Chasing spirit

Spirit called.

She said she wants her boots back.

Dig away the leaf-litter and debris.

Check her pulse.

Does the sun catch her cheeks?

Chuck her in the water;

Til’ she starts breathing again

I sat at my desk for 5 years. I kept my breath steady, and my head down. I learned, I read, I listened, I absorbed, I researched, and wrote and wrote and wrote. But the words were foreign. The sentences were short and clipped. Devoid of emotion and flow.  I committed to this newness- with no consideration of the cost I would pay for this change in my inner narrative. Art VS Science (as in- the band title) replayed over and over in my mind. I had turned my back on my creative life to pursue a career in psychology. A field I didn’t even understand fully at the time. 

I was eager, patient, and more disciplined than I knew I could be. The gratification of high distinctions across the board, and first class honours only fuelled my fervour. Looking back now, I am blind to what drove me. There was most certainly ego. A point I needed to prove. To whom? I am not certain. It was as if there was a hunger inside of me that could only be fed by achieving a type of success that could be measured by income and status. Or maybe, I wanted to do something that someone would be proud of. And all the usual wanting to change the world bullshit.

My husband, a stonemason, had up until that point been the main breadwinner in our house. He was getting tired, suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, and was on the waitlist for a hip replacement. I hoped that I could take the baton in a few years, and give him the gift of retirement. He moved all his goal posts around, based on my decision (one of MANY erratic career changes) and was of course, grateful to have an end in sight. 

By the end of my masters, I was excited to enter the therapeutic space. I started my placement with enthusiasm, confidence, and passion. This quickly turned into debilitating anxiety, self-doubt and fear. I put this down to my newness, and believed that with experience I would overcome these feelings that started to cripple me. Prior to this, I had never experienced anxiety, and could not relate when people spoke about it. I pushed on- given that evidence suggested exposure was the most efficacious treatment for said anxiety. I went to the dr, cried, and begged for a script of valium to see me out to the end of my placement. 

I landed my first paid role as a school psych which I absolutely loved. But, regardless of how rewarding I found this position, how much I adored my clients and my work with them, and how impactful (I believe) I was- the anxiety grew. I felt a fullness in my mind that left no space for myself, my family, my friends. I forgot to buy food, I could not make dinner. Our lives became chaotic. Every morning was a hectic rush to get out the door, and each day was performative, with smiles, politeness and faked professionalism. I was burning out hard. I started to lose my ability to function, and to remember. I often had to ask other staff to let me into my room because I had locked my keys in. I couldn’t sleep. I cried to my husband all the time. I had a panic attack in assembly one day and had to go home. In the end, just seeing my work keys in my car would cause panic, because of the association I had developed. 

But why? 

Why did I find this all so overwhelming and HARD. 


There were- of course the obvious reasons: working with trauma, holding space for people going through extremely difficult times, and some very tragic, unexpected  incidents experienced by our school community. This all contributed. Absolutely. And the billion emails, phone calls, driving 2 hours a day, documentation, child protection, mandatory reports, dealing with police…… 

But this wasn’t it. I had seen, and been through some heavy things in my life. I was made of tougher stuff than that? (Perhaps not. I realised just how sensitive a soul I am).

No. What I completely overlooked at that time was the fact that my spirit was dying. 

This is a long story- I’ll do my best to cut it short: I went to a training on “internal family systems therapy” (parts work- which I love), hoping to re-ignite my enthusiasm for my career. In the presence of all the other therapists there;

I felt unsteady. 

I felt erratic.

The old class clown came out- as she does with my nervousness.

I felt like a  fraud.

I met a young woman- old in spirit.

"Timeless" she said. And she was.

Nodding, gently, while I sung my woes.

Somewhere between a cackle and wail.

Floundering- the fish that gasps for air on the brink of panic,

and giggling all the while.

"It hurts", said the fish "so bad"-

and he knew that he could find peace if he just turned

and swam back out to sea.

The young woman spoke little, and pondered.

Somewhat flushed but composed...

"Maybe this is what growth feels like".

And then, at the workshop during my own internal exploration- I experienced a vision. 

I saw her. The spirit. And she was- so-close-to-death. 

I cried. 

Off track.... So far off track. The only thing that is certain... Is you. Oh to be suspended in time where the sound bears memories of the womb. Listen, to the ache in the bones, and the sorrow in the longing for the defeated bird. It was so nice, to see her rise. So quiet. And the silent knowing brought both peace, and war- all at the same time.

I quit. It was impulsive and risky- it was a lot to give up. 6 years of training, a massive debt, a very soon to be completed internship that would never be completed. But my doctor had put me on antidepressants in an attempt to ease my worsening anxiety and that was the final straw for me. This was absurd- Did I really need to be medicated to be able to continue in a role that was clearly so very wrong for me? The medication made me feel suicidal and manic. I stopped after 2 weeks. 

I had broken the course (curse?) of the wrong path, but I too- was as broken as my spirit bird. 

My husband- although so very supportive of my decision- was forced to move his goal posts again, and his vision of winding down was nothing more than a mirage. I sat with my guilt. I sat with his resentment. We sat. 

I had to start again. I was so lost, and outside of my skin, that I did not remember who I was. Slowly, very slowly, I began to listen, and to watch, and I waited patiently as the old narrative (a voice-over I have heard in my head forever) started to come back to me. 

I began to write again. It was stifled. It was shitty. There were the clipped- short sentences I had learned from writing scientific papers, and mostly it felt forced. But I trusted that now I had made the decision to choose my inner wisdom, instead of fighting against it, she would guide me.

There was an Eagle taking flight,

Great-grandmother birthed me of her soul.

And in my mind I heard the chorus,

But the tune was not my own.

I wandered over patchwork cliffs,

Marking time and growing old,

Plead to the sea to drown the noise out-

If you have to think about it, then it's probably not gold.

Pocket fistfuls of the truth,

tide and time run out again,

Search for clues in what was left behind.

Like timber turned against the grain.

It was a trickle at first, then a flow, then a flood. I was awash with words, ideas, images, and colour, that I could not contain, and that moved too quickly to capture. I had to practise stillness, and slowness so that my bones did not run away from my skin. I re-aligned with my values and poured my time back into what mattered: The earth, my garden, my family, self-care. I saw, in my mind- a beautiful image of a spirit moving through the trees, and I wondered how I could create a representation of this as something tangible that I could share.

I asked my beautiful daughter if she would be my spirit in a series of photographs. (Spirit is not unlike a child- in that it longs to be seen). And these photos became my first attempts at being creative again. We walked into our forest. In the rain. 

And I chased down my spirit. Right in the nick of time.