You wake up during the witching hour; a time you were once scared of. You pull your suitcase from under the bed and open it to reveal the remnants of the life you have been living. You double check you have everything you need and when you realise you don’t, you smile. You quickly close the suitcase, not wanting to think twice, and pick it up with both hands. This is it. You are ready.
You quietly walk down the stairs and open the front door. You don’t look back because you have learnt by now that when you look back, you are not looking forward. You walk along the footpath towards the carriage, a yellow carriage, and the coachman takes hold of your life and places it in the boot. You take your seat, eyes still forward, and take a deep breath. You may not know where you are going but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you are going and if life isn’t about going, then what is it about?
I wish with my entirety that I could endorse New Zealand’s mental health system. However, in doing so I would be lying and deception is not welcome here. This blog is without censorship and everything I write is based on personal experience and opinion. Therefore, I will hold nothing back when describing New Zealand’s most inadequate system.
‘Perpetuation’ is the word of focus. It is defined as making something longer or continuing it. As someone who has delved into New Zealand’s mental health system on more than one occasion, I believe that perpetuation is its rightful definition. People are diagnosed with illness and the system takes illness and makes it immortal. Continue Reading
As I sit here sipping my tea with biscuits at bay, I am reminded of a certain sorrow that tainted my livelihood not too long ago. To eat is to live and so when the act of consuming food becomes disordered, the potential for life is hindered. Today I witnessed a young woman be overshadowed by this illness. Her supposed hands were wrapped around a box of sushi. I use the word ‘supposed’ because her dear fingers could have been mistaken as tiny sticks ready to snap. I do not exaggerate. Her mouth and tongue were salivating over the close proximity to nourishment. Her eyes, if given the ability, would have swallowed the sushi whole. Everything in her being was screaming for the necessity that we call food. I wanted to cry. There’s no other way to put it really. I wanted tears to roll down my face and I wanted that animation of my sadness to persuade her to eat. However, she pushed the food away, a draining task in itself, lifted from the chair like a skeletal feather and returned to starvation. I pray for her because once upon a time… I was her.