Work is epically stressful right now. Seriously, just walking into the place is almost enough to give the most pacifistic (it’s a word, I looked it up!), placatory and untroubled gentlemen a raging and pounding aneurysm. Everyone in that place needs a 2 week break. Just to not see each other for 14 days. To not hear that horrible air-conditioner and stare at those blary screens for just a few days would be a god-send.
But tonight I found the cure. I went to see a musical. Mary Poppins in all its Supercalifragic glory. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious was actually so fantastically choreographed that it left everyone so excited and happy that the next scene’s departure of Mary Poppins didn’t seem so awesome and sad. I got goosebumps from Feed the Birds, as the song took on a new meaning for me; meaning that had been lost in every one of the approximate 51.5 times I have watched the Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke movie. I was on a high from the tap-dancing chimney-sweeps and blown away by the colourful, creative and wonderfully technical set design.
The music relieved all sense of urgency. It stopped me thinking about the stuff I am worried about. For almost 3 hours I was caught up in the story of the Banks family and Cherry Tree Lane. I forgot that I have a presentation to give tomorrow that I thought was next week. I forgot that I haven’t been to visit my grandmother since my grandfather died and I forgot why I was worried about spending the money on going at all in the first place.
Go. Please go. If you don’t live in Melbourne, fly here from wherever you are in the world to go. Best foot forward! Spit, spot!
I have been down in the dumps. Below the dumps actually, I think I was dropped from a dump truck at the city tip, rolled by an earthmover, fired by an incinerator and spat out into a flock of seagulls that saw fit to pelt the remains of me with bird doo-doo.
I’ve heard about people being depressed before. I have seen it too. Lord knows how I watch my Dad going through it all the time. I knew (and know now) in my mind that it really isn’t as bad as I am making it out to be, that things will change for the better and that people don’t (well, not everyone) hate me. But over the last week, while I knew all that, I didn’t feel it. I could not, for the life of me, convince myself that it would be alright. I thought I was toast, that no one would ever touch me again. That I was a horrible despicable person that didn’t deserve to have friends and that needed to hermit away because my very presence would bring others down. Because being around other people while are having a good time is like burning your arm because you like the heat of the fire.
And there was That Thing That I Did.
Seared in my memory like a brand on the back of my brain. White hot, every aspect of it cascading through my consciousness. At any point in time I was immediately and acutely aware of the pain inflicted, the questions raised about my own self-awareness and deceipt. A feeling that transcends time; as present now as it was 5 minutes, 3 days or a week ago.
Two things have happened though to start pulling me out of this spiral of pity, doubt and useless introspection. Firstly, I caught up on some sleep. Not just a sleep in. A fucking epic, break-breaking lie in. I didn’t even realise I was that tired.
Secondly, I spent a day out of my hermit-crab shell. I forced myself to honour a date planned a couple of weeks ago. Sunday afternoon movies with an old childhood friend (the Singing Teacher). In the end, the movies were the crowning jewel to a great walk through the streets of the city; checking out the latest and greatest street art hidden in the nooks and crannies of the alleyways that make this city great. I found some great new ideas for things to get me out of the house in the near future: one being an exposition on Photography and Time by the National Gallery of Victoria and another being Shakespeare’s “A Comedy of Errors” that is playing in town and screaming for a visit.
Then tonight, I helped a friend move his tiny number of boxes from one house to the next. We went for a beer afterwards, his way of saying thanks. The man is spastically (a word I use not for it’s meaning but for it’s strength outside the context of its meaning) good-looking. His smooth manner, disarming French accent and friendly demeanor probably mean that he could talk to anyone and make them feel relaxed. Our conversation helped my mojo find its way to that crystal meth injector tucked away somewhere near my hypothalymus and gave me a jolted reminder of what it feels like to be king of the world. To be top of the town, confident in most things I say, who I am and what I do. It made me feel a little bit more normal again.
Image: Los Cardinalos/flickr
She’s suddenly realising that her career path may not have been the right one.
It makes me sad that she feels this way for two reasons. The first being that she is not as happy as she was when she first chose it. The second being that she is such a good teacher. At least I thinkk she would be a great teacher which I admit is not the same thing.
Education is already struggling with resourcing problems, it’s horrible to see another good one drop out of it.
Actually the most distressing thing was seeing the change. I don’t get to aee this friend regularly and it was in a period of 6 months that the transformation occurred. I saw her in November; full of life and bubbling with ideas for helping her problem children. At the same coffee shop in June I could have been sitting with an entirely different person. Angry and inconsolable at children who don’t want to learn, at the parents failing them and the lack of support from senior members of staff.
I want to chastise her, I begin telling her that she has to take the good with the bad but realise that she’s already heard it. I can only listen.
So that’s what I’m going to do.