The man lets me through. In a good-natured tone, says he'll check my bag on the way back in. I'm used to the art of slagging now, and enjoy doing it myself on occasion. Always have. One good thing about Ireland is that it gave me a name for something I've been doing habitually (and with great enthusiasm) since I could talk: shitting on people, but with love.
I briefly consider taking a seat on the benches, but my mind wanders...think of all the people who sat on this bench. The germs. They will eat me alive. They will consume me.
So much for radical self-transformation. I thought a week after my breakup I'd be a new woman again. Adventures on my own. Living with myself, for myself. Doing all my readings for class. Cooking food. Cleaning my room every day.
Some might disagree, but in my own way, I'm trying. Not as hard as I should, but I'm out of bed, and to me that is something. I mentioned that to a young woman in group therapy the other day (more to come on that). We were both there for the first time, wondering what the fuck we were doing. I told her: hey, at least we did it. At least we recognized we needed to fix something. Even if we are ill-equipped to fix it.
The truth is, I have not been living. I'm not sure when I stopped living. Depression never goes away, so it's hard to tell. It ebbs and flows, and learning to manage it is tremendously important. I am poor at managing my depression, but fantastic at faking it.
For example, as I write this in the lobby of my dormitory, the chipper receptionist (who also goes by Bri) asks what brought me here. To Ireland. To this room. For a minute, I'm fine. Then it occurs to me that I'm sitting in the lobby of my dormitory. On a Saturday night. While people are out. Having fun.
...and out it comes. Rushed half-sentences. Well, I'm in the dorm because my boyfriend of five years left me a week before we were due to move to Ireland. That was in August. Yeah, he's living in Spain now. No, I'm not doing schoolwork at the moment. I have my laptop because I'm trying to work on a personal blog. I'm not really focusing on school because I'm unhappy. The Course Director left. Three professors resigned. The Chair stepped down. I don't have many friends. The guy I was seeing broke it off last week because I'm too emotional. My parents back in New York are moving out of their house. I have a dog. Hey, do you want to see him? Yeah, I really miss him.
I decide to stop it there.
"That's quite a time you're having," she says affirmatively.
I resist crying. Whenever someone acknowledges I've been through a tunnel of shit, I cry. The impulse is to thank them for understanding. People have been through far worse, and I'm sure in my lifetime I will endure worse. Right now, though, there's no exit. There is no hope. I think it's a level playing field for anyone who suffers, especially when there is no hope and you’re searching fruitlessly and can't find it.
Bri plays some Bryan Adams and offers me the Irish cure for most ailments (particularly depression, which is known colloquially here as "low mood"): chocolate.
Sweet girl.
Anyway, back to the weekend:
If this were Heuston Station (Dublin's second commuter hub), I could pop into Eason's or any number of stores, really, and pass the time eyeing titles of books I'll never read. Connolly Station, on the other hand-- where I am-- is a lot like the Port Authority in New York: it's nothing more than a dirty funnel.
I wander towards a coffee kiosk-- the type that serves pre-wrapped croissants, cigarettes and day-old newspapers. I look up towards the sky and see it won't be long before it starts to lash. What am I doing? I pick at a scab on my hand until it starts to bleed – until I start peeling at the good skin. What am I doing?
I order the hot chocolate and use my debit card to pay for it. Ireland has contactless payment. This means you can tap your card against a machine and a hot chocolate is paid for like magic. Presto! It's a dangerous system, particularly when you're in a shop that's having a sale, for instance. It doesn’t help when the money on that plastic card is basically infinite because it isn't even real money. It's student loans. I don't even think about paying them off. I can barely live in the moment. I'm lucky I can stammer out an order for a hot chocolate.
I'll be a hypocrite if I ask for low fat milk (no such thing as nonfat milk in Ireland... God knows I've tried to find it), especially because I've said yes to marshmallows and cream. I typically don't take whipped cream on anything, but today I've vowed to say "yes" to everything. That rom-com kind of attitude. The Eat Pray Love type thing. This does not bode well. It's going to be a disaster. My life is not a book. My life is not a movie. My life is not anything.
The perky guy behind the counter is obscenely energetic and I want nothing more than to collapse into his arms and weep. This is how I know I'm not myself. If I were myself, I'd probably want to hug him, smack him, or both.
He asks if I want sprinkles, and for a moment I'm taken aback.
"...like on ice cream?" I almost say yes. It sounds like a great idea. Rainbow sprinkles melting into hot chocolate! He smiles broadly. His English is not quite up to par and he places articles where he doesn't have to: "The cinnamon? The noot-ah-meg?"
"...like on ice cream?" I almost say yes. It sounds like a great idea. Rainbow sprinkles melting into hot chocolate! He smiles broadly. His English is not quite up to par and he places articles where he doesn't have to: "The cinnamon? The noot-ah-meg?"
Oh. Nevermind. I smile back with all the effort I can muster and decline.
I'd be miserable working a coffee kiosk at some dirty train station. I invent a whole narrative for the perky guy, and force myself to walk away before I get invested in a story that isn't even real. If only I were this committed to the narrative of my own life.
