Out of My Head

It's 80 degrees outside and I feel heavy again.

I'm back to making lists. Lists of things that need to be done, things I want to do, things I want to have. People I want to see. Places I want to go.

Get a better paying job. Preferably one I can stand.
Lose ten pounds. Okay twenty.
Clean. Everything.
Make time for friends.
Make time for music.
Take chances.

But I really don't know if I'm bold enough to check off that list.

I live almost entirely inside my head.


"I remained too much inside my own head and ended up losing my mind." ~Edgar Allen Poe

Chances Past

Well, I'm back in New York. I'm sitting here looking at this blog wondering how I'm going to fill in all of the days I've left blank. My experience at the Page household was one of the greatest I've had in my whole life. I went from living in a place that made my soul feel weak to a place that made me feel inspired and connected to parts of me that I never knew existed, and other parts I thought had been buried away for good. And I made friends that I will cherish always. I hold the experience so dear to me that I'm just not ready to write about it.

My last day in Ireland… Scarecrow Chic

This month could have been a lifetime. I don't know that it's changed me, but it's certainly made me stronger. 

Thank you, Ireland.

Bipolar Quinn

Tomorrow I leave this place to begin my next venture…

I'm going to stay with the Pages, a family in west Cork who need help with their children and asparagus farm.  The farm is small and there are only two kids ages one and four. Plus I'll actually have my own space. I'll be upgrading from my 8 x 8 closet with a daybed which doubles as a playground for rampant Greirson children, to my own fully stocked trailer/caravan located just off the property of the Pages home.

I already like the sound of this; both children and asparagus in small batches can be healthy.

As it's my last day here in Dublin, Daniel's been kind enough to give me the day off. And though I'm disappointed with my living arrangement I've been quite taken with this town. I'm going to miss the coast, I'm going to miss these roads, I'm going to miss this ocean, I'm going to miss Starbucks.

But I don't want to spend my last day in Malahide shifting my weight on an old green couch mooching wifi and suffering espresso induced heart palpitations.

Last day at Malahide Starbucks

No, I want to go somewhere, I want to do something, and I want to see someone!

So I text Quinn.

Who's Quinn? Oh, how do I begin...

Ever hear of a "meet-cute"? If you've ever seen a romantic comedy you know what they are. In real life they don't really occur so much anymore, now that social media seems to intercept our every person to person encounter. But if you squint real hard at my story, you might just say it qualifies as a meet-cute. If you don't want to squint… just pretend. Please. For the sake of my already tenuous self esteem.

This is how it happened...

Last Sunday I planned to go into the city with time to check out some vintage stores and maybe go to a couple of museums before they closed. My day was going to plan; I got dressed, had a coffee, walked to Malahide station and was about to board my train when I was suddenly overcome by a feeling of doubt. I only checked my route about twenty times on Google maps before I left. I was certain that this was the right train yet I heard a voice in my head, too powerful to ignore. "No, this is wrong," it said. "This isn't right, you cannot get on this train." So I didn't.

The train pulled away and as I watched it ride into the distance it exploded into flames.

No, sadly the truth is a bit less climactic. I sat down on a bench trying to figure out what had just come over me as I resigned to the forty minutes I would have to wait before the next train's arrival. As I waited a young woman talking on the phone sat down next to me. Her voice felt like home. "Wow, is that what Americans sound like? I never realized how strange," I thought to myself.

Well I couldn't resist asking her where she was from and before I knew it our small exchange turned to conversation. As we boarded the next train together we discussed our backgrounds. My new friend's name is Hannah and she is originally from Ohio but she's going to school in Malahide to study history; I briefly mentioned my studies in psychology and neuroscience when a good looking young man with light blue eyes and brown hair wearing a black peacoat walked over to our seat. "Oh, you're cute. Please don't hit on Hannah, please don't hit on Hannah," I think to myself. He sat down eagerly and smiled at me,

"I heard you saying you're a neuroscientist. That's very interesting to me because I'm bipolar."

Be still my heart. See? Meet-cute. If they can't get Meg Ryan to play me I'll take Kate Hudson. Thank you!

Having lived here for two years by this point Hannah is able to distinguish between a friendly Irishman making small talk and a person who is just... insane. She doesn't hide her disconcertion. But I'm innocent and not quite as wary of strangers so I engage him,

"Oh, really? What medication are you on?"

I've just set in motion the first of what will be many, many, tangents I hear from Quinn. Like many others who suffer this disorder, Quinn has more energy than he knows what to do with. He speaks with such conviction (not to mention volume) that it is impossible to question his sincerity, but it is clear how his high energy can be off-putting to some.

