Approximate reading time: 25 minutes
Ok, so truth be told, I have been crying a bucket-shit load for the last couple of months.
It’s a well-known fact that I cry a lot.
As a highly sensitive person, I have come to accept that this is just how I am.
I get overwhelmed easily,
I cry,
I process it
and poof,
life usually goes on just fine.
I have gone through periods in the last couple of years when the crying is incessant….and unfortunately, this seems to be one of those periods. The only thing is that this time, the emotional overwhelm seems to be coupled with a homicidal desire to murder people.
(No one person in particular, mind you! Just people in general!!!)
My tolerance for irritating, stupid people is currently at an all-time low.
Random rant:
Like, take for example, those people who have suddenly decided to use the Bakerloo line
(Aka my favourite tube line)
as their toddler’s scribbling pad.
About 3 months ago, when I climbed onto the tube, I was so shocked by how horribly defiled the carriage was that I decided to change carriages at the next stop. The next carriage was even worse. I then spent the rest of my journey changing carriages until I got to the end of the train.
Every single carriage was covered in this inane drivel.
I mean who does shit like this?
Why have they not been arrested?
Why haven’t they been thrown in jail and mandated to do art classes for the rest of their lives?
Why?
I want to know where they live.
So yeh….people like that.
Human people.
Who should know better?
It’s mortifyingly embarrassing to admit this…..
but …..
I feel like I am morphing into a cliche!
Of course, I don’t verbalise
(most)
of my anger…
…goodness noooo…
I am way too much of a good girl for that.
But it simmers, underneath and oozes out of my pores, flowering in massive passive-aggressive sighs and dirty looks that COULD possibly kill.
Naturally, I have rationalised all this anger in my head. I just had to put my final student loan on my credit card, and I’m completely maxed out. In a few months, I need to pay the outstanding £1800 for my plane ticket home to South Africa for Christmas, or I will lose it. So, as well as working full time during the week, I am also babysitting/ dogsitting and face painting on the weekends. That in itself wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t also have to find the time to complete my dissertation, which is due in Sept.
(I haven’t even started yet)
So I get it.
I am exhausted.
And when I am tired, the last thing on earth I have any energy to do is write.
Even though my writing is the one thing in this world that keeps me sane….
(It is the whole chicken and egg scenario…
Except when the egg is hard-boiled, there is no chicken.)
And let’s not forget the minor fact that in exactly 9 days I will be turning 50!!!
50!!!!
Fucking hell….how the hell did that happen?
(In my head, I am still 34!)
I remember way back when, in my naive 30s, the feeling of horror I would feel anytime I met or even heard of someone who was still single at 50.
Good God,
those poor, poor people…..how on earth did they succeed in getting that right !?
Well, here I am.
(Your own judgement coming around to bite you in the arse is considerably more painful than one might realise.)
So anyway…..needless to say I have been processing a lot these last couple of months….most notably my preconceived idea of what a midlife crisis SHOULD look like.
On the suggestion of one of my dear friends
(who routinely puts up with my blabbering)
I decided that it might be a good idea to go and have my hormones checked.
One could almost hope that my homicidal tendencies could quite simply be put down to those imbalanced hormones.
(It would be such an easy solution, right?)
So, I called my doctor’s office on Monday, asking them if I could please book an appointment on Friday to get my blood tested. I am told by the office manager that I can’t make an appointment over the phone and that I need to make it via the app first thing on Friday morning. Of course, I do know this already, but a part of me kind of hoped I could bypass the whole online
“Application- for-a-doctor ‘s-appointment” thing
No such luck.
The office manager-guy stresses that they only have a limited number of slots open each day so I need to make sure I book as soon as they open on Friday morning to ensure I get an appointment.
Point noted.
This morning, bright and early, 7.30 am, I went online and dutifully filled in my online ‘Application-for-a-doctors-appointment” form. I stress that I am only available until 3 pm as I need to leave for work then.
And then I wait patiently to see if my ‘application’ has been accepted.
At 11.30, I get a message telling me they have booked me an 8 pm phone call with a doctor.
I see red.
Someone needs to die.
Did whoever booked my appointment even read my message?
In my application for my appointment, they asked me what I wanted from them.
