On Depression & In Memoriam

Since I was but a small girl I've nurtured one big dream, that of becoming a writer...not just any writer mind you, but a kindred spirit to the Bronte Sisters and if I had to choose a contemporary, Virginia Woolf would be it. My brother Jason had a little truism he liked to spew in his signature sarcastic drone: "Aim low and you'll never be disappointed."
It's his birthday today. He would have been 40 but he took his own life almost three years ago.

We laid his ashes to rest at Augrabies where he died

They say life begins at 40. I'm 42 now and climbing out of several years long depression. Some of it could be blamed on the shocking and downright brutal deaths that littered 2015, it really was the rat infested, mustard gas asphyxiating, limb rotting, soul destroying World War I trench of my life thus far, but a larger part of Depression (capitalised on purpose) has been living with me since those early years of just wanting to walk into the river with stones in my pocket like the greatest writer, at least in my book, Virginia. I remember praying fervently for God, or Heavenly Father as the religion I was born into trained me up to speak of him, to come and carry me away from this life of suffering. But my life was not one of suffering, at least not externally. Surrounded by suffering certainly under the horrendous Apartheid regime. No "good ol days" in this beloved country. Nevertheless, existential angst hung heavily upon my Brooke Shields monobrow.

Jason & Me - bravely facing our demons

My brothers and I created worlds in the backyard. Fantasy escapism par excellence. World building, story telling as play and therapy for our sensitive souls. Then our paths diverged radically. I found my solace in literature, it offered me the same escape as our play had done in our formative years. But the boys fell into the machismo trap and it was drinking and brawling, late night trips to the emergency room, police intervention, vulgar language and aggressive acting out. My brother Jason took this toxic masculinity to extremes and worked as a game ranger where he was well respected by colleagues and loved by guests but also more than a tad "bosbevok" as we say in South African.  He went on to join the French Foreign Legion but was booted out -- too many tats, too much aggression...he picked a fight with a guy in the line for the shower because the dude touched him. Or at least that's one version of the story.

Front & Centre as a Legendary Game Ranger at Sabi bush lodge

It feels terribly disloyal to paint such an unflattering picture, since one is supposed to never speak ill of the dead, although Jason himself would no doubt relish the accounting of his misdeeds. The fact is - depression aint pretty. It's an ugly unbearable burden that alienates everyone. Somehow I finished my degrees, traveled, sustained, hell even created jobs and kept my own family life afloat, but I certainly lost friends along the dark path because if you don't put in the energy (you simply can't) few will either allow it or compensate for the lack, nor should they. Everyone has enough on their plates, no lie. It is always so touching to see people rally to help others, but crises pass. Depression can be a long haul. A long lonely haul.

My Brother & I - fighting the good fight

My brother didn't make it out the other end. And just a few weeks ago I wouldn't have believed in an end to feeling bleak. But lately I've been feeling a sense of vigour, opportunity and the energy to put myself out there. This week I put my profile up on half a dozen freelance job boards. I was shocked at the glut of writers, the grunt work and the concomitant slave wages, but I have found some lovely things too. I'll share my (mis)adventures in Freelancing in a separate post. For now I want to raise a glass to my brother. I don't drink, my fragile mental health simply can't tolerate anything that disturbs balance - whether that be alcohol, sugar or less than a solid 8 hours of sleep - but Jason always had a bottle in his hand. And to my family grieving his loss, my amazing 90 year old granny with whom he lived till the end, my mom and dad who love him unconditionally, my little brother who misses him dearly and all the other odd bods that make up our family tree... Sterkte.

With my daughter, they had & continue to have a beautiful bond

Having a family jol

I've never felt that I can admit to my lifelong struggle with depression, hardly even in my own journals. I survived a suicide attempt in my 20s but never mention it to anyone. 

I just want you (me) to know that there's no need to compound your struggle with the shame of a dirty little secret. We live in a wonderfully open age where support is abundant. Today I listened to this delightful podcast that had me nodding and laughing in recognition every step of the way. 

Have a listen and reach out, even if you don't have the strength to lift your arm or open your mouth. 

I understand. 

You are not alone. 

Jason's final resting place

Edit: I was deeply touched by how this resonated with so many. Please subscribe to stay posted:
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