And so, another year has gone by and I'm no better as a blogger. I had one resolution for 2016, which was to get Facebook, and I didn't. I feel that when I verbalise my goals to other people, I'm less likely to do them. So there's nothing on the agenda for 2017.
New Years Eve found me cleaning up one of the storage closets in our house. My parents and my younger sisters are in Sri Lanka, and since they've left, my older sister and I have been selecting various corners of the house daily and cleaning them. I don't know if this happens to everyone, but I find that once you've settled in a house for a long time, it's near impossible to keep it pristine. There are corners of our house we just can't clean, because we don't have the time and energy on top of our daily routines. But with the most of the family gone, my older sister and I don't make a lot of mess, and it's the holidays, and we like cleaning.
And we accumulate. I feel that this comes from my mother's side. I have been told that her mother is a hoarder, who never throws anything away. I think my mum is similar, but only a part of it is due to attachment; mostly, she has a lot of stuff that she never gets back to. So in this closet, amongst many, many bags (is that weird?), I found a couple with her papers. Stuff to do with studies and whatnot. And one with her obstetric history.
It was... surreal. I know most of her history. I know she's had two miscarriages and one abortion, because of some miscommunication with the healthcare professionals involved. I know she must have had complications with sister number three, because I remember the visits to hospital, how ill she looked, jaundiced and drained, barely there. I've asked my parents for the stories, what it was like, how did they feel. I am increasingly curious about the lives of my parents, my aunts and uncles too. For a long time I wasn't, just because I had unconsciously accepted that they wouldn't have the types of stories we saw in movies. You know, awkward first dates, prom, romantic marriage proposals, fairy-tale weddings, drama, sacrifice, that sort of thing. I knew we were the products of arranged marriages, parents who seemed to have had a strict and boring upbringing. What was there to hear?
As it happens, I think... somehow, at some point, I realised that however different the time and place was, my parents, my uncles and aunts - they're all human too. They were kids once. Adolescents. They had hopes and dreams, fantasies. Crushes. Hobbies. Favourite celebrities. They made mistakes too. They have stories. And when you ask them about this stuff, they melt a little. You close the gap. You realise you're not so far apart.
Where am I going? I don't know. I started looking through all the paperwork. Innocuous appointment schedules, routine check ups, blood test results. Referral letters from the doctors. Charts, before and after birth. The labour documentation. The ultrasound of myself as a fetus, as well as my sisters. Something just snapped, and I started crying.
I am not usually so sentimental. Actually, I am quite soft, but I've never been the type to look at a photo and cry, or something like that. But to see this, everything my mum went through, the entire rigorous process, the complications, three out of four kids in a foreign land, by herself, it was just. Something. Tears brimmed just noting the 'interpreter required' sticker on one of the hospital forms.
I'm not entirely sure why I am sharing this. It's been another year, and it seems sensible to share the highlights, of which there have been a few. But this is what is on the forefront of my mind, so this is what I have for you.
It's just that the more I get through life, the less I seem to know. Is this a popular platitude that everyone's already heard of a million times already? Perhaps, but it's certainly one I personally attest to.
I remember being so very strongly opinionated in high school. I still have certain values and causes that I am devoted to - I still bleed easy for humanitarian crises. But I remember that I was so passionate, dogmatic even, about how I argued the contexts of these issues, particularly the political side of things. I was so sure. And now I'm not. There are no heroes versus villains in my world anymore. Nothing is simple. Everything is murky, fogged up, twisted, complicated. We have so much access to information, knowledge, and yet there is no way to know what is real and what isn't. Who is telling the truth, who isn't. What version of the truth is the right version. Is there a right version. And what do we do. How responsible are we for everything and everyone.
I feel a little hopeless, a little small.
This was not meant to be a dismal post, though. I suppose, I don't know, you spend your life trying to find your purpose or whatever. 'The meaning of life'. Who you are, what you're meant to be doing. I guess, in realising how complicated the inhabitants of this world are, I'm trying to balance... I don't know, forgiving their flaws, giving them the benefit of the doubt, but then, not depending or expecting too much. Acknowledging that there is always more to a person. Still devoted to the humanitarian cause, but no longer from the top. I want to help from the ground up, do big things but do them quietly. I'm a little sad that I don't have convictions anymore, makes me feel a bit insubstantial. Perhaps they'll come back, perhaps they won't.
It's all very vague, but there's something in there that is starting to make sense. Still be spiralling out of control, but trying to go with it.
Peace in,
Laila
Sunday, January 1, 2017
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
and then I grew up
So this is what happened.
I was falling apart last year. Maybe you have some ideas why, maybe you don't. But throughout the year, I was gradually losing it, accumulating a whole lot of badthoughts in my head. It's a bit hard to explain.
And then.