I said:
“An appointment with a doctor to get a blood test done before 3 pm”
And then they gave me a phone appointment after the hours that I said I would be available.
I mean it’s like asking a 5-year-old what type of ice cream they want, them telling you chocolate chip, and you then buying them vanilla.
It’s pretty simple, really… don’t ask questions if you have no intention of listening to the answer.
(Umm…yes, I would be the 5-year-old in this story)
I miss the good old days when you could phone the doctor up and make an appointment.
(Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated these days?)
I phoned the surgery and got
(I think)
the same office manager guy I had spoken to on Monday.
All I can say is this poor, rather unsuspecting male,
got the full force effect of my hormonal imbalance
when he informed me that all their face-to-face appointments were fully booked for the day and then
suggested that perhaps I could try again on Monday.
I am ashamed to say I lost it a little bit.
It’s all a blur really.
There were tears…there was rage…
I was honest to God furious…
(Please note the large, disproportional amount of OVER REACTION)
Lo and behold, it seems that he managed to magically squeeze me in for a bona fide appointment at
11.55 am.
(It was a miracle, I tell you.)
I rather sheepishly arrived at the clinic and apologised profusely to the sweet man who had been on the receiving end of my hormonal meltdown. He was super friendly with a huge smiley face and laughed, saying
“Ahh, don’t worry about it”
(Shame on me!!!)
I was sitting in the doctor’s lounge waiting patiently to be called while secretly panicking about what would happen if the doctor didn’t believe me that I am turning into a homicidal maniac.
I felt far too calm and relaxed at this particular moment in time to convey the inner turmoil that bubbles out sporadically.
(The absolutely useless things that neurotics worry about)
As I sat in the waiting room, I watched a mother sitting with her two toddlers in a pram and an 8-ish year old little girl. The toddlers are behaving atrociously, screaming and shouting for a “Peppa Pig” book while their older sister is running around trying to find a book for them from the extremely limited supply of children’s books provided by the practice. The 8-year-old is wiping her brother and sister’s noses, giving them water to drink while also attempting desperately to soothe them. The entire time, the mother is staring at her phone, not in the least bit worried about anything that is going on with her kids.
I see red.
Frankly, some people should just not be allowed to keep procreating.
My heart aches for the little girl who looks sad, withdrawn and defeated. She is someone who is going to grow up feeling like it is her job to look after and care for everyone.
It is not.
She is still a child herself.
My rage dissipates and I feel myself starting to get all emotional and teary….
I hear a small voice in my head note:
“Good, bring it on!!!
This is just what you need to make sure the doctor knows you are an emotional mess!”
About 3 minutes later, a little old lady who must have easily been in her 80s walks in
sits down next to me and starts chatting to me
She is adorable.
We chat about life.
We chat about her family.
We chat about her 52-year-old daughter who is still single!
We chat about how long she has lived in London and how she used to be a dancer.
Her eyes are sparkling as she comments on how lovely it is to be chatting with me.
I reassured her that the feeling was mutual.
My spirits lifted and I felt all loved-up, connected and happy.
There is always something so beautiful about connecting with strangers.
Suddenly, I hear the same voice in my head screeching:
“NOOOOOOOO STOP IT!!!!
You can’t go into your appointment all happy and calm –
You need to look homicidal!!!!
YOU NEED DRUGS!”
I sigh as I resign myself to the fact that listening to the voices in my head is exhausting.
I walk into my doctor’s appointment wondering who I will get this time.
In my 20 years of being in London, I have never been to the same doctor twice. I use the same surgeries, but the doctors are on continuous rotation, so you usually get whoever is on duty that day.
In South Africa, for as far back as I can remember, I always had one doctor whom I went to consistently.
I miss that.
The more I learn and understand about attachment,
the more I notice how disconnected and unattached we are as a society.
Sometimes it feels like London is, by default, designed to keep people disconnected at all times.
The doctor is a gorgeous Asian woman who barely looks older than 26.
She was amazing.
She was kind.
She listened.
I felt validated.
I felt seen.
She agreed to get my hormones tested and then listed a couple of other things she wanted to have checked….just in case.
I felt so overwhelmed with gratitude that I then burst into tears.
(Proof my hormones are AWOL!!!!)
She was so super sweet.
