Fully Grown; A Reflection

I read my favourite poem today and realised that it not longer resonates with me.

The nervous, shy and desperate-for-love early 20 year old version of me is dated and worn now. I don’t laugh at the same things I used to, I don’t cry at the same things either. I listen to Taylor Swift and I feel her pain, not mine.

Two weeks ago I visited the place where my father grew up; a place full of violence, and bombings, and terrified school children running home. It felt like wading through mud that hasn’t been walked on before.

I stared at my grandmother’s house and it stared back at me. Looking at it’s darkened windows, too far away to see the furniture inside, I wondered how often the porch light gets turned on now. It’s unlike me to forget the colours of carpets or the position of the bed, but somehow all that got lost in my memory.

The things I remember are stored in far away places; the stench of raw meat, the red Mercedes in the garage, a Bible thrown at me in the living room at 9 years old. Some things are less grim; presents at christmas, knitted cardigans, my dad and I playing in the snow, toasties to break up the long drive home. These things remain framed in time, a lifetime of raised expectations and unbearable lows. In my worst nights I read about other people’s heartbreak and absorbed it like my own. In many ways I felt unlovable, thought I was destined to be somebody people forget, someone meant for another world.

Never did I imagine that people would believe in me, or that I would believe in myself.

The last time I visited that city was October 2009. I returned this year a new person, full of conscious happiness, full of love and hope, but most of all, forgiveness. We cannot pick what battles we are faced with, but we can find new ways to withstand them. Over the years I battled myself, fighting daily against the hurt and betrayal to turn it into something different. I fought my parents and their values, I fought for the sanity of my family and bandaged pieces of us back together. I learned what self preservation is, and taught it to those around me.

Once, detachment from things that validated my sadness would make me unhappier than I would be if I stayed with what hurt me. I’d look in the mirror and see no sense of self. Now, I look in the mirror and see someone who grew strong when it would be easier to fall apart, who doesn’t make excuses for her feelings or actions, and who doesn’t make excuses for others.

I became a woman who sees the past and can pinpoint where the hurt once resided, but no longer aches. In the art of forgiveness, the only way for me to move on was to accept there are some battles that need to be walked away from. It took a long time to learn that just because you can fight does not mean you should. The truth is still elusive to me; it floats in a reality I have yet to stumble into.

I never expected to learn the truth.

After all this time, I have made peace with this.

Finding Strength

I always knew there was something wrong with me. Something always felt ‘off’.

When I thought of the future, that picture never involved children. I’ve said before that I’m an only child, and people always found it strange that I have no inclination to have children. They’d say “People that are only children usually have loads of kids of their own!! You’ll change your mind when you’re older.” As I grew up, the feeling didn’t change. To me, it doesn’t make sense to have kids because it’s ‘the thing you do’. If the thought of having children makes you excited then by all means, have as many as you like! But, if that isn’t the way you feel, then surely having no children should be the default option.

Looking at it now, I didn’t (and don’t) picture my life without children because I simply didn’t want any – but I never felt as though I could have any. There was no logical explanation for this. No medical diagnoses, just a feeling. No one ever teaches girls about the way your body should feel. In school they don’t tell you about ‘normal’ menstrual cycles look like in reality. Yes, I learned about the menstrual cycle in biology, but I was never taught how to determine that something might be wrong.

I was 14 when I was first brought to the on-call doctor in the middle of the night. I could barely walk with the pain in my abdomen, the fetal position was the only position that helped with the pain. The doctor gave me an injection that acted as a muscle relaxant and a painkiller, and dismissed it as having bad cramps but on a scale comparable to labour contractions. That was the first time. This happened 3 more times over the course of a few years. Once, the injection didn’t work. I was crying in pain, doubled over, always worse pain on my right side. The doctors in A&E did an ultrasound and didn’t find anything, and I was sent home.

Going to school on my period was a nightmare. The pain would drain all the colour from my face, and I’d be no use to anyone. I exercised regularly, going to swimming, tennis, and tae-kwon-do every week. At 21, I went on birth control. The pill I was put on gave me instant cramps, and within a month I got an IUD. That wasn’t much better, even with a low dose hormone, I bled every day for a year, had awful cramps, bloating, abnormal toilet habits, heavy bleeding after sex, that same pain in my right side became a constant reminder of womanhood. For the first 2 years with the IUD, I got an infection every single month without fail. My doctor wouldn’t refer me to anyone when I mentioned all of these things, and so, it took years to get referred to a gynaecologist.

