Tag: strength

To smell the flowers

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It’s been a funny few months. I say ‘funny’, but I don’t mean ‘haha’ funny. More like a peculiar, confusing funny. The ‘I’ll laugh otherwise I’d cry’ kind of funny, although I’ve still admittedly shed quite the volume of tears over the past few months (though some that know me would say this isn’t necessarily unusual for me). The point is, I’ve run the gamut of emotions in a condensed amount of time, and it’s left me feeling really weird lately. An emotion I can’t quite pinpoint. How annoying. 

It’s been understandably difficult dealing with my husband’s evolving medical issues, though I can say after more than 6 years of relentless, terrifying situations, I genuinely feel like we face these issues with much more pragmatic attitudes than ever before. It never stops being terrifying and emotional, but I’m immensely proud of the way we’ve faced recent events and pushed ahead with logic. Though we’d give anything (literally anything!) not to have to deal with this crap, in a twisted way, I’m grateful that we, as individuals and as a pair, have become better versions of ourselves off the back of what we’ve experienced. Just the fact that I can type this now shows that I’ve grown a lot as a person – that I can take a step back from the chaos and analyse it logically. And better yet, that I can admit that there’s any glimmer of a silver lining in the shitty cards we’ve been dealt in life shows how far I’ve come. Every cloud, eh?

As a quick update for those following this insane medical journey: we’ve found a private neurologist in the last few months who my husband describes as ‘the best doctor’ he’s ever had. And considering his medical history, you can be damn sure he’s seen plenty, so this judgment points to good things. The doctor treats us like human beings (gasp!), has a sensible approach to health backed by science (not always a guarantee these days) and genuinely seems to want to help. This is the first time we’ve not felt like lepers in a doctor’s office. It’s still early days in my husband’s current treatment, but we’ve got a course of action… and then several other courses of action planned should the first one not pan out. So in short: we’re happy and optimistic – something we weren’t feeling at the start of the year. Fingers crossed the trajectory continues this way.

Whilst all this was going on in the background, as is usual fashion for me, a tornado was wreaking havoc in other parts of my life too. I’m still waiting for the reality TV crew to jump out from their hiding spots, but until then…

The company I work for went through some major internal structural changes recently that left my entire team facing redundancy. It happened very quickly – we were told our roles were being made redundant, proposed new positions were explained, those who wanted to stay had to interview for these very few new open roles, then we were told if we were successful or if we were out the door. All within 30 days. As you can imagine, this was incredibly stressful and emotional. I went through every stage of grief, no lie, and I for sure had severe moments of ‘why now, why me?!’. Nevertheless, I pushed through the best I could, and I attribute that both to the strength I’ve found in past life experiences, as well as to the people who helped prop me up and cheer me on throughout the process. Though I’m grateful I landed a new role at the company I love so much, I’m simultaneously grieving the loss of many fabulous colleagues and friends. It’s a complicated time, gang.

I went on a much-needed holiday, then came home and immediately fell very ill for a very long time. I faced conflicts with people I love. I made distant future plans knowing life could change by then. I went to the doctor for myself – twice! I’ve been let down. I’ve been surprised. I’ve been socially awkward and shockingly social.

These last few months have forced me to think about my own wants and needs much more critically, and to make very hard decisions quickly. I’m not a fan of making quick decisions on a normal day, so it’s been particularly difficult of late. I’ve had way too many anxiety attacks to count, but whilst they’ve been frequent, they’ve been brief. I’m slowly learning how to regularly claw my way out of these moments (with obvious external help from those around during an episode – thank you!), and so I say again: every cloud.

I’ve made regular use of the ‘block’, ‘unfriend’ and ‘hide’ functions on social media platforms, protecting myself from toxic people who trigger me. I thought this would be hard to do – I don’t like the aggressive feeling of doing this – but I can honestly say that it’s helped me so much more than I could’ve expected. I’ve also made use of the word ‘no’. Little miss ‘too-afraid-to-disappoint-people’ and ‘gives-everyone-10-billion-second-chances’ has given firm nos to negative influences who’ve tried to reach out. Who am I?! I won’t say this was easy to do in the moment, but after doing it once and realising I was better off for it, I find myself becoming much more comfortable looking after myself and not feeling guilty for doing it. Guess this is growing up, ya’ll!

I don’t think I’m feeling optimistic or particularly positive, but the main thing is that I’m trying to. It’s taken me many, many years, but I now feel like it’s okay to put myself first. This doesn’t mean that I care less about anyone else, but rather I care so much that I want to ensure I’m putting the best version of myself forward first. Not the tired, broken down version I previously offered. I’m not saying I’m killing the game over here – I still have bad days where I just can’t get a grip on my anxiety and collapse into a ball of erratic, irrational emotions. But I can say I don’t feel like a failure on these days anymore. I am allowed to feel broken. I am allowed to be angry and resentful about the cards I’ve been dealt. I’m allowed to have ‘woe is me’ days. But above all this, I know I’m allowed to be happy and continue to seek happiness. I’m allowed to change my mind and my mood. I’m allowed to be! It’s crazy that I’m only just now coming to this realisation, but I’m very glad I did.

And now, I think I’ll take some time to stop and smell the flowers. It’s a crazy life, folks. But there’s always a little beauty to see. You just gotta know where to look for it.

We all march on…

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I’m just going to slide into this blog post acting as if it’s only been a blip in time since I’ve last posted. It’s okay to start this one out on a lie, yeah? Great, glad we’re in agreement there. Moving swiftly along…

Hi buds! Can you believe it’s 2019 already? I can’t! OK, great. Chit chat – done!

Life sucks. Pardon the melodrama here, but honestly it’s become such a drag lately I genuinely feel like all I ever do is whine and complain and I hate it. I’ve wanted to write about it for so long, but I felt like if I did, I’m just painting myself as this world-class complainer who can never see the good side in life. I don’t want to be that person in the slightest, so instead, I just shut up. But that doesn’t help me emotionally, and it certainly doesn’t help anyone else who cares about me and wants to help. So despite still having reservations about writing this post, here I am. Doing it anyway! *insert awkward grimacing face here*

The last you heard from me, I was talking about my husband’s vitamin deficiency. Plot twist! Turns out, that was never the problem. Also turns out, nobody knows what is the problem. Sound familiar? We’ve done this song and dance so many times, it’s almost weirdly expected now. We’ve been in and out of the hospital the last six months – the emergency department a few times – test after test, waiting for someone to find a lead and bring us closer to an answer to the problem. I’ve been having flashbacks to the time we had to do all this before his CRPS diagnosis, and it is honestly heart-wrenching (and unbearable) remembering it took years of suffering before a doctor diagnosed him. Can I handle that again? Can he? And even now, not all doctors agree that he does, in fact, have CRPS. Every doctor seems to have a differing opinion, but I guess that’s just the nature of a syndrome, eh? In any case, this was never a place I expected us to be back in… ever, let alone this soon after having just rode this crazy train to CRPS land. I want off the damn train.

