There Really Will Be Days When...
by Anna Atsu
There really will be days when the mirror becomes a harsh critic, showing nothing else than a pitiful immature child.
There will be days when every flaw seems magnified, and facing the world feels like an insurmountable task.
There will be days when the weight of self-doubt presses down heavily, and the desire to retreat into solitude overwhelms the desire for social interaction.
There will be days when the longing for qualities beyond reach tugs at the heartstrings with a poignant ache.
Yesterday, the temperature of such an evening hit me like a sledgehammer. The discomfort of illness wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket, leaving me longing for solace and reprieve. Paracetamol offered a feeble attempt at relief, but it was the endless embrace of a scalding hot bath that provided a fleeting respite. Yet, even in the sanctuary of warm water, sleep remained elusive, stolen away by the persistent grip of malaise.
As another grey rainy day greeted me, the question loomed largely magnified:
“What to do?”
The allure of working from the comfort of a dry, warm and bright home beckoned like a distant oasis in the desert of obligation…
But alas, such a luxury was not mine to claim. Duty called, and I begrudgingly answered its summons, trudging into the familiar halls of musically orchestrated responsibility with a large pack of paracetamol in my heavy black bag.
Sure, there were a couple of silly jokes on the way trying to cheer me up, like a framed photo of a “worker of a month” — Buddy, school’s dog in one of the schools by the river…
As a song played faintly on the radio, its tune slipping from my memory amidst the fog of doubled-dosed morning Paracetamol, I found myself distanced from the familiar sense of ironic distance I typically cherish.
With a pallid complexion and sunken eyes, I arrived a few minutes late, standing before the friendly faces adorned in matching attire, a forced grin plastered on my face as I awaited the printing of my badge insert. A compassionate voice, belonging to a supply teacher beside me, gently remarked:
"Miss, you haven't pressed the YES button."
The screen prompted whether I was satisfied with the photo, a routine query, yet on this occasion, I couldn't treat it lightly.
Unable to suppress my honesty, I admitted:
"Because truthfully, I'm not content with how I am today."
He simply responded, "I'm sorry."
In return, I offered him a simple smile of gratitude as I impatiently pressed the button.
Yes, I had compelled myself to rise, to dress, to go through the motions of daily life, battling every step of the way—not to feign composure, but to defy the sense of being overwhelmed, if not battled.
Certainly, it would be ideal to remain snug in bed, recuperating simply or working peacefully from home. However, I am not a philosopher conducting contemplation from the comfort of my home, nor am I a monk devoting my entire day to meditation and foraging for healing herbs, nor a full-time writer fueled by expertly brewed coffee. There is indeed a subset of people who are delving into profound self-reflection and tranquillity while working remotely, tending to their vibrant plants on expansive windowsills, and avoiding any ailments due to minimal physical interaction with others.
"Envious?"
“If I was ever to envy anyone anything it would be that they are more advanced than I am. Envy is not a good feeling so try to learn from them, stumbling like crazy”.
And what about monasteries?
They're quite popular in my home country. I've attempted visits to "the brothers" and "the friars" of various colours at different locations, but they don't allow women to enter. Every time I visit my family, I'm awakened at 4 or 5 am by the ringing bells, calling them to prayer.
Don't misunderstand me; they've never allowed me a glimpse into their way of life. But they must be a group of pleasant, laid-back individuals, living in their own bubble, influencing those who never actually see them. I'm greatly influenced by their generous sharing: various types of honey, natural elixirs, and herbal mixtures for various ailments—something I could use right now!
Of course, I wouldn't mind living a similar life. No need for interactions, no need for complicated relationships; just delving deep within myself...
Without any humour, which seems to be lacking today: I prefer working alone more than anything. Cooperation isn't my strong suit. I suppose I inherited this trait from my father, who spent the latter part of his life working independently. I'd happily shut myself in my room and write, translate, read, and explore any language...
"Anna, that doesn't seem to be the case!"
I guess it's like everything with me—dual... I don't consider proportions anymore, but I know there's a rational side in me that wants to mature, become organised, technically proficient, and generally excel in what I want to do. And then there's the crazy, foolish side that stumbles and falls with no ill intentions but often with poor outcomes.
