This morning as the alarm went off I groaned and hit snooze. "Thank goodness it’s Friday", I thought as I clung to the lingering bliss of sleep. Nothing is ever as comfortable as bed first thing in the morning as you try to get up. Nothing is as painful either.
And somewhere, in amidst the pain of waking and the dread of the second tinny alarm chorus going off, I realized. Fridays have become Fridays again. Lie-ins have resumed their hallowed status of something-to-be-treasured rather than just a way to make the day shorter. Already I’m looking back on the past 3 months of lazy wake-ups and am kicking myself for not relishing it while I had the chance.
You know what this means, right? Normality is reasserting itself, in all its tiredness inducing strength.
Weirdly, I think Friday becoming Friday is the most progress I’ve made so far and although I felt deep regret on leaving my bed this morning, it felt like a significant achievement (the having a reason to get up rather than the getting up…although that was brutal, so that counts too). I’m a little apprehensive about Monday becoming Monday, but as I’ve only signed up to volunteer 3 days a week, I have a little while to gingerly ease myself back into the unwelcoming waters of early mornings. Meanwhile, tomorrow is my first Saturday since December.
Hello Life, my name is Hannah.
Honeymoon Dungeon
This week the Atlantic got bigger. 5 days bigger to be exact, because that's how long it now takes to cross it - and that's if you go in a freight carrier, it's 7 days if you go by cruise (although granted much more enjoyable).
I didn't even know Iceland had a volcano until Friday and now it's upping my feelings of displacement and I'm feeling the distance acutely. When England is a 7 hour flight away I can kid myself it's easily accessible - should disaster strike I could be home within a day - unless the disaster is a volcano apparently...
Offsetting this Atlantic expansion are the English accents in mydungeon basement.
No, I didn't go out and kidnap English people to quell my homesickness. As of yesterday, Jeremy and I are hosts to a stranded British couple (known vaguely to me and not at all to Jeremy) who are currently wishing they'd chosen Bogner-Regis rather than Boston for their honeymoon (I don't actually know if Bogner Regis is a nasty place, from its name I just assume it is a giant toilet-by-the-sea).
So while they phone Virgin Atlantic every 5 minutes and debate the merits of building a raft to sail back home, I am taking solace from once more being around people who put milk in their tea and mind their Ps and Qs. People who understand what I mean by 'mind their Ps and Qs' - not because it's a phrase used all that often in England but because they most likely grew up reading Famous Five. People who know what Famous Five is, and who need it explaining that broil means grill and grill means BBQ and BBQ means something we don't really have in England but it's really yummy.
Around these people I make sense (or at least more sense than I make around Americans), and I am even able act as translator, making me feel slightly more adept at this country at the same time. So while the volcano has widened the Atlantic to unacceptable proportions, it has also brought with it a welcome sound of home. I'll forgive it for now - provided it stops with the ash spewing by August, because if it gets in the way of me andmy our wedding I'll probably do a little erupting myself.
I didn't even know Iceland had a volcano until Friday and now it's upping my feelings of displacement and I'm feeling the distance acutely. When England is a 7 hour flight away I can kid myself it's easily accessible - should disaster strike I could be home within a day - unless the disaster is a volcano apparently...
Offsetting this Atlantic expansion are the English accents in my
No, I didn't go out and kidnap English people to quell my homesickness. As of yesterday, Jeremy and I are hosts to a stranded British couple (known vaguely to me and not at all to Jeremy) who are currently wishing they'd chosen Bogner-Regis rather than Boston for their honeymoon (I don't actually know if Bogner Regis is a nasty place, from its name I just assume it is a giant toilet-by-the-sea).
So while they phone Virgin Atlantic every 5 minutes and debate the merits of building a raft to sail back home, I am taking solace from once more being around people who put milk in their tea and mind their Ps and Qs. People who understand what I mean by 'mind their Ps and Qs' - not because it's a phrase used all that often in England but because they most likely grew up reading Famous Five. People who know what Famous Five is, and who need it explaining that broil means grill and grill means BBQ and BBQ means something we don't really have in England but it's really yummy.