Every day at work, someone asks me how I’m doing. It’s a natural, casual question, not intended to be loaded in any way. For the last six months, my answer has literally been the same no matter who asks: I’m tired. I keep joking that exhaustion is now just a part of my overall personality, but in my head I do kind of feel like it has overcome me as a person and I’m incapable of being or acting any other way. It’s exhausting being this exhausted! I find myself digging back through my photo archives, reminiscing about years before, wishing I hadn’t taken such a carefree life for granted now that I’ve learned how overwhelming it’d all become. Then the guilt strikes, hard, in waves, and I’m chastising myself for being so negative. My thought patterns are wildly unpredictable, and I can’t even keep up with myself most days. So, I keep it simple when people ask. I’m just tired, and leave it at that.

I’ve mentioned before that I often approach a new year by reflecting on the one that’s just gone, to shed myself of those feelings to begin anew each year. Most of 2018 wasn’t all too bad. Health-wise, my husband wasn’t great the majority of the year, but it had become our new normal and we were just living with it. I felt lonely and isolated a lot, but lacked the motivation to do anything about it. But toward the end of the year, the feelings of pride I had for handling the difficult life the universe crafted for me with grace were quickly replaced with intense fear, uncertainty and crippling anxiety. As his health degraded and new symptoms were emerging, we were absolutely gripped by what was happening. I more or less blacked out from September onward, unable to think of much else apart from his health and what I could or should do to help fix it. Every moment of my time was spent worrying about him, whether he was around me or not. Not only did the new symptoms present more problems going about our ‘normal’ lives, but they seemingly made previous, regular symptoms worse.

But when Christmas finally rolled around, he was starting to feel a little better, and since medical tests hadn’t found anything still, we thought maybe we were in the clear. A fluke, surely. He got back to feeling more positive, laced up his running shoes and stared his pain condition directly in its non-existent face; running each weekend brought him pain, but also joy. The thing that he loved most before the nerve condition turned up uninvited. He was doing it again (!!), slowly and very carefully, but I could see his pure joy and god, how fulfilling that is to witness. Short lived, of course. Isn’t it always?

A few months later, the symptoms were back: extreme dizziness, blurry and/or double vision, intensified pain, localised unintentional muscle contractions, insomnia. A change in diet had improved his gastro symptoms, but nothing else. Blood tests still revealed no abnormalities. I think I took it hardest at first. I felt foolish and naive – how dare I think the issue resolved itself overnight? Haven’t I learned anything in this journey so far? How could I let him down by not being the pragmatic one? I was livid. At myself, at this mystery illness, at the universe. Why couldn’t I help him? It all feels so unfair and I can’t understand why we don’t deserve a break. It’s hard. Every day I’m fighting my own emotions, it’s no wonder I’m this exhausted.

My resolution this year was to be more sociable and make more friends. One thing that makes dealing with my life so difficult lately is that I genuinely do not have friends to help me escape – my mind, the situation, my life (sometimes). Especially in my new country. I don’t mean that to be cruel or dramatic or insensitive to the people who are in my life, but to be completely honest, I do not have anyone who regularly checks in on me without me having to prompt it first. Maybe this is my fault. I can be very closed off and I’ve often backed out of plans with others (because, this life), so I can totally see how I’ve made myself unapproachable in general. Nevertheless, it is hard seeing my husband’s phone light up with messages from friends and colleagues simply checking in, asking if he wants to grab a drink, shoot the breeze – all because they want to. He’s got friends fairly regularly asking him to do things and he’s the one with the disability, but I’ve often been sat at home alone waiting for him to return (and worrying if he’s okay). Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled my husband has people in his life like this. It relieves some of the burden and guilt I feel when I think I’m not being or doing enough for him. But still, I’m jealous. I wish I had people who wanted to take my mind off the things troubling me most! And boy, is it hard to make friends as an adult. In any case, I decided I didn’t like feeling so lonely and pathetic, so that’s why I endeavoured to put myself out there more often – social anxiety be damned!

It’s slow going, I’ll admit. I’m still resentful that I’ve seemingly been unable to pick people to stay in my life of their own volition. I can’t help but feel like there must be something wrong with me for people to forget about me so easily or treat me unkindly. I still struggle to shake this ‘woe is me’ feeling I have so often. But! I’ve started to make new friends. People who have so far been kind enough to reach out on their own accord and invite me to do things, ask me how things are, assure me they’re there to talk or not talk – whatever I want or need at any time. I am apprehensive, at best. I want to trust that opening up to new people will bring in new friendships I crave, but I’m also afraid I’ll lose them just as quickly. My life is so unique to the average 20-something, and I’m hyper aware that none of these people may understand the life of a caregiver. Because that’s what I am, really. But I am still trying and being more social and slowly opening up to new people. It is likely I’ll get hurt. I know this – such is life. But if there’s even a small chance that one of these wonderful new people in my life will stick around, then it makes it all worth it. We need people. And I need people to help remind me that I’m still young and have a whole, exciting life ahead of me. To remind me that I am more than this situation. That my personality isn’t ‘tired’. That I’m someone who needs care and attention too, sometimes. I very often forget this down in the muck that is this medical nightmare. So to those of you reading this who’ve been so kind and understanding toward me – even without knowing my whole story yet – I thank you. You have no idea how huge of an impact you’ve already had on my life, and moreover, I hope you stay.

This isn’t an easy life. I’ve never foolishly believed it would be, but I never could’ve guessed I would experience such trauma in such a short span of time. Word on the street is that I’m strong and resilient, but I almost never feel this way. I’m proud of myself for sticking my neck out when I’ve been in need, though. This is something I’ve never been known to do or particularly good at, but I’m finding life a little easier to handle knowing I’ve got a bit of extra help on the outside. Even if that help simply comes in the form of a smiling face willing to take me away from my own thoughts for a bit. Every little bit helps.

So I end this post with one request: always be kind. And when you’re feeling least like wanting to be kind, be even kinder. You never know who is so desperately relying on your kindness just to get through the day.

Go as long as you can, and then take another step.

Keep rolling under the stars

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Hi buds! This sure has become a pattern for me, huh? Dripping life updates at a glacial pace. I always apologise or throw up an excuse for why it’s taken me so long to post something new, but really I’m not all that sorry and I don’t have an ‘excuse’. I post when I feel ready to a) share and b) delve into the emotional complexities of the situations I’ve been going through. And at the end of the day, this blog is for me, mostly, and you just get the pleasure of coming along for the ride. So I say: you’re welcome. And also thanks for taking the journey with me. Coming to a cinema near you! Not really, but wouldn’t it sell!?

Truth be told, I’ve been plodding along rather contentedly the last few months. But today is World Mental Health Day, and I’ve been inspired by my colleagues who’ve taken time out of their days to share personal stories of struggle, with tips on how they’ve overcome them. I’ve been exceptionally reserved and introverted at work, keeping all personal details about my life to myself for various reasons. Mainly, I found it incredibly difficult dealing with the day-to-day once my colleagues at my previous job knew about the struggles I was facing. Though they all meant well and logically I was fully aware of this (even in the moment), it became far too painful enduring very personal questions, often uninvited. Once I opened up, it’s like I couldn’t keep anything to myself anymore. My story and my struggle were no longer mine alone, and everyone always wanted to know what was happening. When I left and began my new job, I vowed not to let this happen again, and reasoned the best way to avoid personal discomfort was to shut up and keep to myself. I think I’ve done quite well, though I’m not sure it’s really been as beneficial as I thought. I work with amazing people (hi colleagues!), and I do feel guilty quite often for not letting any of them in.

