What does two decades get you nowadays?

Short answer: not much.

There’s something soul-crushing about pouring your heart into a school for 21 years only to have that same school throw you out like trash when you’ve landed on hard times.

It’s no secret that I did not want to become a teacher. In my second year of teacher training college I hit a wall and wanted to quit. I didn’t like the atmosphere at the schools I had done work experience at, didn’t like the college/uni divide among teachers and certainly didn’t like the disdain I felt coming from the teachers meant to be guiding me through my work experience. As a mere intern I was treated with contempt, like a burden or an idiot tag-along. I did not have the luxury of quitting, however, because I couldn’t afford to pay back my student loan. Back then, if you completed your degree within four years, you didn’t have to pay it back so I decided to stick it out and then “do something else” with my degree. The only thing standing in my way was the fact I had to do six months of teaching, three days a week, before I was a certified teacher. And I wasn’t allowed to do it at a school of my choice because it was too far away for my teachers to come to for a lesson observation. So my college assigned me a school in Amsterdam and I saw the coming six months as a horrible dark cloud I simply had to muddle through before I was free of it all.

When I got to the school for my very first day it was nothing like I’d expected. I was welcomed in from my very first contact with the receptionist straight through to the vice-principal who was expecting me for my intake interview. Every single person I talked to was delighted I was there, that I was learning to teach and that I was going to be part of the team. And I was part of the team from the very first moment I walked into the school. Here’s your classroom key, here’s your photocopy card, this is the team you’ll be working with, here’s your coach, let’s stop in on a couple of the classes you’ll be teaching so you can introduce yourself. This is Joanne, everyone, she’ll be teaching English. Welcome, Joanne! So great to have you here! Looking forward to working with you!

From the very first day, even as a lowly intern, my input was not only requested but valued and taken seriously. It felt like I’d always been there. It was like home. I had some very difficult classes that first half year but it never felt like I had to deal with it by myself or that it was difficult because I was new. Within our team there were seasoned professionals who readily admitted that class 2A1 drove them crazy, too. We’d talk about what we were having trouble with and what we might try to get the kids onside, how to make things not only bearable but pleasant. Even though you stood in the classroom on your own, you could always count on the expertise and support of the whole team to back you up. I had never experienced anything like it and it was magical and fun. No one was more amazed than I was to discover that I actually enjoyed teaching. Not only that, but I was damn good at it! So good that I got offered a job at that same school, straight out of college. I hadn’t even officially earned my degree yet and I already had a job lined up for the next school year. I didn’t even hesitate to accept. It all felt so right.

Eight years later I handed in my resignation. Not because I didn’t like teaching anymore, but because my new team leader did not know how to inspire the teamwork that had made the school so appealing to me in the first place. Everyone had been left to fend for themselves and my, at the time, very difficult homeroom class, was considered my problem. It weighed on me and I told my boss that I was unhappy. He said he could see that. I said I wanted to quit. He said that was probably a good idea. It broke my heart to leave. Afterwards I discovered that it hadn’t even been necessary. There were plenty of things we could have tried to make it easier for me but my unimaginative team leader didn’t even try to come up with anything, he just let me go.

I had enough money saved up to manage for a year without work and so I left without anything new lined up. I applied for a few teaching jobs closer to home but didn’t hear anything back. By that time being a teacher had become so intertwined with my identity that I couldn’t think of anything else I might do. I was still aimlessly drifting along at the end of the summer vacation and throughout the fall, when a former colleague called up to ask if I would consider substituting for her while she was off on pregnancy leave, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to go back to school for a little visit and to see what the temporary position entailed. I went in “for coffee” and left with a contract. Thirteen years later I am still there.

The last six years have been difficult for me. There’s been a great deal of unexpected and deeply personal loss, I’ve struggled with my health and, in retrospect, woefully inadequate medical support and, once again, the teamwork that had made my school so wonderful before, had evaporated, replaced with more admin work and less time to get everything done. By that time I had been promoted to assistant manager and the duality of teaching and managing, coupled with the hardships I was facing in my personal life, wasn’t working for me. I resigned as assistant manager and went back to “just” teaching but it didn’t improve my health. I had a second burn out and my recovery was hindered a great deal by our new team leader’s overwhelmingly obvious opinion that I was making a big deal out of nothing. I dutifully did all the coaching, all the reintegration and, slowly, fought my way back. After that, though, every set back in my health was tallied up and used against me. Didn’t matter if it was exhaustion, covid (which I caught at school) or long covid, it was all a sign of how unreliable I was.

Three years ago I talked to my team leader and HR about what possibilities there were in phasing out my teaching hours and slowly working towards a full-time position in the school library. With some creative thinking, HR came up with a plan and it was indeed possible. This school year, 2021-2022, was set to be the last year I taught any classes and I was going to work towards five days a week in the library. I’ve been spending the school year ticking off all of my “lasts”. Last time I’d be doing a parent information night, last time I’d be writing report cards, last time I’d be submitting school exams, etc. It was bitter-sweet but, mostly, I was very much looking forward to being in the library where I could still work with students and I could still work with my beloved English department through our English literature collection. Most importantly, I could stay at my beloved school. The place where I started loving education.

Health-wise I had a very strong start to the year, even though I’d had covid in December 2020, and as a result was dealing with post covid symptoms, the fact that I only taught two classes and spent the majority of my week in the library meant I wasn’t over-taxing myself.

Then disaster struck over the Christmas holiday and, out of nowhere, I ended up in a great deal of pain with a list of symptoms as long as my arm. I felt worse than I had when I’d had covid. There was no explanation for it and the pitifully few tests my doctor reluctantly booked for me were inconclusive. I was trapped in a body I didn’t recognize and couldn’t rely on and there was no help or understanding to be found. I was off sick “again”. Aside from the fact I was stuck in a failing body with no answers, which was terrifying, I was also frustrated by the utter lack of compassion I got from my team leader. For her, this was simply more proof that I was not cut out for my job.

Two weeks ago I was told that I would not be working in the library full time next year. It was too risky because I’d probably call in sick again. Best they can offer me is to fire me as a teacher and then I could work in the library for four days on a trial basis. If I’m sick again, no permanent contract. Good bye and thanks for the 21 years.

It’s risky but also not really viable for me. I’m taking a huge salary cut working as support staff rather than teaching staff and I’d need to work full time (five days) to even have a glimmer of a hope of making ends meet. Four days simply isn’t financially feasible.

So what do I do? Keep my current contract, two days teaching and two days in the library even though I know the teaching part greatly hinders my work in the library? Take the offer of four days and hope they agree to a higher pay bracket so I can make ends meet? Quit and find a new job? As if a new job is so easy to find.

In all honesty, I should probably leave. It’s become a toxic relationship and I should step away. I’ve stayed longer than I should have, mostly because I kept hoping things would get better, that my work (and I) would be appreciated. I didn’t want to leave on bad terms, not after all of the wonderful years I’ve had there. But it looks like that can’t be avoided anymore. It’s not getting better, I’m not appreciated and I am tired of constantly fighting for crumbs.

