OK, first all, Word can absolutely fuck off for thinking that “Squeakquel” is not a real word. And secondly, I’m finally bothering to write down the second, more shitty part of my first experience trying to live abroad. When I wrote the first part, I genuinely thought I would be productive and write the second part within a number of days, because I clearly have never met or spent any time with myself. My work ethic very much takes the approach of ‘why do it now when you can do it poorly a significant amount of time later?’ I mean, I’m honestly quite impressed with myself at this point for not having napped yet. I’m writing and not napping- what’s gotten into me? The first time I wrote about my experiences was over two months ago, and I’ve now been in Korea for roughly three and a half months, or over 100 days as I worked out last week. Since I wrote the first part of my story I’ve turned 27, and my wonderful Mum has visited Korea, which was such a lovely experience, though obviously rubbish when she had to leave. Lots of other stuff has probably happened too if I care to remember, but we’re not here to talk about fun God damnit! We’re here to talk about misery! Yaaaaay!
I left my Italian story with us having arrived on a stormy night like characters in a Gothic Victorian novel. But not in a fun way. Two details from waking up that morning really stick out in my head. The first is that we woke up to the sound of loud banging from around our windows, which took us a while to work out was coming from the window shutters. As everyone who’s ever been to Europe/watched a stereotypical European film knows, a lot of European houses have shutters on their windows rather than curtains (or maybe in addition to, I don’t know Linda I’m not an architect). In Britain we do not have such things, and so we don’t naturally know that they have to be hooked open rather than just left to sway. Because, if one does not hook one’s shutters open, perhaps there might be a massive storm that blows said shutters against your room all night and makes you think the Devil is coming. Lesson learnt there. The second remarkable thing from that morning was hearing a sound stunningly similar to that of an air-raid siren from World War Two in the distance. Given that this noise is so strongly associated with war, and as far as I knew Italy is pretty much chill on the international stage, this was confusing to say the least. Should we…do something? Go to a shelter? Batten down the hatches (that we’d only just figured out how to bloody batten)? Eventually we learnt that this was the noise used (three times a day) to signal the working day for the local olive pickers, which is better than it meaning you’re about to die. But definitely still alarming to hear on your first day in a new place. A bit like having a hotel set your alarm clock to sound like Kevin Spacey whispering ‘I can see you’. Unnerving. Also unnerving when I realised those sirens were initially used in WW2, when Italy was being bombed by, among others, the UK. So sorry about that.
So day 1 got off to a weird start. And my feelings of sadness and emptiness had very much not been slept off. As this was the beginning of a huge change in my life, I explained it away in my head as the ramifications of that massiveness, and hoped dearly that it would stop soon.
Rather than going into a step-by-step account of the weeks that followed, which nobody cares about and which I honestly can’t remember, I think it’s best if I summarise the key things which happened to me and my mental state. Kind of like when they had clip show episodes of Friends, but with sadness instead of Chandler jokes.
The most outwardly obvious thing I remember happening a lot was how much I cried. In general life I would put myself at about a C grade in crying: I will shed tears in Pixar movies, and have been known cry in frustration when I’m really not feeling good about something. But I hardly blubber every day at any little thing. But in Italy, I counted 2 days out of around 30 where I didn’t cry at some point. And I mean sob. I would have full on episodes of just weeping, which I later learnt are apparently anxiety attacks, where I would cry until it hurt and I had tired myself out. I would cry myself to sleep sometimes, which was something I didn’t think people actually did. Any contact from home set me off, and I remember several moments when teaching in classes where I had to work very hard not to break down in front of children. Which they almost definitely realised: it’s not that hard to tell when someone’s about to do that. There weren’t always specific reasons for the tears, which really scared me. Why the hell was I crying and why couldn’t I stop? My flatmate Jess, as I mentioned before, and the other native teacher Nikki that we worked with, were literal marvels for not slapping me and avoiding my presence after 2 days of this. And the family and friends that I would talk to on the phone to try and get help were even better, though I could hear the shock in their voices that I was like this. When you’re feeling low, the act of crying hard is actually so physically exhausting that it adds a whole other dimension to how crappy you feel. I imagine someone’s done a study where they found out how many calories sobbing burns, and then some bastard decided to brand it as a new diet. Cry Yourself Thin, You Worthless Bitch! I can see the Tube ads now.