My next stop is the newsstand. I grab a notebook, as I'm determined to find inspiration today. This time I look for coins in my wallet. I don't use contactless payment because I need to interact with someone. As I search for money, I ask the teenager behind the counter how his day is going.
"Not great." He scratches his head.
"Yeah. Me either."
I'd be miserable working a coffee kiosk at some dirty train station. I invent a whole narrative for the perky guy, and force myself to walk away before I get invested in a story that isn't even real. If only I were this committed to the narrative of my own life.
My next stop is the newsstand. I grab a notebook, as I'm determined to find inspiration today. This time I look for coins in my wallet. I don't use contactless payment because I need to interact with someone. As I search for money, I ask the teenager behind the counter how his day is going.
"Not great." He scratches his head.
"Yeah. Me either."
"Yeah."
There is no reason to stay now. I have my change. The transaction is over. I clear my throat.
There is no reason to stay now. I have my change. The transaction is over. I clear my throat.
"Is there a line behind me? Oh, good, no, I'm just going to put this in my bag..."
"Take your time."
My wallet is back in my bag. I really have to leave.
"Well, I hope your day improves!” I tell him. “Mine most certainly will not."
I get him to smile at least. Is he weirded out by me? Is he intrigued?
I stare intently at the arrivals/departures screen, feigning as much purpose as possible, as if I'd even recognize the names of any of the townships listed there. I keep thinking about how stupid this all is, yet there's also an intense urge to catch an earlier train to anywhere, absolutely anywhere. It's as if my body can't wait long enough to get out, past the city centre and platform 3.
Perhaps I should have gone elsewhere, somewhere I have no connection to. Skerries is where my [now] ex-boyfriend's mother lived; he wanted to take me there, it's "quite peaceful-like." I chose Skerries for my expedition this afternoon, aching for any sense of purpose beyond making it through the moment. I have no connections in this country. Nothing I can call mine. Skerries doesn't belong to me. I shouldn't be going there. It's someone else's special place, imbued with his memories. I'm always hopelessly, mercilessly attached to the life of another. A life that isn't mine to touch, prod, caress or rebuke.
The train is late. Is it a sign I should abort mission? A code red? The alternative is to retreat. To my room.
There are so many people around me. Why must they all crowd together in one massive heap? Surely there's more than one train car. I move down platform 3 and they follow. Children of the Corn type shit.
I am a bottle rocket. I am going to explode. Right here, right now. It's like the sensation of needing to vomit. The sweating. Shaking. Just hold it together until-- when? Until there's an open window? Until the people who aren't going away are gone? En route from Kildare to Dublin last week, my friend's dad drove me to get my antidepressants. They didn't want me staying alone, as I was both emotionally and physically ill. Terrible nausea. I remember holding my head in my hands and clutching the door of the car. Leaning my head against the window. Counting. Telling myself the toilet isn't far. I can hold it in.
I ran for the hills as soon as we got to my dorm, and when I reached the toilet, nothing came out. No vomit at all.
Incidentally, one of the first creative pieces I ever wrote was a poem called "Vomit." My stepfather insists it is his favorite piece of writing. I don't even think I have copy of "Vomit."
If you hadn't guessed, I write this a few days after nearly having an nervous breakdown. Once all major crises were averted (I stopped eating and drinking for five days) my mom messaged me the truth, which is always hard to accept, but it is so, so good:
Back to platform 3: all these people are going to get a seat. We are all capable of boarding a train. Why do I feel this worried? Could they guess it if they looked at me? You know, that I'm so anxious? That I am breaking? Maybe I'll just seem cynical, nearly to the point of being charming. I'm always charming when my heart is about to spill out of my mouth.
Where the fuck is this train? I need a good cry on some cold Irish beach.
I text my [now] ex-boyfriend. It's like cocaine. Not that I've ever tried cocaine. ...but I would imagine that's what it's like. I can't get enough. He needs to be thinking of me. He must. Surely, he must. I need to make him think of me. He can't forget me. I send a text. I pretend to be cheerful. Like I'm living in a world made up of happy coincidences, not orchestrated events:
"As the universe would have it, I find myself in Skerries today for a conference."
A conference. Right. A conference to nowhere, meeting with my fucked up psyche. The one I wish I could kick out of my bed and my room and Dublin and Ireland and the universe all in one shot. I ask if he has a restaurant recommendation for my "limited spare time after the conference." I'm hoping he'll tell me something about his mother, give me a personal anecdote.
After a few minutes, all I get a link. No message. It's a restaurant called Stoop Your Head.
I browse the menu online. Wait, why doesn't he remember that I don't like seafood?
Whatever. At least I have a destination. The train eventually arrives. I hop off at in Skerries and plug Stoop Your Head into my phone. The robotic voice dominates over my music; turn left here, turn right there. In between all this, I search for a good song. I skip songs that have anything to do with love, sadness, hope or happiness. Which is to say I'm skipping pretty much all the music I've got. Even the decent breakup songs are too painful. I guess no music is going to work because I can't bear to feel anything.
Suddenly, something catches my eye. Like a moth to a flame, I follow it.
Maps, however, does not approve.
"Proceed to the route." I turn up a dirt path.
"Proceed to the route." Ascend a hill.
"Proceed to the route." Cross the desolate road for a better view.
