Lisa Fulton Chronicles

From The Wild Matryoshka

human beings are stories.
stories full of stories.
this life is a story
with a beginning and an end.
and thousands and thousands of stories in between
intersecting with thousands of stories in between.

you are the story of your self.
and you are the Story of your Self.

the universe is made up of stories, not atoms.

every single human being has
thousands of stories that make up the human condition.
and some of these stories are tragic.
some are beautiful.
some are messy.
some are scary.
some are passionate.
some are erotic.
some are paradoxical.
some are ugly.
some are heroic.
some are full of victims.
some are full of pain.
some leave scars.

but regardless..these are the stories that make you who you are.

you may have come undone
from these stories
but they still are always a part of you
because you always contain all of your parts
whether you like it or not

and..get this..
all the parts you don't like
all those small and feared or shamed or tucked away
or hidden or fragmented
or denied or repressed or oppressed or
bu****it stories...
they all
yes, all of them
contain treasures. wisdom. jewels.
diamonds.
the darkest stories
contain the brightest diamonds.

so...
write your stories.
stalk your stories.
purge your stories.
re-create your stories.
reclaim your stories.
retrieve you stories.
and retrieve your soul.

words: the wild 🪆
image joyce tenneson

It’s not the how to.
It’s the why.
It never ceases to catch me off guard – my clinical depression/anxiety.
And on the days I am well and face the cruel slings and arrows, I am resilient, calm, responsive and able to find the humour and simply love.
Then there’s the days where I wake to the grey, grey, grey.
And the sane voice in my head, who has learnt to not be strident, judgemental and ignorant, quietly tells me today I have to take it easy. Reminds me that nothing is going to make sense as that grey, grey, grey film distorts and shadows murkily lurk.
The how to: there is an entire industry and medical and non-medical set of galaxies out there that tell, promote and otherwise batter that grey, grey, grey veil, making reality even more disproportional and menacingly mucky.

It's the why. Why must I get through this day. This hour. This minute.
Why must I look after me first – no one cares.
Why must I get out of bed and shower and dress – no one notices.
Why must I dust and clean and tidy and cook – no one minds.
Why must I help, guide, listen and be there for people – no one plays back.
Why, oh f**k, WHY??
And you can (and do) give me a million reasons as to who notices, cares, minds, plays back, is there for me.

But you don’t understand how that grey, grey, grey dimension mutes and echoes sounds, drains and dulls sights, rubs and gently abrades the skin of my heart, head and body. That grey, grey, grey slime is a five dimensional creature that drapes, clings, twists and deceives all my senses. It grows the silent scream to unbearable levels, sometimes in tiny increments, other times to an immediate crescendo of agony.
That pain of assault is hard for even me, who knows the beast, to find the courage to once again figure out why I have to make the right movement to claw, crawl, cut or creep my way out of the grey, grey, grey that envelopes my being.
The sane voice in my head will sometimes be lost in undulating waves of grey, grey, grey. Nothingness.

All I know is: kind and human.
Those two powerful concepts, whether verb, noun or other, unfailingly provide the road map.
Kind. To me, to my drowning, to my irritation of hurt held up to shield off everything.
Human. I am, they are, together we are.
Kind. For those who don’t know this illness and its path. Kind for those who turn away, throw anger, disinterest, lack of understanding, religion or a fad.
Human. The inability to grasp my illness is not the other’s path, journey or need.
Kind. For my sudden lack of fire, my immediate drop to incapacity. My motivation-less and hollow-eyed gaze into the abyss.
Human. This is a physical illness that affects my entire heart, mind and soul.
Kind. That it is okay to be here again in a relentless landscape.
Human. No matter if situational, seasonal or a lifetime, this is a disease that we all brush against or immerse in during this earthbound experience.

My why.
Humankind. Be both.

This I know
In search of self I go,
Where wrong turns abound
Journeys taken are perhaps unsound;

Is an adventure stupendous
With many sidebars (do**us)
Definitely convention defying –
In that, extremely satisfying.

Cos those lesser tracks I’ve taken
And rules I am breaking
Mould a tough serenity
Clutching memories a-plenty.

