Understanding Eeyore

We are all familiar with Eeyore, the character from Winnie-the-pooh, by A.A. Milne.  He is characteristically perpetually blue and pessimistic. I never truly identified with him before and, although I felt sorry for him, I always wished he would just get his shit together. For the first time in my life, I truly understand how he feels.

Depression is never a word I would use in conjunction with myself. We all feel sad and down at times. Depression is all consuming. It is a feeling of dread and hopelessness. It is like all the sunshine and joy in the world has been sucked into a black hole never to see the light of day again.  Depression is always feeling exhausted and lying in bed paralyzed; unable to get one foot to touch the cold floor.

When it rains it pours. For poor Eeyore his house is always collapsing, and his tail is falling off. These are portrayed in a humours way, yet there is nothing funny about depression. When one small thing goes wrong it feels like the whole world is shattering around you.

I sought out help for my depression. I was prescribed an SSRI which made me violently ill in the beginning. The vomiting was horrific. The bile burnt my oesophagus like it was set on fire. I wanted to rip out my hair. Those were dark days. I have never wanted to end my life more than then. The thing that was supposed to make me feel better was destroying me like a Viking attack on a village. When it rains it pours.

I have been taking the meds now for just over a month and thankfully the side effects have subsided. This week, however, my will to live has once again left me; packed its bags and gone on vacation. I can only hope that it comes back soon; before it is too late.

Peter Pan

When you hear the name Peter Pan, the animated Disney movie that was first released in 1953 should come to mind. However, when I think about Peter Pan, I think of a twenty-seven year old lost boy. I think of tanned muscular arms that held me tightly. I think about late night deep meaningful conversations that turned into morning whispers as we said goodnight because our eyes were too heavy to stay awake anymore. I think about fun, laughter, sun, and no responsibilities. I think about a laugh that stops you from breathing and a smile that stretches across the desert. I think about hands that fit together perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle - made to be together. I think about my lost boy, who had passionate dreams without the means to make them a reality. I think about the man he could have become if he ever stopped being Peter Pan. I think about a great love story that ended before it began.

In my story, Peter Pan was a beautiful Arab, who was born lost - he has never had any direction or guidance. He was by far the prettiest boy I ever dated! I waited for him tell me he loved me three times before I uttered these three important words back to him. When I did finally say them back, it was with extreme passion and truth. I have never loved anyone so much in my life. Unfortunately, my version of Peter Pan does not live up to Disney standards, and ended badly. The two tales are similar, however, with Tinkerbel always being there for Peter, while Peter continuously misused poor Tinks and took her for granted. My lost boy was my favourite drug; I would die for him. In contrast, I was his cigarette; when he was done with me he simply stepped on me and walked away.

He is a Palestinian and I, a South African. He is Muslim, while I am Christian. That should have been enough of a warning sign. “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less travelled by...” Oh Robert Frost, if you only knew the road I took! Although we were friends, the chemistry was electric. When we finally made that transition from friendship to more I instantly knew I was in trouble. I looked him square in the eye, and I accused him, “You are dangerous! I could fall in love with you”, and before I knew it, I had. I gave him my entire heart and soul without hesitation.

From that first moment when I felt his soft lips on mine, I was doomed. Things were just so comfortable from the very beginning. I have never slept so well in my life as I did with him sleeping next to me. He snored so soothingly and so silently, it was like a lullaby. He quickly became my best friend. I loved talking to him. We had the best conversations about everything. I loved spending time with him. Simply being in his company would set my soul on fire – in the best possible way. My heart would explode from happiness when he would grab my hand in his. I loved hearing him call me baby, like I was the only girl in the world, and staring into those deep brown eyes melted my heart.

If only he hadn’t been Peter Pan. If only he hadn’t been so lost. I guess, though, that is exactly one of the many reasons I loved him. No relationship is perfect. Everyone fights. When he would fight, it was with venom. He would fight so dirty always making me feel like I had done something horrible. Something completely unforgivable which, of course was never actually the case.Truth be told, I acted like a complete crazy person at times because I found myself in the most bizarre situations of my life. When you are put into an insane situation and you are pushed to your limits, you are capable of doing and saying things that would completely surprise you. I can honestly say that each and every time I was shocked at my own behaviour, I would reflect and I would know I was in love and that I was in a crazy situation. It may not have been excusable,but it most certainly was understandable. It doesn’t matter which way you slice it though, I was never as bad as his reaction was. His reaction was always the epitome of hyperbolic reactions. The childish behaviour, the shouting and the overreacting, would only drive me more crazy.

