My Entry into the 2022 SBS Emerging Writers Competition

The theme was ‘Emergence’, which is open to interpretation, be it a story of emerging into their true selves, or an event arising in the narrative of their life. It must be a non-fiction memoir.

Nov 16, 2022

Below is my entry into the 2022 SBS Emerging Writers competition.

The theme of this year's competition is ‘Emergence’. Entrants are invited to interpret this theme as they choose, whether it’s a story of emerging fully into their true selves, or an event arising in the narrative of their life. All entries must be pieces of a non-fiction memoir.

The word limit was 2000 words.

I wrote this probably two months ago. So it’s probably not fantastic and I struggled with the word limit. I haven’t edited it since, I haven’t even re-read it to be honest. I just wanted to share it. The award winners were announced yesterday apparently and I haven’t heard anything so I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to share it now?

Anyway, fill ya fuckin’ boots…

Emergence

"I’ve never been in a better position in my life, financially, professionally. I’ve also never been more depressed. Ever. Don’t get caught up in materialistic goals, friends. It’s all bull shit."

Me- 19/04/2022, 3:39AM.

I posted that tweet after coming home from yet another drug and alcohol-fuelled night out. I'd been berated by my partner for staying out late and not letting her know what time I'd be home... again. I didn't argue or defend myself. I wasn't interested. I didn't care that she was upset either.

Sat on the lounge, head in my hands, I felt nothing but exhaustion. I knew it was time to accept what I'd known deep down for some time. I was depressed.

As a child, I'd always felt slightly different from everyone else. Like I was wired just a little differently from everyone. I thought on a different wavelength. The first time I realised I had mental health issues was 11 years earlier. I did all the right things. Saw my GP, I was medicated with SSRIs, put on a Mental Health Plan, and referred to a psychologist. At stages I would get fit, lose weight and eat cleaner. Nothing seemed to do the trick. Eventually, I'd lose motivation, get sick of the medication that wasn't working and give up. Over the next six years, I went through this process on three separate occasions. Each time more emotionally draining than the last.

I started to believe I was beyond help, maybe there was nothing wrong with me and I just needed to get on with it. I tried moving to different places. If I'm not happy here, it must be the location. Surely life would be better over there!?

5 years ago, I moved to Woonona, NSW. There was a medical center on my street. The kind without GPs, but all different specialists. Chiropractors, Physiotherapists, Psychologists...

In a rut at the time, my then-partner tried to convince me to give it one more try. What did I have to lose? It was 100 meters away. I still had rebated visits remaining on my mental health plan. I wasn't interested. Working with a psychologist is draining. You have to unpack so much emotional baggage. It's hard work. I'd already done it three times and wasn't interested in starting again. Somehow though, she convinced me to go, albeit begrudgingly.

I remember walking there, slowly. Slowly. Until you're in the room with them, there's still a chance of something happening that can get you out of it. Sat in the waiting room, my eyes darting around all over the place, foot tapping, I heard my name called. I looked up and saw a middle-aged woman who just looked... nice. Psychologists often look nice. Probably helps. That gave some comfort. I sat down, she asked how she could help. Here we go again. I started talking. I told her about my childhood, previous experience with psychologists, and medication. Almost without drawing breath. I paused to think about what I was going to say next and she told me to stop. I sat there anxiously, "You have ADHD", she said. For the first time in that appointment, I was momentarily speechless. I couldn't have ADHD, I behaved in school! I never threw my chair at a teacher or punched other kids. In reality, my understanding of ADHD was misguided. She explained the different ways ADHD affects people, and asked some more questions that reaffirmed her opinion. Psychologists can't diagnose you with a condition. So, she referred me to a psychiatrist.

I got home and started researching ADHD. I had it. I wanted to have it. It all made sense. I didn't fear having it After so many years of misdiagnosis and being wrongly medicated, I just wanted to know what it was that was wrong with me so I could begin the process of fixing it.

The psychiatrist confirmed what the psychologist and now I believed, and I was diagnosed with and medicated for ADHD.