Pushing onward, ever questing,
Loyalties and life, ever testing.
That when I take a sip,
At day or night’s lip,

I know – it’s all mine!
With no wasted time
In regrets and what ifs
I dance my quirky heart riff.

Different not difficult.
Such a subtle mind shift. And one I learnt through my son as his Grade 5 teacher would use this mantra to introduce new concepts.
This jump I have taken for my family has the mantra on repeat.
I say it again: change, no matter how positive, is traumatic. So why burden it with facing challenges as ‘difficulties’. This word can make my mind stutter, my heart rate increase and my vision narrow in on the complications.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
Relax those shoulders.
Fake those shadow punches like a pro, getting those neck muscles to bunch and relax.
Breathe.
This is different. And what do I do when confronted with new scenarios? I wholeheartedly seize them. I delight in challenges. I love figuring them out, taking the risk and learning from the consequences.
‘Different’ is merely my next adventure.
I found us an awesome home in Zimbabwe. Perched on a hill, surrounded by trees and facing the rising sun. My heart sang when I gazed at it from the gate down the hill.
It had everything I wanted and welcomed me with open arms. Begging me to overlook the broken windows. The lack of locks. The non-existent hot water. The filthy walls. The mantle of neglect that hung about.
And I said ‘yes!’ this is different to how we ‘should’ rent a home. But different is the way forward.
I mapped out a plan on what I could do to both pay rent and fix up this gem of a home that so wanted to be loved.
I took on this challenge with my mom by my side and the ever-faithful help of Amai and Jack. We cleaned and scrubbed and removed rubbish.
I chivvied for internet and power.
I lobbied for a refurbish plan on a fixed budget.
I got us in there, with the added assistance of Malcolm, Laurel and Dean, Lisa and Paul.
And wiped my hands of a toxic living situation as I turned to face my new challenge.
The first week saw me sleeping sound even though there were no locking doors and broken windows that would comfortably fit a herd of buffalo. Despite Zimbabwe’s crime rate, I felt safe as No 34 settled around me.
My kids arrived home a couple weeks after I moved in. I was excited. And emphasized the adventure we were sharing to bring back life to this lovely house. They dived into the concept with enthusiasm.
Mario arrived a month later. His New York travails breathed life into him, resuscitating a need for positive changes, as he too said goodbye to old ties that no longer served him.
We fell into this adventure of building up a home; our home, together.
Our nearest and dearest were incredible in their support. And No 34 blossomed with the love, care and repair we lavished on it.
Our network meant Mike sorted out the bees, Dean helped fix electrics, Chrispen provided plumbers.
Chantel added us to the community WhatsApp group and we met new people willing to do what it takes to welcome us, support us and be a guide.
I loved holding a community braai, hosting a neighbourhood meeting and looked forward to building on these relationships.
Different. Not difficult. Our agent proved untrustworthy. By figuring out a different approach, I connected directly with the landlord. A gentleman of distinction, he was open to traditional practice being side stepped and was eager for a workable solution to be negotiated.
I loved No 34 and believed this was our long-term future.
Life has its surprises. I was faced with a new challenge: take my entire family and go find freedom.
And an entirely ‘different’ was presented.
Moving countries, cultures and continents, hell - HEMISPHERES. Different for sure!
I have been in transition, overwhelmed by loss of independence, loss of control, loss of identity and place in time.
Transformation is a gooey process. Ask the caterpillar who, in order to fly, must spin a cocoon and then melt into a messy soup. Which slowly coalesces into a totally new creature.
A melting of me, of us, has been necessary.
An adventure in the making. Every day.
A different system demanding different thinking.
There are days when I instinctively try to flex a limb, one I knew was always there to help me walk the path.
And I have to breathe. In. Out. As that limb is missing.
And remember my feet are not the same stubby legs of the caterpillar. These are the much longer ones required of the new creature I am becoming.
It has been nearly a year I have cocooned. And I am just freeing myself from that gloop, stretching different legs, holding aloft wings and allowing them to dry as I do preflight tests.
I dreamt last night of a new home: one where I could see the faults but know that this too was begging for me to take it and make it into MY home with the love, care and repair I have employed in the past.
I have different faithfuls in Robert and Cathy, different assistance in Karl and Paula. And know that as we make our way our network will broaden.
These wings are nearly ready to fly.
A new adventure beckons.