I can't really describe what happens next. I’m running now.
In the brilliant Reasons to Stay Alive, which I bought just last week (yes, in case you were wondering, I continue to look for reasons to stay alive and welcome your suggestions, but I've no intent to take my own life. There is a difference between being severely depressed and being suicidal…sometimes, being severely depressed is far worse). Author Matt Haig describes a depressive episode in which he cried in front of his father at the age of twenty-four, staring out his window:
In this case it's just that the whole fucking world has bruised me, it really has, but I am so fucking relieved that something, anything, gave me feeling. Delight. The windmill made me feel something besides darkness.
That's the thing about depression. That's why it's so demonic and terrifying. People often refer to it as an intense sadness. It may be that way for some. For me, the sadness is preceded by an intense black wall of impossibility. I used to describe it as attempting to walk forward in the dark, with my hands outstretched in front of me, bravely, but touching a wall on all sides. There's nowhere to go.
Anyway, the crying doesn't last very long.
Fun fact: I will later come up the same hill but from the opposite direction, and things will all start to make sense. I will have made a circle. For now, though, since I've no idea where I am, I turn back the way I came and onto the main road.
I walked and walked. Petrol stations. My music is turned off. I listen only to cars whoosh by, and the sound of Maps guiding me to Stoop Your Head. Maybe it has a really cool hobbit door or something. I'm pretty short, so will I have to stoop my head?
Oh, and it rains! So hard. It rains. It stops. It rains again. The sun comes out. Skerries is supposed to be a seaside town, and at first I find it unsettling that there is no seaside. ...but Maps will get me there. I walk uphill until without warning, between two houses and two cars, I saw a tiny bit of a blue sparkle. I feel like a kid. I absolutely cannot wait. I debate running through the driveway to see it better, but I keep to maps until the world opens up for me again, and there is nothing but sea.
Next to parts of the Grand Canyon I've seen in Arizona, Skerries is absolutely the most beautiful place I've ever seen. I don't know why. In my mind I compare it to Howth, which is ostensibly quite similar: one long strip, some restaurants, one or two gift shops. Boats docked.
Skerries, though, totally and completely arrests me. It has nothing to do with my former boyfriend. Skerries is a conquest. I see the shoreline go as far as my eye can see, and around a bend. I will reach the end. I see Stoop Your Head in the distance. The rain comes down harder. I reach the door. It's a normal-sized door, not a hobbit door. It swings open. In I go. Like a cowboy into a saloon.
It's funny how some people stare at you when you're alone. Especially when you order a rib eye at a seaside restaurant with a heavy American accent some ten miles from the nearest train station and proceed to eat only the bed of mushroom and onions underneath. Not to mention you take up a whole even though other people are waiting (you know, families, and you're just a single person) because God knows even though families are waiting to be seated you certainly didn't travel all this way to sit at the bar with your back turned to the sea.
I stay at Stoop Your Head as long as possible. Every time I think I'm ready to go, I am both galvanized and paralyzed by the horror of having nowhere to go. That, of course, and the rain.
The universe is fucking with me; the rain starts up again like mad each time I stand.
There's two women beside me chatting away. Whenever I'm in public places-- particularly restaurants-- I can't shut off this seventh sense that enables me to hear other conversations acutely and listen to discussions I'm not part of. I hear them better and more clearly than any conversation I may be participating in.
I assume these two women are friends, though distant friends maybe, as it's the end of January and they are catching up about their Christmas holidays. Woman A dominates the conversation. Almost always, in my estimation, when two women are in a room together, there's an undercurrent of competition. The poison of besting the best. Woman A reaches across the table to give her daughter a french fry.
WOMAN A: "Oh, dear, I nearly forgot you were there, love, sit down. Please, sit down. Stop looking at the sea."
WOMAN A: "Budapest. Have you been? No? Oh, such a pity. Let me show you where we slept."
Woman A reaches in the depths of her bag for a cell phone.
WOMAN B: "Well, I've been to France..."
WOMAN A: "Oh, God, I'd never go to France now. Not the way it is now. You know, the way it is now? Thankfully I went before it got the way it is now. Terrible, really. The way it is now."
WOMAN B: "Sure, sure--"
WOMAN A: "But you know what? All you have is the now."
I absolutely force myself to stop listening. Instead, I engage them in a challenge with my eyes. I look at them, they look at me. I look away. They wonder who this bacteria of a human is. Where did she come from? And without an umbrella? Eventually the women leave.
The last thing I hear is Woman A, with her young child in tow:
The next two diners to sit at the table beside me are a welcomed change. It's a paunchy African woman wearing an ornate headdress, and an elderly Irish man. He's dressed in a tweed blazer. She is his caretaker. I don't assume this. She asserts it. It is almost as if they are talking so I can hear. The old man looks in my direction and I smile. I can't help it. Old men always make me smile. They're like kids.
"Pay attention," she tells him dotingly, hitting his hand softly. "It is not polite to stare."
A comfortable beat passes between them. She shifts her massive weight and looks around for a server.
"I am going back to Africa, soon, you know."
"Oh! Can I come?"
"No. There would be no one to care for you there. But I will be back."
"Do they speak English there?"
"Of course they do. You need to change your perspective."
