Take a Walk

At this point, it's no secret I've been unemployed for months. How long? "Too long," is what I tell myself. Long enough to experience the five stages of grief ten times over. Acceptance is, I think, the trickiest one. What am I to accept? A sense of inadequacy, albeit false? Am I to accept the circumstances as they are? If so, does that mean I surrender to my perception of failure? Do I accept reality? Can I? Is it a matter of willingness, or a matter of time?

It occurs to me I've always been this way, employment status notwithstanding. I've always found acceptance challenging. Acceptance would stymy growth; acceptance, to me, is the antithesis of moving forward and bettering oneself. So, I've always been a persistent fighter. Working tirelessly on what I can do better. Every single rejection was married to "what can I do to strengthen my candidacy?" In my heart, what that really meant was, "Tell me why I'm not good enough!"

This isn't resilience, and it's certainly not the path to acceptance. That's what I've learned. It's just negative thinking. In all this time, I've finally got it. Strength is not resilience. Persistence is not resilience. I consciously stepped away from Linkedin. Personally, I found it unhelpful...not because I think it's a poor platform for jobseekers (quite the opposite) but because of a certain shame, embarrassment and unwillingness to accept. In that time, I threw my hands up and lived the uncertain day-to-day. Slowly, I stopped questioning my validity and my self worth. My right to exist by sheer virtue of existing. Imperceptibly, acceptance happened. In fact, I didn't even realise until this afternoon.

I volunteer for a mental health organisation in which I coach individuals experiencing mild to moderate depression on how to live more fulfilling lives. I got a message from one of my clients today. This particular person writes beautiful messages each week and approaches the programme with courage and aplomb. Last week, I thanked this client for their honesty, and reminded them them it is a privilege for me to be a part of their wellness journey. ...and, it is. It really is.

The client responded:
"My default thinking is that I'm a failure. It's what I hide behind. It's become so ingrained I don't even see it anymore. I need to change that, to try not to allow it to inform all my reactions. As for why I chose to share all of this with you?I think I needed somebody to 'walk' with me for a bit of this journey and look at it with an objective eye. Your response gives me permission to name it for what it was. Not blaming, simply naming. I couldn't have moved forward without you. Thank you as always."

Not sharing this because I think I'm some sort of saint, capable of mending the universe. I'm sharing this because whatever I did for this client, s/he/they also did for me. How did I arrive at acceptance? I took "a walk." I focused on bettering myself, which is arguably what I've done all along. This time, though, the key difference was the motivation behind it: I was never insufficient. I just needed to change the way I was thinking in order to move forward.

It's impossible to be 10/10 all the time. COVID screwed us that way. It set us up; we are conditioned now to think that the gift of time necessitates major change. In my case, I stayed who I was and simply discovered parts that I hadn't seen. So, if you're unemployed or feeling in adequate or somehow didn't become a neurosurgeon or an astronaut in the months since this began, please forgive yourself. Be kind to yourself. Please give yourself the gift of acceptance in whatever form that takes. Wrap it up in a bow with gorgeous paper.

In the absence of a job, I've tended to a garden and built birdhouses. I've baked scones and, based on the evidence here, helped someone else move forward. When the job comes, it'll come. I accept that now. In the meantime, I'm going to get back to the work I've been doing.

98

I'm distracted by the sound of David typing. He's on a call, taking notes. David's keyboard, supplied by his company as part of their COVID work-from-home scheme, is a monstrous black behemoth of a thing. It's also wireless, which would make it seem hi-tech. Yet by the sound of it alone, you'd think it never gets used. Each letter is loud, stiff and penetrative. Offensive to the air. I've developed an unusually acrimonious relationship to the keyboard, and considering the fact that the keyboard is an inanimate object, my anger is rather one-sided and useless. Not unlike much of the anger I hold in the pit of my stomach every day, ready to hurl at the parts of my life over which I have zero control.

The keyboard sits on our dining table, Dave's makeshift workstation. A bit inconvenient, but we don't have a choice. There's a laptop and a desktop as well; we move the computers and various accoutrements out of the way for each meal, pushing them to the other side of the table and unplugging various cables and wires in the process.  Lately I've taken to eating my meals on the floor instead. It's less for me to clean, and it benefits us both in the long run if Dave soldiers through work. Every minute he isn't focused on work is a moment foolishly spent. This is my observation. It isn't a healthy thing, but it's true. His work is never finished; there is always more to be done tomorrow, and it would always be better if Dave worked through the night, but I make sure he sleeps. He needs to sleep. When it's time for bed and Dave retires to the bedroom or finally tears himself away to floss his teeth, I'll wipe down the table as well as the keyboard, freshening things for the morning. It's strangely therapeutic for me, one the lights are off and things are quiet-- even though the preceding day has been nothing but silent-- and the magic of the twilight hour in our living room is like a physical place for me that I can rest languorously in. It isn't so much a twilight place, nor is it an hour, but it's a moment. Or the shadow of one. The keyboard, however, always gives me pause. I usually move it onto one of the chairs so it remains unseen, hidden from view.

It was shortly after we met that Dave and I discovered my abnormally fast typing speed of 98WPM. I remember Dave went to work the next day and wasted an absurd amount of time taking online typing speed tests. He was incredibly proud of my ability, but refused to accept his own lack of skill-- or not even, more simply, he was annoyed at a lack of dominance or proficiency. He averaged around 40; his colleagues roughly 50. Dave works in the financial sector, at a private investment firm with offices all over the world, so when he told me about the wasted day and the domino effect typing speed tests had on his team-- they all ceased work entirely-- I humoured myself by picturing a Wolf of Wall Street-esque milieu: all operations in the Financial District grinding to a halt; uppity financiers escaping to the lavatories and snorting cocaine between each dose of "The fox jumped over the lazy dog." 

Dave has worked diligently to improve his typing speed ever since and I can tell it's working. In my case, 98WPM would undoubtedly be an asset in the workplace, but it is more likely evidence of someone who spends most of her time staring at a screen because she has little else to do. Nevertheless, Dave is proud of it and I find reasons to get out my years-old laptop (which is liable to explode at any given second) and type anything I can possibly think of in his presence (even though I am out of work, have stopped all forms of creative writing entirely and never contribute to this blog). Sure, it's a bit selfish... to consciously make your partner feel inadequate because you feel inadequate.

