Wintering

Society would call it depression, I'm re-branding it as wintering.

Wintering

In my opinion, book recommendations are a love language. It’s a way of saying ‘I see you, I hear you and I think you might connect with this. You’re not alone.’ A friend slid a beautiful book recommendation at the end of a lovely ‘I am so sorry for what you’re going through’ message. It was Wintering by Katherine May.

Since reading this book I would now describe my grieving period as wintering. I have the vocabulary for how I am feeling, albeit society would describe it as depression.

Arguably I’m supporting that theory since I’ve sought out antidepressants from my GP, finding the knee situation (a little about the knee here) all too much on top of the big life change of finding out I can’t have biological children.

Pill Popping

(Not of the party kind, not this time anyways.)

I crutched into my doctor's office, on €30 crutches from Amazon and blue (to match my glasses). It was two weeks after my accident because he’s hard to get a hold of, and with good reason, he’s the best doctor I’ve had in years.

He looked at me, then down to my crutches and before he could ask I said ‘My knee’ *pointed to a massively swollen left knee*. I hop up (quite literally) onto the bed, he prodds and pokes, they always find the most painful cranny. Then I hop to the chair, glad of the sports bra decision, as he types up his findings regarding the hurty knee.

As I hear the typing slow and stop, I feel the lurch in my stomach, I’m going to have to tell him. He looks up, about to ask if there’s anything else and looking out the window behind him I blurt out ‘I think I’m having a breakdown, life is all a bit much’ or words to that effect in Spanish. He asked if it was due to the IVF, I nodded, avoiding looking at him. I don’t why eye contact felt so difficult, but it felt monumental, as if under his gaze I would crumble into a pile of ash.

He ran through a few standard questions, very few, the UK is much more stringent with their drugs (of any kind). He said ‘Sheila, we can start you on some treatment’, his empathy and gentle positivity were soothing. I knew this wasn’t going to be a cure, but another crutch whilst I limp through the hardest part, it’s a shame the pills aren’t blue like my other two aids. But I believe blue pills are for something else, ahem, and I don’t have one of those.

Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash

I hopped out, hopped makes it sound graceful it was more like lurching, to which I realised halfway down the corridor I’d forgotten the thing I went in for. A sick note.

GIVE ME A BREAK UNIVERSE

It all felt like, GIVE ME A BREAK UNIVERSE.

Since the big news, I launched into wedding celebration planning to distract myself. But then life had other plans and we had to cancel - a long story relating to unreliable venues and date issues. This threw up a lot of emotions, mostly ‘Why can’t I have happy things in my life’ and a lot of crying.

Shortly after, I was throwing myself into ticking off jobs in our not-so-new-anymore-but-we-still-have-lots-to-do house list, when I threw myself into the floor/fell on the way to work. The recovery has been much longer than anticipated.

But, ha, the irony of wanting a break, it seems the universe did give me a break. It has brought me to a sliding stop and said ‘You girl need to rest’. It has taken away my ability to busy my way through these feelings, plonked me on the sofa and said now feel. It has been deeply uncomfortable and has brought me into a deep period of what I’m not going to call depression but, wintering.

I believe that you need to cry the tears, feel the feels, crawl through the discomfort and get it all out. Like an infection, it’s got to come out, it’ll only be toxic to keep it in. But honestly, I was hovering on the edge of falling off.

One day my work was putting pressure to deliver paperwork despite my pleas ‘This is way harder than I thought, I’m struggling’, I had a mini breakdown. I rocked and cried whilst my body expulsed sounds, words and yelps of desperation. ‘I can’t, I can’t, I can’t’ I pleaded to my poor husband.

The previous day I’d gone to the hospital regarding the migraine that caused the fall. Plus for sounds, movements and words that leave me and I don’t have control over. They were given a word that day, tics, I have been diagnosed with complex Tourette’s syndrome. I have been juggling the idea of having ADHD, and this diagnosis seems a sign I’m not coping with it, or what I think it is. I mentioned ADHD to the doctor but they seemed surprised by the idea my siblings were in their 30’s when they got diagnosed. I know a friend has reached a dead-end in Spain as an adult with ADHD symptoms, the doctor’s surprise confirmed that I’d likely experience the same.

The day was compounded by my loving, kind but very unempathetic mother-in-law’s post-appointment comment that I needed to get over not being able to have children and she had many single happy friends - Not the same. That afternoon, whenever I talked about friends she asked if they have a family, meaning children… I felt a wash over me, this is how people see me now, without a family.

I felt like I was in a boat in the middle of the ocean, without oars, in a storm and taking on an increasing amount of water. I was not okay and I needed to surrender to that.

I needed to accept the doctor’s support and take the time off. I told work I wouldn’t be delivering any paperwork. And surcome to the rest my body is screaming for. Accept the crutches, all of them, including the small (white) pill kind. I have permission.

The very blue crutches I purchased from Amazon, including little red reflective bits so you can see me in the dark!

