Tell our tales - differently

By Virginia Winder

We are the stories we tell.

That means we have the power to change them.

If your story is getting you down and when you repeat it you feel yuck, stop sharing it or tell a different story.

I did that about the year from April 2013 to April 2014.

It was the worst 12 months, a time filled with anguish and anger, depression and despair, misery and meanness.

When I used to talk about that time, I immersed myself in the woe-is-me story and the gloom would descend again. Even writing these last two sentences has my gut churning.

Then it came to me – I could tell a different story.

So I did. First, I sat down by the sea with a mentor and we talked about what I’d tell people about leaving a job that had seemed like a dream position.

We decided to say that the job just wasn’t for me, that I preferred writing and I wanted a different future. He was a wise man, a good man and he helped me immensely.

In the past few months, I have wiped that time off my CV, Linked In and all social media. I purged it from my past and it made me feel light and free. I realised I had made a mistake in veering off the path of journalism and writing – it literally nearly killed me (more gut churning).

Now I mostly talk about the life I have now, although I have shared aspects of the past with pain and passion – I have done so many wonderful things that make me smile – and of course there are my darling parents.

Along with living in the now (bit of a mindful mantra that), I still dream. The other day, creativity guru Wayne Morris asked a friend thinking of a career change: “What do you want your life to look like?”

That got me pondering.

It’s pretty much what I want, but there could be more creative writing in there (on the faltering novel), more blogging (hence this post), more overseas travel and an uplifting exercise regime. Maybe I could see my sister more and talk to my brother more, because they are my beloved whanau.

All the rest is pretty damn fine. I’ve got great relationships with my amazing-cook teacher husband and our crazy creative grown-up kids. I’m doing lots of art with my friends Cheryl and Jayeta, and on the journalism front, I’m writing about meaningful things – charities, gardens, food, art, the community and mental health.

There are times though, when stories have to be told because they are so close to the heart. They need to get out or you’d burst.

When Mum and Dad died in a car crash in 1999, I wrote about them, at the behest of multi-author David Hill, although I did so publicly. He wrote me a beautiful letter at the time, but I think he meant me to write just for myself. I do tend to be an out-there kind of gal.

I’ve tapped out stories about having bipolar, although I feel like I’ve been in remission since mid-2014. It’s just not a big part of my life, but every hint of feeling down gives me a fright. And when I’ve had six days with crap sleep, like now, I worry about going up. Still steady though.

I’ve also shared a blog post about trying to take my life (more acid in the gut).

Writing about painful events and getting them out can be useful and can help others. But there is a time when that story wears out. You’ll know, because you will have told it again and again, and in doing so you’ll feel crap about life or yourself.

So stop.

Do as Wayne suggests, sit down and write about what you want your life to look like.

Or reword how you tell it. A friend of mine, Shirley Vickery, told me tonight that when she used to tell people she was a secretary, they would switch off.

So she changed her job description. When people asked about her job, she would reply: “I’m the personal assistant for a community activist.”

People would say: “Wow that’s amazing.”

It’s all in the wording and what we tell ourselves.

We write our own stories.

Blues blow blues away

By Virginia Winder

It’s a dark Friday night with the promise of rain.

All week I’ve been had moments of dipping into gloom. It’s mid-winter and while the sunshine has made a difference this week, nothing have been able to shake the hints of a downward slide.

Juliet McLean and friends play in the basement of Pianoworks

Then I wander down a city back alley and into the basement of Pianoworks.

And I am submerged in live music.

I sit at the back and count all the people in the audience who are friends, people dear to my heart.

They are all here to listen to Juliet McLean and friends play beautiful music.

There’s Hamish Cameron on electric bass and double bass, Matt Herrett on electric and slide guitars, Rob Ju on drums and a guest, named Wellington, on violin.

Juliet sits behind her keyboard singing uplifting and moving songs, many from her EP, The Dance. In this one set, there’s a waltz, a tango, the blues, jazz and songs that soothe my soul.

