Parachutes

Hello lovelies,

Over two years ago, at the over ripe old age of 23, I finally bid farewell to my parents and started to make my own way in the world. The house I grew up in, the backyard I learnt to ride a bike in and the deck where so many deep and meaningful conversations took place were all sold off to the highest bidder. My parents having built their dream home 900 kilometres away in the quaint little sea side city of Warrnambool moved away, never to call Canberra home again.

There I was 23 years of age, having flown the cockatoo nest. I found a place 'living' with a couple of people but mostly it was just me and the dog. Months went by extremely quickly. Work, study, study, work. Social type things. The usual 23 year old nonsense. All of a sudden I was 24. I was getting old. Canberra without my parents living in it suddenly felt less like home and more like just a place with a bunch of pointless roundabouts.

In the two years I spent not living under my parent’s roof I came to realise the importance of having parachutes. When my parents migrated south I felt that I had lost the constant presence in my life of two very important ones. I figure now, of all times I should ruminate on such matters. The following is a reflection that I have used often. It has just taken on a whole new meaning for this wonderful idiot.

Who Packs Your Parachute

"Charles Plumb was a US Navy jet pilot in Vietnam. After 75 combat missions, his plane was destroyed by a surface-to-air missile. Plumb ejected and parachuted into enemy hands. He was captured and spent 6 years in a communist Vietnamese prison. He survived the ordeal and now lectures on lessons learned from that experience.

One day, when Plumb and his wife were sitting in a restaurant, a man at another table came up and said, “You’re Plumb! You flew jet fighters in Vietnam from the aircraft carrier Kitty Hawk. You were shot down!”

“How in the world did you know that?” asked Plumb.

“I packed your parachute,” the man replied. Plumb gasped in surprise and gratitude. The man pumped his hand and said, “I guess it worked!” Plumb assured him, “It sure did. If your chute hadn’t worked, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Plumb couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about that man. Plumb says, “I kept wondering what he might have looked like in a Navy uniform: a white hat, a bib in the back, and bell-bottom trousers. I wonder how many times I might have seen him and not even said Good morning, how are you?’ or anything because, you see, I was a fighter pilot and he was just a sailor.”

Plumb thought of the man hours the sailor had spent on a long wooden table in the bowels of the ship, carefully weaving the shrouds and folding the silks of each chute, holding in his hands each time the fate of someone he didn’t know.

Now, Plumb asks his audience, “Who’s packing your parachute?” Everyone has someone who provides what they need to make it through the day. Plumb also points out that he needed many kinds of parachutes when his plane was shot down over enemy territory-he needed his physical parachute, his mental parachute, his emotional parachute, and his spiritual parachute. He called
on all these supports before reaching safety.

Sometimes in the daily challenges that life gives us, we miss what is really important. We may fail to say hello, please, or thank you, congratulate someone on something wonderful that has happened to them, give a compliment, or just do something nice for no reason.

As you go through this week, this month, this year, recognize people who pack your parachute."

In August this year the dog and I moved in with a very dear friend of mine and his 12 month old Labrador pup. I moved in to help him pay his mortgage, little did I know at the time how much I would come to rely on my beloved old friend to provide me with stability. In recent times I have put a great deal of stress on our friendship, it has been a one way street rather than a four lane high way. I have said it before on this blog; I don’t know how I manage to get so many good friends that are so wonderfully brilliant at putting up with my nonsense. You are about to find out just how much nonsense I have been getting up to lately.

In hindsight, my latest mentally interesting episode started many months ago. I experienced my usual winter blues. I was underwhelmed with all things involving that breathing mechanism that many of us humans have. In late July I began drinking more and eating less. Self-medication. Life was too hard so I abandoned my real life every opportunity I had. Xbox controller in one hand and beer in the other, I lost myself in game world. I worked, I did my job, and I did it well like I always do. As soon as I got home though, the shoes came off, the beer started lubricating my throat and the noobs got gunned down. At some point in late July I started frequenting a local tavern, drinking too much and gambling away my hard earned. I was a sinking ship and all of the rum was already on the ocean floor.

By late August, my gambling habit, like the reels on a poker machine had spun out of control. I lost enough money to make me miss out on some pretty important social stuff, nights out with friends, camping trips and everything between. A few fortnights in a row my beloved Falcon had to learn to run on fumes and cigarettes. By the time September hit and my 25^th birthday had come and gone, I was well and truly miserable. Spring was in the air though and with it, my winter blues subsided. I was back to being my usual right of the center self, my brain was working harder and faster. Take away the drinking, gambling and my mini mid-life crisis and life was pretty darn swell.

Brown things began to hit twirly things somewhere between the middle of September and the start of October. I was getting progressively busier and the mentally interesting people in my life began to seek my counsel and support more and more. At the end of September I embarked for the fourth time as an adult on a trip to a remote outback property to help facilitate a personal development camp for young people aged 15-18. Hindsight 20-20 I was not well enough to attend and thought about pulling out a few times. The closer it got to embarkation the harder the decision to withdraw became.

