here it is, warts and all – my first gift to today’s Gunnas! I wish you all happiness and success in your efforts and look forward to seeing you in print!

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.

These days seem to bear down on me like heavy rainfall on sodden leaves. I seek the intellectual stimulation of work, the humour of friends and the distraction of the everyday. And yet it remains. That constant drum beat, the march of inhumanity, the secrecy, the lies and the slow degradation of all that we know to be real and true and good.

Words feel too heavy sometimes. There is so much to say. I’m afraid that if I start, once I start, I might never be able to stop. I’m angry. Grief has finally given way to an anger that will lead to action. I used to write about love and peace. I used to rant about racism and injustice. That was when I lived ‘the writer’s life’, in that downtown loft in Edmonton, Alberta. That was before my own heartbreak seemed more important than boatloads of refugees being discarded as if they were criminals or cattle.

I know why I stopped writing. Filled with some fanciful myth about being abandoned by my muse. Excuses. Distractions. Fear of what I might express. And what might remain unexpressed.

Always something to say, always weighed down by the wait. What am I waiting for? That first snowfall.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

The most magnificent breasts I have ever seen were in 1995. They belonged to a woman who was probably my age at the time. Her features have faded but the moment she revealed her breasts to me has not. Her measurements were either a 10E or possibly a 12DD according to the tape measure, soft, firm and real. Without inhibition or shame, a woman proudly baring her nakedness in a way that was disarming and beautiful and all too rare in the intimate apparel department of Myer Northland.

Behind those heavy curtains, most stories were told without words. Eyes and mirrors revealed stretch marks, scars, inverted nipples, hairy armpits, shrunken necks, papery skin, pimpled backs, swollen stomachs, bulging veins, downcast eyes, tight mouths. Scents of talcum powder traces, faded perfume and stale sweat hung in the air. A soundscape of whispered confessions, airy chatter, soft groans and throaty laughter.

A first bra fitting appointment stood before me, arms hugging her chest, eyes darting nervously around the dimly lit cubicle. Milky flesh covered in goose pimples. A fine down on her arms stood to attention. Alert, alarmed, uncomfortable. Her mother stationed protectively beside her.

“We’ve got big boobs in the family. She’s in grade 6 this year.”

This golden haired child of 11, pig tailed with dimpled cheeks, had to cart around mammary glands that were bigger than her head. A full cup size difference between each one, a G cup and an H cup, a weight borne by tiny size 8 back. Breasts that could only be trussed up into an apricot, lacy, point and shoot number. Bras like that were that were usually sold to post menopausal women who had deep grooves worn into their shoulders. Women who had weekly appointments with their chiro or physio to attend to aches and pains suffered from carrying around the load of a lifetime. Her Mum told me that the family had almost saved up enough for surgery but her daughter was still too young and had not stopped growing yet.

Another invitation to check a fitting for a woman who was in a hurry. Her husband was being kept waiting, and prowled around outside, being kept at bay by the change room gate keeper. Having breast fed all of her four children she was getting herself something sexy. She said she was blessed with good genes. She wanted a balconette bra that my experience did not accomodate a generous bust that may not have been as firm as it once was. I doubled it would contain her bountiful cups when she told me her size. Yet it did. I was confused. The story of her breasts did not match up with the one she had told me. These breasts did not drop gently when her bra came away, there was no yeidling of that taunt flesh with the usual wiggling and jiggling. Her purple nipples pointed out at odd angles and I was puzzled by the ridge at the top of her breast where it met her chest.

I realised later that it wasn’t good genes that gave her those tits, but cash, a scalpel, silicon implants and a mediocre surgeon.

I recently heard the familiar refrains and the intimate apparel ladies when I was recently looking for something fitting for my F’s that had long ago graduated from my first C fitting.

“How how you going in there?”

“Now there Darl, see how you are spilling over the top there. You need to go up a cup size.”

“Bend over, I’m just going to give you a little jiggle so you are sitting right in the cup. ..Ok, you do it, take your hand, scoop up your boob and drop it in.”

“Now you need a bit more room, you’ve got another 3 months and then things might change again when your milk comes in”

“When was your surgery Love. ..I can see that’s a bit tender..”

“No sweetie, you can’t see your nipples. Get the nude, white will show under that top”

And woven in between all these fittings was the life chat, the wedding, the 3rd baby, the prolapse, the celebrity bastard son-in-law, the sales, the bullshit, the stuff of life.

I love women and their breasts. My preference is for natural, they tell the best stories and a bra fitter can work her magic if needed.

*as stated in my Berlei Bra fitting course certificate.

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

We sat down to dinner – me, Celia, Pete and the boys – and started to eat. It was strange to see my usually cool, calm and collected older cousin so flustered, faffing about with cutlery and salad and setting down plates. I remembered her being so poised and graceful when I was a kid, but I could see her becoming more and more like her mum, and mine. A family trait, I guess.

