A review of the decade

In the first hours of 2000, I spun around a dance floor in South Africa. I was blond. I would line my eyes with kohl black. I was in love. Later that year,  I learned that men lie, sometimes out of fear; sometimes out of guilt and sometimes just because they can. After a successful interview (where the course leader suggested I study English Lit instead of psychology) I was accepted into a good university. I saw Germany for the first time. I wasn’t impressed. I made tons of new friends. I don’t speak to any of them now. I tried pot and sex for the first time. Was left completely indifferent to one of those, I’ll let you decide which one.

In 2001, I broke up with a man for the first time because no matter what anyone tells you LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIPS are hard and don’t usually work out. I lived it up. I drank far too much and ate far too little. I was thin! I kissed a couple of frogs; they did not turn into princes. I met two of my closest friends. We would coffee it up all the time. With about a year of general psychology courses under my belt I was that annoying 20 year old that thought she knew all about the human psyche. I was an idiot.

Much of 2002 was about falling in love. He was kind and gentle and quirky and fun. He hated buttons and was a writer. I was inspired. I lived with my best friends.  I wore the coolest black and white PUMAS. My hair was still blond. And long. And dry. I smoked Muratti cigarettes because their filters were white. Even though I had payed a six month gym membership, I never stepped through those doors. Addicted to chimichangas.

In 2003, I chopped off my hair and went back to my natural colour. I learned the importance of backing up all my files; after I lost most of my final year dissertation two weeks before the deadline. I loved Barcelona! I graduated from university. I began learning how to teach. Beyonce’s ‘Crazy in Love’ turned out to be damn addictive. I was a girlfriend. It didn’t make me as happy as I thought it would. But, balance. I had that.

2004 began so quietly and unobtrusively that I had no inkling that this would be a year that would forever be ingrained in my memory as the beginning of most of my woes. The good? I became a teacher. I began to write. ATHENS OLYMPIC GAMES. I lived in the same country as my best friend. I bought my first pair of black leggings.
The bad? I was dumped. I had surgery. Sex and the City and Friends ended. I wore a short, dusty pink faux fur. A terrible fashion moment.

The first few days of 2005, I was in denial. I had residual anger and sadness from the year before. Then, I began to make decisions. I’ll be happy! I’ll learn French! (It worked  for a little. I speak no French today.) London was bombed. I started my masters there a month later. (I was paranoid.) Walked the streets of Brussels. Panic attacks began. I fell in love with Michael Scofield. My sister got married.

In the first six months of 2006, I studied harder than all the previous years combined. I discovered Grey’s Anatomy and Snow Patrol.  I tried Belgian Beer. It was awesome.I graduated with distinction with a useless postgraduate degree and became a shop girl instead. And an aunt. I learned that rich people can be extraordinarily cheap. And that friendships change. I wore black a lot. Shoes became less pointy. I stopped wearing heels. I joined Facebook.

In 2007, I started this blog. I wrote a screenplay. I got on a plane for the last time. I thought that I would never, ever meet another man I would want to date. At this point, I’d been single for three years. My lips had not kissed another set of lips for the same amount of time. I was desperate and lonely and petrified that nothing would ever change. Then, I met The Man and had an intense, one month affair into…

…2008. This year was marked by a wee nervous breakdown and a diagnosis of Crohn’s. Lost hope. Began therapy. I examined my life. I ate well. I quit smoking for awhile. I got paid for writing. I spent far too many hours watching Jon Stewart. Became single, cat lady. My new bangs changed my look from average girl to cute girl. I still had a time calling myself a woman.

In 2009, I met and then almost immediately lost a soul mate. It was tragic. But not as tragic as disappointing all the people closest to me. But even more tragic than that was that I began wearing leggings as pants. My sister from another mother got engaged! I missed it and still cringe at the way fear has set limitations on my life.  Still committed to flats, I ironically became a contributing writer for Running In Heels. I met a new friend whose poetry leaves me weak at the knees. I began writing my first novella. I found hope again.

I wish for me–and for you–that  the next decade is as equally varied and fun, educational and inspiring. I acknowledge that there will be some inevitable pain; but please Universe, easy on the heart-break.

How have you changed over the last decade?

Comeback post. Fail.

As a professional writer, I have quickly had to learn not to take negative feedback personally. I openly ask my clients to tell me whether the tone I have used, whether the words I have chosen are the right ones for their needs. In our correspondence, I usually say: “Tell me what you hate and I’ll change it.” It works well. They’re happy and my ego remains intact.

As a personal blogger, the same learning curve has been steeper. It’s a challenge not to take comments personally. After all, these aren’t about style but rather about content. And when the content is gut wrenching personal, well, it takes a certain type of backbone not to care. But I have learned that when it comes to spilling my truths; sometimes I get it wrong. I don’t express it clearly enough. I am misunderstood. Or rather because I choose to expose a narrow version of my life, I misrepresent myself.

The letter I wrote in the post below was not received in the spirit I had intended. Hope’s comeback post to the blogosphere was an epic failure.

Besides the crickets that reverberated across my blog’s walls I also received two comments that first confused me and then hurt me.

My intentions were to show a fleeting moment of emotion. In my first hand experience (and second hard experience) of relationships, I have observed that there are some past flames that months, even years later still manage to unnerve us. We run into them on an arbitrary day that has been pleasantly wonderful. We run into them and without any warning our minds flood with old emotions; as if not a single day has passed.They are different yet they are the same. That grip they had on you is not there anymore but if you wanted to, you could dream. You could fall in love with them again. For they are still the same and because they are still the same you think, ‘I could be with this person’. It is night and it is cold and you are wearing your favourite jeans and reality and practicality are slaves to the day.

