Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Ripples of Grief

My dad died on Monday 1st August 2016. A little after sunrise. Some time between 6.45 and 7.15, we weren't exactly clock watching.

He has been gone now for one month and one week, 38 days.

Tomorrow is my parents wedding anniversay. Would have been.

There is a lake of sadness inside of me that is just sat there. It flooded in and I don't know how to remove it.

I can go down to the shore of it and try to let some of it evaporate, but mostly right now I'm just leaving to do what water does. It's seeping into the cracks of my life finding edges it can smooth away, finding parts that seem solid until they're cracked open and fall apart to reveal a whole new cliff face.

Sometimes something happens and a wave crashes over me, I end up sobbing in a coffee shop . That's okay. These things happen. I wish I had some tissues though.

I've never lost a parent before so this is a new learning curve for me, it's going to take as long as it takes. There is no deadline and no bonus points for getting over it first.

I really miss you Dad.

Saturday, 9 January 2016

My New Resloution

We're already past the first week of 2016 and I don't know where the time's gone!

I love the theory of New Years resloutions, the idea of self improvement and completing a self set goal should be encouraged, but I'm rubbish at sticking to them. So I'm not going to make a resloution this year, but I am going to give myself a mission statement. Which is totally differnet and not just semantics.

2016 - The Year of Taking Advantage of Oppotunities

Not the snappiest of statements, but it's what I want to do. I don't want another week to go by this year where I look back and ask myself what I've done. I want something to show for every week: another page of my book, a photograph I'm proud of, to improve a skill. Hell, I'll be happy if I can put together a new blog post every week.

This is a nice and vague one, so I'm not going to feel like a failure if I don't hit a number on the scale. I want to stop wasting so much time, getting sucked into the tumblr vortex or scrolling through Twitter. I want to put my ideas into practise, not just get addicted to the brain crack I have things that I thought of years ago that I haven't really done anything with because I'm not sure I can do them as well as I'd want to. Which isn't really the point.

This time next year I'd like to have less ideas and more things to show for them, talk less do more.

I own hundreds of pounds worth of excellent photography equipment, if we take into account my computer and software, and the fact I can borrow my dad's stuff with relative ease, then we're probably talking about thousands of pounds of awesome technology I have access to and don't utilise to it's full extent.

I have a job that is really stressful when it's intense but also allows for a lot of downtime, and occassionally the fates align so that my down time is in new and interesting places. Working with an older generation and living with the fact my dad has cancer is making really aware of the fact life is too damn short.

It's too short to waste missing the people you love, it's too short to not try every new thing that comes up, it's too short to not grab opportunities or make them. People become bitter and twisted so quickly, I don't want to be blowing out 40 candles and wondering where my life went. I want to know that the next 40 years will be just as full as the first.

Friday, 7 August 2015

(Not) Dealing With Anxiety

I wish anxiety was more like asthma.

Or I wish anxiety could be treated as easily as asthma. Or maybe I don't know what I'm wishing for and ought to be more careful, I'm not asthmatic, the closest I've had to a chest problem was a nasty of bout fresher's flu that made me wheeze if I went outside and tried to something silly like walk up a slight hill.

But from what I've heard they're sort of similar. Tight chest, no air, a rising sense of panic, brought on by something or nothing.

Asthmatics grab their inhaler, breath a puff of magical steroid filled air and the tightness lifts, they lose the feeling of their chest imploding and exploding all at once.

I know it's probably not that easy, I know asthma kills people. But so does depression and anxiety.

I read somewhere that in the first place cigarettes don't really give you a buzz because of the nicotine, that it's just the slow act of dragging on a cigarette that gives you that feeling of calm and quiet. The nicotine takes ages to build to the point of addiction, you don't start smoking because of nicotine, you start because you're addicted to oxygen and taking five minutes to savour it.

The idea of it though, a cigarette I mean, becomes almost an appealing medication. I don't have an inhaler but maybe the little death stick would have a similar effect? I cloud of mild drugs that push out the anxiety.