I genuinely believe talking about things out loud helps make even the scariest of scenarios seem a little bit less daunting. But I’ll tell ya from experience – it sure isn’t easy to start. A constant ripping-off-the-bandage feeling, most often accompanied by unwanted tears. We’re always embarrassed by our tears… why is that?

Anyway. Life. What’s happening? How am I? Well, as I said, I’ve been relatively fine considering most things. I want to attribute this to growth: learning how to better cope, how to respond to my own reactions, talking to people when I need guidance. I realise that I’ve not actually been better, but the improvement in my response and recognition hasn’t gone unnoticed. For example, just the other night I had a panic attack. These are not uncommon for me, and they’re really horrific to experience. I liken it to feeling as if you’re drowning, in quicksand, being fully lucid yet paralysed, in -100 degree chill. It’s awful. But this time, I felt the panic attack coming on, was able to tell my husband just before and he helped me get through it; talking to me, insisting I try drinking water, rubbing my back. Within minutes, I had regained control and was out of the panic attack. It’s the quickest I’ve ever done it, and to me that feels like progress. I’m still the same person, but maybe a better version of myself. It’s taken awhile to get here, though, and a whole lotta courage.

And it’s never really done.

Things have been especially tough for, gosh, an entire year now. My husband’s seemingly ever-evolving medical issues have more or less called the shots on the daily. However he feels is how the day goes. On bad pain days, which are most days now, all responsibilities fall on me. I know he absolutely does not mean for it to burden me and I know it kills him to ask me to do something like get him a glass of water because he simply can’t bear to stand up, and I hate he subsequently experiences two kinds of pain from these situations, but it has been hard for me. I’ve had to literally learn how to cook edible meals or force us both to starve on days he can’t cook. I’ve had to run across the city at the last minute because he needed me for emotional support during a flare up. I had to paint almost the entire flat by myself because he couldn’t muster more than near 10 minutes on his feet. I’ve had to abandon family events to get him home and back in a comfortable space. I’ve become a human WebMD. I’ve been forced to become physically stronger so I’m able to push a man twice my size in a wheelchair. If I’m ill, but he needs me, he comes first without hesitation. I’ve had to watch the love of my life continually suffer, unable to take away his pain. Still. I’m honestly still so exhausted every minute of my life, but I do all of this and more because I want to. Because that’s what love is about: being partners, and helping each other when needed. I do not resent him or blame him for any of this, and he knows that, but he also knows it weighs on me. We do what we can for each other, when we can.

Recently, we’ve learned he’s vitamin deficient, which has caused severe bouts of dizziness and too-many-to-count near-collapses. This deficiency has appeared to cause even more problems with his nerve condition, though doctors haven’t medically linked the two yet. We’ve become so astute to his symptoms, we can’t help but notice the parallels of pain flares and dizzy spells. We wonder how long he’s been so deficient? Was he always? Is this something we missed that could’ve prevented further damage had we realised sooner? Is this why the spinal cord stimulator hasn’t been helping? It’s impossible not to wonder these things, but completely fruitless at the same time. We know this. Yet we still wonder. It keeps me up at night now, despite already having issues with insomnia.

Dealing with this has never gotten any easier. I’ve just gotten better at it. I’ve stopped allowing myself to feel like I’m missing out on something by staying home with him because I want to stay home with him. I don’t get upset when he has to tap out of an activity quickly and asks me to step in because I expect this now. Well, I’ll be honest, some days I do still get upset because it gets hard ya know? But I’m so much better now.  We didn’t choose this life. We didn’t ask for it. We don’t want it. But it’s the life we have. We’re doing our best to make it work for us.

I can say today, with the utmost pride, that my husband has actually been an inspiration to me, despite what he may think sometimes. One day not too long ago, he announced to me that he was done feeling sorry for himself and letting his nerve condition determine his life. And that was it. Though it very obviously still does make most of our decisions for us, he no longer gives CRPS power over him. It’s amazing. He’s gotten so much better at acknowledging the pain, adjusting his actions, and getting on with things. He still wants to go for walks with me even though I know it causes him a great deal of pain. He doesn’t want to miss out on things he genuinely wants to do, and though it took us more than 5 years to get to where we are now mentally and emotionally, I am constantly in awe we’re managing it. He’s excelling at work and still makes it into the office every single day, even though he has to get a cab to and from. He’ll text me in the middle of the work day saying he’s in so much pain he wants to throw up, then after a quick pep talk gets right back to work and never gives up. If you want to know strength, you should meet my husband. He doesn’t make it look easy, but he makes it look achievable in impossible situations. I admire him more than he realises. I aspire to be this strong.

My biggest struggle of late is not being as honest as I can be about my issues with people who care about me. I don’t let anyone in because I find it hard to make them understand what I’m going through. They don’t understand how severe it is. They don’t see it. And as a result, I get angry and incredulous and stubbornly decide I’m done sharing with everybody because they just don’t get it so what’s the point? And when anyone seriously asks me about my husband and how he’s doing, I get emotional every single time. I can’t help it, and I hate it so much that that also prevents me from sharing. But the catharsis can help. I endeavour to try to be more open for my own sake. It won’t happen over night, but if I can claw my way out of a panic attack, then there’s hope for me yet.

There’s hope for all of us, really. We’ve just gotta believe it ourselves.

When you recognise that you will thrive not in spite of your losses and sorrows, but because of them, that you would not have chosen the things that happened in your life, but you are grateful for them, that you will hold the empty bowls eternally in your hands, but you also have the capacity to fill them? The word for that is healing.

Thicker than water

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Some people survive and talk about it. Some people survive and go silent. Some people survive and create. Everyone deals with unimaginable pain in their own way, and everyone is entitled to that – without judgement. So the next time you look at someone’s life covetously, remember: you may not want to endure what they are enduring right now, at this moment, whilst they sit so quietly before you looking like a calm ocean on a sunny day. Remember how vast the ocean’s boundaries are. Whilst somewhere the water is calm, in another place in the very same ocean, there is a colossal storm.

This year has been simultaneously remarkable and harrowing. I always refer to my life as a rollercoaster because that’s how it’s often felt with the ups and downs and the loopty-loops. It still really does. And now as I sit here halfway through 2017, I’m quite thunderstruck just absorbing the fact that half of this year has already passed. Time is slipping through my fingertips at a rather alarming rate. Some days, it’s unsettling. Others, I’m grateful for it. Life is a balance, isn’t it?

