This particular entry could go a lot of ways.
I got back to London yesterday a complete mess. I nearly burst into tears on the Tube several times, made it home safely and cried my heart out for several hours. Given that the people who pay me read this, I may be drawing the wrong picture. That's fine though. As a person, I prefer honesty.
Belgium was an odd experience. It was great to see all of the people I love again, to be reunited with friends and family for a short while. And yet, it all felt like one big mistake. I collapsed Monday night and cried until Tuesday morning. Until a couple of hours ago, it didn't stop. Work today was an utter disaster. I had to pause what I was doing because I burst into tears behind my desk on four different occasions. Hell, I couldn't even put two coherent sentences together. It was an unmitigated disaster, complete unproductive and sloppy work. My editors were very understanding and handled the situation perfectly (I obviously didn't tell them I was crying, I just informed them I had a bad day) but at one point I actually thought I'd get fired.
It was just all too much. Belgium is hard for me. There's so many memories, and while the vast majority of them are good ones, they inevitable end up reminding me of all of the mistakes I made. Everything I lost, the few precious things I never wanted to lose in the first place. There are whole cities I can't even set foot in without getting all downcast. It's pathetic, I know, but it's who I am. Who I've always been.
I like to take notes. They help my writing and order my thoughts. I'll have ideas, or remember specific quotes or occurences, and I'll write them down and use them as inspiration at a later time. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, even if I usually end up doing more harm than good. I try to take my notepads with me everywhere, and I don't think I've ever made as many notes as I did during my three days back home. It's truly a godawful experience going over them again. Apparently, I had a ton of ideas, each one more depressing as the last.
Not that it should come as a real surprise. I was an absolute wreck, mind you, and my first day back in London didn't make matters better. Spending time with friends and family made me realise how lonely life in London really is. I don't know anyone here, apart from one or two colleagues and an old friend who has built up her own social circle and does everything she can to accommodate me. It's hard to blame anyone but myself for this, and as much as I'd like to point to work taking up most of my time, I know I could give more of an effort to make friends. Whether I truly want to or not is an entirely different matter, although we're all part of the herd in the end. We like to feel loved, even by complete strangers.
I'd been looking forward to my trip back home and seeing some of you again for so long, it just opened up this massive chasm. A black hole, once the trip was actually over. And it was one of the things I was most afraid off. Actually, that probably isn't true. There's a boatload of things I fear more. But still, it truly felt (and still feels) like I should have never gone back home to begin with. Not right now, at least.
Likewise, I'd been looking forward to writing this blog for a couple of days. Don't ask me why, I just did. I figured it'd be one long depressing wail of how I hate life in London, how I regret so many things and how miserable I have been for the last three months. How nothing had changed, and how my job was the only reason that had so far kept me from losing my grip. And I really thought that was happening right now (the losing my grip part. Seriously, I was crashing bad). It didn't help that I started vomiting blood late last night, which could be slightly worrying considering I've physically felt like crap for weeks. Don't worry, I went to the hospital after work tonight and I should get my bloodwork back in a few days. I explained the "situation" (I will not elaborate on this, let's just say it's not the first time my blood has given me trouble) and the doctor was kind enough to prioritise my results.
Where was I? Oh, right, the hugely depressing tone of my notes. I felt like coming clear, putting all the cards on the table and telling the world how I had hated my life here for the last three months.
But then something happened, and I can't put my finger on it. I came to this place a little over three months ago now, looking for a change. Now, I've always had a gloomy outlook on life. I told myself it was okay to sacrifice one's happiness for the sake of others, and I pretty much assumed life would suck anyway. Some people are meant to be happy, others are meant to be productive. I'm a dreamer, and we're usually neither of those two. As sick and tired as I am of not being happy, I took it as being part of my story. The troubled artist still works for plenty of us in 2014 it would seem. I'm not much of an artist, but one likes to pretend.
So I'd pretend to be a character in one of those books I so adore, above reality and everyday life. Suffering is pure and noble, except it really is not.
Someone really precious to me wants me to believe in fairy tales. I used to hate fairly tales when I was a little kid. I'd read all of them, but I'd always find a reason not to like them. Until I read the actual original screenplay of James Matthew Barrie's magnum opus, Peter Pan. I was just a kid, but I loved it, and it's what got me hooked on reading. From there it was but a short step to the Grimm Brothers and my favourite folk tale of all time, De Rattenvanger Van Hamelen (how very Dutch of me).
As we grow older, we lose track of what makes those stories special. It's not the colours of the language, the morals they try to instill on us or even the characters that make those stories worthwhile. That's not why we read fairy tales. No, we read them for the happy endings.
That's where my initial disdain for fairy tales came from. I never believed in happy endings. They were always too convenient, and not realistic at all.
I'm listening now, though. I believe. I've been praying for happy endings for such a long time now, and I just went about things the wrong way. My dad always used to tell me life doesn't just come to us, but that we have to go out of our way to force things. We have to take things in life, or it'll kick us in the shins and it'll keep kicking us even when we're down. And I listened and did the exact opposite. I'd let life come to me, and assume destiny would take care of things for me. I'd wait, and you end up waiting for a long time that way.
No mas. I'll forget I wrote these words, and there will be plenty of sad, painful nights still in the future. I'll still get down, I'll still feel like I'm waiting for things that will never happen and I will lose hope more than once. And when I do, I'll have to remember this night. Because hope is a funny thing. It causes more pain than anything else in this world, but without it, we might as well cease to exist. Hope is what drives a man, and sometimes, hope is all we have left.
I'm not going to let my hopes get dashed. Fairy tales have happy endings, after all.
Sorry if I use big words, mother. Ask little brother to translate, or just send me a mail to ask me how I'm doing, in reference to the bits you didn't understand. I'll tell you I'm not great, but I'll manage. I'll tell you not to worry about me, but to remember. And I'll tell you I'll be with you very soon.
All of you, you have no idea how deeply I care about you. How often I think of you, and how I miss having you in my life. If ever you feel down or lonely, realise how special you are to at least one person in this world.
I might make it five consecutive days of crying tomorrow (pretty sure that'd be a personal best). In fact, I assume it's likely. But every day is progress, and every single miserable, dreadful, lonely day brings me closer to my happy ending.
Take care, you lot.
Song of the Day: Explosions in the Sky - The Only Moment We Were Alone
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKyrULAfvq8
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