To be cheated on, emotionally, or physically, to have your trsut and your faith in someone destroyed is never easy. Dealing with the heart break of it all is torture. Even today as I am writing this, my heart aches while I wait for my heart to catch up with my head. Three weeks ago I stopped replying to him. Three weeks ago, he said he was sorry and I did not reply. Three weeks have gone by and he has not messaged me. I keep reiterating three weeks, because it has only been a short amount of time. I expect to feel whole already. I expected him to care enough to at least message me. The realisation that Peter Pan and I will never be is soul destroying. It’s like being kicked in the stomach while you’re already down and gasping for air.

Peter Pan is a magical being. He draws you in with his boyish good looks and he has an innocence about him because he is lost. You want to look after him but you have to remember that he has a mean streak in him and he abuses poor Tinks, and Wendy too. The best thing in the end is for both Tinks and Wendy to let Peter go. Even Peter eventually grows up! I hope he does too.

Sometimes you just have to cry

I have never been a crier. My family sees me as the runt of the litter. I have never been tough enough and have always been the biggest crier in the family. Having said that though, I never really cried much. I think that my family are secretly a bunch of over exaggerators. I am in fact one of the toughest, strongest people I know. Don't just take me opinion for it though. I have been told this by countless other people too. I have always cried silently, in private if at all. I have felt that it is a sign of weakness, probably from my family's overwhelming thoughts of how emotionally incompetent I am.

As a teacher, and surrogate parent, I have an even firmer belief in crying privately. You'll hear it all the time, "Don't cry in front of your kids". Teachers, however, are told this over and over again. "It shows weakness". "Don't let them see you as weak". I am sure you know these age old sayings. I can only reflect on my own schooling; seeing a teacher cry always made me feel compassion. I am sure there are others like me who feel bad when a teacher cries. After all, teachers are human beings too. They have feelings just like the rest of us.

Something changed deep within my soul though. I cannot tell you a single thing about my turning point as I have no idea when exactly it happened. It is definitely something that happened to me though; I had no control over it. Perhaps it was self-fulfilling prophecy; after all, I was emotionally bullied into being tougher by my family growing up. When the tears started, they were an endless river. My pent up emotions were like the flood that God sent when he instructed to Noah to build the ark. In hindsight though, I guess this makes the most amount of sense seeming as I am such an extremist; living in a very black and white world.

Since unleashing my emotions, I cannot watch any sad movies, or listen to sad stories, even some music has forever been deleted, never to be redownloaded or YouTubed again. I found the more I oppressed my feelings, the more they escaped my clutches and poured through my hand like sand being held on too tightly. I broke numerous cardinal rules along the way as a result.

It wasn’t, however, until a friend of mine were having a conversation about crying that I had a second epiphany; this time acutely aware it was happening. It was a lengthy conversation where the outcome was profound. She convinced me that crying is healthy as it is the purging, the letting go of, and the washing away of negative emotions. Crying is the purifying and cleansing of the soul; like raining washing away debris. It is essential in some situations in order to move on.

I still cry from time to time, and sometimes more often than others, but more importantly, I learned not to bottle up my emotions; and that sometimes you just have to cry.

All Alone

A friend of mine and her mom shared a funny story with me once. It was definitely one of those you "had to be there" moments but it was sufficiently funny that we all still laugh about it today. Seeming as you had to be there to fully appreciate it, I am not going to do the story any injustices by attempting to retell the story in lame attempt to convey it's humour.  I do still, however, have to provide you with the gist of what happened.

My friend is a bombshell! When I say bombshell I really mean it. Blonde, blue-eyed, and a body to die for. I mean the girl is in her mid-twenties and looks sixteen. Anyway, one evening my bombshell friend is at a club with some friends  having a good time. When it came time to go home, her mom, a regular occurrence for many of South Africa's youth, came to pick her and one of her friends up at some ungodly hour. At this point both girls are relatively hammered and  are chatting to my friends mom about their night. The second girl, who isn't a bombshell, starts to complain in a sing-song manner that 'she was all alone' because my friend had basically ditched her for some hotty.