She then asked me if there was anything else that might be adding to my stress, and I admitted that the upcoming big
5.0.
was hitting me a little hard.
She laughed warmly and said:
” I know it’s tough….but once you get over the actual day, I am sure you will be fine… It’s just the build up to it that’s always difficult.”
I stared at her in disbelief….
if she was over 50 years old, then I wanted whatever drugs she was on.
I asked her how old she was and she rather sheepishly said:
” 32! “
Oh No, No , No , No, No, Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo
32-year-olds absolutely DO NOT get to provide counsel on how to survive single/childless midlife crises!
I informed her, in no uncertain terms, that as a 32-year-old, handing out advice to an almost 50-year-old was
NOT allowed!
We both packed out laughing, and she rather coyly said:
“But I remember how stressful turning 30 was, and then when it happened it was over…and then I felt so much better!”
How could I argue with that:-)
The girl made a good point, plus she does have a PHD!
I relented that she was probably right…..
But I invoked that one day, when she is 49 years and 11 months old, she would remember me and THIS conversation and she would know deep in her soul
THAT I WAS RIGHT!!!
She laughed and promised she would.
I left her office smiling, made a note of her name and decided that from now on, I am going to at least try to request her for future appointments.
I walked home from the doctor’s office feeling calm, connected and happy; my homicidal tendencies temporarily suspended and ever so slightly invigorated to write again.
It’s always a great feeling when I WANT to write:-)
PS I love Mike Birbiglia.
I watched his latest show the “The Good Life” this week” and I just think he is such an amazing storyteller.
He made a pretty good case for valuing those small moments of genuine connection that we have with others, despite what else is going on around us.
I’m going to do more of that in my 50’s!!
Written 20th May 2022
Up down, Up down…UP!
This morning was the happiest
I could possibly be
Anchored in Ventral Vagal
For most of the week
I get out into the garden
Roughly twice a day
I meditate or just sit…
Absolutely nothing to say
Open, connected, grateful
My life is good
Not an inch of me feeling
Like lonely driftwood
As I travelled on the tube
I had the biggest grin
This glimmer, this beaming
So deep from within
I arrived at a Catholic school
To teach year three
Never been there before
There’s no guarantee…
What any school will be like
My everyday is ‘potluck’.
Will the behaviour be good
Or will they be running amuck
The teaching assistant walks in
(A million piercings adorn her ears)
Hit by a wall of toxicity
That triggers all of my fears
I greet her with a smile
I ask her her name
“Pitock”
She spits
As she dismissively walks away
She doesn’t greet me
Or even attempt to say hello
(An indication as to how
Most of the day would go)
As 9 am arrives
I watch the classes filing in
An uncomfortable sensation
Prickles my skin
A sea of deadpan faces
Not a single smile
(Does it really have to be
So hard being a child?)
And as adult voices snap
Irritably all around
Reprimanding them harshly
No one made a sound
(Internal sigh)
I truly HATE schools like this
Where childhood joy is banished
To a gloomy abyss
I started the day
I introduced myself
Ms Pitock’s energy was
So unbelievably felt
As she positioned herself
In front of the class
Sitting on the teacher’s chair
(Plonked on her arse!)
Slouching back
Mansplaying
Her legs open wide
Her message so obvious
And ever so snide
She was not helping or guiding
The two autistic kids
The ones she was in charge of
(Oh no, heaven forbid!)
Such an obvious power play
“See, I am the boss!”
I ignored her as I walked
Quietly around the class
When she realised I wasn’t reacting
She decided to do her job
I was so conscious of my chest
As it started to throb
She moaned at the class incessantly
They could do no right
Like a disgruntled teenager
Constantly veering for a fight
As I started to teach
I asked the class to quiet down
She ignored me and continued talking
(This was HER playground!)
“Ms Pitock, I’d like to speak
To the class, please”
I got a rageful look that pretty much
Summed up for me
Her sense of entitlement
(Who the hell did I think I was?)
How dare I criticise her
In front of HER class
But it wasn’t a criticism
It was a simple request
Her reaction was hostile
And unnecessary at best
I held her look
I didn’t flinch one bit
I’m so done with these types
And their toxic fucking shit!
