I don’t see this as one of my cosmic coincidences, but Brian Wilson—the co-creator of the Beach Boys, whom I was talking about just over a month ago in one of my posts—died on 11 June 2025. Brian lived with schizoaffective disorder, a form of schizophrenia. The reason I had been talking about him was because I’d been listening to one of his songs, and it reminded me of the softer side of schizophrenia. At the time, I was afraid that a man with the same diagnosis wished me harm. Thankfully, he didn’t—but hearing of Brian’s death still makes me sad.
Since his passing, I’ve learned that Brian wasn’t actually in the grip of mental illness during the peak of his time with the Beach Boys. He co-wrote hits like Help Me, Rhonda, Good Vibrations, and Wouldn’t It Be Nice before his schizoaffective disorder fully emerged. While he remained involved with the Beach Boys afterward, his illness went on to shape much of his life.
That changes everything for me.
I had believed his story was one of creative genius harnessing madness. But now I see it differently—it just made me realise how impossible that really is. He’s rightly hailed as a genius for the music he created with the Beach Boys. But I can’t help wondering how much more he could have done if he hadn’t been struck by the schizoaffective stick. If Brian Wilson couldn’t make it work with that illness—even with his brilliance—then who can? People like him are often feared, stigmatised, and left behind at the end of the unemployment line — if they even make it that far.
And yet, there’s one thing Brian did conquer: love.
He was married twice. In his first marriage to Marilyn Rovell, he had two daughters—Carnie and Wendy Wilson—who later became two thirds of the pop trio Wilson Phillips, alongside their childhood friend Chynna Phillips, daughter of John and Michelle Phillips of The Mamas & the Papas.
In his second marriage, to Melinda Kae Ledbetter, which lasted 28 years, he adopted five children—each with a name starting with D: Daria Rose, Delanie Rae, Dylan, Dash, and Dakota Rose. I’ve actually noticed others who name all their kids with the same letter or pattern, even things like “Br.” I always wonder why people do that.
I’ve heard people say that someone with schizoaffective disorder—or schizophrenia itself—can’t be loved. That they can’t maintain a relationship. That it’s too hard. That the person loving them will sometimes be afraid, unsure how to manage symptoms, or burdened by the humiliations that can come with public breakdowns. That there’s an imbalance of power. That no mother wants her child to grow up and marry a schizophrenic person.
But Brian did it. Twice.
So may you rest in peace now, darling Brian Wilson. May the fog that clouded your mind finally lift. May you spend eternity free from chaos, surrounded only by pure, unconditional love.
Something that’s been standing in the way of a better life for me is sleep. It’s been good for the past week — touch wood — but it got so bad at one point that I wasn’t able to finish the course I was doing at the WEA, Big Questions and Great Thinkers. I was really disappointed, but I’ve decided I’ll enrol in it again next year.
TAFE and uni start in just over a month, so I’m doing everything I can to stick to a proper sleep schedule, trying to align my sleep and wake times with the rhythm of everyday life. But even if things go off track again, I’ve made up my mind: I’m still going to go to class.
When I saw a sleep specialist, I asked her if it was possible to involuntarily fall asleep while out or at uni. She said no — and also reassured me that you can’t just drop dead from being overtired. So, I’m going to suck it up.
That said, “sucking it up” when it comes to sleep is no small thing. I think I practically have a master’s degree in surviving on very little sleep — but let’s be real, functioning after a sleepless night can feel like absolute torture.
I’m currently waiting to hear back from the the organisation about whether I can still volunteer with them, even though I have a criminal conviction for texting while driving. They sent me an email saying that a disclosable court outcome doesn’t automatically disqualify someone from volunteering or working with them — but still, it’s an awful feeling, sitting with that uncertainty, wondering if I’ll be deemed eligible despite my mistake.
Sometimes I feel like standing in front of a camera and making an infomercial for the world: “A criminal conviction — no matter how small — is significant. It will follow you, shape you, and affect you for the rest of your natural born life.”
The museum was opened up after dark tonight, so I went along with Rebecca and my tutor-slash-daughter Maureen to check it out. We arrived at five o’clock and found the evening centred around a special Vikings exhibition. At the entrance, they’d set up tables selling leather goods and even had a small band playing. You can see the photos below.
We were walking around the ground floor of the museum, where all the stuffed animals are, and wandered over to the lift and pressed the up button. The reason we did this is that, usually when we've visited the museum at night, the entire building is open and you can wander around as you please.
But this time, a security guard came up to us and said, “That section’s not open tonight, guys.” We just said, “No worries,” and started to move on — but then he got on his radio and said, “Three women trying to get the lift to the upper levels.”
And just like that, I felt dirty again. Watched. Branded. Like I was back in some unspoken class of people that don’t get the benefit of the doubt.
Am I destined to be a second-rate citizen forever?
Rebecca copped it more than I did. When we went to the café to grab something to drink, she ducked out the front for a cigarette. She was smoking on museum grounds, and a young woman from the café came out and moved her along. Then, when Rebecca came to the door of the café to come back in, I went to open it for her — but the same woman stopped me and said, “We keep this door closed for security reasons. She’ll have to go around the front.”
So Rebecca walked all the way around.
Being a smoker really does put you at the bottom of the barrel. I used to smoke too. I wasn’t a rough smoker, but a smoker all the same. I can’t believe I used to do that. I’ll never go back to it.
We only stayed at the museum for about an hour — there wasn’t much else to do after that. Rebecca and I caught an Uber back to her place, and honestly, the driver was terrifying. He kept giving me daggers through the rearview mirror. I genuinely thought we weren’t going to make it home. But we did. And now I’m back here, safe and warm, writing this.
The best part of my night at the museum? A handcrafted stegosaurus I bought from the museum shop. It’s such a beautiful piece — it looks handmade, not homemade. It actually cost me fifty dollars, but I wanted it so badly. The book I haven’t been writing — the one set in Cambodia — is about stegosauruses. You can see it below.
The U.S. has been inching toward re-engagement with Iran, possibly even reviving elements of the nuclear deal — and Israel clearly doesn’t want that. So they make a move that now puts them in a position where the U.S. might feel compelled to defend them. And, not coincidentally, it also diverts global attention away from Gaza.
Seeing Rebecca was okay. I think we’ve outgrown each other. I hadn’t spoken to her in a while, and she’s been in the Adelaide Clinic recently. When I found out, I promised myself I’d always be there for her and look after her. And I will — I meant that. But if I’m honest, I could take or leave her company now.
I know that sounds harsh, but she’s become so negative and self-centred. Tonight she was wearing a $3000 headpiece — real hair. She bought it because her hair has thinned significantly due to the medication she takes for schizoaffective disorder.
$3000 is a lot of money for something like that — but honestly, if it makes you feel better, if it gives you a sense of confidence you might otherwise lack, then I think it’s a good investment. I’d probably spend close to $3000 a year just colouring my hair and making sure I’m not completely grey. It’s the same idea in the end: trying to feel a little more like ourselves.