Anyway, this got me thinking about being alone, what it meant exactly, and how it means different things to different people. Some people can be alone while being surrounded by hundreds of people at a popular night club. Others only feel alone when they are by themselves. I guess we all feel differently about being alone and feel that way based on many factors. Being lonely and feeling all alone are really the same thing and I have never felt more alone than when I was in Abu Dhabi surrounded by people.

I am a loner! I enjoy doing things by myself and I really love my on company. I have take vacations on my own and had a meal at a restaurant alone. I am not some weird hermit, I just like to be on y own sometimes. Mostly I enjoy others company and I love to be out and about. I visit with friends regularly and am, in fact, seldom home. I think most people feel most lonely when they are forced to be on their own because they do not know how to be by themselves and just be comfortable in their own skin.

When I was living in Abu Dhabi, I met such a girl. She lived in the adjacent room to me. She had her bedroom door open 24/7 so that whenever anyone walked past she could engage them in conversation. Being her neighbour, this drove me a bit mad a times as I had to pass her door on my way in or out. There were ten of us living together and she'd often stop someone for a chat, often and very inconvenient times. At other times though, it was such a godsend because I just wanted to hangout and chat and she was always keen.

One of the best and worst things about living with nine other people is living with nine other people! It's a blessing and a curse. There is almost always someone to talk to or do things with. As a result you get used to not having to entertain yourself. You become easily bored and when you do find yourself alone, you have no idea what to do with yourself. Couple this with the fact that the people you are living with are basically strangers, who know little about you, and you have a recipe for loneliness.

So it was on such a night where I found myself physically alone that I had never felt lonelier in my life. Sitting outside on the stairs, I knew exactly what it meant to be all alone.

When Life Laughs in your Face

I have always been a meticulous planner. I enjoy the mundane task of organising. I couldn't do it permanently but doing it here and there brings a sense of order and joy to my life. I have been organising and planning my life ever since I can remember. From the epic thrill of creating lists to the satisfaction of seeing a job well done, I enjoy every second of planning things out precisely.

Most young girls dream of a white wedding. They plan carefully and thoughtfully down to every last detail. Some, the extremists, do so much planning that all they have to do is 'insert groom here'. I have simply never been one of those girls. Instead I have chosen to plan out my life in exquisite detail. For any sane person reading this, this should be a completely laughable matter. It is impossible to plan things out in entirety.I am not suggesting that you shouldn't have goals laid out. The road of life will be exceptionally long if there were not attainable pit stops along the way.

To accompany my ritualistic planning I have also developed very finite ideas along the way. My world has become very black and white so to speak with little to no grey area whatsoever. My finite ideas are so concrete, and have been from such a young age, that I should have had a bed at an institution on standby long ago.

I believed, not hoped, that by the time I had reached my current age I would have moved out, met someone to share my life with, I'm talking Mr Right now not Mr Right period, and have been relatively happy and settled. Instead, I find myself in quite the opposite situation.

I took this huge leap of faith only to find myself having belly flopped into the ground. So I picked myself up and tried to make further plans for my life. I thought I'd be on the next pane out on yet another adventure. When this too did not happen I went back to the drawing board and planned away again. So far nothing has worked out the way I planned. I'm not just speaking about recent failed events. I mean I might as well rip up every draft I have ever had and take every finite idea I have ever had and  flush it down the toilet.

The same way some little girls make plans for their wedding when they are far too young to understand the full concept of marriage and all it entails, I have found out that no amount of finite ideas and planing will ever make this journey of life any easier. I have come to realise that you can make as many plans as you like, but if they are not what life has in store for you, you'll get the biggest fright of your life because it is at that precise moment when life laughs in your face! HARD!

No Direction

North, South, East, and West. Left and right. Throw in a couple of prepositions here and there and you can direct people to where they need to go. People say that women have a terrible sense of direction. I am definitely the exception to this rule. I have always had a good sense of direction, not only in how to get from one place to another but in life too. If living in Abu Dhabi has taught me anything, and it has taught me a lot, it's that direction, both in navigation and in life, is actually a very fickle thing.

No one uses addresses in the UAE. Ordering food or booking a cab is truly a mammoth task. Anywhere else in the world you would simply give someone the number of your house, your street name, and your suburb. Pretty straight forward. However, this simple practice cannot be used in Abu Dhabi. You have to use landmarks and the names of major streets only. Abu Dhabi is supposed to be an easy city to navigate because it has the traditional iron grid system. All roads running East to West are odd numbers and all roads running North to South are even numbers. All streets are numbered regardless of their name. You need to know both the name and the number of streets in order to direct someone to where you live in case they know the one and not the other.