And that’s exactly what does happen – the blues blow the blues away.

Afterwards I got enough hugs to last me a month, although I’m always keen for more.

What the music did was allow me to be transported, to disappear into a world of words and swirling sound. I was absolutely there, in that moment, and part of an intently listening audience.

This was a pop-up gig and they are so good. They are intimate, welcoming and you can be close to the musicians, to the action and sound.

Renny M at Dee and Dave Pope's house

About a month weeks ago, I went to another great pop-up gig at my friend Dee and Dave Pope’s home. That was starring Renny M. Her music also touched me because of her words of raw honesty and a voice that reminds me a little of Tracy Chapman.

If you’re in Taranaki, there’s a lot of gigs going on. There are concerts at Studio 64 in Inglewood, Singer Songwriters New Plymouth at Little Theatre, shows at the 4^th Wall Theatre and more pop-up performances on the horizon. If you get the chance, say yes and go.

You’ll be among friends, even if you haven’t met them yet.

Today, I’m still feeling nourished by last night’s outing. By singer-songwriters who put themselves out there for little return except to entertain us. By the good will of an audience attentive to every word, every nuance.

But mostly I feel full up with live music and its magical powers of healing.

A heartfelt plea for aroha and tolerance

By Virginia Winder

Florence Winder, my mum

It all began with the mountain and moved on to my mother. 

When I was a baby reporter working at the Taranaki Daily News back in 1984 I was sent to a job in Stratford. 

The Taranaki Maori Trust Board and representatives of mountain users, like trampers and ski folk - and others I can't remember, probably DOC - were meeting about the name of the mountain. 

Should it be Taranaki or Egmont?

On the way there I remember thinking "how ridiculous, our mountain is Egmont".

Then I sat with notepad and pen in a meeting room, leaving all my biases at the door, and I listened. 

What I heard startled me - to the iwi spread around its slopes the mountain was always known as Taranaki and was seen as an ancestor, a living entity. There was a story about how Taranaki fought with Tongariro over the beautiful Pihanga and, being injured, was forced to flee to his present place, led by the rock Rahotu. 

From a colonial point of view, the mountain was named by Captain Cook on January 11, 1770 after John Perceval, 2nd Earl of Egmont, a former First Lord of the Admiralty who had supported the voyage. In other words it was named after a sponsor. 

The impassioned words from these Maori elders touched me deeply, changed me profoundly and from that day forth I never called the mountain Egmont again. 

Mt Taranaki from Fitzroy Beach

But even though the co-name change happened officially in 1986, the newspaper style remained Egmont until 2005 when it became Mt Taranaki under editor Lance Girling-Butcher. 

But for years before that I had been quietly subversive, always referring to the mounga (that's Te Reo o Taranaki's way of spelling it) as "Taranaki's mountain" in my stories. 
Nobody ever changed my wording. 

Next, was a marae visit. I don't know if it was my first - I don't remember that moment; I've always felt at home on a marae. I love the powhiri (welcome), the hongi and the hugs, the waiata and listening to the beauty of te reo Maori even if I can't understand everything that is said. It has always been soothing to my soul being on a marae.

In the 1980s, I was sent out to cover an educational programme at Owae Marae in Waitara. 
A bunch of street kids had been brought down from Auckland and a man of mana called Sonny Waru was there to teach them about who they were and where they came from. 

On that first day, these teenagers, homeless and many tagged with the glue-sniffer label, were a bedraggled lot who stood with their heads down, mistrustful of the world. 

I went back a week later and these kids were totally different. They stood tall. They looked proud and alert, strong and confident, all because they had learnt their whakapapa, had been immersed in their culture and knew who they were. 

Again, I was profoundly moved by the importance of knowledge, of understanding one's own culture and of aroha. 

Then it was my mother's turn to change. 