There are regular postings that run along the lines of ‘I am here to listen’ or telephone numbers for su***de hotlines - and more.
The intent is there. I know it is. I am not here to knock it.
I am going to attempt explaining what it is like from the depressed one’s perspective.
Depression/anxiety is my physical illness. After two decades of CBT therapy, prescriptions, dodging the truth, trying holistic and herbal alternatives, I and my support team found the correct balance.
Fluoxetine on a daily regime, regular check ins and a supply of sulpiride when the going gets tough have all kept me on a level.
There are good days and bad: it is how life IS. My coping tools are much the same as anyone with a physical health issue: trust your doctors, meds and support.
I arrived in the USA armed with meds, my doctor’s whatsapp and a hope for the way ahead. My plan was to be working, on medical aid/insurance and continuing my treatment within six months.
The best laid plans...
The meds have run out, the work permit delayed through red tape and I have stretched thin the financial aspect of our wait back to independence.
That’s a brief overview as to where I am now: and the important part of conveying what it is like to ask for help when you are sitting in a deep, dark place.
I woke up on Saturday with the crushing feeling of a concrete block on my chest. My brain saw the world as an out of focus visual, with massive blundering balls of grey cotton wool. These balls soaked up the sound of my nerves screaming a full pitch leaving me in a silent scream.
Dramatic much? It nowhere near describes the truth of the hopelessness and despair washing through my heart and mind.
There’s a little voice of ‘normality’ that dispassionately observes as if from a distant planet, ‘Yip. Depression is what is making you feel this way.’
I can tell you I have tears tracking down my cheeks just remembering.
The grey, the weight, the SMOTHERING is debilitating. And I literally struggle to open my eyes, crawling up from those depths to be able to interact. Most of the day I spent in foetal position, sliding in and out of wakefulness.
Sleep is charcoal dark, gritty and dreamless. A place with no goal or result. Awake is to be aware I simply have no will or want. Slipping from silent scream in drowning grey to charcoal grit to nothingness requires more energy than I can muster.
But oh how it would be so easy, so NICE, so FREEING to just not exist.
That uninvolved observer in my head pulls the strings. I go through the motions of getting my kids organised, keeping comms with my man and mom and friends.
And track memory of the myriad messages that implore the suicidal to reach out.
I run inventory in this roaring muffled space. And pick through each name that impinges my consciousness, which responds in dullness.
A is carrying extra pressure from work. B is struggling with physical pain. C is in a bad place too. D has so many demands. E is a stranger really. F would need a full on explanation. G is sick. H is in a different time zone and needs to sleep. I will try to convince me to take alternative medicine missing the point I can’t afford it. J...
The wearying soundtrack of how busy, pressured or other further bears down and I cannot. I cannot reach out. I cannot explain, offer argument or proof, I cannot f**king do a thing. I simply do not want to burden another soul with me.
Except breathe through this curled on my side slipping from grey to charcoal ad nauseum.
And that voice in my head? It knows this is temporary. If I can just get through this patch my body will eventually dredge up enough serotonin to return myself to light.
I have done it before.
Stayed the sharp object. Got out the car before I drove under or into something. Dragged away from the water’s edge where I could just slip away under the water.
I’ve done it. Survived.
So why lay this on someone else who is carrying so much already.
I get it. And those who find themselves in my position get it too. Man, we understand the loving compassion that makes folk post up ‘don’t do this alone. I will be there’.
But I am unable to find the strength to ask for the help. Right at that moment I can barely breathe. Let alone find voice for aid.
I ask you check in. In a more intrusive way than a text. And when you do, bring your A game with love. So much love I or any in my position can just know there is a way on and up.
And if we reject that way, to love us anyway.
I did not ask for help. I didn't want to be a bother. My role as organiser, strength and sounding board gave me demand to not worry any of those close in heart or place. And my heart quailed at reaching out beyond the sacred circle.
I ask you understand. I ask for forgiveness. I ask for compassion. Not just for me: but for those who suffer this affliction either temporarily or permanently.
Just love.