Realising this, I came up with the idea of gratitude journals-- well, I can't take credit for the novel idea of personal reflection and recording gratitude-- but I thought it prudent Dave and I keep them for ourselves.  I try not to peek at his notes. The first night we did it, we sat on opposite ends of the couch and, tilting my head to crack my neck, all I could see in his chicken scratch was, "Everything Brianna does for me that I cannot." Holding back tears, I squeezed his hand and resolved to never take the liberty of walking in on my partner's private thoughts ever again. In spite of everything, particularly that bastard of a keyboard that threatens the purity of my private breathing space, I go to sleep every night grateful for this incredible man.

The entries in my journal range in content, and, er, genre-- but the one thing they have in common is that I am seriously grateful for each and every one of them. There's the pitiful: "Our basil sprouted," there's the funny, "Our plunger worked!" ...and there's the biggest of the big: "Dave. Just Dave."

Just retook a typing test. I'm somewhere between 94/7 now.

Things I Thought I'd Never Do

...moving to another country isn't one of them, nor is waking up every day in the midst of a pandemic/worldwide infectious disease. Both of these things at this point are old news to me.

Before I begin my newest listicle, it's worth noting I abandoned this blog for several reasons: lack of inspiration being the main factor. Writing felt like a chore; nothing could top the overwhelmingly positive response to my very personal and intimate tribute to Arnie Baskin, and above all, I had no audience. Ever since I was a child who dreamed of becoming an actor or a writer, I did these things for want of an audience and praise, not for escape. Let's be honest: few people besides my mother read this thing (thanks, ma) and at this stage, I'd almost be okay with that if it meant I was okay with myself. ...but I'm not. Nearly two years in Dublin and this has been by far the worst year of my life. 

It would be prudent to document these things (if not for an audience, then for myself, but I was never into journal-writing or diary-keeping, in some ways that feels more solipsistic than begging for an audience). However, I'm bored, unemployed, have nothing to lose, and I need to do something besides sleep. 

Here goes. My list of things I thought I'd never do...but did. 

1. Be admitted to a mental hospital. 

   I've bemoaned the Irish healthcare system ad nauseam, so I'll try my best to refrain from doing that again here. All you really need to know is that regardless of whether or not your healthcare is public or privatised in Ireland, your coverage is going to be absolute shit. In the United States, the copayment for a 90-day supply of my anti-depressant was $10. The cost of that same drug for thirty days in Ireland with my private insurance is 147€. Yep. How 'bout them apples? Oh, and I had to get special permission for that drug because it is illegal here. Many antidepressants are. Only six major drugs are commonly prescribed for depression, and they are the old-school, Tricyclic* kind. Many of these drugs the United States would consider arcane or dangerous at this stage, rarely being prescribed when newer, less risky drugs come out on the market each day. While the United States has the reputation of overmedicating its, Ireland seems to be stuck in the Stone Age, and there is vey little progression and a lot of conditions go untreated/unchecked because of it. In lieu of some of the medications I had been taking back home, I was prescribed an extremely high dose of Amitriptyline. I didn't know it at the time, but my stepdad (a healthcare worker at a public mental institution in New York) informed me that the amount I was taking was essentially being administered to me irresponsibly as a sedative. Think horse tranquilizer. 
   
   
   Anyway, I dealt with a serious resurgence of depression last year and was given two options when I sought help from my school, as there was a six-month wait list to see a counselor: if I planned on killing myself within the next 24-48 hours, I'd go straight to A&E** and sit waiting for an IV only to get discharged without promise of a therapist or, if  I didn't have any immediate plan[s] to kill myself within the next 48 hours, I could get put on a wait list for admission to St. Patrick's Mental Health Hospital. Only from there could I be referred a therapist. In New York, everyone sees a therapist, so you can only imagine my horror and disgust.
   
   It felt disingenuous to be fast-tracked to the hospital, so I went with the second option. Even though I had thoughts of suicide, I didn't have an immediate plan, which meant I could be taking a bed from someone who needed it. By the same token, the thought of being admitted to a psychiatric ward absolutely terrified me. When the time finally came-- the day after my 27th birthday-- I tried to make light of it, texting my mom that I was en route to my "all inclusive holiday resort." I was one of the youngest women in my ward. Most of the service-users*** were older, Irish women who prioritised going to mass and getting their hair done when the hairdresser came in. Even in hospital, they needed to maintain complete composure. Where I had notions of, "I don't belong here," most of these women on the other hand-- whose sole purpose in life had been to rear their now-adult children-- had nowhere else to go, and their mentality was simply, "I am not here."
   
   Fortunately, I was an inpatient at St. Patrick's for a relatively short amount of time (one month, which is the minimum) and was given full day-leave and weekend leave privileges. I'll never forget the experience, though...queueing up for medication at night and in the morning; showing the nurse your mouth to prove you had swallowed it all.
   
   I endured the hospital and was referred to a fantastic therapist as a result. Thank God. 

2. Apply for welfare. 

   After getting discharged from the hospital, I secured a secretarial position at a boutique economics firm. The salary was fairly competitive and although I didn't exactly have dreams of becoming the world's greatest typist, I thought it would be good to fill my days with a sense of purpose and possibly look for something better in the meantime. After discovering an unsavoury secret about one of my supervisors, I was offered a significant amount of money to be let go and keep my mouth shut about it. So I was, and I did. Not being able to explain this to potential employers made finding a job even more difficult. Regardless, I lived frugally and was given my money; I used it to pay my rent until the money ran out.  
   
   
   I've been applying for all sorts of jobs without success since the end of December. Some roles I was a fantastic fit for, but I wasn't the superior candidate. Other places didn't want to hire an American (despite my being a dual EU citizen). When the virus hit, I knew I was done for. I anticipate the uphill climb will become infinitely worse after all this blows over, and the delay in finding any job could be significant. 
   
   
   So I applied for "the dole." 
   
   

3. Take an art class. 

   The hospital encouraged its service-users to get up every day and engage in some of their (admittedly really cool) activities. I played Bingo (prizes were things like moisturiser and fuzzy socks, but it was nevertheless viciously competitive) and pet Shetland ponies in the yard one day. The thing I did most often was go to art class. I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps it was a process of elimination: the computer room was of little interest to me, and pottery was a month-long commitment (at the time I didn't think I'd be there that long).  There were music classes but I could never hold a tune to save my life and so...my saving grace was the art room. I started off with coloured pencils, but that got old after spending twelve hours of the day in there. With the help of the art teacher, Elva, I began to paint. I enjoyed art so much - especially in an atmosphere of positivity and encouragement, without judgement - I decided I'd keep it up "on the outside." I've been going to art once a week ever sine my discharge. I'm not nearly as good as some of the folks in my class, but I've also learned to challenge what "good" even means, and how useful a word it is. I've made great progress, which is the important thing. 
   
