Normal/not normal

The trouble with being 7000 miles away from home and just as far out of my comfort zone is that it’s hard to tell whether I’m just lonely, homesick and exhausted, or whether I’m becoming ill again.

I think it’s the former. This was never going to be an easy or comfortable experience, and I knew I was going to find it tough.

I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s proving difficult. Even if I was 100 per cent well – and I know that, despite having been pretty much okay lately, I’m still not that full 100 per cent – it would have been a challenge.

I’m a homebody; I like my routines, I like the comfiness of everyday life, I like to be where things are familiar and I can take them at my own pace.

This is a beautiful place and the holiday has been full of unforgettable experiences, but it’s not home and it doesn’t feel like somewhere that ever could be home.

To be missing home is, I know, normal – and I can be homesick while still appreciating that this is the holiday of a lifetime.

What’s not normal is feeling like the threads of the rope keeping me out of the hole are gradually snapping.

It feels like more than ‘just’ homesickness; it feels all too much like a relapse creeping up on me.

In all honesty, I don’t think it is. I think if I can ride out the next 10 days and get back to normality, my mood will stabilise again.

I won’t be plagued with anxiety dreams every time I go to sleep.

I won’t need to take diazepam to get through the day.

I won’t lean over the 22nd floor balcony just a little too far and think, ‘What if…?’

Once I’m back home and back to normality, back to friends and church and routine, back to home comforts like my own kitchen and my hot tub and the things I like to watch on TV, I will be okay.

That’s what I need to keep in mind.

I’m doing this. I didn’t think I could do it, but I *am* doing it. Yes, it’s feeling harder by the day, but I’m holding it together – on the surface, at least.

I can do it for another 10 days.

And when I get home, if the dark feelings don’t lift, I can do something about it.

But for now, I need to tell myself I’m doing well. Enjoy the new experiences as much as I can. Take things one day, hour, minute at a time. Believe with all my heart that the feelings I’m having are natural and temporary – albeit exacerbated by my mental health – and that I can and will be okay again.

I might not be able to ‘pull myself together’ or ‘get a grip’ or ‘shake it off’ but I can try my hardest to breathe, wait, and trust that this isn’t the start of something bad, but rather, something to be proud of.

I’m facing my fears and doing it anyway. I may not have much choice about it, but I’m still doing it.

Halfway through

I’ll admit it: after nearly two weeks away from home, I’m struggling.

It feels so wrong to be miserable in paradise (and it really is; Surfers Paradise is just 5km along the road) but I am.

I got my medication issue sorted yesterday, thankfully, so there’s no cause for concern there any more (other than the fact that it’s cost me about £75, compared to the £8.60 it would have cost me to get my act together before leaving home).

But the past three days have been tough.

I feel sad. And I don’t know why.

On Sunday, we went to Hillsong and were part of the most uplifting service I’ve witnessed in probably 20 years. I had tears rolling down my face in parts.

Yesterday we drove to Byron Bay, the most easterly point of Australia, where we ate lunch in the most fantastic retro bistro, explored the hippy shops, swam in the sea and climbed to the lighthouse, from where we saw whales in the sea.

Today, we went on a whale-watching boat trip and saw five different whales at incredibly close ranging, diving and tail-slapping in front of us.

It was a humbling experience and left me full of awe for the majesty of God’s creation.

But I’m still sad and low and just not right.

I’m homesick. Really homesick. This is the longest we’ve been away from home in years, and I think I’m at my limit of time away.

I’m surrounded by people all the time but I’m lonely. I miss my friends so much. I don’t have anyone here who I can tell that I’m finding things hard. I miss L in particular, as she’s on holiday and so not wanting to chat over Messenger (and who could blame her, when she’s having a fantastic holiday with her other, better, sane and normal friends, for not wanting to speak to me?).

I feel grossly inadequate compared to all the sociable and beautiful people around me.

I’m desperate for some time and space but feel I should be making the most of every second, as we’ll most likely never do this again.

I’m exhausted, but as soon as I get to sleep the anxiety dreams kick in. They may be only dreams but when I wake in the morning, I feel beaten, battered.

The past two days, I’ve only got through thanks to diazepam. It’s taken the edge off my nerves but it doesn’t touch the sadness.

I know God is with me here, just as he is at home, but somehow he feels further away.

That’s the greatest sadness and loneliness of all.

 

Stupid me

Today I realised I’ve messed up in a big way.

I’ve come to Australia without enough meds.

I can see how I did it. I grabbed a packet of 28 tablets thinking it’d cover our time away, but without stopping to think that I’m on a mega-dose two a day.

Thank God I realised today, with time to fix it.

I can fix it. It’s going to cost me dearly; as it’s a pre-existing condition (and my own stupid mistake) I can’t claim on our insurance.

But it has to be done.

I hate it though. I hate being at the mercy of these tablets, that don’t just control my mood but will damn near kill me if I don’t withdraw from them properly.