I went on placement. Mental Health placement. In the youth ward.
My first placement with patients about my age, and they were crazy.
I don't mean crazy in the sense of prison like setting, residents rattling the bars to their cages, gabbling away, paranoid, eyes darting, mad laughing, that sort of thing. Okay, there was a bit of that, but mostly it was a combination of drugs and trauma, and it was awful. Awful because I collected stories, as I usually do, and these were tragedies. These were dark stories, depressing, scarring, heartbreaking.
I ended up loving the placement, because I was exposed to something I was so uncertain about, something that unnerved me just by me thinking about it. I'm not saying that by the end everything was hunky dory, and I could just live with these terrible things. I just came to the understanding that people who have horrible baggage attached to them do not get better when you run away. They're the ones that need you most.
But, as I said, I was not in a 'good place' myself. I could actually write my own mental health nurse notes. Isolative. Irritable. Flat affect, congruent with depressed mood. Minimal speech. Poor diet. Low self-esteem. Blah blah blah.
It was pretty bad. It was bad enough for my mum to notice. Even though I try to keep this stuff to myself, I suppose some of it cannot go unnoticed. Or maybe it's because she's my mum. But there were nights where I just bit my fist and cried, and I can't explain why. Or I'd just lie still for a long time and not do anything. I convinced myself that I was alone, that no one liked me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't breathe, that the world was too small, and it was closing in. I was pathetic and hopeless.
(The other thing you need to know is that throughout the whole of last year, I dreamed about going to Sri Lanka at the end of the year. If it wasn't with family, my sister promised we'd go together. She made some elaborate plans. I was super excited.)
But come the end of placement, and despite all my talking, and all my family agreeing, no one had booked tickets to go. My sister bailed on me. And my parents kept saying "We'll go, hang on, just wait." Wait for what?! I was hysterically thought-screaming.
So I kept wallowing, kept falling apart, and finally, my mum said, okay, kid, you can go. You need it.
We found a family friend going, and I booked myself on the same flight as them. (That's about as much connection I had with them for whole trip. I saw them just before I got on, during the transit, and when I landed.)
(My stomach aches a bit when I think about Lanka. Ow. I miss it.)
And I went.
I found my little happy place again.
Like, really. I went on January 14th, arrived back in Melbourne on the 1st of March. And I've been genuinely happy, warm right to the core. I don't know, it's kinda scary. I can't imagine it lasting. But it is. Even though I'mback to the same routine. Even though there are more assignments than ever. Even though I'm still kinda unemployed. I'm good.
So I should probably tell y'all how it all went, but. But I've already done it.
See, one thing Star roped me into before I left was to start a blog with her. And I blogged while I was there. And I feel like I did it my best there. So I'll link ya (here and here), if you really care to know. But I'm not Laila there, so don't use that name if you want to comment. (Come to think of it, neither of us have put our names. Maybe just don't comment at all. I donno. BUT DON'T CALL ME LAILA.)
Anyway, something has really struck me since I've come back.
I've grown up.
Duhhh, you say. You're twenty. You better have grown up.
No, listen.
There are little things. You know, I'm more than halfway through uni, I'm graduating next year. Then I'm in the workplace. My friends are getting married, one by one. Cousins close to my age as well. They all have boyfriends in a more... steady, mature way. I do things a bit more independantly. (I've had driving lessons too. I'm getting there). There's more, though.
When I got back, a few days later, I accompanied my dad to an appointment with a cardiologist. I accompanied him. And after that, I explained to him what was going on. And he told me about some tests he had done while I was away, and he told me how scared he had been, and I comforted him. Since when does this happen? I've never had that explicit role of explaining this sort of stuff to my parents, nor have I ever had the job of reassuring them, having them so dependant on me. And yet, there it was.
And since then, I've noticed all these other little things. How my parents always seem to ask my opinion on how to handle stuff in their lives. How we sit and talk about our day like we're on the same level. I mean, sure, I still feel the need to answer to them, to always tell them where I am, ask permission, etc. But it feels like roles are slowly reversing. They always used to say there would be a day when we'd be wiping their butts, and it really feels like that day is coming.
My parents are getting older.
It's scary.
I deal with patients like this all the time, but now I'm thinking: my parents fit into this group. That's the reality. No, they're not ancient. And they're pretty healthy. But they're still ageing. It's happening. It's real. And I can sense that now, even though I still need them, now they need me too.
And what strikes me more than anything is that for the first time, I feel like I can do it. I can deal with this. I can take care of them. I'm not so scared anymore. It's a bit disconcerting, sure. But it's not incomprehensible, unmanageable. I can do this. I don't know. Is this what it means to grow up?
Peace in,
Laila
I was falling apart last year. Maybe you have some ideas why, maybe you don't. But throughout the year, I was gradually losing it, accumulating a whole lot of badthoughts in my head. It's a bit hard to explain.
