Italian Blues
The weekend has come and gone.
Mum was here to visit, and it all started on Thursday night, with Ian coming to see me at 9, and staying here for a long chat until 10.30. Then I read, prepared, tidied…I obviously was nervous, and managed to sleep just enough before waking up and going to catch that impossible bus at 3 am, which dropped me in Stansted at 6.30. I had my breakfast, an endless walk around, and finally mum arrived, early on th schedule, so we could get a coffee and go get the bus for Brighton. We checked in at the B&B, and started off our visit to Brighton, first with a trip to Hove to see where I work, then to the university, where we bought a shirt for brother genius, then to my house to see how lovely and clean it is (spent almost 3 hours cleaning and tidying, on Thursday…now, today, 4 days later, a note on the board in the kitchen tells me that noisy housemate on drugs has done the chores…yeah, easy). We go back to town, and walk around in the lanes, in the shops, we stop at the Japanese restaurant after buying a dessert at M&S, so we have our dinner, a walk to the pier, and then we are back at the B&B for tea, dessert, tv, cuddles…my, I missed my mum. There is this incredible sadness and nostalgia flowing among us, and I leave the B&B tired and sad.
The morning after I get up and run to the shower, then run to have breakfast with mum: the guys of the B&B, wonderful people, have offered to let me have breakfast with her, since she doesn’t speak the language and it would be nicer for her to be with me during the meal. How lovely of them. We have a lot of coffee, and toasts with jam, and then we head for the library, and the North lane, before catching the bus to Rottingdean, where we walk around, to the gardens, we take pictures; before starting to go to the windmill Ian calls to say hello, to ask how things are going. It’s a quick, sweet phone call. He can surprise me, indeed he can.
After Rottingdean we catch another bus, and ideally we want to go to the Marina, but I change my mind, and decide that first we will have lunch and go shopping, then we will have dinner and conclude the day at the Marina, which must be nicer at night (how do I know, I’ve never been there). So we go to lanes again, and to several shops, because mum wants to buy me a present for my birthday, which will be in less than a month but she won’t be here. I can feel this incredible sadness, again, breaking my heart in small, piercing pieces. It’s unbearable.
We go to Sainsbury’s for a quick shopping, chocolate and tea for her, and some stuff for me like fruit and cheese and bread; then it’s B&Q, where she buys me a plant, and tomato seeds for herself. We leave the stuff at home, I get changed, and we go back to town. At M&S we buy more chocolate and our dessert for later, and that is when I find a beautiful long jumper, pink, which can be a fantastic dress with leggings, and so we buy it, and although I pay with my card she wants me to tell her how much she will have to give me, because this is her present for my birthday.
After that we go for dinner to a pub in the lanes, where I have a delicious soup, and she has a delicious roast beef with Yorshire pudding, and we share a pint of ale, and we chat and laugh and conclude with a walk in the lanes again, before going to the B&B and watch more tv, drink tea, eat our dessert (n.b.: M&S’s desserts are not as good as they look. A real disappointment). It’s lovely to watch CSI, I missed it, and it’s also very sad.
On the way back home for the night I cry and cry and cry. I don’t sleep well at all.
In the morning, at breakfast, I look at her and start crying, igniting her tears too. We try to talk while waiting for the bus, and I cannot believe how angry I get when I try to explain that I don’t know what to do, because again, she would be the only reason I would go back home, and it seems to me a very good reason, but I don’t know what else I could do, where I could find a job, how, what, and all I want, all I really want, is to be home with her, and take care of her, with her bad shoulder, and her two jobs where she needs a hand, and the chores where she is paying to have the house clean but I could do it better and for free, and all that. I just want to help and be with her, because then she would be happy. And at the same time I start asking myself, why am I here? So I try and make a list of the reasons to stay here and the reasons to leave. And I cannot think. I get so sad and depressed. We cry a bit more on the bus to Stansted, and when it’s time for her to leave we hug and we cry so much, and I think, and say, joking, that I must be really growing old, to get so emotional, as if we were leaving to never meet again. And it scares me to think that her health is not too good, and that she needs me. I manage to stay calm and watch her go through the x-rays, waving goodbye to the last minute, when I lose her sight, and then I wait a minute more and turn to go and catch the bus, bent, crying. I cry for hours on the bus. I get to Brighton and look at the sky, clear at last, and I think of the city, dirty and full of mad people, full of noisy, dangerous people, with no brass band, with nothing to hold on to. I go to bed and am crying, out of tiredness and more.
