One perfect moment

Where can I even begin to start. 

I have had some of the happiest moments of my life on the trip, the most content, the most at peace with the world, and with myself. I would move here, I really would. 

To call it a holiday would be doing it such a disservice. I used to reject the word because holidays are meant to be fun and when I traveled I wasn't having fun, usually I was tackling meltdown after meltdown and learning. It would be like calling school a holiday. Yet still, holiday doesn't fit, how can you reduce the greatest lessons and learning curves of your life down to a holiday, the greatest self growth to one silly little word that means to take a break from things. This isn't the break, this is the living! The bits in between this are the breaks, where life slows down and becomes monotonous and restrictive, I'm sorry but it's just not for me. 

Yesterday I woke up at 4am, jet lag has been rearing it's ugly head. Instead of spending the next few hours tossing and turning, I just got up and watched the sun rise over the city as I spoke to mum. I had made the wonderful mistake of checking my phone at 4am - Jope Otts mentioned you in a comment - we all know how it goes. And I looked, and I played a scenario out in my head where rather than saying 'ah that looks amazing' and moving on to something else, I really looked. What mum had tagged me in was one of these photos gone viral articles about Japanese sculptures, it was filled with nonsense and misinformation, copied from other people who had copied the information from someone else, a chinese whispers article, what does it matter anyway, Japan is a million miles away, people will like and share and say ooooh and ahhhh but that's all. I didn't, I just saw an opportunity to see something really amazing, something that (as it turns out) very few people have seen and most never heard of. It was called Wara Arts festival or わらアート if I'm correct and it was somewhere around Niigata city, the other side of the country, so I did some digging and managed to find the name of the park that these sculptures were being displayed in, and then with nothing else to go on, I set off, making my own route. I took the metro to Ueno, the Shinkansen (bullet train) to Niigato on the opposite coast from Tokyo, then a local train down the country until I reached a tiny town called Nishikawa. It was beautiful and I instantly fell in love, it was small and bleak and a little bit in disrepair. Rust adorned the railings and weeds grew through the tracks and fields stretched on for miles before reaching the mountains. The town was deathly quiet, there was the evidence of life but no life itself. As I walked along the street, cars started passing me and I felt a sense of awe that this tiny little place in the middle of nowhere had always existed but it had taken a rather impromptu and impulsive train ride looking for something I had no real evidence even existed before I ever knew it was here. The park would be about 5km away but I hadn't been able to find any information on how to get there or whether the sculptures were even there for sure, but I had hoped and decided I would enjoy the journey no matter the destination. 

That was when I stopped at the post office. I can't really say what happened, I can't put into words the language-less exchange but as I spoke to them and they spoke to me in two tongues that couldn't be more different, actions spoke louder than words, their enthusiasm for my enthusiasm and love of their country and their town came through in their warmth and great kindness towards me. They gifted me a post office edition Hello Kitty piggy bank and after all the staff had decided what to do with the little lost foreigner, the woman who had been serving me took me down the street to the local taxi company. When I decided to walk (I didn't really want to pay for a taxi) they helped me map my route and with the utmost kindness set me on my way. The woman told me she wanted to talk, but she couldn't, I said the same to her, both limited by our words. I told her I loved her country and her people were the kindest people, I think this was enough.

10 minutes into the walk, the taxi driver caught up with me and told me he would take me to the park for free. The overwhelming kindness and of this gesture is still hard for me to believe, it was not a cheap trip, about £14 but he chose to drive me there for nothing because he was a kind man. 

Kindness, I keep saying it because as usual, Japan has showed it's worth in it's actions and there's no other word for it. At the park I found the sculptures, huge animals created from the straw from the rice harvest, but their scale seemed small beside the awe that I felt for the people I had met. Talk about restoring faith in mankind. 

