Verse Magazine Edition 22 by Verse Magazine

FREE Edition 22 | June - July 2018 Your Student Mag

MENTAL HEALTH EDITION A Letter to My Brother

I'd Like to Tell You Something I Smoke to Cope 24

Be a part of SA’s largest visual arts festival and share in over $1000 of prizes. • Submissions are open across four categories • USASA can reimburse material costs of up to $80 • Students can sell their work in a silent auction • Works will be exhibited at West Oak Hotel as part of the SALA Festival with a launch party on August 2nd To enter and for more details:

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Contents Edition 22 | June - July 2018 02 Editor’s Letter 04 Contributors 05 Preface 06 A Letter to My Brother 08 The Little Pleasures 09 Control 10 Cider and Stigma 12 Fleeting 13 Obsession in Thought 14 Songs to Vibe To 17 In[ter]view: Kate Henderson and Alex Thorpe 23 How We Choose 24 Imag[in]e: Chloe Manglaras 34 A Big Black Box 35 Neverland 36 It's a Cliché but it Does Get Better 38 A Week-old Newspaper 39 Two Beasts Lie 40 VOX 44 I'd Like to Tell You Something 46 Waves 48 The Mind of an Artist 49 I Smoke to Cope 50 Saving a Life

Cover Image Poppy Fitzpatrick

Above Image Sascha Tan

52 President's Update: Here to Help 53 USASA Calendar 55 24 58 Vulnerability is Power 60 Review: Everyday Activities to Help My Wellbeing 62 The Signs As: Household Pets 66 Good Grief

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Editor's Letters Head Editor | Jesse Neill

At the beginning of this year we were asked if we had any ideas for edition themes. As a group we came up with the idea of a mental health edition, in the hopes of encouraging fellow students to seek support while also trying to reduce the stigma and shame associated with this. After completing this edition I can say we have achieved far more than this. Well we haven’t achieved much, this is all thanks to each and everyone one of you who submitted and also to those of you who supported us or who are reading this right now. I am truly inspired and amazed. Amazed by your resilience. Amazed by your determination. Amazed by your courage. It takes real bravery to share experiences such as these and one of life’s most valuable skills is being able to open up. These stories just go to show that everybody has experienced suffering. It doesn’t mean that all life is suffering, it simply means that if we open up and talk about it, we might be surprised to find that someone else may be going through a similar experience. Everyone has their own stories, their own challenges. At the end of the day what this edition has shown us is that we’re all students but we’re more than that, we’re all human.

The Verse team acknowledges and pays respect to the Kaurna, Boandik and Barngarla people as the traditional custodians of the land that we create, publish and share on.

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Whether you have gone or are going through mental health difficulties, know that your feelings are valid and that they matter. The stories expressed in this edition reflect that. You matter. The world would be a lesser place without each and every one of you and your stories. We hope that this edition provides some form of comfort and help, as well as encouraging us to reach out for support when we need it. That’s not weak, that’s strong. We hope these pieces can provide a sense of relatability, reflecting all the moral complexities of mental health and life. And most importantly, we hope this can encourage us all to speak a little more openly about mental health. We need to be there for each other, if you’re going through something and people don’t accept who you are or what you’re going through – fuck em. Life’s too short to spend with unsupportive people. You’ve got support right here. We support you and we thank-you.

Editor | Simon Telford

The 2018 Verse Team are incredibly proud to present Edition 22: The Mental Health Edition. When we set out to Melbourne for a student publication conference early this year we sat down at our hostel and had a discussion on what we would like to do for Verse in our run. A unanimous thought was the idea to have a dedicated Mental Health Edition. We believed that this was an aspect of life too often swept under the proverbial rug. Our goal was to present an honest and somewhat confronting edition that gives brave and strong students an opportunity to share their stories. We understand that for some this edition may hit close to home. We were expecting many submissions regarding the stress of assessments, trouble fitting in at Uni or feelings of being disconnected from oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree. All issues relevant and important to students. However, instead we received articles on self-harm, depression, sexual assault, the death of those close to us and more. This was a stark reminder that we are humans first and students second. Commonly we are categorised into one faceless group, students. With connotations of an easy life dedicated to reading textbooks or slipping off to the pub instead of going to that lecture.

Reading your submissions gave me a mixture of emotions, from sadness to intense pride, melancholy to inspiration. Such is life in many ways. I ask that anyone who picks up a copy of this edition take a moment to remind themselves that the students who appear within these pages are fellows who share the classroom with you. Maybe you have similar stories, maybe you find yourself dealing with mental health issues of your own. Know that you are not alone and that together we can get through anything. Once again, I am incredibly proud to spearhead this edition with my other Verse colleagues. We set forth with the goal to help share exposure on mental health, a goal I feel that we have achieved. Hopefully this will be an edition repeated in the future with new Verse teams. We couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have done it without you.

Head Editor Jesse Neill | Editor Simon Telford | Communications Editor Georgia Lake Graphic Designer Sascha Tan | Printer Newstyle | Design & Production Consultant Jackson Polley The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily representative of the views of USASA or the editors.

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Edition 22 Contributors Dear students of UniSA, we sincerely thank you! Thank you all so very much for helping put your magazine together! Below are the names of this edition's written and visual student contributors.

We want to add you to the contributors list! Students are the back bone of this magazine and it doesn't run without your valuable input. Send through written or visual work that you want to show off! With open arms we accept all student work; written, drawn, typed, recorded or scrawled, you name it - we want it! Submit using the online form at:

Annelise Abela David Adams @david.adam.s Zoe Kassiotis Kayla Bentley Poppy Fitzatrick @poppyfitzpatrick Dante DeBono Jaiimeeta Magandram Leilani Maldari @yvm.design Anne Jackson Sascha Tan @saschatan Jesse Neill @jesse_neill Kate Henderson Alex Thorpe Heather Briony McGinn Maria Petroff @petr0ffski Chloe Manglaras @chloe.elektra Arnis Silvia Kyiandra Thanou @kyiandrathanou Carolyn Booth Olivia Huynh @olive.dsgn Brooke Clarke Cameron Cornell Evangelia Karageorgos Aki Maedomari Callan Sawyer Jonathon Pantelis Youjing Zhang Kaythryn Ellison Will Adams David McManus Chloe Cannell Frances Cohen Emma Carter Adan Richards David Blaiklock Simon Telford Dallas Nery Georgia Lake

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VerseMag.com.au/Submit Specifications for written work: We are looking for short articles 600-1200 words and longer articles 1200-2400. Articles can be on any topic but we especially love opinion pieces! Specifications for artwork: Send us images at the highest resolution you can (300 DPI or larger in .jpeg, .tiff or .pdf file format). We love all visual styles and mediums.

@superbunnyghost @ek.artist_sa @callansawyer.art

@kathryn_ellison_art @wiladamx

@crybaby_jerkins @emmacjpg.art @david.blaiklock @s.z.telford @dallas.ai @georgialakee

@versemagadelaide @versemagazine @versemag_adl

Before you continue... As our goal for this edition is to present a raw and honest portrayal of mental health, some of these stories and topics may trigger reminders of traumatic experiences or deeply negative emotions. Therefore, we have placed theme indicators at the beginning of some articles to provide readers with a warning on the confronting subjects a specific piece may cover. We truly appreciate the resilience and courage of the students who have submitted these stories, however we also want to share them in the most responsible way possible. As a publication, we have responsibilities to our audience when dealing with sensitive subjects such as mental and physical issues. The way our publication handles such subjects speaks directly to our integrity. The Verse team believes that the Mental Health Edition is a valuable addition to the 2018 Verse run and hopefully future runs as well. Although the University of South Australia offers great services to help those with mental health issues, an outlet to openly discuss and engage with these issues made by the students, for the students, will represent a greater acknowledgement and understanding on campus. If there is anything you would like to contact us about in regards to this, please don't hesitate to do so. If you or someone you know are currently facing a mental health issue, there are a wide range of resources available. UniSA offers free and confidential counselling services. Appointments can be made on the website at: www.unisa.edu.au/Student-Life/Support-services/ Counselling-Services/ There are also a range of online self-help resources provided by UniSA here: i.unisa.edu.au/students/student-support-services/ counselling/self-help-resources/

For more information on the other mental health services available contact the Mental Health Triage Service on: 13 14 65 or www.sahealth.sa.gov.au/ wps/wcm/connect/Public+Content/SA+Health+Internet/ Health+services/Mental+health+services/

Below is also a list of advocacy, complaints, counselling and support services: • beyondblue - 1300 224 636 • Kids Help Line - 1800 55 1800 • Lifeline - 13 11 14 • Skylight Mental Health - (08) 8378 4100 • Mensline - 1300 789 978 • Relationships Australia - 1300 364 277 • Sane Australia - 1800 187 263 • Veterans and Veterans Families Counselling Service - 1800 011 046 • Suicide Call Back Service - 1300 659 467 Advocacy and complaints services: • Community Visitor Scheme - (08) 8226 0315 or toll free in SA 1800 606 302 • Disability Advocacy and Complaints Service of SA - (08) 7122 6030 • Disability Rights Advocacy Service Inc - (08) 8351 9500 • Health and Community Complaints Commissioner - (08) 8226 8666 or toll free in SA 1800 232 007 • Office of the Public Advocate - (08) 8342 8200 Other support services: • Australian Infant, Child, Adolescent and Family Mental Health Association • Headroom • Headspace • Health Consumers Alliance • KidsMatter • The Mental Health Coalition of SA • Mind Matters • Multicultural Mental Health Australia (MMHA) • One Voice Network

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THEMES:

self-harm, depression, anxiety

Words by Anneliese Abela | Illustration by David Adams

Barefoot on the rough black road, my arms are wrapped around my body like the tight straps wrapped around your chest and waist and legs. I stand there in the cold night air, the sound of your soft cries and groans echoed amongst the quiet of the sleeping world. I look around the dark street as you struggle, paramedics latching the straps on either side of the stretcher and trying to calm and soothe you as they raise you up into the ambulance. It is hard to watch. I want to push them away from you, undo the buckles on the stretcher, walk you back inside and watch over you until you fall asleep. But you are in too much pain to sleep, too much fear to stop shaking. I see the long marks on your arms, dried gently by our kitchen towel left abandoned on the floor atop the drips and stains of red. Just how we found you. Kneeling on the tiles, tears mixed with sweat and smeared blood as you cried out and sobbed and said you couldn’t do it anymore. Frightened and unsure, we rung the emergency number stuck to the fridge that we hoped we would never have to use. And with a broken heart I watched them drive you away, guilt-ridden at my helplessness as I hopped barefoot back over the harsh ground and went inside to wash the kitchen floor and clean the knife, still warm from being clenched tightly in your hand. You couldn’t remember it the next morning. The drugs had sedated you, calmed you and pushed all those fears and terrors from your mind. And you had slept, for hours, and the sleeping face I saw lying in that hospital bed was childlike and vulnerable, your mouth slightly agape, snoring softly. And I was angry, yet again, at

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how your mind could have betrayed you so, how life could have taken this sweet and kind and creative boy and made him feel so powerless and alone, so lost and so afraid of what was going on inside his own head that he felt he had to hurt himself just to escape it. It started when Dad died. Our shared shock and heartbreak from such a huge loss was so heavy a burden it couldn’t be borne alone. We all grieved together and tried to find a way to pick up the pieces and move on, a family now minus one loved one. And in your effort to become the strong one — the man of the house — to look out for and protect Mum and I, you pushed your sadness to the side and locked it away to be dealt with silently on your own. But in doing so your heartache grew so unbearable that it turned from sadness into depression, which slowly smothered you and darkened your happy memories with the feeling of being cheated of the years you should’ve still had with Dad. Then the depression turned into anxiety, and then into something else, something that took control of your mind and left you helpless within it. Sometimes it leaves you sad, or leaves you scared, exhausted or angry, unable to see any future without it. Sometimes it’s pulling the curtains closed and turning off all the lights because you feel you don’t deserve anything brighter than complete darkness. Sometimes it’s drinking until your wallet is empty and you’ve partied till sunrise, too drunk and carefree to remember how down you felt before you started. Sometimes it’s waiting until the last possible moment to bail on plans with friends,