Around these people I make sense (or at least more sense than I make around Americans), and I am even able act as translator, making me feel slightly more adept at this country at the same time. So while the volcano has widened the Atlantic to unacceptable proportions, it has also brought with it a welcome sound of home. I'll forgive it for now - provided it stops with the ash spewing by August, because if it gets in the way of me and
The scent of spring...
I feel like England in spring time smells crisp. The bite of chill is still in the air and there's an occasional sweet sharp whiff of cut grass or daffodils. I associate it with fairy liquid (no, not me being fantastical - it's a brand of dish-soap) and promise, tentative washing being hung out to dry.
Here the prevailing smell seems to be of mud, with the odd sniff of cat-piss. And yet it's not altogether unpleasant.
Let me explain...
The mud smell has two sources. Firstly, the bank-burst-rivers and temporary-lakes are receding, leaving behind them sodden gasping sludge which is slowly drying and emitting a dank damp dark smell as it does. Since March was the rainiest March on record ever, I'm not sure I can say that this smell equals Spring to Americans, but it will be forever associated in my mind with my first Spring in Boston.
The second source is more generalizable and that is the smell of mulch. Mulch is basically mushed (or mulched) up grass, bark, compost, leaves etc that is placed over soil in gardens. Apparently it protects the soil and stops weeds from growing. Americans use it all over the place and it has the curious effect of making everything look like it's just been planted. The smell of mulch is everywhere - rich, smokey, deep and earthy, signaling that life can come out of hibernation and things can reattempt to grow without the threat of ice and snow. It seems here, you know it's spring when your neighbour decides to unwrap her shrubs from the sack-cloth-blankets they've been covered in all winter and the air suddenly smells of smoke and earth.
Surprisingly, the cat-piss element of the spring bouquet comes from blossom trees that line the streets. The trees are so beautiful that I think I can bear the smell. It does add an interesting and slightly unsettling layer to the wafting scents around here though.
So, the smell of spring. Not quite what you might expect, but strangely appropriate given the rich heady heaviness of summer in this part of the world. The smells of mud and pee herald sunshine and warmth. Who'd have known?
Here the prevailing smell seems to be of mud, with the odd sniff of cat-piss. And yet it's not altogether unpleasant.
Let me explain...
The mud smell has two sources. Firstly, the bank-burst-rivers and temporary-lakes are receding, leaving behind them sodden gasping sludge which is slowly drying and emitting a dank damp dark smell as it does. Since March was the rainiest March on record ever, I'm not sure I can say that this smell equals Spring to Americans, but it will be forever associated in my mind with my first Spring in Boston.
The second source is more generalizable and that is the smell of mulch. Mulch is basically mushed (or mulched) up grass, bark, compost, leaves etc that is placed over soil in gardens. Apparently it protects the soil and stops weeds from growing. Americans use it all over the place and it has the curious effect of making everything look like it's just been planted. The smell of mulch is everywhere - rich, smokey, deep and earthy, signaling that life can come out of hibernation and things can reattempt to grow without the threat of ice and snow. It seems here, you know it's spring when your neighbour decides to unwrap her shrubs from the sack-cloth-blankets they've been covered in all winter and the air suddenly smells of smoke and earth.
Surprisingly, the cat-piss element of the spring bouquet comes from blossom trees that line the streets. The trees are so beautiful that I think I can bear the smell. It does add an interesting and slightly unsettling layer to the wafting scents around here though.
So, the smell of spring. Not quite what you might expect, but strangely appropriate given the rich heady heaviness of summer in this part of the world. The smells of mud and pee herald sunshine and warmth. Who'd have known?
More on homesickness
Not looking to worry anyone - generally I'm doing ok. But I find the phenomenon of homesickness interesting and it helps me to unpick the emotions so that I better understand them and am better prepared to stay strong when they hit - know thine enemy and all that...