My intentions were to show what that short emotional journey could look and sound like; a completely private inner turmoil between head and heart.  I had hoped that someone out there could relate to that.

In the absence of that, I keep having to remind myself that the fact that I need to explain all of this now only means that I failed as a writer; I did not fail as a human being.

Lesson

On the Thursday, I walked into The Bar and was faced with two particularly awful sights. One, I came face to face with the object of my unrequited affection out on a date with another woman. Two, I came face to face with the newer man; who after I had decided to take a risk and text him, had remained inexplicably and predictably silent.

On the Saturday, I walked into a church and watched a couple I barely know tie the knot in forever-ness.

On the Monday, I walked into therapy and proceeded to spew such hatred for the human race–particularly for the male subset of our species–that my therapist was speechless.

On the Tuesday, I walked into an emergency room and allowed doctors to admit me overnight for a Crohn’s related infection.

On the Thursday, I walked into The Store to unload brand new items for the Christmas season.

Today, I walked into a church and watched as my nephew was baptized.

***

In the last ten days, I feel I experienced the full breadth of a life. And this is what I observed:

It is beautiful and it is horrible.

In its beauty we learn to pause. And in its horribleness we learn to move.

 

Sunday

Last night, I flitted like a social butterfly around The Bar. A fake smile on my face; allowing a faux excitement to dance in my eyes.

I’ve met many men over the last two months. Probably, more than the entire five years that I’ve been single. Yesterday, they all seemed to descend on my local; one more disappointing than the other. This one is too young. (Most of them are too young); that one is too good looking to be trusted. He’s shallow. I have nothing in common with that one. This one’s not interested in me in that way. That one is unavailable even if he was; he doesn’t have Zing…!*

None of them have Zing…!

None of them even come close to comparing to Him. I came to that conclusion while driving home. I knew that I’m nowhere near ready to move on or forward or over.

But I know that I have to because that’s what you are supposed to do. I know that I have to because Jack Penate says that I should. (And because his voice is captivating and because melody is the language of the soul I should listen to him.)

I listen and hope that one day, soon, I’ll manage to ‘pull my heart away’.

(*Zing…! Not my own word; rather that of my new friend and awesome-st wing woman ever, A)

Confession: Part Two

A little over three months ago, I confessed that I had not been on an airplane in two years.

As usual, you were all lovely and understanding and flooded my comment box with tips and stories and advice. I was ready to get on a plane and make the trip for my best friend’s engagement party.

Except, when the big day arrived,  I did not get on that plane.

I managed to get to the airport. I managed to wait in line. I managed to check in–while sobbing uncontrollably. But I never managed to even begin walking to the departure gate.  The Xanax didn’t work. Somehow, my panic was no match for the chemicals.My fear had paralyzed me.

The next 24 hours rank right up there with the most traumatic experiences of my life. In all my adult life, I have not  felt like such a failure as I did that day. In all my adult life, I have not felt less understood as I did on that day. Slowly, as the news trickled down to all the relevant people, my panic grew fiercer. The reactions were diverse. An overwhelming silence from the friends that were already on the island waiting to pick me up at the airport. Rage from my brother who believes in ‘tough love’. Anxiousness and guilt from my mother. My sister and The Best Friend were proud. “You fucking made it to the airport! You checked in! You took your first step!”

Over the course of the next month, which coincided with the first three weeks of my relationship with him, I self-medicated myself with Xanax every single day. I was chain smoking. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep without a pill.

I told no-one.

(I don’t recommend this strategy)

Sure, there were conversations had–here and there–about what happened. And all of them made me feel worse. He was a good distraction from all these things. My mind was filled with him; purposefully. If I allowed myself to not think of him I would have to deal with the plethora of guilt, disappointment and fear that I felt inside. What kind of person misses their best friend’s engagement? What kind of person can’t get on a plane? What kind of person can allow irrational fear to consume her in this way? But the one question that replayed itself over and over in my mind was the most frightening of all.

“Was this going to be my life for ever?”

I say I was at peace when I met him. And I was. But, beneath the peace was all of this. I was dealing with all of this while trying to begin a relationship. That it failed, therefore, is not surprising. That I broke down–completely–when it ended was inevitable.

I am not ashamed of my panic attack disorder or the depression. (The two seem to go hand in hand.)  But, I do hate it. It gets in my way. It ruins relationships–friendships and romances, it causes tension in my family and it stops me from living exactly the kind of life that I want to live. But, it is here. Over the last year, I have tried to avoid it while also trying to defeat it. After the troubling summer I had, I realized that I can’t avoid it. I can’t control it. I can’t defeat it without the proper tools. I learned that this is one battle that I have to face on my own. That those around me will never, really, understand it.  I learned that others will never really accept it.

These realizations were–and continue to be– isolating.

But, I know that I”m not alone. According to the UK’s National Health Service, at least 10% of the world’s population suffer from some sort of anxiety disorder. There are a lot of us out there. And so I wanted to put out part of my story. Its fragmented and all over the place, I know. But, its fragmented and all over the place in my head.

Perhaps, in time, I will be able to make sense of it; express it more eloquently. But for now, the admission that I am a phobic is all the sense I can make.