It happened in the early 1990s when she and my husband, Warren Smart (of Ngati Porou

Warren Smart, my husband 

descent), went to night classes to learn te reo. I was working nights so couldn't attend. 

Mum, a stridently passionate woman, fell in love with Maori language and the culture. She took to answering the phone in te reo, asking how you were in Maori and expecting you to reply in the same language, correcting your pronunciation if need be. 

Mum - Florence (she hated Flo) - read avidly about Maori current affairs and would get furious at any injustices. 

One day I visited to find her feeling frustrated and constrained. 

"Oh, I wish was a Maori," she declared. 

"Why mum?" I was perplexed. 

"Because then I could protest at Moutoa Gardens," she said, of the 1995 occupation of the land by iwi in Whanganui. 

She also used to practice writing in te reo by penning letters to her dear friend Gail in the US, who didn't understand Maori language at all. Mum thought she was hilarious.

Howard Winder, my dad

Dad was another story. He was an Egmont man, although he wasn't staunch about it. He was a man of great humour, whose skin turned the colour of mahogany in summer. An old Maori man from across the road, Mr Butler, came to visit one day and said: "Look at you, you should be the Maori not me."

Dad used to love telling that story, taking pride in his dark skin. 

He also supported mum's passion for all things Maori. But dad was more of a detached observer than participant, until a weekend wananga at Parihaka, the place of passive resistance in coastal Taranaki.

My sister, husband and I were all there with mum and dad that weekend, when the stories of Te Whiti o Rongomai and Tohu Kakahi, of the plunder on November 5, 1881, of the imprisonments and also the meaning of the mounga were shared by the mesmerising Te Ru Wharehoka. 

At the end of the weekend, we all shared what we got from that weekend and dad said, with great emotion: "I'll never call the mountain anything but Taranaki again."

I teared up with pride. 

My own journey continued with books like Ask That Mountain by Dick Scott and Days of Darkness by Hazel Riseborough. 

But then I had the privilege of being employed by Puke Ariki to write stories about Taranaki. It was like being immersed in the past, learning about the Parihaka prophets, and others, including Sir Maui Pomare and Te Rangi Hiroa (Sir Peter Buck) and history like the land wars, the Peka Peka Block and Te Atiawa chief Wiremu Kingi Te Rangitaake. 

I learnt from the archives, from books, from historians and best of all from the people, who passed down the knowledge - Te Miringa Hohaia, Wharehoka Wano and Miria Pomare and many more. 

I was unbelievably privileged to learn by doing what I love best - telling stories. 

But the point of this blog is to share with you about how change takes place in a person. 

Mum, meeting one her greatest heroines, Dame Whina Cooper.

How learning about other cultures, especially of our tangata whenua, the people of this land, doesn't make you radical (well, perhaps mum was a bit); it makes you less fearful, more enriched, more understanding, more tolerant. And kinder, much kinder. 

Like Mayor Andrew Judd, once there is understanding of the past, acknowledgment of the gross injustices by our British colonial forefathers, there is no going back.

You can't un-know what you now know. 

I will always stand up for what I believe is right, opting for equity before true equality can come. 

I am my mother's daughter, one who stands with fierce love in my heart for all people. 

On the edge of addiction

By Virginia Winder

My legs are wriggle-aching like fish on a hook. Jerk, stretch, thrash. 

My arms feel the same - twitch, quiver, clench. 

A low-level headache pulses in my frontal lobe and behind my eyes. I've been shivery cold and sweaty hot. Throw in diarrhoea and nausea and you've got the entire picture - one of withdrawal symptoms. 

When I was in the three-month torment of sciatica that hovered between 6 and 10 on the pain scale I was given codeine, then Tramadol, Sevredol and long-acting morphine. The pain still fired and the doses went up. 

At my peak of painkiller taking I was on 40mg of long-acting morphine twice a day and, 10mg Sevredol (fast-acting morphine) every four hours. This was taken with ibuprofen and paracetamol. 

