Morta

“People underestimate the value of a good bad experience.” - The Good People by Sarah Conn

I’ve always thought this way - that bad things make us what we are as much as good things. Which is why there are some bad things I’ve always wanted to experience. Some that I put on my list of 100 things, like have my heart broken. Probably inspired by my love of Savage Garden and the line from Affirmation, “I believe you can’t appreciate real love till you’ve been burned.”

I’m not asking for bad things to happen to me (in fact, I’m knocking on wood, lifting my feet and holding my breath right now to prevent it) but I truly think that to understand the enormity of human experience and human emotion, you have experience both the bad and the good. But I’ve been lucky. Nothing truly bad has ever happened to me.

This is the most unbelievable thing that has ever happened to me:

I went to Spain to visit my friend Chris, who was, in turn, visiting her parents. Though I flew into Malaga, we spent the two nights in Algeciras since it was right next to Gibraltar, our plan for Saturday. We were staying in a “hostal” which I think translates to hostel, but was more like a budget hotel. It was ridiculously cold in the room, but we were trying desperately to sleep. Until 2am when we were woken up by extremely loud screaming. At first we thought it was kids outside, drunk or high. It was Carnivale that week in Spain, so it wasn’t terribly surprising that people might be partying too hard. Then we realized that it wasn’t outside, it was only two floors down. They were SCREAMING. I’ve never actually heard someone scream like that before. We had no idea what they were saying, because we don’t speak (much) Spanish. There was a lot of crying, the sounds of someone throwing up and a bunch of different voices, one of which sounded like a child.

The screaming continued for two hours, and finally we got back to sleep around 4am. We didn’t venture out to see what was happening, because we were scared and we wouldn’t have been any help anyway, as we don’t speak the language. But when we went downstairs to the lobby the next morning, we asked the man what had happened. He didn’t speak any English, but we asked via charades what had happened. Chris held up two fingers, then four and did some screaming. He got it and started to explain, with his own charades. We gathered from this and a few key words (like “morta”) that someone had died! Apparently a woman had a heart attack. I don’t think I will ever forget that screaming. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days after wards.

Postcards

I write more postcards than hooks,
I read more maps than books.
Feel like every chance to leave
is another chance I should have took.
Every minute is a mile.

I measure minutes in bus stops, train stations and flight times. Two hours early to wait around. Through blurry eyes I watch the miles fade into memory and blur into one another.

I add to my list: What countries have you been to? Spain. Gibraltar. I was in Amsterdam for two hours, Paris for three. I went to Devon for the first time and the rolling hills looked beautiful from behind the terminal glass. I mark the time with pieces of a Galaxy bar and sips of weak tea.

A template for writing postcards. Hello from  insert country here . Interesting fact goes here. Made me think of you. Wish you were here/miss you/see you soon. Love, Heather. As I write I imagine the fridges and bulletin boards the cards will grace, the homes and the people they will see before me.

It seems like everything I write now could be from a chapter titled “Trains, planes and automobiles.” A few lines in a travelling song. A few words in monologue about leaving and arriving and the spaces in between.

I’m crossing things off lists and counting flights on two hands worth of cold fingers. My passport is smeared with black ink and bending at the corners. I need new walking shoes.

Enjoy your own company. If you don’t, who will?

My fortune from a cookie in a bag of Christmas treats. Appropriate, I think, to how I’ve been feeling recently.

Someone, the kind of person who was used to being around people, once asked me how I stand living alone. And I replied “You get used to being around yourself. More than that, you start to like your own company.”

When I first moved to Newcastle, I was a wreck. I went days without speaking to anyone. I traveled by myself, took self portraits at arm’s length in front of beautiful scenery. The first night in my new apartment, I wouldn’t open the door to my  bedroom. The rest of the place was too big, if I thought about what was outside the bedroom, I would feel small. There was too much space for one person. I was terrified that I had made all of the wrong decisions. I made my sister talk to me for hours, because I couldn’t sleep and I needed to feel like there was someone else in the world.

But slowly, it started to change. I started to enjoy being alone. I stopped fearing being left with my thoughts. I sang loudly and walked around in my underwear and I started to realize that I was kind of a fun person to be around. That I actually *gasp* liked myself.

This is a huge accomplishment for me. I have spent over a decade hating myself. I was really good at it. I wasn’t thin enough. Pretty enough. Smart enough. Funny enough. Kind enough. And it wasn’t anyone else who thought I wasn’t enough. It was just me.

Love yourself. If you don’t, who will?

I almost don’t believe myself as I type this. But in the past four months or so, I have quite learned to love myself. It’s pretty bad. I mean, I can’t get enough of how awesome I am. I’m pretty, I’m smart, I’m funny, I’m nice. Enough. Or more. Crazy to think, eh? It may sound vain, but I can’t seem to care much, after so long of hating myself.

Because I have always been my biggest critic.

So I gave myself a break. There are things I don’t like about myself. There are things that others don’t like about me. But it’s the same for every other person. No one is perfect. And I think I’m finally learning to accept that. I may be more than a little lost. I may procrastinate too much, eat too much chocolate. But I’m doing okay. Truly.

Of course, give me a few months (days.. minutes?) and I may hate myself again…

2009 has taught me a lot about myself. Probably more than any other year. And hopefully that means that 2010 will be a year of loving myself, of enjoying my own company.

Pretty Good Year

I didn’t have any resolutions for 2009. At least, not as far I as can remember. Mind, I don’t remember much from New Year’s Eve 2008. [Oh, apparently I resolved not to drink hard liquor... I didn't manage that one.]

I don’t know if I agree with the idea of resolutions. One one hand, they are ideas for personal and professional growth and improvement. But they often seem to end up as a list of the things you hate about yourself that you wish to change. Lose 20 lbs. Quit smoking. Find a boyfriend. Eat healthy.

I already have a list of things to do before I die. I consistently makes lists of things I want to do, to buy, to be. I don’t want to resolve to do or be anything in the next year, because what I want seems to change everyday.

Over the next few posts I want to write about my accomplishments of 2009. And then things I hope to accomplish in 2010. Maybe it’s just a question of semantics. But it sounds much better to me than resolutions…

Listography

I make lists when I can’t sleep. Books I want to read. Places to go. Names. Things. Colours. Words that start with L.

I got this for Christmas. And I am writing an autobiography in lists.

List your biggest fears. Apocalypse. Spiders. Death.

List the countries you’ve visited. Ireland. France. England. Scotland. U.S.A. Dominica Republic. (Note: add more soon.)

List the people you’ve lived with. Jess. Chris. Alaina. Valerie. Rosie. Kristen. Taylor.

List your character flaws. Condescending. Judgmental. Intolerant. Selfish. Impatient.

List your guilty pleasures. Chocolate chips. Fried chicken. Disney Channel movies. Lifetime movies. TLC. Nutella with a spoon.

List things you think everyone should do if money is not an issue. Get amazing hair cuts. Order dessert. Live abroad. Learn.

List the things people should remember you for. Cheesy jokes. Words. (I’m stuck there…)

Something about making lists calms me. In the same way equations in math class used to. It’s a formula. A process. There is no interpretation, no overthinking.

This is a good time of year for lists. I will write a few more before January 1st.