Once you have mastered this numbering system and have identified your land marks it should be fairly easy to tell someone where you live. This is not the case though. The problem is two fold; one, if you have no real land marks, because you live in the 'burbs, you're screwed and two, the people you are speaking to on the phone do not understand simple prepositions, "Turn right into the last road before fifteenth street." is impossible for someone to understand because all they understood was "fifteenth street" and  "right". 

In essence, everything that is thought to be logical and common sense turns out to be not that logical nor universally understood. The same can be said about life in Abu Dhabi. Cultural differences aside, things just don't make sense because all logic is thrown out the window. Even crossing the road has become a difficult task because the island separating the road has a fence down the middle between major intersections. Therefore, you are forced to walk, completely out of your way, to a busy intersection to cross the road to walk back to where you where only on the other side of the road. This is supposedly done to force people to cross at pedestrian crossings. Seems logical at first glance but the nearest intersection has a death-trap traffic circle, round-about - depending on where in the world you are from. This death-trap consists of a three lane traffic circle where you have to yield to cars that are in the circle and trying to exist. Cars are coming from all sides and deciphering which way they are going to impossible. Indicator? No such luck. So it's a case of waiting for a big enough gap, saying a little prayer, and running like your life is in danger because, well, it is! Not only do you need to be in fear of a car hitting you but you have the added worry of one car taking out another car and the collision taking you out because a car is somersaulting towards you. Not very safe or logical now is it?

Thankfully I am back home, unscathed, where directions make sense once again. The only problem being, I now lack it in my own life. I am at a crossroads where I don't know which way is North or South, up or down, right or wrong. I now have no direction.

Night time shenanigans and Arab time!

It was the first night in Abu Dhabi and after the longest two days of being awake it was finally time for bed. Everyone in my villa, exhausted, tried to have an early night as we had to be up and ready for school the next day. Again, fuck you hindsight, that probably was a sign too. 

When I woke at nine that night, disorientated, to a loud banging at my bedroom door I was beyond annoyed! 

The villa we moved into was opened mere hours before our arrival to it. It was also not one hundred percent complete. There were issues with the air-conditioning in some rooms, other rooms needed to have vital pipes installed in their bathrooms, and so on. The villa was also in desperate need of a thorough clean but that would have to wait until the weekend.  

When I put on pants and unlocked my bedroom door to discover the culprit of the noise so that I could shit on them with all the wrath of fire and brimstone, I found Azam, the watchman of the villa, running around from one room to the next with two or three men following him around like lost ducklings. I made eye contact with one of my villa mates. While my mouth hung open in disbelief, she managed to read my mind by answering my question before I had a chance to ask it.I have been told by numerous people that I have a very animated face. So much so that I cannot play poker as a result of my face betraying me. Apparently, Azam was supervising these lost ducklings of his in fixing various problems that we had encountered in our rooms and bathrooms. The banging was a successful attempt at waking me up so that they could get into my bathroom. For the life of me I do not know what needed to be fixed in my bathroom, but I am sure it could've waited until I returned home from work the next day. And so Azam and his men went to work while we returned to our beds and left our doors open for him in the desperate hope that we wouldn't lose out on much more sleep as a result of this disturbance. Azam finished in my room last, after ten that night, and I was grateful to go back to sleep properly. 

About two nights later, I had a second dose of night time shenanigans when after eight the yellow school bus parked outside our villa and two British girls got out and started offloading their belongings. They were moving in in the not so middle of the night. I left them to it for about thirty minutes before finding out who they were and what their story was exactly. 

I quickly learnt that people in the UAE have no respect for time. African time and Arab time are pretty much the same thing. If someone says that something will be done today, best you believe it'll get done tomorrow at the earliest and five minutes is more likely to be a couple of hours. Arab time is an absolute pain in the ass with the exception of one instance; the malls! Malls in the UAE are open for shopping, food, groceries, movies, etc. until late at night. Because of the intense heat in the summer months especially, people tend to sleep late or be dormant, hibernating in their homes until it becomes cool enough to venture out. 

Now I have come to expect night time shenanigans when Arab time is involved.