Having someone you love dealing with a mental health disorder is a heartbreaking but consolidating experience.

because you desperately want to hold onto the hope of seeing them, but when the time finally comes you just can’t face it. Sometimes it’s the two of us sitting silently on the bedroom floor with nothing to say, but still feeling comforted by another’s presence. Sometimes it’s laughter, a moment of pure joy that stands out against the despair, and you cling to it for the rest of the day. Sometimes it’s quitting your job because the weight of a mountain is stopping you from getting out of bed. Sometimes it’s arguing with your family, because no matter how much they try they can never really understand. Sometimes it’s saying sorry, one of us walking sheepishly into a room to give the other a hug after all the screaming. Sometimes it’s lying hurt on the kitchen floor at three in the morning, unsure of how you got there, your cries waking the rest of the house. Sometimes, it’s peace; a reminder of childhood happiness and the strange foreign belief that one day, actually, it might really all be okay. That you’ll be okay. And that last feeling is what I hope you will hold onto, because I know you are strong enough to get through it. I have known you all your life, and this chapter is, honestly, only a short part of it, no matter how long and endless it may seem. I can see the pain and the weariness in your eyes, but I can also see the little brother I grew up with and will always fight so fiercely for. I see our mother and father in you, see their love and their shelter. I see their courage reflected in your own. But there is something else I see when I look at you, that I want you to know so that one day, hopefully, you’ll see it too. I see a future. A wonderful future full of life and spirit and real,

true happiness. I see you with the amazing job you were always unsure you’d ever get, with friends surrounding you – both old and new — for I know your mates who refuse to leave your side now will always be there. I see a girl, holding your hand tight in hers, who will love you forever and hold you even closer on those dark days and nights which will come but, I promise, will also go. I see you travelling around the world, embarking on endless wild adventures. I see you raising children of your own and becoming the same kind of wonderful father that we lost those years ago.

“I have known you all your life,

and this chapter is, honestly, only a short part of it, no matter how long and endless it may seem” So please, hold on. Hold on through the hollowness and the hopelessness and speak out when you feel close to drowning. And if you can’t speak out, or ever can’t find the words, then just reach out, for I promise there will always be someone there to grab your hand and help you pull yourself back above the surface. I don’t always know how, but I do know we will get through it together. You are so much braver than you know. You were born to live, and I know you’ll survive. ◊

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The Little Pleasures Words and illustration by Zoe Kassiotis

My tears filled the tub In the first bath without you But that was five full moons ago Tonight the entire solar system Fills my tub There is more room For bubbles Petals And crystals Without you The foam bursts With essential oils The petals curl And stick to me Like long lost sisters My body is a garden Humming like the bees Hungry for my nectar And the jet that used to hide Behind your tired body Now finds an entire universe Between my silver-lined thighs Like the floating petals My toes have room To curl in new crevasses Because now youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re gone There is room for me

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THEMES: anxiety

Conscious Held under the water Pressure builds Surface bound Systems drawing failure Stability unfound

Control

Kayla Bentley takes us on a battle for control in her free verse poem, exploring identity, pain and victory Words by Kayla Bentley Photo by Poppy Fitzpatrick

Breath drawn simple and shaky Feel it constant feel it raw Bundled up and twisty Deep in my core Faster faster My limbs move Twisting and turning through my day Smile for the simple folk Send them on their way Hamster spins like clockwork Thoughts spread like wildfire Drop things once, forgotten Thirty times identified Distraction brings me comfort Spread love feelings down my sides A bubble of silence A stretch of reckless speed Faster faster First aid please War wound speaks when forgotten Extra reminder of the past Teeth on the skin of yesterday Triggers never the last Close your eyes Welcome the darkness Bass beats welcome Heart beat mellows Pressure retracts Conscious resides Constant cycle of build-up Dramatic release Slow down for the aftermath Hamster give me peace Music sounds of the familiar Soften feelings gently cradle my sides Sunlight beats my skin softer Colours return kind Return deep to the water Surrounded in the abyss of unknown Rest for return of sanity For the comfort in my mind Build strength for tomorrow days Promises of kind Open your eyes for potential That sings your soul Anxiety rests easy for now Focussed thoughts, returned control.

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THEMES:

self-harm, suicide

A conversation about mental health Words by Dante DeBono | Illustration by Rachael Sharman

The pub’s courtyard is filled with the steady hum of many voices and the odd clunk of a pint glass hitting a table. In one corner, I am sat across from my friend Ashley, the pair of us chatting away over drinks in the late afternoon. In such a laid-back environment, you would be hard pressed to guess the topic of our conversation. “Depression for me is just… nothing makes sense and everything is just such a big blackness. At the moment I feel like there’s something so wrong with me. I don’t get it, like am I that difficult? I try to put on a smile for work, I try not to let it get in front of me. Everyone thought I was fine, everyone thinks you’re fine but you’re not.” For the most part, Ashley is like any other girl her age. At 20 years old, she has a loving family, plenty of friends, and dreams of one day opening her own restaurant. And like nearly 11 million other Australians, she suffers from a mental health disorder. More than a quarter of young people in Australia aged 16 to 24 currently have a diagnosable mental health condition, the two most common being depression and anxiety. Ashley takes a gulp of her cider, trying to calm the nerves she admitted to feeling before we began. It is her first time speaking openly about her mental health with someone outside of her close family and professional support network. She seems a little nervous, but is determined to be honest during our interview. “At the moment my diagnosis from my doctor is severe depression. I’m on 80 milligrams of antidepressants a day, I have to go to a counsellor two times a week and I’m on suicide watch.”

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When I ask her if there was a certain catalyst or event which made her go and seek help she lets out a short huff of breath; it would resemble a laugh if not for the selfdeprecation. After another sip of her drink, she begins. “My sister made me feel really guilty about something I wasn’t telling my dad. And it wasn’t like a massive thing, it was about a speeding fine, I just wasn’t telling him. I spent the rest of my night in my room ready to kill myself. I was that ready to just give up and even now I’m still ready to just stop it.” Is she hoping medication and counselling will help her get out of this mindset? “Definitely. I think that’s one of the main reasons everyone does it. People just need that push of doing it, admitting there’s something wrong with them. With a little bit of extra help you’re gonna be fine.” But this is often a harder step to take than it would seem. Young people are less likely than any other age group to seek out professional help for their mental ill-health. According to research conducted by beyondblue, 80 per cent of Australian teenagers believe people their age will not seek support because they are afraid of what their peers will think of them. Considering the significant amount of young Australians with mental health issues, and that one third of deaths for this demographic are suicides, it appears the stigma surrounding mental health issues still permeates our society.

A report from beyondblue outlines some ways stigma associated with depression and anxiety manifests in our communities, including internalised negative views of mental ill-health and perceived discrimination of people with mental health conditions. The most common elements of the stigma include viewing people with mental illnesses as weak or dangerous, false beliefs of being able to control your mental health, and reluctance to disclose a diagnosis out of concerns about discrimination or harassment. While there is evidence indicating a slight reduction in stigma, further research has found it continues to have a significant impact on how people address the mental health of themselves and others.

“Just do it. It’s not like you’re not a strong person for needing help… sometimes you just need that little bit of a push and there’s nothing to be afraid or ashamed of.”

By now, Ashley has nearly finished her drink. Our conversation has been harder than she thought it would be but she maintains she is grateful for the opportunity to speak truthfully about what she has gone through. Apparently, feeling important is a nice change for her, especially as of late. When I tell her I am glad she decided to get help when she did, she returns my smile with a small one of her own.

She pauses, her finger tracing the condensation on her nearly empty glass. Eventually she seems to

“It’s not like you’re not a strong

person for needing help… sometimes you just need that little bit of a push and there’s nothing to be afraid or ashamed of” “What would be your advice to other people feeling this way who haven’t taken the step to get help?” I ask her.

Ashley admits it took her years before she came to terms with her mental ill-health. Feelings of shame and self-loathing have been following her since the beginning of high school. But she never would have spoken about it with anyone back then; how could she when she was so naively preoccupied with fitting in? She feels sorry for her younger self, now that she can see how much she was struggling at the time. “What would you tell a younger Ashley?”

come to a conclusion. “Just talk. Don’t sit there and cry or cut yourself or do anything like that. Make yourself aware, make yourself known. Don’t think you’re invisible. There’s just so much… there’s so much you can do, there’re so many opportunities. You have to realise you’re not nothing.” It is widely agreed upon by professionals and patients alike: the importance of talking about mental health openly and honestly. Speaking up can raise awareness, remove the stigma, and even save a life. Ashley finishes her drink and we get up to leave. “Talking,” she says, holding the door. “Powerful stuff.” ◊

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Fleeting

Words by Jaiimeeta Magandram | Image by Leilani Maldari

I don’t want to overdo it, This is nothing special. My feelings are dull, Sometimes. Our movements are slow, Imperfect. My brain and I, Unconnected. My ocean has run dry, Lips chapped after the balm. I was running around in circles and yet, Nothing feels complete. Are the skies always this pink? I must have been sleeping through it this whole time. Caught up in a daze, Nowhere to call home. Not even my head feels the same anymore, In the midst of a quasi-recovery. I’m not broken, No need to be fixed. Just laugh, Smile a bit more at least. Get out of bed, Find a friend somewhere. Somehow, Whatever will work for now is enough. Today, That’s the end till I begin again.

Obsession in Thought Words by Anne Jackson

A sudden gust of obsessive thought caught me unaware broke my grip on the tenuous wisp the tranquil thread of happiness. Blown inside by the seething storm I plummeted in constant repetitive thoughts that battered and beat in an unrelenting hammering deluge against the skull's smooth surface unhindered these thoughts raged in recurring gusts shredding the frail skin of security ripping apart the shielding beliefs under which I huddled. With no surface to grip fractured by indecision I fell I lay still breathed deep into chaos created a moments silence a pause grasping the tip I dipped it into the whirl of thoughts painted their dark ink upon the leaves of an ancient willow tree that curved, drooping from overhanging boughs Diluted in sunlight thought slips, runs drips upon fertile ground to reform as wild flowers unfurling vivid hues - scarlet reds, sapphire blues.

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to vibe to Words and Illustration by Sascha Tan For some music that is perfect to vibe, mellow down or study to, Check us out: @VerseMag on Spotify

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AGAIN

REFLECTION INTERNAL

NIGHT ON THE BEACH

WUN-TWO

NUJABES

BSD.U

MANHATTAN WARMONGER

KYOKI

LANDRACE

JAR JAR JR

ALFA MIST

INVENTION_

FRUIT FRUIT PUNCH

HOPEFUL

RUNNIN' (INSTRUMENTAL)

IN BORA BORA

TA-KU

THE PHARCYDE

BURN

EASY LIKE

RINJANI NIGHTS

SLUM VILLAGE

CORYAYO

KUZICH

KICKINIT ALONE

TAPE FLIP TOO

KIEFER

DABRYE

ERICK THE ARCHITECT

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In[ter]view: Kate Henderson and Alex Thorpe Verse Mag's Regular Interview

Interview conducted by Jesse Neill Photos supplied by Batyr

According to a report released by Orygen last year, of Australia's 1.4 million university students, at least one in four will experience mental ill-health in any given year. For our Mental Health Edition, Jesse sits down with fellow UniSA graduate Kate Henderson of the Panic Room SA and Alex Thorpe of Batyr, to discuss common questions students may have regarding mental health.

