Imperial Palace, Shinjuku, okonomiyaki, and karaoke!

We had a HUGE day yesterday (hence me posting this in the morning rather than last thing at night). We headed to Tokyo station to sort out our JR passes, and then met my fabulous friend Reiko in time for a walking tour of the Imperial Palace gardens. The walking tour was free, but we tipped at the end (the only time in Japan it's really acceptable to tip - because they said it was okay) and it was quite informative and entertaining, though we had lots of trouble hearing the guide unless we were right up close.

It was slightly less hot than the day before - blissful - and we picked up a new mate from America, Michael, who came with us afterwards to meet Reiko's friend, Shogo, and his mate, Motoki. The six of us spent the rest of the day together, starting with drinks in a blissfully cold cafe in one of Tokyo's many massive shopping centres.

We then headed to Shinjuku, and I didn't think it was possible, but I found it even more awe-inspiring than Shibuya OR Akihabara. Walking around Shinjuku on a Saturday night is like White Night in Melbourne. We went into all different shops and arcades, and took photos at those crazy booths and played more Initial D racing games (Dad, I picked a Honda NSX!).

Then we went to this FANTASTIC okonomiyaki place Motoki found, where we made our own on the grill at the table!! And I drank heaps of umeshu, it being my new favourite thing. We had okonomiyaki with squid, okonomiyaki with beef and 'devil's tongue', and Tokyo-style okonomiyaki which was almost liquid-y. Really delicious, each and every one! Finally, to top off a truly Japanese evening, we ended up at an awesome karaoke place, drinking Japanese whisky sodas and belting out classic hits such as "Let It Go" (Frozen is everywhere, Frozen is life, you can never escape Frozen, no matter how far you travel), "Seasons of Love" (I got the high note, shit yeah), "Space Oddity", "Love Story", "Part of Your World", "Empire State of Mind", "I Don't Wanna Miss A Thing", "The Lazy Song", and a bunch of others I can't remember, including a brilliant Japanese number that Reiko, Shogo, and Motoki performed WITH dance moves. We still managed to be home at about midnight, but spent some time up on the terrace, which is the perfect place to be at night, when it's still warm, but not too hot, with a cold drink before bed. And then I slept until 10.30 this morning.

Harajuku and Akihabara

I love sleeping on tatami mats! So comfy! Though the sun came smack bang through our window first thing, so it was not easy to sleep in as much as I wanted! Simple breakfast is offered downstairs, and I got chatting to some tourists from Denmark over cocoa flakes, before we piled on the sunscreen and headed out into the oven that is Tokyo.

Last time I visited, I had wanted to go to Harajuku and had run out of time. This morning we purchased a travel card and jumped on the Joban and Yamanote lines, on wonderfully air-conditioned trains, before alighting at Harajuku station. Instantly, Takeshita Dori (birthplace of many a Tokyo trend), comes into view. It was crazy, filled with approximately 2 billion souvenirs I could have purchased purely for the cute factor. It was crowded and noisy, playing a crazy mix of J-pop and Western music (including some classic Bon Jovi), and looked at first glance as though a hyperactive toddler had gone crazy with a paintbrush. The sheer volume of colour and textures and advertising was fabulous - similar to the effect of Shibuya at nighttime. The real treasures were the things to buy. Imagine the weirdest thing you could put on a t-shirt, and I guarantee you'll find weirder in Harajuku. Also, they love Disney. And Barbie. And Totoro. I mean, who doesn't?

Just on the other side of the station, is a completely different experience. The Meiji Shrine was probably about 5 degrees cooler, seeing as we were walking through a canopy of trees. It was beautiful, quiet, and quite busy despite the heat. For 500yen we were able to enter the Inner Garden and admire the Kiyomasa well and the fishing pond near the teahouse. Little tortoises came up to say hi, and there were plenty of places to sit and rest - a little oasis from the heat and noise.

We jumped back on the JR line to get home, revelling in the cool train carriages, and have stopped for a rest and a shower at the hostel before we go out for the evening.