"Do they have beef in Africa?"
Pinot Grigio arrives. She takes the bottle.
"Can I pour that for you?" she asks him (even though she's already pouring).
There are so many people around me. Why must they all crowd together in one massive heap? Surely there's more than one train car. I move down platform 3 and they follow. Children of the Corn type shit.
I am a bottle rocket. I am going to explode. Right here, right now. It's like the sensation of needing to vomit. The sweating. Shaking. Just hold it together until-- when? Until there's an open window? Until the people who aren't going away are gone? En route from Kildare to Dublin last week, my friend's dad drove me to get my antidepressants. They didn't want me staying alone, as I was both emotionally and physically ill. Terrible nausea. I remember holding my head in my hands and clutching the door of the car. Leaning my head against the window. Counting. Telling myself the toilet isn't far. I can hold it in.
I ran for the hills as soon as we got to my dorm, and when I reached the toilet, nothing came out. No vomit at all.
Incidentally, one of the first creative pieces I ever wrote was a poem called "Vomit." My stepfather insists it is his favorite piece of writing. I don't even think I have copy of "Vomit."
If you hadn't guessed, I write this a few days after nearly having an nervous breakdown. Once all major crises were averted (I stopped eating and drinking for five days) my mom messaged me the truth, which is always hard to accept, but it is so, so good:
I would pat yourself on the back for not being suicidal or having a nervous breakdown. It really could've been a nervous breakdown for many a lesser woman. I continue to believe you are in Ireland for very specific reasons, not the least of which is to discover yourself. The good. The bad. The acceptable. How to live successfully in this little self-made home. I think it's a tough gig but I also think you wouldn't be where you are literally and metaphorically if you weren't up to the challenge.
Back to platform 3: all these people are going to get a seat. We are all capable of boarding a train. Why do I feel this worried? Could they guess it if they looked at me? You know, that I'm so anxious? That I am breaking? Maybe I'll just seem cynical, nearly to the point of being charming. I'm always charming when my heart is about to spill out of my mouth.
Where the fuck is this train? I need a good cry on some cold Irish beach.
I text my [now] ex-boyfriend. It's like cocaine. Not that I've ever tried cocaine. ...but I would imagine that's what it's like. I can't get enough. He needs to be thinking of me. He must. Surely, he must. I need to make him think of me. He can't forget me. I send a text. I pretend to be cheerful. Like I'm living in a world made up of happy coincidences, not orchestrated events:
"As the universe would have it, I find myself in Skerries today for a conference."
A conference. Right. A conference to nowhere, meeting with my fucked up psyche. The one I wish I could kick out of my bed and my room and Dublin and Ireland and the universe all in one shot. I ask if he has a restaurant recommendation for my "limited spare time after the conference." I'm hoping he'll tell me something about his mother, give me a personal anecdote.
After a few minutes, all I get a link. No message. It's a restaurant called Stoop Your Head.
I browse the menu online. Wait, why doesn't he remember that I don't like seafood?
Whatever. At least I have a destination. The train eventually arrives. I hop off at in Skerries and plug Stoop Your Head into my phone. The robotic voice dominates over my music; turn left here, turn right there. In between all this, I search for a good song. I skip songs that have anything to do with love, sadness, hope or happiness. Which is to say I'm skipping pretty much all the music I've got. Even the decent breakup songs are too painful. I guess no music is going to work because I can't bear to feel anything.
Suddenly, something catches my eye. Like a moth to a flame, I follow it.
Maps, however, does not approve.
"Proceed to the route." I turn up a dirt path.
"Proceed to the route." Ascend a hill.
"Proceed to the route." Cross the desolate road for a better view.
I can't really describe what happens next. I’m running now.
In the brilliant Reasons to Stay Alive, which I bought just last week (yes, in case you were wondering, I continue to look for reasons to stay alive and welcome your suggestions, but I've no intent to take my own life. There is a difference between being severely depressed and being suicidal…sometimes, being severely depressed is far worse). Author Matt Haig describes a depressive episode in which he cried in front of his father at the age of twenty-four, staring out his window:
I'm face-to-face with a windmill. I've never seen one before. It is so...novel. Had I killed myself last week, or had I not taken the train and stayed in bed taking sleep aids in the daytime, I wouldn't have seen the windmill today. So came a deluge of tears. There wasn't a soul around to see me, either. Real tears. From the gut. Deep from within, parts of me I didn't think were alive. A gasp-cry. A shudder cry. The kind that doesn't stop; the kind when a mom holds you close to her bosom, smothering your head, telling you it's going to be alright, your cut will soon turn into a bruise and then it will be gone altogether.
I cried. Yet, weirdly, depression didn't make me cry that often, considering how bad it was. I think it was the surreal nature of what I was feeling. The distance. Tears were a kind of language and I felt all language was far away from me. I WAS beneath tears [...] But now, they came. And not normal tears either. Not the kind that start behind the eyes. No. These came from the deep. They seemed to come from my gut, my stomach was trembling so much.
In this case it's just that the whole fucking world has bruised me, it really has, but I am so fucking relieved that something, anything, gave me feeling. Delight. The windmill made me feel something besides darkness.