Currently, I live close to black friars and grey friars, so I occasionally visit the pub they opened a couple of years ago. They serve excellent beer, black burgers with hummus and pomegranate seeds, adorned with poppy seeds.
"Anna, you didn't invite me!"
Yes, I did. I "pass by" sometimes while "trying to connect" with myself on the drive home.
"Just from the outside?"
I've told you, the conservative monks don't extend invitations to me! I attempted to push my way in for noble reasons, but they remained focused on their own prayerful pursuits, advocating self-discovery, contemplation, and caution in eating, drinking, and sleeping habits, occasionally passing by with healing remedies and kind words.
"Come on, Anna, just one beer at the Blackfriars!"
It's a lovely place, adorned with plenty of greenery both inside and out, featuring charmingly unconventional, not always straight waitstaff and an elaborate menu. Some come for an expensive wedding dinner with close family, while others celebrate wedding anniversaries, stealing a moment away from home.
"I understand! It's too chilly for you to sit outside where everyone can see us together..."
Blankets are available for those who opt for the fresh air, coming from a busy road frequented by both eco-friendly and less eco-friendly vehicles.
"What then? Fending off paparazzi?"
It's not that; the fence is high, and my paparazzi don't drive the fastest cars.
"So why are you hesitant to invite?"
I'm not. Consider yourself invited! The airport isn't too far, trains run smoothly from all capitalised and “in-capitalised” cities and there are good connections. If you're local, I'll arrange a gender-appropriate pickup for you with a black cab or a white limousine, alternatively, I will search for a princess coach on a pumpkin market, as long as you promise to bring plenty of goofy, dark humour and a friend to "share"...
"So now you can afford the finer things, huh?"
Who said I'll be footing the bill? I'll pay for myself with my hard-earned salary. No princessing on any road!
"You won't pay for me?"
Well, well. I'll organise a group dinner soon, but you need to be up for it. Otherwise, you can seek out another Blackfriars or brewery closer to your home. They're everywhere!
"I'm not going anywhere! It's raining, and I prefer the warmth and dryness of my comically funny slippers. Besides, you're not driving me anywhere... in any case, my dear!"
I understand. No need to dampen your shoes on slippery ground; it's gotten quite muddy after all this rain.
"So finally, just so I have something to say: I can't go out because I'm locked up."
I understand, my dear friend with a padlocked heart and a key hidden in the depths of a lake. I'm acquainted with such matters. Ensure you bring your companion along, or if you're concerned our sense of humour might not align, we can save it for another occasion, perhaps when I'll be dressed in a red-hearted Minnie Mouse dress.
"I am truly locked up!"
You're speaking seriously... Understood. You may feel imprisoned in a monastery, hospital, or prison tower, none of which feel distant to me...
“So seriously, Anna, you chose to stay home, Black Friar? Good Friday!”
Yes, today is already a well-sounding bank day or even holiday, unless you work in France then you need to wait until Monday to feel better. I mean: I stayed, on the second day of my sickness, deer friend. I ended the first one prematurely, handing over only a lanyard with no insert, smiling at the lovely reception lady: "This time I am taking this dreadful picture with me home"...
...feeling under the weather these days...
But on a serious note, I have a long journey ahead before I can claim to be a courageous woman, both in life and at work: comfortable in the daylight, wearing my own slippers, sipping a hot drink, sitting calmly at a desk without resorting to stealing time by working at night in the remotest room of my apartment, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to draw attention to my nocturnal endeavours, which mostly involve writing about my dreams...
But truthfully, if I had moments of stillness during the day, perhaps the switch could occur... I'm quite confident about that.
"So much seriousness, Anna... We're in a lonely, eerily dark autumn forest, yet you mentioned going to work... at least on the first day of your sickness. Now you're saying you left with your less-than-admirable picture... Surely, you encountered someone!"
Yes! I intentionally tried to avoid fairy tale scenarios...
First up was Diane—she's my initial point of contact.