Okay, so it was a long rest and shower! And then more chatting with hotel guests. And THEN we got on a train to Akihabara, famous tech/anime/game district, which looks like Shibuya only MORE CRAZY. We wandered around forever to find some dinner (which we bought with the handy vending machine ticket system they use a lot over here), and then went into one of the massive, multi-storey arcades. SO MANY WEIRD AND COOL GAMES! I have precisely zero interest in games, and genuinely surprised myself with how much fun I had. I can see why these places are so popular! (Also, sorry for being a game snob.)

Home now, nearly midnight, and I want to be asleep soon so we can enjoy our day with Reiko tomorrow!

Konichiwa

We are HERE. And it is wonderful. We even managed to sleep on our flight over! I have already decided I am never, ever coming to Japan in August again, as this heat and humidity is positively unholy, but I have also decided not to let it ruin the holiday for me either, so onward and upward!

We arrived at Narita this morning and the heat hit us in the face as we took the stairs to the tarmac. I collected my bag from the luggage carousel and it was wet from the humidity. We breezed through customs, took a shuttle to Terminal 2, and grabbed something to eat from good ol' 7/11. Australia needs to take a leaf out of Japan's book. I grabbed a not-too-suspicious looking salad and it was delightful, with a spicy, peanutty sauce and yummy noodles. Then we sat on a very long train ride into Ueno station, fiddling with our SIM cards and looking at the scenery.

We found our transfer to the next line without too much difficulty, and walked to our hostel, Aizuya Inn, from Minami-Senju station. It's a lovely hostel - small, quiet, but very clean and pretty, with lots of friendly staff and helpful tips. It was too early to check in, so we dumped our bags, took advantage of the free wifi and air-conditioning, then ventured out into the heat once more in search of food.

We ended up near the station, taking a punt on an all-Japanese menu and just asking for things that looked nice, without knowing what we were getting. It paid off.

Yes, yes, and yes again.

We also walked past one of the CRAZY pokies machine places, where you go through the doors and are assaulted by a wall of noise, completely unexpectedly. I swear, all the gamblers must be stone deaf.

Then it was back to the hostel. COLD SHOWERS ARE MY FAVOURITE THING. Feeling approximately 200% more human, now that I was fed and clean, I lounged in our room, stretching out under the air-con and reading my book while Sean snored (he didn't get nearly as much plane sleep as I). By the time we were ready to venture out again, we were in fresh clothes, with fresh energy and a borrowed umbrella, which definitely helped combat the heat.

The rare bearded geisha

We went to Tokyo station, to meet my gorgeous friend Kristina, who is traveling with her lovely godfather. They have been in Tokyo a day longer than us, and were marginally more accustomed to the heat. We swapped stories and went in search of food, ending up at a restaurant with dishes larger than our own heads.

We pressed on through our exhaustion and headed to Shibuya, to see the famous crossing, the Hachiko mural wall, and the general craziness. I love this part of Tokyo because it feels so...like what you expect Tokyo to be like. It's like Times Square, but crazier. We picked up ice creams and basically just went for a long walk through the district, checking out the crowds and the many, many shops.

Sean's favourite club

Would you care for a Pacific Rim or Avengers cocktail?

It wasn't long before we said our goodbyes and headed back to the hostel. There is a lot of sleep to catch up on tonight! First though, we went and sat up on the hostel terrace, with lovely views and a peaceful atmosphere, to enjoy a drink before bed. Now to attempt the sleep. We need to have all the energy for tomorrow!

Amazing library documentary

I borrowed this fabulous DVD from the library I work at, titled The Hollywood Librarian: A Look at Librarians Through Film. It's a documentary not only about the representation of librarians on film, but on the purpose and history of libraries and the passion and dedication of their staff. It's a shame it seems to difficult to obtain, but if you can borrow a copy (from your local library!) I highly recommend it. It's made me all happy and inspired and grateful that I chose this career, on a day where I needed the reminder!

