Phweooooooragh.
What is it about the halfway part that makes it so hard to get past? It doesn’t seem to matter what it is, but when you get to halfway, the bit between 50-75% complete, there’s a struggle – a something – that makes it really hard to continue on. I think part of it is you know exactly how much struggle and effort and pain it took to get to this point, and you know you have to go through all of that all over again.
Think about it – we talk about mid-life crises, but it’s in much smaller things too. Most people drop out of degrees at around the middle mark (cite). That same study finds that in the final year there’s a demonstrable decrease in students propensity to drop out – why would they? – they’re on the home stretch. If you can persevere to make it through the long, desertous middle, then much like any good story, the last bit is a breeze.
I saw this in particular when I lived in Laos. It was really hard living in such a different country where you don’t speak the language or know the customs. Most of my colleagues were there on a contractual basis. My flatmate was there for a 1 year contract. She left after 6 months. I was there for a 2 year contract, I left after just over a year. The operations manager was contracted there for 4 years, and he left after two years – ostensibly, because he found love back in Australia – but he was suffering from the halfway blues as well, I’d bet. Countless others were the same. Whatever the reason was, it was super hard to make it past the halfway point.
Today, I have the halfway blues. I want nothing, and everything. The thought of food just about makes me ill. I did all my normal exercise and I still feel like shit. I never want to watch normal TV again.
I know I’m ‘supposed’ to be working on my book, but my book is about my brother, Peter, who committed suicide, and my journey through grief. I can work on it in little bits and I’m ok, but I’m scared to work on it now that I’m here, with no real escape. These four walls don’t seem big enough to house my emotions. I can’t just write for a couple of hours then go and swim until it feels better.
Would it actually be that bad? I’ve been thinking and writing about suicide for so long that it has become a little mechanical, and I can revisit those memories without it being hugely traumatic, but sometimes it still is. It’s a little bit like rolling the dice as to what kind of experience it’ll be and whether it’ll then go on to haunt my dreams or just keep cropping up in my thoughts the same way a sausage repeats on you hours after you downed it.
I remember the visceral fear I had about an impending meltdown on the first year anniversary of Peter’s death. The dread haunted me for weeks about how I wasn’t going to be able to function properly and I’d just be a sobbing wreck lolling about the place. I skipped a day on my writing course and convinced my dad he had to come home for Australia and hang out with us for this occasion.
I was fine though. I don’t think I shed a tear. There were no breakdowns, no lost sleep. All the worry and dread about what it would be like was actually much worse than anything I experienced on the day or in the weeks after that. Sometimes the anticipation of feelings is worse than the actual feelings.
I suspect that will also be true of this.
Fine!
I guess I’ll try some writing. (Other than this.)
Jaime, who played Santa yesterday, walked up from to say hello tonight.
We chatted through the fence, about 10 m apart, still needing to call each other to be able to have a legitimate conversation. So nice to see a real life friend! When I laughed, I could hear an echo, as her headphones picked it up, feeding it back through my headphones.
Laughter is good. There will be more laughter again soon.
