Panic! At the disco

Depression - such a bad word. Ugly. Almost… dirty. So many people suffer in silence because of the “shame” of it.

I was silent because I didn’t want pity. I was too proud.

“It is just a phase.”

“I am just moody.”

“Once this day ends it will get better.”

“It is normal to feel like this at this age.”

“When I loose weight I will feel better.”

“When I buy that jacket I will feel better.”

My silence was deafening to my ears only. But after years of white noise my screams started to be heard by others, even when I was trying my hardest to stay hush.

It feels like chasing your own tail everyday. You feel exhausted, sick and out of breathe. Your thoughts are racing constantly but mind is numb. Your thoughts are a whirlwind.

Cloudy, grey, the world is out to get you.

On some level you know that you are acting “silly” or “obnoxious”, but your doubts, fears and anxiety get the better of you. It’s a force you can’t reckon with. There is no beating it. It always wins. It has you right where it wants you. And you try to come out on top – you go out, stay in, smoke, drink, eat, don’t eat, whatever – but it always wins. Always.

And then came my highs. Feeling so happy that you could fly. My highs were another force you couldn’t stop. They took control of me. Complete control. I didn’t need to sleep, I didn’t need to eat, I didn’t need anybody – my energy was enough.

Moving fast, talking fast, stuttering, knocking things over, making rash decisions…. People just couldn’t understand me and I could not connect with them. I was on my own level, way beyond everyone else. One night I went clubbing with friends and I was the designated driver, so of course I did not drink any alcohol. I was partying until 6am! The bouncers thought I was on drugs! Talking fast, slurring, moving swiftly…too swiftly. My heart was pounding in my ears all night. That was my “natural high.”

I slept 2 hours and went out all day the next day. On Monday I came crashing down. Way down. I couldn’t  move. Taking steps was a chore and talking was a task. My entire existence was in slow-mo. I was telling myself I was really tired and my body was recovering, but it felt deeper.

And then came my massive panic attack. I was driving and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I was trying to inhale, but my breath was being blocked. The car was caving in on me and my head was spinning. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest, I could hear it in my ears.

“This is it. This is how I am going to die.”

I thought I was having a heart attack. I turned into a street without looking and almost hit another driver. That’s when I pulled over.

“Go to the doctors you have just had a panic attack.” I rang my friend Deb, but when I tried to talk to her all I could do was wale loudly. My body was jerking, tears were streaming down my face and there was nothing I could do to stop. I managed to dispel a few words. She understood.

I sat in the car and stared out the window. I don’t even think I blinked. Suddenly, I snapped out of it and looked at the time. 2 hours had past.

“Depression and bipolar.” That was my diagnosis. I was petrified. I wanted to vomit upon hearing it. I did not want to be classified as insane. Mentally ill. Did I have to tick special boxes when filling out forms and applications?

Bipolar? Me?

I never even considered that. I just thought I was an “extreme” person. I guess I was more extreme than I bargained for.

That night I cried and cried and cried. I crept into my mum’s bedroom while she was asleep and cried in her arms. I couldn’t stop, and all I was saying was “What am I going to do I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

For an entire week after my panic attack my body ached and my eyes were swollen from crying. Everyday I felt exhausted, like I had a run a marathon. My head pounded, I was thirsty all the time and tears would flow down my cheeks at any given time.

I was prescribed anti-depression tablets, which is also used to treat bipolar disorder. I was petrified of medication. I couldn’t even bring myself to have a Panadol when I had a headache. “Let the body heal itself” was what I always said to myself, but this was no cold or headache. I needed to do something because my entire life was spiraling out of control.

A week after taking the medication I started feeling a lot better. You see, I had been suffering anxiety for a few years now and chose to see a therapist rather than take medication. I wanted to get to the “root” of the problem rather than conceal it. But these “demonic diseases” get you. They make you see things not as they truly are and you blunder drastically deeper into the disease. So everyday I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and a heavy feeling in my chest. Inhaling at times was difficult.

“This is what normal people must feel like,” I remember telling mum on the phone. I felt free and unchained. I felt clear headed and light. I just felt…grounded.

The tablets have been a Godsend to me. Three months later I have increased my dose and I feel wonderful. No more attacks or “dark days.” No more mood swings, I am balanced.

From the outside I have always looked like a lead a charmed life. People would look at me and thought I had it all! I had travelled the globe, had a great job, two university degrees, a big family, friends, a social life and so much more.