I hate being this messed up freak of a woman, dependent on drugs to function.

Why am I like this? What is the matter with me, to make me so reliant on pharmaceuticals to survive?

I’d get it if it were a physical problem, but no. This is literally all in my mind.

How weak. How stupid. How pathetic.

I’ve not even missed a dose yet, but I feel awful tonight.

My SIL-2-B’s family and friends are lovely but I don’t belong. I thank the Lord for my Katie, who deflects attention away from me, because they’re all slim and gorgeous and perfect human beings.

It was okay when it was just us, just our family. They know what a car crash I am.

But this is too much.

I want to go home.

The first week

It’s a week (and a day) since we left the UK and it feels like far, far longer.

How’s it going, this trip-of-a-lifetime of six flights, two continents, five different places to stay, 11 family members and a wedding?

Well – mixed.

On balance, I think I’m coping better than I expected. I don’t have any desire whatsoever to pack it all in back home and move to Australia, but I can’t deny that it’s a fantastic place for a holiday.

Since leaving home, we’ve explored Singapore on foot and by train, swum in a proper tropical ocean, body-surfed in the Gold Coast sea, cuddled a koala and stroked kangaroos.

The apartments we’ve stayed in have been beautiful, particularly this one in Burleigh, with miles of golden sandy beach just across the road (and 22 storeys down).

The children have been amazing. Okay, they spent the latter part of the flight to Singapore vomiting in tandem, and of course, there’s been the usual bickering and silliness, but they’re doing us proud.

There have been no family arguments yet – except for between Ian and me. More of that later.

But it has been tough, too.

Eight days since leaving Heathrow, I’m feeling homesick. I’m missing my friends, my cat, my bed, my hot tub, my garden. I’m missing iPlayer and routine.

And while we’re enjoying good times with the family, it’s hard having to be ‘on’ and ‘up’ and energised all the time.

I’ve always needed time to myself, always, and it’s hard to get it when you’re on holiday with family and the children are so delighted to be with each other.

I don’t want to say no to them, but it’s kind of exhausting not having any ‘me’ space.

I’ve been trying to get it by staying up late in the evenings on my own, but then Ian gets cross with me – he says because he’s worried, but I think he just wants me to do what he wants me to do.

Do I feel depressed? No, not really. But I do feel extremely anxious and unsettled, and, at times, quite down. Stupid, when I’m lucky enough to be on holiday in paradise.

Tomorrow, the pressure steps up another notch. Wedding prep kicks in in earnest. New people to meet, new places to go. New experiences beyond my comfort zone.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m only being included out of a sense of duty. I don’t have my sister’s outgoing, gregarious nature; I can’t do smalltalk like she does. I find conversing with new people really tough.

Especially as I know I’m the black sheep of the family.

Everyone is being super tactful, but I know I’m the fat, scarred, ugly sister.

I feel bad for being vain, as I know God loves me in whatever shape or form, but it’s more than vanity. I’m ashamed. I’m ashamed of my weight, I’m ashamed of my appearance in the mirror whenever we get the lift down from our room, and above all, I’m ashamed of my scars.

Tomorrow, we meet the rest of the wedding party women, and I’m dreading it.

I can go through our holiday photos and edit or delete myself, but I can’t edit or delete the real me.

I’m so sharply aware of being the black sheep, the elephant in the room, and I know every would find it so much easier if I weren’t there.

But I am. So I’ll go along with it. I’ll wear a cardigan when I can stand the heat. I’ll hide from photographers. I’ll busy myself with the children so no one feels obliged to talk to me.

And I’ll keep reminding myself that in just two weeks’ time, I’ll be home, having survived something that even a month ago, I didn’t think I could do.

So this is it

After 18 months of denial, tomorrow we fly to Australia via Singapore to see my baby brother get married.

This is what I’m excited about: 

Flying in an A380.

Living in five star luxury in Singapore.

Swimming in a 29C sea.

Seeing where my brother lives.

Another sea swim, but ‘only’ 20C.

Holding a koala.

Whale watching.

Afternoon tea, Queensland style.

Meeting my lovely ex colleague.

My gorgeous girl being a bridesmaid.

Seeing my brother get married.

This is what I’m scared of:

Being away from home.

Having to be switched on and up all the time.

Being the fat ugly relative.

Showing my scars.

My children misbehaving.

Needing time out.

Family arguments that are all my fault.

Being under pressure.

Everyone being disappointed in me.

Photos.

Treading on eggshells and stepping on them by accident.

Being away from my friends.

Not coping.

Not having anyone to talk to.

Trying and failing to be an adult.

Getting too drunk.

Not getting drunk enough and falling apart.

Three weeks without church.

Being the oddball.

People walking on eggshells because of *me*

My cat leaving home.

The money I’m losing.

Me me me me me.

***

This is all so big and scary.

Please pray.