Between you and me, though, I’d stay if my team leader left.

To the lady who wasn’t wearing a face mask and sat right next to me on the metro

Weeks later, I am still thinking about you. Thinking about the things I wish I had said. If I’m honest, a lot of the time I’m not even wishing I’d said something different, but done something different. I wish I’d grabbed hold of your hair and dragged you to the doors and pushed you out. Instead I moved seats and fumed for the rest of the journey.

When I asked you to either put on a face mask or move to another seat you haughtily told me you “weren’t afraid of imminent death”.

That was a lie.

The truth is that you aren’t afraid of my imminent death. Or that of those around you. The truth is that you don’t actually think this virus will kill you or those close to you and you don’t much care if it kills anyone else.

You claim you “don’t fear imminent death” but I guarantee that you make hundreds of small choices every single day that not only prevent your death but also any bodily injury that might result. You look both ways before crossing the street. You wear a seatbelt. You brush your teeth and shower. You look at your seat to make sure there’s nothing on it before you sit down. You know there are things worse than death and you take steps every single day to avoid those things. No matter how big or small the chances are that they will happen. You take measures to avoid mild discomfort, so don’t try to convince me that taking steps to avoid death are beyond you. That is how I know that you don’t think Covid is going to do any real harm to you. It’s not imminent death you’re unafraid of, it’s mild inconvenience.

This is what has annoyed me about the “we all have to die sometime” crowd. Not one of them really thinks they are actually going to die any time soon but they will still do an innumerable amount of things to avoid death and injury. So what they really mean is that they don’t care if you die soon. Just as long as they aren’t put out by it.

Those same people will expect to get surgery if they need it even though “we all have to die sometime”. They probably even expect a donor organ should the need arise. Again, they’re fine with other people dying as long as their lives aren’t disrupted. They’re fine getting medical attention if they catch the virus, too. Even if “we all have to die sometime”. The disingenuous thing about them is that they think that knowing life is finite makes them intellectually superior. They don’t see that the steps they take every single day to extend that life incrementally for themselves is precisely what these measures are asking us all to do, not only for ourselves, but for each other.

If I had grabbed that woman in the metro by the hair, hopefully pulling out a fair chunk of it in the process, she might not fear imminent death, but she most certainly would not feel like she deserved the pain, or the humiliation, of being discourteously removed from a public space. She might not have feared her own demise if I had taken her fancy shawl and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, tying a tight knot in the back to keep it securely in place but I’m sure any number of horrifying scenarios about what I might do next would cross her mind. Wanna bet her heartrate would accelerate and she might feel just a teensy bit mortal?

Rest assured, she fears plenty.

The sad thing is, she was looking for someone to challenge her. She knew that wearing a face mask in public transit is mandatory. She definitely felt like she was doing something revolutionary. No question. She was itching to tell someone about her elevated state of consciousness whereby she truly believes that she has transcended simpleminded pleb thinking and reached true enlightenment.

What she has failed to realize, though, is that it’s not her own death she’s unafraid of. She didn’t say, I don’t fear my imminent death, she just said she didn’t fear imminent death. As if it’s some dangerous animal she’s seen in a David Attenborough documentary. It exists, but not anywhere she might encounter it. It’s a concept she thinks she can grasp but not one she feels she’ll ever really be confronted with. She doesn’t fear it for herself because she doesn’t think the corona virus can kill her.

She’s fine with it happening to a bunch of strangers on the metro, though. Which is why I wish I’d tossed her out. She was on the metro line that goes from one poor area of Amsterdam to the other. She was on the metro with essential workers. The cleaners, the nurses, the teachers, the child care providers and everyone else sticking their necks out so our world doesn’t completely grind to a halt. The two of us were the only white people in that carriage. I’m sure she heard on the news that mostly “foreign” people, old people and obese people were affected and since she is none of those things (and doesn’t care about any of those groups), “imminent death” is not something she needs to fear. Her elevated intellect failed to connect the dots between the most vulnerable groups and the people she was sharing public transport with.

And it is my sincere opinion that people like her deserve to lose a chunk of their hair as they get unceremoniously tossed out of a metro.

So I’d like to extend this friendly warning to that most imperious lady who does not fear imminent death, and any of her ilk, so that she make take it into account as she moves fearlessly through life with nary a care. Put a mask on and keep a seat between yourself and others in all public places because I am not going to be at a loss for words or action the next time our paths cross. You don’t have to fear death to make smart choices. You don’t have to fear death to take steps to protect yourself. So if you won’t fear my death, then fear me.

Letter To My Grandmother

16 May 2020

Dear Oma,

Today I sat in a high-backed arm chair with my feet on a footstool and thought of you. A little sausage of a dog squashed himself into the space next to me and I thought of you. I was working on a crocheted blanket and, even though you preferred knitting, I thought of you because we were both lovingly crafting things with yarn. So much of you was in that moment of mine that I could feel you there as if you’d never left.

In that same moment I went back in time and found myself in your living room, watching you do the exact thing I found myself doing now. Watching you in your orange chair, like a queen on a throne, with your feet up, vigorously clicking your needles as you created the next cardigan or the next pair of socks. Casje, your little brown dachshund, squashed next to you in the chair in a way that defied physics and comfort, would be snoring softly.

Two ghosts: you in my living room and me in yours. Do we feel haunted by people because they left such a big mark on who we are that a part of them stays with us forever?

We lived together in your house for three years. I don’t remember very many specific conversations that we had, though we must have spoken every day. What I do remember is little snippets, like flashes, of you in the kitchen, stirring soup or sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. I remember how it felt to sit at the table in the kitchen, all five of us eating dinner. Me and mom on one side, you on the other facing us. Dad at the head of the table, where Opa used to sit, and Jenn at the other end by the window. I don’t even have to close my eyes and I’m there. I can feel the tablecloth under my arms. I can trace the lines of the pattern on the plates. If I look out the window I know exactly how much of the garden is visible.

I dream about your house a lot. The kitchen, mostly. I wonder if that’s because you once told me about a dream you had about Opa, not long after he died. You said you were in the kitchen together and he was reading the paper, like he always did, and you were doing something at the counter. Just being together, like you always were. Then you said to him that you wished it could always be like this and he said, “You know it can’t, silly.” I dream about that kitchen a lot. We sit at the table, drinking tea. Funny where your brain goes when you’re not awake to interfere.

You used to love “your” birds. You had feeders in the garden and you’d watch them from the kitchen window. You saved a nest of pigeon chicks once. They followed you around like you were their mom. I never understood your love of birds. I thought they looked pointy and sharp and they were never going to have as much personality as a dog or a cat would. In the last eight years I’ve completely come around, though. I’m a bird lady now. I feed the crows, magpies and jackdaws in my neighbourhood peanuts when I walk the dogs. It started with one crow that used to hop along with us whenever he saw us. I still don’t know what made him do it but after seeing him a few times I thought I’d bring along a peanut or two for him. One crow quickly became two, then more. Not long after the magpies and jackdaws worked out there was food to be had from the lady with the two little dogs and the big purple scarf. Now they even recognize me without the dogs or the scarf. It makes me happy because it makes me feel closer to you.

