We're on the road....

                           A Long and Winding Road 

The bus lurched and leaned into the hillside, the weight of a hundred people, goats and more deciding its direction. I sat crammed into the cab (the front by the driver) with my colleague Shirley and ten or so other people. Shit, shit shhhhit, getting way too close to that edge.  Sheer drops plunging down into crystal canyons formed our emerging canvas on the right. Beads of sweat, from both heat and stress, slithered down my neck, pinning its weight in one soggy clump to my skin. Then brakes! Sudden, sharp and sliding until stopped! Shit, shit, shit, what the hell is going on? An imposing landslide lay on the road ahead.  I exited that bus faster than a rat up a drainpipe.  I looked sympathetically to the goats on the roof who had no such option.  “You’ll write about it one day” I told myself to try and supress the panic. “Yeah, shit yeah, one day this will be writing material.  One day…”

That day, early 2005, the place, Nepal.  Rural Nepal on route to deliver some training to a group of educators in the village of Nuwakot.  And write about it I did, among other tales of living and working in Nepal.  I would sit in an internet shop (loose term) and pound out my stories.  I found that with time/technology constraints the best way to reach the people at home was to send a (cringe) group email type update. These turned into elaborate and juicy recounts of the trials and tribulations of living in Nepal.  Anything from trying to master squat toilets (when you’ve gotta go…) to encountering natural disasters and a state at the height of political turmoil.  There was no shortage of material to weave into my stories.  So with some ease I committed my thoughts to compositions.

In response to my effusive correspondence one of my cousins endeared me with the nickname Indiana Thomson. This came with an unyielding encouragement to ‘take-up’ writing.  I stored my emails in a folder named ‘Nepal’ and got busy with life.

Many significant life events occurred after this time all leaving their indelible mark.  Buying of first home, birth of child, death of Father and on it goes.  But I had a niggling feeling all throughout this that I should be doing something about ‘it’.  ‘It’, my interior monologue grew to such large and gregarious proportions that I could have charged ‘it’ rent for taking up residence in my mind.  But largely I learned, or so I thought back then, to manage ‘it’.  ‘It’ would manifest in low level anxiety and mild depression.  I was regularly locked in a fight with ‘it’ and mostly I came off the winner and consequently dusted myself down and got on with business. 

After a fifteen year absence I returned to live in New Zealand. Unpacking my possessions when the shipping boxes arrived was like a second Christmas.  There, among my stuff, was an old Sony Dictaphone and three charming mini cassette tapes. A farewell gift from a company I worked for in London, again gifted with a firm encouragement to ‘take-up’ writing.  I shoved it in a cupboard to deal with later.  Still the niggling feeling remained.  It wasn’t over yet.

Over the years my anxiety seemed to be gaining momentum.  Every time I found myself perched at the precipice of the black hole I somehow managed to claw my way out of it. I’d brush myself off and congratulate myself that, once I again, I had come off victorious. My fights with the black dog/hole went largely unnoticed, which in its own way was another triumph for me.  I was ‘normal’ and could live my life as such.

I could feel ‘it’ getting more robust with each battle.  I decided to blog! Blog, blog, blog it out.  I had previously pooh-poohed the idea of blogging as cheesy and self-indulgent.  Now it served a mighty fine purpose and helped me maintain an even mood.  More than that it staved off the dog of doom……for a while anyway.  I found a lightness would envelop me after every blog.  Almost as if the act of putting ‘it’ in writing diminished its influence.

Armed with this newfound confidence I set about ‘taking-up’ writing and enrolled in the Magazine Journalism course through the Writers’ College online. A plan I had been contemplating for over a year. The results of my first assignment seemed to confirm I was on the right path at last, no longer on the road to nowhere.  ‘It’ not only seem to calm down but also became quite a useful tool with my writing.  As long as ‘it’ was contained. 

Boom, crash, bruises and shock! Car accident. Me. Car. Pole. Bruising. A heavy helping of shock. The re-emergence of ‘It’ in full splendour, standing over me with one foot on my back and a jubilant fist in the air. No longer able to be contained ‘it’ needed dealing with.  So began my road trip to recovery. I employed all manner of tools including writing to assist me on my journey.  I was learning the hard way that the old cliché ‘life is a journey not a destination’ was in fact true. 

I have a lot to thank ‘it’ for.  ‘It’ has opened my mind up in ways I thought unimaginable.  I have traversed the depths and sailed through the highs.  I have emerged with what I believe is my true voice.  A voice that needed these experiences and episodes in order to evolve. I have learned to accept and live with ‘it’. At times positively embracing ‘it.’ I have scars.  It hasn’t been an easy journey by any means. I have been to some places so dark that it has felt like being underwater without knowing which way was up.  But it continues to be a journey, one of vulnerability, fear, courage and strength.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!” 
― Hunter S. Thompson

Kia Kaha

#writer #vulnerability #anxiety