They barely touched the pain because the surgeon found a piece of jagged

bone sticking into my nerves. 

When I woke up from surgery the sciatica pain that had cursed me from right hip to foot was gone. 

But my need for painkillers hadn't. 

I was physically in need of morphine. 

There are thousands of people like me, who get hooked on opiates, not from dabbling with illicit drugs, but through a medical event. 

I've weaned myself off the morphine but it took time - just under two weeks in total. 

I wasn't perfect either. There were nights when my wiggle-twitching limbs sent me seeking another pill to help settle me down to sleep. I began to wonder if I'd ever get off this powerful but useful opiate, derived from opium poppies. 

The thought of a full-blown addiction terrified me and yet this is a reality for many. 

But I was lucky because my body was having the reactions, not my mind. I was not psychologically hooked, didn't need morphine for my brain or my moods. I got no feelings of euphoria because the drug was only working on my pain. 

It was just the physical effects that churned me up when it was time to cut it out. 

But imagine being on higher doses and for much longer.  

Those addicted to morphine may, according to www.morphineaddictionhelp.com have:

* Loss of control that results in compulsive use.

* Continuation of behavior despite adverse consequences.

* Obsession or preoccupation with obtaining and using the substance.

By tonight I will be 72 hours without morphine. 

And just to make sure I can't regress, I packaged up the morphine sulphate, the Sevredol, Tramadol and codeine and, between dark-as-night thunderstorms, walked the lot back to the pharmacy across the road. 

I'm now opiate free and so is my home. It's a damn good feeling. 

But I also have deep feelings of empathy for those living the nightmare of addiction - especially those who become hooked from a medical event, whether physical or mental. 

It could've been me. 

Whatever will be, will be...

By Virginia Winder 

From great pain has come great peace. 

This is not the "no pain, no gain" motto that we held fast to during surf club training in the '70s and '80s. 

This is a reaction to living with the ongoing agony of sciatica, caused by a herniated disc and pinched nerves. 

You hear people say "I've had a bit of sciatica" and I inwardly shake my head. I don't want it to sound like a competition, but that is as far removed as a sore gum is from a raging tooth abscess. Or a minor headache from a full-blown migraine. 

This past week has been the worst. I have read about pain spikes and this week I registered some 10s (out of 10) on the pain scale. 

I have learnt that to deal with pain of such magnitude I have to calm my central nervous system. To cool the fire, which runs from hip and pelvis, down my right thigh into my calf and foot, I meditate. I endlessly do guided mindfulness exercises with names like "compassionate hand", "kindness meditation", "full body scan" and "mindful breathing". Some are guided by Jon Kabat-Zinn and others by Dr Russ Harris. Both are exponents of mindfulness. 

Some days I have been laid flat and listening to their soothing voices has helped calm my nerve pain. 

In turn, I have found a deep well of peacefulness. 

A friend said today that she would be too impatient to live with the inconvenience of pain. But you can't know what or how you will endure until you face a challenge. 

I have been reading about chronic pain and illness - researching is in my blood. Listened to the audio book How to be Sick by American woman Toni Bernhard, which taught me about finding peace in solitude and how a confined life can still be a good life. 

Most applicable and helpful was the exquisitely written book Giving Yourself to Life by Deborah Shepard. Based in Auckland, she lives with chronic pain from sciatica and emotional pain from the destruction of her beloved Christchurch. Written as a journal, this book gave me great hope and inspiration. 

Without giving an Oscar thank you speech, my family and friends continue to give me loving support. 

And then there are the cats and dog, who are wonderful distractions. Oh the joy of a purring cat. 

There is relief in sight. 

On Wednesday, I am having surgery in Wellington to give this trapped nerve some room. The neurosurgeon is cautiously optimistic that the outcome will be good. I am hopeful, but also cautious. 