My first piece of published fiction.

This is my first piece of published fiction. It appeared in issue 94 of Voiceworks magazine, in Spring 2013. It's called Bronte. I wrote about the experience of being published here.

They named her Bronte, unable to decide between Charlotte and Anne. ‘A windswept name,’ thought Rebecca, with the exhilaration of someone about to do something not quite sensible. Bronte slithered out from between Rebecca’s thighs, cold and wet, with a thatch of dark hair plastered to her face. She lay gasping like a dying fish until the doctor wiped the mucus from her mouth and smacked her smartly on the back.

When she was five years old, she leapt off the roof of the house, landing in a sticky tangle of thorns and snapping her collarbone. When Rebecca and John asked her what on God’s green Earth she had been thinking, she blinked at them and said ‘I was thinking I wanted to die.’ Rebecca and John sent her to a variety of doctors who sifted through her mind to no avail, until Bronte told them exasperatedly (and with extraordinary articulation for her age) that she hadn’t really wanted to end her life, she was just curious to see what dying felt like. John wondered about her. Rebecca chewed her nails, and doubted.

When Bronte was seven years old, her younger brother Joseph was born. He was blond and fair with rosebud lips and beautiful, fat-baby limbs. Bronte held her own skinny wrists up to compare, saw the sallow shade, almost blue - the colour of a sickly oyster. Joseph had cream-coloured skin, fresh and blooming with health, and Bronte stroked the downy crown of his head, wondering if Joseph too, was curious to know what dying felt like. Rebecca lifted the baby away, into the cot, a flutter of muscles shifting beneath the skin of her forearm.

When Bronte was eleven years old, Rebecca’s mother came to live with the family. Grandma Joan had a brain tumour that was killing her slowly and creatively, playing dice with her senses and nerve impulses. Rebecca felt bloated with the richness of who her mother used to be. First, Grandma Joan’s short-term memory went, slipping quietly out the door one night and blending seamlessly into the detritus of the summery storm. Next, it was her ability to chew her food. Rebecca sat up next to her, five times a day with a cloth and a bowl of pureed slush. She developed a rhythm. First, you spoon into the open mouth, then massage the jaw and throat gently, ensuring the food is swallowed without incident. Then use the cloth to wipe the saliva and partially masticated mess off the lips and chin. Spoon, massage, wipe. Repeat. Bronte sat beneath the dining room table, transfixed, and Rebecca fought the urge to scream at her to go away. But she didn’t, and Bronte wouldn’t.

One morning, Bronte crawled up to Grandma Joan and held her nose and mouth pinched shut with her thumbs and forefingers. Rebecca came into the room just as Grandma Joan turned blue. The slap on Bronte’s cheek turned into a perfectly formed five-fingered bruise. Grandma Joan died not long afterwards, anyway, when her heart puttered to a long overdue stop. Rebecca cried for days and it was up to John to cook dinner for Bronte and Joseph. Bronte marched her peas around the edge of the plate and used her fingers to flick them neatly at Joseph. Joseph roared with laughter, his chubby fists beating the table with enthusiasm as he tried to catch them in his open mouth. Rebecca howled from the next room.

Bronte woke up the morning of her thirteenth birthday with Grandma Joan sitting on her chest. She tried to yell, but all that came out was a flattened gasp. As she struggled, Grandma Joan leant forwards, eyelids drooping, looking for all the world like she was falling asleep. Chewed food dangled from her lips on strings of drool and Bronte gave an almighty shove right as the longest string snapped. Grandma Joan toppled backwards off her chest and disappeared. Bronte sat up and looked around the room, afraid to move, her breath coming in great lungfuls. Words sat on her tongue, scrambling forwards before she gulped them back again, weighing her options. She thought it better not to bother her parents and besides, her mother tended to tighten her lips when Bronte mentioned Grandma Joan. The next morning, when Grandma Joan appeared again, Bronte didn’t panic.