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What does your organisation do and what is your role? Kate: The Panic Room SA offers one-on-one, group and online support to individuals and families affected by anxiety and panic. I am a professional counsellor and operate the service as a sole trader (no other employees/volunteers). Alex: Batyr is a young organisation that focuses on reducing the stigma around mental health and helping those who need it reach out for support. My role as the University Program Coordinator at UniSA is to focus on doing this throughout UniSA, across all four campuses.

“...university students are

required to be far more selfmotivated and self-driven, there's a lot more responsibility on them” What are the most common stressors in a student’s life? Alex: The biggest thing for uni students is the amount of change that's going on for them. As a first year student coming out of high school the atmosphere changes tremendously; university students are required to be far more self-motivated and self-driven, there's a lot more responsibility on them. Many move out of home for the first time, don't see their friends as often, experience more academic pressure than they have previously, and begin to experiment with drugs and alcohol – it can be a tremendously stressful time for people and many of them don't realise what they're putting themselves through. How can I tell my family and friends that I am not doing ok? Kate: Choose someone who is likely to be understanding and determine what you would like to disclose – you get to decide what and how much. Then choose a time and place to chat that is most comfortable for you. If you are unable to talk about it face to face, consider writing an email, message or letter. In that message explain how you've been feeling and how it is affecting you. Explain what would be helpful and unhelpful for you, in terms of how

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your friend or family member might assist. Keep the conversation going and identify others who may be supportive if possible. Remember that anxiety thrives on secrecy and shame.

“Choose someone who is likely to

be understanding and determine what you would like to disclose – you get to decide what and how much” What are some signs to look out for in my friends and family that can tell if they are not doing ok? Kate: There are a number of signs including but not limited to: • Withdrawal and social isolation • Avoidance • Excessive procrastination • Difficulty making decisions • Excessive reassurance seeking • Excessive worry and the need for great detail about upcoming events • Difficulty meeting new people, going places, dealing with the unfamiliar • Signs of 'fight' - anger, aggression, irritability, tantrums • Signs of 'flight' - exiting quickly from situations, places, relationships, crowds • Appearing aloof, indifferent or disinterested, scattered, confused, forgetful or distracted • Catastrophising and beginning sentences with 'what if?' • Frequent trips to the toilet due to frequent urination or stomach upset (common symptom of the fight or flight response) • Perfectionism • Difficulty sleeping • Complaining of physical pain (chest pain, muscle tightness, nausea, stomach ache) • Unusual self-soothing habits when distressed (ie any repetitive action) • Disclosure of suicidal thoughts or intention to harm oneself • Self-harm

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How can I speak to and help a friend or family member with a mental health problem? Kate: Similar to when you want to tell someone else you aren’t doing ok, give the person opportunities to talk. It can be helpful to let them decide when to open up. Choose a suitable time to talk in a space you both feel comfortable, where there will be no interruptions and you are both in a calm frame of mind. Use ‘I’ statements such as ‘I have noticed... and feel concerned’ rather than ‘you’ statements – using 'you' can come across as blaming or attacking. Let the person know you are concerned about them and are willing to help. Respect how the person interprets what is happening for them. If the person doesn’t feel comfortable talking to you, encourage them to discuss how they are feeling with someone else. If the person feels they need additional help, offer to explore options with them and encourage them to see their GP.

“Similar to when you want to tell

someone else you aren’t doing ok, give the person opportunities to talk. It can be helpful to let them decide when to open up” What can I do if I think a friend is going to hurt themselves? Alex: If you are certain a friend is going to hurt themselves or someone else, always call 000. However, if you are just concerned that this may be a possibility and don't know with any certainty that it will take place, let them know you are concerned. You can ask if a friend is thinking about suicide and if they've made plans. Asking about suicide does not increase the likelihood of it happening. In fact, asking will give your friend a chance to talk about their feelings and shows that you care. The most important part of all is to encourage them to reach out for help. Suggest they call lifeline (13 11 14) if they ever need it, but also suggest they reach out for professional help in the way of a GP, counsellor or psychologist.

How should we imagine good mental health? Alex: Much like good physical health, it's something we maintain with regular self-care. Much like our physical health, it takes getting a healthy amount of sleep, eating well, being active, but on top of that it takes doing what makes you happy. Taking time for yourself to stop and do whatever it is that you enjoy, and that something is different for everyone. Good mental health doesn't mean you're always happy, that will never be the case, it simply means that you are functioning in society, you are still happy and sad and everything in the middle, but overall you are coping and have a sense of optimism about your life. What can someone do about dealing with side effects from certain medications? Kate: Talk with your GP or psychiatrist. There may be changes that can be made to the type of medication, dosage, or time at which it is taken that will reduce or minimise side effects. Your GP may also be able to prescribe additional medication to alleviate side effects that are temporary (such as those that can occur when weaning on and off of anti-depressant medication). How can I tell when I am just feeling nervous or low and when these feelings are something more serious? Alex: We all get anxious and flat in our day-today lives, it's when these feeling don't pass or are on an extreme level that we may need to reach out for support. If you notice yourself or your friends isolating themselves for a long amount of time, rocking up to uni or work exhausted and without much sleep, not taking care of their personal hygiene or on-goingly are more quiet than normal, check in. Only you personally will know if it's something internal, but we can always keep an eye out for physical symptoms of mental ill-health for our friends and family. It's not weak to reach out for support, it's strong. It takes a lot of courage to admit that you may need help, so never feel bad for doing so.

Alex: We learn and talk about it. It's as simple as that. You'd be amazed how many people around you have gone through their own battles with mental illness or have known people who have. The thing is, there's a good chance you may not notice these people suffering from mental ill-health, as they're fully functioning. An amazing amount of people out there who face uni, work or school every day are facing their own battles and that's why there should be no stigma, because these people are not their mental illness, they are still themselves. Many people can still function entirely normally in society and if that's the case, why is there a stigma? So always be kind and open to conversation, because you never know what battle people are going through, and you never know how much you may one day appreciate the same kindness in return. Are there alternatives to medicinal treatment that someone could try? Kate: There are a number of alternative methods. These include: • Therapy - Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, Graded Exposure, Mindfulness, Acceptance Commitment Therapy, Schema Therapy, Dialectical Behaviour Therapy • Exercise • Good nutrition • Omega-3 • St Johns Wort • Meditation/mindfulness • Relaxation and breathing techniques • Yoga • Alcohol and drug avoidance • Acupuncture ◊

How can we reduce the stigma surrounding mental health and avoid negative labelling?

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THEMES:

rape, abortion, depression, anxiety, PTSD

Heather shares her story of ongoing pain and the strength to continue. Words by Heather Briony McGinn | Image by Maria Petroff

I’m facing the blank page in the wake of the #MeToo movement, as challenging anniversaries rear up from their holding pens, demanding attention. The anniversary of the rape makes itself felt with the rising symptoms of PTSD: the night terrors, the jumpiness, the sleep deprivation, the inescapable self-loathing and sadness. But the anniversary of the abortion that followed is, for me, the more difficult one. While the experiences of rape and abortion often go hand in hand, rape receives more air time. Abortion remains the elephant in the room, a persistent taboo. The shame sticks to me. I’ll talk and talk and talk about my rape. Rape elicits understanding, sympathy, empathy, admiration for your courage. Speak about abortion and you meet uncomfortable expressions, they all look away. It’s too hard, the eyes seem to say, shifting uneasily from wall to floor, anywhere but your face. I want you to look me in the eye when I tell you about how I chose to terminate my pregnancy. Because that process, not the recovery from the rape, was the most gruelling thing I have ever done. I knew I was pregnant when beer started tasting different. I vomited if I ate anything other than vanilla yoghurt or salt and vinegar crisps. Then I felt the aching in my lower back and I knew. I knew. I was so tired. I thought I had cried all my tears in the past eight weeks. But I was wrong. My body wanted to be pregnant. I felt the wanting in every move I made. My hips were making room for an expanding womb, my breasts filling out and hanging heavier. I was still reeling from the rape, having trouble leaving the house and scared to the point of tears every morning when I had to get

naked in order to shower. But the rush of pregnancy hormones centred me long enough to find the way out of bed and back into the world. Forced to see a doctor by my own body, I grew stronger.

“The appointment was made, and it fell on my birthday, which just made me laugh cynically. How perfectly depressing” I didn’t want to terminate. It felt wrong to take away something that my body wanted so desperately. It felt wrong to stop this process that had been the catalyst for my healing. But knowing that this foetus had been created out of violence, not love; that dwelled on my mind. I listened to the advice from friends and family and heartbreakingly kind nurses. I sat on the balcony with my crisps and my yoghurt and surrendered to the inevitable. The appointment was made, and it fell on my birthday, which just made me laugh cynically. How perfectly depressing. Afterwards, nursing a bleeding body back to some semblance of health, I dreamed of babies constantly and became accustomed to the guilt that plagues me still. Thanks to the rape, I have chronic pain and my mental health would be best described as high maintenance. Thanks to the abortion, I have a grief that will never leave me and an appreciation for my own resilience. I can promise you that if you face the same choice, it is not the easy way out. You will be okay, but it comes at a price that is paid with broken heart that only you can heal. And on my birthday, I cry. Then I pick myself up and go back to the blank page. ◊

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Let's bring it back to 1982 just quickly

Imag[in]e: Chloe Manglaras Verse Mag's regular student Art & Design feature

Along with Chloe's love for collage and oil painting, this interview discusses how the therapeutic approach to viewing and creating art helps her wellbeing. Interview conducted by Sascha Tan | Art by Chloe Manglaras

Everything he touches turns to gold Edition 22 2018

They demand faithfulness and then they suck the spirit out of women who are so fucking spirited

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Tell the readers a little about yourself. Yasou, Verse readers. I’m a visual art student who believes art is the greatest thing before and since sliced bread (and that, really, sliced bread takes a backseat to unsliced bread, which doesn’t concern you with portion control). I love collage, oil painting, and creating little assemblage scenes, and when I’m not working at a cute vegan café, I’m dancing to Irish folk, aimlessly driving around the hills, being with my family and overplaying my 1:2 ratio of Greek blood cells. When I first contacted you, you mentioned you were reading Art as Therapy and how it discusses why art is so important to us and our wellbeing. Would you tell us more about this? Yes, my ‘funky-groovy’ uncle Andy gave me this book called Art as Therapy by Alain de Botton and John Armstrong and it has been revolutionary. It brings a profundity to art that I’ve previously been ignorant to, denoting its centrality in our understanding of ourselves and our external environments. Art, the most genuine and refined expression of humanity, teaches us what it is to be, reminding us of life’s value; what we should abandon and what we should hold on to. In consolidating everyday experiences, art can encourage us to ‘honour the elusive but real value of ordinary life’ - of the ‘legitimate place of sorrow’ and the importance of maintaining hope. With studies proving it can reduce stress and increase overall happiness, it can’t be disputed that art reaches in and reminds us to feel, to love, to think deeply it taps at our raw sensitivities, and ‘saves us from our spoilt, habitual disregard for what is all around us.’ As its title hints, the book has revealed to me the essential therapeutic function of art. Describe how your relationship with art has developed as you have grown up. I’ve come to realise that art is more than the projection of beauty. I have an intense love for the aesthetic value of women with parasols and men with chiselled stone pectorals, but the appreciation of visually and thematically ugly art - art that

unravels human suffering in an uncomfortable, sometimes relatable, sometimes alien way allows us to become more empathetic and appreciative of the varied and innumerable emotions which constitute the human experience. If art is to imitate life, it should depict both skin and bone. While I like my work to be easy on the eye (I’m a sucker for classic pink and done-to-death roses) I’d like to think it cuts a little deeper - for we can become numb to beauty if there isn’t some brutality.

