Stephen Witherden’s Website :: Angst

“Goodbye Granny” I said as I got up to leave. “I’m sure I’ll see you again” I lied bravely “I’ll come visit South Africa or something”.
“Hope I’m alive when you do” she voiced my unspoken fear.

My grandmother leaves New Zealand tomorrow morning, after spending some precious months here visiting my father in Wellington. She and I spent a magical week together touring the Marlborough: the top of the South Island. We spent so many hours together in the car that we got to know each other very well. I think I learnt more about her in that week than I have in my entire life. She’s a wonderful person.

“I wish I was a man, and younger” granny confessed one sunny afternoon as I drove us swiftly between nowhere and Blenheim “because then I’d date you”. It’s a strange disclosure that speaks of a yearning for companionship that spans generations and gender. She was very remorseful that she had to delay coming up to Auckland, meaning we wouldn’t have as much time to chat as we had before.

Before I went to my cousins’ place to say goodbye one last time, I filled a memory card with a bunch of photos of our trip and the family. I inserted it into the picture frame I bought her and gave it to her with strict instructions to get people to load more pictures onto it for her.

I didn’t tell her that the memory card came from my camera, rendering it useless. Until I get a new card, my camera won’t take any more pictures. It’s kind of appropriate really, because it reflects how I feel: a part of me is leaving and I don’t think I can take any pictures at the moment either.

I was cleaning out my drawers, going through clothes I need to get rid of, when I came across a little bit of my own personal history: my Deo Fretus t-shirt. Now, Deo Fretus (in God we trust) was the motto of my high school and also the name of the quintet I was a member of for two glorious years. It’s hard to describe the profound sense of nostalgia I felt as I tenderly pulled the tatty t-shirt out of the drawer and regarded its moth-eaten holes.

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Those of you who have followed my blog for some years now will remember that I had a run in with an interesting guy while I was in Texas. Stephen (confusingly sharing my name) was my second boyfriend and the first guy that I guess you could say I had anything approaching a relationship with. It all ended rather badly due to a combination of mental illness, pills and a failed healthcare system.

When I last saw Stephen, I’d left him with his new boyfriend and a tenuous but workable support structure. It all fell apart rapidly when I left and Stephen ended up having another crisis which culminated in him living with his birth father, arguably a good thing for him.

He kept up correspondence with me. Through a haze of dissociative identity there emerged this new person, a far more complete and whole person. Still Stephen, but sadly with a little added toughness. I see Stephen as equal parts creative/sensitive, angry/violent and cool/calculating. These three characters vie for supremacy in his psyche. At the moment, the cool character is prominent.

Anyway, you’re not reading this for the pop psychology lesson, you’re reading this because you want to know why the boy in that hole appears to be dressed in army fatigues and why I have a picture of a boy in a hole on my website.

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As some of you may know, I recently turned 30. It was an unremarkable milestone as milestones go. Last year I threw a nice big party and invited a whole lot of people. This year, I just had a small group, we drank, ate and talked a little. The next day Sam made me a birthday cake complete with 30 candles, a nice gesture on his part.
 
30 seems so old, objectively so. When I was younger 30 seemed to be so very far away. I had this vague notion that I should be retired by 30, or that I should at least have my life sorted out. In many ways it is.

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Well, this is a particularly distressing story to tell, so soon after I related the previous one about my car being whole again.

Last night, I drove up from Hamilton, my car in tact, hoping to make it to a friend’s place for a late Christmas party they were throwing. I made it in time (just before midnight). Socialised and had a few drinks. I then took a little nap to sober up before the short drive home. When I got back to my car (at around 4am), this sight greeted me:

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As I mentioned in a previous blog post. I was rear-ended by an intoxicated chap over a month ago. What I didn’t elaborate on was the painful insurance-saga that ensued.