   

4. Understand that love means planning a future, not an escape route. 

   Way back in 2018 when my then-boyfriend agreed to move to Dublin, I was absolutely delighted as he'd always been afraid of commitment. He was a divorcee who left his partner seemingly out of the blue, and I know that despite an amicable parting of ways, it caused her great trauma. I used to envy that woman, and now that I'm older and that man is now too part of my past, if anything, I wish I could offer her comfort. She haunted my dreams for so long. Don't get me wrong, my boyfriend and I loved each other as much as we could, but particularly in the early stages of our relationship, he never had the view for things to be long term. In fact, during the first few months he planned on moving away to be with his ex-wife. Shortly thereafter, he had the thought of relocating to Paris. Then, Los Angeles. I did my best to support these plans, all the while wondering where my place was in them, and most importantly, thinking it was selfish of me to do so. I thought, "everyone reserves the right to chase their dreams," so questioning where I fit in someone else's dream was downright wrong.
    
   Of course, that isn't true.
   
   We began looking at apartment rentals in Dublin and each came up with a list of criteria. I wanted to be close to my college campus; he wanted to be near a park in case he needed "to take walks to be alone." I'm all for alone time, but I should've flagged if that was the first thing he thought about when it came to moving in together-- in Europe-- no less, the adventure would be far from the dream I envisioned.
   
   Sure enough, about a week before our flights were due to take off, he left me. There wasn't much time to grieve, because I needed to come up with a plan. Where would I live? What would I do? With bitter resolve and stubborn determination, I moved to Dublin anyway. I handed in my resignation at work and there was nothing left for me in New York anymore. I never spoke to him again-- the last I heard, he moved to a different part of Europe in pursuit of higher education himself. 
   
   
   Fast forward nearly two years later. I did my share of dating in Dublin; I endured what wound up being a terrible master's degree, and when I least expected it, Dave walked into my life. For the first time ever, things were easy. Things were easy even when they were difficult. He met my mother very early on because she happened to visit me in Dublin shortly after we began dating; my hospital stay coincided with the early days of our courtship and he had no qualms about visiting me at the hospital. He began to make me a part of his life and his dreams. We discussed moving in together early on, and sure enough, we did. This was just before the virus changed the world and we couldn't have predicted what would happen. Despite my best efforts I couldn't get a job, and I felt so humiliated telling him I might not be able to make rent.
   
   All he's ever said was that my day will come, and that we are a team, so "we" will make our rent together. If Dave goes down the street for a coffee or for a walk by himself, he usually brings some sort of treat back for me. We shared the main criteria for our apartment,.
   
   I feel so privileged to experience this degree of selfless love.
   

5. Occupy a top-floor apartment...and have a view of the sea.

   Yeah, I know. It's crazy! We were casually viewing places and as soon as we saw our current apartment, Dave and I knew we had to have it. It's about seven stories high and it's a walkup, but it's worth it.
   
   Every apartment I've ever lived in (including my first apartment in Dublin) has been dark and on the ground-floor or sub-level. It's become a running joke among friends and family that I'd never get my wish of being at the top, with natural light...especially if I planned on living in Dublin long-term, where it rains all the time.
   
   Lo and behold, our apartment. We pretty much have the entire top floor. When you open the door to our apartment, there's another set of stairs that takes you even higher. It's all very Parisian. The apartment is flooded with light. The sitting room and master bedroom offer unparalleled views of the city as well as the sea just beyond. In the distance, on a clear day, I can see all the way out to Howth****.  The red lighthouse shines in the distance at night. When my eyes flutter open in the morning, I see nothing but clouds from the bed.
   

6. Save a life. 

   It's funny-- my college boyfriend was a lifeguard in high school, and he saved a kid from drowning once. I still think of that story and his act of sheer and selfless heroism. Then again, if you're a lifeguard, you surely wouldn't let a kid drown, would you?
   
   ...because my life is an ongoing comedy series, the circumstances during which I saved a life were much different. I was walking up Dawson Street***** at around 11:30pm and saw a man hunched over at the LUAS****** stop. He was in a monkey suit and drenched in blood. So drenched that I couldn't see a face anywhere-- just his shoes. There was a terrified teenager with him and it was clear the two had just met. The teenager was doing his best to keep the injured man talking, and when I looked over and saw a deep wound through to the man's skull, I knew how grave the situation actually was. No one was really paying attention because Dawson Street is so wild at night. The man, who we thought was named Jerry, reeked of alcohol (not unlike everyone else on Dawson Street) so it was difficult to tell in his concussed state what was due to the massive head injury or being completely pissed/inebriated. The teenager tried calling an ambulance. Some woman with a Kleenex waltzed up to the scene and started patting Jerry's head, which was all well and good but hardly useful. I kind of just stood there for a while, and after fifteen minutes began urging them to move Jerry into a taxi because an ambulance wasn't coming. The woman with the Kleenex smiled and said to me, "You go on home, now. We 'Dubs stick together. He'll be alright." Naturally, this galvanized me all the more and while I may not be a "Dub," I'm a f*cking New Yorker, and we had to take action. If we continued to sit there patting Jerry's head any longer, he was going to bleed out.
   
   I try ringing for an ambulance and the operator tells me "there are none left in the city." Befuddled, I explain the situation again (man on Dawson street, skull clearly visible, blood everywhere) but this didn't really change the response on the other end. I wasn't given any instructions about whether or not to keep a compress on Jerry's head or whatever, so thanks for nothing, Emergency Services. It was clear an ambulance wouldn't be coming, despite the teenager and Kleenex Woman thinking otherwise. You know, for all the stereotypes the Irish hold about Americans, I will say this and I stand by it: an Irish person could be shot in both legs, say, "Ah, it's grand," insisting they could get up and walk. They're stubborn as hell and don't really know what to do in a situation of great urgency.
   