I took photos and sat on a bench and it would not be an exaggeration to say it was the happiest moment of my life. There, in the middle of nowhere, I felt more content and more alive than I ever have before. I walked back and it was long and by the time I was back on the train to Tokyo I was shattered, somewhere along the way the fatigue and hunger (I had forgotten to eat in all of this) and huge amounts of emotion and adrenaline overwhelmed me and by the time I had navigated all the rail lines in rush hour, found my station locker, retrieved my luggage and carried it to my accommodation in the pouring rain I was just too overwrought to cope, I sat in my bunk and cried. I wanted to be anywhere but there, I felt the huge crash that comes with such happiness and it was like a wave, knocking the breath out of me. Today none of it feels real, those experiences sound like someone else's and I can only write them like a story, because that was how they happened. I feel like my descriptions are over embellished and dramatic but that was what I experienced, I can't write it any other way. 

I am in love. 

Delhi welcomes you with open arms

Back by popular demand

I'm writing, I don't know what I'll write, I'll just start and see if the words find their places. 

I left Britain a few days ago to travel to Japan, on the way I had a long layover in Delhi, India. I didn't especially want to stop in Delhi, as much as I've longed to see India, a 24hr layover didn't seem the best way to do it, the flight was the only one I could afford though and I figured I'd arrive in the evening, go straight to my hotel and then spend the day seeing Delhi before departing for Tokyo that evening. So I thought. There were several hitches before I'd set off. I couldn't prearrange an airport transfer so I would have to take a taxi, at night, that's a big stepping stone for me. Secondly the visa to enter India costs £60, that's okay, but it did mean that the flight wasn't as reasonable as it seemed at first glance. Thirdly you can't get Rupees in britain, the lady at the bureau de change told me, I still assume that's true. 

Before I tell you about the experience, I need to make it clear I am stating the facts and describing the situation. Yes, it sucked, yes, I was disappointed, scared, tired, frustrated, angry, but that's not why I'm telling you, I am not telling you  because I feel hard done by, I'm telling you because you asked and I'm just being honest about the journey so far. 

The flight was fine, I couldn't sleep but that's usual, although they did black out the cabin and switch off the lights which is a little unusual for a daytime flight. The food was amazing, I'm not generally a fan of meals on planes and used to habitually turn them down before I discovered the 'asian vegetarian' option, and no one does asian vegetarian like India. It was some of the best food I've ever eaten, which says a lot. 

Cutting to the chase the problems started after customs, the bureau de change wouldn't let me change any less than £150 which I couldn't afford, they directed me outside to the ATMs, what I didn't know was that the ATM was going to reject my card as nationwide suspected fraudulent activity. Okay, my bad, should have told them but it didn't even cross my mind. However, they didn't contact me for verification, they contacted mum but then wouldn't speak to her. After many failed attempts to withdraw from the ATMs, I figured I'd go back inside and sort something out, it was 29 degrees outside, very busy and nearing midnight at this point. 

Only once you've left the airport that's it, you're not allowed back in, them's the rules. The military on the door didn't want to hear me out but eventually said I could go in if I left all my luggage with them and went straight to the ATM (there was no help desk or anything).

After another 20 mins of failed withdrawals and running from ATM to ATM I finally managed to get onto the airport wifi which I used to call home. Mum informed me that nationwide had blocked my card. I rang their international number but  my credit ran out before I could even speak to someone. Next mum tried but they wouldn't discuss it with her, then they tried to phone me (to no avail). At last a solution presented itself when I facetime called mum and she put me on loudspeaker to talk to Nationwide on the home phone. Bloody hell, just thinking about it makes me nauseous. There's no way I could have contacted them without help, they'd blocked access to my one source of money and then made amending the situation myself impossible by making the international number charged at standard network rates for international calls. I couldn't have topped up and rang, they'd blocked my card. Anyway, you get the picture. Just moments after I'd successfully taken money out the military guard found me and demanded I leave the terminal, it was dead lucky he hadn't come for me 5 minutes earlier. I took a taxi (who charged me 2000 rupees for a 5 minute ride and then asked for a tip, I was too tired to argue the ethics of this) and arrived at my hotel in a very intimidating area. 