Not Socialising

I am a sociable being, I am the type of person who can get into deep meaningful chats with a stranger on a bus. I got it from my Nana, she was the very same. My little sister thought she was famous because everyone would talk to her, and she to them, making a trip up the town a half-a-day affair as she greeted everyone on the way. She’d do it not just in our wee town of 2,000 and growing, but everywhere and all around the world. As a child I would sit and listen to the conversation whilst watching the world pass on a bus, now as an adult I’m the one engaging in the chats and I always think of her when I do it.

I love to get into those nitty-gritty types of conversations about the world, environment, health, food, social issues, culture, capitalism, peoples’ lives, mundane routines… Almost any topic, especially if it’s deep and driven by passion from either myself or the person I’m conversing with.

One time in York I spent the guts of an hour talking about steam trains with a man in a real ale pub, while he held his metal tankard (that he brought with him) filled with ale and his army green canvas satchel across his shoulder with a train book inside (always prepared). I’m not into trains, I know very little about them, or I didn’t, now I know a little from this man.

But lately, I don’t fancy a chat, I mostly sit with my partner at the dinner table silent. Maybe he’ll ask about my day, I’m currently on sick leave so that usually involves me listing the things I accomplished which lately most days includes a nap.

Yesterday I walked to the end of the road, well, hobbled as I’m still using crutches for my wobbly knee. I looked at the bar on the roundabout. I stared for a while thinking about maybe drinking a coffee and watching the world go by, something that has inspired the series Have a Cuppa Conmigo. I love observing or just listening to the sounds of morning routines. The humm of a coffee shop or market is like white noise or classical music to others, it creates a meditative feeling in my head. It’s my SMSR, is that the right acronym? I always fear I’m saying BDSM by accident, my dyslexia playing cheeky tricks that land me in some interesting and awkward conversions. Oh no wait, I googled it, it’s ASMR, well at least SMSR wasn’t related to anything dodge. (No shaming here but I’m not wanting to disclose the dodge things I’m into, or accidentally into).

I found a coffee shop with particularly pleasing acoustics in Granada not so long ago, it gave me that feeling of shuddery tingly enjoyment (see why the acronym is important), and it hit a frequency that did something to my brain.

However, yesterday, I stood. I looked. I looked for a while. Then I turned back home, I just didn’t fancy it. I thought I could brew myself a coffee at home, but when I opened my cupboard to get the edible-smelling coffee out, I just didn’t want it.

Photo by Nadia Valko on Unsplash

Reduced Messaging

“If you want to speak with me, message me”.

My father has taken offence to this (and everything I do at the moment, I’m not sure how much I want to write on this), playing the sentence back to me in various attitude-y teenage-y voices, or at least they sound juvenile to me. I’m pretty sure that’s not the tone I used, but maybe it was, in the end, the message is the same. If you want to hear from me, get in touch.

My brain is like a squishy ball of mush, wait, aren’t all brains just squishy mush? It’s amazing what they are used for considering they are just squish. Side note, I’ve had the privilege of holding a real-life brain, two actually, in my real-life hands! In real life but not alive, an important detail. I studied medical sciences for a year until dyslexia got in the way of success but that’s another unrelated story (alright probable ADHD bring it back now). It wasn’t as squishy as I thought it’d be, it was actually kind of hard, I don’t remember if that was the formaldehyde changing the texture. I do remember the dementia brain being very light, the brain loses mass with the disease, changing the folds into a smooth surface. Psychological symptoms, come from actual physical changes. It makes you think about the physical structures during other psychological symptoms, like what is going on in my brain during my grieving period, it’s very different from dementia, but it got me thinking about what is happening in there.

I don’t have the same thinking processes of picking up the phone or dropping a message, I’m feeling a bit like a hedgehog cosily nestled and wrapped up in hay in a box. If you open that lid, I’ll open my eyes and maybe say hi. But I’m not getting out of my box till my body says it’s time. I’m certainly not climbing out of the box to tend to whatever emotional needs you’ve got going on, I’m wintering, I haven’t got the energy for that.

Hedgehog – Shutterstock

Seeking Nature

My partner and I are foodies, we love chowing down on tasty delights from around the world. We travel with our tummies and always plan a trip based on dishes and restaurants. Well, Italy proved a little complicated for my husband’s dislike of cheese, actually hatred of cheese. He can’t kiss me post-cheese consumption and will turn his nose up at the smell or sight of a bit of cheese. If it gets too close, his index finger will pop out and the rogue cheese be poked back to its place, away from him. In our second stop, Naples, he had a mini tantrum when a croquette-like starter had undisclosed cheese inside. Cursing all Italians. It slightly ruined my nomming vibe at the time, but I now look back and lol. Listen, I know it’s weird, but I still love him. It also means more cheese for me.

But lately, the idea of going into a busy buzzy restaurant doesn’t appeal to me. It feels too chaotic, I don’t fancy the small chat with the waiter or waitress, or the making of decisions. Nothing about it excites me.