I expect what would really help is a decent spliff, but that's a little less socially acceptable during the work day.

So I don't smoke, because I know that's not what I really want. I want some magical cure that I inhale like Inner Peace and when I exhale it drags all the bad thoughts with it. If it exists it's probably just called Deep Breathing Exercises which is far to uninvolved and hippy-esque to feel like a proper help.

I don't drink either, because I trained myself to revere expensive single malt whisky and I figure I should save my money to drink something I really can appreciate rather than waste all my money on alcopops that just get me wasted. It doesn't really help with the anxiety but it does give a totally legitimate excuse not to wonder if the alcohol would help and thus reduces the risks of becoming an alcoholic. When I become a wildly successful something and have money to burn on enough Scotch to get throughly rat arsed regularly at least I'll be able to afford rehab.

I do find melocholia helps in small doses, allowing yourself to wallow and contemplate a variety of self destructive responses gives you at least something close to an aim.

Mostly though I've started just trying accept my anxiety, like a twisted sort of hayfever it's annoying when it strikes but I just have to let it wash over me and hope this wave isn't the one that drowns me.

Saturday, 11 July 2015

Starting Over

My last post was about bad decisions and indecision, finding out that a dream job was in fact no such thing. That was really hard for me to come to terms with, a lot of which was to do with the fact I still thought I'd be good at the job itself and would still have an absolute ball of a time doing it. I had gone into training with the company who have an international reputation as one of the best tour operators for young people, a reputation for a training scheme that was tough but turned out some of the best tour managers in the industry. So to get onto that training scheme and be told I was lying about my dyslexia, being made to feel ashamed of the fact I have a disability and can't do some things, such as write quickly and legibly on a moving coach while sitting next to a rugby player, was so disheartening. If this is what the self-proclaimed best were like, maybe I'd been totally wrong and this industry was not for me.

I left and didn't have a job to go to, cue existential crisis. I'd spent almost a year deciding to train to be a trip manager, the trainers constantly told us how lucky we were to be there, how marvellous the job would be if we could just show we were good enough. I didn't complete training, therefore I wasn't good enough to be counted amoungst the top. My knowledge, my personality, my skillset, my determination. All of them were found wanting, apparently. 

The turning point was realising that being the self-proclaimed best means nothing. Being the best means nothing if you get there by savaging people. I didn't want to work for a company that thought it's training managers telling girls they dressed like sluts was appropriate, I didn't want to work for a company were we were told we had to participate in dangerous and illegal activities. I'd had been totally taken in by the cool kid at the party, the one who smokes and drinks and offers you advice- like telling you how much prettier you'd be if you lost a stone then shows you how to make yourself throw up. I'd wanted so desperately for them to like me I'd allowed their opinion of me to over shadow my own self esteem. So I set to work looking for a new job, one with a company I wanted to invest my time and energy with.

Around the time I was giving up on my determination to only apply for "proper jobs" and fill in that Primark application, I was forwarded an email from a friend who worked as a tour guide for a company I'd heard of but didn't for an instance think I could have worked for. This company cater exclusively to the over 50s and offer high end holidays, certainly none of the student budget friendly options with camping and bed bug ridden hostels which I'd prepared myself for previously.

The advert was for an administrative position on a cruise ship, river cruising on the Rhine for a month while the regular administrator was on holiday. I jumped on it. Even if it was only for a month, it would be experience and it would be a paid work for a month- where I didn't have to impose on my parents. I sent my CV in and got a phone call almost instantly checking that I understood the commitment, I'd be living on the ship, surrounded by passengers and unable to escape. 

Yes, that's all fine. 

I was left on tenterhooks for three days while they waited to see if anybody already on the books wanted the job. No one else came forward so I had a telephone interview and was sent a background check form to fill in and contract to sign.