I recently made a surprise trip stateside to see my family. Namely, I went back to see my grandparents who’ve not been in good health lately, as I’ve previously mentioned. When I was initially planning to go, I wanted to write about my week when I returned to London because I thought it’d be cathartic in some way. I’ve been back a week now, and my opinion has changed slightly. Part of me wants to spill every little detail about my week and commit it to ink, but the other part of me wants to keep it close, to myself and those closest to me. As a writer, the latter bit stresses me out a little. I’ve been relatively open about massive issues I’ve faced in my life, especially recently, and I do genuinely find catharsis when I put my feelings into writing. But my week in Cleveland was special, emotional and one I’ll forever hold dear. Because it feels cruel to write a blog and mention something as dramatic as a surprise trip 4,000 miles away and not say a peep about it, I will say this:

My week home was heart-warming, exhausting, happy, sad and very, very fulfilling. My grandparents and aunt were so incredibly surprised and thrilled to see me and spend time with me, and that’s all I ever wanted from the trip: to make them happy and aware that I was willing to drop everything in a heartbeat to be there for them. And I was. I was there. And I will be again if and when they want or need me to be.

It was not a holiday. It was not time off. I woke up every morning at 5am because that was 10am UK time and I worked a full day. Every day that week. Then by 1pm, the UK workday was over so I’d get ready for the afternoon and spend it with family. In the evenings, I’d squeeze in a few hours to see friends. I’d fall into bed every night absolutely shattered, mostly running on adrenaline, which seems to be my only fuel source this year. I rolled back into London on a Sunday morning and rocked right back to work that Monday. It was very hard, but I don’t regret doing it. It was the right time for me to show up, and I’m so, so glad I did. However, I have no idea how I’ll ever top that kind of gift! Think I set the bar too high for myself…

I still don’t know what’s next in this long saga of continuous chaos. Some days I’m optimistic and strong and cheery, other days I’m a moody, grumpy lump on a log for no discernible reason. Some days I’ll talk my friends’ ears off about what’s bugging me or what I’m excited for, and other times I force them into an awkward exchange with lots of one-word answers and uncomfortable silences. I don’t know how people are meant to handle the things I’ve been going through this year, and I don’t know that there’s really a guidebook for any of it either. Day by day I take things as they come, and meet them with whatever mood happens to me. I never have proof of my strength and I often feel like a wimpy, whiny baby, but I’ve been told that I’ve been doing okay so I take that as a success and keep moving forward.

My life isn’t better or worse than anyone else’s. While it’s hard not to feel like the world owes me something, I want to believe that everything happens for a reason. Maybe this year is a year for hard-earned lessons that will prep me for whatever 2018 has coming my way. I don’t know. I can’t know for sure. But what I do have now that I didn’t have before is experience. I’ve learned way more in these last few months – about myself, life, humanity – more than I ever could’ve imagined I would.

This life is precious. Although it’s cliché, you never know what tomorrow may bring. I do what I can in a day, and then I’m done with it. I make time for what I want and need, and do my best now to strike a better balance between work and my personal life. Work still seeps into my personal life, but it is a choice and not a requirement. I am grateful to have friends both here and in my hometown, all of whom show their support for me when I need it. Life isn’t about merely surviving – it’s about living, right? That’s what they say.

So I guess this post is my thank you to everyone who’s been following my life thus far, offering tid bits of ‘you’re doing great!’ and ‘thinking of you’ comments here and there. I imagine from the outside looking in it’s been pretty dramatic and entertaining, so I can’t blame you for wanting to know how I am and how things are going. Thank you for caring. Thank you for striking up conversations even if I look unapproachable. Thank you for spending time with me even on the days I’m not very communicative. Thank you for being constant beacons of light when I’ve not even realised I was in the dark. I am so very grateful that even on days I feel like I’m dealing with this life alone, I’ve never actually been alone. It’s been quite the adventure so far, hasn’t it? Here’s hoping for tomorrow…

The edge

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The day doctors confirmed my grandfather had cancer, I cried in the bathroom at work, finished off the following hour in the office, then left early, unable to truly focus. I went straight home to buy him tea. A few weeks prior, my mom mentioned my grandpa really enjoyed tea I had given he and my grandmother, which I purchased here in London, but I couldn’t remember what type of tea it was to save my life. So I did what any sensible person would do: I spent $100 on different varieties of tea and shipped it to them. That’s right, my first instinct upon hearing my grandfather’s diagnosis was to send him tea.

Even thinking about it now, a few weeks on, I can’t help but think how strange of a reaction that was. But in my head, it was an action. It was something I could do to help from afar, albeit a very small action with seemingly little impact. All I could think was ‘what will make my grandparents smile during such a traumatic time?’. Hundreds of tea bags would do the trick, I thought. I think it did… but it still doesn’t feel like enough. Which begs the question – what would be enough?

For those of you following the snippets of my life that I serve up via blog post, you’ll know I’ve been dealt a number of awful cards in my time on this earth. Just in the last year alone, I’ve faced a slew of horrific ordeals and hovering unknowns. I thought I was closing the book on the majority of these issues when my husband had life-changing surgery about 8 weeks ago. It’s been a slow recovery, but he’s on the mend and his quality of life has sky-rocketed into positivity. I know now, however, that I was not closing the book, but simply a chapter, as I face another seriously stressful and scary situation happening to yet another person I love.

I’ve been in this situation before: far away from someone I care about dealing with a scary health problem. It doesn’t get any easier. But whether I’m there or here, it still impacts me the same. I’m scared and I want to help, but I’m hyper aware that there really isn’t much I can do. So here I am, continuing on with life as if I don’t have something else heavily weighing down my conscience, feeling helpless and isolated.

I’ve kept this subject quiet for quite some time. My grandfather fell ill a few months ago, and that’s when the subject of cancer came up. But cancer is horrifying. I refused to believe it was even a possibility until I received categoric confirmation. I couldn’t let it impact my work life because my situation with my husband had already interfered heavily. I couldn’t bear having to admit to my superiors or colleagues that, yes, here I was again dealing with yet another medical nightmare. But more importantly, I didn’t want anyone to pity me. I know I don’t give myself much credit, but I know I’m strong. I’ve handled terrible situations with a level of grace I’m still not sure is my own, so surely I could put my brave face back on to get through another workday.

My grandfather is the toughest guy I know. I’ve always said he’s too stubborn to die, and I still very much believe it (hope you’re reading this, Papa!). I’m so glad he’s got my grandmother to help him through this journey, despite the scary health issues she’s enduring herself. I fully believe in the power of love, and how this magic ingredient helps so many of us pull through each and every day. I only wish I could be there, in person, to help them both. They’re such an integral part of my life, and I feel like I’m doing them a disservice being thousands of miles away. But here I am.

I don’t want pity and I don’t particularly want to discuss this subject with anyone because it’s still raw… so why the heck am I writing about it, you ask? Well, it’s simple: I want people to understand that we’re all dealing with things behind closed doors. That not everything is as it appears. I beg you to please be kind to people, always, no matter your own circumstance. I can’t count the number of times I’d return home from a rather rough day at work, shouldering the weight of others’ roles plus the mental anguish I was already juggling, collapse into tears and wonder if maybe had I expressed what was happening in my personal life, I’d earn some compassion from others. But I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t want to talk about it. I shouldn’t feel like I have to pour my heart out just so people will be nice to me. I was taught to be kind, so why can’t I be granted the same courtesy?

