If It’s Monday this must be Lucea

You might be wondering where I’ve been and what the hell I’ve been up to. I’ve been wondering that myself. My absence from this space hasn’t so much been a lack of things to talk about as feelings of uncertainty “am I allowed to talk about that?”. I will say that the confidential nature of my job isn’t exactly conducive to a personal blog, especially when most of the things I want to talk about are not always ‘fitting’ for ‘doctors’ to talk about, and I feel like my insignificant opinions carry more weight now. Self-censorship is hard to get over.

But I’m back. Because I feel as if I will burst if I do not write or yell something into the void. More catharsis than infomercial, this writing for me is therapeutic and I ask that you allow me the space to untangle my wrapped-up tied-up experiences.

My life these days is a delicate balance of work and school and relationships. Adulthood has a lot to do with balance, and I tend to measure my success as an adult by how well or how poorly I keep all these balls in the air. (Spoiler alert: I do not juggle well).

Moving up the career ladder from Senior House Officer to Medical Officer came with a new batch of responsibilities. This might seem logical to you, but I was wholly unprepared for later working hours, deadlines, reports and programme coordination; getting a new clinic off the ground, meetings with international stakeholders and the subsuming world of regional politics. It’s more than a mouthful, but it’s work that I’m excited about: making an impact on patients’ lives, experiencing infrastructural issues firsthand, being in a position to effect change, however minimal. I feel like I’m laying the foundations for the rest of my career so even though the building blocks might be heavy this groundwork will pave the way for something glorious. I hope.

In the same breath, I have been lucky enough to get a scholarship for an online Diploma programme taught by UWI St. Augustine. It’s a year long programme in the Clinical Management of HIV (an area I have grown very attached to) and I am in month two. I am discovering never before seen time management skills. They’re still new, like a foal on wobbly legs, but I haven’t missed a deadline yet which means progress. Yay, personal growth.

But like any of those ‘pick two’ triangles, one side just can’t seem to fit in with the rest.

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My grandmother likes to complain about, among other things, the way I seem to be too busy to spend time with her. To my credit as a granddaughter I only screen about 10% of her calls and I see her almost weekly but I’ve noticed that parents and grandparents get more sentimental as they get older. I also missed my best friend’s birthday because I forgot to account for time zone differences and I haven’t seen my other close friend in months because of our crazy schedules (she’s a new mom and I work in a different parish). The point is that balance gets harder as you get older, and if like me you didn’t have much practice before it will take a lot of stretching to get it right.

I’m not including moving house and furnishing a new apartment, keeping my cat happy, maintaining a healthy relationship with my partner, trying not to kill the houseplants or my second and third jobs in the hospital and elsewhere because that’s another mouthful. It gets stressful and frustrating and I’m constantly questioning whether I’m making the right choices. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, especially with all the background noise of the rest of the country and the wider world. Violence, bullying and bigotry seem to be run of the mill these days but I still have to follow through on the paths I choose to tread.

Of course there are times when I drop the ball, when I miss the mark for perfect daughter/partner/colleague, times when I have to say no for my sanity instead of saying yes for a million other reasons and the negative self-talk threatens to drown me in tears. But I am learning that adulthood, at least for me, means walking on these wobbly legs until I’m strong enough to gallop in the direction of my dreams.

 

Getting Okay with Being Happy

There are two tragedies in life. One is not getting what one wants and the other is getting it.
-Oscar Wilde

Does anyone else find that they are most miserable when they finally get what they want? I’m not talking about the feeling of almost-but-not-quite-satisfaction when you have nothing else to wish for (and come on, we’re human beings. There will always be something else to wish for). I mean the other feeling. The feeling that there’s something wrong with you being happy.

Am I crazy? Yes. Am I alone in my craziness? I really hope not.

My life has been coming together in a way that is entirely surprising and entirely unfamiliar to me. So far everything is on track (I am knocking on ALL the wood, universe): my career, my personal life, my finances. And I’m a little bit (okay, a lot) baffled by how coordinated it all seems. Granted, on the inside I’m still a wibbling mess trying to pass off as an adult. But on the outside and in the big picture things look kinda sorta maybe okay.

And that freaks me the hell out. Instead of enjoying the good times while they’re here I am anxiously waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the storm after the calm. When will this all be dragged away from me, I wonder frantically. How long can happiness be mine??

As if there’s something inherently wrong with me being happy. As if the universe in some way needs to balance out this time of contentment with an equally horrible tragedy. When in reality no one is taking stock of the good times to balance them out with bad, and for God’s sake what is so wrong with being happy?

Freud blames my parents. I blame the messed up way my mind works sometimes, tricking me into thinking that I’m only doing well if I’m suffering. Why do our brains lie to us? Is there some magic way to stop the lies, or at least ignore them?

Maybe the only answer is the daily reminder to be gentle with myself, and appreciate each moment as it happens. Which is a good enough answer for me.

Why Grown Ups are Really Growin’ Ups

If there are two things I’ve learnt from crossing the threshold into adulthood, they are:

1. That no one is ever quite sure what they’re doing with this life thing and
2. That no one is ever quite sure whether or not they’re doing it right.

Certainly some people are closer to their median of happiness than others – it’s an imperfect world – but for the most part we’re all plodding along in the vicinity of fair-to-middling.

And there’s nothing wrong with that! The only problem is our unrealistic expectations of being an adult. I remember thinking as a much younger Robyn that when I grew up, I’d have it all figured out (and I’d be a wildly successful journalist). Now I’m ‘grown up’ and I am no closer to figuring ANYTHING out than I was at that age. My priorities have changed, sure, and I’m a lot less prone to teenage angst but I haven’t yet achieved the kind of self-assured calm I always assumed came with the territory of grown-upness. Which made me wonder what ‘grown up’ even means.

And this is what I think:

Growing up means exercising our power to change the world, one gut-wrenching mistake and one amazing success at a time. It includes exercising the ability to adapt to the consequences of our actions and inaction.

That sounds kinda mature, I guess. It sounds hard. And it sounds like something you keep doing for a really long time. I suppose I can get rid of the idea that we cross some kind of kiddy finish line one day and get our Grown Up Medal. This isn’t like graduating to training diapers. There is a process at work here and we’re all at different stages.

So there is always room for growth.

image is mine

{28} I know I’m getting Older when…

..when I start actually thinking about getting older.

Just last Saturday when I was on break at dance class, I happened across the group of younger dancers hiding out in a spare room. They were occupied with play-doh and their own innocent world of magic, and when I entered everybody stopped talking. It was like a grown-up had walked in. When I asked them if I could see what they were up to, I got a resounding NO.

I remember the days when kids that age would have loved me. Would have loved playing with me and making up silly stories, and making me plaster on play-doh fingernails, too. Not so any more. It’s like I’ve crossed an invisible line into grown-up land. Like I’ve lost that aura of youth which is so obvious to little children. I am not one of ‘us’ anymore, I’m one of ‘them’.

But strangely, growing up isn’t as dramatically devastating as I expected it to be. Without fanfare, without recognition, I’ve passed quietly from the world of playmate into the realm of caretaker. Not a friend, but a mentor.

It’s a sobering thought, that I can’t stop this getting older business, that it’s happening even if I don’t want it to. But, even stranger, I’m not sure I want it to stop.