"Oh, you! Playing the princess role again, huh?"
You know that any resemblance to famous figures in my stories is intentional, but the names just seem to line up naturally as I go along...
Diane is a delightful mix of qualities: she'll scold, she'll jest, she'll be kind and helpful, she'll be organised yet occasionally lose things amidst her chaos. For some inexplicable reason, I truly like her...
I usually toss my coat in a corner of her library sanctuary, as there's no designated spot for such black designer-type attire in this modest, mainstream academy with its religious values.
As I enter, Diane shoots a theatrical glance at me and sends a prayer heavenward, exaggeratingly lamenting the disarray. The book "Miserable" sits nearby, but her attention is fixed on my pale complexion, lack of hairstyle, and barely-there lipstick, as if she's intoxicated by my apparent distress.
Knowing her flair for drama and impersonations, I briefly explain, intentionally ending my sentence without playing the drama queen for once.
Diane isn't a friend; she's a colleague. Just as I couldn't befriend the real Diana, with whom I share a deep sorrow, a love for nations, children, art, luxury, swimming, fun friendships with billionaires, boats, fast cars, international travel, cakes, and tense relationships with royalty, all while striving not to succumb to drama due to other musically breaking connections with the Queen.
No, despite my fondness for the name "Charles," I don't wish to waste time explaining my sick and discontented image to Diane. Not because I don't enjoy feeling like a princess who loves Wales, but because "drama" isn't my preferred genre, especially when I'm here to attend to students who excel in that regard.
Besides, I've patiently saved my "queen-themed" funds to passionately explore Paris many times. Yet, despite my love for fast cars, the thought of hurtling through a dark tunnel in the romantic capital with a so-called friend named Dodi or "Do-di-do-da" in a speeding Mercedes-Benz, chased by relentless virtual paparazzi, terrifies me.
So there I am, heading to see the modern-day drama queen, who last time fervently twisted or feigned twisting his ankle during football, only to be unable to sit through the lesson, earning brownie points each time he's sent for a cold press with my red pass, which naturally goes to the diabetic girl.
He's the author of "Truly Sincerely," filled with terrifying biases about religion, culture, women, careers, and football. He regularly engages in argumentation, belittlement, and mockery, particularly targeting "The Girl With the Sweetness in Her Hands," who aspires to become a nurse. He labels his behaviour a "higher calling" and dreams of becoming a businessman or banker.
"So, Anna, you're biased because you're not adept at business."
Everyone harbours biases, whether they acknowledge them or not. Those who claim otherwise are often proven wrong when they analyse life events and numbers.
"No, that's not what I meant to convey, Anna. I mean, do you just sit idly by while Truly Sincerely mercilessly mistreats that poor girl?"
It's not about stingy allowances or generous intervention. My presence wouldn't change the overall dynamic. I know he behaves this way when others aren't looking.
"But surely you do something, instead of just sitting at your desk?"
Oh, but she's not defenceless; she knows who she is and can engage in discussion when the atmosphere permits.
And as for me? Who am I? I'm here for a reason, particularly as we approach the GCSE exams, but in the meantime, we're learning to communicate. Sometimes I'll quote him, trying to avoid sounding like I'm delivering a tough math lesson. After all, he's much better at numbers than he is at understanding the intricate metaphors of English Paper 1. I remind myself with a sip of my paracetamol-infused drink not to forget this fact and to tackle the challenging final questions...
As the music starts playing...
"This isn't a dance floor, princess!"
"Seriously, where are you off to, Anna?"
To the bathroom, naturally. It was a long lesson, and I've been drinking plenty of water to flush out whatever it is that's plaguing me...
And when I finally make my way to the bathroom after a hectic math lesson, my focus nearly lost amidst "modes" and "mixtures," I'll encounter numbers once more:
3 children in every classroom have a mental health disorder.
Half of all mental health problems manifest by age 14.
One in 12 people self-harm at some point in their life.
One in 5 adults have a mental health disorder.
54% of teachers have considered leaving the sector in the last 2 years due to pressure on their mental wellbeing.