“When I create I spill my overly

emotional guts, but I always feel better - having some deep selfrealisations in the process” You also spoke to me about how art is a reflection of ourselves as it allows for self-understanding and growth. Do you think you learn more about yourself every time you create something?

Art as Therapy remarks that making art builds self-knowledge, and I agree. I’m always revealing myself to myself. It can be uncomfortable – uncovering thoughts that may be morbid or lustful, questioning myself: what is this thing I have just visualised? Does it deserve a face? Should I have been an impulsive freak and put it up so quickly? And although I may not always see depth in fleeting expressions, I see truths. My favourite vocalist, Scott Hutchison*, said that the process of writing an album was ‘the equivalent of being sick on yourself and then picking through the bits of carrot and sweetcorn to find interesting shapes and tiny colourful items that you didn’t know could exist in the bile and lining of a stomach.’ When I create I spill my overly emotional guts, but I always feel better - having some deep self-realisations in the process. *For Scott Hutchinson… your music didn’t just touch me, it reached into my chest, bare-handed and grasped my heart, so hard I can’t quite comprehend where it’s grip ends and my own insides begin. R.I.P.

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Fruit won't ripen with a fistful of spit

How does art (both in the making and viewing) help you become content with your feelings? We deny our humanity in thinking we don’t have the time or energy to deal with our emotions. It may seem ridiculous, but when I become a fool to my feelings, sitting and nursing them neck deep in melancholy tunes, and shrouded in incenses smoke - it’s like I’m in therapy. Sometimes I just end up just having a good cry, and sometimes I produce art. Like a diary, I can look back at old work and laugh, like; oh lord I can’t believe I was so upset that that guy never returned my call… so much so that I did a piece featuring a bleeding heart, but ultimately, contentment comes with the realisation that these feelings were strong, I paid heed to them, and they’ve passed. Viewing art is just as healing; a reminder that life is both beautiful and terrible, but it’s happening now and we must be present enough to notice it. In the film Some Kind of Wonderful, the protagonist declares, this gallery ‘is my church, I come here and what anybody says about me doesn’t matter.’ I love this. Like religion art reassures, telling us you’re not alone - everything you feel now has been felt before. It’s important for its hanging in grand gold frames on the walls in front of you. Tell us about the pieces you have created and how they’ve helped you become more aware of your own wellbeing. Cutting up paper and laying it to rest with glue, making art is a coming-to-terms with my emotions and experiences. Although their meanings aren’t always apparent, my collages consider sentiments of love, loneliness and angst, as perfectly valid and worth expressing. They demand faithfulness and then they suck the spirit out of women who are so fucking spirited symbolises a woman being stripped of her character by a controlling man. Fruit won’t ripen with a fistful of spit comes from the experience of kissing, but exchanging nothing more than spit. He’s the trash, you’re just the fool is about opening up to somebody, only to realise you’ve foolishly over-estimated their character. Made of blood, sweat and tears is an embrace of womanhood, in all its forms, and I believe it epitomises art’s positive role in a healthy reclaiming and re-defining of self.

Made of blood, sweat and tears

Fruit won't ripen with a fist-full of spit

How I feel about art varies when I create it and when I view it. I imagine this goes the same for others as well. I also imagine viewing art might be different for those who don’t make it as opposed to artists viewing someone else’s art. Would you say that there are different benefits between the making of art and viewing art? While one is expressing, and the other receiving, I think what’s highly beneficial to both the artist and the viewer is the unveiling of their innermost desires and inclinations. As Art as Therapy explains, while the act of creating draws on the artist’s feelings, the viewer can encounter ‘works of art that seem to latch on to something [they] have felt but never recognised clearly before,’ as if looking at a mirror reflection of an inner experience. Many human sensations are ‘not readily available in language’ and so art can give us, with complete clarity, a legitimisation of our sometimes intangible but universal emotional states of being. An engagement with art, in either form, can help restore our sense of self. As self-expression can be made in numerous ways, I am sure this doesn’t only go for visual art and that other Verse contributors and readers can relate to this. Do you have any words or advice you would like to suggest to others? You need to express. Whatever you are inclined to do, you should consider it the primal impulse that it is, like eating and drinking and breathing. Expression is easily trivialised. They’ll say, you’re not saving lives, and that’s understandable, but remember they’re never talking about yours and are likely dull idiots. Expression is a saviour. Capitalist societies demean creation which doesn’t contribute economically, labelling it a ‘hobby’ but only a lunatic would say that for van Gogh, art was something he did ‘on the side’. Money is important but don’t be so hell-bent on success, be hell-bent on the art – you and your mental health will be all the better for it. ◊

He's the trash, you're just a fool

A Big Black Box Words by Arnis Silvia

A big black box stored in the most hidden place for ages had it well hidden in the basement of my house dark, dusty, but solid No room in my kitchen no space in my guest room no spot in my living room the big black box fits no room My mother taught me to box my memories the coloured ones for the joys the black one for the sorrows This morning, the big black box squeaked from the basement of my house its noise reached the entire place The big black box transformed into a gramophone randomly played my old sad songs The big black box turned into a projector put on gruesome scenes stubbornly thrown Oh mother, why didn't you leave me any key? My big black box kept singing the whole day its playlists have no end my ears deafened, my heart was numbed Oh, my big black box, would you please not make me dumb?

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Words by Evangelia Karageorgos | Photograph by Kyiandra Thanou

Do not come here to my Neverland and tell me itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s not for me. I have not made it my forever place, but just somewhere I would rather be. A place I go to get lost, a place I go and hide, a place I go to run away and recover on the inside. I want you to come find me here, lost, but not to pull me home. Stay awhile and sit with me in my Neverland, letâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sit alone. Visit and stay sometimes see why I am drawn here so often, why I get lost here so easily. Maybe you will get to know me better, and we can get lost in my Neverland together. Will you come find me here, come find me, lost and not pull me home. But wait here with me, until I am ready to go.

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THEMES:

self-harm, suicide, anxiety, depression

It’s a Cliché, but it Does Get Better Words by Carolyn Booth Image by Will Adams | Pills illustration by Olivia Huynh

“I have no real friends.” It probably wasn’t an uncommon thought for a teenage girl, yet I doubt it led to many of them downing a cocktail of painkillers from the cupboard, as I did in the middle of a Saturday in the decrepit kitchen of my housing trust home. I don’t think I wanted to die. I just wanted the pain to stop.

For many years there had been something wrong; something I didn’t have the skills or support to recognise. I showed up to my first day of high school wearing my best outfit, because we couldn’t afford a school uniform: tatty jeans and a plain black shirt we likely dug from a clearance bin. Everybody looked at me. A few weeks later, we were asked to write about ourselves in English. I wrote that I felt like I was trapped in a glass case, a metaphor for my life which the teacher only saw as impressively deep. I didn’t last in high school, despite good grades and a genuine love of learning. I sat on the cold, hard chairs in the emergency room vomiting profusely. I couldn’t eat sour cream and chives chips for five years following that day. Four hours before the cramps began I had drifted off to sleep. Somehow, I woke up again. I felt fine for a while, and even organised to go to the movies with a friend, already realising how wrong I had been when I choked down the pills. I didn’t get to go to the movies, instead I waited and waited, wishing I could take it all back each time my stomach seized up. Eventually I was rehydrated and sent home, with no follow up whatsoever.

tell me that not all my thoughts were true was groundbreaking and having the emotional abuse and neglect of my childhood validated was healing. Then we moved so my husband could complete his clinical masters. For two years I had to be strong for him and my two young children. On arrival back to Adelaide, it was as if my brain collapsed under a weight, even though we were back where I felt safe. The suicidal thoughts were invasive this time. They came out of nowhere and frightened me. Once again, I sought treatment from a psychologist and used medication. Slowly, I pieced the fragments of my life together. I learnt to self-care, to let go of mother’s guilt and religion-induced shame, and to recognise what would elevate me. If looking back over these events has taught me anything, it’s that mental illness is often something one will live with for their entire life, and that there will be peaks and valleys, darkness and light. I am now, at almost thirty years old, studying at university for the first time. I want to be a psychologist. I want to help people the way I’ve been helped. There are names for what I was experiencing; the prominent illnesses being anxiety and depression. Reader, these are not shameful or dirty words. We have a responsibility as a community to see that the stigmas of mental illness are removed, so that people seek the treatment they need. “...mental illness is often something one will live with for their entire life, and that there will be peaks and valleys, darkness and light” I will also say to fellow sufferers that you are not alone, and we can achieve academic success. UniSA have resources to help you. Your life has value, worth contributing to the University and to the world. ◊

Life got better, and worse, and better. I married an empathetic man who was studying to become a psychologist, and after quitting a job I was likely to be fired from anyway, I finally got psychological treatment. Hearing my psychologist

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THEMES:

death, grief

A Week-old Newspaper

Inspired by Letter Rack by Edward Collier Words by Brooke Clarke | Illustration by Sascha Tan

The great clean-up must start somewhere. I start it with a dogeared music book and a weekold newspaper and a sorry comb and a beat-up recorder. I stare at it for a long time and realise that it’s all just a big mess that needs sorting. Isn’t that strange? I never used to think of it as a mess. It was always there. It existed as a part of him, and he always kept himself tidy. He sat in the evenings and read the paper. Not in the morning, like most. He said if he knew all the problems of the world it would ruin his day before it even began, so why bother? No, he found out about the world while it slept and discarded it before the paperboy could bring a fresh one at daybreak. On those mornings, he sat with his recorder and a sweet whistle would ring through the house, better than any alarm to wake us up. It was so high pitched, and the same three songs every day. It drove the poor dog mad. No wonder we had to put him down. But it’s no good thinking about it, now. It’s all got to go. What use to me is an old newspaper? What use to me is a recorder when I can’t play, or a book of music when I can’t read a single note? No, it’s best to chuck it or sell it or put it out of sight. I don’t want to see his silly letter opener and think of all the sunny Saturdays he spent cleaving open letters from my brother and sighing, wishing he could travel the world too. I don’t want to see his old wooden comb, coated in pomade to slick back his thick black hair. It can all go. He can’t read a newspaper or play a note, he can’t open a letter

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or fix his hair, so why should I think of it? Why should I have to look at this crap and think of all the things he left behind? Why should I? I have my own newspapers to read. I have my own letters to receive and mornings to spend and my own life. Why waste time thinking of the dead? It’s not like thinking of him will bring him back. It’s not like all his bits and bobs can keep him with me. They’re just leftovers. Stupid, useless leftovers that have no place in my life. I should get rid of them. Get them out of sight. The leftovers of a life aren’t good for very much. A newspaper is not him. A recorder is not him. He is gone, gone, gone, gone and they are still here and that’s not right. They should go too. So, why is it so hard to throw out a weekold newspaper? ◊

Words by Cameron Cornell Illustration by Evangelia Karageorgos

Within my heart of hearts two beasts lie Circling eternal, locked gaze awaiting falter. In final days beneath the hanging sky one must bare sacrifice to the altar To spy the first is a beautiful sight. Find some laughter and you’ll soon see A soft feeling that everything will be alright, All one must do is swap me for we In the depth of night, one may glimpse its face, hiding between the stars, void unending. Tempting one with a most silent embrace: “Join me, choose for yourself an ending” If you want to survive listen close, now heed One must be careful the beast they feed.

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X: Student Voice Looking to these Verse contributors to be inspired and motivated!