‘Hi Grandma Joan,’ she said, easing herself out from under her and waiting to see if she would disappear. Grandma Joan nodded and tried to answer, but her words came out garbled like they had in the last few months of her life. Bronte frowned. Surely death would have brought some form of relief from life and the pain that came with it? When Grandma Joan appeared once more, several days later, Bronte was still unable to understand her. Instead she sat on the edge of her bed, her toes freezing as she watched the ghost of her grandmother articulate something Bronte couldn’t grasp. Bronte made a fist and rapped herself on the skull a few times, but nothing happened, apart from an annoying pain in her head.

By the time Bronte was fifteen, Rebecca had shut down. She spent all day in bed, emerging only to use the bathroom and sometimes not even then. John would carry the soiled sheets from the bedroom to the laundry and Joseph would clap his hand over his nose, too young to be discreet. Rebecca ate soup and toast and drank copious amounts of herbal tea, and when Bronte brought a tray into her room, Rebecca would roll over and pretend to be asleep until her daughter had left. Bronte crawled beneath the bed one time and lay there, breathing softly, and Rebecca was torn. To tell her to leave would mean betraying the fact she was awake. But to say nothing and continue to lie there, mother and daughter trapped in a waking cycle of pretence and mutual animosity, was more than she could bear. So Rebecca sat up and pulled Bronte out from under the bed by the ear. 

‘I want you to stay out of here,’ she said in a voice hoarse from disuse. Bronte said nothing - just narrowed her small, dark eyes as she confirmed in her mind what she had always known. From then on, Joseph and John were in charge of bringing meals, and if neither of them were home, Rebecca would go hungry. Bronte sat in her room and tapped the wall rhythmically, lightly with the toe of her shoe, hoping Rebecca could hear it. She used Morse code, constantly spelling out the same words: ‘Your mother visits me at night.’           

Bronte left the nest at the age of seventeen. She had a battered black suitcase (left to her by Grandma Joan of all people) and the promise of cash when she needed it from her father. She found a room above a derelict dry-cleaning store and took up a smoking habit, using handfuls of cash she earned from dishwashing at a restaurant a few streets away. One night, the apprentice chef cornered her in the laneway behind the restaurant. The clouds were streaky across the night sky like spilt paint and Bronte felt the outline of the bricks in the wall digging into her back when he pressed against her, his mouth wet like a snail. Bronte’s hands went limp at her sides. She stared at him through apathetic eyes. He let go of her and dropped eye contact. Bronte readjusted the shirt she wore and hitched her handbag higher on her shoulder. She turned and left without a word.

      

The next time he tried it - at a house party thrown by their work colleague - Bronte let him continue. Glasses of red wine had made her feel warm and smooth and supple, and their tongues were heavy in her mouth as he kissed her. The tan of his skin made her arms look like dirty snow. His breath was harsh in her ear as his grip tightened on her hips. Afterwards, Bronte lay on the rumpled bed clothes in the spare room, staring at the patterns on the ceiling made from rain-soaked plaster. Her fingers itched for a cigarette, and she wondered idly if she should walk home in the rain or stay over. A muffled, strangled sound brought her out of her wine-induced, post-coital haze. She stared at the apprentice. He was crouched on the carpet clutching his clothes. The bones of his spine stuck out like knuckles. Bronte stared at him without saying anything for a while, and then looked back at the ceiling. Perhaps intimacy would always be an unbalanced transaction. She wasn’t sure if that was the sort of thing she should know. Grandma Joan sat in the corner of the room, but Bronte ignored her too. What was the use of having questions when the answer couldn’t be articulated?

When Bronte woke up the apprentice had gone, and the pre-dawn light was creeping in beneath the curtain. She dressed, pilfered some cigarettes from the handbags of her colleagues and disappeared out the front door. She padded across the grass in the dormant lung of morning, her breath making webs of fog in her lips. She didn’t realise she was walking to her parent’s house until she looked up and saw the street sign. When she reached the letterbox, she lit a cigarette and crouched down. The curtains were closed, the house cocooned in its slumber. Joseph’s bike was lying in the grass. Bronte sat and smoked until the sun was fully risen. She watched her family wake, the house come alive. She sat and smoked and watched as her father made breakfast and her brother did the dishes. Her mother sat at the kitchen table, reading.

