I have been trying to keep this column non-political. But today I can only write one thing. I can only write about how I woke up today. Because in over 22 years of writing the Soapbox I have had a contract with my readers. I always write from my authenticity. I tell you the truth. I write what is front of mind. And today when I sit at the desk, I’m in tears. Tears of gratitude for the beautiful people who have turned up, who have carried me through, and tears of sorrow for this terrible feeling that I have let my community down. That I gave people hope for something I now couldn’t deliver.
Politicians don’t ever talk about their feelings. I think that’s one of the things wrong with politics. Or at least wrong with politicians. It’s a place where authenticity makes you a target. But I’m not a politician. I’m a candidate. I’m Mandy, an imperfect woman. Amum of five, a writer, a comedian, a terrible reverse parker, who’s thrown her hat in the ring, twice. Come close. So close. But missed. Twice. If you ever needed a personal growth experience that was more like an extreme sport, run for a seat. It’s brutal.
If campaigning is like flying, then not getting there is like falling off a cliff. There’s the election day, Saturday pre-6pm, when everything is possible, and the Sunday reality check. It’s like landing on concrete. The 80-hour weeks that seemed effortless just days ago, now land in an ache that goes deep into the bone. Everything hurts. The lightness in my body is replaced by heaviness. Sadness has made its home in me. That building knot of anxiety that has sat in my chest for months now has been replaced by another knot. This one is grief. It’s the grief of almost. It burns night and day. I know it will burn for months.
Last time I went through this, I didn’t know what to expect. You can’t prepare yourself for it, but knowing what was coming definitely helps. Three months after the last election I ended up in hospital with a massive vertigo event. This time I’ve taken care of myself. I gave up drinking. I took up early morning exercise. Today I am not drowning in discomfort, I am sitting in it. This time I’m only marinating in my melancholy, I’m not making a meal of it.
I’m reflecting on the complexity of the feelings. Some of them are ancient. Remember those feelings as a child of not being good enough? Those feelings of rejection? Of being over looked. Of missing out? They’re there. Hello yucky unevolved sulky feeling! I welcome you in, and sit with you.
I feel exposed. I couldn’t face the supermarket yesterday. The kindness of arms extended by a stranger in a coffee shop near the airport yesterday left me in tears. I had to drive home past my ‘Better is Possible’ billboards. Nothing like being mocked by your 10-metre-high self. But if I’m honest, I still believe that. Better shouldn’t just be possible. It should be policy.
There have been dark forces at play to discredit me. I’ve had them trawl through my comedy, looking for snippets to put out of context and repurpose. I’ve had third-party groups funded by fossil fuels run ads on local TV. In my community. I’ve had local Facebook groups host some pretty vile content. I’ve read things about myself a person should never have to read. Some of them were very litigious (note to admins on those pages to watch the comments). I never engaged. I will pull people out of the mud, I won’t fight in it.
The campaign protects you, but now, I’m just Mandy, and to be honest it makes me feel super vulnerable.
All around the country right now there are people who feel just like me. Broken and exhausted. Would I do it again?
Absolutely.
Because we didn’t just run a campaign, we created a movement.
And movements don’t need to win to change things.
- Mandy Nolan’s Soapbox column has appeared in The Echo for almost 23 years. The personal and the political often meet here; she’s also been the Greens federal candidate since before the last two federal elections. The Echo’s coverage of political issues will remain as comprehensive and fair as it has ever been, outside this opinion column which, as always, contains Mandy’s personal opinions only.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