I stayed outwardly calm
Evenly tempered
Although inside I felt so
Completely off-centred
It was the most horrible
Exhausting day
In a long while
As I continually attempted
To keep up my smile
And I was consciously aware
Of the downshift in my state
My parasympathetic nervous system
Suddenly in control for the day
I felt anxious and tearful
All I wanted to do was run
Feeling dysregulated in this state
Is never at all fun
It was heightened by the awareness
That for so many of these kids
This was the permanent state
That they seemed to live
As I constantly tried
To put out emotional wildfires
As they reacted to each other
So many angry crossed wires
And the class was filled
With so many volatile boys
Who were continually being silly
And making a noise
But with no healthy model
Whom they could emulate
It was no surprise that these students
Couldn’t regulate
And at one point a child
Smashed his head on a desk
With such incredible force
I’m surprised blood wasnt there
And I took him outside
I wanted to chat
I wanted to find out
Why he would do that
“I need a rubber and my friend
Won’t lend me his”
(This much aggression over
Something so trivial like this?)
“My sweetheart, please
Let’s try to simply talk
Hurting yourself
Is never going to work
Please promise me you won’t
Do that ever again
You are more precious than I could
Ever explain!”
We entered back into class
I spoke to his friend
Who was equally distraught
Because he wasn’t allowed to lend
Their teacher had told them
Sharing wasn’t allowed….
(Mmm, I pondered
Wouldn’t Jesus be so proud!)
Our RE lesson was about kindness
I asked if he would
Mind sharing his rubber
Did he think that he could?
His friend handed it over
The other child started to sob
Huge breathless tears
That heightened my heart throb
“My angel, he is sharing
Look, he is being kind!”
Dumbfounded as I tried
To assess this child’s mind
“It’s not that”
he gulped
Through tears that were undue
“I’ve just never had a teacher
As kind as you
And in that moment, all I wanted
Was to sit down and cry
I was at a loss for words
I had absolutely no reply
I felt this anger
This rage
Seethed up in me
Is this honestly how low
The kindness bar should be
And I hated schools
With every inch of my gut….
I wished every single one
Could be terminated and shut
And I hated this job
Constantly witnessing children’s pain
The anger and disconnect
So many kids go through every day
Is simple kindness in schools
Too fucking much to ask?
Why is hiring healthy people
Such a difficult task?
The amount of narcissistic, toxic
Adults in schools
Is so unbelievable
And so fucking cruel!
And of course it makes sense
These people feed on control
And who better to manipulate
But tiny souls not yet whole
And I found myself so dysregulated;
I could barely think
I made a mistake on the maths board
I wanted to shrink
As Ms Pitock shouted
“That’s wrong”
Across the class
Her tone was bitter
And so unbelievably crass
I stared at the board
I felt like I couldn’t breathe
My back to the class
All eyes were on me
I had made a mistake
(I knew she was right!)
But I was unable to correct it
Bathed in a floodlight
Of shame and humiliation
That flushed over me
As I reminded myself:
“You’ve got this!
You’ve got this…just breathe!”
And it was ludicrous
It was laughable
It was such a fucking joke
My ability to crash
My ability to choke
All I had to do was draw
Two hands on a clock
But I stood frozen, staring
Rooted to the spot
Neurotic Angel was screaming
“It’s a clock DAMIT ALL
How many kazillion times
Have you done this before?“
But I literally couldn’t do it
I was completely immobilised
Although I was in that moment
Able to conceptualise
Learning about the Dorsal Ventral state
When we collapse
Zone out
When we disassociate
And this has happened in my life
So many times before
But I’ve never had the understanding
Or words to explore
What’s really going on
Why my body reacts this way
Until that exact, precise moment
Standing there today
And another voice in my head
Popped up slightly bemused
“OOH look! Look!
How it’s happening to you!”
“Don’t you just love
A beneficial learning moment?
I mean, isn’t this state
Also, a huge component
Of the Polyvagal Theory
You’ve been learning all about…
Look how your Nervous System
Has done a reroute!”
Isn’t it so wonderful
That you are experiencing first-hand
What you’ve been studying about
Isn’t this Grand?”
(Truth be told if I owned a gun
I would have swiftly made the choice
To shoot and kill
The owner of that Pollyanna voice!)
