I was watching Stephen Fry’s The Secret Life of the Manic Depressive the other night, and it made me realise a few things. Firstly, I am glad I’m not bipolar. Depression is bad enough, and from what I saw on there about bipolar, I realise it could be much worse.
Also, it made it absolutely clear I’m not bipolar. While I had experienced many of the things mentioned on the depressive side, I’ve clearly never experienced mania. The bizarre behaviour attributed to being manic is completely alien to me.
Most importantly, at least to my current situation, is how difficult it is to find somewhere to run away to here in Australia.
Stephen Fry had a very public breakdown some years ago, where he ran off from London and wound up in Belgium. For its faults, Belgium seems a reasonable place to run away to. Plus it’s relatively easy to get to from London.
Here in Australia, the options are limited. There is no rail link to New Zealand, and flying there doesn’t afford the same anonymity. Even hopping the train to Sydney from here in Canberra requires booking in advance, and the trains only run at most three times a day.
Another option might be to head down to the South Coast, but everyone in Canberra goes there, so it doesn’t really offer any sanctuary. I’d be spotted right away.
About the only real option available is to get the bus down to the Snowy Mountains. (The central character of the local film Somersault does that, although foe different reasons.)
Anyway, while I might wish to run away from all my problems for a few weeks, or even just days, the options don’t have the same romance that the Benelux nations offer. If it weren’t fir the cost, I’d consider it.