Your most recent haunting has come in the form of gardening. Yes, even though I live in an apartment, I am cultivating a little garden here. I used to joke that plants came to me to die. I’ve managed a couple of tragic cacti deaths (did you know you can give them too much water? I did not until I did) and the little balcony box my mom made for me with the plants already put in didn’t last long, either. Ever hopeful, I once joined an urban street forest project and they delivered a “very hardy tree” for my balcony. The aim was to make the side of the building greener by giving free trees to the residents. My tree did not make it, I’m afraid. One hot summer and I completely forgot it was out there and didn’t water it. So sorry, tree, I still feel guilty for what happened to you.

Your garden was the envy of all of your neighbours. A riot of colours, with a darling little pond, a swing and a trampoline, all bordered by guardian trees. Your green thumb was magic. I imagine it must have been you that possessed me a couple of years ago when I saw some seeds in the store and impulsively bought them. Self-doubt made me hesitate to plant them right away and they stayed hidden away until recently when I thought “let’s give this a go”. I think that was you popping up again. Now I natter away cheerfully to my seedlings; the daisies and forget-me-nots and the mix of wild flowers I’ve planted. I gently beg the little lavender sprouts to hang in there as they aren’t looking terribly robust. I am determined to keep them alive because you had a giant lavender bush in your front yard and I loved it. I whisper words of encouragement to the succulents and cacti I’ve added to the mix, complimenting their hardy nature. Yes, I’m trying my hand at cacti again. Two are looking really good. I’m a little worried about the third. He gets extra encouragement each morning.

It’s all the you coming out in me. I used to think we didn’t have much in common. I didn’t really understand you and, though I loved you dearly, I didn’t really think I knew you very well. I’m delighted to discover that nothing could be farther from the truth. I wonder if your absolute horror at the thought of being in crowds of people was from the same frustration and anxiety that I feel in crowds. I wonder if yours came from the warped perception of space and time that ADHD gives me. I wonder if the compulsive and repetitive rhythm of knitting was your version of stimming just like the repetition of crochet is mine. I wonder if you chose Opa because of his quiet, dependable nature in much the same way I rely on Dan to be an oasis of peace in my chaotic mind.

You told me often that you always resented having to leave school to help on your family’s farm. You loved school and were good at it. You still had your report card with your excellent grade for religion and writing. You told me and my sister over and over again to make sure we had the education and means to be independent. To never have to rely on anyone else for our survival. Well, I’m a teacher now and I’m good at it. Where you had to leave school, I never left.

When I got my first real boyfriend, you were the one who cheerfully (and cheekily) announced at the dinner table that you thought it was time I started taking the Pill. The very next day mom made an appointment to arrange it.

When my sister and I came home with our first tattoos, you were the one who broke the tension by noting that the design was based on a ring that had been passed down in her family and you thought it was quite pretty.

You were determined that you did not want to go to a retirement home. You did not want to live to see the ten year anniversary of Opa’s death and you wanted to die in your beloved garden. I wasn’t the least bit surprised that you got your way on all three matters.

Dear Oma, it’s been eighteen years since Opa came to take you home and I miss you very much. More and more each day, though, I am discovering that you’re not as far away as I thought.

I love you,

Your granddaughter, Jo

 

“I am a thousand winds that blow”

Dear Zephyr,

Today we laid your body, your mortal mode of transport, to rest. It’s the first funeral I have ever been to where I felt, long beforehand, that I had already completely said goodbye. We had the most beautiful, sunny September day for it, though. Not a cloud in the sky and no hint of rain. Just sunshine and warmth. So much warmth.

This was perfect because it is how I remember my wealth of time with you. I was one of the lucky few who had the privilege of being part of your short life here on Earth. I was one of the ones who was allowed to learn from you.

I’ll tell you a secret, that I’m sure won’t be a secret to you, Zeph; I didn’t really like you at first. It’s funny to think about now, given how far we’ve come, but at the same time I know the feeling was completely mutual. I also know that we’re both cool with that now. People change and people grow and there should totally be room for that in our lives.

I think back on those early days when I would come over to visit your mom (not you) and you would kick up a fuss every single time I was about three quarters of the way through a sentence or story; right at a pivotal moment or just as I was about to get to the point, without fail, you would loudly and piercingly demand your mother’s attention. Every goddamn time. You would also make sure that you didn’t even look in my direction when you did it. As if to let me know it wasn’t even worth your time to rub it in that my thunder was being stolen. Because it would be. Every time. And we both knew it. You were highly effective.

At the time I thought your mother was coddling you, spoiling you, and should have been teaching you better manners. I know better now. Even before you got hit with the Tumor Stick, your mom was looking out for your quality of life. She was leagues ahead of all of the latest and trendiest articles and studies about how you can’t “spoil” your child by loving them and giving them attention. As it happens, giving your child security seems to make children less anxious and better able to deal with failure. She just knew, your mom, as she has instinctively known so many things as long as I have known her, what would be best for you.

It was precisely because you had this unconditional love and attention that you were free to be yourself. You were free to enjoy every part of your life and feel all of the emotions that you wanted to feel, without judgement or shame. This freedom made you open and wise, confident and empathetic. You had the capacity for generosity and compassion, curiosity and observation. The confidence you felt from growing up with unconditional love and lack of harsh criticism meant that you approached new situations with openness and enthusiasm rather than fear and distrust. You grew up believing that the world was yours to discover and love, and that was also true for everyone else you met along the way. The world was ours to share. That is a rare and precious gift, Zephyr, and I am so grateful I got to experience it through you.

I’m not sure when things changed, exactly, between you and I, but we definitely moved on from studiously ignoring each other straight to enthusiastic greetings. There was no middle ground. It went from blatant, passive-aggressive ignoring each other to O.T.T. happy hellos from one day to the next. I walked in and your mom said, “Look Zephie, Jo is here!” and you ran in with your signature big smile (heretofore denied me) and I got a wholly spontaneous hug. Which, naturally, meant that my cold, hard, child-hating heart melted like a Snow Queen’s cursed shard of glass. There was no resisting full-on Zephyr charm. From that moment, I was hooked.

Here’s the thing, Zeph, I could not resist your smile. It was so open and inviting and genuine that I was no match for it. Your smile was always bubbling beneath the surface. You were constantly looking for reasons to be happy or to laugh. You found joy in everything. Even when things were surely unbearable for you, you found something to laugh about. Your throaty chuckle is one of my fondest memories, it’s a sound I will always carry with me. And I have many examples of it.

You especially enjoyed a good fart joke. What five year old doesn’t? Burp jokes were also a hit. You loved hearing about how things went wrong for me (you never did entirely let go of our initial feud, no matter how cozy we got afterward), and you loved hearing stories about your mom from when we were young and foolish. Maybe that’s why you finally let me in; you knew I had the goods on your mommy and I was willing to spill for a little Z-charm.