When I got my appointment, I really didn’t know what to expect. I drove to the hospital after a night swift at work and I honestly thought he would just recommend taking out the IUD. In my desperation, I was willing to try anything at all; if he wanted to take out the IUD, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Then an ultrasound showed up that my right ovary is polycystic. I went through my symptoms again, telling him that last year a gastroenterologist diagnosed me with IBS. The OB-GYN looked at me and said “You don’t have IBS, I’d bet money on it that this ovary is causing you all the pain, and that you have endometriosis on top of it all.”

Two weeks later, I went in for surgery. The doctor was right, I do have PCOS, and Endometriosis. He put in a different IUD, and I can walk, swim, and dance.  It’s been 3 weeks and the recovery process is still ongoing. I’m walking daily and slowly getting back into yoga, the gym, and the swimming pool. My insides still hurt, and my body is still adjusting to the new IUD. Each day there’s an improvement, I can stretch a little further and walk a little faster. All of the progress, I can feel. I lived so long without knowing my own body that I’m no longer afraid to vocalise what doesn’t feel right, and I urge anyone who’s reading this and recognises a part of themselves in this story; speak up, speak loud, and if something isn’t right, keep fighting until you are satisfied.

The pain I’d been living with had become completely normal for me over the years. I taught myself how to ignore signs, symptoms and abnormalities that other people seemed to be free from. Despite the long and winding road it took to get here, I am glad to have lived through this. It seems the road to freedom is one that takes unexpected turns, it tests your strength, forces you to put on your armour and pledge to see things through when fear is staring you down and tears are wetting your cheeks. I feel like I’ve been through the fight of my life, and the fight isn’t over yet.

Scenes From The Living Room

Tonight marks a historic day in Ireland. Over 1.4 million votes in favour of legislating for the termination of pregnancy and ending the illegality and restrictiveness that had been imposed beforehand. It was legislation that said women couldn’t get treatment for their own illnesses if they were pregnant, if it would harm the baby. It was a law that didn’t put the mother first. It was a law that wouldn’t allow intervention until there was a serious imminent threat to the life of the woman.

Two days ago I drove home from work and saw Together For Yes campaigners in the town. It was an emotional day for me as a woman of Ireland. I’ve never had children, but yet I started to tear up as I saw them standing with their signs, making one last bid to the public. I stopped the car to talk to them – to tell them that I would have loved to be a part of the campaigning, to tell them I stand with them, not against them. We all got very emotional.

The next day, I went to vote. I was the only person voting in the polling station at the time, there was an older woman with her ruler, marking off those that had already been here. I was the last person on that page to be crossed off, and it was only 3.05pm. Afterwards I drove to the beach and looked out onto the water, thinking of all the women who travelled to Liverpool and Manchester, who had to put their children up for adoption, who were put in mother and baby homes, who had their children forcibly adopted, who were shamed into silence. Thinking of all the men in those days who went unnamed, who lived life like nothing was different, whose family wasn’t the shame of the parish.

I thought to myself; At last.

The chatter between women here is hopeful. We look around at each other and see solidarity. We cry with strangers about it, we nod to those with badges and sweatshirts in the streets. We thank each other for showing up.

Tonight in the living room there’s a different atmosphere. The Vote No posters started to be taken down at 8am. All are gone by 5pm. A family member of mine was convinced that there would be another referendum, that this proposal would be ‘too extreme’ for the normal Irish person. Another told me openly that he “doesn’t trust women with a choice”. Tonight, I hear them shouting “They’re celebrating abortion!!!” “This is a disgrace” and “TAKE THE PILL” at the television. As if all run to get abortions without a second thought, as if all contraception works all of the time, as if life doesn’t force us to choose between two difficult options.

As if their opinion isn’t based off a biased, well off, religious, white man privilege.

Today Ireland recognised that everyone’s circumstance and needs are different. The country stood up for itself, for what its citizens believe in, for who they believe in. Ireland recognised that it truly is, different.

Supermarket Dilemmas: Lemons

Recently I was faced with the possibility of having two lemons for €2, or four for the same price. The difference? The two lemons came with no packaging, and the four were in netting that can’t be recycled.