This morning I wake up confused and tired in the bones. I manage to do a pretty good lesson, all in all, although I feel I am not really here, my head is in a thick fog, and I am not well. I prepare tomorrow’s lesson, and something for Wednesday’s too, then I walk to the library, and I am so tired I almost fall asleep. Then a quick round at the gym, only 45 minutes, where I shock the personal trainer who sees that last week I did run 55 minutes…I know, I am full of surprises.
I catch my bus to come back home, and tidy the kitchen, eat some cheese and carrots, finally tidy my room. I am now in my bed, waiting for mum to call, and thinking.
I’ve just been on the chat with some guys from the band, who are supporting me in my decision to stay: career, and whatever.
My fogged mind can only think that I miss my mum and want to go home to be with her, and snuggle on the sofa while watching CSI, and Cold Case, and then go the cinema on Sunday, and go back to the quiet routine of Saturday chores and shopping, and walks and all that. It is so difficult.
Then I think, my master will start in 11 months. I could as well go back home, work for 6 months somewhere, then come back here for the summer (or somewhere else in England) as a TESOL teacher again, and move back here for the beginning of the master, which would be part-time, so I would still need my job at Sprach, which is why I would come here for the summer, so to keep my job from, say, April/May onwards. On the other hand, I have applied for two jobs, at the university library, part- and full-time. I hope to get either, really, because the part-time would be perfect to let me keep my teaching job, and the full time…well, full time, permanent, in a library? A dream coming true, nothing less. So both things would make me happy. Not that I have any hope, let’s face it. That is why I was thinking about going back home, but deciding it after the (possible) interview for these jobs, which would prove what a useless scam I am, and would seal my decision that home is the best place to be, because at least I would be useful for mum, comfort and help in the house and with her second job. That seems to be my only aim in life.
Of course, things would have been a lot more different if what happened in September hadn’t happened. Then I would have been my selfish me, I suppose, although it is not a side of my personality, which is why sometime I believe I have been punished for becoming so selfish all of a sudden, for thinking only of how happy I was, for the first time in my life. This makes me think, also, of how painful it is to be here, sometimes, especially when I am not in a good mood, and of how painful it is to just go around the university, or even around the lanes, sometimes, if I am not concentrating on daydreaming or (unsuccessfully) planning some lesson.
This morning, one of the teachers, the funny one, gave me a joking hug after he pretended to hit me with a book, since I was standing in front of the shelves again, daydreaming of something else. Told like this it sounds bad, but he is an incredibly funny guy, he really makes me laugh, and he’s affectionate, and I miss human contact. As always. I miss a good, real hug. England sucks, on this sort of things.
To cheer up before mum calls me, I am now watching some videos from a comedy programme I used to watch back home.
I need some time to think. Ian texted me this morning, and then called me tonight, sweet child. I would like to talk to him, and have to wait until he’s ready to meet me and have our usual talk, cup of tea, whatever. He brings me chocolate when he comes to visit. He’s nice and sweet. Sometimes, though, I get the idea that he behaves like this out of some guilty feeling towards me, for dragging me in Brighton and then dumping me like this, for hurting me like he did. Sometimes I feel I am this useless emotional burden he’s rather do without. Of course, I cannot tell him that. This is another taboo subject. My word, we are so alike, it takes my breath away.
So, one more time, I need time to concentrate, and try and work things out about my future. I guess my next post will be something like “pros and cons of Brighton life”…prepare.