That's the thing about depression. That's why it's so demonic and terrifying. People often refer to it as an intense sadness. It may be that way for some. For me, the sadness is preceded by an intense black wall of impossibility. I used to describe it as attempting to walk forward in the dark, with my hands outstretched in front of me, bravely, but touching a wall on all sides. There's nowhere to go.
Anyway, the crying doesn't last very long.
Fun fact: I will later come up the same hill but from the opposite direction, and things will all start to make sense. I will have made a circle. For now, though, since I've no idea where I am, I turn back the way I came and onto the main road.
 |
| Windmill in Skerries, Co. Dublin |
I walked and walked. Petrol stations. My music is turned off. I listen only to cars whoosh by, and the sound of Maps guiding me to Stoop Your Head. Maybe it has a really cool hobbit door or something. I'm pretty short, so will I have to stoop my head?
Oh, and it rains! So hard. It rains. It stops. It rains again. The sun comes out. Skerries is supposed to be a seaside town, and at first I find it unsettling that there is no seaside. ...but Maps will get me there. I walk uphill until without warning, between two houses and two cars, I saw a tiny bit of a blue sparkle. I feel like a kid. I absolutely cannot wait. I debate running through the driveway to see it better, but I keep to maps until the world opens up for me again, and there is nothing but sea.
Next to parts of the Grand Canyon I've seen in Arizona, Skerries is absolutely the most beautiful place I've ever seen. I don't know why. In my mind I compare it to Howth, which is ostensibly quite similar: one long strip, some restaurants, one or two gift shops. Boats docked.
Skerries, though, totally and completely arrests me. It has nothing to do with my former boyfriend. Skerries is a conquest. I see the shoreline go as far as my eye can see, and around a bend. I will reach the end. I see Stoop Your Head in the distance. The rain comes down harder. I reach the door. It's a normal-sized door, not a hobbit door. It swings open. In I go. Like a cowboy into a saloon.
It's funny how some people stare at you when you're alone. Especially when you order a rib eye at a seaside restaurant with a heavy American accent some ten miles from the nearest train station and proceed to eat only the bed of mushroom and onions underneath. Not to mention you take up a whole even though other people are waiting (you know, families, and you're just a single person) because God knows even though families are waiting to be seated you certainly didn't travel all this way to sit at the bar with your back turned to the sea.
I stay at Stoop Your Head as long as possible. Every time I think I'm ready to go, I am both galvanized and paralyzed by the horror of having nowhere to go. That, of course, and the rain.
The universe is fucking with me; the rain starts up again like mad each time I stand.
There's two women beside me chatting away. Whenever I'm in public places-- particularly restaurants-- I can't shut off this seventh sense that enables me to hear other conversations acutely and listen to discussions I'm not part of. I hear them better and more clearly than any conversation I may be participating in.
I assume these two women are friends, though distant friends maybe, as it's the end of January and they are catching up about their Christmas holidays. Woman A dominates the conversation. Almost always, in my estimation, when two women are in a room together, there's an undercurrent of competition. The poison of besting the best. Woman A reaches across the table to give her daughter a french fry.
WOMAN A: "Oh, dear, I nearly forgot you were there, love, sit down. Please, sit down. Stop looking at the sea."
WOMAN A: "Budapest. Have you been? No? Oh, such a pity. Let me show you where we slept."
Woman A reaches in the depths of her bag for a cell phone.
WOMAN B: "Well, I've been to France..."
WOMAN A: "Oh, God, I'd never go to France now. Not the way it is now. You know, the way it is now? Thankfully I went before it got the way it is now. Terrible, really. The way it is now."
WOMAN B: "Sure, sure--"
WOMAN A: "But you know what? All you have is the now."
I absolutely force myself to stop listening. Instead, I engage them in a challenge with my eyes. I look at them, they look at me. I look away. They wonder who this bacteria of a human is. Where did she come from? And without an umbrella? Eventually the women leave.
The last thing I hear is Woman A, with her young child in tow:
"Life sure is shit, isn't it?"
The next two diners to sit at the table beside me are a welcomed change. It's a paunchy African woman wearing an ornate headdress, and an elderly Irish man. He's dressed in a tweed blazer. She is his caretaker. I don't assume this. She asserts it. It is almost as if they are talking so I can hear. The old man looks in my direction and I smile. I can't help it. Old men always make me smile. They're like kids.
"Pay attention," she tells him dotingly, hitting his hand softly. "It is not polite to stare."
A comfortable beat passes between them. She shifts her massive weight and looks around for a server.
"I am going back to Africa, soon, you know."
"Oh! Can I come?"
"No. There would be no one to care for you there. But I will be back."
"Do they speak English there?"
"Of course they do. You need to change your perspective."
"Do they have beef in Africa?"
Pinot Grigio arrives. She takes the bottle.
"Can I pour that for you?" she asks him (even though she's already pouring).
"If you wish." He turns to me. "I'm spoiled."
"You deserve it," I tell him. I don't know why, but I'm pretty sure he deserves it. Something tells me he deserves it.
She pours the Pinot Grigio and he laments the colonization of Ireland. She reminds him how the world has changed since he last knew it. She says the reason this restaurant serves haddock, for example, is because of the English. Haddock makes the world a better place.