However, give me a good picnic bench and I’m happy. Preferably away from people, I want to sit, look at trees, admire flowers and listen to the birds chirping or the wind caressing the trees. I want to stare into nothingness and my vision be engulfed in green. Thankfully it’s spring here in Spain, there’s a narrow window of green and it is here when I need it. Thank you nature.

A picture of a picnic spot we found a couple of weeks back.

Music

Usually, I’m scouring the internet, leaflets, posters and joining conversations for live music events. I’ve Irish blood and music is in my cells, live music lands differently and fills my heart with joy. Even mediocre music I enjoy, I think my range of good is much larger than most, so long as it’s live and has a gathering of good people.

Yesterday a young man with his bouncy stride delivered leaflets around my neighbourhood. Walking, who am I kidding, hobbling back from yoga and meditation I watched him drop A5 colourful pieces of shiny paper into the letter boxes (not of the post kind but the attach to the side of your house kind, see photo below) up and down the streets. When I got home, sure enough, I had mine.

A photo of my very dusty post box. As I’ve posted in a note, I’m not one for dusting to high standards, especially in a country with A LOT of dust. I’m of the belief, dust if you must, but if you’ve got more interesting things to do, do that instead.

I went to the dining room, sat on the camping chair and placed the leaflet on the garden table disguised by a tablecloth (I’m on very reduced hours and now on sick leave, the purchasing of a dining room table and chairs has been put on a very long arm. But the Cavan woman in me, famed for its penny pinching, is very pleased with the price per use on our camping chairs and the €25 table). I slowly ran my eyes over the listing of various guitarists playing in my town over the coming week. Normally, I’d be googling to see what they’re like, but I didn’t. The back page showed flamenco dancing and an orchestra, which piqued my interest slightly. Usually, I’d search for the tickets and send them to my husband. But I just don’t feel like it, not because it felt too much work, I’m just *shrug* not feeling it.

I could blame the fact I’ve not been paid in over a month and a half, my last paycheque being in January. I mean, it is niggling in the corner of my mind, what happens if I don’t get paid? The few euros I have left from the last paycheque may now have to be stretched further than anticipated. I’ve not booked into the next physio appointment to help get me back walking and into work. But is that because I’m worried my euros will have to go further or, if I get better I will have to return to work?

I also don’t know how much I will get paid, I’ve reduced my hours since I was last paid and we didn’t discuss my new wage. Again, I could’ve been proactive, but I wasn’t. I don’t fancy difficult conversations, I tried not to return to work at the beginning of the school year, but my boss kindly adjusted my schedule to reduced hours. I mean my bank account is happy I have been getting an income, sorry had been getting an income, but my soul is tired and wants to stop.

Another part of me doesn’t want to be seen in public, I don’t want the questioning eye of ‘Is she sick enough to be off?’. Because let’s face it, that’s what everyone’s thinking when they bump into a colleague who’s off sick. There’s the looking up and down, their minds calculating if you look like you could go in or if you are faking. Why do we live in a world where faking it is the assumption? I have a doctor’s note, isn’t that enough proof? I have the insurance company that pays my boss, who should pay me, for my sick leave ringing daily for updates. They want me to go and see their doctor, because I can’t hobble far that’d mean paying a taxi to get there, with, yep that wage I haven’t received. It seems they’ve already paid my boss my sick pay because they’re breathing down my neck to make sure I’m not in cahoots with my doctor and wrangling unneeded sick leave.

Physically, I suppose I could crutch into work, but mentally I have clocked out. My knee was a challenge I was not mentally resilient enough for since I got the news.

So, I think I’ll be giving public events a miss. It’s a bit of a vicious cycle, am I retreating because I want to? Or is it avoidance? They say social contact is good for your health, but when you’re off work, that same contact becomes judgemental. A bit of catch-22.

The Long Way Home

Music has been heavily featured in my day-to-day life at home. I’ve been waking most days with a song in my head and when I read the lyrics, they have taken on a deeper meaning. It feels like my brain is kicking up lyrics to help guide me through this tough spot. For the last few days, I’ve had The Long Way Home by Norah Jones circling in my mind.

Well, I stumbled in the darkness
I'm lost and alone
Though I said I'd go before us
And show the way back home

Is there a light up ahead?
I can't hold on very long
Forgive me, pretty baby
But I always take the long way home

I am stumbling around on my weakened knee, feeling very lost, I don’t know who I am if I can’t be a mother.

At times I feel alone, but in that way when you’re in a dark place people could be surrounding you, but without a light, you can’t see them.

I have had to drop previous people pleasing, the tendency to take up the mother role (something I will have to explore in another piece) and being the guide. Though I said I would do it previously, I’m shedding that part of me. I’m shedding the expectation to be a mother, I’ve held onto it for far too long, it’s time to mother myself.

I feel like I’m taking a long way from wintering to spring, and it’s okay. I can take the time I need, the world will have to wait because I can’t hold onto its expectations any longer.

You can walk with me if you like, and we can take the long way home together.

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