Life Changing Times

Me: I am on season 12 of Criminal Minds
Therapist: Have you watched Unorthodox? (goes on to describe it)
Me: No, I am obsessed with serial killers currently and have watched all of these seasons consecutively
Therapist: Continues to talk about the poignancy of Unorthodox…
Me: Oh! You think I should stop watching serial killers and connect with something more heartfelt!
Therapist: …..

I often joke that the first half of my life was about getting fucked up, and the second half was about fixing it. Cue 20+ years of therapy. Although I will have to change the maths, as that was applicable when I was 40… I am back seeing my oncology psychiatrist for an unwelcome return of PTSD, or PTSS (replace ‘disorder’ with ‘syndrome’), or whatever it is called when you are utterly disconnected from yourself and trapped in an endless spiral of anxiety/insomnia/terror. I tend to be ridiculously high functioning when I am in a state of trauma and not only fool those around me into thinking I am doing well, but I also fool myself. Perhaps that should be high functioning foolish.

I started seeing the wonderful Amanda when I was mid chemo in 2015 and I was about to say she was a lifesaver then. Of course, the chemo/surgery/radio were the actual lifesavers, but she saved my sanity going through it all. Going through it all included entering into my first committed relationship in 10 years, which, it turned out, was a great reminder of why I had remained single for 10 years and why I have remained so since.

Back to compassion – I am deeply compassionate although it tends to be equally deeply buried. Underneath a pile of serial killers currently. Compassion is vulnerability, compassion means opening up parts of myself that hurt and are raw, compassion is scary. To feel compassion for others, you need to feel compassion for yourself and that for me is the hard part for all the reasons listed. It requires bravery to open myself up that much and sometimes I am all out of brave.

I love airports. Luckily, since I spend a significant amount of my life in them.

I’m a people watcher, and airports are one of the best places to engage in this pastime. I love watching people heading out on an adventure, returning from one, meeting and greeting loved ones at arrivals, excited goodbyes at departures.

There is the seasoned traveler – marching through the airport confidently, efficient luggage and clothes, not looking around, they know where they are going and they take no hostages on the way. Not literally, obviously, since I imagine an airport to be one of the worst places to try and stage a kidnap. They are smartly dressed even if casual, and always appear to be extremely organised. In case it’s not obvious I am mildly envious of these people because while I am a confident and accomplished traveler, I hardly ever look smart including casual smart and I always have various extra things in my hands making me slightly chaotic all the time.

Then there are the people who act as if they have never been to an airport in their lives. (Yes, I appreciate some haven’t but it is not these I am talking about.) These are the ones who arrive at security, suddenly remembering that they cannot carry liquids, look affronted when asked to take their laptop out, unfailingly oblivious of everyone else in the queue behind them. They have nothing prepared when they get to the actual security part, search their copious amount of hand luggage for every last liquid, try and fail to fit it into the plastic bag, need to then entirely repack their cases. They must have 5 hours to spare before their flight. The rest of us don’t.

The friends and family at arrival who are there with banners, who cannot contain their excitement at the impending arrival of loved ones. Who are rowdy, laughing, taking up huge amounts of happy space, who look as if they may combust with eager anticipation. Smiles and jokes all round. Love it.

The bleary and bedraggled traveler. Who has come off a red eye flight, has no-one waiting for them, looks around slightly bewildered but knows where they are heading. Exhaustion is palpable from these people, they want to get through and get to bed without having to engage with another human being.

Children are special at airports – because its a confusing place for many adults and yet children seem to be able to navigate them with no problem at all. From queuing at immigration to waiting for bags they take it in their stride. Get up, sit down, stand in line, walk up, down sideways, get on the plane, get off – totally unfazed.

Quite literally as I am writing, while sitting an airport waiting for my family to arrive (sadly, no banners as its not quite the same when you are alone bouncing up and down with balloons), there is a person at a table next to me in the cafe speaking loudly in Bosnian. Believing no-one around him can understand, which is a strange assumption at an airport. I am currently learning more about his relationship with his wife than I ever needed to know. In between he is including copious amounts of swearing, even allowing for the fact that one of the reasons I love that language is for the swearing – the type and the free use of pretty outrageous terms by the majority of people. I’m also learning that today is not one of the best days of his life and seemingly not sweating the small stuff is so far an unknown concept to him, judging from his complaints to the long-suffering person on the other end of the phone Mind you, an elderly man has also just sat next to me talking even louder on the phone, in English, discussing his aged relative’s arthritis and then ends the call abruptly after being told by his wife she is busy at the hairdresser. He is now watching a YouTube clip of ABBA singing Dancing Queen. Loudly.

And I think that’s it – airports give brief snapshots into peoples lives like little else, its like watching a collage of life through the equaliser of travel. Absolutely wonderful.