   At this point my boyfriend Dave has joined the party and I begin delegating tasks. Kleenex Woman tries hailing a cab for us, and she isn't very good at that. When I finally manage to hail a taxi, she saunters off (so much for Dubs sticking together). When the driver sees the state of Jerry, whose near-lifeless body we three are carrying shoulder-to-shoulder, he nearly drives off. I offer him an extra 20 quid and he reluctantly accepts. Off we go to St. Vincent's hospital.
   
   In the taxi, Jerry seems to show signs of improvement. While he's still bleeding profusely, the teenager has him talking, which is great. Apparently Jerry works in Agriculture and he thinks this whole shebang is unnecessary. Once we arrive at the hospital it turns out we're at the wrong entrance. The teenager's parents pick him up (at this point you can't really blame him) and Dave and I are left to our own devices. Without any assistance we wheel our new friend Jerry to A&E, and I take note that there are at least four parked ambulances outside. I digress.
   
   My thought was that we'd be good samaritans and simply deposit him there. Surely that would be enough. We checked him in and I explained what happened to the guy behind the pexiglass, who told us to take a seat. Jerry was losing the color in his face very fast, and when the guy behind the pexiglass asked me for details like a DOB and home address, of course I couldn't answer. I began searching Jerry's pocket for clues. He's able to stammer out his date of birth; thankfully the hospital locates him as a previous patient in the system and his name is not Jerry at all, but Larry.******* We're given instruction to sit with Larry until he's called in to be seen. Fabulous. I've heard stories about the notoriety of Dublin hospitals and how long it takes to get seen. For some reason, though, Larry is called within minutes. Dave turns to me and explains this never happens-- it didn't even happen when his best friend's arm shattered/got crushed in an accident-- so Jerry's condition is likely worse than we thought.
   
   We wheel Larry into the E.R. and I take his coat, waist jacket, and personal effect. We check him in again and are told to keep Larry awake beasue the hospital is understaffed. All I can think to do is sing "You are My Sunshine" rather shakily. The nurse returns and sutures his eyelid (she informs us it has nearly fallen off) and does her best to wrap his head like a mummy (think Twilight Zone, Eye of the Beholder). All of a sudden, his heart monitor starts to beep and his face goes completely white. In that moment, Larry was definitely dying. Meanwhile, I'm wondering why in God's name the hospital hasn't called Larry's wife, who is listed as his next-of-kin. He's wearing a wedding band, so I assume they're still married, and if they'e separated, surely she'd want to know this guy she'd once been in a serious relationship with was on death's door, so I take it upon myself to jot down her number.  As Larry lay dying, the nurse asks us to go outside and not to leave the hospital. It's almost 1AM at this point. I'm ringing Larry's wife incessantly...texting her, too. All to no avail. I leave a voicemail explaining who I am, where I found Larry, what happened, and if she isn't connected to Larry please call me back with someone who can help.
   
   Another hour goes by. Dave gets some crisps from the vending machine in an effort to stay awake. I'm sorting through Larry's coat; I see the tux was a rental.
   
   Then, when I least expect it, my phone pings. It's a response from the mysterious wife. "I'm in the hospital with Larry now," she writes. "Thank you so much for your help and God Bless You."
   
   Dave and I exchanged curious glances. We would have seen her walk in. We had all of Larry's personal items. There was no way she was possibly in the hospital with Larry. The plot thickens. We vacillate about what to do. Dave suggests I innocently ask her to come out for a moment to collect Larry's wallet and coat. We don't get a response after that.
   
   At long last, she's actually here. I know it, because she walks in looking totally nonplussed and the sounds of our phones pinging match up. She doesn't go to the check-in desk, and when I wave to her, she summons me and Dave to have a conversation outside. I explain that the situation is very bad, and that Larry could be losing his life. She explains she left the kids at home sleeping (uh, what) and apologises for being late; she thought the whole thing was a joke. I almost want to reprimand her. Why would she think it was a joke? Apparently she thought it was a joke because in my voicemail, I said we took Larry to "A&E." She smiled and said, "You have an American accent, and Americans don't say 'A&E.' They say 'Emergency Room.'" I'm tempted to explain that I've lived in Dublin for years and I find it appalling that this minor detail kept her from fleeing to her dying husband's bedside, but thankfully Dave steps in and says, "Well, had it not been for Brianna..."
   
   His voice trails off. We show her pictures of Larry's injuries and she has no reaction to them. I assume their marriage must be strained in some way and it's all very peculiar. She simply tells us she'll take it from here, that we're very good to have done this, and bids us goodnight. I ask her to text me if Larry lives.
   
   He does. Two days later, I'm shocked to discover that Larry remains in the ICU. His wife texted me; they needed to staple his head and he lost most of his eyelid, but he's alive. She thanks me and offers to reimburse me for cab fare.
   
   I decline.
   

7. Drive in Dublin City. 

   We rented a car during the moving process. Dave isn't a fan of city driving, so we managed to rent an automatic. I drove back and forth, all around the city, without a hitch! Naturally, I managed to make the same error I made several times in the United States...I missed my blind spot and swiped a parked car. Had absolutely nothing to do with driving on the left side, etc. Nope. Just my stupidity.
   

8. Not recognise depression when it was staring me in the face.

   So, I got let go in December, just before Christmas. I spent most days at home applying for jobs like mad, and then when things trickled out, sort of stopped. I watched a lot of television and played games on my phone incessantly. During this time, my prescription for eyeglasses changed twice due to incredible eye strain. After a while, I didn't really have anywhere to go besides therapy and art class, and didn't have much reason to get dressed up for those two things. I figured it was silly to shower, and I ate whatever I had on hand. I was very sleepy (I have chronic fatigue due to fibromaylagia, but I was more tired now than ever before). I began to order croissants for delivery. The bakery was on the corner of my street, but I didn't feel like walking there when delivery was so easy.
   
   We took a weekend trip to my boyfriend's family home, and while I had a good time as usual, after a few hours petting some lambs, I was totally done in. I slept all of Saturday and felt incredibly guilty afterwards. I love my boyfriend's parents, and felt so rude for neglecting their company and seemingly taking advantage of their hospitality. I was just so tired.
   
   I told my mom about how bad I felt for sleeping in that weekend, and it was then she said: "Brianna, this is chronic depression."
   
   I've been depressed all of my life. Anxiety has ruled most of my life, too. However, my depression has never manifested itself in a textbook way. The realisation knocked the wind out of me completely.
   