Mum was here to visit, and it all started on Thursday night, with Ian coming to see me at 9, and staying here for a long chat until 10.30. Then I read, prepared, tidied…I obviously was nervous, and managed to sleep just enough before waking up and going to catch that impossible bus at 3 am, which dropped me in Stansted at 6.30. I had my breakfast, an endless walk around, and finally mum arrived, early on th schedule, so we could get a coffee and go get the bus for Brighton. We checked in at the B&B, and started off our visit to Brighton, first with a trip to Hove to see where I work, then to the university, where we bought a shirt for brother genius, then to my house to see how lovely and clean it is (spent almost 3 hours cleaning and tidying, on Thursday…now, today, 4 days later, a note on the board in the kitchen tells me that noisy housemate on drugs has done the chores…yeah, easy). We go back to town, and walk around in the lanes, in the shops, we stop at the Japanese restaurant after buying a dessert at M&S, so we have our dinner, a walk to the pier, and then we are back at the B&B for tea, dessert, tv, cuddles…my, I missed my mum. There is this incredible sadness and nostalgia flowing among us, and I leave the B&B tired and sad.
The morning after I get up and run to the shower, then run to have breakfast with mum: the guys of the B&B, wonderful people, have offered to let me have breakfast with her, since she doesn’t speak the language and it would be nicer for her to be with me during the meal. How lovely of them. We have a lot of coffee, and toasts with jam, and then we head for the library, and the North lane, before catching the bus to Rottingdean, where we walk around, to the gardens, we take pictures; before starting to go to the windmill Ian calls to say hello, to ask how things are going. It’s a quick, sweet phone call. He can surprise me, indeed he can.
After Rottingdean we catch another bus, and ideally we want to go to the Marina, but I change my mind, and decide that first we will have lunch and go shopping, then we will have dinner and conclude the day at the Marina, which must be nicer at night (how do I know, I’ve never been there). So we go to lanes again, and to several shops, because mum wants to buy me a present for my birthday, which will be in less than a month but she won’t be here. I can feel this incredible sadness, again, breaking my heart in small, piercing pieces. It’s unbearable.
We go to Sainsbury’s for a quick shopping, chocolate and tea for her, and some stuff for me like fruit and cheese and bread; then it’s B&Q, where she buys me a plant, and tomato seeds for herself. We leave the stuff at home, I get changed, and we go back to town. At M&S we buy more chocolate and our dessert for later, and that is when I find a beautiful long jumper, pink, which can be a fantastic dress with leggings, and so we buy it, and although I pay with my card she wants me to tell her how much she will have to give me, because this is her present for my birthday.
After that we go for dinner to a pub in the lanes, where I have a delicious soup, and she has a delicious roast beef with Yorshire pudding, and we share a pint of ale, and we chat and laugh and conclude with a walk in the lanes again, before going to the B&B and watch more tv, drink tea, eat our dessert (n.b.: M&S’s desserts are not as good as they look. A real disappointment). It’s lovely to watch CSI, I missed it, and it’s also very sad.
On the way back home for the night I cry and cry and cry. I don’t sleep well at all.
In the morning, at breakfast, I look at her and start crying, igniting her tears too. We try to talk while waiting for the bus, and I cannot believe how angry I get when I try to explain that I don’t know what to do, because again, she would be the only reason I would go back home, and it seems to me a very good reason, but I don’t know what else I could do, where I could find a job, how, what, and all I want, all I really want, is to be home with her, and take care of her, with her bad shoulder, and her two jobs where she needs a hand, and the chores where she is paying to have the house clean but I could do it better and for free, and all that. I just want to help and be with her, because then she would be happy. And at the same time I start asking myself, why am I here? So I try and make a list of the reasons to stay here and the reasons to leave. And I cannot think. I get so sad and depressed. We cry a bit more on the bus to Stansted, and when it’s time for her to leave we hug and we cry so much, and I think, and say, joking, that I must be really growing old, to get so emotional, as if we were leaving to never meet again. And it scares me to think that her health is not too good, and that she needs me. I manage to stay calm and watch her go through the x-rays, waving goodbye to the last minute, when I lose her sight, and then I wait a minute more and turn to go and catch the bus, bent, crying. I cry for hours on the bus. I get to Brighton and look at the sky, clear at last, and I think of the city, dirty and full of mad people, full of noisy, dangerous people, with no brass band, with nothing to hold on to. I go to bed and am crying, out of tiredness and more.