And the vision:
Our vision is to create an emotionally healthy learning environment where young people and adults emotionally thrive. We all have our part in this.
Of course, that vision isn't pleasant. I witness fights and students in tears nearly every day, and believe me, it's a recurring theme in both so-called "good schools" and those in "deprived areas."
What's there to be surprised about? If you were raised in the cloistered environment of a monastery, where contact with women is strictly avoided, then yes, congratulations! You can immerse yourself in prayers, meditations, and all the serene activities we all enjoy for an extended period. But not all of us have the luxury of peaceful isolation; often, we need to step outside our comfort zones and physically collaborate with others whose perspectives are unclear, facing their challenges like a German Domino-stein, a bittersweet dessert with a satisfying coating.
"So, it's not just the three of you learning from Dominostein or playing dominos?"
No, they're akin to an old married couple, playing tricks on each other, oblivious to the fact that a game of 'hide and seek' might bring more joy...
She's the author of beautifully inconsistent essays, set in the rainy, lush region of Nigeria. How could I overlook one today, titled "Abandoned," by simply staying in bed? But there I am.
"And what about the numbers?"
Numbers pose a challenge for her towards the day's end, so I've rearranged our schedule, tackling math first.
"Not those numbers, the ones in the bathroom, Anna. You seem to be avoiding unpleasant odours!"
I'm not avoiding them. Those numbers are perhaps more alarming than they appear. But people don't want to hear numbers; they want to cling to hope for change, which is always within reach, regardless of the vessel we sail in or the sewage we start our journey in. There are more than three of us on that ship...
"Who would want to travel in your sewage, Anna?"
As the sign in the stinky toilet suggests, we're tasked with "creating an emotionally healthy learning environment where young people and adults thrive emotionally." And it does make sense because "We all have our part in this":
Many of us are children of historical trauma, born into families with deficits, unable to openly discuss emotions, with mental and physical disorders running in the family, alcoholism in close or distant circles, various forms of migration distorting our sense of belonging, and weakened family ties due to prejudice and physical and emotional distance— the list is not exhaustive.
If you don't relate, you probably shouldn't read further because you're familiar with neatly manicured gardens, endless displays of happiness, and streams of fulfilment. Oh yes, we all aspire to be there, but for many of us, the path is twisted, distorted, and unbalanced, not by choice...
"Anna, you might bring people down!"
Really? If they're already down, my words aren't revealing anything new. If they reside in darkness or shadows, they're not to fear it anymore. There's light, in whatever form it may appear: timid rays trying to break free from heavy gray skies, unclear chest X-rays, soft night lamps, sparkling light dancing on a lake's surface seen from the depths where we're not quite at the bottom, are we?
"And what about your sickness?"
My bronchitis, I hope it's nothing more, reminds me of my seasonal illness every autumn.
Autumn... I meant to discuss this poem the other day, but recent reflections have been postponed, much like uncomfortable emotions. Just because they're pushed aside doesn't mean I won't share them.
“We don’t avoid difficult questions because they are difficult”,
I teach my students. So I do the same. Let me share the poem, even if you judge that it doesn’t fit within this lengthy “essay” exposition before I delve into the details of illness, without a sick note this time:
Autumn
by Alan Bold
Autumn arrives
Like an experienced robber
Grabbing the green stuff
Then cunningly covering his tracks
With a deep multitude
Of colourful distractions.
And the wind,
The wind is his accomplice
Putting an air of chaos
Into the careful diversions
So branches shake
And dead leaves are suddenly blown
In the faces of inquisitive strangers.
The deft chills the world,
Changes the temper of the earth
Till the normally placid sky
Glows red with a quiet rage.
Apologies, but I won't be interpreting the poem, as I believe it's essential to respect Alan Bold's intended expression. Perhaps in your home country, there's less emphasis on the need for analysis of this poem. If you're curious about scholarly interpretations, you could use search engines like Google. Nonetheless, isn't it true that each person forms their own unique interpretation of a poem or saying, much like with a simple joke?