After a sip, he tells her: "You ought to have a boyfriend."
"If I had a boyfriend now it would distract me from doing my job."
I return to my steak.
When is the right time to leave, really? Leave this restaurant? Leave Skerries? Leave the world?
Not even die, really. Just leave. Kind of like the steak. That's life. I had a bite. It really isn't for me. It's not to my liking. Not my taste.
I'm hoping for a nice moment, an adorable quote from the old man I can exit on and carry in my pocket for the rest of the day. Anything but "Life is shit, isn't it?"
Alas, it doesn't come. I hope they will ask me where I'm from, but they do not. I get up when it was raining and leave. I turn towards the ocean, away from the train station, and walk. I dive into a shop as the rain gets harder. Mill and sieve. Mill and sieve. In and out. In and out.
I reach the actual beach and get my second hot chocolate of the day from an ice scream stand, which to its credit, is in full operation despite it being the middle of winter. A girl and her dad order ice cream sundaes. Power to them. It's a dismal Irish day and the pink facade of the ice cream stand and disco ball in it are both sparks of life against barren wasteland. I clutch the cup for for warmth and proceed down the beach.
I see a lot of amazing things. The first thing, besides the ocean, is an old man swimming. In January. I'm not joking. Bright pink bottoms. Nothing but a towel to dry himself off. No coat. He jokingly asks if I want to join.
I tell him I can't even swim at all. He welcomes me to Ireland and reminds me that swimming is good for your health, but only if you do it in freezing water. I remind him I have to learn to swim first. Then, maybe, I'll work my way up to swimming in deep, cold waters.
I proceed down the line as a determined traveler. It's like The Canterbury Tales. Whose story will I hear next? I soon encounter Rory. He has two dogs, both off leash. He hoists himself over some rocks and looks down towards the ocean.
"Did you drop something?" I ask.
"I'm looking for the rabbits."
I have a brief aside. Remember my favorite book? Of Mice and Men. Tell me about the rabbits.
He explains there are rabbits down by the water. He leaves them carrots every day, and they eat them overnight.
"You probably won't see them now. It's too cold. What brings you to Skerries?"
"Uh, a friend of mine. A friend. Yes. A friend. Used to live here. I'm from New York. Yeah."
I pet the dogs, ask the names of the dogs. I'm on autopilot but by God, I'm trying.
"What brings you to Ireland from New York?"
Immediately, I freak out, as if he touched me inappropriately or something, which he certainly hasn't. The dogs tense and growl.
"New York? How did you know I'm from New York?"
Rory blinks, and stares at me blankly. "...because you just told me."
"Oh, right. Right!"
He brings the dogs in close.
"Well, Brianna, best we be going. Enjoy your time in Skerries."
I watch him down the coastline. Later, I see him paces ahead, the dogs down on the beach playing in the sand. Dogs in Ireland actually fetch, you know. With sticks and everything. Over great distances. It never ceases to amaze me.
My third and final human revelation(s) take the form of two children. On bicycles. What have they to teach me?
Well, initially I'm a bit worried about how far the parents let their youngest, a girl, go ahead. They remind her to avoid obstacles (the obstacle being, naturally, me). Let people pass, they say. She stops her pink bicycle and waits for her brother to catch up. They look out at the sea. I like to imagine they're taking the sea in, questioning the meaning of life, but they're really just waiting for their parents. They are too young to absorb sea, I think. Plus, they see this every day probably. They carry on. I photograph a bench and the reflection of the puddle around it.
After a while I reach the end of the beach. I decide to avoid using Maps to get me back to the train station. What's the worst that can happen? I get lost? My phone has battery...for now There will be a train. Or maybe there won't be. Hey, there was that one time in Waterford with my mom. We missed the last train to Dublin. Caught a bus instead. I'll never forget that. The desperation. Not knowing what to do or how to proceed. It was the day before she was due to leave. We laughed about it as we waited for a bus at sunset. The trip back to Dublin would take three times as long. We lost a great many hours that day. It was the first time my mother admitted she would miss me. She cried. She absolutely cried. I cherished every second of it.
I wish my mom were here to see Skerries. I find myself approaching the windmills again. They are closed for the day, but I enter the grounds anyway. I missed the damn windmills by a half hour. Can you believe that? I stand there anyway, just looking. I'm not sure for how long.
Eventually, I board a train in the opposite direction. Deliberately. Towards Drogheda, wherever that is. Why? The next train to Dublin isn't due for another 36 minutes and I can't bear to stand still for so long. I need to keep moving.
Why am I the way I am? I'm in a new country. Get it together. How can you call this suffering, when some people don't get to travel at all? This is not suffering, Brianna. People are starving. You're just depressed. You're just stupid. And ugly. And yeah, you have back pain. Whatever. A boy left you. Many boys left you. So many. They abandoned you. They decided to forget you because you are not special enough. You don't deserve to be here. At Trinity. In Ireland. You never deserve to be anywhere. Who cares about the friends who don't talk to you anymore? You're better off. Who cares about trauma? Who cares about the constant feeling of needing to vomit? I'm crazy. I am fucking crazy.
I reread my the rest of my mom's text:
Nevertheless, it has been decided: I will never return to Skerries.