Anneliese Abela What is the creative process like for you? I don’t like to plan when I am working on a creative piece, and I find I write my best work when I just sit down in front of a blank page and write whatever comes to my mind. I love how calming and expressive it is to just let all of my words flow out on their own and then return to the beginning of the piece afterwards to edit and revise. If you could only experience one medium of art for the rest of your life, what would you choose? Definitely literature. I’ve loved reading books and writing for as long as I can remember and couldn’t imagine my life without it. We all know university can get stressful sometimes and as this is our mental health edition, what things do you like to do to relax/manage stress? I get stressed very easily, and find I often overthink everything to the point where I just can’t cope with it anymore. I like going for long walks to clear my head and give me more energy, but the most important thing to do is talk to someone about how you’re feeling.

Jonathon Pantelis What work of art/writing are you inspired by? I always have ideas forming and moving around in my head, and I jot them down in my phone or in a little book I keep beside my bed. When it actually comes to writing, I normally pop on some instrumental music while I sit down as it blocks out the outside world and gets me in the right mood. We all know university can get stressful sometimes and as this is our mental health edition, what things do you like to do to relax/manage stress? Music, reading and writing are a big part of my down time. Having time to actually do things I like is incredibly important so even if I'm stressed I make time to unwind. That does mean I have to work hard and avoid procrastinating too much (which is often a struggle). If things do get too much, I find it's really important to take a step back and take a deep breath.

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Kathryn Ellison What is the creative process like for you? My creative process is very much an emotionally motivated one. I tend to have all my best ideas on the brink of sleep or when I’m working in my rather dull retail job. I find the best times I work are late at night sitting on the floor painting with my headphones on. What work of art/writing are you inspired by? My favourite artist and inspiration is Del Kathryn Barton (possibly has something to do with the name) but her works are these detailed vibrant pieces reflecting women and the complexity of gender and sexuality. If you could only experience one medium of art for the rest of your life, what you would choose? That is a hard one being a multi-media artist. Ahh what do I say? It’s hard to choose between textiles using wool and yarn and painting with oils, both are my favourites! We all know university can get stressful sometimes and as this is our mental health edition, what things do you like to do to relax/manage stress? The best ways I find to manage stress is to break up the work load making sure you're giving yourself a reward. Say you do 500 words on an assignment and researched some more, reward yourself by watching that tv show you like or going out for a drink with a friend.

Zoe Kassiotis What is the creative process like for you? My creative process is wild and unpredictable! It often sees my best ideas scribbled down on a piece of receipt paper in between customers at my part time job. What work of art/writing are you inspired by? Anything that depicts the raw, empowered and unapologetic female form knocks my socks off and kicks my creative brain into gear. I’m especially inspired by Rupi Kaur’s poetry as well as artwork by @the_ illustrator_of_curves. Definitely check them out! If you could only experience one medium of art for the rest of your life, what you would choose? For me poetry is the art of all arts. While novels may be the chocolate coating, poetry is the warm and oozy caramel centre that I really want. Plus, technically music is poetry, so I can still have my tunes... right? We all know university can get stressful sometimes and as this is our mental health edition, what things do you like to do to relax/manage stress? I live in Moana so you will find me at the beach in all times of need. Also there is nothing lavender oil, peppermint tea and dark chocolate can’t fix. Nothing.

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I'd Like to Tell You Something

Depression comes to people in different ways Words by Aki Maedomari | Illustration by Callan Sawyer

THEMES: depression

For me, it was as if the Angel of Death himself was taking me into his arms and I was his willing prisoner. I desperately wished to be free but at the same time wished for nothing more than to curl up in his arms and live out the rest of my days in his cold embrace. Coming face to face with the Angel was like looking into the eyes of my maker and my savior. He was my devil incarnate in the disguise of a saint; parading around in a mask, just as I was. We were deceivers of the world. Only it was me against the world and him pulling me into the depth of my own hell. Each day he’d relentlessly remind me of my flaws and insecurities. His devious words repeating like a mantra: not good enough, not pretty enough, not smart enough. A waste of space and air, he’d say. “Why are you even here?” he’d ask me each day. Nonetheless, no matter the pull, every day was a fight against my demons. It was a cat and mouse game, where over time I no longer recognized which one I was. Was I the cat chasing my demons away? Or the mouse being chased into the darkest corner of the world, left to slowly rot into oblivion? The line between who I was and wasn’t blurred. As did the line of whether putting myself out of suffering would lift the burden off from those around me or only bring more pain. In my mind, I couldn’t make sense of which would be worse. It was the endless struggle and questioning of whether it was worth fighting or if I should simply give up.

“Was I the cat chasing my demons

away? Or the mouse being chased into the darkest corner of the world, left to slowly rot into oblivion?” As the days went on, my heart and soul continued to drown in agony. Yet, the fear of leaving the Angel’s side became far greater than staying in the darkness. I felt it significantly easier to fake a smile than to have to talk about what was going on inside me. It was easier to be walking amongst a crowd of people while feeling the looming cloud of darkness hovering over me than to admit that I was, in fact, mentally tortured by misery. The truth remained hidden in the nuances of my laugh, my smile, my being; but he never allowed me to forget the truth. He taunted me as if to say that my body may be free to roam the world, but my mind would forever be shackled to his. His manipulations filled my head like a broken symphony on repeat; the chorus of broken dreams and promises crackling in the background like a theme song to my life. I'd sit

and cry on the comfort of my bed and he would let me sink in his wings as if it was a bed of roses. I'd toss and turn only to feel the thorns stabbing me, making a point to remind me of the relentless agony I was fighting against. The comfort would be short-lived before I drifted into a restless sleep. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for me to sleep too much. There were days I'd wake up unsure of how much time had passed. Most days I didn't care. The more time that had passed, the less time I had to spend dealing with reality. Most days, I’d simply wake up in tears while taking in the anguish of what it meant to be awake again. Sleeping took away pain because reality no longer existed. In my dreams, I was alive and human; the real world appeared to me as an illusion I couldn’t escape. Every emotion both barely scraped by me and crashed into me, over and over and over again until I was left to feel absolutely nothing at all, or to feel everything far too much. On days he was generous, I was allowed to leave the bed. He'd softly tug at me, coaxing me to stay a little longer, but I’d manage to quietly slip away. I’d stare into the mirror at the girl I didn’t recognise and rehearse my empty smile. Each move, a deception to mask the truth and for the Angel to hide in plain sight. It was the build-up of a precarious house of cards; I would never know when the whole charade would come crashing down. Yet, as dangerous and unstable as it was, there were times I enjoyed the game. It was like solving a puzzle. Which move would let me hide a little longer? Which smile, which word, which look would make me appear the most normal? How much could I possibly hide under this exterior before it burst at the seams? All the while wondering, "who could love someone so broken in reality?" A mask can only hide a face for so long. Each day, it became harder and harder to fake a smile. The wears and tears chipped away at the mask and my true face - a sad, lonely face - seeped through the cracks. But the world only wished to smile alongside me. "No one wants to be around someone who is sad." I was the elephant on its hind legs; the lion jumping through flaming hoops; the trapeze-swinging acrobat. The world wanted nothing more than to smile and drink in the rose-colored circus act. Laughter fueled my daily bravado until I reached the sanctity and comfort of my bed, where the beautiful sounds of laughter were replaced with heartwrenching, soul-breaking, body-numbing tears. A smile can only hide you ‘til your soul breaks. But I refuse to be broken today. ◊

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Waves

Words by Jonathon Pantelis | Illustration by Youjing Zhang

Waves rolled around my body. Small spurts of water leaped into the air and the droplets sprayed across my face. The cold water cooled me down, relief from the scorching sun. Along the beach, I could hear the sound of children laughing and adults gossiping under the shades of umbrellas.

“Parents want us.” Nathan rolled his eyes and I supressed a laugh. He was learning to be a teenager much too early. About five years too early actually.

A shadow fell over my eyes. Nathan, my little cousin, smiled at me as I opened my eyes, and he heaved me up, holding my hand and pulling. I am quite skinny, but he is only small, so I had to do a lot of the heavy lifting myself. I could see that Nathan felt like he contributed though, so he was pretty proud of himself for being so strong.

I followed little Nathan to where our parents were sitting on crumpled beach towels, sunglasses and hats on, soaking up those UV rays. I remember thinking about sun cancer for a moment before my parents realised Nathan and I were hovering above them. “Oh, you’re back,” my mother said. “Did you boys want lunch?” “No thanks,” I said, wanting to return to my relaxing spot. “Alex…” “Yes?” “You didn’t have breakfast either. You have to have something.” I don’t like eating very much. Not the regular types of things, anyway. “I’ll have some chips then.”

I got a dizzy spell from getting up so quickly, and needed a moment to regulate my body, to get used to not being horizontal on the ground anymore. “What were you doing, Alex?” I smiled at my little cousin, admiring his cute dimples. “I was in the water, relaxing. What’s up?”

Mum wasn’t happy with that response either, but she wasn’t going to get into it with her sister and nephew around too. For that, I was thankful. We’ve talked about my peculiar condition at home so many times, but she’ll never understand. “Fine. We’re going to the deli. Did you and Nathan

I was lying in a shallow pool, my back against the sand, salty water up to just below my ears. I must have been there for an hour, eyes closed, listening to the wind and water, to children and adults having fun. As the water crashed over my body once more, my sense of sound disappeared, lost to the ocean.

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THEMES:

eating disorders

want to come up with us to order?” Nathan looked to me expectantly. I knew he’d do whatever I said. I also knew that if we didn’t go, he’d join me when I returned to my shallow pool. “Is it okay if we stay here? I want to show Nathan something.” Mum looked to her sister to make sure that she was okay with it. Auntie Paula nodded. She took Nathan’s order and then they were off. Nathan and I walked down the beach and I directed him to a rock pool I’d spotted when we’d first arrived at the beach. In the rock pool, Nathan spotted a starfish immediately. His childhood curiosity told him to pick it up and inspect it. My skin crawled. I might like the beach, I might like eating strange things, but I do not like the feel of things like starfish, insects, lizards, or pretty much anything small that I can squish. “Look at it!” Nathan said, laughing. “It looks like Patrick.” It did too, I guess, but I can’t say I’m an expert in starfish appearances. This particular starfish was pink, and that meant it looked like Patrick. Nathan pretended to throw it at me when he realised I didn’t feel comfortable getting too close to it. I may have shrieked, but I’ll never admit it out loud. “Why don’t you eat much?” Nathan asked innocently enough. I shrugged. “Food doesn’t taste very good.” I thought that’d quiet him. I like Nathan well enough but he’s young and explaining myself to adults is difficult enough. I couldn’t imagine a child would understand much better. “Not even chocolate?” Nathan looked dumbfounded. “Chocolate is nice,” I admitted. “So is ice-cream.” Nathan nodded. “What’s your favourite flavour? I like chocolate.” “I used to like chocolate. Now my favourite’s mango.” Nathan made a face that made it clear that he didn’t think mango tasted very good. “So what foods don’t you like?” “Most others,” I responded. “What do you eat then?” The dreaded question. It’s a question that leads to people looking at you like a freak, like a lunatic. I hate that feeling. It makes you feel less than human, an animal. I didn’t know how to answer my cousin’s innocent enough question, but I was taking too long to respond, and it was making me feel anxious.