JASA Conference (Canberra)

This weekend, I fully embraced my book-nerdness, and went to Canberra for the Jane Austen Society of Australia (JASA) weekend conference titled Emma: 200 Years of Perfection. Mum and Marnie had agreed to come with me, and use the opportunity to see Canberra and catch up with friends while I was diligently absorbing all things Austen. It was nearly as good as our 2014 tri-generational European extravaganza! (See earlier blog posts).

We drove to Canberra in a day, and didn't even have to leave early! Mum and Marnie picked me up at 9am, we loaded my stuff into the car, and off we went. Apart from a couple of lightning fast coffee/petrol stops and a lunch break in Holbrook, we drove straight along the Hume Hwy for the whole beautiful, sunny day, and arrived at the Rydges Capital Hill hotel in Canberra at 5.30pm.

Holbrook for lunch

I was at the Forrest Suite at 6pm for dinner, having joined a table with the handful of others who I know from the Jane Austen Society of Melbourne. We were joined by some Sydneysiders and enjoyed a three-course meal, discussing all things Austen, before meeting the speakers for the conference.

Ooh, fancy!

Speaking at the event (as well as MC-ing and generally organising), was JASA president Susannah Fullerton, who lectures on many different writers and their lives. I've heard Susannah speak many times and she always has something interesting to say. Emma is her favourite novel of all time, so this weekend was a project very close to her heart.

Also joining us were married American professors Sayre N Greenfield and Linda V Troost, who have written extensively on Jane Austen adaptations (among many other things), Canadian professor Barbara K Seeber who has written about the role of nature and animals in Jane Austen's work, and British professor David Norton, who spent most of his career concentrating on the history and textual importance of the King James Bible before returning to Jane Austen in his 'retirement'.

It was a good introductory session with lots of questions and laughs, but it was early to bed for most of us afterwards, ready for a full tomorrow. Marnie and Mum had been out gallivanting but we put the heater on, tucked ourselves in, and read our books until we dropped off to sleep.

We were up early, and I have my charming cold that I thought I got rid of last week which made for an interesting night's sleep. Nevertheless, I was at the conference at 9.30 to collect my conference folder and buy a very small amount of things - I am on a strict budget. (Most of the stuff in the photo I either already had or was complimentary!)

I have already eaten at least one of those cookies.

First session was Barbara Seeber on Jane Austen and animals, describing not only the role of animals in Austen's work, but also how certain characters are given animal characteristics - it's not obvious, but the evidence is there! This was followed by morning tea and a chat with new people from all over Australia and New Zealand. Linda Troost and Sayre Greenfield did a joint presentation next on Emma and multimedia, concentrating on the three most recent productions - the 2009 BBC miniseries, the Bollywood adaptation titled Aisha, and the multi-platform web series, Emma Approved. Having seen two out of the three productions discussed, there was plenty of new insights for myself to discover!

David Norton spoke about Mr Knightley and Emma as lovers - a very sweet and swoon-worthy analysis of the timeline of the novel, pinpointing the moments their relationship changed. After lunch, Susannah Fullerton spoke about the locations in Emma, geographically and historically, and the significant details that the locations tell us about the scenes and characters that inhabit them. After question time with the speakers, in which passionate debate took place about the benefits of different Emma adaptations, it was time for another break!

Mum, Marnie, and our Sydney cousin Margi picked me up to drive around Manuka while they decided where they would eat dinner. I chattered and they listened politely, and then we headed back to the hotel for Midsomer Murders before dinner began.