I realised this week that my last post on homesickness only told half the story - the crying, moping, all-encompassing-glooming side. But sometimes, homesickness expresses itself in inexplicable rage and frustration. Sure there is still crying (when is there not?!) but the tears are bitter and it's less easily solved with a hug - mostly because I'm likely to punch the hugger.
The anger comes from an intense frustration at my self-perceived inadequacy and awkwardness. Angry because all the feelings of not-fitting, of loneliness and longing - of feeling like a shadow just following Jeremy around in his life - are just not me and I know that elsewhere there's a place where I feel bright and likeable and socially graceful (this may be self delusion, but it feels that way ok?!). I want to scream sometimes that 'this is not me' - this quiet shy shadow is not me. Most of the time I can push past the urge to introvert and force myself out in the open, and when I do I'm able to laugh and joke and forget my difference, but just the effort of having to do this angers me at times.
In these moments - where I feel so intensely out-of-place and so angry at this displacement when there's a place across the ocean where I truly belong - I become inarticulate and basically adopt the tactics of a small child when faced with total and utter powerlessness. I haven't yet laid down and thumped the floor but I'm pretty sure my face does go a shade near purple and feet have most definitely been stomped.
(I should make it clear here that all of the stomping is done in private and mostly inside my head. I'm not busy having temper tantrums in the middle of the street - Jeremy is the only witness and I'm so thankful that he recognises my rage as frustration and gives me the grace and space I need to calm and clear.)
There's nothing to be done but to be brave and get through this stage. If we work on the basis that the process of change is similar to the grief cycle, I figure that acceptance is just around the corner...right? (Although I have a feeling the process is not linear and these stages will reassert themselves a few times over.) In the meantime, understanding reasons behind why I want to scream sometimes means that I can move beyond behaving like a 5 year old.
Use your words Hannah, use your words.
I realised this week that my last post on homesickness only told half the story - the crying, moping, all-encompassing-glooming side. But sometimes, homesickness expresses itself in inexplicable rage and frustration. Sure there is still crying (when is there not?!) but the tears are bitter and it's less easily solved with a hug - mostly because I'm likely to punch the hugger.
The anger comes from an intense frustration at my self-perceived inadequacy and awkwardness. Angry because all the feelings of not-fitting, of loneliness and longing - of feeling like a shadow just following Jeremy around in his life - are just not me and I know that elsewhere there's a place where I feel bright and likeable and socially graceful (this may be self delusion, but it feels that way ok?!). I want to scream sometimes that 'this is not me' - this quiet shy shadow is not me. Most of the time I can push past the urge to introvert and force myself out in the open, and when I do I'm able to laugh and joke and forget my difference, but just the effort of having to do this angers me at times.
In these moments - where I feel so intensely out-of-place and so angry at this displacement when there's a place across the ocean where I truly belong - I become inarticulate and basically adopt the tactics of a small child when faced with total and utter powerlessness. I haven't yet laid down and thumped the floor but I'm pretty sure my face does go a shade near purple and feet have most definitely been stomped.
(I should make it clear here that all of the stomping is done in private and mostly inside my head. I'm not busy having temper tantrums in the middle of the street - Jeremy is the only witness and I'm so thankful that he recognises my rage as frustration and gives me the grace and space I need to calm and clear.)
There's nothing to be done but to be brave and get through this stage. If we work on the basis that the process of change is similar to the grief cycle, I figure that acceptance is just around the corner...right? (Although I have a feeling the process is not linear and these stages will reassert themselves a few times over.) In the meantime, understanding reasons behind why I want to scream sometimes means that I can move beyond behaving like a 5 year old.
Use your words Hannah, use your words.
Two American things...
1. The amount of choice here never fails to overwhelm and baffle me. Something as simple as ordering a sandwich prompts about 100 questions. Type of bread? type of cheese? you want pickles? tomatoes? peppers? They often don't even suggest combination fillings, assuming (wrongly in my case) that you know exactly what you want and have the imagination to conjure up a sandwich. I miss Pret with its pre packaged, pre-chosen, no surprises (other than the odd sneaky addition of celery salt) sandwiches.