I had a lot on my plate emotionally going in to camp. I had been looking after others without any awareness of my own wellbeing for a long time. There were a lot of people I was concerned about not being in contact with for 10 days. There was and still is a great deal of uncertainty about where I will be working in 2016. All this combined with concern for a cousin of mine who was in hospital suffering from a drug induced psychosis. I had plenty to worry about and very little I could do about any of it.

After a long journey with a bunch of amazing young people and some even more amazing adults we arrived in outback New South Wales. I did my job as a facilitator and I did it well because as a wise old friend of mine would say whatever you do be a good one. Things began going goat shaped towards the end of camp. My concern for people back in the real world, my uncertain future and my new concerns for many of the people on camp rolled in to one giant wool bail of worry. I began eating less, sleeping less and carried my many burdens poorly. Try as I might to find myself some extra sleep the time boat sailed down the Darling River without me. I had let myself fly a jet plane in to the enemy territory of mania and I was going to need a lot of parachutes.

By the time we began the long journey back to Canberra, I was definitely starting to lose my marbles. On a Monday night stopover in Forbes, I left the group and made a bee line for the local pub. As strange as it sounds this is a pretty normal behaviour for me, pubs are where I go to think. As someone who makes unofficial studies of psychology the pub in a small town is the ideal place to people watch. I walked into the pub and sought out the guy in charge, Vinnie was his name. Every small town pub has its own politics and you have to spend some time learning the rules of the house. I confused myself trying to order a beer, a schooner or a midi or a pot? Carlton, VB or Tooheys? Which state am I in again? Unfortunately as I was starting to slip in to a mania, these were not questions that stayed in my head. I quickly outed myself as a visitor from a faraway land. I was also dressed as an outback hipster if there is such a thing. So that didn’t help. I eventually established myself a nest in the beer garden and tried to calm myself down. When one of the other adults from the camp came and found me I made some convoluted remark about the pub being my temple. He retrieved the money I had left behind the bar for my ‘friends’ and we returned to the rest of the group.

That night we stayed at a boarding school situated right next to the Lachlan River. As soon as we arrived at the hall where we would be sleeping I skulked away down to the river, sat on some hay bales and began chain smoking. No doubt the smell of burning hay bales and the distressed mooing of cows drew one of the adults straight to me. After much convincing I took an extra dose of medication and joined everyone in the hall for a good night’s sleep.

The next day we drove in convoy from Forbes to Canberra. The medication had worked in terms of me having a good night’s sleep and I was certainly starting to think a bit straighter. The closer we got to Canberra and the harsh realities of my real world life I became more and more anxious. The other adults I was on camp with tried to become my parachutes but the more they tried the harder I would push them away. I finally got back home and immediately sought out one of my more unhealthy parachutes. I went to my local temple for a beer and some gambling. The tavern had been my rock for the previous 6 months, why not now.

Another day slipped me by and I finally made the decision to see my doctor. He gave me a week off work, told me to take 25mg of Seroquel in addition to my regular medication and scheduled a follow up appointment to see him a week later. By this time my thoughts were racing and the legendary Pink Floyd album Dark Side of the Moon had become the soundtrack to my mania. I was now extremely unwell and perhaps should have insisted then and there with my doctor that he refer me to some sort of lunatic expert.

Two days had passed since camp and my manic self had begun calling in favours from all over Australia to help me get better again. My brother and his wife arrived from Melbourne and I decided to go and hit the Canberra night life with them. Loud noises and lots of people were by this stage highly distressing for me. It was at a basement bar in the city called Molly that I truly came to realise the extent of my insanity. The noise of the place made me so uncomfortable, I could not get out of there fast enough. The lunatic was no longer in my head. I had become one.

In my manic state I had become almost childlike. Simple things that I know how to do like crossing a road or restringing a guitar were all of a sudden difficult tasks. The night after the Molly incident I again ventured in to the city, this time for a very good friend of mines bucks night. Post dinner, I deserted the bucks night and began strolling around the city. In my manic state the 25 years of my life had begun washing over me like a great wave. As I wandered around the city, my mind wandered from memory to memory re-establishing the context of so many past adventures. I returned to the group as they were about to head off to see some titties. Strip clubs and bucks nights are not a culture I like to be a part of manic or otherwise and thus I parted ways. I went and had another beer and then drove home, possibly slightly over 0.05 but I wasn’t pulled over so I will never know.

By now the days had well and truly melted together. I was deploying more parachutes than I ever had before and gradually I was getting better. My mother dearest arrived from Victoria and helped me get rid of any out of date medications. I was still doing some pretty crazy shit but my thought patterns were straightening out and my brain had begun its decent. I strolled in to a local music shop when I was at my most manic and put a new guitar on lay buy. I had given myself a carrot to get better for. I organised a re-entry meeting for myself at work. I scared the crap out of them. I had to take another week off.