My favorite memories of you are when I would come over and it was quiet (ie. no other people visiting) and your mom would take that time to shower or go to the store and you and I would have a few stolen moments together. Sometimes we’d just chill out in silence, me working on your blanket or you watching train videos on YouTube, but other times I’d tell you stories. Stories about when I first met your mommy and what we were like. Stories about your mom going on daring adventures across the globe and how much I admired her for it. Stories about your mom getting me (ME!) onto a bus for 22 hours to go to a festival in Budapest that barely had a sign in English (or any other language I understood) but the beer was 70 cents so how could we not? (not that we drank beer, Zeph, of course not! -winkwinknudgenudge-) Stories about how your mom and I were there for each other on many occasions but how we also let each other down. Stories about how we found each other again and how that made things even better. I told you all of those stories and every now and then there would be a hearty chuckle from somewhere around my shoulder, where your head would be resting, or your hand would find mine and we’d sit there like that for a bit.

Those moments, those little pockets of time, are the most precious thing to me now, Zeph. That little boy who couldn’t stand me was voluntarily leaning in closer to hear more, trusting me to tell him all the good stuff, laughing when I told it just right; – and that’s priceless.

I am so grateful that I lived close enough to be such a big part of your life. I got to go hear classical music with you, see art with you, hang out in the park with you. I met your friends and I met so many of your mom’s friends through you. I dressed as a bat, I conducted trains, I sang songs (badly) and I read stories – at your instruction. You cooked me food in your kitchen and you were patient enough to fill me in on all the rules for whatever game we were playing. You would sit as close to me as you could get and share your real food; a huge honor, because food was very important to you. You would spontaneously take my hand. Once when we were parting ways after meeting in town you cried when I didn’t say goodbye properly. It had to be with a kiss and a hug.

That was one of my favorite rituals, moreso as your ability to speak left you; the one where I would ask you if you wanted a kiss, and you would nod. Then I’d ask you where you wanted it, and you would point to your cheek or your forehead. And that’s where I would plant a big smacker and you’d give me the biggest smile. You found satisfaction in the smallest (biggest) things. The last time I saw you I couldn’t ask you where you wanted your kiss, so I hope the one you got on your forehead was just right.

Last Sunday, right after you had your first seizure, the one that marked the end, I snuggled up next to you to whisper in your ear. I promised that I would keep all of the things you taught me close to my heart. I promised I would remember your laugh and the wicked little twinkle in your eye. I promised I would make sure that your mom was getting all her fruits and vegetables, taking care of herself, and I promised that she would never be alone. I thanked you for making her so happy and told you that I would try to make sure she kept hold of that, and I told you it was okay to let go. You’d taught me, and so many others, enough and we could take it from here.

Zephyr, I don’t know if I completely believe in reincarnation or past lives or old souls or whatever you want to call it, but I do know that you were not an ordinary 5 year old. To me, with no hyperbole or exaggeration, you knew more than you should for someone your age. You had a natural ability to reassure and comfort, to see, to experience and to enjoy. Your patience when it came to your treatments and limitations far exceeded your years. There was a wisdom and a resolution there that couldn’t be explained but seemed completely natural. We all took it for granted at one time or another but everyone comments on it now that you’re gone; you had a tenacity that wasn’t entirely explicable.

On this, the day of your funeral, my overwhelming feeling is gratitude. I am grateful that I was able to learn from you, to get to know you, to care for you and to be a part of your journey. I am completely undone by the loss of you and I don’t know how anything will ever shine again, but at the same time I know it’ll be okay. I feel like we’ll meet again somewhere. That you’ll teach me more. As cheesy as it sounds, I think you were here to give rather than receive. You gave us so much and I hope we gave back even a fraction. In any case, you left this mortal coil feeling nothing but love.

You were loved, Zephyr. You were loved so much and you will be loved until the last of us leaves this world to join you in yours.

Bon voyage, spaceman, with a big, fat kiss on your cherub cheek and an extra, sneaky one for your forehead.

Your Jo x

Zephyr (n) – a light wind or west wind, a soft, gentle breeze

Then and Now

Three and a half weeks ago I was diagnosed with ADHD and I went home with a prescription for medication that same day. I have been struggling with how to put my experiences since my diagnosis into words. I think a lot of that has to do with the fact that I am still learning to recognise the differences. So much of my life up until my diagnosis was made up of things I thought everyone felt and went through. Now I’m learning how very different things are when my brain gets the help it needs. I’m having to reevaluate my “normal” parameters while at the same time enjoying the delightful magic of having things fall into place. Putting those two separate things into one cohesive account is a challenge.

There are so many differences to take in and still so many more things to (re)learn. Here’s some of the things I have encountered so far (this list is not comprehensive)

Anger/frustration/impatience
People who didn’t know me would often get a warning from friends and family to “just leave her alone” when I came in after work or after being out for the day. Give her 15-30 minutes of peace, don’t talk to her, leave her be, put out a glass of wine and back away. Whatever you do, don’t ask her anything or bother her. Try not to breathe too loud.

All of these comments were so often used that it didn’t even occur to me to examine them. I knew I was always angry when I got in from being out. I was warm, couldn’t get my bag off fast enough, got stuck on things, was flustered and frustrated and annoyed with the world. Mostly because people in traffic were inconsiderate, unpredictable and utterly idiotic and I was sick of having to deal with them. I was glad that people knew me well enough to know that what I needed was to not have to interact with anyone for a bit. At least not until I had calmed down from the last ordeal and was put together enough to behave in a socially acceptable way again.

Even going to a place where I knew everyone already knew me and knew how I was, I would still arrive flustered and distracted and resembling a tiny hurricane of frayed nerves. Like my parents’ house for Saturday dinner. I would come in, dragged forward by one small dog in a hurry and pulled backward by one medium dog wanting to sniff every blade of grass. This after having been on a long, boring stretch of road for an hour with drivers who either get so close they’re nearly in your backseat or they pass you and then cut you off. Or the slow middle-lane drivers who have no earthly reason to be there.  Or that guy who keeps swerving just between the lines but you have to watch him anyway in case he goes over. You get the idea. I was a mess and I could not just say hello and hug people while I was still holding on to dogs and trying to get my bag off at the same time.

When I phoned my parents after my last visit to assure them that I had arrived home safe my mother commented that the one big difference she’s noticed in me is how I arrive. I hadn’t even really noticed but she said I came in, still dragged by dogs and burdened with bags but I didn’t even seem to notice. I said hello, big smiles, gave mom a kiss and dad a hug and then shut the dogs up with a treat. All with breezy ease, as though I had never done any different.

Trust me, you don’t get people warning newcomers to leave you be when you enter a room for no reason. This was a Brand New Thing™

Feeling tired after work
At any point in the last 17 years if you had asked me how I felt about teaching I would have told you that I love it (maybe not as enthusiastically during my burn out but I would have still said that it was the job for me). I wasn’t lying, I really did and still do love teaching. I love it more on medication, though.

The thing is, because I was using up so much energy every single day remembering things, planning things, re-reading things, biting my tongue, not showing how irritating I found people, second guessing myself and generally just working very hard at everything, I was exhausted by the time I got home and could let go of the reins a bit. Constantly being bone-tired made it really hard to focus on anything good. I’d get home at the end of the working day and would drop into couch potato mode. It’s hard to focus on any good moments or successes when you’re struggling to keep awake until it’s a reasonable bedtime.