The physicality of how horrible I felt was another big aspect of this experience for me, and probably the singularly most shocking part. The main way that my sadness physically manifested itself was through a complete and utter loss of appetite. I had had versions of this before, most similarly when I started university for the first time and my homesickness presented as actual nausea in the mornings (and not for THAT reason, totally wasn’t possible at that time). But in Italy it was stronger. No one felt more than me the phenomenal bad luck of being in a country with one of the most famous and universally loved cuisines in the world and not wanting to eat a damn thing. My favourite meal is probably carbonara for God’s sake! (Though I did notice, at least in the tiny town I was in, that pasta dishes seemed to be more homemade, and pizza was the more readily available food to buy.) Anyway. I never felt any sense of hunger, and though I never gave up eating because I do have enough wits to know that’s never a good idea, I ate dramatically less for the simple reason that I didn’t want anymore. It was as though my stomach had shrunk: after a few spoonfuls of cereal I would genuinely feel full. Jess estimated that I was probably eating about 500 calories a day. My interest in food had gone: I didn’t look into pizzerias and salivate or enjoy the smell of the coffee. And, just to be clear, that is NOTHING like me in normal life. I’m absolutely a starter-and-dessert kinda gal, and have no fear in eating as much of something as I want if I like it. I should probably dial that back a bit, but honestly fuck it. So not wanting to eat was literally the opposite of my normal behaviour. And the worst part was, I noticed that eating food was pretty much the only thing that would definitely lead to me calming down, usually about half an hour after putting it in my mouth. Probably because my body was happy to have some energy after all that crying. But of course, eating was the last thing I wanted to do. It was a wonderfully horrible irony that my mind had conspired to make the one thing that helped me the thing I least wanted to do. Thanks for that brain.
The effects of not eating enough obviously contributed to how exhausted I was already feeling. Everything felt like a huge effort, and all I wanted to do was lie down, when going for a walk or visiting somewhere might have actually helped. Again, nice one brain. As the days went on the urge to just lie in bed and do literally nothing else ever again was growing stronger, and if I hadn’t decided to leave I reckon that’s exactly what would have happened.
And why was all of this happening to me? That was a question I asked myself (and others) the whole time I was there, and for a good while afterwards. As I said, upon arrival I’d felt homesick, claustrophobic, and hopeless. Starting actual teaching didn’t change that: in fact, it made it worse. I remember so clearly having the constant thought that nothing was good, and not just that it was not good now, but that there was no feasible way it ever could be good again. I was 21 years old, trying something out on a one-year contract and I felt like I’d ended all chance at happiness. Thinking about it now it’s remarkable just how permanent that situation felt, how unchangeable. Retrospectively it’s almost definitely because of things I mentioned before: I chose this option out of fear at no obvious career path, and I also chose a place and style of school that did not suit me at all. Why I ever thought moving to a small town in a country where I knew no one was a good idea, when I need familiar people around me, and HATE small-town life, will always be a mystery. But boy did it show me a lot. The strength and speed with which feeling so awful hit and then consumed me was truly overwhelming, and really taught me a lot about how to respect this in others. Sometimes we get depressed/anxious etc over a period of time due to a build-up of understandable things, and sometimes it just dumps from above when it shouldn’t. It’s all the same.
This semi-breakdown also taught me to look differently at disordered behaviours like eating: it may be hard to understand that someone can stop looking at food in the way most people do, but they can, and it doesn’t mean they’re doing it deliberately, to lose weight, to get attention or whatever. Same with all the crying- believe me if I could have not done that in front of so many people, I would. The feelings also don’t go away immediately once you seek help/get out of the situation in hand. I was incredibly lucky that my boss was sympathetic to me the entire time, treating me kindly when I told her I wanted to leave and comforting me when I cried. She was definitely confused as to why I had wanted to do this in the first place when it turned out so badly for me, but she never showed anger or frustration at me, which I am grateful for. (That reminds me of another symptom I felt a lot of- paranoia. Particularly when I told my boss I wanted to leave, I was terrified that she would say no, or that she wouldn’t find another teacher and I’d be forced to stay. I really believed these things completely, and needed a lot of reassurance that they were nonsense.) When I got home, it did relieve me a lot, but I remember feeling exceptional sadness randomly quite often in the months after. An example of this was on my birthday, about a month later, when my grandma called to ask how my day was, and I had to hold back tears and lie that it was going well, when the feelings of hopelessness had crept back in again. Beyond one trip to the doctor, I never had any therapy or took any medication, and I seemed to get better eventually without these things, though I’m sure they would have helped and I thoroughly approve of both if anyone ever needs them.
As much as it was a supremely shitty time in my life, it also indirectly led to where I am now, which is a much happier space. Because I came home to the UK after month when I was supposed to be gone for a year, I was back in my hometown with no plan whatsoever. I ended up getting a job on the box office of a local arts centre I’d always liked, and worked there for two years. Doing this made me realise my interest in the arts/culture, which in turn led me to study a Masters in the subject at Goldsmiths in London. This is where I met so many amazing people, including Koreans for the first time, giving me the interest in the country that would eventually lead to me trying out this English-teaching lark again, but this time in a role and a city that suit me much better. I’m here now because I fucked up then, and I’m thankful for that.
But more than that I’m thankful for the friends and family who supported me when I was at my lowest. My family have always been shamelessly wonderful, and they showed me love and kindness at this time unreservedly: I couldn’t wait to be in their arms again and it was the most powerful salve for helping me to get better. And the friends that I called to cry down the phone to: what a group of people. All of them listened, loved, were compassionate and helped so much when their crazy friend phoned up crying for no real reason. They gave me advice which I still use today, and I still love them all. If one of them was you, you’re actually the best and thank you.
Wow I actually managed to make this part longer. Mad skills. And I still haven’t napped. This really is an achievement for me. But I also haven’t showered or brought groceries so I’d better pipe down now and do those things before I fall asleep. I hope this wasn’t too much. But it is true, so that’s something.
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