On Saturday nights the conference attendees are invited to dress in Regency attire. I didn't, and there was only a handful of the 150-ish dinner guests who did, but they looked lovely and received lots of compliments. Apparently at the Jane Austen Society of North America conferences (5-day affairs that have between 600-700 attendees), most people dress up every day and they have pop-up stalls to hire costumes if you don't have any.

I came back to the hotel room at about 9.30, and finally finished Emma, which I'd been rereading, with a head full of new insights that made it twice as fun. Thankfully, I had a slightly better night's sleep.

The next morning I was back for more, buying a couple more bits from the stall. I bought a second hand copy of Villette by Charlotte Bronte in a beautiful old binding. I was standing with Marnie and we opened the book and the handwritten name inside was J. Fowler, which was Grandpa's name. A really special, slightly spooky coincidence!

Sayre Greenfield spoke first this morning, talking about words in Austen and particularly the language in Emma - what do all those pauses and dashes signify? Barbara Seeber spoke about the challenges of teaching Austen, including the often unconsciously gendered readings, where criticism is applied to qualities in one character, but not to the same qualities in a character of the opposite sex.

After morning tea, Linda Troost delivered probably my favourite talk of the conference, which discussed whether Frank Churchill was a good guy or not. She used a close reading of the text to separate what the narrator and what Emma thought Frank was thinking, and what his motives were, contrasted with what he perhaps is actually thinking and what his motives are. For anyone who remembers the scene in Box Hill and his many comments about Jane Fairfax, you would have an idea of how interesting this became. David Norton concluded the conference by speaking about the wonderful, comical, pitiful, brilliant Miss Bates, also touching on what Sayre was analysing about the dashes and pauses in her speech. Miss Bates, according to David Norton, is a lot savvier than we perhaps give her credit for. (And he also threw in a reference to how she was a sort of Austen counterpart to Hagrid in Harry Potter - ten points to David).

And then it was finished! Thank yous were said, and gifts handed out. We went downstairs for one last meal and I sat with yet another group of lovely people. I have felt very welcomed on this conference and made a lot of new friendships. I dashed around at the end to say my goodbyes, and then met Marnie and Mum out in the hotel foyer. We left Canberra at 2.10pm, and I walked in my front door at 9.55pm. And we only stopped briefly for dinner and once for coffee, and didn't speed! On the way home, we reported on our weekends and reminisced about our European trip. I am a lucky girl indeed to get to travel with my mum and my grandmother, and if it weren't for them, I wouldn't have been able to attend this weekend, so I am exceedingly grateful.

Oh, and today it is one month exactly until Sean and I leave for Japan!

Anxiety, thou art a heartless bitch.

In 2010, I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. I remember the terror of those days, the absolute horror of not understanding what was happening to me, days spent crying uncontrollably and nights spent feeling ill and afraid I would never sleep. It was, without a doubt, the hardest period of my life. I recovered, gradually, over several months. I saw my doctor, who put me onto a psychologist, who helped me talk things out and make the decision to try medication. Within a couple of weeks of taking medication, I felt more capable. Not cured, but somehow tougher, more able to help myself. Roughly a year after first starting to feel terrible, I was feeling almost back to normal. The following three years were a pleasure, the calm after the worst storm ever. I spoke about my depression like it was a thing of the past, something that happened to me once that I had survived and was grateful for, because it enabled me to help other people and empathise with their experience.