Since I’d been working very hard at playing the role of a passable human being all day, the last thing I wanted to do was go to the supermarket where there were more humans I would have to put effort into interacting with just so that I could buy ingredients that I would then have to put more effort into cooking. Why do all that when I can get someone else to make it and deliver it to my door?

Since basic human interaction is no longer a Task I have to perform but rather a thing I have the time and energy for at no extra cost, I get home feeling pretty okay and I can remember all the fun little moments I have had with students and colleagues throughout the day. I was telling Dan about a particularly fun lesson I’d had with my advanced English class and he remarked that he’d never actually heard me being this positive or excited about my work. Now, I have lived for my job ever since I started there so it was pretty eye-opening to hear that I had rarely been vocally positive about it in the last year and a half.

On top of being able to focus on the good things in my day, and there are many more now, I also have plenty of energy left to make myself dinner. I’ve actually been eating like a responsible adult for the last three weeks. That may not sound like a big deal to many but I cannot remember the last time preparing food to eat was such a non-issue.

Time and space
On medication I feel like I have a lot more room. Actual, physical space. I used to feel like people were crowding me. I felt like Neo in that scene in The Matrix where he’s bobbing and weaving through the crowd. I neither bob nor weave now. I can “just” walk through a crowd. I have space and I don’t feel like people are completely unpredictable in their sudden stops, turns or slowing down. I have plenty of time to slow down myself and plenty of time to react in general. That woman who stops in the middle of the sidewalk to check her messages? I used to want to punch her in the back of the head. Now, I have the luxury of wondering what message she got as I easily side-step her and move on.

Walking through the crowded cafeteria at school used to be very stressful. Kids are even more unpredictable than adults and they always seem to be standing in the way. It’s no big deal now. I stop and chat, I wait until there’s a space and I know I’ll get to where I’m going.

I always used to be in a rush because I felt like there was never going to be enough time to do all of the things I still needed to do. I have a much better concept of time now and I not only walk slower, I talk slower.

My dogs
My medication has had an effect on my pets. Animals pick up on your mood and basically reflect your energy back to you. I was hyperactive, so were my dogs. I’m much more patient with them now and, as a result, they don’t pull and drag me all over the place, they listen better and Alfie doesn’t bark as much. Everyone has chilled tf out. Alfie is still super aware of other dogs and he’s still afraid of them but he lets it go a lot sooner and can enjoy the rest of the walk after seeing a dog instead of being freaked out for another 15 minutes. Gus is less grumpy and irritated. I’m happy so they’re happy.

Driving
As I mentioned before, driving used to be a source of much frustration. I love driving cars. There’s something absolutely carefree about getting behind the wheel and controlling a heavy vehicle. The problem was all the other ignorant drivers who were in my way.

During my Qb test without meds I missed 15 answers. I was told that on medication (when I missed no answers) I would most likely be a much better driver because there would be fewer signals and cues from other drivers that I would be missing. Simply put, I’d actually be seeing everything for a change and that would make me a better and safer driver. Part of my ADHD is looking at things but not seeing them. I’ve lost count of how many times I have been looking for my keys (frantically and usually when I was supposed to leave five minutes ago), only to see them in a spot I had already “looked” at least two times already. Another part is getting bored by tasks that are repetitive or monotonous. Driving to my parents, on the same stretch of road for an hour with few turns or things I needed to pay attention to, I often felt tired and had very heavy eyes. I am very, very lucky I never fell asleep at the wheel.

On medication, however, none of that was a challenge. It was still a boring task but I had no trouble focussing on it and now I also felt I had plenty of time and space to react to things so I feel refreshed and fine when I get to wherever I’m going.

Sidenote: Me taking medication does not make other drivers less of an asshole. They are still out there in large, large numbers, I just don’t want to hurt them anymore. I now find myself shaking my head like a wizened elder and looking on disapprovingly rather than wishing it would burn when they pee. (Okay, maybe I still wish that but I don’t yell it at them anymore)

Getting out of bed in the morning
Ever since I was in high school I have set my alarm a half an hour before I really had to get out of bed. Usually I’d stay in bed for 15 minutes longer than that as well.

Mornings were tough. Just the idea of having to go through another long day, without even realising why those days were so long and hard, was crippling. Every single morning I would weigh the pros and cons of calling in sick while calculating when the last time was that I called in sick to see if they were too close together. Eventually I would drag myself out of bed and face the day. Or I’d bite the bullet and call in sick and then beat myself up for the rest of the day for not being able to get up and go.

I didn’t know that everything was so difficult because it was taking me ten times more energy to get things done. I didn’t realise I didn’t have the advantage of producing a working amount of dopamine to get through the simplest tasks. I had no idea that my brain wasn’t getting as much blood flow as a neurotypical person’s was. I thought I was just terrible at being a functioning adult and I needed to get my shit together and work harder. I did not know that I was already working harder than most people.

I’m still not sleeping more than six hours a night but, amazingly, after nearly three decades of hating myself every morning for not just being able to get the hell up, I now get the hell up no more than five minutes after the alarm goes. Like it’s no big deal. I just do it. Now, the really interesting thing about this is, I do this before I’ve had my first dose of medication. I’m “me” when I wake up and I still get up within five minutes of the alarm.

That’s because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am not going to have to work so damn hard, all freaking day, to function. Knowing that that part is going to just happen, I can deal with all the rest.

I can walk the dogs without getting frustrated or angry, before medication, because I know I have that portion of energy to spare. I know I can get all my things together for work without meds because, within the hour, I won’t have to focus so much. That little spurt of energy in the morning is no big deal because I have support for the rest of the day.

My days at work are actually longer this year than they were last year but I feel like they go by faster and that they are much easier. I work four days a week and I am at work every day from 8 am to 5.30pm. I used to *just* make it to work in time for the first lesson at 8.30 and then leave as soon as I could after the last lesson because I couldn’t wait to get home and stop working so hard at passing for “normal”.

There’s so much more to talk about: how my self-image was shaped by my condition, how it’s influenced my private life, the medication’s side effects, my post-diagnosis visits to ADHD Centraal … I’m definitely not finished talking about this.

More to come. 🙂

In the meantime, I’m very, very happy  xJI

 

 

The Quiet Without The Storm

Today, for the first time in any kind of memory, I sat perfectly still for 20 minutes. And it wasn’t even hard.

I know this because roughly two hours before that I did not sit still for twenty minutes. At all. And I was made glaringly aware of that fact.

A couple of months ago I decided to get myself tested for ADHD. Many people were surprised by this because I’m outwardly very organised, love my lists and charts, take on big projects and seem to be calm and still and together. More and more, though, I felt like I was falling apart.