   

9. Wear academic regalia (cap included) on an inter-continental flight.

   Like most academic institutions around the world, Trinity canceled its commencement activities this year due to COVID-19. I was devastated, but I knew I wasn't alone in this. Nevertheless, I had a miserable experience at the school and the only thing that kept me motivated was the image of myself getting "hooded" on graduation day. Later, Trinity announced there would be no graduation at all (no postponement) and that we were all to receive our degrees in absentia. They bribed us, actually. They sent an e-mail stating if we agreed to be conferred in absentia, they would hold a live-stream on 7 April announcing the names of all graduands. They later revoked this, too. Now, we have nothing. I find this behaviour shameful and downright disgusting. This is the first academic institution I'm aware of to completely ignore/write off its graduating class.
   
   So I creatively took matters into my own hands, as I often do. My family canceled their travel (I couldn't blame them; the whole of Ireland was effectively shut down) and, anticipating we would soon go on lockdown, I took advantage of having two passports and decided to book a trip home so I could at the very least see my mother. I didn't know how long it would be before we would see each other again, and I hadn't gone home for Christmas.
   
   As a surprise, I frantically contacted the gown hiring company that was meant to service my ceremony. An absolute angel of a business manager hastily replied, inviting me to retrieve my gown from their HQ in bumble-fuck Dublin, which was actually super nice of him, all things considered. He was happy enough, and very supportive of me: "Hey, you paid for it-- you deserve to wear it."
   
   I didn't want to deprive my mother of seeing me in the academic dress I worked hard for. So, on the morning of my flight I showered for the first time in days and put makeup on for the first time in weeks. My boyfriend helped me get dressed. I put my gown/stole on and was off to the airport. Had I put the regalia in a garment bag, I would've been charged extra...plus, I had no idea how to take the stole on/off, so I figured I'd sit in hell for six hours until we landed at JFK. I got a lot of weird looks, and also a lot of questions. Surprisingly, none of the questions were from customs officers. Airport staff in both Dublin and New York cheered for me as I walked by and while this was far from graduation, I felt proud as hell.
   
   When my mom met me at the baggage claim, I held my head up high and told her we've been doing things our own way for most of my life and this was no exception. She smiled and laughed with tears in her eyes. We even staged a photoshoot at her house; she wore the outfit she would have worn to my graduation! It was also super cool to wear the exact gown I would've worn to my graduation, had it happened.
   
   I begrudge no university for canceling/postponing its commencement activities for the sake of the safety of its faculty, staff, students and community...but Trinity College, you are an utter disgrace for thinking you can get away with this. Per usual, you've given no thought to the financial and personal investment of your students. By promising a live-stream and lying about it, by not even finding someone to read our names as they enter the register, you've taken the cowardly, easy way out, and you so wonderfully live up to your reputation of having a terrible administration/administrative staff. While I hope to work in higher education again someday as I did at NYU for so long, I have no fear about stating this in my post. If it burns a bridge, so be it. I stand by what I'm saying, and if someone in the TCD community reads this I hope it is seen not as an attack, but a call to action and reform. My department was audited for lack of academic standards after my course director went on leave and never came back. His replacement broke his foot and was gone the entire academic year. All classes with the exception of one were taught by PHD students and planned the week-of; we had no resources by which to guide us during our journey or dissertations. We received no feedback on grades or assignments until long after both semesters had concluded. It is no surprise that one student in my class (aside from me) contemplated suicide; another dropped out and still another begged for tuition back. There were nine of us; over three-quarters were American (higher rate of tuition) and we were all told lies about what to expect. For example, one of my classmates, who had once been an aspiring actor, was told the programme would promise a great mixture of theory and practice. I was told a preeminent scholar of Shakespeare was on staff (they didn't add one until after I graduated, I expect in part due to my complaints). I don't expect recompense; I paid my fee and got the degree, so I can't argue to get anything in return...but I'll be damned if I'm forcefully silenced by Trinity. 

* = Tricyclic compounds were first discovered and popularised in the 1950s. Today, tricyclics aren't as popular. When they are prescribed, they're commonly paired with other drugs to boost their benefits. After the discovery and widespread use of SSRIs, there was a steady decline in tricyclics. They are less safe and account for many of suicidal overdoses worldwide.

** = A&E stands for Accident and Emergency, or the ER as Americans know it. 

*** = Service-users is the friendlier term for "patients" at the hospital. While it was used on most forms and brochures, we were still called "patients" by staff and nurses. 

**** = Howth is a seaside village east of Dublin, known for its stunning views. 

***** = Popular street in the city centre just off the better-known Grafton. Dawson Street has a ton of  cocktail bars and gets pretty wild at night. 
****** = Dublin's light rail system. 
******* = Name has been changed for privacy purposes. 

For the old man on the bus who listened to romantic ballads by Ed Sheeran without any idea how to operate his headphones.

Depression is different for everyone.

Depression finds energy to do the dishes, but not enough to dry them.

Depression forgets to add one last thing on the to do list.

Depression takes a sledgehammer to whatever is left.

Depression grabs the throat. Anxiety wakes in the dark.

Depression has determination, but no gall.

Depression dreams about getting more sleep.

Depression lusts for a threesome with my boyfriend, who only wants to understand.

Depression lives in Spain with the man I planned to marry, and not the one I now hope to.

Depression wonders why Ellen DeGeneres has not absorbed my student loans.

Depression remains unmarried, and does not expect its first child.

Depression would not make a good mother anyway.

Depression tells hypochondria to pay for a gratuitous MRI.

Depression hopes to clear the air, eventually. Perpetually.

Depression passes time by rounding up.

Depression steals the ability to smile.

Depression discovers hiding places deep in the brain.

Depression ransacks a village and spares no one.

Depression knows a toddler's laugh or a newborn lamb can't help you.

Depression crumbles in a hug.

Depression walks three miles to art class.

Depression needs to watch its figure.

Depression eats too much.

Depression gives to charity.

Depression runs out of change.

Depression remembers everyone's name.

Depression works a room but cannot keep a job.

Depression accumulates way too much laundry.

Depression saves up for a future it cannot see.

Depression vows to never leave.

Depression suffers from blindness.

It commits acts of kindness.

Depression chats with the soul.

Depression loses its keys along with its sense of reason.

Depression sets goals and it sets my alarm.