As a woman on a budget wanting to get the best value possible, but also someone who cares deeply about the planet – what was I to do? It probably sounds like this is a pretty insignificant problem. Buy the four lemons for €2. It’s better value, who cares about the plastic it comes in? But is it actually better value? Is a monetary value more valuable than the environment of the planet we live on? If this was a once off thing, then sure, why not? But this problem isn’t just about lemons. It’s much bigger than you or I can even imagine. Plastic and non-recyclable goods are everywhere. We’re told that plastic can be recycled, but not all of it can. In fact, only about 9% of the plastic we use can be recycled.

The oceans are filling up with plastic, . The fish we eat, eat the plastic we can’t (or won’t) dispose of. It’s no secret that the Great Barrier Reef is dying out. We ruin things around us with plastic and chemicals, and so too ruin ourselves.

I remember a campaign run in Ireland in the early 2000’s about recycling and litter. A huge effort was put into getting people to dispose of their rubbish in a sustainable way and clean up the environment at the same time.I think the reason for the huge uptake of recycling comes from the fact that recycling was a whole new concept in the country. It was something that people could use to boost their ego and their contribution to society. It brought the country back to the basics that we all know: Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. For a long time it worked. The road sides were immaculate, free from fast food cartons, bottles, and bags of trash. People used their recycling bins and felt good about helping the planet. We thought every kind of plastic was recyclable! Our towns were tidier, our country greener, we were in the peak of the Celtic Tiger and never thought it would end.

There were other initiatives too; in our local supermarket, there was a water machine where you brought your own bottles and filled them with clean water. In our house, we saved ourselves from buying single use water bottles because of that machine. Unfortunately that venture was short lived; people decided to drink their tap water instead (probably because you had to pay for the water from the machine). We installed a new tap with a water filter in our kitchen, eliminating the need for water from elsewhere.

But now, despite it all, the decision of whether to buy pre-packed lemons or not weighs heavy on my mind. I look at the vast amount of plastic that cannot be put into the recycling bin and I wonder where it all went wrong. Whose failure is it? Ours, as consumers? The food industry? We are all to blame, for not pushing for sustainable packaging, for outsourcing our problems to countries around the world, for not caring until the issue reaches crisis levels (and beyond) where fish are dying, where plastics are infiltrating our water and our food.

I’m glad to say that I bought the loose lemons, and will continue to buy loose produce where I can. I own a glass water bottle that I fill before I leave in the morning and don’t use straws with my drinks. Luckily I don’t like hot drinks and so rarely have to buy disposable drink cups. I’ve found that these small changes really add up – especially the reusable water bottle. I drink about 2 litres of water a day from this bottle and honestly couldn’t tell you how many plastic bottles I’ve not needed because of it.

There’s a misconception that reducing plastic waste is difficult and time consuming, but honestly it just takes practice and a little conscious effort. Sometimes it does mean paying a little more for products in the supermarket, but small changes do add up. For example, if everyone only bought loose lemons, supermarkets would no longer have a demand for pre-packaged ones, and would ultimately no longer sell them.

Small changes add up. If you do something you deem insignificant, and other people do that small thing too, it no longer becomes insignificant.  It becomes powerful.

 

 

Meandering Through Life

When I was a child, my family travelled a lot. So it’s come to be that there are many places I call home. Ireland is a small country, which you’ll likely know if you’ve ever been; it takes just 6 hours to drive from the south to the very north. As I was growing up, I travelled that road with my parents every Friday afternoon, and again on Sunday’s to be back in time for school. I could name every single town on the way from my house to Derry city. I knew the time between towns, and had landmarks that told me where we were and how long it would be before we could stop for a toasted sandwich. I knew the border checkpoints and that when they would hear my father’s accent, their gaze would soften, just a little. Our southern car didn’t stand out as much after my father spoke.

We were never hear nor there, forever in the midst of coming and going, and happy to be like that. By the time I reached 21, I’d visited 4 continents, which became 5 in 2018. Back in 2012, I started university 4 hours from home (7 hours on the bus), where narrow back roads had us hoping we couldn’t get stuck behind a tractor where there’s no room for overtaking.  Life has been like that for some time now; wondering if there’ll be a blockage up ahead but still going 120km per hour regardless.