I’m a huge proponent of therapy. Unsurprisingly since I’ve spent over half my life engaged with some or other form of it; I used to say that I spend half my life getting fucked up and the other half trying to fix it.

To today. New-ish therapist scheduled our appointment for 1pm which seemed like a great time 2 weeks ago when I was alone at home, but the reality now was that I had a house full of 3 teens – not a great mix as at least one knows no boundaries and would happily listen if possible.

Ever the solution finder, I planned to go out to the very empty (and beautiful) communal gardens – I even felt a little smug about my tranquil and zen location. Right up until the landscaping company arrived with the hedge trimmers….. it’s a very, very large garden and those trimmers are unbelievably loud.

Fuck. 15 minutes to go and off I go to the common across the road, MacBook under my arm, phone to hotspot from, sunglasses on. Not perfect, slightly less smug, the laptop was on the ground meaning I’d be looking down into the screen….but hey, it worked and we kicked off. Then these messages from my 14 year old started popping up on my Mac, saying ‘mum, read this after your therapy…but….’ and therein followed 10 messages. Each of them flashed up on my screen, all of them about a potential holiday destination for our trip next week.

I was beginning to wonder about how much I actually needed therapy and perhaps the level of fucked I am today is really just fine. As good as it gets and all that.

Amazingly, I made it two thirds of the way through and managed to get very into it, when we came to a natural shift and agreed to move on to a related topic. I said that I needed to quickly ask him something on behalf of my eldest who is also a therapist and about to start her doctorate in psychology. She needed some advice and I had offered to ask on her behalf. He answered it, fully and with great responses – super helpful. And then said it was time to wrap it up.

Not sure how often I may have used Fuck My Life, FML, on this blog. But however many times, it really hasn’t been enough.

Again. This time, within the same country, which is relatively simpler.

I’ve already made friends, not least with the chairperson of the residents committee, a lovely Scottish man. We first met in the communal garden as I was somewhat bewildered at my key not letting me back into the building. He introduced himself as Andy, said he was the chairperson and found it a total pain in the arse, and he was funny and pleasant.

He kindly let me back into the building with me profusely thanking him and him promising to get a new key sorted out for me. I then came back out shortly after and realised I had, in fact, been using my key in the wrong door and it worked in the right door. Amazingly. Bumped into him again and had to rather sheepishly admit what had been the problem.

Fast forward 10 days, I meet him again in the garden when another neighbour introduces us as I had been looking to get something sorted in my flat. So Andy introduces himself, by name, again as I hadnt recognised him…despite this, he very kindly offers to help me the next day with the water cut-off problem. I needed to confirm the time the plumber was coming and I reappeared in the garden 10 mins later having done this.

I go to find him – asking a table of women if they have seen Tom. They tell me they don’t know a Tom – I think they are clearly stupid as there he is in front of me, but refrain from saying this. I shout out ‘Tom’, he turns around and says ‘John?’, I reply no, ‘Tom’, walking towards him. He looks slightly confused as I ramble on about what time the plumber is coming, then interrupts me to tell me his name is Andy. For the third time in 10 days, and in fact, the second time in 20 minutes.

The gardens here are absolutely beautiful. I will not be going out in them for a while in case I bump into Tom/John/Andy again.

I’m listening to Ramla Ali on a wonderful podcast called ‘How to Fail with Elizabeth Day’ and she just said she has always had a fear of being average. Love it.

I’ve never been average. I’m not sure if I ever wanted to be average, or in fact, if I’ve ever even thought about it. But I am very clear that it is not something I ever attained. In school, I was way below average; labelled stupid by most teachers who were inept at distinguishing trauma from stupidity – to be clear, not that anyone in school should be labelled stupid, trauma or otherwise.

In relationships I have l not been average – I can provide a list of men (yes, tragically heterosexual, all my life) who will attest to that. Words like ‘insane, driven, demanding, a complete and utter pain in the arse (yes, that was lots of words…), impossible and so many others would be used. But average; no.

And work? Nope, not there either. Moments like being on a teleconference with the UK, from Nairobi, surrounded by my team and loudly stating ‘well, you can tell xxxxx (the CEO) he can absolutely sod off and I WILL NOT do that’ and then hearing ‘Hi Sonia, this is xxxx, how are you?’ I mean, what else could you respond with other than ‘Good thanks, however you can still sod off with that idea!’

As I’m writing, I’m trying to figure out what average means to me. Words like boring spring to mind, but more than anything else, I really just don’t know.

I mean – does anyone go to the hospital without their WW knickers?

I wasn’t sure about the etiquette of wearing them and nothing else around the hospital. Or perhaps wearing them with at least a T-shirt. But sadly, I just wasn’t that brave, so after surgery when I could change out of my all-so-sexy paper knickers, I wore them and smiled to myself.