It's Time I Talked About Tisch: a Tribute to Arnie Baskin

Not everyone in Ireland knows about Tisch. What it is, where it is, and so on. There is Tisch, and then there is Tisch. Allow me to explain:

New York University is a private institution of higher learning in the United States. It is often regarded as one of the best and most selective schools in the world. Founded in 1831, NYU is the heart of Greenwich Village (whether the Village likes it or not).  The university has degree-granting campuses all over the world, and rightfully calls itself the [sole] "global network university." 

Tisch School of the Arts, commonly abbreviated as TSOA, opened its doors in 1965. It quickly became synonymous with the burgeoning arts scene in lower Manhattan. Today, its esteemed reputation precedes itself. Tisch affords undergraduates, postgraduates and doctoral students alike the unique opportunity to study a myriad of artistic disciplines in an environment of collaboration, freedom and competition. At Tisch, there are students engaged with every artistic medium virtually thinkable: acting, fine arts, cinema studies, music, dramatic writing, interactive telecommunications. 

I earned a degree from Tisch-- as did Martin Scorcese, Alec Baldwin, Donald Glover, Tony Kushner, Neil Simon, Idina Menzel, Adam Sandler and Rainn Wilson. Tisch boasts some pretty famous names among its ranks. If you broaden that list to include all of the artists, researchers and academics who simply stepped through its doors, you would quickly see how insane it really is. There's hardly a better word to describe the Tisch "effect." It is stupefying. Amazing. Bewildering. It is Danny DeVito in the elevator beside me, leaning against a wall and biting his nails. It is Peter Dinklage chatting with a student in the lobby. It is Pharrell offering a masterclass and serving as our Artist in Residence. 

So, that's Tisch. 

Then, there is Tisch: my alma mater as well as my former employer.  It's crazy-- I turn 27 next week, and collectively, between undergraduate study, part-time work, and later, my first full-time job-- over a quarter of my life was spent at Tisch. I consider the institution part of my identity. I'm sure many Tisch students, staff, faculty and alumni feel the same way. Regardless of whether or not one's Tisch experience is short, long, happy, sad, positive or negative...I am confident that any member of the Tisch community would step forward and say it was formative. 

Of course, there's my measly decade... and then there's half a century. Arnold (Arnie) Baskin, Associate Professor in the Maurice Kanbar Institute of Film & Television, spent much of his adult life at Tisch, though he was never actually a student there. He was a prolific filmmaker and photographer, but he'd never been to film school.  Arnie was always a welcomed presence in my office as well as a major pain in the ass. If I had a dollar for the number of times that man would call my extension because he'd forgotten his own phone number, I would be a very rich woman. He was a "lifer," as they say: tenured, old, and incredibly annoying. To a certain extent, we all felt like we were forced to put up with him-- albeit lovingly. Dotingly. In return, he offered us some great stories (remembrances of playing the drums in Cuba, for example, or chatting to Al Lewis from his hospital bed). 

While I can't speak for my colleagues at the time, I'm fairly sure we all had a deep fondness for Arnie Baskin. However, when I first got hired in 2014, Arnie took an immediate and special liking to the new (and, yes, female) presence on our floor. I was a young woman, willing to teach Arnie his phone number over and over again. We connected instantly. Everyone else had heard his stories, but I hadn't. Everyone else had seen his photos of New York nightlife. I hadn't. Everyone knew he was into salsa. I didn't. So he shared these things with me on the regular. Arnie was incredibly charming, caustically funny and a fantastic spinner of yarns. He was also just plain weird. Each day spent with Arnie was some variation of the same thing: he was deliberately boyish and harmlessly flirtatious. He would wander into our office after teaching a class, sit across from m desk, and tell me that my hair/nails/eyes/dress looked great. He would then ask me to do something that he should have easily been capable of doing himself, like logging into an e-mail account-- but legitimately couldn't do because he never bothered and never cared to learn. The man was a cinematic genius, but he used two fingers to type...slowly. Arnie Baskin cursed like a sailor, yet spoke fluent French. He chatted with our receptionist in French regularly, and his voice was melodious. I absolutely adored that man. He kept on thinking for years that the framed photo I had of my mother was my sister. We'd have that conversation a million times, and he'd show me his collection of New York street "fotos" twice a week. That particular album is publicly available on YouTube, by the way. It is a montage of New York faces (not quite portraits, but moments in time). Barry Manilow plays solemnly in the background. Can it be that it was all so simple then? 

I left Tisch last year on precarious footing. I won't get into it. Nevertheless, I woke up yesterday to several texts and forwarded e-mails from former colleagues and friends, passing along the information that Arnie had died. I totally lost it. I had an old friend visiting from New York. We were meant to be out dancing at a gay nightclub. I wasn't dancing, though I enjoyed watching the drag cabaret. It's something Arnie would have loved. 

My relationship with Arnie was quite intimate. Intimate is a word I choose without hesitation, though I'm cognisant of the fact that any/all of my colleagues in higher education reading this will be quick to take up arms about it. Truth is, Arnie and I  were overfamiliar with one another, but I didn't mind, and he was never unprofessional. He knew his boundaries. He also knew how to read me: if I'd been in an argument with my boyfriend, he could somehow tell before anyone else. He'd say the boyfriend was crazy not to put a ring on my finger, and if he were any younger, he'd do it himself. Arnie always needed me for something, and to be honest, I needed him. He made me feel useful, valued and competent. 

The last memory I have of Arnie is a bit ironic. We were in the copy room. I was scanning his Last Will and Testament. Not an unusual task; not something out of the ordinary for Arnie to ask of me, honestly. I'd already submitted my letter of resignation and was spending most of my nights at home packing for Dublin. He was spinning around in a chair, humming a tune. 

"What will I do without you?" he said, referring to my then-imminent move.

"Well, looking at this," I replied, feeding his chicken-scratch document into the machine, "it seems you'll be dying on me."  

When the job was complete, he hopped out of the chair and rubbed his shoulder (he had a bad shoulder). Without so much as a word, he was already halfway down the hall.

"Love you," I called after him. 

"Love you, too." He never turned back around. He was off to do the next thing. 

He went on a sabbatical shortly before I left, so he wasn't there to bid me goodbye. He occasionally called my cell phone. He'd e-mail: "HOW R U...............? WHERE R U.......AB." I would always reply, and tell him how proud I was that he was typing. I sent a Christmas card to his apartment from Ireland. 

I miss Arnie. I miss Tisch. 