We’d just started to eat when an alarm went off on her phone. “I set alarms for everything”, she exclaimed, opening her phone, to the groans of her husband and sons. “What’s this one for? O, it’s telling me not to forget to show you something. I’ll get it after dinner.”

I was intrigued.

The boys ate loudly, bickering amongst themselves, subconsciously offending their mum about the too-spicy chicken and the rubber-like prawns. I always feel out of place at family dinners like these. Even when we sit down to eat at home with the girls, it’s never this stilted or uncomfortable. I guess Celia’s family don’t usually eat like this either. I had another sip of red wine.

After dinner, the boys cleared the table and Celia and I sat down to talk. How long has it been?, we wondered aloud. Four years? Six? The last time I was here was for Tasman’s birthday and we made a cake shaped like a blue-tongue lizard.

“I have to show you the thing!” Celia cried, jumping up from the couch and disappearing into the front of the house. She returned with a black dress and jacket, hanging together on a wire coat-hanger.

“This. My mum made it for your mum, isn’t it beautiful?”

Anything that connects me back to my mum is beautiful. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a handmade dress or an old diary, or the hand-written note under the lid of the piano at Dad’s house. Knowing that it’s something she’s touched or written or been enclosed in, it always takes my breathe away. It’s why I’ve never been able to get rid of the old writer’s festival t-shirt she died in, 18 years ago. Rich once pulled it out of the drawer, with a ‘WHAT’S THIS??’ and I’ve never felt so protective of anything in my life. I snatched it off him and placed it – folded it – back into the drawer. “It’s nothing, it’s Mum’s, it doesn’t matter.”

I touched the sleeve of the jacket, not sure if Celia was showing it to me simply to show me, or if she was giving it to me. It should have been mine, but you can’t be presumptuous when it comes to family, and history, and handmade dresses, from one sister to another.

“Mum gave it to me years ago, and I’ve worn it a few times, but it’s never quite fit. I feel like the length isn’t quite right. I find the wool really itchy and it’s a bit tight across the front and cuts in a bit, here,” she pinched the tanned wedge of skin at her armpit. “Try it on.”

There’s something not quite right about trying on a woollen cocktail dress and jacket in the middle of a Perth summer, but I would have tried on a diving suit and helmet, if I knew mum had been in it.

The zip was sticky, the lining frayed and the fabric slightly moth-eaten. “It’ll need a bit of mending…” Celia said, as I wriggled myself in, pulling the lining and the dress over my hips. I zipped up the back. Manoeuvring myself into the jacket, I was careful not to push my arm through the tear in the lining. But once it was on, it was as if my dear Aunt Heather had made the dress for me.

Celia stepped back. I looked down and smoothed down the fabric over my front.

“It fits. It’s not too tight. It doesn’t cut. It’s not itchy. It’s beautiful.”

My aunt had made it for my mum in the 1960s, from a Christian Dior pattern. It’s a sleeveless dress, with a woven trim around the neck and a pleated detail at the waist. It came just below my knees – where it would have sat on mum. The jacket is cropped, with three-quarter-length sleeves, three woven buttons and a wide collar. I could almost see mum wearing it, with court shoes and nude stockings and a patent leather handbag. Her short curly hair would have been tamed with a few bobby pins.

“You should have it,” Celia said, “You’ll get way more wear out of it than I will.”

We spent the rest of the evening drinking tea, eating shortbread, and talking about our kids and our parents and life. Books and TV shows and movies and pets. How hard it can be to motivate teenaged kids and how tough it can be when you see them wearing too much fake tan and having to keep it to yourself.

Before I went to bed that night, in the stuffy spare room at the back of the house, I carefully packed the dress and jacket into my suitcase. Folding it between skirts and t-shirts so it wouldn’t get creased. Wondering when I would wear it. Would I tell people its story, who made it and who it belonged to and where it had been for all these years? Or would I wait for someone to comment on ‘that beautiful dress’.

When I got back to Melbourne, I had breakfast with my dad at a busy café on Rathdowne Street. When I mentioned the dress, his eyes filled with tears, and he clasped his hand over his mouth. “Yes, yes, of course I remember that dress. Mum wore it the very first time we went out together.”

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer

It started when a singer touched our hearts

An online group, a pilgrimage devout.

Two thousand miles would still keep us apart,

You shy, me young, neither had quite come out.

A year of webcams, crying in airports.

You move! We share our time, though not your place

For here’s my youth, my umbilical cord

And there go plans, and there goes our embrace.

When we found our way back, our lives were freer

Our trust regained, after a healthy wait

Then tried to buy a house, a wasted year.

It’s time, at long last, to cohabitate.

So six years on: a lease, a pen, a drawer.

I think we can commit to one year more.