I thought things might not be as they seemed when I encountered articles and first-hand accounts from people with ADHD and found myself nodding with recognition. Some of these people were describing my exact experiences. But those experiences weren’t like the stereotypical TV and movie bouncing boys who talked with their whole bodies and and ran off after anything that twinkled. My ADHD is tired. My ADHD is grumpy and angry and frustrated. My ADHD thinks I’m sitting still and being calm but in reality I am always moving (I’m crocheting, scratching my nose, scratching my head, twisting my hair, talking with my hands, moving position ever so slightly on my chair, touching my face, twisting my fingers, fiddling with jewellery, crossing and uncrossing my legs, and on and on) and my brain is never, ever, ever still. Even when I thought I was zoned out on a crochet project I’d have to have the TV on to listen to and I’d still be mentally making lists, tallies, and checks of all the things I mustn’t forget. I was always ON. And I was tired. The lists and tallies weren’t helping me remember, either. I was starting to forget a lot of things and I was making more and more mistakes.

I was also frequently annoyed. By everything. By slow walking people, by people too stupid to understand as quickly as I did, by people chewing, by people talking during a presentation, by people in my goddamn way. I was annoyed because I dropped something, because my bag got stuck on a door handle (SO OFTEN!!), because I bumped into something, because it was raining, because it was too sunny, because I forgot something (SO OFTEN!!) … everything annoyed me. Everything took too much planning and thought and it never went fast enough. And I was making mistakes and that just made me angrier.

So I filled out all the forms they sent me, and my sister filled out one as well, and we went to the ADHD Centraal and spent the day there laying bare all of the things that were my daily routine, my coping mechanisms, my normal, and found that my exhausting daily experience was not the way it had to be or stay.

I took an infuriatingly awful test on a computer where all I had to do was click a button every time a shape and color combination was repeated and it was the worst 20 minutes of my life. I could feel myself moving, I could feel my attention drifting and the test that would shut off automatically when it was finished seemed content to continue forever.

I scored in the 95th percentile. Out of 100 women there are 5 more hyperactive than I am (one of them is my sister). Before arriving and during much of the morning, I had half convinced myself that it was all in my head (which it kind of is but hey ho) and that there was nothing “wrong” with me. Which made that score a bit of a shock. I, like, totally have ADHD. No question. I missed 15 answers during that test. I thought my mind had wandered once, maybe twice but I missed 15 answers. That was a shock as well.

So after reviewing my results it was decided that I would get a hit of dexamphetamine and then do the test again in an hour and a half. I went home to walk the dogs and felt okay. I felt calm but then, as far as I knew, I had always been calm. Then my sister started pointing out little differences. I stayed on task, I didn’t keep listing (out loud) all of the things I needed to remember/do before we left, the crowded train station didn’t freak me out or frustrate me, we were going to be late getting back but I wasn’t constantly checking my watch or angry about it, I had lowered my voice and I was talking slower. So many things were different and yet I still didn’t believe that it could possibly be because I had ADHD. Surely it just wasn’t as busy at the station? Surely I always talk like this? That constant listing of things to remember couldn’t be as bad as she said it was?

And then I had to take that awful test again. I was dreading it.

But this time it was so easy. Laughably easy. It was still boring as all hell but it wasn’t difficult to focus on it anymore. You could have told me it was a completely different test and I would have believed you even though I knew it wasn’t.

I cried. And then I worried that I missed an answer through blurred eyes (I didn’t) or that my head was moving too much from sniffling (it wasn’t).

The difference was so extreme. Is this how most people feel all the time? You lucky, lucky bastards.

I could feel myself sitting still. I could easily see the shapes and colors and react appropriately. I did not drift off into my thoughts. I still thought about all sorts of things but those thoughts did not distract me from the test or make me lose my spot. I didn’t miss a single answer and I barely moved. My hands stayed in my lap and my feet stayed planted firmly on  the floor. I can’t describe the incredible difference. I’m still stymied by the whole thing.

 

 

How much I moved was measured during both tests.
Test 1 was without medication,
Test 2 was with medication

Now, four and a half hours after taking the medication, I can feel some changes again. Nothing extreme so far but I can tell it’s not working as well as it was earlier. I can’t wait to pick up my prescription tomorrow and experience my day with calm. I can’t wait to play spot the differences. I can’t wait to get back to work next week.

I absolutely know that this medication is not a bandaid for all that ails me but the difference I experienced for four and a half blissful hours today gives me so much hope. I want a bit of peace and now, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I have a really good chance at it.

 

x JI

Another Year of Dan & Jo: Part Two

April – June

We started April with a Skype chat after I’d cut my hair short and Dan let his beard go a bit wild. Less than two weeks later, the day before my birthday, he arrived and we dove straight into furniture stores and IKEA to get things for my bedroom (I’d accidentally broken my bedroom light not long before that and it needed replacing). We decided to try a bunch of other stores first, instead of going straight to IKEA, but after lots of walking in and out of stores we ended up at the Swedish giant and were in and out within a half hour. Of course. It’s funny how quickly you can fall into very homey habits, even when you don’t live together.

On my birthday we spent the whole day being couch potatoes and watching crappy TV before going out to dinner in town. We took the dogs out for some long walks and there was no rush to do anything. He brought me a ridiculous amount of charms for my bracelet (some from him and some from his mom and brother) and I felt very spoiled and loved. It was perfect.

Look at all the sparklies!

As usual it was all over again far too soon. The next day I had to go to work and we only had a couple of hours together when I got home before he had to go to the airport again. He got put on standby because the flight was overbooked which was infuriating and unnecessary because there were plenty of seats available once he was finally allowed to board. I do not understand how airlines are allowed to do this. In the end he got home but the extra stress and worry did not help.

Thankfully, less than a month later I flew out to Liverpool with a friend’s son for a charity build for HPBC (Housing People, Building Communities). Dan drove up and joined us later on in the day and we checked into the hotel and then had a wander about looking for a place to have lunch. After that we had a look around the shops and a walk along the water at Albert Dock.

Albert Dock

It wasn’t my first visit to Liverpool, I’ve been quite a few times and my reason for going there is usually to volunteer for HPBC. This would be my fourth time volunteering and, because their latest project is due to take at least a year and a half, I don’t think it was my last. I love it there, both in Liverpool and with HPBC.

Our second day there was our first day on the build site and we got a tour of the church that is going to be turned into homes and then spent the rest of the day tidying up the visitor’s parking lot. Since the church conversion hadn’t started yet all of our tasks were focused on helping the existing home owners and improving the area. I love weeding. It’s so cathartic and the parking lot looked so much better after we’d tackled it.

Dan gets stuck in

The inside of the church

On our third day there and the second day of volunteering we were joined by my friend Yvie, who’s been on all of the previous builds with me and has even done an extra one with her husband. On our very first build the two of us got stuck doing the insulation in very hot and sweaty suits. I think that shared itchiness has bonded us to this project forever.

Day two on site saw us doing a variety of things. Yvie and I dug up some plants and a tree that needed salvaging from what would become the plot of a new home, a garden bench needed finishing and a gate needed mending. After the tree relocation I was assigned the task of making a sign for the entrance of the housing project. I love getting stuck in with paints and a ruler. There was glorious sunshine all day and I got a bit sunburnt. It didn’t really feel like work because Reverend Shannon and Liza are so lovely, as are all the home owners and we balanced the work with good conversation and food. Before we knew it the day had flown by and we were heading back to the hotel, a bit tired but generally very pleased with ourselves.

