Anger, Just a random day, Poetry

Up down,Up down…UP!

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.

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.

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?

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

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.

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….

And let’s not forget the minor fact that in exactly 9 days I will be turning 50!!!

Fucking hell….how the hell did that happen?

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.

Well, here I am.

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

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.

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-appointmentthing

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:

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.

I miss the good old days when you could phone the doctor up and make an appointment.

I phoned the surgery and got

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…

Lo and behold, it seems that he managed to magically squeeze me in for a bona fide appointment at

11.55 am.

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

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.

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:

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:

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.

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 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-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:

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

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!!

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

Hit by a wall of toxicity

That triggers all of my fears

 I greet her with a smile

 I ask her her name

She spits

As she dismissively walks away

She doesn’t greet me

Or even attempt to say hello

I watch the classes filing in

An uncomfortable sensation

Prickles my skin

A sea of deadpan faces

Not a single smile

And as adult voices snap

Irritably all around

Reprimanding them harshly

No one made a sound

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

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

Such an obvious power play

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

I got a rageful look that pretty much

Summed up for me

Her sense of entitlement

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

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 spoke to his friend

Who was equally distraught

Because he wasn’t allowed to lend

Their teacher had told them

Sharing wasn’t allowed….

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

Dumbfounded as I tried

To assess this child’s mind

he gulped

Through tears that were undue

Was to sit down and cry

I was at a loss for words

I had absolutely no reply

I felt this anger

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

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

But I was unable to correct it

Bathed in a floodlight

Of shame and humiliation

That flushed over me

As I reminded myself:

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

I was completely immobilised

Although I was in that moment

Able to conceptualise

My SSP studies

 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That I could learn to love it

And just let it be

And in that moment, my heart swelled

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

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!

 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

And I felt proud

I felt grateful

That it’s getting easier to do

My skin is getting thicker

It’s less sticky like glue

I feel like a supply ninja

Who just passed resilience 101

  I turned up

I taught

 I got the job done!