What I do know is that the path from pain leads to peace. So I go south fortified with mindfulness and a bit of Doris Day - whatever will be, will be...

Read me like a book

I was up front for John Grant, one of my favourite artists.
Photo: Warren Smart

By Virginia Winder

It was a weird Womad for me. 

Normally I'm up front dancing and submerging myself in the rhythms and voices of other cultures, grinning at my friends in joy. 

Alas, pain and being a book in the Living Library changed everything. 

Since the library began a few years back it's been one of my favourite parts of Womad. 

I've rushed to the Kunming Gardens to choose two "books" because I adore hearing people's stories. 

This year, I was a book, which meant people could take me out and I would tell them one or both of two life stories. These were living with bipolar and surviving a suicide attempt. Lovely jolly subjects to share. 

I was terrified. 

But the people who came to "read" me were all open, kind and respectful. They didn't even mind me lying down on the job cos of my back. 

At one stage I said: "I'm so grateful to be alive."

A young woman asked me: "What are you grateful for?"

It was a good question and one I turned to my phone to answer, because I'd been writing just that in an unfinished blog. 

This is what I read:

"A bird alighting on a bare maple tree. The sun illuminating the tips of our nikau palm. Being drenched by warming winter sun while sitting on our orange couch. These were the little things I was thankful for after surviving my suicide attempt. 

Then there were the big things - being held by my husband while going to sleep; watching my daughter graduate with a degree in industrial design; seeing my son go off to film and TV school. There are a hundred more things I'm grateful for - learning about self-compassion, re-connecting with the practice of mindfulness, my ever-faithful friends, my steadfast family, our adoring animals, the wild Tasman sea, the list goes on and on...

You see you cannot go through a near-death experience without changing, hopefully for the better. 

Another huge thing for me has been writing the story of a man who survived cancer four times and who has been well for 23 years. 

Alan Berryman taught me that to survive you can't replicate the circumstances that made you unwell in the first place. 

He has a whole plan for survival and his words resonated with me."

Alan was also a book at Womad. 

By the end, he was tired but elated. 

I was completely wiped. 

Writing is infinitely easier for me than telling my story in person, especially while battling beastly pain. Sciatica is a bastard. 

In the end I was over me. 

But it was a worthwhile experience - and there were many people who left me with thankful hugs, with wet eyes and, hopefully, more understanding and acceptance about bipolar. 

Today I was rapt to read that Kiwi movie Dark Horse won best movie and Cliff Curtis best actor at the Seattle International Film Festival.

Dark Horse is about a chess genius, who lives with bipolar. Curtis deserves an Oscar for his performance. 

Performance. That's what I missed at Womad. It was all there, but I wasn't. Although I did get to see one of my favourite artists, John Grant.

Next year, I'll be up front dancing again...

A painful request for help

By Virginia Winder

I live in a painscape now.

It's colourful and filled with jagged shapes. 

Getting out of a car yesterday in hideous agony my sister asked me "what colour is your pain?"

Eyes scrunched up I saw white stars. 

Today, lying on my bed, I see red shards in my calves, hot orange in my gluteus maximus and red in my pelvis. 

Sitting on a chair I see silver needles down my legs. The pain in my foot and ankle is yellow with pink points. 

All of this from sciatica, which is getting worse not better. Some days I've hit 10 on the pain scale. 

There is a treatment plan though. I will be going to Wellington for CT-guided injections into my lumbar spine to ease the pain. 

Now, this is important, I don't want your sympathy. This just is. 

However, I do want advice on living with pain. Or even better, how to get rid of it. 

So far I've tried acupuncture, physio, prescribed pain relief, stretches, mindfulness meditations and distraction. A generous man has also given me a special nana's massage oil (jury is still out on this) to try. 

So far, nothing has helped much, not even the prescription pain relief. So what are your suggestions? 

This is an interactive blog - fire everything at me. Pain has made me 100% open-minded and I want to know your ideas.