Sadly, Yvie had to catch a fairly early train home so she couldn’t join us all for dinner at Baltic Market. There was live music, street food and a Peaky Blinders themed bar all in a converted brewery. The little place that we found to sit and eat had flamenco dancers and live music as well. Was a really lovely place with a very fun atmosphere.

On our last day in Liverpool we went to the maritime museum and had lunch at Wagamama. Then we took my friend’s son, Simon, to the airport as he was flying back to Amsterdam. From there Dan and I had a three hour journey to his house where I would spend the rest of my stay in the UK.

That Monday was a bank holiday and we spent it going from one garden center to the next looking for stone slabs for the garden. Then Dan started fixing the fence in the garden and we watched some snooker before heading upstairs to watch more Lost. Slowly but surely we will get through all 6 seasons. I am determined. The next day Dan was at work and I went for a walk along the beach and did some crochet. That evening we ordered in and tried not to think too much about the fact I was going home the next day and it would be a nearly eight week wait until we saw each other again.

Luckily May and June are pretty busy months in a school year so I had plenty of things to distract me during my wait for the next visit. We had final exams, test weeks for the third years, meetings, planning for the end of year school trip, a trip to Newcastle (this year without a meetup with Dan, sadly) and the exam results. Personally, I had also started the procedure to apply for Dutch citizenship which was exciting but time consuming.

When I finally got off the plane at the end of June, after a long day of teaching and delays on my flight, I was exhausted. The next day we had a big family BBQ and I met most of the rest of Dan’s aunts and uncles and some cousins. It was another lovely, sunny day and I got a bit sunburnt (again).

Dan and Nicky wore the same shirt to the BBQ

Now, because the rest of my visit takes place in July, I’m afraid you’re all going to have to wait until September for Part Three to hear how that went. 😉

Here’s a little teaser, though: Eight weeks apart, with a heavy work load and lots of stress and not enough meaningful contact can be very, very hard on a long distance relationship. We had to find this out by going through it.

We’ve been together for nearly a year and a half now and while some things are becoming their own relationship shorthand (for better or worse) the time and distance are taking their toll. We are going to have to take special care not to take anything for granted and to make an effort to really communicate with each other.

We have some lovely plans for August so I am very optimistic about the future.

xJI

Learning Curve

How much can you learn in a lifetime? I’m not talking about how many degrees or certificates you can get but rather your learning curve. How many lessons can you learn in a life?

If every lesson you learn that changes your behaviour or broadens your vision also makes you “better”, are we measuring learning the right way? I know people with a vast collection of degrees who I would argue are not learned and many who never got past high school, if that, who have amassed more knowledge of the world and of people than any book could ever hope to capture.

I know how society views those two groups but really, what are we valuing?

I went on a school trip to Newcastle this week. Sixteen hours on a boat with 69 students and 12 teachers for five hours in Newcastle and then sixteen more hours on a boat to get back home. It sounds like an exercise in masochism but I love this trip and that’s a whole other blog post.

This year three students decided it was a good idea to break a machine in the arcade on board in order to take the prizes out directly instead of winning them through chance. They were caught by one of my colleagues who then turned them in to staff.

The students we bring on this trip are the ones who are (book) smart enough for the advanced English course so we have high expectations when it comes to their behaviour and results. The scholarly types, if you will. Good at learning.

These three learned a little extra this time around but I find myself wondering exactly what life lessons they walked away with? Did the ringleader learn not to run away when an unsuspecting teacher saw them walking down the hall (triggering said teacher’s Spidey sense)? Did he learn to say Yes and do No? Did he fine tune his bluff and learn to cover his tracks better?

Did the other two learn to make decisions for themselves instead of following someone else’s questionable lead? Did they learn that telling a teacher they won prizes in a game clearly rigged so no one could win was foolish? Did they learn that exchanging glances to check with each other before answering let us know they were guilty? Have they learned how to deceive us better or have they learned that they don’t want to? Did they learn anything from the ship’s captain’s lecture on choosing the right path in life? Did they even hear any of it over the deafening roar of their brains trying to work out how much trouble they were in?

What will they learn at home this weekend after their parents have been told? What will they learn from being called in to the police station for a chat with the neighbourhood police officer? What will any of them learn from being suspended for a day?

We took them to Newcastle as part of a project on the North of England and Scotland. We took them on a language immersion trip so they could use the English they had learned in class and see the places they had prepared presentations on in real life. Fine tuning their grand theft skills and how to avoid (future) detection weren’t on the curriculum but I’m afraid some have received a broader education than others on this trip.

Who learned the most and what exactly did they learn? If we look at life as The Test, we won’t know how today influenced their results until much later down the line, if any of us ever even find out. The value of the lessons they learned today won’t be found on any piece of paper, it’s all in them and what they do with it moving forward. Today will change their choices, one way or another.

They most definitely learned something today and it was absolutely valuable to them, but I honestly couldn’t tell you what they made of it.

Today I learned that at some point you have to leave it up to them. I’m not entirely sure what point that is yet, but that’s part of my learning curve.

x JI

Another Year of Dan & Jo: Part One

January – March

We woke up together on January 1st in my parents’ living room and started the year off on the right track. We spent the day with my mom and dad, taking it very easy.

Dan and the dogs “watching” the New Year concert

The rest of the first week of the year we didn’t do very much at all and ordered in lots of food. If we weren’t ordering in we were eating out. Not a sustainable long-term approach but it was vacation so it’s allowed.

 

Out to dinner: his picture of me

Out to dinner: My picture of him

We took my lovely lady cat Mia to the vet on January 2nd because her breathing had been very laboured and the vet thought it might be a heart defect that was causing fluid to pool in her lungs. We brought her back for an echo of her heart a couple of days later but that wasn’t the problem so x-rays and blood work was next. Mia was given more pills to see how that went and I was to come back with her when the prescription was finished.

Our week together flew by and all too quickly Dan was back at the airport and we were saying goodbye. The goodbyes just seem to be getting harder each time and this one was no exception. I hated seeing him walking away.

I went back to work the next day and quickly realised that I was overworked and indifferent. Dan and I talked about a career switch for me which would give us, as a couple, more possibilities, geographically speaking. When my job was still one of the things that defined me, Amsterdam was the only place we could live because I wasn’t going to move. I’m still not planning on leaving the Netherlands because my whole family live here and we’re very close, but suddenly there were more possibilities if my job wasn’t a fixed thing.

End of January I brought Mia back to the vet having noticed no improvements in her breathing and a dramatic weight loss. The vet concluded that she had a tumor in her throat and that the end was very near for her. At most she had two weeks to live. I was devastated. Mia was my little lady and my only girl pet and she and her brother Wallace were my first rescues. I couldn’t imagine life without her disapproving looks. I didn’t want to have to deal with her death, let alone deal with it alone and Dan was too far away to help. The distance felt 10x as far then.