This train is older than the previous one. I keep my bags close. We stop at Drogheda. I cross to the other side of the platform to make my way back. A man sits across from me. He studies a script. Practices his lines. He uses the method I was taught in high school. It's a common method, but it brings back fond memories of my acting days: a blank sheet of paper over the block of text, line by line, until you get it right. You can't proceed to the next line until you get the ones before it down perfectly. I see the names "Eddie" and "Beatrice" and know immediately he's working on Arthur Miller.
Hold on. Is this a famous actor? I search "View from the Bridge, Dublin" and get no results on my phone.
It takes the entire train ride for me to work up the courage, but I do it as we're both alighting:
"Are you in A View from the Bridge? Where?"
"It's community theatre."
I tell him I'd like to see it. God bless community theatre. God bless anyone, really, who makes time for that and does something that gives them heart.
He hands me a program. "Are you sure you'd like to see it? We're all very excited for the premiere."
"Sure I will. I promise. Where is it?"
"Oh, it's in Skerries."
Fucking. Skerries. I tell him I will certainly go. My mind drifts to my boyfriend. Well, it doesn't drift, because my boyfriend hasn't left my head at all.
I said I'd come back to this: not three days earlier, before Skerries but after my breakup, I went to my first self-help group therapy meeting where the immediate hopes were, in no particular order:
 |
| A momentary pause. |
After a while I reach the end of the beach. I decide to avoid using Maps to get me back to the train station. What's the worst that can happen? I get lost? My phone has battery...for now There will be a train. Or maybe there won't be. Hey, there was that one time in Waterford with my mom. We missed the last train to Dublin. Caught a bus instead. I'll never forget that. The desperation. Not knowing what to do or how to proceed. It was the day before she was due to leave. We laughed about it as we waited for a bus at sunset. The trip back to Dublin would take three times as long. We lost a great many hours that day. It was the first time my mother admitted she would miss me. She cried. She absolutely cried. I cherished every second of it.
I wish my mom were here to see Skerries. I find myself approaching the windmills again. They are closed for the day, but I enter the grounds anyway. I missed the damn windmills by a half hour. Can you believe that? I stand there anyway, just looking. I'm not sure for how long.
Eventually, I board a train in the opposite direction. Deliberately. Towards Drogheda, wherever that is. Why? The next train to Dublin isn't due for another 36 minutes and I can't bear to stand still for so long. I need to keep moving.
Why am I the way I am? I'm in a new country. Get it together. How can you call this suffering, when some people don't get to travel at all? This is not suffering, Brianna. People are starving. You're just depressed. You're just stupid. And ugly. And yeah, you have back pain. Whatever. A boy left you. Many boys left you. So many. They abandoned you. They decided to forget you because you are not special enough. You don't deserve to be here. At Trinity. In Ireland. You never deserve to be anywhere. Who cares about the friends who don't talk to you anymore? You're better off. Who cares about trauma? Who cares about the constant feeling of needing to vomit? I'm crazy. I am fucking crazy.
I reread my the rest of my mom's text:
You are Brianna Clark, with all the history, not all peaches and cream but not all horrible. You are Brianna Clark, with the history, the emotions and feelings. You are kind, you a re sensitive in the world that bruises you. Build your armor and your shields. You are your mother's daughter. And your mother is her mother's daughter: strong, opinionated, loving, passionate, intense, never knowing when to keep her mouth shut. Women with backbone ten times that of any man in their life. I want you to know that. You are not crazy.I am not crazy.
Nevertheless, it has been decided: I will never return to Skerries.
This train is older than the previous one. I keep my bags close. We stop at Drogheda. I cross to the other side of the platform to make my way back. A man sits across from me. He studies a script. Practices his lines. He uses the method I was taught in high school. It's a common method, but it brings back fond memories of my acting days: a blank sheet of paper over the block of text, line by line, until you get it right. You can't proceed to the next line until you get the ones before it down perfectly. I see the names "Eddie" and "Beatrice" and know immediately he's working on Arthur Miller.
Hold on. Is this a famous actor? I search "View from the Bridge, Dublin" and get no results on my phone.
It takes the entire train ride for me to work up the courage, but I do it as we're both alighting:
"Are you in A View from the Bridge? Where?"
"It's community theatre."
I tell him I'd like to see it. God bless community theatre. God bless anyone, really, who makes time for that and does something that gives them heart.
He hands me a program. "Are you sure you'd like to see it? We're all very excited for the premiere."
"Sure I will. I promise. Where is it?"
"Oh, it's in Skerries."
Fucking. Skerries. I tell him I will certainly go. My mind drifts to my boyfriend. Well, it doesn't drift, because my boyfriend hasn't left my head at all.
I said I'd come back to this: not three days earlier, before Skerries but after my breakup, I went to my first self-help group therapy meeting where the immediate hopes were, in no particular order:
- a) to not die by my own hand
- b) stop stalking my ex
- c) stop thinking about my ex
It was like AA, but for all sorts of fucked up people. I gave a fake name at the door, not for embarrassment, but because I happen to volunteer for the program I'm about to engage in. As a mentor. I am a joke. I mean, seriously. You have to admit in a twisted way that it's funny. I later tell them my real name. When I decide to speak. When I speak, I weep again. And again. And again.