I learned to love the road and the spaces between places. On holidays, hotels became home, making my parents confused when I asked “When are we going home?”, meaning “When are we going back to the hotel?”, not “When were we getting on a plane back to Ireland?” When I left for university, my mother reprimanded me constantly for saying I was “on the way back home to the apartment”, because to her, home is where your roots are. Perhaps my roots are more easily dug up than hers.

There comes a point where it’s easy to pack up and move. I know what to pack and how much space it takes up in the car. But what I never imagined is the loneliness that comes with not being able to stay in one place for more than a year. As an only child, I was raised to be independent. When I was 7, my parents and I were on holiday in Florida and I remember going to look at Barbie dolls in a shop, alone, but with a walkie-talkie in my hand. I remember staring at the rows of dolls and being in awe of it all, and then radioing my mother to ask if I could buy one. When I think back to the places I’ve been over the years, although they’ve been absolutely incredible, that pang of loneliness doesn’t get forgotten, particularly in my younger years. Now it’s morphed into a different kind of loneliness, one where independence mixes with solitude. Over time this has come to mean that I’ve found it more difficult to make lasting friendships with each new place I move to.

When I went back to university for my senior year (I took a year out before the start of my final year), I made very few new friends. I lived in the library and got a 4.0 GPA, but not without a cost. Unfortunately that cost was a social one. On my graduation day, I knew one other person out of 300. That was partly due to the fact that the people I did know were graduating on different days than I. Even still, I didn’t know anyone well enough to be able to get lunch with them. It simply wasn’t a priority for me.

So here I am in my new apartment having had my inaugural trip to Ikea, sitting around boxes yet to be unpacked, groceries in the fridge, and this time things will be different.

It’s taken some time but I’ve come to realise, being independent means living all aspects of your life, not just those you think are the most important. Life is no longer about surviving. It’s about growth and nurturing each aspect of yourself, and ultimately finding a balance between comings and goings of people and places.

My roots may be shallow, but this ground looks promising.

The Intertwining of The Personal and The Political

Have I always been this political? It’s a question I ask myself almost daily at this stage. Between Neo-liberal erosion of workers rights, to the repeal the 8th campaign, I find myself in an increasingly political world. Ireland, and the world, have always been political, but the idea of ‘the political’ never intertwined with ‘the personal’ in such complex ways.

What I mean by this is that politics has always divided people; take Ireland for example, a political war raged for much of the 1900’s, even to this day it still exists in a much more peaceful manner. Geopolitics and religion are two of the main drivers of this civil war. People liked or hated each other according to what they believed in, whether they support the queen or not, and what church they go to. Nowadays, the parameters for determining whether you stand with or against someone is based on the value you place on their decisions.

If you’ve ever seen the tv program The Good Place, you’ll see where I’m going with this. People can’t be packaged and neatly wrapped with a bow as either ‘good’ or ‘bad’, we’re complex beings with endless personality types, choices, and find ourselves in situations we never could have imagined. Of course, these differences lead to conflict, but what I’ve noticed increasingly in recent years is a polarisation of ideas and exclusion of particular opinions and individuals. It’s a shunning of anyone with a different worldview;  beliefs, opinions, thoughts, actions are political in a way they have never been before.

This is worrying because it shuts off all dialogue between people of different viewpoints, perpetuating the cycle further. People then become even more steadfast in their beliefs, as they feel attacked when challenged, making them less likely to want to engage in dialogue in the first place. If society continues like this, in ten, twenty, sixty years, where will we be? Will we interact at all with people of different opinions than us? Will we identify people ‘like us’ with a symbol, or associate the ‘other’ with certain areas in cities, or the world? What’s really troubling is the fact that this isn’t too far-fetched. It’s definitely in the realm of possibility, and with the filter bubbles we’re surrounded by (whether we know it or not), if we don’t begin to engage with people we disagree with, challenging our own views, and theirs, society will never learn.

I’m no stranger to my own filter-bubble, I’m acutely aware of it at the best of times. I know that what I look at online, what newspapers I look at, reinforce the beliefs I have. It’s important to remember that we’re all human, with strengths, vices, and differing points of view. For me, the solution boils down to two things; kindness and compassion. Although politics has become a factor of my daily life, I enjoy the challenges it brings and the unexpected places it take me.

So my words of advice are this; keep challenging yourself, attempting to understand others, and keep your mind open to new ideas, people, and ways of doing things.