I come from a society that's often overly judgmental, something I've never favoured. I've constantly sought to broaden my perspective, though I recognise we all have our limitations shaped by our past experiences and the assumptions others make about us. We may present ourselves in ways that don't fully align with our true selves, employing various coping mechanisms to deal with our struggles. Sometimes, discussing these struggles isn't necessary to explain our behaviour, as others tend to view us through the lens of their own insecurities, trying to maintain a clear vision of themselves.
My journey hasn't been straightforward, and I've faced numerous health challenges. Since childhood, I've been prone to bronchitis and chest infections, a tendency that has persisted into adulthood. The cause? While I'm not entirely certain, it likely involves genetics.
I'm familiar with hospitals, though I try to avoid them whenever possible.
I was born with Pectus excavatum, a common congenital deformity of the chest wall that results in a sunken appearance. While doctors assure me it doesn't affect lung function or bronchitis beyond altering the chest's shape, it has led to numerous visits to modern hospitals for physiotherapy and exercises, including swimming. However, swimming isn't feasible when one is unwell, which brings me to a different aspect of my life, away from pools.
One reason I moved away from working with young children wasn't due to a dislike of the gossip prevalent among primary teachers, but rather because physical proximity to the adorable little ones often triggered severe chest infections.
Recently, I returned to the primary school setting to assess very young students. Whether my bronchitis originated from this environment or not remains uncertain. However, each visit still evokes tears—not because these children aren't fully human, but because they're inherently beautiful and intelligent in their own right. It's during these assessments that I quickly discern signs of autism spectrum disorder in some of them. While a diagnosis can sometimes be beneficial, it can also have detrimental effects. I approach these situations with an open heart and good intentions, but I can't predict the outcome or whether my actions will ultimately help or harm them.
Reflecting on my journey that led me to this moment, I'm reminded of the barriers I once deemed insurmountable. I once believed that working in environments where vulnerability is laid bare would be impossible to confront, inevitably leading to constant tears or own breakdown.
However, defying these assumptions, years ago I intentionally ventured into the realm of mental health and learning disabilities settings, confronting my own biases and fears along the way.
Through these experiences, I discovered that the human condition is a peculiar mixture of strength and fragility, constantly evolving.
Each of us grapples with our past, present, imperfections, and insecurities, navigating a landscape littered with uncertainties and doubts. It's in acknowledging this shared struggle that acceptance begins to take root, blossoming into the resilience of the human spirit.
Yet, amidst these shadows, where I try to accept my periodic physical illness, stable deformations, and notorious imperfect inclinations, there remains one untouched frontier I've yet to breach: being with people when I know they will depart.
I doubt I'll ever pursue hospice care. The thought of confronting the fragility of human connections and life in its rawest form still sends shivers down my spine, reminding me of my own vulnerability. Merely waiting for courage to arrive won't bring me any closer to its embrace.
“I am so tired of waiting. Aren’t you, for the world to become good and beautiful and kind? Let us take a knife and cut the world in two and see what worms are eating at the rind.” — Langston Hughes
Even as I stand on the precipice of this uncharted territory, clutching a knife to slice through the German cake of uncertainty, I'm reminded that courage may not arise from the absence of fear, but from the willingness to confront it head-on, even if with only one eye open.
So, on those days when the mirror reflects a sick, distorted X-ray of a stranger back at me, and the weight of the world feels tiresome and heavy, I'll remember: there truly will be days when...
...the world becomes good, beautiful, and fully kind to everyone. Meanwhile, I'll strive to see my own reflection in a positive light, even if a haze of malaise clouds my vision.
You do have some control over how you feel, so even if you don't fully believe the compliments you hear, accept that people wish you well and want you to grow, thrive, and be courageous on your journey.
If today feels like the depressive state of a badly sliced German Schwarzwälder, know that there are more people than you realise who empathise with you in that dark place. You've progressed beyond the foundation tier; you're now tackling higher mathematics.
Welcome on board!
It is a bright day.
Your face will light up today!
Ps: A free distanced blurry gift from me:
They are virtually empty calories,
gluten-free,
sugar-free,
dairy free
but still very
tasty.
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