“Grass sometimes. Soil too.” I waited for the judgement, waited for that look that I know so well to appear on Nathan’s face. The first person I ever saw give me that face was my mother. She told me there was something wrong with me. My father had recently died, and so Mum thought it’d be a good idea to send me to therapy. My therapist made the same face my mother did when he heard that I eat grass and dirt regularly. I’ve hid it since then, but people do find out. “My friend Benny ate grass the other day. He said it didn’t taste too bad.” And that was it. That was all that Nathan said. He started talking about the starfish again because one of its legs moved. He placed the starfish back in the water and kicked his feet in the water softly while he sat on the rocks, hands under his backside. I looked out to sea, looking at nothing in particular, smiling. Childhood innocence is a beautiful thing. Not five minutes later, we were ushered back to our umbrella, where our parents had left all their stuff. Mum and Auntie Paula distributed the food. I took my chips and ate them slowly. I got a few looks from Mum but she didn’t say anything. She was content. I was at least eating something. It’s not that I particularly dislike chips, it’s just that I never really feel like eating anything other than grass, soil, chocolate, ice-cream, or the other few things that genuinely excite me. I can’t help it. It is what it is. Nathan didn’t bring up my food preferences, although I’m sure Auntie Paula knows anyway. Sometimes I see her gaze linger on me. I can see her eyes focus on my thin arms and bad posture. Since Dad’s passing, Mum’s really relied on her sister. The day was a long one, but it was mostly pleasant. It was shaping up to be the best summer since Dad died, and that talk with Nathan kept replaying in mind. The conversation was a highlight for sure. After lunch, I managed to get some more undisturbed time in the shallow part of the ocean. I closed my eyes as I had earlier, soaking up the rays. I relaxed to the sound of the ocean and seagulls, of children playing and laughing. I became one with the tide, swaying gently back and forth. I let the waves wash over me. ◊

The Mind of an Artist

Words by Kathryn Ellison Image by Will Adams

When I'm down hearted my creativity sparks up. The paint seems to flow more freely from the paint brush onto the canvas, it's gestures creating the emotions I'm feeling. Late at night my head is buzzing. Little ideas fly around my brain as if they were bees bustling around a hive. I can't make it stop, the only way to calm it is to open the notes on my phone and type away all my ideas and thoughts as the light illuminates my face. I know in the morning I'll be tired and irritable, but I'll be happy again when I'm trying to get to sleep the next night and my head is teeming with ideas again. Creativity is a struggle. It leaches out all the sadness you feel and creates beautiful strokes of paint to make art. It's the sleep we sacrifice to better our ideas and thoughts. It's our life. If we didn't create we'd be stuck in our heads wondering how to express the thoughts buzzing in and out, day and night. â&#x2014;&#x160;

THEMES:

self-harm, obsessive behaviour

The consequences of our coping mechanisms can sometimes bring their own issues Words by David McManus | Illustration by Sascha Tan

I smoke to cope. Then I shower twice, shaking all the while, washing my hair with deep cleaning treatments. Bunching hair between balls of my fists and wringing the suds out of it. It still reeked like burnt tobacco. When I step out of the shower I rip the toothbrush from the rack, lather it in paste and brush until white foam goes a pastel red and my teeth are torn apart. Strands of fleshy goodness from my gums shoot across the teeth I’d brushed. I brushed so hard that I bled profusely from my mouth, like that time I got in that thing with that one guy at that one place outside of, oh, uh…

“When you smoke, you stain the

fingers themselves, tainting a white peach canvas the sort of off-colour gold – the carcinogenic Midas touch, if you will” Next came the fingers, which I’d washed. I went under the rims of the nails with an antiseptic doused cotton swab, it stung because sometimes I’d clip the fingernail wrong through my jittering and I’d have to rip it out on a slanted angle, pulling out confetti strips of skin from along the side and bleeding all over myself again.

touch, if you will. So I held each finger that came into contact with a cigarette across the open flame of my flip lighter, letting each of them burn and bubble until I was absolutely sure that the smell had come off. I’d change my clothes for obvious reasons, tossing the old ones in the wash with generous scoops of powder, even tossing extra bits of the powder onto my hands and letting it seep into the sore areas for an immaculate cleanse. My whole upper body either bled or was in pain, but I wasn’t clean yet. I hadn’t ridden myself yet. That’s where I decided to apply the bleach strips to my teeth to stop the gold from encompassing the ivory. It only added more pain to my teeth, which had their seams undone by my toothbrush. It seemed more convenient for all to kill myself this way. I was falling apart all as I tried to put myself back together. When my mother came through the door, I greeted her with sopping hair, my hands still bleeding and I smiled at her to tie the package together. My skin wept silently as my mother held back tears. “You’ve been smoking again, haven’t you?” ◊

When you smoke, you stain the fingers themselves, tainting a white peach canvas the sort of off-colour gold – the carcinogenic Midas

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THEMES:

substance abuse, overdose, stress

Saving a Life

When put into extreme situations it is easy to judge ourselves harshly, but help is always available Words by Chloe Cannell

This is the story of why I had to see a counsellor for the first time. Over the summer I was working full-time at my part-time job in fast food. I’m an assistant manager so my role means I’m responsible if there’s an accident and sadly I’ve lost count how many times I’ve called emergency services. Calling 000 is never a situation I like to be in. The last time I had to do it was my longest time on the phone. I remember staring at the time elapsed when I hung up. Nine minutes. It felt like a lifetime. Maybe because it was almost the end of someone else’s. It was lunch rush on a weekday. We were under the pump but my team and I were handling it fine. Then one of my employees returns from cleaning the dining room and tells me I need to call an ambulance. There’s a woman passed out in the toilets.

“This is one of many mistakes I made” I rush to the office phone. I dial 000 as I walk out to the customer toilets. I can still see the woman crumpled on the floor near the toilet vividly in my mind. There’s a white-haired woman kneeling over her. Later I find out she’s a retired nurse which explains why a pensioner left her lunch to help a stranger. I don’t know how this scenario would have played out without her. On the phone the emergency call centre officer asks me questions about the situation. The officer asks me if we have defibrillator so I go back behind the kitchen to find it. Then I realise we don’t have one. I don’t know why I thought we did. This is one of many mistakes I made.

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To my surprise the officer doesn’t criticise me when I tell him we actually don’t have one. I return to the unconscious woman at his instruction. Did I mention she’s unconscious? This is about the point I realised it too. I mean she was kind of mumbling but nothing audible or intelligible. The white-haired woman yells towards the phone that she’s taken drugs and she lifts up a small zip up bag with a pipe inside it to show me. The unconscious woman struggles to breathe and the whitehaired woman says we need to do CPR. We try to move her onto her back as much as possible but the toilet bowl is in our way and she’s heavier than she looks. I’m scared to touch her. She’s a stranger after all, you don’t touch strangers. It scares me how limp she feels. I try not to think of her as a person. When the white-haired woman is ready to give compressions, I tell the officer I have to put down the phone. I know now I should have used my mobile so I had a speaker option. Or asked someone else to be on the phone so they could instruct us or meet the ambulance when it arrived. Another mistake. The white-haired woman starts pushing on the woman’s chest. She’s stronger than she looks. In first aid training I got told I didn’t push hard enough on the dummy’s chest. I assume the other step as we were trained to do in teams; mouth to mouth. I didn’t use a face shield even though I knew exactly where they were in the first aid box. Mistake three. I don’t remember if I held her head right or covered her nostrils properly. Mistake four. She started to breathe on her own so we turned her on her side to help her airways clear but I was just following what the whitehaired woman told me to do. Mistake five. I picked up the phone and the officer told me to count her breathing in and out. The white-haired woman kept

patting the unconscious woman and encouraging her to breathe. Her voice and the officer’s voice sounded so loud. I couldn’t hear the breathing. I wasn’t sure if she was breathing. There was too much noise. The officer sounded strained when he told me to count every single breath so he knew she was breathing; yet I had trouble hearing because everyone sounded so loud and her breathing was so quiet. There was really just two voices in that room, including the one on the phone, but I’m sure the sound of the TV in the dining room was louder. The officer told us to continue CPR because while she could breathe, it wasn’t regular breathing she could sustain alone for long. The white-haired women seemed reluctant to do so. I wasn’t in charge in this situation. I may have been the boss in the kitchen (literally) but I was caught between a fight for control between the white-haired woman and the officer. When we started compressions again, the white-haired woman was struggling to keep pushing. I asked her if she wanted to swap repeatedly but she kept refusing so I just waited until she said “28, 29, 30, go” and I would breathe into the woman’s mouth. This cycle continued for so long but it was probably really around 160 seconds. When the unconscious woman would start breathing she’d try to wriggle away from us but she couldn’t physically move much more than tilting her head. The white-haired woman would tell the girl to breathe and she’d stop compressions and the officer would tell us to keep going.

“I leave the bathroom heading to the back of the kitchen but I can’t feel myself walking” Then the paramedics arrived and I was immediately relieved. The paramedics say to us “keep going you’re doing great.” I’m impressed by their calmness. The white-haired woman stands up and says she’s happy to get out of their way. It almost sounds like there’s a smile behind her voice. She’s happy knowing the paramedics will take care of her. She’s happy with her efforts. She rubs me on the back and tells me “good job.” I leave the bathroom heading to the back of the kitchen but I can’t feel myself walking. Inside the staffroom toilets I wash out my mouth. I feel like this is what you’re supposed to do when you’ve touched a stranger’s mouth with yours. I was at least right about this. The staff ask if the unconscious person is okay. I reply “I don’t know.” Then they ask if they can go on break. I don’t care.

A paramedic comes to check on me and I smile and pretend I’m ok. I know I will be, I just need to cry where nobody can see me. The paramedic tells me I need to go to a doctor in case I’ve caught something from the unconscious drug user whose mouth touched mine. It’s the nicest way somebody has ever told me I did something wrong. For the next few days, crying and shaking are the only things I can manage. Friends, family and colleagues I don’t normally hear from call to check on me. I’m waiting for someone to call me an idiot for how I handled everything. Nobody does. They say I helped save a life. I feel like an unwilling participant in someone else’s bad day. My workplace arranged counselling for me. I knew I should talk to a professional but I really didn’t want to. I’m always the friend to encourage friends to seek help if they need it and congratulate them for being brave enough to talk to someone but when it came time to walk the talk, I usually dodged it. I ignored the calls and texts to even just make the first appointment. Eventually I worked up the courage to have my counselling appointment, but agreed to have it over the phone because I hoped I could conceal my crying (it did not). After the second session of counselling and the first of two tests cleared me of infection I felt better. I no longer panicked at work when I checked the ladies toilets or felt inferior when a customer made a complaint. I didn’t give it much thought until I had a car accident a few weeks ago. My worry is not that this has been a bad year, my worry is that I’m bad. I’m faulty. I make dumb mistakes. And it just so happens that the timing of my accident reminded me I was due for my second test. The second test to determine if I’d contracted a life-threatening disease by being bad at helping someone. It’s incredibly unlikely, but the weight of failure and disappointment hits me in the back of the head. At least there are plenty of options out there to support me. Everywhere I’ve turned since these events happened I’ve had support. My boyfriend. My friends. My workplace. My classmates. My parents. My aunties. My tutors. My university. My mum’s neighbour. My boyfriend’s mum’s boyfriend. My social media followers. My GP. My best friend’s dogs. Everywhere. I’m very lucky. I know some may not be as lucky. And their problem may be more long term and less recognisable than mine. But there has to be support somewhere for everyone. I know I was lucky that people wanted to help me before I asked for it but don’t be afraid to ask for support. Don’t be afraid to support yourself and put your mental health first. ◊

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Here to help!

