...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.
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.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."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.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.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.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.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.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.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.