After a couple of seconds of staring
All I could do
Was rub the clock off the board
And try to push through
I handed out the worksheets
I couldn’t teach anymore
While I scanned for a gigantic crack
To suck me into the floor
That could swallow me up whole
Make this day end
I just needed so desperately
To speak to my best friend
Rachel is amazing
At helping me to co-regulate
Like a ‘zip-line’ that whisks me
Back to a Ventral state
But of course she wasn’t there
I tried calling her at lunch
(How dare she be AWOL
When I’m caught in a crunch;-)
So she got left a voicemail
Of blubbering tears
5 minutes of me sobbing
About my dismal state of affairs
And I made up my mind
Then and there
I’m DONE with this job
I have no more energy to care
My supply teaching days are over
They are seriously fucking DONE
Nothing about this job is
REMOTELY even fun
That afternoon, the first half
Was pretty much a breeze
With Ms Pitock on lunch break
I was more able to breathe
Her cover and replacement
For that shortest of time
Was the loveliest TA
Life was calm and fine
Although during the lesson
A little girl burst into tears
Her table buddy was shouting at her
“You hurt my ears!”
His book had fallen on the floor
She picked it up
When she put it on his table
It made a loud clap
And this dysregulated little boy
Probably got a fright
Hence, he reacted in anger
And started to fight
Accusing her of deliberately
Trying to make him deaf
As he clung to his pained ears
I needed to play ref
His histrionic performance, truly
Could’ve earned an Oscar nod
But this over-dramatic reaction
Was an inside job
Although the melodrama of children
Is often funny to observe
They are often internal cries
Desperate to be heard
They’ve learnt to use their reactions
To manipulate and get their way
They are unable to articulate
Their real feelings and say
What’s truly going on for them
They have no words…
When adults laugh at or dismiss them
It only makes things worse
So, we had a little one-to-one
About what had happened there
I validated his frustration
(his overly-dramatic despair)
She had only wanted to help
Could he understand that?
We sorted it out via a calm chat
But the little girl was still crying
Like her heart would actually break
“I didn’t mean to upset him”
Her tears weren’t at all fake
As we chatted, something stood out
Clear as day to me
This gorgeous little girl was an HSP
So, I took her aside
To speak a little more
About her bubbling emotions
So her sensitivity could be underscored
How she wanted to help others
But often feels hurt
How her sensitivity wasn’t something
She needed to subvert
And I owned that there are times
That I too need to cry
It’s nothing to be ashamed of
Sometimes I can’t explain why
But when it hurts;
If you feel overwhelmed with pain
Remember, deep breaths
Will help calm you again
And as her eyes glistened up
With real recognition
She quickly blurted out
Another admission
“You know, Ms I feel
Other children’s pain too”
She stared at me with those
Beautiful eyes of blue
As this deep feeling of mutuality
Started to stir
All I wanted was to wrap
My arms around her
And I thought how amazing
It was that she knew
At such a young age
That she had this preview
How she was affected by others
Ups and downs
That she’d realised this so young
Was truly profound
Because that’s something I so wish
As a child I had known
And that being overly sensitive
Wasn’t something I’d outgrow
That it would be the worst
And the absolute best part of me
That I could learn to love it
And just let it be
And in that moment, my heart swelled
“God, I love what I do”
That I hated all schools
Was simply NOT true
I hate the institution
The toxicity, the nasty trolls
But I truly adore these beautiful
Effervescent young souls
Who touch my heart every day
Who inspire me to grow
When you are around children
How can you not have hope
Ms Pitock returned from lunch
(Over 45min late…)
Without so much of an explanation
She finally sealed her fate
And as she returned to class
She started to yell
At the autistic children
She was being paid to help!
That was it!
I was done
I made a verbal complaint
About her anger
Her aggression
Her lack of emotional restraint
And the headteacher listened
She seemed truly horrified
Because these types of people
Are so good at disguise
Especially in front of people
With Authority
While the rest of us plebs
Get full view of their toxicity
So I walked out of school happy
I was literally on cloud nine
I spoke up for myself
(It’s about bloody time)
And I felt proud
I felt grateful
That it’s getting easier to do
My skin is getting thicker
I feel like a supply ninja
Who just passed resilience 101
I turned up
I taught
I got the job done!
