Neither a seller nor a buyer be

Love Chunks was pumped. He was ready to buy us a new, neat house in Fairfield, Melbourne, even though we hadn't yet sold our own place in Adelaide. He'd chatted to the agent, got all the boring building and council particulars on the property and had a deposit cheque ready to sign.

The bank was OK with it as well, agreeing to lend us the deposit and any 'bridging finance' (ie shit-scary numbers) that would cover the cost of the new house whilst we were waiting to sell our old one. Nerve-wracking but exciting.

LC had his game plan all worked out. The advertisement said $590+, so he was going to sit back and only enter the fray when it got close to our limit ($650), thus scare away any minor minnows still with their hands raised.

At the same time as the auction, Sapphire, Milly-the-dog and I were busy erasing any evidence of our finger prints, reading materials, hairs and the dish-rack before closing the door behind us, handing the keys to the real estate agent and choofing off in the Magna to the end of the street. There we bought ourselves McDonalds (oh stop your nose wrinkling; it was close, cheap and an easy way to placate a child already teary about the move interstate) and sat in the park until it was time to return home.

Trish, bustling the 'Open For Inspection' sandwich board into the back of her gleaming silver Honda, didn't have the time to sugar coat things.

"Sixteen separate groups came through and they all said the same thing," she said, glancing at her watch to remind me that she had an open house in Prospect to dash off to.

"And what was that?"
She smiled tiredly, us being her fourth open for the day so far. "That your family room is too small and that they want a second bathroom."

I immediately shot back with, "But the ad says one bathroom, so did they turn up and hope that we'd somehow magic-ed up a second one? Sure the family room is snug but that's why we have a large and separate formal dining room and massive shed with a gym and workshop....Why did they bother to come....?"

Trish could see how offended I was and muttered a few platitudes about some parties showing 'a bit of interest' but that sounded about as solid as a starlet in stilettos standing on sand.

After lugging in Milly's beanbag, two portable fans and the laptop from out of the shed and back inside and placing the dish rack back on top of the draining board, the dirty clothes basket in full view and the TV guide back on the coffee table, the phone rang. It was Love Chunks.

"Guess how much the house sold for."

"Hi! How did you go?"
"I said guess how much it sold for." His tone was even quieter and lower than usual, so I knew that it hadn't been sold to my favourite weatherman.

"What happened?"

"I got blown right out of the water," he replied. "The first bid was $640, then the next guy said $660, so I didn't even get to bid." He went on to tell me that the house sold for $740,000. One hundred thousand smackeroonies above the reserve price.

"I've managed to change my flight times, so I'll be back home - tail between my legs - by dinner time tonight." That was the one good thing about it, I supposed.

On Sunday morning, Love Chunks and Sapphire made a special trip into Norwood to find a copy of The Sunday Age to see how other Melbourne auctions fared. It was the worst day for auctions in over four years but of course the place we wanted went completely against that trend. Oh great. And the lotto quickpick I'd bought to celebrate my mention in the AWW didn't even try to raise my hopes of instant wealth as it failed to produce more than one matching number in any row.

I know; someday I'll look back on this and laugh. In the meantime, I have chocolate. And gin and tonic. And kettle chips. And a good run on the treadmill nodding in deference to that pigeon who still faithfully clings to his powerline, never letting go......

Day Thirty One - Appreciative August

Dodging the Dark Pit













This picture shows where I run or power-walk to nowhere, six days a week. My back faces the TV that Love Chunks had installed on the other side of the shed because the treadmill will absolutely not tolerate having an extension cord attached in order to turn it around before it shorts and refuses to start.

Despite this lack of visual entertainment, I do approximately 30km running and 24km walking per week, which is a fair old chunk of time to be spent running at a shed wall with an abandoned dolls' house in between my feet and the iron. My sweat stains are all over the floor and there's only a hazy view outside through the bamboo blinds.

This humble set up has been a vital part of my recovery from The Big D - Depression. It may seem like a boring and rather reclusive way to exercise but it's been one of the things that has helped save my life.