Words by Jordan Mumford and Grace Dixon

Hi everyone! University is a time of significant changes and challenges that can have a deep impact on the mental health and wellbeing of students. The competitive and stressful nature of higher education study, looming deadlines, exams, and significant workloads, along with a range of external factors such as financial pressures, increased responsibility, and newfound independence can often leave students falling through the cracks. A report released by the National Union of Students and headspace last year revealed that close to 70 per cent of respondents rated their mental health as poor or fair, while two-thirds reported high or very high psychological distress over the past 12 months. While studying at university often feels overwhelming and stressful, it is important to keep in mind that there are plenty of services here to support you. UniSA has a free, confidential counselling service available to all students. You can book an appointment with the counselling service through Campus Central, online on the UniSA Counselling website, or over the phone using the following numbers: Metropolitan Campuses / UniSA Online - 1300 301 703 Mount Gambier Campus - (08) 8723 1999 Whyalla Campus - (08) 8645 8233 The University has also recently rolled out an Outof-Hours Crisis Line which you can contact between 5:00PM to 9:00AM from Monday to Friday, as well as 24 hours a day on weekends and public holidays. You can contact the Out-of-Hours Crisis Line using the following number: All campuses - 1300 107 441 (call line) or 0488 826 346 (text line)

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USASA will continue to work closely with the National Union of Students, as well as the University, to ensure that student mental health and wellbeing is at the core of everything we do. Grace will now touch on some of USASA’s work in this space. Until next time. Jordan Mumford, USASA President Hey there! I’m Grace Dixon and I am your USASA Welfare Committee Convenor this year. The role of the Welfare Committee is to help deliver on welfare initiatives for the benefit of UniSA students. The USASA Board has just approved a proposal to roll out a six month pilot of a Financial Counselling and Emergency Grants program. There is a significant body of research that illustrates a link between financial pressures and students’ mental health, and this program will seek to support students to achieve positive financial wellbeing. As a student myself, I understand the pressures that we all go through to be able to study, pay rent, and still have $4 left over for a coffee. Speaking of which - UniTopia events will be popping up again around campuses in SP5. There will be free coffee, live music, pot planting, and most importantly a Doggo Cafe. It has been scientifically proven that interaction with gentle, friendly animals has a positive impact on both physical and mental health, so take some time unwind and go give them a pat. Grace Dixon, USASA Welfare Committee Convenor ◊

June

Verse Edition 23 Deadline

Have some free time after exams? Well, maybe it’s time to craft a visual masterpiece or put your thoughts on paper. Submit to Verse by 25 June and your work may just make it into Edition 23!

What the heck is there to do around here? These things. 1st: Illustration & Animation Bake Sale 8th-23rd: Adelaide Cabaret Festival

VerseMag.com.au/Submit 10th: USASA Sea & Vines Trip 11th: Queens Birthday Public Holiday 16th: Pop Culture Quiz Night 16th-30th: SP2 Exams 25th: Verse Ed #23 Submission Deadline

July

29th: Club & Leadership Grant application deadline

Submit your art to become part of the USASA 2018 SALA exhibition. This year, we’re open to all mediums, whether it be architecture, a sculpture or on canvas. Submissions are open

8th-15th: NAIDOC Week

Be a part of SALA!

9th Art on Campus last day to submit

13th-29th: Umbrella Winter City Sounds

until 9th July. usasa.sa.edu.au/CampusArt

16th-20th: Mid Year O-Week

20th-22nd: AvCon Festival

27th: Club & Leadership Grant application deadline 16th: UniTopia Magill

If you’d like to organise an event, join or start a club! Visit USASA.sa.edu.au/clubs Edition 22 2018

THEMES: rape, violence, self-harm, depression, anxiety, drug use, suicide

The strength of an individual can overcome all Words by Frances Cohen | Images by Emma Carter In Year 12 a man thrust himself into me. He ignored every word that whimpered its way out of my mouth, so I stopped whimpering. I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been, at an hour when I should’ve been in my bed. That was all I could think about, and when I got back home, back to my room, back to my bed, I didn’t leave it for six months. I stopped going to school, I lost almost all of my friends and I became introverted and petrified. When I stopped showing up to school, my mum took me to a psychologist. I sat on the floor of her office with my knees drawn up to my chest. I nervously played with the toys on the table, but I didn’t say anything. I was 17 but I felt so beaten down and afraid that I had the autonomy of a seven-year-old. She told me it was normal to get increased anxiety in Year 12. We left it at that. Eventually I finished Year 12 from home, but only after many months of routine nervous breakdowns and hysterical crying fits. After the school year ended, I burned my life to the ground. I began physically hurting myself and pushing away everyone around me. I started drinking and moved out of my parents’ home. I stopped sleeping at night, so I got an overnight job flipping burgers for drunk people so I could buy weed. I met someone whose bravado made me feel protected, and I stared up at them through rose-coloured glasses, while all the red flags blended into the background. Within four months, after a drug induced fist through a window and a trip to the hospital at 4AM, we were kicked out of our rental and ended

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up in a dank hotel in the city. I remember lying on the stained sheets, staring up at the ceiling and grinding my teeth until my jaw locked, and resigning myself to the fact that this was my life now. We found someone who let us sleep on their couch, and within a month of being there one of the people in the house was jailed after breaking into the neighbour’s house and stabbing him repeatedly, while I had smoked my way into a state of near catatonia. Then after nearly a year, my application to rent a place was accepted and we moved into what I naively thought was a step forward in my life. Instead, I lost half my body weight and ended up pawning all of my belongings to buy drugs and alcohol. We had always fought, but as it was just the two of us it began escalating from verbal arguments to physical arguments. They threw water on me, they punched and slapped me, kicked me and stomped on my stomach, they locked me in the shed and beat me with a baseball bat and at one point they held a kitchen knife to my throat. I remember sitting on the floor of the locked toilet with them screaming at me from the other side of the door, I was smacking my head against the wall until I heard it crack. At the end of almost two years hurting each other, one night I walked out of the house while they were in our bed with someone else, it was the middle of the night so I went to sleep under a bush in the park, I lay down and cried so hard I vomited. I tried to ring my mum from a payphone nearly 17 times, and when she didn’t answer I tried walking in front of traffic until I was picked up by the police and taken to the hospital.

I was severely underweight, couldn’t fully inflate my lungs and my liver function was appalling. Even though I was 19, the hospital would only release me into the care of my parents. I never saw that house or that person again. I came back to my parents’ home with nothing. I had suffered an acute mental breakdown and had abused my body and my brain so much that I was constantly shaking from frayed nerves and substance withdrawal. While at first, I was thrilled beyond words to be home, it didn’t last long before the ghosts started catching up to me. I was scared of everything, the smallest thing would send me into hysterics, curled up in the foetal position or rocking back and forth hitting my head on the wall until it bled. I started drinking more and more to escape myself. At my worst point, I was drinking two bottles of gin a day. I began cutting myself, and more than once my parents had to call an ambulance because I was blackout drunk and bleeding so severely I needed stitches.

“While at first, I was thrilled beyond words to be home, it didn’t last long before the ghosts started catching up to me” My parents sent me to Glenside to detox, but a day after being released I was drunk again. I reconnected with people who were broken in their own way and would pump me full of alcohol in exchange for friendship. During this time, I met Les, who was scared like me. He had been abused and sought comfort in the same things

I did. We found kindred spirits in each other, and although my parents sent me to numerous doctors, psychologists and psychiatrists, the only one I felt comfortable talking to was him. He had such eloquence and optimism in spite of everything. He was everything I wanted to be. He was exceptionally smart, talented and funny. He was fearless and unashamedly himself, even though his mother scorned him and rejected his gender and he was abused by someone he thought he could trust. But then, suddenly, at the age of only 20, he decided he was too tired to fight anymore. My world shattered again. I struggled to find reasons why I should keep fighting. Not long after, a friend of mine from high school lost her battle with Leukaemia. I felt so guilty over the fact we had drifted over the years, and that I was still alive whereas she, with all her potential and enthusiasm for the future, was not. I ruminated on the cruelty of everything, all my wasted years, all my lost potential. I took 200 lithium tablets and 30 aspirin washed down with some gin and closed my eyes. My mum heard me vomiting as she was getting dressed for work and came in to see if I was okay. She found the pill bottle and called the ambulance. My dad was out of town and she was by herself. I hate myself for that. They kept me in hospital for a week. I spent my days staring out the window, looking out at the sunrises and sunsets that I never wanted to see. On my third night, the lady in the bed opposite me passed away. I watched her flatline and remember feeling genuinely distressed that it wasn’t me. They diagnosed me with Borderline Personality

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Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Major Depression, Acute Anxiety and with presenting symptoms of Schizotypal personality. They pumped me full of anti-depressants, antipsychotics and mood stabilisers. They released me on Christmas Eve. I woke up at 3PM on Christmas Day and started drinking. My mum cried. I spent the next year getting drunk and writing down or drawing whatever came out of my brain. I put out cigarettes on my arm. I attempted suicide four more times. My dad yelled in my face in sheer exasperation that I was breaking his heart by throwing my life away. I was so ashamed that I had hurt him so badly. It took a long time and a lot of failures and slip-ups, but slowly, I started reconnecting with my old friends. I gradually started going out again, and I found comfort in writing. Ultimately, in the wake of a car crash and a particularly traumatic friendship break-up, I was able to discover my real friends. The ones who know all about me and love me all the same. The friends who build me up instead of drag me down. They celebrate Les’ death day and birthday with me every year, even though they never got to meet him, and that warms my heart. Most importantly, they don’t judge me but instead try to help me and understand me when I am in a crisis. I moved out a second time, this time with my best friend and my partner. They encouraged me to pursue a career in art and to stick at university even when I feel as though I don’t deserve to be here. Last November, after six long years of severe abuse and a lot of intervention by my friends, I went teetotal. It has been incredibly

difficult, but it has made so much difference in my life as it forces me to be present. I don’t have that hole to crawl into, so I have to attack my problems as they come. Which, I have finally learned, is the healing part. Recently, my psychiatrist cleared my decision to come off of all but the Anti-Depressant medications I was prescribed.

“My timeline nearly ended a couple of years ago, and if it had ended then I never would’ve gotten past the worst part of my life” There are days when I feel despaired by the fact that I’m 24 and have accomplished very little compared to others my age. Then I think back to being a terrified 17-year-old victim or a 19-yearold homeless tweeker and I realize that, like me, everyone is at a different notch on their timeline depending on the route they’ve taken to get here. My timeline nearly ended a couple of years ago, and if it had ended then I never would’ve gotten past the worst part of my life. I would’ve robbed myself of any opportunities for change. One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned is that unless I’m dead and buried there is always a way to persevere and find happiness. Some people are fresh out of school, some are married with kids, but we’re all here and we’re all terrified and we’re all just trying to get assignments done. ◊

THEMES:

depression, suicide

Vulnerability is Power Words by Adan Richards Illustration by David Blaiklock

For as long as I can remember I’ve had a very critical – at times cynical – mind. At times I’ve found the world a hard place to be in, unfair and full of injustice. I feel like it’s the source of some of my greatest passions, but is a beast that needs to be tempered. The truth that has helped me against the insignificance, the fast pace, the limited time and sometimes the despair, is that I am only one person, and all I can do is my very best to be a good human. I now see my mental health as not only essential to me personally, but also to the world, because my impact can be far greater if I’m healthy. I was an unhappy teenager. I was successful but didn’t enjoy school and would dread most days. I’m not sure when this started, but I remember through much of my schooling it was difficult to get out of bed every single day. It made my chest feel heavy and a lot of days I would think about how much better life would be without school. It became a pattern of mine to live inside the future’s discomfort instead of focusing on the present moment. I also remember being a very negative person in general, as if I was always looking for the worst in every situation. In fact, I identified strongly with this negativity and thought I could use it to protect myself. In a way, if I always expected the worst then I was ahead of the game, or so I thought. I remember my last school summer holidays heading into Year 12 vividly. My path always seemed set on entering university for something, but I wasn’t too clear at that stage what I would do. I had also recently begun to look at the world differently, and felt I had made some positive changes in my life that meant I was making the most of every day. It was at the beginning of that year, a friend of mine took his own life.

