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
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Thursday, November 5, 2015
the worst came and went
I mentioned, in my last post, that I'm part of a girls' soccer team that consistently loses. Allow me to elaborate.
Once upon a time, a year or so ago, my sister decided to organise indoor soccer - or, well, futsal - for girls. The focus was mainly for hijabis. It can be annoying playing sport in a headscarf. Besides it flapping around (depending on your style), it can get pretty darn sweaty and disgusting. I mean, even without the hijab you can get sweaty and disgusting. But it's worse with the headgear.
So she put her feelers out made some calls, and the lovely people at Monash were nice enough to accommodate our needs. My sister set up a facebook group, and basically, the idea is that every time enough girls were available at the same time, my sister would call and book. The people at Monash would block out the camera feed so no one could see us uncover, they gave a sign to put on the door so no one would come in, and they allowed us to cover up the glass doors with black garbage bags.
These are just details. At first we had difficulty getting games together. The thing about facebook is that people find it really easy to like and agree to things, because it's just the click of a button or two. But then they don't show up. And we don't have the numbers, but we'd have to pay up, where the cost is supposed to be divided. Then many people realised it wasn't nice to do that, and we just didn't have enough numbers.
Hence, our games, at the start, were a bit sporadic. But over time, particularly at the start of this year, we had an established set of 'regulars'. We played consistently, on a weekly basis, sometimes more. Our games went from "Look! There's the ball! Go get it! Try kick it!" to a little more coordination, a little more structure, a little more control and teamwork.
So one of of the girls at the start had this bright idea that we should make a team and join a league. She, herself, had played mixed with her hubby, so we kinda assumed that if she thought we were good enough, we must have been.
I remember our first game. In fact, the first couple of games went the same for me. On the drive there, we'd play pumping up music. I'd fight down the kind of jitters I get before exams, this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Controlled breathing on the verge of hyperventilation. Pep talks to myself, under my breath. Kinda of smiling like crazy, terrified.
Then we'd see the team we were up against. They'd look ... Well, effortless. Graceful. Synchronised.
And boy did that pit in my stomach sink a little bit more.
Nevertheless, we'd go in, gritting our teeth, giving each other supportive looks, nervous motivational speeches. And. We'd be slaughtered.
As I mentioned in that last post, the fact of the matter is, these are professional teams. These girls play outdoor usually, and these futsal tournaments are like kick-back scrimmages for them. Not to mention that their games are naturally tougher than ours. When we bump into each other, in our casual games, it's all giggle giggle, sorry hun, are you okay? There are no apologies here. No one holds back. It's crazy.
And yet, I have a point to make, and I'm making this point now because one of the girls almost had a breakdown/meltdown yesterday when we lost once again last night.
She was frustrated because there are so many ways for us to improve so that even if we don't win, at least we won't lose so terribly. Like one of the girls would be better at defense because she's too soft for striking, but she won't take the hint. Or someone else isn't there when a goal is being set up oh so perfectly. Or the fact that we've tried to arrange regular training sessions, but it just doesn't work. We can never get the whole team, because everyone is at different universities, doing different courses, different jobs, different family commitments - heck, we even live far apart. But sometimes the girls miss out for dumb reasons, like "Oh, I slept in, soz guys".
Yeah, it's annoying. And it's breaking her heart because she genuinely loves the game, and we could be better, but we're not. I know this, because it was so disheartening for me, at the start.
But.
It seems to have worked out backwards for me. See, I no longer have pre-game jitters before a game. I no longer feel depressed after a loss. Every week, I'm pumped. Every week, I'm like haha, what a surprise. We lost again. Star sends me a message after every game. And every time, my response is: Kid, you will know if we won. Believe me. I will write it in the sky.
And this is what I've learnt. In the context of a soccer game, this is the worst that can happen. That we lose. That we lose game after game. And so what. Big deal. Is that all there is? I can take it.
What I'm trying to say is, if this is the worst that can happen, then it can only get better.
We are getting better.
Let me illustrate. After the first one, two, three losses, I made this little goal in my head. I thought to myself: please, even if we don't win a single game, let us at least score once before the season is over. Then I'll be happy.
Well, guess what. We did. Guess who scored the first goal? Me. I've scored four, all up. More than I ever anticipated, more than I could ever hope for. And it happened. And I'm not the only one who's scored, mind you.
And I love these girls. Many of them I wouldn't have made friends but for this soccer thing, and I am so glad. We're all so different, but we fit so well, and we have spunk. Once again, even though we're losing, it's all right 'cause we're going down together.
And I'm going to gush a bit more. More than those goals, I feel like I've improved a lot more in ball control. I don't freak out and just kick it as soon as a girl from the other team looks at me. I can take it up a bit more. I can set up goals. I make little rules for myself. The first rule was don't just kick it away when you get it. And now I don't. My next is don't be afraid to shoot. Don't hesitate. Just do it. Shoot as many times as you can.