Look, I’m not here to complain. Life has a tendency of kicking you in the teeth, but you still have to get back up to finish the day. I’m the poster child of this! But I’m also not too proud to admit that I’m tired. I’ve not had time to bounce back from my husband’s ordeal, who still has a number of months of recovery ahead of him. Yet here I am, still trucking along, dealing with every little thing the universe throws my way. Not always in the best way perhaps, but I’m getting through the mess the only way I know how.

I don’t know what the future holds. If I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s certainly that life has a way of keeping you on your toes. I like to think I’ve navigated the obstacles well, but it’s hard to say. The only thing I seem to have any control over is how I deal with all of this – and how I choose to allow it to affect my life and the people around me. And most importantly, I’ve learned to keep going. I’ve wanted to throw in the towel so, so many times and just crawl into bed and never leave. But I haven’t. And I haven’t stopped laughing or spending time with friends, I haven’t neglected work or failed to help out my husband. I haven’t given up. I won’t give up. My grandparents haven’t, so I think I’ll follow their lead.

Anyone can slay a dragon. Try waking up every morning and loving the whole world again. That’s what takes a real hero.

Life now

13880394_10154406098136350_5826270149240278047_nLet me tell you about chaos.
Explain how it does not tear you apart, but seethes and simmers within, building in strength with each passing day, growing in intensity like water to boil.
And when the heat reaches your skin, all you want is to peel it off and run, frantic, panicked – because you thought that was your only option when you only had seconds to decide.
And oh, how you wish you hadn’t.
Let me tell you about chaos and how it destroys every shred of hope you once held, but selectively.
Bit by bit, they evaporate into thin air and all you have left is the thought that you really needed that.
But too late now.
There is no screaming, there is no sound.
You remember the silence most, as the whole world around you spins wildly out of control.
As your body betrays you and breaks down, slowly, and then suddenly.
You close your eyes to rest, and wake up to do it all over again.
Let me tell you about chaos.

This is now the sixth time I’ve started writing this blog. The last times I gave up after writing a few sentences, unable to put my thoughts into words. Not sure how much information I wanted to put out to the world, or if I was ready to even accept any of it myself. Then one day, as I was struggling to keep myself together, I found I needed to write what my feelings were as they were coming out. And so another of my many poems was borne, and here I am again trying to talk about the chaos that I call this life.

I’m familiar with struggle and I’m friendly with perseverance. I’ve grown used to my pathway being paved with difficulties to overcome, and my track record of success is thankfully greater than my failures. I work hard, I work tirelessly and I hope it pays off in the end. But that’s the thing – I expect there to be an end of some sort. No matter how tough things become, I’m able to keep moving forward because I feel that at some point, the difficult times will pass and I’ll get through it. That’s how we survive, isn’t it? On the faith that those times will pass. We hope to live.

But how do you keep forging ahead when that isn’t a possibility? How do you pick yourself up and keep going when you know, for a fact, that the odds of improvement, of a better life even, aren’t in the cards? Then what?

Most people are aware that my husband is disabled. Most people don’t, however, fully grasp the severity of it. And let me be clear: I do not seek pity. I do not want anyone to feel sorry for me or for my husband, but on some level, I wish they could understand better so they know how to act around us.

His condition is rare. And even as I type that, I want to stress how genuinely rare it is. Only a handful of doctors in the entire world are qualified to properly treat it, and even those doctors all have varying levels of comprehension and understanding. I’ve lost count of the number of occasions where we completely stumped a doctor. Imagine that frustration.

The nervous system is incredibly complex and intricate, so the medical world only understands a small percentage of it with any level of expertise. And CRPS happens to be one of those lovely conditions that manifests differently in people, and is only diagnosed after every other possible medical problem in history is first ruled out. A diagnosis of elimination instantly tells you how little anyone understands it. And the pain my husband experiences because of this disease is intense. It’s akin to the sensation of breaking a bone… many, many times during the day and then never having it heal. One doctor compared it to child birth pain. Now, I’ve never had a kid myself, but I’ve certainly heard plenty about the experience to appreciate the level of strength my husband must have for dealing with constant, chronic pain of this level on a regular, frequent basis.

After many surgical attempts, including killing nerve endings, embedding nerves to trick the brain into thinking it was no longer there, bone surgeries, injections, tests, trials and a million other last-ditch efforts to give him relief, we wound up with one last option left on the table. The treatment is called spinal cord stimulation (SCS). Sounds pretty intense, doesn’t it? Well, that’s because it kind of is. Essentially, it’s one of the only treatments for CRPS sufferers known to improve quality of life, even if some cases turn out to be temporary relief. Much like a pace maker, it’s an implant that goes right into your back with wires connecting to your spinal tissue. The pack sends electrical messages to your brain to dampen pain signals. Neuromodulation manages pain signals, but does not cure the condition. It is not a cure. There is no cure. But if SCS lowers someone’s pain by even 50%, they view that as a success. But with all things related to CRPS, there is no way of knowing if 1) SCS will help someone or 2) how long it could help someone if it proves a success. We thought, however, a 60-70% success rate among other CRPS sufferers was a high enough number for us to give it a go. Even now, we haven’t allowed ourselves to speculate how it would affect us if he doesn’t respond to SCS. We simply can’t consider that at this point.

Since starting the trial programme in which an army of medical professionals work together as a team to determine whether or not my husband is mentally, physically and emotionally stable enough to continue with such a serious procedure, more problems have come to light. Of course, right? Because it’s not enough that he has an incurable disease that will likely only worsen in time. It has to be even more complex.

Although no one seems to understand why exactly, CRPS is known to spread from one limb to another, or all, after time. There’s no rhyme or reason to where it spreads, it just can. My husband has it in his left foot, and in the last month, it’s seemingly spreading to his left hand now. Except! Get this – it appears to be another form of CRPS. DIFFERENT to the type he has already. He’s only had an official diagnosis on his foot for a few years, and to now be starting the process all over again for a different body part is… exhausting, to say the least. And horrifying. It’s still early stages, we think, but we’ve already begun ruling out any and all other possibilities with weekly tests and hospital visits. So the hope of SCS putting an end to the incessant misery his foot was causing was quickly replaced with fear and worry that this new development would not only affect his candidacy for SCS, but also progress to the level of pain he experiences in his foot already. This was our worst case scenario coming to life. Again, you take away the hope of a better life, what does that leave you?

I know he’s struggling, but I can’t speak for him. I’m not him. I don’t feel the same things he feels. But I do my best to show support and strength even though I absolutely do not feel I’m doing it well. I watch him hurt, I watch him panic, I watch him sink deeper into a depression that I’ll never be able to fully understand because whilst I can empathise, I don’t feel what he feels. I never worry about my being able to walk, or whether or not I can pick up a glass of water. But I watch my husband do it every day now. I have to stand by, helpless, watching him hurt and watching him stress about how to go about a “normal” life when he’s nowhere near the level of an able-bodied person. Taking the stairs is a challenge. Today, I watched him get emotional because he couldn’t pick up his burger. And all I can do is remind him that I love him and that we’ll get through this… even when I’m not so sure we can. I worry that I sound selfish when I talk about his condition, but I’m the only person who can talk about how this whole situation affects me. And he’s the only person who can talk about how it affects him. I’m scared. I’m scared for him, I’m scared for me and I’m scared for our future. We still have so many questions that will likely never be answered. Take a moment and imagine how that could possibly feel. Having a doctor tell you, “this likely won’t get better. This will probably spread to other parts of your body. This treatment may not help you.” There are no definites in any of this. And for two people who like to know all the answers, it certainly hasn’t been an easy pill to swallow.