All I could think about last night at the club-- Dublin's only gay club, called the George-- was the interminable Arnie Baskin and my ties to Tisch. What Arnie represented. I said it once, and I'll say it again: I left my job on precarious and uncertain footing. I never felt like I'd closed the book on that chapter of my life properly. The news of Arnie's passing me rattled something deep in my soul that I couldn't shake. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the room was spinning. My heart was thumping and the music dulled. I had my glasses on, but couldn't see anything. I felt the sweat on my forehead. A panic attack. Not my first. I stumbled down the stairs and begged one of the bouncers to open the doors for me. My boyfriend looked scared. The bouncer told my boyfriend no:  "This door is closed." I was gasping for air. I couldn't breathe. I pushed through the bouncer and out into the cold night. The rain on my face gave a great sense of relief. My boyfriend hailed a taxi and I sobbed inconsolably all the way home. 

There's no point to my writing this, really. It isn't a proper homage to a terrific man, but it also isn't a diary entry. This post is what it is-- very much the way I left my New York world: I sensed it coming, but there was no fanfare. It was abrupt. It is over. It is long over. It is now in my head. 

I need to ask about where I can send flowers. Arnie would absolutely hate flowers. 

I'm re-watching a clip of Arnie from a couple of years ago; Tisch was celebrating its fiftieth birthday, and select members of the Tisch community contributed to a montage/video about what the school means--- to the world, and of course, to them. Arnie is wearing one of his striped scarves. He's rambling a little (as he was wont to do). He looks really good. 

"The people who come here have decided not to work in a cubicle in Silicon Valley. I'd say the students here are a minority in the United States." 

He pauses and purses his lips: "A great minority." 

His cameo ends simply. He laments not going to film school: "I wish I had gone to film school at NYU." 

He also says this, smiling not at the camera, but to himself: 

"I think students coming to film school-- coming to NYU, now, is like Hemingway going to Paris in the twenties. It's for dreamers."

SOURCES:
https://vimeo.com/160692612
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1u4_HSrMJtc

Tony Soprano

"Will you marry me?"

Kris bursts out laughing.

I muster a laugh and turn away from the desk. The prolonged wait for pizza continues. It's the third time this week I've ordered a pizza, and the second time I'm turning down a marriage proposal.

"Not without a ring," I finally say.

"You didn't answer my actual question."

"Sure I did."

"Why don't you just go home? To New York, I mean."

I feel a rush of relief when I see a man outside stop his bike and dismount. My pizza. The cardboard box is warm in my hands. The door closes. I am back inside again. Relief at first. The air circles around me. Then it is hard to breathe.

"You know...you know I can't just leave."

I notice I've started trembling a bit, not uncommon recently.

Kris fidgets with batteries and a Phillips head screwdriver. "Yes you can! You can always go home. America is great. You would have your parents and better money. You also have Tony Soprano there."

I'm still hungover from two nights prior, and the Tony Soprano comment strikes me. It brings me back to speed dating in Beggar's Bush a few weeks ago. Moments before the bell chimed, a guy in a bad pair of chinos was telling me how much he adores the Sopranos. At long last, we found common ground. Turns out he hadn't matched with me after all. Oh well. I matched with a totally different guy-- one I had no real conversation with at all (or so I thought). The person in the room I thought liked me least was the one who wanted to see me again. The one whose first question wasn't about New York, but about what brought me here. To Dublin. To this moment.

With the exception of my match, most of the speed daters asked me about New York that night...as if I, Brianna, am myself New York. Normally I'd be flattered. However, I feel that I can't take ownership of my city anymore. New York feels so far away. Maybe because it is. The past is not my home. That shadow of my old home is not my life. If I went back, I cannot go back to memories. 

Dublin and New York are on level playing field at this point, and the realization scares me to this day. 

So, none of this came out in speed dating, but it's time I talked about it: I have always promised to be transparent about my ongoing battle with mental wellness...not for sympathy, and certainly not to attract unwanted attention to myself. It's actually the opposite. I honestly, truly, completely, and unabashedly want to incite rage in others about an epidemic that's being ignored. A global cause that, of late, has been troubling me personally here in Ireland.

Today I had a disturbing phone conversation with a mental health services professional at a leading mental health institution in Ireland. The context? I will tell you. I will be up front about it. I am not afraid. I'm getting admitted. To a hospital. I think.

I've always held the firm belief that anyone who doesn't want to support me or try to accept me can, frankly, fuck off. ...and many people have. Friends. Boyfriends. Strangers. You name it. I am firm in this belief, though sometimes shaky in its execution. I stayed with a boyfriend who refused to bring me to his workplace or introduce me to friends and family for fear I might cause an "episode" because "[who] knows what [your] anxiety and depression is capable of." I felt like a monster. For months, I did my best to push it down. All the ugly parts of me, and the great ones, too. The jaywalker. The girl who cries when she sees a puppy. The person who sings in the dark. The woman who loves passionately and intensely because she has suffered greatly.


For as long as I can remember, I've been a sensitive person. A receptive person. Feeling things so deeply that it is almost cruel. So, when the relationship ended because that man said he wanted someone "normal" with whom he could "talk about the weather," I did not feel relief. Not at first. I felt like I had been punched. Repeatedly.


Who knows what my anxiety and depression are capable of? Do you?


That's what led to this phone conversation earlier. In Ireland, you either keep a stiff upper lip or go to A&E. There's no in-between, really. I had been referred to a mental health hospital nearly three months ago, at first due to suicidal ideation. Though that passed, the need to be admitted grew urgent. I'm running low on my medication. School is over. I quit my job.


It is no secret that mental health services in Ireland are lacking. In the United States my anxiety and depression were well managed: I saw a therapist regularly, and I did this in a community where talking was encouraged. I sought and received the help I needed. I have been in this glorious (and I say that without agenda or sarcasm) Republic for a year now, and I've suffered two nervous breakdowns since arriving. Despite purchasing very expensive private health insurance prior to my arrival, repeated visits to the doctor in Ireland have resulted in little more than "Take a walk around the park. I am sure you will feel better."

I did not feel better, and as I spiralled deeper and deeper into a hole of my own making, it became increasingly difficult to claw myself out. I kept hitting roadblocks. Counselors at Trinity had a six-month waiting list. I would no longer be a matriculating student by the time someone could see me. The school psychiatrist, responsible for the upkeep and dispensation of medication, came in only one day a week and was responsible for servicing the entire student body. I had to wait four months before I could meet her in person for an initial consultation.