This shattered my reality. He was always the tough guy, the first guy to call you soft, and the first one to throw a punch. It was, and still is to this day, the hardest thing I’ve ever been through. Not only was it the first time for me dealing with the loss of someone close to me, but I was utterly confused, terrified, and wounded by this. Death is one thing, but to imagine the suffering and despair that leads someone down the path he took was an immense weight for my 17-yearold mind. From this, I learnt something tremendously important. The confusion and despair felt in the wake of the event left every person grieving, but more importantly, left every person wondering what he was going through in his last days. Every person that had known him in some way felt it, especially those closest. This frightening experience taught me just how much people truly cared. During this time, I was involved in elite sport; driving down from the country (which was about two hours oneway) twice a week to train after school, with the hopes of making it at the highest level of Australian Rules Football. My injury woes during this were a bit of a running joke, both because of their frequency, minor nature, and bad timing. This wasn’t easy. However, when my friend took his own life the head coach at that time sat down and did the best thing he could have done – he listened. The club then gave me space to try and process the death. My time at the club continued through the following year until my absence from injury caught up with me. I reached out to the club for support regarding mental health surrounding my injury woes as well. Even when it was obvious I wouldn’t be continuing, they were perhaps even more supportive, and I can’t speak highly enough of the way I was received by them once I had the courage to speak up.

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Amongst all this, I was involved in a one-sided friendship that was extremely distressing, the peak of which was him threatening to end his life if I wouldn’t enable his alcohol addiction. On many occasions I sacrificed my own wellbeing to help him out. Feeling trapped by fear in that situation absolutely sucked. I kept trying to help because I was terrified that he would take his own life, just like my other friend. I eventually realised that for me to be able to help anyone, I had to put myself first – and that being a friend and a professional carer don’t mix very well, especially since I’m not a mental health professional.

human. Maybe because we thought we were tough. Maybe we thought it wasn’t really a big deal. Maybe it really does take courage to speak up. Whatever it was, we always found it hard to reach out and accept help from the support that was always there. I can only speak for myself when I say I’m getting better at it.

Sport is an important part of my story for another reason. I used it to reach out for support in an almost covert way, by first seeing a sports psychologist, and using this connection to address other things. I was diagnosed with depression at this stage, which for me was honestly a relief. Here was a guy saying to me that what I was feeling was real and valid. This came with a realisation that things could be better, which had an immediate positive effect. When I was in my darkest days it wasn’t just not being able to get out of bed, or even the persistent numbing of any positive feelings that I struggled with; it was the belief that there was no hope to get better, that I was doomed to feel awful for the rest of my life. The validation of my experience helped me see with greater clarity the problems I was having, but more importantly gave me license to try to make things better. I struggled for a long time before I got help, and I wish someone would have told me that what I was feeling meant something, before I got to this stage. Before this, my inner voice would tell me I was probably just fine – or worse – that it was normal to be unhappy. Seeing a psychologist helped me to explore and learn about myself, forming strategies to move forward. However, it was still up to me to make the changes in my life.

perspective I needed.

“I was diagnosed with depression at this stage, which for me was honestly a relief. Here was a guy saying to me that what I was feeling was real and valid” Mental health issues continued to touch those around me and I struggle now to think of anyone close to me that hasn’t suffered in some way. It hasn’t gone away for me and my friends, I’ve come to conclude that challenges surrounding mental health are part of being

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My story is one of grief and challenges, yet resilience. Some people I will never see again, some friends were less than perfect, and at times it was a battle against myself. What I do know, is that every single time I reached out for help the support was immense, providing me with the tools, knowledge and University has helped me too. I’m currently studying Psychology. It’s given me a sense of purpose that I was lacking, and an avenue to explore the goings on of the world. I’ve made great friends there, for which I’m eternally grateful. Music has always been a guiding light, and now as much as ever that is true, whether it be playing guitar or just listening (check my band out!). Now that I’ve spent some time away from the pressure cooker of trying to be the best at sport, I find it much more enjoyable, and it provides a healthy escape. Despite the challenges I faced through sport, it has taught me how helpful physical fitness is to my general happiness, and revealed a streak of stubbornness (or resilience even?) that helps me push through the tough times. I also meditate, usually doing so once every few days, or when I feel like I need to. However, these are actions. If someone had said to me when I was depressed, “just get a hobby”, or “meditate”, I would have thought they were deluded. The truth for me is that whilst all these things help me maintain my own wellbeing now, the resilience I have built and the positivity I have worked to include in the way I look at the world is the real difference. Sometimes I get down, I get stressed, I get depressed, and I catch myself, working to maintain that positive outlook. The reward that I get back for this work is a life full of colour and positivity. It has not been the things I do, or achieve, but the purpose that I take to them that has changed my life. Part of what drives me is sharing this with you, and for that I am grateful. ◊

THEMES: grief

Good Grief

Words by Jesse Neill

Something happened at the beginning of this year that I didn’t talk about enough with others. I’ve never really been good at sharing when I feel low and worry that I’ll make people feel uncomfortable for sharing my feelings, or worse, make them feel like they need to take on my problems. After going through that experience and putting together this issue I realise how flawed that thinking was, and how extremely important talking openly about mental health truly is. At the start of this year I lost my grandmother, she was also my last grandparent. My parents were very busy growing up and it often meant Nan would look after me. Throughout periods of my life she practically raised me, she was like a second mother to me. It goes without saying that losing her was a very difficult experience for me. This was after I’d recently lost two other grandparents, losing all three in the space of eight months. For several weeks I was going through immense grief, it seemed like I could break down at any moment and I would cry myself to sleep every night. I wouldn’t feel like doing things I normally like doing and just kind of became bored with life and everyday conversation. I noticed some emotional triggers during this time as well. Merely spotting old people would make me upset and I was slightly jealous of the people who still had their grandparents. I broke down several times when I walked past the hospital where my grandmother died. There was countless other things that would set me off and I can’t remember how many times I cried, but I know that this is the lowest I had ever felt in life. However, it was during this time that I had the realisation that I wasn’t the only one suffering – the

rest of my family was too. Nan wasn’t just a grandmother to me, she was a grandmother to six other grandchildren, as well as being a mother to four of her own children. Every one of her direct relatives, as well as her friends were dealing with her loss in their own ways too. I soon learnt that although life is really shitty sometimes, when you realise you’re not the only one who feels shitty, there’s a kind of solace in that. Of course I can still have down days, or the odd reminder here and there, but for the most part I’ve come to accept her passing. I talked with my family about how I was feeling and we’ve all had a good cry together, but we’ve also had a good laugh too. When she had her stroke she was found with her underpants on the outside of her pants, so I like to remember her as my “Super Nan”. Even if her costume wasn’t the coolest, she’ll still be a hero in my eyes. I’ll admit her death was heartbreaking to go through and the aftermath was one of the most difficult periods in my life, but it has brought me and some of my family members closer than ever before. I also know that although I never got to show her Verse, she’d be proud of me and she’d also be proud all of you too. You’re all incredible and I am still astounded by the resilience of each and everyone one of you. Putting this together has been a truly touching experience and I hope these pieces can have a positive impact by providing a sense of relatability and shared experience for students going through their own mental health battles. I have learnt that I need to share my feelings more and I think this edition is a testament to this. We should be more vulnerable, more open with our emotions and not be scared to share how we are feeling. Don’t just ask your mates how they are going, but truly ask them how they are feeling at the moment. Let’s be ready to listen without judgement, with empathy and love. Let’s also not be afraid to share either – I learnt this the hard way. Always remember that there’s power in seeking support, not weakness. It’s only in opening up that we can truly let our negative emotions out, and find space to let the positive ones in. So this one’s for you Super Nan, miss ya and love ya. ◊

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Review

Everyday activities to help my wellbeing Words by Simon Telford | Illustrations by Dallas Nery

Meditation

Playing with Pets

Sitting Outside with Tea

I personally find meditation can come in many forms. From the traditional mind clearing, breathing exercises to putting on some music and reflecting. I believe that there is no one single way that meditation should be done, but rather you’ll know when you’re doing it. Try laying on the couch with your eyes closed and regulate your breathing. Try putting on some music that is significant to you and focusing on the notes, the lyrics, the

Science has proven the positives of messing around with our furry pals. In my teens I had a cat that I swear was a best-friend. The unconditional love offered by a pet can be a great way to break through in those times we find ourselves closing off from the world. I rent now, and we aren’t allowed to have pets, I would be lying if I said I never went around my friend’s house just to see their pets. Take time to sit on the floor

I was going to put “or coffee” but experience has told me high levels of caffeine is not the greatest antidote to a wave of anxiety. A nice herbal tea can be an effective calmer. Whatever hot, milky beverage you prefer, I find sitting outside and taking in the birds, the trees, or the cityscape a convenient and rewarding way to just pump the brakes and reset my mental space.

rhythm. What’s important is managing to centre yourself.

and give your four-legged friend a good belly rub.

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It’s important to take moments out of our day to reinforce our own wellbeing. The need to take five or more is something that we all face at some point, when things aren’t going our way or out of the blue when we seem to be on top of the world. The following six activities are some of the ways I personally attempt to help my own physical and emotional wellbeing. These work for me and may work for you. In the end it is important to take time to identify what everyday activities help us and recognise when we need them.

Talking to a Loved One

Exercise or Team Sports

Reading a Book

A loved one takes many forms, family, friends, and although sometimes it is so hard to talk to someone, forming those first few syllables often leads to a cathartic release. I’m not saying you have to talk about your deepest thoughts and feelings, although that can be rewarding in itself. A genuine conversation about how your day is going, your favourite TV show or how you’re going with an assessment can ground you and remind you that you’re not alone.

Exercise is one of the easiest and hardest things to do when you aren’t feeling too good. The motivation it takes to go for a run or head to the game is often elusive. If you can muster the motivation, perhaps by trying some of these other activities, then the benefits can be outstanding. Team sports offer advantages too. A social team made of friends can be a good alternative to competitive district clubs. Even kicking a ball or going to a local court

Sometimes we just need a bit of escapism. An hour with a few characters that we are invested in. Depending on how your day is going, it may be a good choice to select your reading material in respect to your emotions. I’m not ashamed to admit that books have helped me get through some hard times in my life and you shouldn’t too. The lessons we learn through reading can often be applied to our own life. ◊

to shoot hoops can break up your day with some physical activity and simplicity.

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The Signs As: Household Pets

Words and Illustration by Sascha Tan

Contrary to popular belief, each and every single one of these pets are loved by someone. They may have their quirks and they may not be for everyone, but they are all kind-hearted, intelligent and can be amazing companions in their own individual way.

ARIES

TAURUS

GEMINI

Bearded Dragons

Rats

Cats

CANCER

LEO

VIRGO

Dogs

Rabbits

Budgies

LIBRA

SCORPIO

SAGITTARIUS

Turtles

Snakes

Fish

soft on the inside Very gullible Sometimes slow

Will hiss at you when they're annoyed with you Very photogenic Street smart

At their best when in their comfort zone Will help you relax

CAPRICORN

AQUARIUS

PISCES

Snails

Chickens

Guinea Pigs

March 21 - April 20

Either very hard or very easy to read A little stubborn Great at hiding Will probably turn up out of nowhere

June 22 - July 23

Has a warm heart with a lot of love to give Can be quite protective Incredibly clumsy

September 24 - October 23

They're hard on the outside,

December 22 - January 20

Minds their own business, or at least you think they're minding their own business Very slimey Make great companions

April 21 - May 21

Has a sixth sense for when something is wrong Has a wild side Underrated

July 24 - August 23

Very quiet But also very friendly Soft!! Contagiously humble

October 24 - November 22

Sly

January 21 - February 19

Their intelligence is underestimated Intimidating at first but once you get to know them, they're a winner winner, chicken dinner Hard to crack

May 22 - June 21

Can't decide on anything if their life depended on it Always into trying new things Will want to take a 5+ hour nap Can be very feisty

August 24 - September 23

Most likely a morning person Loves to talk ...especially in the mornings Can be very sweet when they want to be Hates jump scares

November 23 - December 21

Very forgetful

February 20 - March 20

Will With love Very

want a hug before you leave enough energy, they will to hype you up supportive

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