"I don't believe in medication. I treat myself with supplements and mindfulness meditation. People with BPD are usually B3 deficient," he said as he pulled a conveniently placed bottle of Niacin from his coat pocket.
Now, I am not opposed to supplements... except when they're bullshit and don't work. Clearly, for Quinn, they don't work. Not to mention if you saw the dosage on these things you would swear he's using them to treat a manic depressive ox.

But to each his own. Hannah slyly managed to disengage by saying that she needs to show me where to go when I disembark and he catches on, returning to his original seat. Except as fate would have it when I stepped off the train at Tara Street I saw him standing not more than 5 yards away. He was looking over at me and I know he was anxious to continue his impassioned tangent on mental healthcare in Ireland. "Why not?" I think, "He seems harmless. And I can use the company. Plus he's a hell of a lot more interesting than Barry." So we walked into town together and before we parted we exchanged numbers. Oh yea, he lives in Malahide too.

So! That's my dear, Quinn.

Fast forward to today. I'm bored, it's my last day here, I still haven't been to Malahide Castle (yes I'm pathetic) and this is my last chance to go.

We meet outside the courtyard of the castle where once stood a resplendent english garden. It is now an Avoca cafe and tourist gift shop. But remnants of its bygone beauty still line the outer walls in colors that can only be seen to be believed. Lining the ground are bluebells and daffodils and lots of other flowery things I'm not nearly well read enough to name. I should've asked Quinn…

Courtyard Wall outside Avoca

As we wait for the next tour of the castle to begin, Quinn uses his encyclopedic knowledge to educate me on the history of the Talbots, the family who owned the castle, how they tied into the history of the english monarch, the catholic-protestant saga of Ireland, where Ireland stands with England today, etc. He is so bursting with knowledge that if I didn't know any better I would say he wrote the book on Malahide castle. Sure enough, after my history lesson with Quinn, the tour felt a bit redundant.

Malahide Castle

After the tour we take a walk around the grounds while he gives me the abridged version of Oliver Cromwell's "reign of terror" in Ireland. He also slips in some rather ballsy flirting,
"You know when we were walking on the tour I couldn't take my eyes off your ass. You have a really nice bum."
"We're walking around a five hundred year old castle and all you can look at is my ass?" I think.
But I don't even pretend to be offended as the flattery far outweighs his tactlessness.
We make our way over to Avoca where according to Quinn they serve the best cheesecake in town. The restaurant is big and sunlit with glass ceilings and pale floral motifs around the walls. It looks like we're about to have tea in a giant veranda. All the food is displayed behind glass cases like they were waiting for a magazine shoot. This food made to be photographed.

Photographed… not consumed.

Beautiful waste of calories

As I take my first bite into the beautiful slice of raspberry cheesecake I am completely crestfallen.
"I should know better than to trust a man with these things, " I think as I chew over the weak paste of bland graham cracker and slightly sour cream cheese.
While I pick at my photo prop dessert Quinn begins his next tangent about how he would rather take a bullet or go to jail than allow his taxes to pay for legal abortions in Ireland. I attempt a counter argument but he's so vehement about it (not to mention loud), that I consider changing my tactic to just ramming my crappy cake down his throat.

A few hours later, after hearing his take on religion, westernization, overpopulation, and gay marriage (that was a fun one), we part ways. I am exhausted from my day with Quinn but then I think of how much harder it must be for him. While I don't agree with him on most things, I appreciate his remarkable intelligence and his company. To have a mind like his can't be easy.

As the sun sets I walk along the shore of Malahide for the last time. I look out at the strange sea and begin to cry. Three weeks I've been here and now I'm moving on. I know nothing about where I'm headed. I'm feeling calm and anxious all at once. But I'm not lost.

The voice that told me to come to Ireland is the same voice that told me not to get on that train the other day. It's the one that's telling me to stick it out here instead of going back to New York. It hasn't steered me wrong, and I vow to myself that I will always follow it.

Penance

Today the sun is shining and the world is new. I clean the floors all over again after yesterday's escapades in hopes that it will land me back into Daniel's good graces. I ask myself:

Why do I even care?

Who knows.

I walk Gemma home from school and make her lunch: Pasta with butter… and cyanide. Okay no cyanide. But a girl can dream.

I overhear her playing outside with her poor innocent friend, Beth trying to get her to cut open a glow stick using a pair of scissors she snatched from the kitchen. I run outside to stop them which clearly upsets her and she lets me know it by taking Beth up to her room so they can pull all of the clothes out of her wardrobe for me to pick up.

I do not.