I went to sleep around 3am and got up at 11 the next morning. There was no way I felt capable of exploring Delhi whilst scared, over tired and in 36 degree heat with 3 weeks worth of luggage on my back. It was a shame, but I know I couldn't have done it. The hotel transferred me to the airport (300 rupees...) and I was relieved to be back safe and sound, only I wasn't allowed in. Of course, eventually I got in, made my flight and am now in Tokyo about to sleep for the first time in 2 days, but there was an entire day of being sent from one place to another, having my passport checked just to use the loos, being told to collect a new boarding pass, being told I couldn't have a new boarding pass, queuing for things only to be sent to the wrong places and having to start again. Surprisingly I took this whole charade in my stride, it was all just a chance to learn, even if it was ridiculous and upsetting, but my patience broke when the woman at the help desk in departures told me that on my way back I would have to clear immigration, collect my luggage, leave the airport and then check back in and clear immigration again because (and I quote) "you cannot stay in the airport, you must leave the airport mam, there is no transit area, you must collect your bags and leave the airport". I had already asked several people at different desks and been given different answers ranging from 'your bags will go straight to your final destination' to 'you may need to collect your bags and check them in again, it depends on the ticket type' but this woman didn't even bother to fob me off sensibly, we were standing IN the transit area less than 50m from the transit hotel in the airport that she works at every day that had thousands of passengers in transit every day and she just reached into her bum, had a bit of a rummage and game me whatever nonsense made up on the spot answer she found first. Bloody hell! I walked down the departures hall only to be accosted by a member of the transit hotel staff who wanted to know if I was on a long layover and would I like  sleep. I asked her if people were allowed to stay in the airport and she said "yes mam, you have to stay in the airport because you have no visa" which although presumptuous, was almost definitely closer to the truth than the answer the woman at the information desk came up with. I could have spat fire and rained down glass, god I was angry, I almost booked another flight there and then just to avoid Delhi on the way back. But I didn't, I sat calmly, got on my flight and left. 

This is part one of two I guess. I'm in Japan now, that's another story. 

I don't hate India, I hate that such a brilliantly cultural and enterprising country only showed me it's bad points. I hate that I can't help but feel angry, I can't help but be disappointed, I'm angry because I was so ready to love India and it took that away from me. I think that means I will have to go back. 

I learnt a lot of lessons, both about India and about my own strength, I'm glad every awful thing unfolded as it did. I feel really lucky. I can still be angry, I can feel both. 

Travelling

I am on my way to New Zealand. I didn't know if I would write my blog, I have a lot of conflicting feelings about writing it. For starters, there has been so much shaming from the government on the subject of mental health and disability that I was concerned that people think I just waltz over to the other side the world without  care, that because I do it, it must come easily and that I should be able to do other things. I am differently abled, I can't necessarily do what others can do, and sometimes I can do things which do not come easily to others. This, travelling, it's necessary for my recovery, it's also immensely difficult, but doing something immensely difficult once a year is one thing, and if I fail, there are no long term implications, whereas doing something immensely difficult every day while knowing it has an effect on your life, well that's the stuff that I find too hard to do. Every day it takes on average, an hour to get dressed. No, not an hour from waking up, an hour from starting to get dressed to finish. Some days I can't face it, some days it takes longer, some days I just put different pyjamas on. I'd like to be capable of just going about the day to day stuff without all this terror, honesty I would, but I can't and while I'll continue to work on myself, I accept that's who I am and it's okay. I need the rest of the world to accept that too. And probably they do, probably it's only the government who want to shame us both for what we can do and what we can't, who want to tell us what they think we can do irrespective of all evidence to the contrary. Who take any positivity about what we can do and turn it into a threat to our welfare, but honestly, this is me, laid out and bare, I can't do those things, I know it and the people who know me know it, I don't want to be afraid anymore, I want to leave the shadow of The Man in my childhood, just a story to scare kids, I don't want him following me into adulthood and threatening my existence. So I will share my travels with you my friends, and when The Man comes I will put up a fight.

