At the end of my university time I had developed another dream, one which involved settling down somewhere in rural Wales, and having a homestead or similar, and being self-sufficient with veg, fruit, meat etc. Again my inner realist knew that it would be a challenge, so better to opt for a job or two in Denmark before taking the leap down onto that path.
And I finally did land a job. Which meant that at the same time my parents were moving to the small island where mum grew up, I was heading for the other end of the country to work. Things started alright, but finally a number of things which had been developing over years caught up with me, and I found myself sidelined by depression. Sick leave helped a bit, but I came back too soon. And various other issues which are too many, and frankly too bad for me to want to dwell on, meant that I found myself leaving North Denmark to seek refuge with my parents, lick my wounds and recover, and then look around for the way forward from there.
But somehow I didn't really seem to get any better. In some ways, in fact, it seemed like I was getting worse. Some good did happen, such as realizing that if I belonged any place in Denmark, it was here on Ærø. I would be able to commute for my next job, and perhaps combine that with working from home. Or perhaps even start as a self-employed translator. Which is why we ended up buying a house for me here. With an apple orchard and a bit of land to the property.
And then came the day when I was so sick and tired and weary of it all, that I asked to be admitted to hospital. Signing that paper was in some ways one of the toughest things I have ever done. In many other ways, it was one of the easiest. It was in any case easier than when I had signed my job contract. That is how I got to spend 3 nights in our local hospital towards the end of the year, mostly being a vegetable. The staff were awesome and were shocked to hear I had been living off my savings during all of the time. When I was sent home, it was with medications, strict orders that I went home to my home, not my parents, and that as soon as the Town Hall was open again to file for the sick pay I was entitled to.
Thus it was I ended up in the system, and other people were involved in figuring out how to get on. I won't bother with the long and tedious story. The important thing is that after a few years I was sent to a consulting psychiatrist who gave me two diagnoses. One was that I suffer from recurring depressions, and I would probably face the rest of my life on my medication. The other was a psychiatric illness.
Have you ever thought about how you would react if you were handed a psychiatric diagnosis?
I hadn't. But I know what was going on in my brain when she told me.
One half of me was running around like a headless chicken, using very colourful language, and horrified at being some sort of madman, and probably needing locking up. And the other half was crying and dancing with relief and joy at being told, that I was, in fact, normal, at least in regards to the bits and bobs which make up my mind. It's just not the standard set of bits and bobs. And I wasn't a lazy, good-for-nothing, stupid, doddering idiot. In fact, she stressed the fact that I was in possession of a good intellect. That has held me up many times.
I won't bother about regaling the road from there on to getting a temporary pension (several times) before finally getting a permanent one. Because that is not the important part of this particular story. No, it is rather the observations made during those periods.
I have grown up watching my mum and her mum doing all sorts of textile crafts. Mostly knitting and cross stitching. I had actually done both as a teenager, but it had slid along the side. But during the years before getting the diagnosis and then the following ones, I had picked up knitting again as a way of not losing it altogether. It was a way of keeping my hands, and my mind occupied. People would comment if they saw me without any knitting. And it dawned upon me after I started getting the temporary pension, that I was getting money, and I was spending my days knitting.
This was not what my teen-aged self had envisioned, but in a funny, backward sort of way I was being paid to make stuff with my hands. And after I finally got my first chickens almost three years ago, well, this isn't Wales, and I doubt I'll ever be able to get all my mad dreams of my twenties fulfilled, but it is rural, and I am taking baby steps toward some sort of self-sufficiency.
Life is funny. Funny peculiar, though considering the almost happy ending, funny ha ha could fit too.
Because in a very roundabout way, and nothing like what I had hoped for or dreamed of, I find myself more or less doing what I had wanted to.
I recently saw a quote on a website I frequent: "Sometimes the bad things that happen in our lives put us directly on the path to the best things that will ever happen to us".
Yes. That can happen. And this is what I try to focus on when I have my bad days, or my really bad days, and whenever I get frustrated by the effects that my mental health has upon my abilities and everyday life. Because it isn't all fun and games. It is often a struggle and a battle. But bit by bit, I am going to strive to get closer towards my dreams. It wasn't the way I wanted to follow to get there, but I'll take this opportunity to build my life up again in a way that gives me satisfaction.
This is one of the reasons I have started this blog. Because if some part of my journey before and onward, how I cope with my situation and slowly build up a full life in spite of things, can help or inspire somebody else struggling with some illness or accident which means their lives take a turn down a totally unexpected - and undesired - path, then that is worth sharing.
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