Depression: As the world races by.

Nobody wants to talk about Depression and half the time if it’s happened to you, you just want to forget it.

It truly sucks pond scum and I would rather inhale the 19,000 square kilometre algal bloom that recently floated up onto the shores of Qingdao in China.

Really. I’d give it my best effort, even if it took all my remaining years. Anything rather than feel like that again.

I first experienced depression (as many do) during the tumultuous torments of adolescent hormonal surges. You know the usual youthful flirtations with the meaning of life and your identity, but mine was a little more dire.

In my own family, my mother was a chronic depressive and both my brother and myself, as well as two male cousins and now both my sons, suffered from severe bouts of depression resulting in the necessity of drug intervention. Yah for super genes.

I don’t know what to think about Julia Gillard. I am really not politically savvy. I have not had time or the inclination to follow politics for years. The last time I looked, Malcolm Fraser was in and I rather liked his droll demeanour. I had no idea what he was striving to do or what that meant for the country. I was an ignorant voter.

Still am. Although I am not alone. Last election my bro voted for the Liberal candidate because they were offering free rubbish bins or some such. HE wasn’t alone in that either. His friends followed suit.

What a sorry bunch we Aussies seem to be at the polling station. And I speak for only MOST of us. Some are well worded up or powered up or just read up. But they don’t read me so I can say what I like.

Just this week, Howard Sattler from a Perth radio station (now thankfully and justifiably sacked) asked the Prime Minister of Australia if her life partner was gay. He later justified his question by saying she had been aware that the interview promised to be 'candid'. 

Really? 

Next he'll be saying, "she made me do it."

Lee D'Angelo Fisher said it best in the Financial Review, "Where does one begin to address this outrage? What does it say about today’s Australia that the Prime Minister of the nation can be treated with such cavalier disrespect?"... 

Sattler’s “Tim” interview was not about holding a prime minister to account. It was not about the public’s right to know. It was plainly and simply about disrespect."

I don't care what you think about Julia Gillard. I don't particularly like her much, but I'm afraid I do hold her office in some sort of regard. The Aussie idea that we are larrikins and mischievous disrespecters of authority has to stop. This is the new millennium and the whole Lawson/Patterson fight over Australian identity linked to some heroic, free travelling, free talking joker is antiquated tosh. Just stop. Grow up. 

Ben Pobjie made a cracking reply to the sexism in the media this week in his article in the Guardian on Friday: Australia let's talk about manners; Are we satisfied with a sexist political debate that revolves around sniggering at women's body parts and hairdressers? 

I learnt that a Birdnest drink costs something like $4000 a kilo and is given to highly honoured guests. I spent the time nodding my appreciation and making appreciative noises my while Western sensibilities were screaming: bird's nest? what the hell? does that mean I'm eating bits of soggy twig and feathers? And guano  as well. OMG what if  the chicks are in there too? I'm so glad it's all mushed up- just eat it. OMG what's that on my chin? a leg? a foot? a bit of undiluted birdshit?

Just drink it and smile.... please God hurry up, oh please God hurry up...

If we don't heed warnings by such as Greenwald, Walt and Dorling here in Australia, we will eventually or quickly lose the means to challenge the government, opening the door to totalitarianism. The upshot is, if the government persecutes journalists and demands (or steals) disclosure about their sources, whistleblowers and leakers (whatever the distinction is) will turn off their photocopiers, crush their Canon spyomatic SLR's and regurgitate their USBs and bin them...

Bradley Manning is just the beginning. When he goes down, they will chase down Assange and prosecute him for complicity and aiding the enemy or some such tosh. No one will speak out again. There's that fear again. Effective isn't it? Just like the school yard bully. Stay silent, stay safe. Stay small. Don't make eye contact and hope they turn on each other. 

My motherhood vanished in the whiff of a soiled nappy; my kids were beautiful little treasures one minute and now suddenly they are huge, hirsute, monosyllabic creatures of rare sightings. They appear suddenly in dimly lit doorways with murmurings and muted music whisping out around them with ghostly tendrils of barely discernible sound. I don't know if someone is in there with them in their rooms or it's just the laptop playing endless music videos and You Tube offerings of hilarious mishaps. It's another world and a universe away from the little voices that constantly sought me out with offerings of what they were thinking in that instant or small grubby fingers pulling at my dress to show me what they'd invented. 

Way back when I was seven and my mother suggested Rose of Lima as my patron saint, I dubiously tried to please her. But as I read about the little lassie who wandered about with Christ's thorns ​jammed onto her head, I realised that it was all wrong, wrong wrong. I could not possibly emulate such a selfless creature with such a strong desire to become close to God, at such a price. If it involved self inflicted injury, particularly involving actual spillage of blood - specifically MY blood - then it was simply out of the question no matter how many other souls were saved by my sacrifice.

And then I see the You Tube story about Narayanan Krishnan and I am totally undone. For years I have been happily plodding along in my life, raising kids, going to work, cleaning the house, cooking meals, pooper scooping... you know, living my life and adding up the Goodness Gold Tokens That Will Get You Into Heaven If You Amass Enough Of Them (only the precise amount is never actually stipulated in any church documents leaving you to really bust a gut just in case you arrive at The Gate only to find St Peter's awfully sorry but you're just two tokens short, terribly bad luck - and pull lever- 'toodle-oo' you fall into the abyss for eternity... )  

I may "unfollow" (see, I can learn) Russell if I can't make out what the hell he's saying in the next couple of days. I notice, like myself, David Attenborough is far more discerning than to write something every five seconds and realises that no one, not even an avid fan, is interested in his bowel movements or his excitement at finding that M & S still sell his favourite sock brand. He hasn't tweeted since March. Besides, unlike myself, he has a life.