In February I handed in my resignation as assistant manager of my department. As of next school year I will be back to being “just” an English teacher. That did a lot to relieve some of the work stress I have been feeling and helped me focus on what I really find important – teaching.

On February 17th Dan arrived for our anniversary weekend. We decided to get a room at a hotel and pretend we were the only two people in the world for 24 hours, a small homage to our first “date”. We went out to dinner and afterwards snuggled in to watch bad TV. We had a bit of a laugh exchanging gifts because they were very nearly exactly the same size. For a moment it looked like we might have gotten each other the same thing, even though that wasn’t possible. I had put together a photo album of our first year together and he had done the most amazing and thoughtful thing and put all of my blog posts about our first year together into a book! So our gifts were very similar but definitely not the same.

 

The next day we had breakfast at the hotel and then made our way back home where I had to do some work things and we took it very easy. The following day I went to work and Dan came to pick me up at the end of the day, which was really lovely as it meant I could show him where I spend most of my week and some of my colleagues got to meet him. Dan spent the whole week in Amsterdam so I had him to come home to every day and we got to spend my day off together as well. We even had a games night with my friend Simona and her husband Andi which was a very “couples” thing to do. On Friday evening we flew to England together (on a truly awful flight) and I was meant to spend half of my week-long holiday there.

That first weekend I met his dad for the first time and his brother’s girlfriend as well at a family dinner that his mom turned into a bit of a celebration (“How often do I have both my sons and their girlfriends in the house?”) and then Dan and I joined some of his friends for a pub quiz where we came in second or third (we won drinks but not enough drinks for everyone). It got very cold and snowy after that and we spent a day curled up in a bed nest watching Lost before venturing out to see Black Panther at the cinema.

Much snow. Quite pretty. From inside …

The day when I was due to leave, my flight got cancelled because of poor weather conditions (to be fair, it was pretty awful out). I wasn’t too worried as I could easily book onto a flight for the next day. I bought some yarn and we snuggled in for more Lost.

Sadly, that second flight got cancelled as well and there was no word as to when there might actually be a flight home. I know that meant more time with Dan but without knowing how much time or when I was actually going to get home, I’m afraid I spent most of that time worrying rather than enjoying. In the end I flew home three days later than I was supposed to and that flight got delayed quite a bit as well.

We didn’t get a visit in March (excluding the tail end of my February stay) and that meant that I had to say goodbye to my cat Mia on my own. She ended up living for two months after her two week diagnosis and I am grateful for every extra minute I got with her. The vet came to the house which made it a bit easier (I could not have brought her there and then traveled back home in the tram with her body) and I drove to my parents’ house after where she was buried in the garden.

Miss Mia ❤

Dan checked in on me the whole day which was great but it didn’t make it any less frustrating that he wasn’t here himself. A lot of our conversations were about how and when we would take the next step: moving in together. Dan had recently started a new job so vacation days and plans were a bit difficult to make with any real certainty behind them, but I think it did us both good to reiterate that we were looking at a future together and that was still the end game.

Year two was well underway and while it’s still not easy living apart, we have fallen into a familiar rhythm and we’re making plans for the future.

xJI

 

Dying to live

I’ve had suicidal thoughts and tendencies for most of my teenage and adult life.

This isn’t something most people know (or even suspect) of me. Regardless, from the age of roughly 14 I have wanted to die. Probably even sooner. I’ve had extensive funeral plans from around that time, in any case. I have fantasised, in great detail, about the end of my life. For the better part of three decades I have been mentally prepared for the end. More often than not I have welcomed it.

Despite all that, I’ve lead a very happy life. Weird, right? For me, however, it’s been the norm. I’ve been okay with dying for the majority of my living years. I’m not afraid of it. In a very real way, I think it has made my life richer. It’s made my relationships more meaningful and it’s meant that a lot of my decisions haven’t been made in fear. I can honestly say that I don’t have any regrets. So I’m not afraid to leave this mortal coil. I don’t think I’ve missed out. I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my life; I haven’t wasted my time here. I’ve never jumped out of a plane or been to Australia, and yet I don’t feel like either of those things would complete me as a person. I could write a bucket list of superficial things I’d still like to do, but none of them would honestly make me feel like I’d lived a better life than I already have.

I have always tried, in my own atypical way, to connect to the people around me, the people who cross my path and venture into my life. If I am part of your life and you are part of mine and we live with each other and learn from each other and grow together (or apart), then we gleaned all that we could from knowing  each other and that is Good. If I know even a little bit more about what it’s like to be You in This World and you get a glimpse of Me in This World, I think we did Very Well Indeed.

I live with depression. Self-diagnosed depression because most doctors won’t commit to the term here, but when you know, you just know. Being depressed doesn’t mean you’re sad all the time or that nothing is ever good. It means that no matter how sunny the day is, you can always see the clouds on the horizon and you know the rain will soak you down to your bones. You have always felt the rain in your bones. My survival has depended on accepting the clouds are always there and that the umbrella will not always help.

Sometimes I feel so heavy, I can’t even stand up. Other times I can fly. Both can happen in the span of a day. Heck, they can both happen in the span of fifteen minutes. You roll with it, you know?

But yeah, dying. I’m ready to go, at all times. I’m not scared and I have no regrets. I think that’s important for people to know. Like, I want you all to be freaking sad when I *do* die, but don’t be too sad because I’m okay with it, too.

I am living an amazing life. I fully intend to keep living it for as long as I’m allowed to. This is not a suicide note. At all. If anything it’s my confirmation of life. My dedication to it. I have had adventures. I have lived. I have learned. I have loved. And lost. And grown. And I have plans. I’m not done learning or growing. I’ve been brave and scared, heroic and cowardly. I’ve wanted to quit and I’ve wanted to forge new paths and change the future. Most of that has happened several times since New Year’s Eve. That’s all part of the fun.

I guess what I want you to know is that you can be ready to die, you can accept death and you can still be really good at living. All at the same time. Maybe that’s the only way to truly live; once you accept that death is inevitable, once you accept that it can happen any moment. Once you are truly okay with that and stop being afraid of it.

A few years back I went to see Florence + The Machine at the (then named) Heineken Music Hall. It was a magical concert and still one of my favourites. They performed Never Let Me Go and it made me cry. Up until that moment it was a song I heard in the background and didn’t much care for. It didn’t resonate with me at all on the CD but live it made me cry. A lot. I sobbed. I have no idea what the intention of the original lyrics are but they read as a suicide note to me. An acceptance of the end. Peace with it. A place I had lived for most of my life. It has become one of my favourite songs. It’s an anthem for me.

I am aware of how maudlin this all sounds and I feel I must reiterate how this is very much NOT a death wish. I want to live. I am living. I love my life. I love living my life. But I have to stress that my appreciation of life comes from the fact that I know that it is finite. It’s ridiculous to have to say this because, as of yet, none of us have proved to be immortal, yet most of us think we have an ocean of time to fill. We do not. My belief is that if you have accepted death, that is when you start to live.

We are all on a clock. What are you doing with your time?

x JI