And then.
I went on placement. Mental Health placement. In the youth ward.
My first placement with patients about my age, and they were crazy.
I don't mean crazy in the sense of prison like setting, residents rattling the bars to their cages, gabbling away, paranoid, eyes darting, mad laughing, that sort of thing. Okay, there was a bit of that, but mostly it was a combination of drugs and trauma, and it was awful. Awful because I collected stories, as I usually do, and these were tragedies. These were dark stories, depressing, scarring, heartbreaking.
I ended up loving the placement, because I was exposed to something I was so uncertain about, something that unnerved me just by me thinking about it. I'm not saying that by the end everything was hunky dory, and I could just live with these terrible things. I just came to the understanding that people who have horrible baggage attached to them do not get better when you run away. They're the ones that need you most.
But, as I said, I was not in a 'good place' myself. I could actually write my own mental health nurse notes. Isolative. Irritable. Flat affect, congruent with depressed mood. Minimal speech. Poor diet. Low self-esteem. Blah blah blah.
It was pretty bad. It was bad enough for my mum to notice. Even though I try to keep this stuff to myself, I suppose some of it cannot go unnoticed. Or maybe it's because she's my mum. But there were nights where I just bit my fist and cried, and I can't explain why. Or I'd just lie still for a long time and not do anything. I convinced myself that I was alone, that no one liked me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't breathe, that the world was too small, and it was closing in. I was pathetic and hopeless.
(The other thing you need to know is that throughout the whole of last year, I dreamed about going to Sri Lanka at the end of the year. If it wasn't with family, my sister promised we'd go together. She made some elaborate plans. I was super excited.)
But come the end of placement, and despite all my talking, and all my family agreeing, no one had booked tickets to go. My sister bailed on me. And my parents kept saying "We'll go, hang on, just wait." Wait for what?! I was hysterically thought-screaming.
So I kept wallowing, kept falling apart, and finally, my mum said, okay, kid, you can go. You need it.
We found a family friend going, and I booked myself on the same flight as them. (That's about as much connection I had with them for whole trip. I saw them just before I got on, during the transit, and when I landed.)
(My stomach aches a bit when I think about Lanka. Ow. I miss it.)
And I went.
I found my little happy place again.
Like, really. I went on January 14th, arrived back in Melbourne on the 1st of March. And I've been genuinely happy, warm right to the core. I don't know, it's kinda scary. I can't imagine it lasting. But it is. Even though I'mback to the same routine. Even though there are more assignments than ever. Even though I'm still kinda unemployed. I'm good.
So I should probably tell y'all how it all went, but. But I've already done it.
See, one thing Star roped me into before I left was to start a blog with her. And I blogged while I was there. And I feel like I did it my best there. So I'll link ya (here and here), if you really care to know. But I'm not Laila there, so don't use that name if you want to comment. (Come to think of it, neither of us have put our names. Maybe just don't comment at all. I donno. BUT DON'T CALL ME LAILA.)
Anyway, something has really struck me since I've come back.
I've grown up.
Duhhh, you say. You're twenty. You better have grown up.
No, listen.
There are little things. You know, I'm more than halfway through uni, I'm graduating next year. Then I'm in the workplace. My friends are getting married, one by one. Cousins close to my age as well. They all have boyfriends in a more... steady, mature way. I do things a bit more independantly. (I've had driving lessons too. I'm getting there). There's more, though.
When I got back, a few days later, I accompanied my dad to an appointment with a cardiologist. I accompanied him. And after that, I explained to him what was going on. And he told me about some tests he had done while I was away, and he told me how scared he had been, and I comforted him. Since when does this happen? I've never had that explicit role of explaining this sort of stuff to my parents, nor have I ever had the job of reassuring them, having them so dependant on me. And yet, there it was.
And since then, I've noticed all these other little things. How my parents always seem to ask my opinion on how to handle stuff in their lives. How we sit and talk about our day like we're on the same level. I mean, sure, I still feel the need to answer to them, to always tell them where I am, ask permission, etc. But it feels like roles are slowly reversing. They always used to say there would be a day when we'd be wiping their butts, and it really feels like that day is coming.
My parents are getting older.
It's scary.
I deal with patients like this all the time, but now I'm thinking: my parents fit into this group. That's the reality. No, they're not ancient. And they're pretty healthy. But they're still ageing. It's happening. It's real. And I can sense that now, even though I still need them, now they need me too.
And what strikes me more than anything is that for the first time, I feel like I can do it. I can deal with this. I can take care of them. I'm not so scared anymore. It's a bit disconcerting, sure. But it's not incomprehensible, unmanageable. I can do this. I don't know. Is this what it means to grow up?
Peace in,
Laila
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