Three months on

This is how I think it will go. Every day there will be a little less of you. We thought we lost you the moment the monitors showed the life left you but that wasn't the end of it. You were still very much here, you were everywhere, in us, our thoughts and memories and your belongings, even your body. It was like you had stepped out of the room and you were just around the corner. Now I feel we truly begin to lose you and we have to accept that with dignity and composure. Each day you slip away a little, maybe you don't flit through our minds, maybe something that was once yours simply becomes part of the scenery of our home, loses it's potency. Maybe we accept a little that you will not be back, that you aren't just in the next room, that you will never be now.
You gave me a gift in grief, I feel closer to myself than I ever have, I cut out all the distractions and felt I had less to lose than ever, and yet you brought into sudden clarity the things I could not live without. I took more risks, I made less apologies, I showed more compassion and forgiveness in grief. Grief has suited me, grief becomes me, grief means you are always close though I have lost you, while I still feel it's grip, it is your grip and you are still just on the edge of everything I do. I'm sad but I feel freer than I have in a long time. I miss you, I wish you were still here, but in your absence I feel you have given me something I needed.
Bless you Nan, my love always, Hannah

Grief

*Beep*

"The person you're calling is..."

*click*

"Dead. The person I'm calling is dead."

I'm wearing grief like a shawl, pulling it tighter around myself to keep out the draft of normality. Who wants to go back to real life? Not I, I have busy things to do, I need to stare into space, wander aimlessly, shuffle around the house with a hot water bottle. 

I have played at normality a little, the laugher of children lifting my soul, but that's not the real world, not now, the real world is in that house, stagnant, with grief congealing on every surface, powdered with it like a layer of dust. Grief is in the very air we breath and I swallow down lungfuls of it as if they will be my last.

I sleep fitfully, my dreams give me no comfort as I am paraded from one image to the next. I wake and find myself sleepwalking through the day. I read and each page blurs into the next and I wonder if I'm just reading the same sentence over and over like a broken record. I eat and it's ashes in my mouth, I watch films that would once have been a secret escape, now it is like being locked in an empty room. The mornings race away from me and the evenings crawl by, the minutes tormenting me, I long to sleep, perchance to scream. 

"When you have a moment of happiness, does it make you feel guilty?"

"No"

Why? Should it? Was I such a bad granddaughter that I she would have wished me to stay in this deep pit of empty despair? I ponder this, I ponder everything. I know the answer but what more is there to do than ponder it all away?

I feel guilty telling people, I hate to hear them apologise, the sincerity, they have lost people, they can relate, but it is too small a gesture, I have to say it's fine, I have to placate them and my guilt at having brought it up is a small and awkward little feeling. How can I tell them how utterly tragic the truth is that the world has lost you, that a little piece of my perfect world has ceased to exist and a little part of me will have died with you? 

How can I tell them that it is not sad at all, that you haven't really gone anywhere, you are in everything I see and do, you are in me and I rejoice that you ever were at all?

How can I tell them that it doesn't matter that you're gone because my whole being has gone numb and I can't really remember who you are or what you meant or who I am or what I am meant to be doing?

So it's fine, I say and keep my desperate swell of emotions to myself with a tight little smile, I wish you wouldn't apologise, but thank you anyway. 

The children are great, they are heartfelt and when they go back to smiling and laughing I do not feel bitter that they can sweep you from their minds so easily, but a bitter little part of me feels that adults should know better, that your passing should rock the lives of every adult who hears, they should be falling apart at the news, the whole nation brought to it's knees in mourning. 

These words have become commonplace, mourning, grief, passing, bereavement. They are the new glossary that accompanies our everyday lives. Not an hour goes by that I do not speak them. What happened to words I used to use to define my life and my time? What was I before I was bereaved? How did I define myself if not as someone nanless? 

Am I nanless? Has your death changed who I am? There must have been a side of me only you knew, I was someone's granddaughter, now I am not, that died with you. I keep a piece of you with me, but you took a part of me with you and the world has changed as there is one less person who understands me, one less person who even wants to try. 