Then, last year, I felt myself wobbling again. I was hyper-alert, scarred by the memories of 2010, and I called my psychologist, who I hadn't seen since early 2011. Due to an overseas holiday, and the fact that I wasn't feeling nearly as dreadful as I had four years earlier, it was several months before I actually saw her again. In that time, I slid a little further backwards. It was still not as bad as 2010, but the circumstances of my life at the time seemed to exacerbate my symptoms. I don't have a difficult life. Aside from mental illness, my life has been relatively untouched by trauma of any kind, for which I am extremely lucky and grateful. Yet, in 2014, I was as good as unemployed, unable to save any money, and feeling stuck and stagnant in a lot of areas. My anxiety shot through the roof. I experienced several panic attacks, and shaky days of expending SO MUCH energy trying to pretend nothing was wrong. I upped my medication again (having dropped it down in the last three years), and tried to research all I could about anxiety disorders, having worked out that I felt calmer when I understood the physiological reasons for feeling so rank. I made the mistake of pouring my expectations into the future - 'when this happens, I'll feel better', 'when that happens, I won't be as anxious about the other thing'. Thinking this way was setting me up for failure, looking for external cures for a very internal problem. My creativity dried up, and I became afraid of idleness. Having nothing to do for the day was a recipe for disaster. Unfortunately being overtired was another major trigger. Balancing being busy enough to distract myself from my negative feelings with getting enough rest was incredibly frustrating. I found myself avoiding all situations that had the potential to be stressful. I began to think I would never move overseas and never have children - two things I want very much to do - because of their potential for stress. I figured it just wasn't worth the chance of a relapse. My psychologist quite rightly pointed out that stress is part of life, no matter how much I try to hide from it, and avoiding things with enormous positive potential because of the normal stress that comes with them is cutting off my nose to spite my face.

My parents, my partner, and my close friends were, and are, invaluable. The support that I have been shown has been so bolstering, particularly the testimonies of people who have been where I am. I managed to stabilise my employment situation, and having a job that I love and find challenging and satisfying has done wonders for me. I began to save money, and made plans to finally move out of my parent's place. The move is done now, and I had about a month of feeling wonderful, before it hit me again. Transitional periods in life can be hard, and I'm not surprised that moving house triggered another episode, but it still sucked. I was having breakfast with my dad not long ago when I mentioned that I was starting to remember times in childhood when I was anxious, recognising certain memories and feelings as symptoms of anxiety.

'Em,' he interrupted, 'you've had panic attacks all your life.'

The realisation of this is weirdly comforting. I am being very organised in compiling strategies and tips to help myself when I feel terrible, but they don't always work. And that's okay. My doctor told me anxiety can't be cured, but it can be managed, and she's right. Before 2010, I was convinced I'd never been anxious in my life, which, looking back, is blatantly untrue. After 2010, I had three years that felt positively idyllic in their lack of anxiety/depression. Both these periods are proof that living with an anxiety disorder doesn't mean I'll feel dreadful every day. I won't wake up every morning with my brain kicking into overdrive before I'm even conscious, with every bad thought I've ever had whirling around my head repetitively. I won't exhaust myself with smiling and laughing and ignoring the twisted nausea in my stomach when I'm with other people, and I won't have to talk myself out of self-loathing and questioning every decision I've ever made.

Other fun things anxiety does (just a wee sample)

- makes me feel as though I'll never get over this particular episode

- sucks the joy out of things that usually make me feel good, including spending time with people I love and whose company usually helps me

- assists me in blowing up every single, tiny, insignificant thing that happens and overanalysing it to death

- helpfully reminds me of every time something negative has ever happened and plays it loudly and obnoxiously through my brain all day

- tells me constantly that I am a burden to everyone and that the people who love me would be better off with a more mentally stable daughter/sister/partner/niece/granddaughter/cousin/friend

- encourages me to take every molecule of negativity directed even vaguely in my direction (and often imagined, at that) extremely personally and as proof of my utter crapness

- fuels an inconvenient fear of normal, healthy, and unavoidable parts of life - such as failure, change, and loss

- smothers any joyful excitement/anticipation I have in the future and convinces me that only the worst versions of this future will eventuate (this is called 'catastrophising' and I am extremely good at it)

The only reason I've been able to write this blog post is because today I am not feeling like life is impossible. In fact, and I don't want to jinx it, but I've felt oddly normal for the last couple of days. This post isn't particularly organised, and I sort of just spewed it all out at once, but I hope it makes sense, and that it can help someone else if they need it. Sometimes knowing we are not the only person in the world whose ever felt like this can be enough to get us through the day.