Aileen comes home from school at 3:00 and as usual makes her own lunch: four pieces of toast that she eats on every surface of the house except, well, a plate. But I can't hold this against her as compared to her sister she is a dream.

She flits around the house with a folded piece of toast in one hand and a crumpled concert ticket in the other. One Direction is coming to town on Friday and every human under the age of 16 in Ireland is going to be there to see them. Aileen is obsessed. So we sit together and watch a slew of One Direction music videos on my laptop while she sings along and goes all dreamy eyed over the one with the big eyelashes and a Pepe le Pew haircut. I have to say- if I were ten years old today, I would probably love them too. But since I'm not…

Ugh.

I've officially done my penance.

Shit Storms

Today was a bad day. A bad, bad, bad day.

The morning started as it usually does. At about 7:30 I wake to the sounds of pans clanging, doors banging, and a nine year old screaming like the house is on fire. It goes like this:
"No school today?" Sean asks before answering definitively, "No school today."
Well that solves that.
Except it doesn't, and Daniel is forced to burst his little bubble but not without a resounding
"No! No! Naaaaaoohh!"
I've gotta give it to him; Sean's got some serious pipes.

No, what made today different was that the weather was rainy and depressing and (no thanks to the morning cacophony) I felt too exhausted to get out of bed until 10:00am. Now this should be of no consequence as I usually have the house to myself; I can get out of bed whenever the hell I please provided that I can finish what needs to be done by the time I have to bring Gemma home.  But today Daniel stayed home; the bad weather meant that he would have to drive Gemma back from school.

As I feared, my late arousal did not sit well with him and instead of just saying, "Nice of you to get out of bed you lazy, twenty-two-year-old, american, ingrate," he did the next best thing. He told me that (in addition to my usual chores) I would have to mop and vacuum all the floors in the house.

Before I could say, "Daniel, your children wreak havoc on this place under normal circumstances. Why do you need the floors cleaned today when there is a torrential mudslide outside your door?" it occurred to me that his motive was not to get the floors cleaned. It was to give my sorry ass some busywork.

So instead I responded: "… okay." I mopped and vacuumed and cursed and waited for the inevitable.

When Daniel returned with Gemma the rain let up and the house was spic and span. Gemma was a good little girl while daddy was around, giving her strange performance of lovable baby and melting his big, stupid, heart. She even played outside like a normal child until she came in squealing, "Papa, I have to poo."

After her deed is done she calls, her voice filled with maniacal inflection, "Paaaaapa! Oh, paaaapa!"
"Wipe my bum." she cracks the proverbial whip.

"Smack her, Daniel just smack her," I think to myself. But Daniel abides, flushing her waste and apparently all self-respect down the toilet. Before he leaves for the office he turns to me and, perhaps feeling a pang of guilt for my prodigal punishment says,
"Bryn, thanks again for hoovering today. I really appreciate it. I'll see you guys later!"
My heart stops as I look over at Gemma and see the glint in her eye.

Fuck.

No more than five minutes after he drives away she comes to the door, dripping in mud. No, not dripping in it- basking in it. Mud on her pants, mud on her face, and in her hands two fistfuls of dirt and grass. Written on her sneering face I see the words,
"Your move, bitch."

So I walk over to her and say, "Not my problem," before kicking her in the head.

No, sadly I had to resist. I practice my diaphragmatic breathing and take her to the bathroom to get her washed and changed while she stands there looking pleased with herself. I even concede to get a different pair of pants when the first ones I choose fail to appease the beast.

Then off she goes on her merry way while I wash her clothes in what is now my third load of laundry for the day. Sean and Aileen come home, I make them lunch, and they play outside while I cook dinner wearing my Betty-Draper-gown and pounding gin by the glassful.

Okay minus the last part. But as far as I can tell, all is well at the Grierson's.

Or so I thought. Now it's important to note that "playing the baby" isn't an act reserved for the family alone. Gemma's infantile fantasy extends into all parts of her life. When she's playing outside with her friends I often hear her crawling around saying "Goo-goo, gaga."

Excuse me while I goo-goo gag.

Anyway today Gemma decided she would extend her talents into the realm of method acting. As it starts to downpour again I hear the children in the complex jumping around and think, "Aw, listen to those little Irish kids playing outside even in the pouring rain." Except they aren't playing...

It turns out that while I was cooking and cleaning like a Stepford wife on speed, the "baby" was out there shitting her little pink pants. The jumping around I heard was actually the sound of four year olds on damage control; cleaning up Gemma's mess using all the towels, rags, and yards of toilet paper they could grab from the nearest bathroom.