I am all analogies and metaphors, smilies and cliches. My grief is a shawl and my memories are a quilt and wonder when I will be ready to exchange one for the other. 

'Dear Nan'

Dear Nan, 

Your gift to us will be a quilt, that will be your legacy. A patchwork of memories that we ourselves will have to gather and with tender, meticulous care, stitch together into something we hold dear. It will keep us warm, bring us comfort and protect us when we feel the weight of the world is on our shoulders. 

Some patches may be worn, frayed and threadbare, we may have to turn to others to lend us their memories and a needle and thread, or share our own patches with others should their quilts need tending. 

And yet, no two quilts will be the same, each will be as unique as the individual who pieces them together, we each knew you in our own way, and while you were loved by us all, you were a different person to each of us.

Some patches will be plain, faded or dull, yet these we may treasure the most. Your smile, your laugh, the tissue crumpled in your hand, opening your letters with a miniature sword, the smell of cinnamon and spice in the air. 

Some patches will be bright, patterned and embroidered, embellished with appliqué, a photo of you wearing a christmas jumper and a batman mask, offering me the skin off your back, telling me "they're a bit special' with a cheeky smile and the way you could belt out any song from any musical with all the finesse of a seasoned pub singer. 

Some patches will be dark, for there is no light without the dark and you were a whole person. I feel lucky that we had our struggles, as it was only through knowing both your triumphs and your flaws, that I could come to love you for who you really are. 

But, at the heart of my quilt, I will remember your acceptance. I will remember your grace in acknowledging your mistakes, the way you protected me when others could not understand and the way you never stopped learning and growing. They are the threads that will run through my quilt, they are the stitches that will hold the rest together.

Nan, I will miss you with all my heart, you will leave a gap in my life; an empty chair, but I promise I will not forget and your quilt will keep me warm, 

With love always, 

Hannah xx

Failure

It's a heavy word isn't it. Failure weighs on us all. It weighs so hard on me that it creeps into every new thing before it has begun. I'm afraid that fear of failure might be a more powerful motivator than hope of success. I'm not scared of failing, I have already failed, failure is already branded across my interests, my education, ocupation, my body and mind. I am already trapped in a cage of failure and the shame of it, and when I try, I try because I need to escape it somehow. But taking risks, trying things, these are the surest way to more failure. I don't believe that if you don't try then you've already failed, but I do believe that trying is important, despite the risk of failure, I believe it is the better option. When I started writing I was doing so for myself, I made books for myself and I was happy doing it but I wanted to share them, I wanted to prove that I was worth something. Now I have been encouraged and bolstered, I have been told I could use what I have made, I have been told that it could become a career, an occupation, a small hoped that I might use it to drag myself out of this pit of failure I feel I am living in. People were kind, I am still glad of that. Then I went away, I don't know if it made a difference or whether the weight of all that hope and expectation put a spanner in the works but now I have been home weeks and I cannot draw, I have a traditional art block, it is like someone has frozen my hand and only words flow from it, never pictures. All those words waiting for their pictures, you know I would have to write a thousand of them just to break even. I am back to square one and the anxiety of not achieving what I had hoped I would, and the weight of the failure yet again has made me too heavy to drag myself in to school, yet more failure. I have become a ball of self loathing and pity, a tangled, knotted mess of contempt, a mocking, sneering bully. "Thought you'd amount to something eh? You're hopeless and you will always be broken, stay down, don't get back up, you're defective, you failed again". 

Each day goes by and I wish that what I've already got was enough for me to be one of those fuctional, worthy members of society, but we live in a Jeremy Kyle culture and I cannot unhear the things that define me, the way society sees my sort, the truths about who I am. 

So, these are my ponderings on failure, this is where I am post-travel, I don't want placation, I am venting, pouring out the reality I am living due to my perception, it cannot be changed but with time and perhaps validation. I'm sorry it's so negative, not for you, for me, I wish I was happer for me, not so I could write cheery blogs about birdsong and gardening and lemonade. 

The most useful thing anyone can do is hand me some knowledge that I might find my way out.