But inside I was screaming. And my screams were getting louder. My panic attack was my boiling point, just like a pot that screeches until it overflows.

It was a blessing in disguise. My attack truly was the best thing that happened to me. Without it I wouldn’t have been prescribed medication, which has allowed me to feel better. I am able to make better decisions and see situations much clearer and don’t hate being me anymore. It feels wonderful!

The timing was perfect too. My work transferred me interstate to Melbourne about a month after my attack. I was excited about this move – new surrounds, new people and fresh perspective. The greatest part about it all was that I can do it all with a clear mind, and not be succumbed to the agony of my depression.

I moved 7 weeks ago and it has been the best time of my life. I am working, living with a flat-mate, making new friends and spending a lot of time alone, and it is my clearer thoughts that have allowed me the freedom to do all that.

Lentil Soup

As though the phone reception at my mums house wasn’t bad enough, I tried to hear what she was saying on top of the interrupting sounds of her banging, chopping, opening, frying… and so I asked her what she was cooking.

“Vospov shorba”, which from Armenian, directly translates to “lentil soup.”

Oh yum. It sounded perfect on this cold winter, Melbourne afternoon. That was the thing about living out of home. Your mother is not around to make you all those traditional home cooked delicacies that you grew up with.

I asked for the recipe, grabbing the nearest pen and paper I could find.

“Give it to me properly, not in drips and drabs.”

“Okay okay.” She took in a deep breath as she got ready to share her wisdom…properly.

I made the soup. It was...well perfect!

I changed around the recipe a little, adding a little more chicken stock.

I called mum to tell her how well it went.

“How is it?”

“To be honest, better than yours.”

“Oh its like that now is it?”

“Yeah sorry to bust your bubble.”

“That’s okay, just be careful, its addictive, you will probably end up going for a lot of re-fills.”

I was filling up my third plate as she was warning me. I put down the ladle, grabbed my bowl, sat on the dinner table, smirked and continued on sipping (loudly).

The best birthday card I have ever received

A recipe I do not know

I want to write down my favourite recipe, I really really do, but I don’t (exactly) know it.

I mean, I KNOW it, but not in the orthodox “measuring cup” sort of way, that I can write it down and you can pass it on from generation to generation.

This inability to remember (and somewhat follow) recipes comes from my poor at-home “training”, given to me by my mother.

Always having been a foodie my interest in cooking has been rife. I somehow just knew which flavours are best infused together, such as lemon and garlic, coriander and thyme, rosemary with meat, so on.

When I started asking my mother for the recipes of my favourite foods that she would make she simply could not tell me. No, I retract that. She could, kind of tell  me, but in a very rough kind of way. “just a pinch of salt, a little bit of lemon juice, some pepper, a dash of oil.” I never really learnt any of her recipes. It would infuriate me because I wanted to learn, she just did not know how to teach me!

…and now at 26 I am the exact same. I don’t have children but I love cooking and when people ask me for my recipes I just blurt out a list of ingredients with some rough measurements, as though I am throwing it at them.

“What did you put in that vegetable casserole you brought over tonight?”

Spice

Spice

Condiment

Himalayan sea salt

Black pepper

Spice

Chili

Spice

But here I go. I am going to try to tell you my favourite vegan pasta recipe. It is so fresh and crisp, made with zucchini noodles and a heap of vegetables. Totally raw, nutritious and delicious!

It is worth noting that I have only ever made this for myself so all measurements are for one person.

You will need

·     2 x zucchini

·     1 x tomato

·     ¼ green or red capsicum

·     ¼ Spanish onion

·     Generous amount of basil (i mean a lot - you want the flavour and aroma to come through)

·     Handful of parsley

·     Himalayan rock salt

·     Black pepper

·     ½ cup apple cider vinegar

·     ¼ cup cold pressed extra virgin olive oil

(FYI these are all approximate measurements – I usually just chop and add until things start looking right).

What to do

1. Spiralise the zucchinis to make zu-dles (zucchini noodles). You can buy a vegetable spiraliser from any kitchen or homewares store. I think some fruit markets now also sell them.
2. Chop the tomatoes and Spanish onion into diced bruschetta-like cubes.
3. Desiccate the basil and parsley
4. Mix in all ingredients with the noodles, including the apple cider vinegar, olive oil, salt and pepper and mix together.

If you don’t necessarily want this to be a vegan dish you can add some smoked salmon.

Crisp, healthy and fresh…the perfect post weekend detox meal or summer time light lunch!