This morning I wake up confused and tired in the bones. I manage to do a pretty good lesson, all in all, although I feel I am not really here, my head is in a thick fog, and I am not well. I prepare tomorrow’s lesson, and something for Wednesday’s too, then I walk to the library, and I am so tired I almost fall asleep. Then a quick round at the gym, only 45 minutes, where I shock the personal trainer who sees that last week I did run 55 minutes…I know, I am full of surprises.
I catch my bus to come back home, and tidy the kitchen, eat some cheese and carrots, finally tidy my room. I am now in my bed, waiting for mum to call, and thinking.
I’ve just been on the chat with some guys from the band, who are supporting me in my decision to stay: career, and whatever.
My fogged mind can only think that I miss my mum and want to go home to be with her, and snuggle on the sofa while watching CSI, and Cold Case, and then go the cinema on Sunday, and go back to the quiet routine of Saturday chores and shopping, and walks and all that. It is so difficult.
Then I think, my master will start in 11 months. I could as well go back home, work for 6 months somewhere, then come back here for the summer (or somewhere else in England) as a TESOL teacher again, and move back here for the beginning of the master, which would be part-time, so I would still need my job at Sprach, which is why I would come here for the summer, so to keep my job from, say, April/May onwards. On the other hand, I have applied for two jobs, at the university library, part- and full-time. I hope to get either, really, because the part-time would be perfect to let me keep my teaching job, and the full time…well, full time, permanent, in a library? A dream coming true, nothing less. So both things would make me happy. Not that I have any hope, let’s face it. That is why I was thinking about going back home, but deciding it after the (possible) interview for these jobs, which would prove what a useless scam I am, and would seal my decision that home is the best place to be, because at least I would be useful for mum, comfort and help in the house and with her second job. That seems to be my only aim in life.
Of course, things would have been a lot more different if what happened in September hadn’t happened. Then I would have been my selfish me, I suppose, although it is not a side of my personality, which is why sometime I believe I have been punished for becoming so selfish all of a sudden, for thinking only of how happy I was, for the first time in my life. This makes me think, also, of how painful it is to be here, sometimes, especially when I am not in a good mood, and of how painful it is to just go around the university, or even around the lanes, sometimes, if I am not concentrating on daydreaming or (unsuccessfully) planning some lesson.
This morning, one of the teachers, the funny one, gave me a joking hug after he pretended to hit me with a book, since I was standing in front of the shelves again, daydreaming of something else. Told like this it sounds bad, but he is an incredibly funny guy, he really makes me laugh, and he’s affectionate, and I miss human contact. As always. I miss a good, real hug. England sucks, on this sort of things.
To cheer up before mum calls me, I am now watching some videos from a comedy programme I used to watch back home.
I need some time to think. Ian texted me this morning, and then called me tonight, sweet child. I would like to talk to him, and have to wait until he’s ready to meet me and have our usual talk, cup of tea, whatever. He brings me chocolate when he comes to visit. He’s nice and sweet. Sometimes, though, I get the idea that he behaves like this out of some guilty feeling towards me, for dragging me in Brighton and then dumping me like this, for hurting me like he did. Sometimes I feel I am this useless emotional burden he’s rather do without. Of course, I cannot tell him that. This is another taboo subject. My word, we are so alike, it takes my breath away.
So, one more time, I need time to concentrate, and try and work things out about my future. I guess my next post will be something like “pros and cons of Brighton life”…prepare.
Labels: depression, dreams and plans, mind and heart
posted by Peggy @ 9:13 PM
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