There are moments when I’m so consumed by emotion that I simply cannot function. I get up and walk out of my office several times a day when I feel tears well up. I am constantly bombarded by friends, family and colleagues who genuinely mean well when they ask how things are going, but are actually forcing me to revisit a subject that is physically painful for me to discuss. When I met my husband, he wasn’t disabled yet. He didn’t have CRPS. And since we’ve been together, I’ve been forced to watch it degrade and become worse and worse and not being able to do a damn thing to help. And at this point in life, when we were at the brink of hopefully having relief with SCS, we’ve been ripped back down to earth to face an ugly new reality. And we weren’t ready for that. I’m still not ready for it. But this life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. And I’m angry. Scared. Wishing I could fix everything to give my husband the life, and physically-capable body, I feel he deserves. We’ve been dealt so many awful cards in the four years we’ve been together, that at this point, it all feels like a cruel joke.

I want you to understand that we are suffering. We are mourning the life we had planned for ourselves and trying to accept the one we were given instead. It is not an easy task, especially when it feels like nobody understands. Don’t tell us things will get better. We aren’t foolish enough to cling to such a dangerous hope. Tell us we’re strong. Tell us we’re capable of making the most out of a horrible situation. Tell us we’re handling it well even if you catch us having a breakdown (which we do, frequently). I don’t need you to feel sorry for me, either. Yes, I’m struggling and I’ll never deny that. But as much as I’ve wanted to all throughout this journey, I will not give up. I simply can’t. We are stronger than this pain, and I aim to prove that until my last breath.

“Be kind. For everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.”

Finding home

12241591_10153788546021350_2546363106105606442_n-1It’s been six months since I’ve officially relocated to the UK, and to say it’s been a rollercoaster ride is a slight understatement. I anticipated an adjustment period, considering the fact that I was leaving behind everything familiar and opting for complete immersion into a new home, new environment and new people. But despite having lived in the UK for a few months in the summer of 2012, it was far more destabilising this time around. I think the fact that this move was permanent contributed to that emotion. But six months in, I think I’ve found my centre at last… and the ability to write as if I were a native Brit.

Anxious excitement dominated my first month or two, which makes sense because I was eager to close the gap and be here, but I had no idea what life would be like once I actually moved. That realisation started to seep into my brain toward the end of my second month, beginning of the third. My excitement quickly turned serious when I began looking for work to fill my free time and become a contributing member of society. I began this stage with apprehension, knowing full well how difficult it was finding the right job back in the states after graduation and worrying I’d find a similar struggle here. Now that it’s over with and I’ve found work, I feel pretty confident saying it was easier and quicker to find a job than it was a few years ago, but it certainly felt like a never-ending, soul-crushing experience.

It was about when I’d sent out around twenty job applications and the rejection emails started coming through that I felt myself slipping into a darker mind-set. I swiftly went from “I’m going to get a job!” to “I’m never going to get a job,” which, as you can imagine, wasn’t a fun thought train to ride. For the next few months, I was a wretch to be around (shout out to my amazing husband for putting up with this nonsense!), having slipped deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole with each passing day. I slept for ages and never felt rested when I finally pried myself out of bed, I hardly ate, I very rarely took the time to dress myself or make an effort on my appearance and I started questioning my every decision. But from the outside looking in, I made damn sure that any and all my connections back home and on social media thought I was cheery and enjoying my time off work because I didn’t want anyone to think I was pathetic or wasting away in London – even though that’s exactly how I felt.

I’ve battled depression before, but this was a new level I hadn’t experienced yet. I was so deep in it that it took me a very long time to even notice that I was, in fact, depressed. Coupled with the extreme anxiety and desperation to find work, it was a debilitating tug-of-war that left me utterly empty and defeated. Everything ached all the time despite having hardly moved all day every day, headaches plagued me regularly and I sought refuge under the covers more often than not. Part of the time, I wondered if I was genuinely sick and contemplated visiting my GP, but in hindsight, I now know better. Some days I was able to pull myself out of the fog to send out another job application or two, but eventually it became so much work just to think of positive things to say about myself in a cover letter that I just left it… for weeks at a time.

After a few months, I finally understood what was going on and reached out to my husband to help me not only find positivity, but to fully invest myself in finding a job. Thrilled that I was taking the initiative to make a change, he gave me a new perspective and ideas on how to improve my job search tactics. I’m forever grateful to him for his help, because not only did it give me the boost of encouragement I needed at the right time, it also brought responsive replies from the new jobs I was now applying for. These replies eventually led to interviews where I felt I could finally demonstrate, in person, what I could bring to the table.

An onslaught of rejection emails were replaced with interview opportunities and eventually having to choose between two jobs. What started out as a bleak search turned into a plentiful choice, and the sudden change in my outlook was enthusiastically welcomed. I finally felt like I had purpose again, had my footing balanced and could re-emerge into the world bright-eyed and bushy tailed.

These last six months have served as a harsh reminder that life is better handled with some outside help, and it’s okay to ask for words of comfort when they’ve been depleted from your own arsenal. I’m much happier now even compared to when I first arrived on UK soil. My relationship is stronger than ever, I’ve got a job I enjoy in a brand new industry and I’ve learned how to recognise negative thinking and come out the other side a better person. It wasn’t an easy journey and I don’t hope to repeat it any time in the near future, but I think it was necessary to teach me that I have value even when I don’t feel like I do. Starting your life over at a young age is an intoxicating idea, but it’s certainly not for the faint of heart. I’ve had to remind myself that most people would also struggle with such drastic changes all at once, and I’m not a weaker person because of it. I’m indebted to those who helped me realise my worth during a tough time, and encouraged me to find different ways to make London feel like home. I can confidently say that now, that’s exactly what it feels like. Even if it took me six months to get here. Better late than never, right?

Home is where you make it

Reflections

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Now that it’s 2016, I feel obliged to reevaluate my life’s trajectory and try to find some meaning in the chaos thus far. Granted, that wasn’t my initial thought process. The inspiration actually sparked when I saw all those New Year’s Eve Facebook posts from all my virtual friends, updating the cyber world on their proud moments of 2015 and how they all hoped 2016 would bring even more. Apart from being slightly annoyed by all of those posts because, let’s face it, not all of them were all too impressive (SORRY), I sincerely wanted to share a post of my own. But no matter how much I sat and thought about how I could sum up the whole of 2015 in one relatively brief Facebook status, I simply couldn’t do it. Why? Well, to put it frankly, 2015 was littered with more painful, stressful, heartbreaking and overall difficult moments than anything else. But I don’t want to be so cynical this young, so in an effort to brighten up my mindset, I’m going to review my year and pat myself on the back a little.

