Sundays

The words inside me are quiet today. As they are on Sundays. Less activity, less going on. Just less.

I lay in bed staring out the window. The rolling hills of Melville look back at me. The quiet almost tangible. I promised myself this morning I'd do everything on my to do list and I'll go to church tonight.

I lie in bed watching time to by: the sun shift and the moon make its way into the night sky after the sun set. I didn't go to church.

I don't know what to say anymore. I honestly don't have a good answer to the question “Hows the jobhunt going?”

Because it's going: going on, yes. Going well, I don't know – I don't have a job yet, if that answers the question?

I appreciate the concern and the inevitable pep-talk. I appreciate the outreach. I just don't have an answer.

Im tired of keeping the happy front: the one where I smile and agree with the inevitable pep-talk. The one where I hug and say thank you. The one where I say the right thing will come along.

Because, really? Will it? I trust and I pray and I manage the job hunt like I manage TV productions: with a to-do list, a schedule and aims.

But sometimes, just sometimes I'd like to tell people that I crumble and cry because I wonder whats going to happen when the Grace money (as a friend of mine called it) is finished. I wonder how long this process will take. I wonder where it will lead and if I'll need to leave my beautiful, blue-sky Jozi to work elsewhere.

I can't tell people. So I nod, smile and say thank you. And attack this job hunt like I do TV productions.

A friend of mine checks in on me every day: she sends love, motivation, little bits of laughter from her life and prays.

So in the meantime: I pray, she prays and my mother tells me weekly that she is praying for me.

But an answer, no, I still don't have one.

Broken

I’m broken. I was diagnosed with depression a couple of weeks back. Me: the person that never quits.

This feels like breaking. I broke my ankle when I was 15 and I remember the absolute shock that my body could break… Up to that point I haven’t considered that our bodies are amazingly made, but when you push too hard: it breaks.

Hearts. Ankles. Hair. Minds: we are so incredibly breakable.

Laying in the bath last night, crying, again, like I did for three months this year I realized that even with therapy, yoga, healthier eating habits, a wonderful mother and loads of prayers I’m still broken.

I remember the day my therapist asked me if I’ve ever considered suicide. The answer was a very clear no.

This changed yesterday: I considered suicide, for a moment. I was at the receiving end of an outburst, from my superior, that happens ever so often.  I remember looking out the window thinking, what would happen if I wasn’t here anymore…

It was brief, but it happened.

My logical mind jumped to who was going to clean your apartment?

I week ago I would’ve classified as healing.

Glass half full stuff, because I was feeling better.

This week its glass half empty stuff: broken.

So ruined

I don't want to. 

But I don't have the backbone to walk out: not even to walk out just for tonight...

because looking after myself should be a priority?

Because life also includes a life outside of work. 

I see the sun set here. 

Everyday. 

I watch the world go by and I watch the traffic, when other people go home. 

When I get out, the streets are quiet.

I forgot what yoga feels like and what being at home felt like. 

I even work on a schedule at home:

Get home

Unpack

Food

Shower

Watch mindless TV for 30min

Bed.

Rinse and repeat. 

Day in. Day out. 

Weeks come and go.

Still here.

A stranger told me last night I work too hard. 

That's the worst, I guess: looking into someone lives and seeing it is so scew.

So ruined.

Dear God

Dear God,

You know me better than I do. 

You know I want stability but crave adventure.

You know I want to be happily married but like my alone time.

You know Im not materialistic but I like pretty things.

You know I don't have an issue with the way you made me, but I have an issue with people who do.

You know I forgive easily and love quickly even though my heart has been broken so many times.

You know I want to do something that matters, but have no idea where to start.

You know I try to look after myself & my body but I fail, so miserably, so often.

You know I want to go back to India but I want to say here because I have friends & family here.

You know I need help but hate asking for it.

You know I struggle but don't want to and try to seem ok.

You know I scare easily but convince myself Im not scared.

You know that giving up is not an option, so I keep going.

You know that I sometimes do mediocre work because I don't have more to give.

You know I hide when Im in pain.  

Ashamed

I felt ashamed today. A kind man, helping me carry wine from the car to the venue asked me how he could get into the television industry. He works when the venue is preparing or hosting an event, which means he only works half of each month – if that much.

My heart sank.

I don’t have a good relationship with my job at this point. Sad, but true. Its not that I don’t like it: I do, but I’m scared. Not sure for what because I’ve made mistakes before, big ones, and I’m still here.

I’m also tired.

Tired of working to prove myself.

Tired of working long hours and it being the norm.

Tired to not be able to spend with people that make me happy or with books that make me happy or in countries that make me happy.  

My heart sank because what do I say to him: do I tell him the truth about the long work hours and the unethical things that people do?

Or do I encourage him to find a good job, because from the little time I spend with him today, I can see he is a good worker.

My answer came out and I immediately felt ashamed. I told him about the long hours: 6 days a week, sometimes 7 days a week for weeks on end. He commented saying everybody needs to start somewhere.

What do I, with a good job, a roof over my head, with hot water to bathe in every night and warm clothes have to complain about?

The Hard Truth

People only really care about themselves. You can support and encourage and cheer from the sideline: but when their hospital visit is over, when the wound healed, when their car is fixed – they will be gone.

Caring doesn’t make you a bad person, just don’t expect anything in return.

Don’t expect a reply.

Don’t expect support.

Don’t expect someone to dry your tears.

Don’t expect help and most certain don’t expect that someone else will hug you, in your hour of need to tell you its going to be ok.

I don’t know.

I don’t like people, but leave me on a train station in India with a ticket going anywhere and its fascinating watching the world and its people.