On the morning of Saturday 24th November 2007, a somewhat normal conversation with LC about whether Sapphire was going to tennis lessons or not turned into me yelling in rage, tearing the wet washing off the line, and storming out of our house. Everything had slipped out of my control. I didn't have any car keys, money or clothing, but I kept on walking down the avenue and along Magill Road. It was a hot sunny day and the road was chockers with cars, trucks, tinselled-up floats, horses and clowns getting ready for the Annual Norwood Christmas Pageant.

As I finally acknowledged how suicidal I was feeling inside, on the outside I waved and greeted friends and acquaintances I passed, still moving, looking busy; appearing happy and interested in the events around me but having places to go, people to see, jobs to do. Buses rumbled by and I seriously imagined what it might be like to do a mad dash in front of one and end it all. I had enough sense to realise the utter selfishness of such an act - not only for the driver but for any passengers, passersby, my husband, my child, my family and the added stress and work it would entail for many others. And yet it was tempting. A quick way out for me; a person who was always 'good' at school, study, work, friendships, relationships, parenting, being interested in others. How had things come to this, to me?

A short time later I entered the Accident and Emergency Department and asked to be admitted. I needed someone to help me before anything terrible happened and wanted someone to take away the exhaustion and despair that was devouring me, my future and my spirit. The Big D had started to pull me into its black pit and the sides were starting to cave in. But how on earth do I describe an event that happened last year without reverting to worn out descriptions and cliches?

LC was called by the hospital and arrived immediately with Sapphire; breathless, anxious and utterly powerless to do much other than rub my back whilst I curled up on the bare bed. My father was on his way to pick up Sapphire, who was just as concerned. I knew that she was, but didn't have the capacity to reassure her or LC; not when I couldn't even reassure myself.

The A&E ward, on a Saturday morning, was filled with screaming, incoherent strangers as I lay there silently with tears rolling down my face, neck, chest and plopping onto my arms. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn't I cope? What would happen if this feeling didn't ever go away? Whatever chaos was happening in the hospital around me had completely faded inside. All I hoped was that Sapphire would soon be taken away from it and that my own far louder and more destructive internal noise would end.

The nurses took pity on Sapphire and invited her to come and sit with them at their station with a colouring-in book that one of them had on hand. A minute later she tore open the curtain and tugged at her father's hand. "I read the screen, Dad. Mum said she wants to die." FUCK fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck what kind of low, degraded, selfish, terrible, scumsucking parent was I to allow my child to read, comprehend and know such a thing about her own mother; the person who is supposed to be strong, nurturing, loving, supportive, encouraging, spirited, leading the way, providing her with a safe and secure home and upbringing?

I spent three days in a locked ward, silent. I observed the shuffles of my fellow patients, heard their requests for phone calls, more sleeping pills, when was their doctor coming, but I didn't join in or respond to conversation. The staff and doctors were kind and patient to all of us in there and I knew that it was the right place for me to be in at that time.

We were all so far away from everything that troubled us - many stories up, all the windows sealed shut and overlooking the beauty of the Botanic Gardens. There were no pot plants or pictures on the walls and we were in a very old ward that still had the old medical powerpoints and bedside tables, with scrappy grey office partitions separating the beds. No privacy available anywhere except for the shower, where I'd strip off, get wet and cry, silently, until I was tired enough to dry off and go back to bed to sleep. I slept and slept; grateful that I didn't have to be anywhere or be anything but could just rest. It was nice to just be.

When LC took me home, we sat together in the living room, looking out at our sun-drenched garden. He didn't let me go. I didn't want him to let me go. I was learning, however, to let other things go, such as injustice, unfairness and futility. Still am, in fact.

Since then, when I run, it is as close as I come, I think, to finding a God, or religion of sorts. It is the sheer basics of hearing my heart pound, my feet thud, my arms swing, my breath puffing its way throughout my body and feeling each hard-won drop of sweat fly off that I realise what effort it takes to be truly alive.

Through the bamboo blind I often see a pigeon perched on a powerline connected to the neighbour's house. During the winter he has been blown about mercilessly on that loose line but still he holds on. Buffeted by breezes, rain and sleet he perches there in my line of vision and I look at him as I run on, feeling grateful that my body can take me such distances and give me time to think about things: what I'd do differently and what I want to do from today.

I'm still a work in progress, but 'progress' is the key word here. I'm moving forward and looking forward and to say that I appreciate it is the understatement of the century.