When the accident happened, I called my insurer: AMI (also the insurer for the other two people involved) the phone-lady told me that they would email me a claim form in the morning. They didn’t. Ok, well, people forget, so the next day I printed a claim form myself, diligently filled it out and took it in to the AMI office personally, my long-suffering colleague Richard in tow for moral support.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that the advertisements are something of an embellishment and not a true reflection of the AMI business model. There was no leggy singing brunette weaving between the computer terminals, handing out smiles and wads of cash to all and sundry. Rather, I sat down with a confused young lady who appeared to be a recent ESOL (English for Speakers of Other Languages) graduate.

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It was soon after my birthday in October when I started suspecting that something was awry in my relationship with Sebastian. He declined a road trip with me, he didn’t come over to my place anymore, and when I visited him, he was reluctant, even begrudging with his affection.

After struggling with him for over a month, trying to figure out what I had done, or how things had changed in his mind, I decided to call it off.

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Well, every now and again you have a new experience. Yesterday was one of those days. I had left work on time for once in a rather chipper mood: I was meeting up with my friend Rick at Sylvia Park to go watch a movie. It was his only evening off for quite some time so we decided to make hay.

It was about 6:10 pm; I was travelling on Beach Road towards the motorway and had come to a stop behind a car waiting in a queue at the lights on Parnell Rise.

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I live a hectic lifestyle. I think it’s partly my nature. I seem to be constantly doing something for someone I promised them I would do sometime in the not-too-distant future and have put off as much as I possibly can till this very moment because I was too busy doing something else I promised I would do much earlier.

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On Tuesday last week I dragged myself into work at 11am and stared blankly at the screen for a few hours, producing very little of any value. No, that’s not a usual day for me, quite the contrary. It turns out I had contracted the flu and simply couldn’t concentrate.

So, I dutifully went back home, took some bed rest and water and waited for it to subside.

It didn’t.

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It was almost a month ago today, February 14^th in fact, Valentine’s day. My father was up in Auckland for the day and I was treating him to a meal at a nice Italian restaurant. We sat there sipping our drinks, crammed in amongst all the star-struck couples exchanging meaningful glances over their glasses. Well, there’s no time like the present…

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Well, you all know by now that I fell in love quite some time ago: to hybrid car technology, of course. In particular, I fell in love with a specific model: the Toyota Prius. I loved how small it was, I loved the way it could run (briefly) without any petrol at all and I loved the possibilities it promised for the future.

I diligently saved up a whole year to buy mine, so when I unexpectedly found myself in Texas I saw no reason why I shouldn’t continue my plan and just buy one there, so I did. This worked brilliantly and I have been more than overjoyed with the outcome. In every way, this car has exceeded my expectations. Still, all good things must come to an end, so about a month before I was due to leave the country I started trying to sell my car.

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Hi all, this is just a brief update to let everyone know how I am doing, because I know many people have asked.

The flight from Dallas to Los Angeles was only remarkable in that, although the TSA managed to prevent me from boarding the plane with a weapon of mass destruction cleverly disguised as my toothpaste, they failed to catch the fact that I had a box cutter in my jacket pocket.

This caused some stir among the TSA staff in Los Angeles, I can assure you. No cavity searches for me, though.

I did get a chance to see the fires over California, which was quite a chilling sight indeed.

The 13 hour flight to New Zealand was uneventful. I was sandwiched between two old ladies and miraculously slept most of the way. I woke up on Friday, having skipped Tuesday due to time zones.

To my joy I had very little jet lag. To my horror I discovered that my rental car was a manual and so I bunny-hopped half-way down the motorway till I swapped with Sarah and she drove for me. Once I had an automatic car I drove down to visit my parents (yes, the same day I arrived in the country). The next week, on Tuesday, I was back to work.

I have since been living in a hotel, working during the day and trying to find a place to live at night. So far I have been unsuccessful and my time here at the hotel ends on Friday, so I will be sleeping on Sarah’s couch for a while till I am able to find a place to live.

I promise to write more once I am settled.

“So what will you have to drink?” the waitress asked.
“Uuuh” Kameron looked at the menu then back up at her in confusion
“I’m sure they have Dr. Pepper” I rescued him, “he’ll have a Dr. Pepper and I’ll have a Vodka & 7-Up, Grey Goose” she nodded and left.
“You see anything you like?”
“Uh, well, if I could understand anything on the menu… and it’s so expensive”
“Well, this is your night, hon, we’re celebrating”

I had decided to take Kameron out to the nicest restaurant in town: Culpeppers. They serve some very nice food along with excellent service & atmosphere. We were celebrating because, after a month that seemed to drag on forever, Kameron had finally scored a job, and a good one too. I was proud.