Crime scene

By the time I get down to see the poop filled catastrophe and the frightened little faces of Gemma's friends (her's of course is as smug as the sky is blue), Liam is standing in the doorway shooting me the look of death.
Yes, Liam, I am responsible for this. Sorry I don't have an exorcist on speed dial.
He takes her upstairs leaving behind a trail of her soiled clothes along with the site of the failed cleanup for yours truly to dispose of.

Thank you, Liam.

Now here's the thing. I am a good person. I am an honest person. I understood what my responsibilities were before committing to do this and I've far exceeded them. I do not mind doing two, three, even four loads of laundry a day. I do not mind making your beds, cleaning up toys, vacuuming your house, cooking your meals, and walking your godless sister home from school. But I have a limit. And I've just reached it.

I put dinner on the table, throw my laptop in my bag and head out to the church of Starbucks before I have a nervous breakdown.

It just so happens that today is also the day I decided to make my blog public. But I did so hastily and without any revision of the posts that were on here. Without going too into detail let's just say that I managed to hurt someone that I never intended to. Strike two.

As I have my ass handed to me on that matter I also receive the anticipated phone call from a very perturbed Daniel. Too tired to argue and knowing that anything I say would be regarded as an insult to his parenting I just apologize. I spend the rest of the night walking the coast trying to hold myself together and waiting for my strike three. On terrible days, the blows always come in threes.

Well it happened when I came home, got into bed, and tried to start writing this post. My lap top went completely black and for a moment could not be revived. When I got it started again I had lost a few programs off of it including Microsoft Office. Too tired to care.

I hate this day.

Artsy Fartsy Fownes Street

Yesterday I went to a little pink store on Fownes street called MayFly. Essentially a walk-in etsy shop the store is filled with things like handmade steampunk jewelry, hand sewn dolls, hand drawn greeting cards, vintage clothing, pinup posters, and many other wondrous knickknacks and thingamabobs that a girl like me just eats up. I went there two years ago and bought my sister a bottle cap brooch with a picture of Fred Astaire in the middle. Divine.

May Fly

I figured I would try to get some souvenirs for people and I much prefer the idea of supporting local Irish artists and buying something interesting over paying for a made-in-china, piece-of-shit, guinness-bottle-keychain that no one -and I mean no one- is ever actually happy to receive.

Along the way I wandered into a shop called Tola Vintage that is filled entirely with secondhand clothing from the 90's. Floor length, daisy print dresses that your teacher used to wear; oversized denim pants that simultaneously make your ass look flat and your hips enormous; obscenely printed bomber jackets that look like something straight out of Nickelodeon... on meth.

Fownes Street Upper

Somehow it all worked. I walked through only intending to check out the space (essentially a basement with color blocked walls and a floor brimming with unsorted heaps of nylon and denim), when amongst the rubble I spotted a pair of striped, high-waisted shorts. I went to try them on without even checking the size (and therefore only half expecting them to fit) when -to my surprise- they fit! Like a glove.
A glove on a very fat hand...
"You'll lose weight," I thought, "You can wear them in the summer!"

Then I came to my senses, set them down like a good girl and was about to leave the store when I ran into the owner and one of his salesgirl/clothing models. Apparently Tola Vintage is the number 2 boutique on Asos Marketplace and they were taking a break from a photo shoot for their latest shipment.

Among my many gifts I have the uncanny ability to spot a Nigerian.
"How did you guess that?"
"Eh, it's a thing,"
He was very nice and we ended up talking for a long while. Though I don't remember what we talked about I  recall thinking, "Wow it is so easy to converse with strangers when… well, when you're not in the states."

I ended up buying the shorts.

Starbucks, My Sanctuary

So what have I gained so far in Ireland?

Well besides a distaste for small demonic children and probably another ten pounds, I have been spending more time in coffee shops than I ever expected to in a lifetime. My espresso consumption has increased tenfold and my ability to spot a place with free wifi has been perfected into an art form. Since Natasha left I have been trying to budget my time more efficiently but it's proving to be more difficult than I thought. I wake up, make the kids' rooms, start a load of laundry, do a rough cleanup of the kitchen and before I know it it's already 10:30 and I've only an hour before I have to go pick up Gemma from school.

So what do I do with this precious window? I go to a coffee shop. Usually Starbucks, sometimes Insomnia… Pretty much anywhere with heavy cream and wifi.

It is the only time I have when I can be out and around other people until I'm off again at 6. I can get some fresh air, drink my americano, get some work done on my lap top; it is wonderful. Sometimes if I get there early enough I can stay for a full two hours! It's to the point now where the baristas are getting my order made as soon as I walk through the door.

I am officially a coffee shop creeper.

Yes, I hate me too.