In Ireland, you can't see a therapist or psychiatrist without an outside referral from a General Practitioner. I went to numerous GPs, all of whom said the same thing in different ways: there was no need for me to see a psychiatrist if I didn't plan on taking my life within the next 24-48 hours.

I did, ultimately, after a lot of pushing and shoving, get the referral I needed, but the soonest the psychiatrist could see me would be August (this happened in January). The GP was willing to write a prescription for my medication but not forever; my medication is rare in Ireland, and I'd need to see a specialist to get things sorted. Even with private healthcare, I faced a very long uphill climb. Further to my point, in Ireland, psychiatrists don't "follow" you the way they can in other countries. You are assigned to a psychiatrist based on your domicile. Since I live in student housing and have to move out within the next two months, seeing a therapist or psychiatrist would be moot, as I'd have to abandon ship as soon as I get settled in a new neighbourhood.

After a while, there was no faking it: I had a breakdown. I became suicidal. I hadn't been that low since my freshman year of college. I wrote my mom a letter and deleted it, horrified at my own action. I was literally rescued off the floor by the only friend I made in Dublin, and her family took care of me for several weeks. During this period I had stopped speaking, drinking and eating. I lost weight. I was weak. I had no desire to live. Perhaps it was time to go to the hospital, as the doctors said.

The only issue was if we went to the emergency room, I would face an eighteen-hour wait without proper hydration and I'd simply get a referral to a psychiatrist with a waiting list anyway.

At long last, sometime in March, the psychiatrist at Trinity submitted a referral to St. Patrick's, a mental health hospital for folks with private health insurance. I was delighted. Finally, I'd be getting the help I needed. Fast forward another three months and I still haven't been admitted. First, there weren't enough beds. Then, my documentation was lost. After that, I was pressed about the validity of my "preexisting conditions," which I explained had always been apparent, though the real issue at hand was that I had threatened to take my life on multiple occasions in Dublin within a very short timeframe. This made little difference to them. 

In fairness, none of this is the fault of the hospital administrator. It just started getting to a point where I felt like it was all a joke. Protocol was that, in order to be fast-tracked at the hospital, I'd need to stay for two to four weeks. I agreed to that, albeit reluctantly. I quit my job in anticipation of this, and I am in the process of asking for an extension on my thesis. Imagine my surprise, then, when I called the hospital to ask why I still, after five months, hadn't received an invitation for a bed, and they told me my insurance wouldn't cover it because I hadn't lived in Ireland long enough.

"...but I have private healthcare that covers this."

"You need to have it for five years, as well as a preexisting condition on Irish soil, on Irish health insurance for five years."

"I wanted to kill myself," I responded. "Twice. I can't get medication. I can't get it from America, either. I can't get put on my mom's insurance; I'm too old. I can't pay up-front costs..." My voice was cracking.

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said. 

"I...I quit my job. This was my last resort. I was told you had room for me. That I'd be helped. That I would get help."

"Again, I am very sorry. You can apply to the HSE for funding?"

"What would it cost without insurance?"

"27,000 euros for one week, and you would need to wait 42 days to be admitted."  

I began to sob, exasperatedly, clutching the phone with both hands. 

"What am I supposed to do?" I ask the voice on the other end. "Go and kill myself?"

"Unfortunately, some people do." 

As I write this, I'm reminded of none other than Tony Soprano. Gets me every time. Next week, I plan on marching into the hospital with a suitcase and demanding a bed until I am given one. I'm trying to adopt a Soprano-like attitude of fearlessness, but the truth is that I am afraid. I don't feel like a Dubliner, I don't feel like a New Yorker...I don't feel like anything except a nut.

Heavy Heart

Every time I close my eyes, I see it.

It was like he was rifling through the contents of a kitchen drawer, mildly frustrated by years of clutter. One too many measuring tapes, birthday candles, takeaway menus.

Then he pulled her heart out.

"Ah, here it is!"

Heart in hand, he held the organ up to the light. Sun streamed in through the tall, atria-like ceiling. The glass was the type you see in bathrooms or doctors offices for privacy.  Resplendent light shone through beautifully. Peacefully.

Actually, you know what it was like? A greenhouse, but without the plants. Exactly. The Anatomy Room was like a greenhouse, but with a bunch of bodies.

The cadavers seemed both an afterthought and unforgivably present all at the same time. The room was so big, so airy and so... decorated. The school had commissioned an artist to create delicate cardboard mannequins to hang from the ceiling. The figures were made to look as if they were posable, not unlike the jointed figurines painters use. The room was totally silent. I looked at the heart. The figures were suspended in the air, frozen in time and space.

In many ways it was hard to believe the Anatomy Room is steps away from my new office. One tiny door separated me from the world of the living. Beyond the closed door was a hallway. A frequently trafficked hallway. Elite marble floors, normal, innocuous things, such as talk about "the rugby," people standing by the coffee maker, asking each other what's for lunch.

He beckoned me closer. I was very conscious of my hair, lest it touch her.

"How do they...stay like this?" I asked. "You know, all the way until September?"

"They are embalmed. Pickled, if you will." He returned the heart, but put it in the wrong place. We examined all that was in front of us, and it didn't matter whether or not the pieces were put back correctly.

"Funny, someone put the kidney all the way up here!" He yanked out her stomach and put it in her chest.

A tour of the Anatomy Room had just concluded, though the visitors did not see any of the bodies. I stayed behind afterwards, morbid and curious.  The reverent atmosphere no longer existed, and I thought it would be the opposite once the crowd had left. I was genuinely surprised the students were so respectful.  Then again, it's a different crop of kids you get who tour a medical school than any old school.

The flesh that had been cut away was three inches thick at least. The embalming fluid had eroded all traces of color, so the skin reminded me of raw or boiled chicken.

As he stuffed back her spleen, I pointed to a yellow thing with some dots on it.

"Hey, is that the pancreas?"

"Gosh, no, that's down here."

I couldn't even see it, it was so tiny.

It's been almost two years since my grandmother died. I wish he could've taken the pancreas out, but it was attached to something else. I'm still amazed something that small killed her. Pancreatic cancer.
I stood there, thinking, "Well, you want to see a pancreas? Here's your chance!"

Still can't believe I did that.