2015 started out on a rough route, beginning with wedding dress stress that could really only happen to me. I fought with the owner of the bridal salon where I purchased my dress over moral and ethical values days before my wedding. It was incredibly hard and emotionally draining because I felt I was robbed of my “perfect wedding dress moment.” In the end of this months-long battle, I came out of it victorious, sort of, receiving monetary compensation for the trouble I had to go through. Even when I look back at this drama now, more than a year later, it still really upsets me. I hate that this woman acted so unprofessionally and made an already stressful time period even worse. But with further contemplation, I can admit that I’m also a little proud of myself for how I handled the situation. It was truly a, “holy crap, I’ve sure grown up!” kind of moment! For the most part, I kept my cool, I did my research to make sure I understood the law and that I wasn’t doing or saying anything that could hurt me. I asked friends and family for advice on how to proceed, and found I had a whopping amount of support on the matter. I made my point and I walked away with my dress in the end. I need to try and remember this part more than the emotional distress.

My wedding. My goodness. I’ve never cried so many happy tears in my entire life. It was truly the highlight and best moment of 2015, without a shadow of a doubt.

Shortly after the wedding, however, James had his final foot surgery. It’s amazing how quickly we can forget about the happy times when we’re faced with adversity, but this moment in 2015 was definitely top 3 of the worst. We dealt with a surgeon who was not only unkind, but also seriously and verbally doubtful of a positive outcome post-op. We fought with the NHS, and James suffered a great deal of pain. I, as his caretaker, found out how fiercely I cared for my husband and to what lengths I was willing to go to ensure his full recovery (insane lengths). For once, I had to be the rock in the relationship, and although I’d go home every night after visiting him at the hospital and cried myself to sleep, wracked with worry, I did my best to only show him strength because I knew how important it was to help him get better. But you know what? He recovered from the surgery and life improved. He will always have pain every day of his life, but now he can walk without an air cast, an accessory we both grew to hate. Small victories are still victories. One day at a time, right? Until then, we still hope for a cure.

My career was also going significantly well in 2015, having begun my second year as a news photographer in Cleveland. My coworkers seemed to like me well enough, and if they didn’t, they did a fantastic job at hiding it. I was given more responsibilities and trusted with higher caliber stories during a pretty interesting time in Cleveland history. I worked long days and often strange hours, sometimes tallying 9-10 days of work in a row. Some days were really tough, but others were amazingly fun. I made some pretty great friends at that gig, and the experiences I had taught me so much about the industry as well as myself. Let’s just say.. you never know how emotionally strong you are until you’re the first media responder at an incredibly grisly emergency scene. I left that job a better person, and as ready as I was to leave and start my life in the UK, I really do miss that place and the people who pushed me to excellence.

In late summer of 2015, my husband and I were finally able to apply for my UK visa. I have never put so much thought, energy and emotion into something before in my life. All of the necessary elements of our life finally fell perfectly into place and we were ready! And by early September, my visa had arrived. Apart from marrying my best friend, being told we can finally live in the same country together was the next best moment of 2015. I put my two weeks in at work the same day my visa arrived and began packing my life into a few suitcases. But before I could leave, my grandfather had a serious accident days before my flight departed. I dropped everything to be by his side, terrified for his well-being and questioning whether or not I should leave at all. Add this to the list of the most terrifying things that occurred in 2015 for me. But with my family’s blessing and promise to keep me updated on his progress and health, I made the journey to begin my new life. And I’m glad I made that decision because seeing my grandfather’s improvement over the holidays eased so much of the guilt I felt for leaving. Sometimes we have to make tough decisions. Or in my case.. often.

Now, these are just a few massively huge growth experiences that I had in 2015. There’s SO much more that it’s actually quite alarming, but hey, I fit a lot of life experiences into short amounts of time all the time! I look back and think how in the world I survived that roller coaster – or better yet – how in the world I made it to where I am now. I want to say I’m lucky. That the world was just nice enough to keep pushing me in the right direction. But in reality, I know that I am where I am today because I was determined (or as my mother would say, stubborn) enough to succeed. 2015 gave me a million reasons to want to throw in the towel, huddle in the corner in the fetal position and give up entirely. I still firmly believe that one single person shouldn’t ever have to deal with the amount of tragedy and strife I dealt with in 12 short months. BUT in some weird, twisted way, I’m glad it was me. It pushed me into adulthood faster than anything else, but it was necessary to experience so that I could see for myself that I can handle the world on my own. That I’m strong and a force to be reckoned with when faced with an obstacle. And when the clock struck midnight on the morning of January 1, 2016, I truly felt ready for what the new year would bring. Because in my mind, I’ve already dealt with so much in my short life that what’s one more bump in the road? I’m where I always wanted to be in life. And that, my friends, is both amazing and terrifying. Bring it on, 2016. I’m ready!

This adventure

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Well, things have changed a bit in the last few months. Is that the understatement of the year? Hello, my name is Tanya and I’m officially an American expatriate living in London. It seemed like a far off dream that may never come to fruition, and now I wake up next to my husband every morning and find myself using words like “telly”and “crisps”and being genuinely awed by the constant beauty I stumble upon in this city. It’s strange when I’m the one with an accent and having to spell words with an extra ‘u’ or exchanging a ‘z’ with an ‘s,’ but I’m managing!

People talk about starting over all the time, as if it’s this imaginary opportunity that is too far from reach but still appears occasionally in our daydreams when days are rough – a wonderful possibility, but unlikely to happen. Yet here I am, living proof that it can happen.

The day I found out I was moving abroad and began telling friends and family, I was met with a chorus of “good for yous” and “well dones,” commending me for never giving up on my goal and finally achieving it, years later. Naysayers were shocked at my success, and supporters popped out of every nook and cranny on social media, suddenly donning team Tanya cheerleading outfits. I felt accomplished and excited and ready for this new chapter in my life, but more importantly, I felt fear. I was legitimately starting over. How the hell can you prepare for that?

By nature, I’m a planner. I make lists, I plan ahead and I like to think I’m usually prepared for almost any eventuality. But in this instance, I had no idea what I was doing or what to expect. I played it cool, calm and collected for the most part, but I was harboring a deep panic on the inside. Sure, I had previously lived abroad multiple times. But those instances were always temporary and for short periods of time. Was I ready for the long term? Could I hack it?

Even still, I don’t have answers to those questions. The reality of my fear grows each day. Some days I even struggle to leave the flat, afraid someone will tease me for my American accent or I’ll get hopelessly lost and be unable to find my way home. All of the stress and pains of finding a new job in my field that I once thought I had finally hurdled when I landed my last position have returned with a vengeance. Yes, I’m finally living in the city I’ve been aching to be in with my better half by my side, but I’d be lying if I said every day was a breeze. Even if you tried to imagine what it may be like to pack a chunk of your belongings into a few suitcases, say good-bye to all your friends and family, quit your job, leave behind all sense of familiarity and move 4,000 miles to a different country that operates far differently to what you’re used to… it still doesn’t scrape the surface of how it really feels. Hell, when I first got here, I didn’t know how to operate any of the appliances or even open my front door without getting help first. In a lot of ways, I feel like a child figuring out the world for the first time. And at the ripe old age of 25, it’s easy to see how that can be a major blow to your confidence.

