There have been a lot of changes in my life lately; I’ve got a new job, I’m in a relationship, I started watching GBBO…Yes, a lot of changes crammed into a very minuscule amount of time. As welcome as these changes are, they have of course triggered me – what doesn’t trigger me, right? – to the point where I’ve been a tad overwhelmed by a surge of new emotions, tingly happiness and sudden desire to start baking.
For someone that’s been BFFs with depression for well over a decade, having a delicacy of changes laid out in front me is something I am really struggling with. I keep zoning out; forgetting things; get stressed because my tyrannical routine has been blown apart by these changes like machine-gunning commandos splattering insectoid beasts in some lame sci-fi flick. I am getting grumpy with my boyfriend, more reserved with friends and I’m just feeling a tad confused about this whole happy thing – it takes a while to get used to, doesn’t it? So I’ve been thinking, maybe I need a break? A rejuvenating holiday. That way when (if) I come back this new routine will have firmly solidified and I can slide right back into it. The trouble is, I’ve never really been on holiday.
I am useless at every single aspect of holiday planning, but I’m also ridiculously picky about the places I’d potentially want to visit. Going somewhere like Magaluf or other party plots fills me with an unparalleled dread. You’d have to be as a dumb as dodgem full of monkeys to go somewhere that is, essentially, Glasgow with less clothes and more sunshine. I know several people that regularly go on holiday alone, or at least travel alone. They spin tales of wandering across different places by foot, by boat, by train, by broom and how great it is. On paper, this doesn’t sound bad. In reality though I’d likely get lost, and then my anxiety would probably somersault into a chaotic rampage and I’d be found in a dumpster 4-days-later blanketed by discarded McDonalds wrappers. I could go on a cross-country railway, read books, and relax as I’d assume the train, unlike my anxiety, wouldn’t derail. But I’d get bored. Staring out a window at a vast landscape of nothingness would result in me drinking vodka just to get the whole thing over with quicker. It would hardly be a life-enriching experience.
I’m also no-longer a tragic singleton, so I’d have to factor my boyfriend into this equation as well. Did I mention that already? That I have a boyfriend? Who’d have thought. Me. Boyfriend.
I see those couples on Instagram that stick a pin in a map and jet off to that place and I think ‘wouldn’t that be great?’ but then think ‘who are these people that have freed themselves from the shackling curse of financial burden?’ It is a stirring notion though; we could sit one night and fire up Google Earth and stick a pin somewhere randomly on the screen (I’m modern, see), and just bolt off to that place. We could spend the days just lying on the beach, exploring museums, and in the evening visit different restaurants and drink in bars; we could make casual conversation with complete strangers and laugh at our inability to speak the local language. On paper, that’s also cute, but given my eyesight the pins trajectory would see us planted in the arse-end of nowhere and my boyfriend would grow so sick of me that around day 10 he’d probably trade me in for a camel.
The other option I’ve considered is an activity holiday. I’m fairly into exercise and exploration, so discovering new places and inhaling the beauty of foreign landscapes sounds exactly like what I need. I’m almost completely sold on the notion, but the idea of being flung into a ground of strangers fills me with revulsion. I don’t want to trek around with strangers. Knowing my luck I’d likely be saddled with one of those people who would cross a lake of fire just to babble into your ear about themselves for 15 hours. What if that happens? What if this annoying jabbering random-stranger latches onto me and decides immediately that we are best friends, and then I’m stuck hiking through some unknown wilderness with the rain pouring down on me and this guy talking at me and farting for comic effect and stealing my sandwiches and who also has terrible egg-mayo breath? What if suddenly, under the cover of a dark, moonless sky he brutally murders me? WHAT. IF. THAT. HAPPENS? Answer: A week later they’d find my broken body hurled into the deepest depths of a gully clutching a half-eaten sandwich and fragments of dried egg mayo decorating the side of my mouth.
I tend to talk myself in and out of things with rapid ease. I do want away, I’d love to just hit refresh – totally F5 the shit out of my life – and come back hopefully being able to settle into this new routine. I don’t do well with change; I do even worse with happiness – partly because I feel I don’t deserve it.
I am going away on holiday, somewhere, somehow, before the end of the year. I just don’t have any idea where or how or who with. Answers on a postcard please – or DM me.