The volunteer coordinator just looks at me, as if she can't fathom what just happened. "You were early. We chatted. I never would have guessed you were dealing with this."
You'd think I told her I just learned I have a terminal illness.
"There's just a lot going on," I stay between hiccups.
That's always my default answer. A lot going on. I say this to people who ask me how I'm doing. People who ask me why I'm crying for no reason. Store clerks as I try on a bra in the fitting room and they mention how I look a lot like their daughter, who has always wanted to go to New York.
"Why are you crying?"
"Oh, just a lot going on."
The bathrooms in this facility-- the place where the pseudo-self-help-AA-esque meeting is held-- don't have mirrors. Before, I admired the Georgian crown moulding (mainly to keep in the tears), but now I'm reminded that I'm in a place where people generally want to hurt themselves. It's comforting to be around people who are also hurting, but it isn't enough for me.
I walk home in the cold. It's a long walk, but I have nowhere to be.
I bet you thought this post would end happily. Guess what? It took hours to write, and it doesn't. I bet you also thought this blog would be about Ireland. Yeah, me too. Well, it sort of is. It's about me in Ireland. I leave you with a few more words from Matt Haig. These words added to my reasons for staying alive this week:
My mom and I chanced upon this picture when we were cleaning out her basement when I was home for Christmas last month. I'm no older than five. I'm running towards the camera beside a school bus from which I was clearly just released. My eyes are closed and I am smiling. I've probably never even heard the word depression. I'm wearing pink mittens and my arms are outstretched. Wide. I am running to embrace someone. Something.
In the basement, sitting on a plastic crate, I asked my mother if she remembered the circumstances of the picture. Who was I running toward?
She pondered for a moment.
"You weren't running towards anyone. You wanted to hug the wind."
I framed the photo. Mom asked why I wanted to take it back to Ireland with me. I told her just so I could be reminded. Just so I could remember.
I look at that picture now and want to tell that cherubic little girl something very, very important: I want to warn her that things are going to be very, very hard. Her heart will hurt a lot. She will get tested again. And again. And again.
...but one day, many years from now, she will see a windmill, and she will run towards it.
The volunteer coordinator just looks at me, as if she can't fathom what just happened. "You were early. We chatted. I never would have guessed you were dealing with this."
You'd think I told her I just learned I have a terminal illness.
"There's just a lot going on," I stay between hiccups.
That's always my default answer. A lot going on. I say this to people who ask me how I'm doing. People who ask me why I'm crying for no reason. Store clerks as I try on a bra in the fitting room and they mention how I look a lot like their daughter, who has always wanted to go to New York.
"Why are you crying?"
"Oh, just a lot going on."
The bathrooms in this facility-- the place where the pseudo-self-help-AA-esque meeting is held-- don't have mirrors. Before, I admired the Georgian crown moulding (mainly to keep in the tears), but now I'm reminded that I'm in a place where people generally want to hurt themselves. It's comforting to be around people who are also hurting, but it isn't enough for me.
I walk home in the cold. It's a long walk, but I have nowhere to be.
I bet you thought this post would end happily. Guess what? It took hours to write, and it doesn't. I bet you also thought this blog would be about Ireland. Yeah, me too. Well, it sort of is. It's about me in Ireland. I leave you with a few more words from Matt Haig. These words added to my reasons for staying alive this week:
Now, listen. If you have ever believe a depressive wants to be happy, you are wrong. They could not care less about the luxury of happiness. They just want to feel an absence of pain. To escape a mind on fire, where thoughts blaze and smoke like possessions lost to arson. [...] When you are at your lowest ebb, you imagine-- wrongly -- that no one in the world has felt so bad. I could not cope with relentless self-torment anymore [...] the sheer exhaustion of never being able to find mental comfort. Of every positive thought reaching a cul-de-sac before it starts. Well, let me tell you something. Something that sounds blind and drippy to the untrained eye, but which -- I assure you-- is something I believe entirely.
Love saved me.I'm back in my room now, looking at a picture of myself when I was a child. The frame was meant to hold a picture of me and my boyfriend, but there isn't a need for that anymore. His picture is hidden behind a few books that I will likely never read. Maybe his face will reappear again. Probably not.
My mom and I chanced upon this picture when we were cleaning out her basement when I was home for Christmas last month. I'm no older than five. I'm running towards the camera beside a school bus from which I was clearly just released. My eyes are closed and I am smiling. I've probably never even heard the word depression. I'm wearing pink mittens and my arms are outstretched. Wide. I am running to embrace someone. Something.
In the basement, sitting on a plastic crate, I asked my mother if she remembered the circumstances of the picture. Who was I running toward?
She pondered for a moment.
"You weren't running towards anyone. You wanted to hug the wind."
I framed the photo. Mom asked why I wanted to take it back to Ireland with me. I told her just so I could be reminded. Just so I could remember.
I look at that picture now and want to tell that cherubic little girl something very, very important: I want to warn her that things are going to be very, very hard. Her heart will hurt a lot. She will get tested again. And again. And again.
...but one day, many years from now, she will see a windmill, and she will run towards it.
