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.

You choose. This is however #1

Let’s go with marriage. I loved the idea, I wanted it, I was going to create happy families….it was a BIG deal for me. Right up until the time I was actually married, both times. I have quipped before that I am great at the getting married bit, the after part, not so much.

I was that woman that men talk about, that Beyonce has sung about, that I now would far rather pretend I was not. The one who, contrary to so much else about me, believed somewhere deep down that 2.2 children and white picket fences were the answer to happiness. I got married in red in or around a YMCA in London, no end to my glamour and class, I got married in purple in a stunning Prague building.

Two men who couldn’t possibly be more different. One a soldier and a failed hit man – as a friend once said, in this case failure was actually success. The other a conventional, conservative, gentle man. And then there was the one who wouldn’t marry me, believing the best way to convey that news was via the travel agent who called to express their regret that we had cancelled our wedding abroad.

It took me all three of those to realise that the common denominator in it not working was me. The were all vastly different men, the circumstances were worlds apart, I was in many ways a different person each time. Except for that embarrassing, semi hidden deep rooted part of me; the one that craved the conventionality, the security, the ‘fix’ of marriage and perceived acceptance. It took 3 goes and copious amounts of therapy to finally hang up my wedding dresses.

Because in marriage, I suffocate. I slowly feel the life draining out of me, the restriction becomes all encompassing, the joy seeps out of me. Husband #1 actually felt the same way so we had a celebration break up dinner and clearly the one that got away felt it in advance. I don’t believe husband #2 was happy either, but then I am not sure what happy is for him. That one got to me – third time lucky my arse. Even my wonderful, wonderful therapist at the time of the last break up told me to just stop. People are quite shocked when I tell them her words which were along the lines of ‘don’t do it again. Just, no’ but she was absolutely right.