Again, I am sorry for the approximate measurements – you will get the hang of it, I promise!

Postcard from a place too familiar

My cousin Kristina sent me this post card from London in 2010. I love that she mentioned that "everything here reminds me of you." 

At this stage I had not yet been, but I had hoped that everything was reminiscent of me as I only dreamt of this stunning city.

I have been twice now, and I profess that London is quintessentially "me". I love that there is tranquility in the middle of the chaos, through the beautiful parks, green landscapes, the canal and the beautiful River Thames.

Backstreet's Back…Alright?

My first album was Backstreet Boy’s “Backstreets Back.” As soon as I would hear “Everybodaaaaayaaa, rock your bodayaaaaaaaaah” I would feel chills down my spine. I was in love.

It was the 90s and before the Internet and pirated downloads we actually had to pay for music (I know, as if!) 

If I wanted "Backstreets Back", mum's order was that I had to "save up". 

Usually, I only got CD singles which were $5, and just had a single song (as well as its various remixes). But I was hell bent on owning this album, and to have it I was going to have to “earn” the $30. But at 7 years old my only way of “employment” was mum handing me $2 a day, so it was going to take about 2 weeks (and a day).

By day 6 my patience had run out! I wanted Backstreet’s Back! I begged and pleaded, offered to vacuum, keep my room clean, cook, do all my homework, ANYTHING! I sang, danced, threw tantrums...

After school on day 7 mum took me to Sanity Music, reached up high (because it was #1 and all the way at the top) and grabbed the musical accolade that would become the soundtrack of my childhood. I was in awe. There it was, beaming in all its glory. The Boys looked so cool on the cover, leaning just perfectly against a warehouse wall in their oversized jackets. My “favourite” was Nick. He was the “baby” of the group and so cute!

 I opened my Velcro pink wallet and spilled out all the $2 coins on the counter for the salesman. Mum paid the remaining $18.

My memories of that night are clear. I got home and played the CD over and over and over again. Every song. During dinner, while doing my homework, all night. Even the shitty ones that are never released. I listened to them on repeat anyway.

These were the days before YouTube, Vevo, Channel V and mainstream cable TV (so no MTV), and watching video clips meant waiting for the weekend so that we could turn on Video Hits and watch music countdowns. Backstreets Back was in the music charts and I wanted to learn the steps that Nick, Brian, AJ, Howie and Kevin jammed out in the haunted house...

…and that is what I did. When relatives and friends came over I would force them to give me "ticket money", to watch my Backstreet Boys dance-a-long concert. I even dressed up as the “mummy”, hoping that I would emulate “Mrs Mummy” and be Nick Carter’s corpse bride.

In 2000 my sister and I got our 1^st computer. It was a bulky Windows 98 but the detachable side speakers made it super-duper cool! I had a stroke of genius to put the CD in the disc drive, just to see what happens. All of a sudden, the screen went blue, and the backstreet boys were invading. I had the option not only to hear their songs, but to see them sing, dance, and even watch bits and interviews from their global tour whenever I wanted! I was in heaven. The obsession only grew stronger.

more.

This one is a hard one to write.

It is hard because I don’t want to admit that I lost a great love, and it was my undoing.

I lost the reason, and I only saw the purpose.

In 2010 I was 20 years old and I re-met* the man up to this point is the love of my life. So cliché, we were making fun of ourselves on the singles table at a wedding. I want to mention that the couple divorced well before our relationship ended, so umm, thanks and sorry about that.

He fell in love with me almost instantly. Beaches, presents, restaurants, picnic grounds, fishing spots, putt-putt golf, cinemas, holidays, parties, late nights, festivals, drive-ins, love-letters, surprise visits, family barbecues, clubs, parents, shopping dates…the whole she-bang!

…and then I decided I did not want it anymore. I wanted more. I wanted the world. All of it. What he was offering was not enough. That’s what I thought. Then.

Now, I am not so sure. I sit here, on a Saturday night, single as fuck! I would not have stayed with him out of desperation or for the sake of being in a relationship, no way, but maybe I should have fought harder because he loved me. Nobody has since loved me like that. So passionately. And somewhere, through my fears and desire for a whole lot more, I loved him too. Very much. Being so young taunted me, and maybe I did not know the value of what I had. Two and a half years I ended it. And he was very sad.

Or so I heard.

*I say re-met because we knew each other from high school but had no romantic interest. Actually no friendly interest either, so I guess I was meeting him all over again.