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Stephen & I picked Kameron (Stephen’s ex, ex, now current bf, do please try to keep up) last Sunday. So, Kameron’s currently living with me for the time being till he finds himself a job and place to stay (not necessarily in that order).

It’s all a part of my cunning plan, you see. Kameron had been planning on coming down to Dallas to live with Stephen for a while, ever since they got back together some 5 months ago. That way, when I leave, Stephen is taken care of, mostly. Add to that the free pills, free shrink and (hopefully) free money in the form of disability payments and he should be set. Sadly, Kameron lived in Jackson, Tennessee which is about 520 miles by car from where I live in Dallas. He would have to make the move, but he’d never attempted a move this big before. He desperately wanted to escape from Jackson, though, his great escape if you will.

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This post describes probably one of the most stressful days of my life. This all happened on Monday, 5th February 2007, I call it black Monday.

Before I launch into it, I want to make it clear that I am fine, mentally, physically and emotionally. I am taking care of myself. I also want to explain that it does seem as though I am making myself out to be a martyr here. Sometimes it feels that way, but really all I am trying to do is to do the “right thing”. Exactly what the “right thing” entails is complex and ever-changing.

Stephen spent the weekend with his parents so that he could spend time with his aunt & uncle who had come down for a visit. I met his relatives too, that’s a story in and of itself. That Monday morning I went to work with a fully charged phone, just in case things went wrong. I sent Stephen an encouraging text message, because I was worried about him, and settled in to work.

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This happened on Friday, February 2nd 2007.

This is a continuation from Triage.

We awoke at 7:30am on Friday and I drove Stephen in to Timberlawn in Mesquite. As luck would have it, this place was across the road from Stephen’s mental health clinic, the MHMR (mental health, mental retardation) clinic of Mesquite. We were planning on going there anyway to talk to his case worker and pick up his new prescription.

I guess at this time I was thinking: “yes, these are the professionals, they can fix him. They will know what’s wrong with him and fix him, just like a car.”

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This happened on 1st February 2007.

This is a continuation of madness takes its toll.

I met with a drowsy Stephen and his mother when they pulled up to their house. I was obviously buzzing at a hundred miles an hour. I wanted to take him straight to his psychiatrist and get him checked out. Like a car I guess. He was broken and he needed to be fixed… right away!

His mother was not so sure. As I have mentioned before, she was more comfortable with pretending there was no problem at all than dealing with it. At my insistence, Stephen called the clinic but didn’t get through. His mother called and she spoke to a nurse.

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I drove up to my little apartment and bounded up the stairs at around the usual time: 6pm. My heart did a familiar little flutter as I tried the door. Locked. Relief. So he’s still inside, that’s good.

I opened the door and entered. Barenaked Ladies was playing loudly from the laptop. Many Barenaked Ladies songs deal with mental health, depression and suicide. I opened the cabinet above the fridge and shook the bottle of Ativan. No, he hasn’t taken any. Good boy. Ativan is used in emergencies only for panic attacks. It’s also an anti-convulsant and when abused, can be dangerous.

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This happened on Wednesday 31st January.
This is it: this post is the reason you all have been worried about me. I should start by saying that everything is fine and I am doing very well, thank you. That said, this post is about a rather difficult period in my life I’d like to share with you. Like some of the other difficult times in my life, it involves a guy…

I think I mentioned before that Stephen (my boyfriend, or so it seems) suffers a malady of the mind. Before I even met him, he confessed he occasionally suffered from panic attacks. This didn’t bother me. As I got to know him, I realised his condition was a little more complicated than your garden variety anxiety: he is diagnosed with manic-depression, also known as bipolar disorder. We talked about it a lot and I told him that if ever he was having a rough time, a panic attack or anything, he should call me.

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