Yesterday I was in a cafeteria, full of the hubbub of choice and I, being a wuss and unwilling to betray myself as one-who-does-not-understand-the-system-and-isn't-brave-enough-to-admit-it, gravitated towards some ready-made unappetizing-but-apparently-unthreatening wraps. But when I asked for a 'veggie wrap', thinking I'd foiled the choice-filled system, I was asked which veggie wrap I would like. There's more than one kind? I said in a panic, flailing around and looking very confused until a kindly woman behind me pointed out that the bread-wrappings of the wraps were different colours. Oh, America.
2. Yesterday I went with a friend to watch her 6 year old play ice hockey. Yup, UKers, I said 6 year old. To us mild-climate people, that's like a 6 year old playing polo, which possibly happens but it sounds improbable.
The kids were all kitted out in so much body armour they wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval battle field. The armour, which initially looked a little excessive, turned out to be fairly key since the kids fell over all the time. Don't get me wrong, they were amazing and I wouldn't have a chance of staying upright and racing on ice after a puck while holding a stick, but they fell over a lot. Some of them seemed to use falling over as a tactical technique to trip up the other players or to push the puck towards the goal. It was pretty comical, until I remembered they were 6, but they didn't seem to mind much. Anyway, I was very impressed, and actually think that children's ice-hockey is far more entertaining than professional hockey 'cause no matter what's happening, no matter how inevitable a goal seems, it could all change in a split second as they can always (and generally do) fall over.
Yesterday I was in a cafeteria, full of the hubbub of choice and I, being a wuss and unwilling to betray myself as one-who-does-not-understand-the-system-and-isn't-brave-enough-to-admit-it, gravitated towards some ready-made unappetizing-but-apparently-unthreatening wraps. But when I asked for a 'veggie wrap', thinking I'd foiled the choice-filled system, I was asked which veggie wrap I would like. There's more than one kind? I said in a panic, flailing around and looking very confused until a kindly woman behind me pointed out that the bread-wrappings of the wraps were different colours. Oh, America.
2. Yesterday I went with a friend to watch her 6 year old play ice hockey. Yup, UKers, I said 6 year old. To us mild-climate people, that's like a 6 year old playing polo, which possibly happens but it sounds improbable.
The kids were all kitted out in so much body armour they wouldn't have looked out of place on a medieval battle field. The armour, which initially looked a little excessive, turned out to be fairly key since the kids fell over all the time. Don't get me wrong, they were amazing and I wouldn't have a chance of staying upright and racing on ice after a puck while holding a stick, but they fell over a lot. Some of them seemed to use falling over as a tactical technique to trip up the other players or to push the puck towards the goal. It was pretty comical, until I remembered they were 6, but they didn't seem to mind much. Anyway, I was very impressed, and actually think that children's ice-hockey is far more entertaining than professional hockey 'cause no matter what's happening, no matter how inevitable a goal seems, it could all change in a split second as they can always (and generally do) fall over.
Homesickness
I'm not feeling particularly homesick right now, so I figure now is a good time to write about it. I can't write when the homesickmist descends - at those times I don't think I could attach words to the feeling - they'd slip off and meld in with the grey and gloopy gloom.
Homesickness is one of those terms which means nothing unless you experience it. Heart-break is another, along with love-lorn and green-with-envy. A special class of cliches which suddenly break into 3D given the glasses of experience - much less pretty and much more heart-wrenching (oops, there's another) than Avatar.
In fact, I think it's hard to talk about one cliche without employing multiple others - so that ultimately you only talk to a select group of people who have had a cliched experience...of course the fact that they're cliches means that applies to a majority of people, so that doesn't limit the communication too much.