A week had passed since I saw my doctor and so I fronted up to his office once again so he could decide how I was progressing. If I am totally honest, he was a bit of a cunt. He did not take the time to listen to me, instead asking me far too many questions all at once which my manic brain could not handle. Without actually making it clear to me what he was doing the dickhead referred me to my local mental health team. That afternoon a crisis team showed up at my home. I was around the corner visiting a friend when they showed up so they called me. “Hello” “Hi Jimbo here from douche bag mental health services” “What do you want?” “We’re at your house, where the fuck are you?” Needless to say I was not impressed. I strolled back and met them halfway between my friend’s house and my home. They talked to me in a carpark for 45 minutes and made me feel like I was in a fucking press conference. I sent them away and returned to my friends place. I was quite pissed off and agitated. That night I drank five rage filled beers. Bad idea.

The next morning due to the alcohol the night before making my medication ineffective, I was extremely elevated. I decided I would go to my friend’s bookshop café and get something to eat. As I was leaving home I got another call from fuck stick Jimbo from douche bag mental health. He asked where I was going. I told him. Bad idea.

After an excellent omelette and a lovely mug of chai latte, I exited the book shop in order to move my car as I had only managed to secure an hour of parking when I arrived. Douche bag mental health team were waiting for me to show up at my car. Jimbo fuck stick magee had in his hand a box of my most favouritest psychiatric medication of all time. Zyprexa (you can read about my love of that fucking shit here). Naturally, I refused to take it. I told Jimbo if he wanted me to come with him he should get me some Valium or some shit, otherwise no deal. Before I knew it I was backed in to a corner by the three idiot’s from the mental health team and Jimbo had called the cops.

There were no flashing lights, no sirens. I was in no state to count how many cops but it was at least 6.  6 cops and three of Jimbo’s merry idiots for little old 61kg me. Are these guys for fucking real? By this stage I was chain smoking, the cops let me finish my cigarette and then made me empty my pockets. They patted me down and put me in the back of a paddy wagon for a one way trip to hospital. This little lunatic had finally been caught with his pants down. I wish paddy wagons had fucking seat belts and the pigs took the fucking corners a little slower, otherwise; it is actually quite a fun way to get around.

I arrived at the emergency department at hospital in style and was quickly ushered in to what can only be described as a police lock up but instead of cops there are wardsmen, nurses and doctors. You’ll never guess what drug the on call psychiatrist tried to give me to calm me down. Fucking Zyprexa. Fortunately my Mum was in town from Victoria and was the only person seemingly in the whole universe that believed I was taking my meds. She politely told said fuckwit psychiatrist to get fucked. I was given an extra dose of Seroquel instead and my vitals were checked. I had to piss in a cup so they could make sure I wasn’t on ice or some other shit and then I was transferred to the Adult Mental Health Unit.

The quack shack at one of the hospitals in my pseudo hometown of Canberra is a beautiful, state of the art, nearly new facility. Unfortunately, its status as a funny farm is maintained by its clientele. I was one of the sanest lunatics in the joint and pretty soon became a therapist for many of the other patients. Having lost my private health insurance when I turned 25, this was my first experience of the asylum as a public patient. My initial few days in the quack shack were full of some of the most frustrating encounters with medical professionals I have had since being diagnosed with bipolar. I felt like a broken record that had been repaired with parts from ten other broken records, constantly repeating the story of my mania up to the point where I had been imprisoned in the nut house. I had come down off my mania and now felt like I was in a very large waiting room. Just killing time until the next visit from some idiot quack who wanted to hear me tell my story for the ten thousandth time.

Finally, I was seen by a shrink who talked some sense. He decided to keep me for four days at which point he would review me personally and set me free. Four days imprisoned under the mental health act. Cake walk really. So I played guitar a lot and arranged for lots of visitors around meal times to avoid eating the shitty cardboard meals they serve in hospitals. The battered fish would send the sanest person over the edge. After four days of getting up, having meds, having breakfast, playing guitar, having lunch, playing guitar, having dinner, having meds and going to bed again true to his word the shrink came to review me. After four days of forced imprisonment I was pronounced legally sane and released back in to the wild.

On release from hospital, I was no longer manic but I was still quite elevated. My mother god bless her had decided my house needed cleaning while I was gone and cleaned everything. The fact she had moved a bunch of my stuff around and I couldn’t find it made me pretty fucking angry. A few small items may have gotten a bit broken by my rage. As the days went by, my mood gradually got back on an even keel. The quack shack had removed my mania and time had made me normalise. I began to gradually get off some of the extra medications I went on during the crisis and made plans to return to work. All things considered, I could have done a lot worse.

I used many parachutes when coming down from this latest mania. There was of course extra medication and sleep. Mostly though, it was people who packed my parachute. This post is for all of the people ever in my entire life who I have used as a parachute. People like my my mother who was by my side when I needed her like she always has been. Friends of mine, who heard the call to arms from far and wide and came to slow me down. My dear friend whose mortgage I am supposedly helping to pay and our dogs who entertained me day in day out as I recovered. Thank you to all those who pack parachutes for me, even those of you who don’t realise you are doing it.

Stay Awesome