Transcriber: Christina Scharf Reviewer: David DeRuwe
As a young girl, I recall my mom saying to me,
’Naomi, life will come with struggles.
The most important thing is the way in which we meet these challenges.′
Little did I know that her words were preparing me for my future.
Fast forward.
At 25, I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
I live in a vibrant share house with amazing friends,
just off Melbourne’s iconic Chapel Street.
I’m a graduate of one of the best universities in Australia.
I had just finished a tenure
as a one-year editor-elect of our illustrious student newspaper.
I’m in love with my hard-working, cute, funny tradesman boyfriend
who I’d later marry.
We’d spend time together on the couch,
going on dates and partying with friends on weekends.
I’m passionate about writing.
And then ...
I had a trauma-induced nervous breakdown.
I don’t mean a meltdown or a series of complex emotional challenges;
I literally mean, I lost my marbles.
I could not think rationally.
My speech was pressured to the point that I could not speak in sentences,
and my behaviour became increasingly erratic.
There are some points of my life that, no matter how hard I try,
I will never ever forget.
One of those moments was the absolute mortification
of seeing my old neighbour peering out nosily
from behind her window
while I was frogmarched across my front lawn
and shoved into the back of a divisional van by police.
I was terrified. Humiliated.
‘Why am I here?’
‘What is happening?’
‘What is that smell?’
‘Urine?’
‘Where are they taking me?’
‘A locked ward?’
‘A psychiatric ward?’
‘Wait a minute.’
‘They’re throwing chairs.’
And there, amidst the volatility and the chaos,
I was forcibly medicated.
That medication made me exhausted, nauseous, sedated, and feel dead.
Wow, from esteemed graduate to lockdown.
I was overwhelmed by the journey that lay ahead in terms of my recovery.
One Friday night, I was ruminating about the whole experience,
and after emptying three bottles of really cheap wine
and having a big fight with my boyfriend,
who I knew was going to abandon me,
I decided it would be easier if I killed myself.
And so I tried.
My story could have ended there, like some 3000 Australians each year.
Suicide is the leading cause of death in our country
between the ages of 15 and 44 -
higher than our national road toll.
But what if I told you this?
Maybe storytelling could change that.
Over the course of the next decade,
I painstakingly walked towards recovery.
It was like doing the cha-cha: two steps forward, five steps back,
but I didn’t dare stop.
Finally, I started speaking in sentences again.
Eventually, I got up the courage to share parts of my story through writing.
Amazingly, my words were picked up by Yahoo Lifestyle,
Elephant Journal, and The Huffington Post.
It wasn’t until all of that happened that I realized: I’m a writer again.
As editor of the Goodman Project,
I wrote a tribute to my stoic husband for his unconditional love and support.
I never would have made it without his tenderness
and willingness to help love me back together.
He brought me back to life.
At the AusMumpreneur conference, it hit me:
I needed to write a book.
This was going to be tough.
Wading through every lived experience.
Little did I know that writing my story would change me.
Australia’s first people told stories through ‘dream time’
to convey important lessons to the next generation.
And here’s what I learned:
To heal, you need self-reflection.
To combat old negative beliefs,
you need to shine a light in the darker corners of your being.
The stories you do not want to tell are the ones that most want to be heard.
There is something profound and powerful in hearing someone’s story.
When you listen to someone’s story, it validates them;
they feel heard,
it promotes recovery,
and by reclaiming your own story, you take control of the narrative.
You can choose the direction in which you want that story to go,
and that is the key to freedom.
Like my mom predicted, my biggest struggles became my greatest lessons.
I had hit rock bottom,
but let me assure you that rock bottom
is a completely fine and solid foundation upon which you can rebuild your life.
Numerous medical opinions and prognoses
said I would never leave the public mental health system
or go back to work.
They did not think I would get off the cocktail of medications.
But you can have your tea rooms, your hefty pay packets,
your swipe tags to get in and out,
your medical degrees, and the letters behind your name,
because this is my story.
I’m a survivour, I’m a writer, and I’m an author.
I’m a mom, I’m a wife, and I’m a fierce mental health advocate.
And I’m not just sharing all this
in the hope that it gets back to that old nosy neighbour.
Although now that I think about it, I kind of hope it does.
In my vision, the future goes like this:
We champion diverse voices and stories from around the world,
and as global citizens, we engage and we listen.
This will create a paradigm shift.
We’ll recover better, we’ll feel seen, heard,
understood, and respected.
In the grips of a global pandemic,
we must value human life like never before.
The grace that helped to save my life also compelled me to share my story.
And so I challenge you to share your hard story
with a neighbour, a co-worker, or a stranger on the train,
because they’re the ones that bring us together.
And ask them to tell you their hard story, too.
In a world where we are brave enough for the uncomfortable stories,
we might just save lives.