What have you got to lose? I think.
At this point: nothing.
Peace in,
Laila
Once upon a time, a year or so ago, my sister decided to organise indoor soccer - or, well, futsal - for girls. The focus was mainly for hijabis. It can be annoying playing sport in a headscarf. Besides it flapping around (depending on your style), it can get pretty darn sweaty and disgusting. I mean, even without the hijab you can get sweaty and disgusting. But it's worse with the headgear.
So she put her feelers out made some calls, and the lovely people at Monash were nice enough to accommodate our needs. My sister set up a facebook group, and basically, the idea is that every time enough girls were available at the same time, my sister would call and book. The people at Monash would block out the camera feed so no one could see us uncover, they gave a sign to put on the door so no one would come in, and they allowed us to cover up the glass doors with black garbage bags.
These are just details. At first we had difficulty getting games together. The thing about facebook is that people find it really easy to like and agree to things, because it's just the click of a button or two. But then they don't show up. And we don't have the numbers, but we'd have to pay up, where the cost is supposed to be divided. Then many people realised it wasn't nice to do that, and we just didn't have enough numbers.
Hence, our games, at the start, were a bit sporadic. But over time, particularly at the start of this year, we had an established set of 'regulars'. We played consistently, on a weekly basis, sometimes more. Our games went from "Look! There's the ball! Go get it! Try kick it!" to a little more coordination, a little more structure, a little more control and teamwork.
So one of of the girls at the start had this bright idea that we should make a team and join a league. She, herself, had played mixed with her hubby, so we kinda assumed that if she thought we were good enough, we must have been.
I remember our first game. In fact, the first couple of games went the same for me. On the drive there, we'd play pumping up music. I'd fight down the kind of jitters I get before exams, this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Controlled breathing on the verge of hyperventilation. Pep talks to myself, under my breath. Kinda of smiling like crazy, terrified.
Then we'd see the team we were up against. They'd look ... Well, effortless. Graceful. Synchronised.
And boy did that pit in my stomach sink a little bit more.
Nevertheless, we'd go in, gritting our teeth, giving each other supportive looks, nervous motivational speeches. And. We'd be slaughtered.
As I mentioned in that last post, the fact of the matter is, these are professional teams. These girls play outdoor usually, and these futsal tournaments are like kick-back scrimmages for them. Not to mention that their games are naturally tougher than ours. When we bump into each other, in our casual games, it's all giggle giggle, sorry hun, are you okay? There are no apologies here. No one holds back. It's crazy.
And yet, I have a point to make, and I'm making this point now because one of the girls almost had a breakdown/meltdown yesterday when we lost once again last night.
She was frustrated because there are so many ways for us to improve so that even if we don't win, at least we won't lose so terribly. Like one of the girls would be better at defense because she's too soft for striking, but she won't take the hint. Or someone else isn't there when a goal is being set up oh so perfectly. Or the fact that we've tried to arrange regular training sessions, but it just doesn't work. We can never get the whole team, because everyone is at different universities, doing different courses, different jobs, different family commitments - heck, we even live far apart. But sometimes the girls miss out for dumb reasons, like "Oh, I slept in, soz guys".
Yeah, it's annoying. And it's breaking her heart because she genuinely loves the game, and we could be better, but we're not. I know this, because it was so disheartening for me, at the start.
But.
It seems to have worked out backwards for me. See, I no longer have pre-game jitters before a game. I no longer feel depressed after a loss. Every week, I'm pumped. Every week, I'm like haha, what a surprise. We lost again. Star sends me a message after every game. And every time, my response is: Kid, you will know if we won. Believe me. I will write it in the sky.
And this is what I've learnt. In the context of a soccer game, this is the worst that can happen. That we lose. That we lose game after game. And so what. Big deal. Is that all there is? I can take it.
What I'm trying to say is, if this is the worst that can happen, then it can only get better.
We are getting better.
Let me illustrate. After the first one, two, three losses, I made this little goal in my head. I thought to myself: please, even if we don't win a single game, let us at least score once before the season is over. Then I'll be happy.
Well, guess what. We did. Guess who scored the first goal? Me. I've scored four, all up. More than I ever anticipated, more than I could ever hope for. And it happened. And I'm not the only one who's scored, mind you.
And I love these girls. Many of them I wouldn't have made friends but for this soccer thing, and I am so glad. We're all so different, but we fit so well, and we have spunk. Once again, even though we're losing, it's all right 'cause we're going down together.
And I'm going to gush a bit more. More than those goals, I feel like I've improved a lot more in ball control. I don't freak out and just kick it as soon as a girl from the other team looks at me. I can take it up a bit more. I can set up goals. I make little rules for myself. The first rule was don't just kick it away when you get it. And now I don't. My next is don't be afraid to shoot. Don't hesitate. Just do it. Shoot as many times as you can.
What have you got to lose? I think.
At this point: nothing.
Peace in,
Laila
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