My life changed almost instantly. The medication was like a bridge between who I was and who I always wanted to be. I lost weight, got fit, and built a routine that worked for me. Finally, I could save money! I bought a house. After 10 years in the industry, I started to progress at work. I moved up four levels in two years. More money, a work car, my own home, how good!

New stuff is only shiny for so long, especially for someone with ADHD, we love shiny shit. As the excitement of this wore off COVID-19 hit. Luckily, I only had four days off work during the whole period, but for someone with ADHD, being confined to strict rules is torture.

I've always drunk, I would occasionally use recreational drugs. I always thought I was fine because I never drank during the week. It never impacted my work. I was exercising and paying all my bills. "Functional". During the lockdown drugs and alcohol incrementally crept further into my life. I was slowly losing control of it. "Weekends" were stretching from Thursday to Sunday. I was using cocaine for at least one night per weekend. I wasn't exercising until Tuesday or Wednesday. Still, though, I was telling myself the same lies to convince myself I was fine. I was gradually withdrawing cash every time I did groceries, so I had spare cash for coke without the shared account showing ATM withdrawals. Doing coke by myself at 3 am purely because it was the weekend. Still, I convinced myself I was fine despite the internal conflict. I knew what I was doing was bad, unsustainable and at some point, something had to give. I just... couldn't stop.

Every Monday I woke up feeling horrible. My brain not firing properly. I'd swear to myself that I would stop. I meant it. I truly meant it. I'd battle through the first two days at work. By Wednesday the brain chemicals began to recalibrate, and by Thursday I was fine. By the weekend Monday was a distant memory and I'd reward myself for another (self-inflicted) tough week by having a beer... you know the rest.

It was a problem; I just couldn't accept it. I thought it was a problem with alcohol, then " I don't have a problem with alcohol, it's the coke I have a problem with." I had a mental health problem. Depression.

March this year I was offered a role on the NSW South Coast. I'd made good money on my Canberra house, now I had an opportunity to rent it out and buy another at the coast. No more frost, more money, and a better lifestyle. I thought it was a good opportunity to improve my behavior. I'd love to say that it's because I wanted to, it was because drugs are hard to get in small towns, especially when you don't know anyone. "Things will be better down there", familiar?

I was excited to get to the coast but for someone struggling with their mental health and addiction, dealing with brokers, and real estate agents, packing a house, finding a new house, and cleaning the old house while working a demanding job, it's a perfect shit storm. Every Monday I woke up and think "fuck! I didn’t get enough done this weekend! I'm running out of time!" Yet every weekend I'd do the same thing. The added stress almost paralysed me. I didn't want to deal with it. Let's avoid it then write myself off all weekend and worry about it later on.

Work shut for the days between Easter and ANZAC day. I had 11 days off work. My partner was going away for the weekend. I was pumped! Not for us to be apart, I knew I could go on a bender with no repercussions... bender I did. Between the beer, Uber, and coke I spent $3,000+ that weekend. Moving to a new house in three months, trying to save money, and I do this shit!?

I'm glad I did it. Not because I had a great time or the memories I made. I'm glad because it led me to where I needed to be, my of rock bottom. I wasn't sad. Just tired. It's exhausting pretending you're ok. Doing a million other things to avoid admitting you're struggling. I couldn't do it anymore. Just too tired.

After that tweet, I walked into my bedroom, woke my partner up, and broke down. 18 months’ worth of emotions I'd been avoiding pouring out at once. Although upset, I can't articulate the level of relief I felt. Just letting words come out of my mouth. Hearing them out loud. Such an odd sense of calm.

I woke up to a bunch of notifications. My stomach dropped as I remembered what I'd tweeted. I thought "time to delete another drunken tweet".

As I read the replies, I was amazed to see so many good meaningful people supporting me. Strangers offering to help. I didn't delete the tweet. I couldn't. Maybe the thread would help someone.

I knew I needed to get sober. Not for an amount of time, just for now, for long enough. For too long drugs and alcohol had been blocking my ability to face and process my thoughts. I had a bit of a backlog to sort through...

My Entry into the 2022 SBS Emerging Writers Competition

The theme was ‘Emergence’, which is open to interpretation, be it a story of emerging into their true selves, or an event arising in the narrative of their life. It must be a non-fiction memoir.

Emergence

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