The closest thing I've experienced to homesickness is heartbreak. I suppose it is heart-break in a way. A grief for loss of 'home' - of familiarity and the people who reinforce our identity. We spend so much of our lives trying to stand out, to be different, notable, extraordinary. With homesickness I find myself longing to be ordinary - to speak without immediately distinguishing myself as 'different', to be part of the crowd, to be sure of how things work and where I fit within them.
The other similarity between homesickness and heartbreak is the tendency for it to hit you out of nowhere. I'll be happy - cooking or cleaning or joking around - and then out of nowhere I'll feel entirely flattened, the air sucked out of me (these cliches are unavoidable it seems) and I'll want to sit on the floor and cry.
Jeremy is getting used to these sudden swings of mood. Generally all I need is a hug to give me the strength to push back the gloopy-gloom and resume the happy. But the way it swoops in from nowhere means I never feel completely safe - like sleeping with one eye open for danger - I'm waiting for the day when I fully close my eyes and feel at home in the moment. I'm scared of that day too - because does that mean that I've forgotten 'home' - that I've switched my allegiances and betrayed my history? Or will it just be that I've transferred what 'home' means onto Jeremy and the family unit that is 'us'?
The latter doesn't make me want to cry, so I'll go with that.
Homesickness is one of those terms which means nothing unless you experience it. Heart-break is another, along with love-lorn and green-with-envy. A special class of cliches which suddenly break into 3D given the glasses of experience - much less pretty and much more heart-wrenching (oops, there's another) than Avatar.
In fact, I think it's hard to talk about one cliche without employing multiple others - so that ultimately you only talk to a select group of people who have had a cliched experience...of course the fact that they're cliches means that applies to a majority of people, so that doesn't limit the communication too much.
The closest thing I've experienced to homesickness is heartbreak. I suppose it is heart-break in a way. A grief for loss of 'home' - of familiarity and the people who reinforce our identity. We spend so much of our lives trying to stand out, to be different, notable, extraordinary. With homesickness I find myself longing to be ordinary - to speak without immediately distinguishing myself as 'different', to be part of the crowd, to be sure of how things work and where I fit within them.
The other similarity between homesickness and heartbreak is the tendency for it to hit you out of nowhere. I'll be happy - cooking or cleaning or joking around - and then out of nowhere I'll feel entirely flattened, the air sucked out of me (these cliches are unavoidable it seems) and I'll want to sit on the floor and cry.
Jeremy is getting used to these sudden swings of mood. Generally all I need is a hug to give me the strength to push back the gloopy-gloom and resume the happy. But the way it swoops in from nowhere means I never feel completely safe - like sleeping with one eye open for danger - I'm waiting for the day when I fully close my eyes and feel at home in the moment. I'm scared of that day too - because does that mean that I've forgotten 'home' - that I've switched my allegiances and betrayed my history? Or will it just be that I've transferred what 'home' means onto Jeremy and the family unit that is 'us'?
The latter doesn't make me want to cry, so I'll go with that.
1 month (and a bit) on
In the past month (and a few days) I have (in no particular order):
- moved countries
- got married
- had at least 2 panic attacks
- cried uncontrollably about 3 times (and somewhat controllably a bunch of other times),
- broken my laptop (responsible for at least 2 of the 3 times),
- terrified Jeremy into fixing my laptop (by crying),
- said goodbye to my mum (more crying),
- read 3 very good books (shout out to William Boyd for 'Any Human Heart' - brilliant),
- opened but not read the drivers manual approximately once a day,
- baked brownies, lemon drizzle cake and cheese scones,
- got a social security number
- opened a bank account
- moaned enough about the lack of decent chocolate in America that at least 3 people have sent me chocolate in the post,
- acquired a mobile phone
- been running out of sheer boredom,
- considered applying to do a PhD as an easier way to meet people and make friends,
- signed up for a volunteering opportunity,
- eaten my weight in Jelly Belly,
- got myself hooked on private practice and flashforward (thanks hulu)
- slept for over 11 hours on multiple occasions,
- come to terms with having a very different surname
- reorganised most of the cupboards in the apartment,
- sent off visa forms,
- joined the library
- nearly engaged in a fist fight with a doctor about visa forms,
- suppressed the urge 10 times a day to throw Jeremy's very loud ticking clock out the window into oncoming traffic
- mastered skype
- dragged Jeremy to Ikea
- and Old Navy
- and Gap
- and Target
- bought Jeremy his first ever pair of Jeans EVER (this may be my biggest achievement of all)
It's been a month full of effort and will power. Neither of which come naturally to me. It's also been the wettest march on Massachusetts record, which hasn't much helped the effort and will power. But somehow I'm still standing.
