I don't like endings & I don't like change...

The reluctant goodbye

Dear reader,

I didn’t want to leave Vietnam. On the 14-hour flight back to Manchester from Hong Kong, I kept thinking, "What the fuck am I doing?" But I knew what I was doing. I was returning home to attend a family wedding and see the dear friends and family I hadn’t laid eyes on in six months, both of which I wanted to do.

But still. I was saying goodbye to something I didn’t want to let go of. I find letting go when I’m not quite ready very difficult, of people, yes, but also places and routines.

I’m just not good at endings.

I don’t like endings and I don’t like change (like most neurodivergent folk?) and yet I continuously put myself through it. There is a drive in me to live a bigger life than the one I have in my small Yorkshire village (population 4K) and so I must weather them both as best I can, I guess for as long as I can.

Three months previously, when I’d left Chiang Mai, I'd cried at my departure and felt the same. Yet, after being in Vietnam for only a week, I realised that Chiang Mai, while a fantastic city, was not the right place for me, and the effects of the overstimulation had taken a serious toll on my nervous system. When I’m actively in something, I find it almost impossible to be objective.

The journey home to Yorkshire was actually wonderful. Why? I’d taken a 2mg Valium. I used to be big into drugs, both legal and illegal (including black market valium), alongside alcohol, all in an attempt to quieten my surroundings, quieten my brain, and connect with others more organically. Those days are long gone because they take me away from who I am, make me act out of integrity and also make me feel terrible afterwards.

But the 26-hour journey over to Asia was horrendous, even with special assistance. Three flights, two near meltdowns, and an overall feeling that I might be going insane. I’m not doing this again, I thought. I don’t need to put myself up on a pedestal as sober and ‘clean’, even to myself. I’m going to take valium next time and see if that helps.

I didn’t decide to take the benzodiazepines lightly. Valium is dangerous and highly addictive. The ‘mothers' little helpers’ are responsible for many destroyed lives and deaths in the UK each year. I’ve seen this firsthand a lifetime ago in my role as a social worker at a substance misuse clinic. This is why I only purchased a handful from the Thai doctor who was more than happy to prescribe me anything I wanted, for the right price.

It’d been so long since I’d taken one of the little ‘blueys’ I had no recollection of what the effects might be and I was scared. What would it do to me? But the memory of my past horrendous journey spurred me on and I necked it in the taxi on the way to the airport.

Within 20 mins of swallowing I went from hyper-anxious about not getting my flight, being refused boarding, or searched in security, to no longer giving a flying fuck whether I made my flight at all. If not, so what? I’d just get another one.

At one point, I caught myself casually leaning on the check-in counter without a care in the world, laughing with the flight attendants. This is valium.

So I arrived home the following morning, with no pent-up anxiety in my body, I’d slept well, chatted with some interesting fellow passengers, and was just happy to be at my destination.

My sister picked me up from the airport and we drove home along the M62’s grey lanes, under grey skies. There couldn’t have been a sharper contrast to the emerald palm trees, glorious sunshine, and golden sandy beaches I’d left behind. But hey, this is Northern England, I’ve lived here most of my life, I know how to live here, and I swallowed down the odd feelings that were rising as my sister and I cackled our way back to Hebden Bridge.

The jet lag wasn’t too bad, and the following day, as I’d booked two weeks off work, I ventured into town to stroll around and have coffee somewhere. In my mind I planned to visit the park and write up a story about an unusual experience I’d had in Hue, Vietnam, that I wanted to make sure I got down on paper.

The skies were slate-grey and the streets deserted. There were no coffee shops open. I’d intended to go to the post office to buy a writing pad, but this was also closed. Bewildered, I went and sat in the park, next to the river, anyway. It started to rain, and an icy wind whipped my face. I was wearing thermals, but my bones were cold. Tears started to stream down my face.

I went home, got into bed, and turned the heating and my electric blanket on. I stayed there for six days.

I cancelled all the arrangements I’d made to see friends and family. This all felt wildly familiar. A throwback to my CFS days. But I wasn’t tired.

At first, I thought I had tonsillitis, my throat swollen and barbed-wire-like when I swallowed. But it turned out to be an extreme case of Hay Fever, a huge allergic reaction to the air in the valley I’ve called home for 47 years.

But while all this was going on, something else was happening. When I woke each morning, I couldn’t hear a thing. Nothing. Just some birds singing, and the gentle flow of the river in the distance. I have to admit that at first I found this potent silence a tad uncomfortable, alien.

My nervous system was so used to a dog barking, a motorbike whirring past, the water fountain bubbling, people chatting, food cooking, pots being washed - none of these loud in themselves, but still ever present.

After these many days of silence, my body finally recalibrated from the travel, the pollen, maybe even from the valium, I rose at dawn and headed into the woods. My woods. Not really my woods, but I’m possessive as I’ve been walking through them since I was a little girl.

I took my walking boots and socks off and felt the icy cold floor beneath my feet, my toes standing on twigs and stones and getting caked in mud, but I didn’t care. I slowed my pace. Nowhere to go, nothing to do, just be. A snail’s pace. So slow I could notice every single mushroom blooming, pheasants playing in a farmer’s field, squirrels flying up trees, the end of the bluebells, and finally, a wild deer foraging among the pines before she saw me and bounded off, white tail behind.

Once again, the tears flowed.

And I am HOME ♡

I hope you have a homey week,

Love Hannah xoxo