Within the week I was flying out to Cologne to meet the ship and no real idea of what I'd find when I got there. That was almost a month ago now and I've got the hang of it enough that I think I can add blogging back into the juggling act. 

Joy xx

Wednesday, 8 July 2015

When An Amazing Opportunity Isn't

Last year I was offered the job of my dreams, one that let me travel, meet new people constantly, avoid spending time in an office, talk face to face rather than through computer screens and keyboards. And get paid!

I interviewed for a trainee position with a number of firms and then was overwhelemed by the fact I got to pick and choose which one to go with.

I chose the best. I picked the company that had been around the longest, had the highest turnover, ran the largest number of operations, the noisiest social media presence and had the most to offer in terms of career development and promotion.

I picked the wrong company.

In the first week of training there were some alarm bells ringing, but I shut them out, I knew that the training was designed tough and meant to weed people out, the fact that we were told early on "these are the people who are important, they won't talk to you or acknowledge you but you need to introduce yourselves" seemed like a bullshit test but we jumped through the hoop. We were given instrustruction on how to "safely" perform an illegal action while working, I approached the trainers and the management to express my discomfort about that and was basically told to get over it. I then asked for something in writing from the company saying I must do it and was told they couldn't open themselves up to the risk of liability by putting anything in writing.

We were given very little information beforehand about what training would entail and even once it had started they kept us out of the loop to see what happened. We had to gather information at every place we could concivably bring customers and this was a really easy way for the trainers to keep us in our place and enforce the idea that we knew nothing and were never going to be good enough. At one service station stop a trainee was sent backto count the number of cubicles in the toilets. This was allegedly to make us think like the trip managers we needed to become but again, utter bullshit. I'm talking about a massive company who've been doing this for decades, the only toilet stops they make are preplanned ones at preselected services that are big enough to cope with large coach groups.

You're probably wondering by now why I didn't walk away in that first week or so?

The first week of training took place in a tiny little hard to reach town in Austria. We were kept busy, working from 8am until 6pm in a classroom setting, and lucky if we got to sleep by 1am. We were also constantly told how lucky we were to be there, how many people wished they could be in our shoes and how many people didn't make the cut to get on the training scheme. It got inside your head, being told once you got through training it would be a fantastic family you were joining made you want to be accepted. They kept telling us how like a family the company was and how close everyone was once you were really a part of the company.

My working theory was that actually by the time you were through training, ten weeks of sleep deprivation and being told you weren't good enouh everyday that we'd just all have Stolkholme Syndrome.

There was a lot of writing that needed to be done, talks that needed to be written out and administrative work. I'm dyslexic, I'd disclosed that on my application and talked there about how overcoming my slow handwriting by getting approved to use computeres in exams gave me the opportunity to achieve the results that reflected my ability not my handwriting speed. The lead trainer told me my handwriting was unacceptably scruffy and that I needed to write faster, I said that was physically impossible and was told to do it anyway. I asked if I could use my tablet to make notes electronically which would have been faster and dealt with the issue of legibility, absolutely not in fact he didn't even think it was appropriate I suggested such a thing. I was called a liar and told I was "the type of person who makes up any excuse not to do work", I was made to feel ashamed of having a disability and treated like I was a spoilt princess who wanted special treatment when I asked about it being taken into consideration.

I was asked to leave the training shortly after that conversation. My  first feeling was one of overwheleming relief. I could leave and never have to look at the bullies trainers again. Then the panic set in, I was in a town about an hour outside Rome, Italy and was informed over breakfast that I wouldn't be getting on the coach today, that I could stay at the campsite we were in that night but then I had to be gone. I didn't have enough money to cover a last minute flight back to the UK from Italy at Easter Weekend and I didn't know what I'd do when I was home.

My parents booked me a ticket and I bartered with a taxi driver to get to the airport, then I basically just slept for a week.

Things have picked up since then, but I thought the down swing deserved it's own post and this is quite long enough anyway...

Joy xxx

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