The day-to-day stuff is hard. I don’t know anyone in this city, I’m alone and left to my own devices the majority of each day and I’m now 5 hours ahead from those I did know back home. I thought I could still seek support from the friends I left behind, but within days of moving, I quickly realized that my moving abroad symbolically served as the death of all friendships I once held. I thought it’d be hard keeping up friendships when I never got to see them anymore, but I thought I could make it work. What I didn’t think was that most (if not all) of those friends would choose to write me off and stop speaking to me entirely. That was something I wasn’t ready for. I’m not angry about it because I understand the difficulties of maintaining long distance relationships of any kind (um, hello!), but I guess I didn’t expect to be so on my own so soon.

And while it’s easy to get down and out about the things I’ve lost and the changes I’ve been forced to go through, I try my hardest to see the best in my situation. This is my blank slate. This is my chance to rewrite my future, and for once in my life, there’s no question of whether or not these plans would permanently include my best friend, my partner in life, my soulmate. I’m here now and for as long as we choose to stay here. There’s no more wondering what may come because I’ve finally got the power to make those decisions myself. And as terrifying as that feels sometimes, I also know how powerful it is too. Not many people get an opportunity in life like this, and despite whatever reservations seep into my thoughts, I know I’m lucky and I know of all people, I’m strong enough to prevail and come out of this experience a better person. I may have a mixed bag of emotions, but at the end of the day, I know I’m right where I belong.

It feels good to be lost in the right direction

Women vs the world.

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A woman’s place is everywhere.

I’ve been debating whether or not to blog about this subject for quite some time now. I’ve found that if I voice my opinion on the matter, I get a lot of backlash, including from close friends and family. But I decided that’s not a good enough reason to stop myself from using my voice. Especially considering I find that blogging serves as a sort of personal therapy as well. To those who may disagree with my opinion: I respect you. However, it remains my opinion built up through my personal experiences.

So here we go!

I’ve almost chalked up two whole years at my current media job. I started out loving it and feeling very proud of my early success in the field, having nabbed the position shortly after graduating college and in a highly competitive, larger market. But the longer I’ve been here, the more certain negative aspects of the job really stand out. The worst of it all? Sexism and ageism in news media.

College professors warned me and other female classmates of sexism in the journalism field. It is no secret that women are held to a much different standard on-camera. After all, we have more outfit choices than a man’s suit-and-tie go-to, so with that alone, we open the floodgates to physical appearance criticism. I knew this going into the field, but I still find it incredibly hard to stomach. However, I’ve thankfully never had to worry about this because I chose an off-camera career path in the media industry. That should instantly eliminate the worst of sexism for me, right? Well, not exactly.

I am one of 5 or less women news photographers employed in my city. And by that, I mean the women who lug around video cameras and tripods to shoot news stories for local TV stations. (Let me be clear: there are some female multimedia journalists, or one-woman bands, but their job has much different expectations than mine. So I’m not counting those individuals in this explanation.) This means, on any given day that I’m sent out with my video camera and tripod, it’s very likely that I’m the only female camera woman in the field that day. Let that sink in for a moment. Out of the four news stations in my area, there are less than 5 women doing what I do.  I have yet to meet another female news photographer from a different station on an assignment. Ever. I’ve only ever worked side-by-side with men, typically aged 35 or older. And as I’ve found out, these men don’t see me – a woman – as their equal. They don’t say it in as many words, so much as strongly imply it as such. However, I think several other factors weigh heavily into their opinion that I’m not as equipped to do their job as a man: my young age + my petite frame.

So with a one-two-three punch, my gender, age and size chalk me up to an inadequate news photographer in many’s eyes. Some of it I can find understanding, though. I can see how experienced photographers view me as less experienced, because in working years, that’s simply a fact. I haven’t been working in the field as long, so I’m sure there’s lots for me to learn. In other words, my young age may be seen as lack of experience. Fine. And my size? Yes, I’m incredibly petite. And it truly does get difficult lugging around a video camera and tripod that are literally as big as I am. I can see how it could be easier to do my job if I were a big, burly, strong man. And finally, I understand that many moons ago, times were different and women would never be in a job like the one I hold now. And I totally understand that some of my male counterparts at these news stations were working during that time, thus my presence now alongside them serves as a shock and something to get used to. I say these things to show that I try to understand where the criticism is coming from before I let it get to me. I’m not closed-minded, I swear! But my patience wanes when the commentary from these men are said like this: “They sent YOU out to a scene like this?” “You need a big, strong man to help you carry those things!” “Are you old enough to be working?” I am not exaggerating when I say I hear these things, along with many other condescending variations, every single day from men doing the same job as I am, to complete strangers who approach me in the field. Especially considering the fact that I’ve always been hyper aware that I’m unlike most people that hold the same job. I don’t need some stranger pointing it out in the rudest way possible on a daily basis, you know? It’s simply unnecessary and not nice at all! I’m sure they wouldn’t appreciate someone saying these things to them either, would they? And I won’t even get into the catcalling and inappropriate advances I get sometimes. That’s an entirely separate blog post on its own! But let’s get one thing straight: I chose this job. So don’t pity me or view me as unfortunate.

When I complain to family and friends, they often ask why I don’t say anything to defend myself. Well, I sort of do. I try and make the exchange into a laughing matter, spitting back with a joke of “oh, yeah! I get a workout every day!” or something along those lines in order to cut the conversation short or make it a non-conversation at all. The problem is, I can’t be rude back. Partly because it’s not in my nature if I don’t know the person, and partly because I need to be a professional when I’m on the job. So despite being surrounded by jerks whose parents didn’t teach them to keep their mouths shut when they don’t have anything nice to say, I can’t let it noticeably get to me because it inhibits my job. When I’m on assignment, I need to get the video I need as quickly as possible, so I don’t have the luxury of getting into a heated debate about why I think I’m capable of performing just as well at my job as a young, petite female. All I can do is fake laugh, get what I need, and make disgusted, annoyed faces or mouth rude words as I walk back to my car. My only concern is excelling at my job, so that remains my number one priority. But the comments stay with me, even long after my work day is done. And that’s the part that bothers me.

Not only do men news photographers in my area not view me as an equal, but complete strangers are constantly coming up to me saying asinine things. No, I’m not an intern. Yes, I can carry all of this equipment all by myself. Yes, a pretty little face like mine actually does prefer to work off-camera. It’s the constant barrage that gets tiring and ruins the job for me. While I understand that with all things, there will be a level of criticism we must endure, I don’t believe that the amount I receive as a professional in my field is on the same level as most of my coworkers. That’s what makes it difficult: having to accept that while this isn’t the norm for most, it is for me. Simply because I’m different.

So let this blog serve as a polite request to kindly keep your criticism to yourself if it in no way helps an individual. My skin is thick enough already, so it needn’t any more. And to those of you young women looking for a career in the news media industry, know this: sexism and ageism is a very real, daily occurrence. And the only way to combat it is to keep encouraging more young women to jump in with us and grow in masses. I’m only one voice, but I know I’m not the only one fighting this. And to all you men (and some women) out there who think I’m incapable of doing my job as well as a man, well tough. Because you know what? I am doing it. And I’m really damn good at it.