A lot of the credit goes to Jeremy for making me coffee every morning so that I have a reason to get out of bed (you can't drink coffee lying down - I found that out the hard way), to my mum and friends who have sent care-packages to keep me stocked in edible chocolate and to the many many people who are praying and / or sending positive vibes and thoughts and candy my way.
I feel like I've turned a corner and gone past the hardest bit. But that may just be because the sun is shining and it's Friday - I've also not yet got into the driving seat of a car, so that might set me back a few paces (Jeremy keeps telling me how easy it is - I have a feeling he's in for a nasty surprise).
I'm happy. Not giddy smiley happy - not all the time at least. But calm I-can-cry-and-be-homesick-but-after-I'm-done-crying-I'll-be-OK-again happy. Marriage is beyond description. On the face of it there's nothing to describe and yet the world has changed.
- moved countries
- got married
- had at least 2 panic attacks
- cried uncontrollably about 3 times (and somewhat controllably a bunch of other times),
- broken my laptop (responsible for at least 2 of the 3 times),
- terrified Jeremy into fixing my laptop (by crying),
- said goodbye to my mum (more crying),
- read 3 very good books (shout out to William Boyd for 'Any Human Heart' - brilliant),
- opened but not read the drivers manual approximately once a day,
- baked brownies, lemon drizzle cake and cheese scones,
- got a social security number
- opened a bank account
- moaned enough about the lack of decent chocolate in America that at least 3 people have sent me chocolate in the post,
- acquired a mobile phone
- been running out of sheer boredom,
- considered applying to do a PhD as an easier way to meet people and make friends,
- signed up for a volunteering opportunity,
- eaten my weight in Jelly Belly,
- got myself hooked on private practice and flashforward (thanks hulu)
- slept for over 11 hours on multiple occasions,
- come to terms with having a very different surname
- reorganised most of the cupboards in the apartment,
- sent off visa forms,
- joined the library
- nearly engaged in a fist fight with a doctor about visa forms,
- suppressed the urge 10 times a day to throw Jeremy's very loud ticking clock out the window into oncoming traffic
- mastered skype
- dragged Jeremy to Ikea
- and Old Navy
- and Gap
- and Target
- bought Jeremy his first ever pair of Jeans EVER (this may be my biggest achievement of all)
It's been a month full of effort and will power. Neither of which come naturally to me. It's also been the wettest march on Massachusetts record, which hasn't much helped the effort and will power. But somehow I'm still standing.
A lot of the credit goes to Jeremy for making me coffee every morning so that I have a reason to get out of bed (you can't drink coffee lying down - I found that out the hard way), to my mum and friends who have sent care-packages to keep me stocked in edible chocolate and to the many many people who are praying and / or sending positive vibes and thoughts and candy my way.
I feel like I've turned a corner and gone past the hardest bit. But that may just be because the sun is shining and it's Friday - I've also not yet got into the driving seat of a car, so that might set me back a few paces (Jeremy keeps telling me how easy it is - I have a feeling he's in for a nasty surprise).
I'm happy. Not giddy smiley happy - not all the time at least. But calm I-can-cry-and-be-homesick-but-after-I'm-done-crying-I'll-be-OK-again happy. Marriage is beyond description. On the face of it there's nothing to describe and yet the world has changed.
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