Public Freak Out

I had a bit of a meltdown on Friday. I was at work, and I think you could class it as an anxiety attack, but don’t quote me on that.

I recently read that anxiety attacks are not always the media-portrayed “panic attack” we’ve become so used to seeing. They can be anything from bouts of irritability, silence, nausea, fear, among so many other things.

A lot of this stuff overlaps with a bunch of other things, especially depression. Most self help websites will tell you these two go hand in hand. I’ve never thought I was much a sufferer from anxiety, being one of the people who didn’t realise there was more to it than panic attacks (ignorant of me, I know) but the more I read into it, the more it seems like this injury may have caused me a bit of it.

Anyway, I had come to the realisation that the awesome app I’m using for medication management (MyTherapy on Android) hadn’t warned me I was low on pills like I’d set it up to do (probably first-time-user error) till I checked manually and realised I didn’t have enough for the weekend. I called my doc who said it would likely be Monday before they could send through the repeat as it takes 24 hours and we were lunchtime Friday. I freaked out, not sure whether I should ration over the few days and have a couple of average days, or if I should have two really awful days and have the painkillers saved for work on Monday so I could pick them up Tuesday morning. A more adult adult loaned me the advice of going to the pharmacy on Saturday, finding out if they got the prescription by some miracle, and if not to ask what they could recommend over the counter to get me through the weekend. So hello Panadeine, essentially the same as what I’m currently taking, I hope you work the same.

My last post was posted five days late, not realising it was left in draft mode that whole time.

I have since seen a counsellor who I think will be good for me. She was an occupational therapist and before that a neuromuscular therapist, so she knows my pain is real and knows my emotional pain is real not being able to do what I love, and then being a counsellor on top I’m hoping we can work towards something good. She’s also given me a referral to chat with Mike about for a second fourth opinion.

I’m still keeping up with my gym schedule. I took Friday off after being exhausted from the heat during sleeping hours as well as mentally exhausted from emotional exhaustion. A lot of exhaustion all round.




Shhhut Up

Today has sucked. A lot.

Most of the day I was trying to distract myself and be too busy with work to think about anything, but we weren’t really busy enough for that.

There’s days where the painkillers just don’t really help. I’m assuming these are days where the pain is really bad ’cause usually I’m just aware of the pain but not affected by it so long as I keep to my schedule. Today wasn’t like that.

I was acutely aware of every minute movement in my left arm. I could barely lift my mug of tea to my lips, ending up switching to drinking with my other hand.

I want to put it in a sling and let it do nothing and stop feeling pain but everyone asks what happened and I don’t want to talk about it over and over again, especially with colleagues who are just nosy and don’t actually care? I know some do, but it’s exhausting yet also rude to just wave them off? But it’s not like they’re entitled to the entertainment of my injury? 

I tried buying some things to make me feel better and it worked for a few minutes.

I had physio tonight and cried for the second time today. There was so much pain and fed-up-ness. I talked to him about pain management and he’d like not to refer me to a pain management clinic because that’s more for when it becomes chronic pain, and at this stage there is still a reason for the pain. The injury is still real.

I want to numb it. I don’t want to feel anything.

One good thing is the painkillers appear to have a marked improvement on my anger. It’s only temporary though, I know, because these aren’t actually good, long term. 

Today sucked, and there’s still tomorrow. 



2018 Start

Welp, it’s 2018 and we’re facing a year of new promise.

The New Zealand heat has been phenomenal, but has broken way for some insane flooding with a huge storm. Right after everyone had said it was nice to have a kiwi summer back after two summers of rain. 

It’s the 6th and I’ve already gone to the gym 3 times, hoping to shed some blubber by winter to really make myself feel the cold.

Mostly, though, I look forward to getting back to pole. 

It’s been another struggle with my shoulder, never really having come right, with only a few moments of recovery in between. I’ve started seeing my physio again, and talked to him about the effects of not having gone back to him after getting back from Europe. How I’d mostly quit pole and wasn’t finding enjoyment out of a lot of things.

And the anger. 

I was so angry at everything all the time. Nothing that really deserved that much rage, I suppose, but there it was anyway.

My final straw was mentioning my shoulder again, the pain, and before giving Pete a chance to reply I said something horribly snippy like “But I bet you’re sick of hearing that, right!?”

I went to my GP at the advice of Pete and my Physio, and scheduled in for some counselling to talk through the anger. I’ll get a call back some time this month. My GP also gave me some better painkillers for some pain management in the meantime. 

Mike was closed for 3 weeks over the holiday period, so said we’d look at new scans in the new year and maybe another referral to the specialist.

A couple weeks ago I read a blog post Bendy Kate put up (pole siblings will know who I mean) and balled my eyes out. She went through years of discomfort before getting treatment that has finally resulted in a surgery, and she now has recovery to look forward to.

We have yet to figure out what’s up with my shoulder, with previous posts explaining the specialist believing the original injury having now healed after scans and xrays.

I might be asking for an MRI when I’m back at physio, but we’ll see what a scan turns up. The pain is rampant but the anger has subsided with the painkillers so at least that’s a plus.

Will also try to be updating the blog. We’ve had a lot of unreported loot crates, so when the new one is delivered I’ll take some photos and show you up.

Anyone like Rick and Morty? Pete and I don’t. 



A girl lay in bed staring at her phone, looking at a blank post, waiting for text to be written.

A girl had a million things to say but couldn’t hear her thoughts. 

A girl has been in pain for too long. 

Purgatory, We Meet Again

Stuck in transit hell. Cheap flights come with cheap experiences. A 15 hour layover in Hong Kong, to be exact. And not even an overnight one where I could just book a ridiculously overpriced room! A 6am landing for a 9pm ride home, utter joy.

I managed to spot a NZ passport in the hands of another passenger disembarking, and hope flooded me that maybe he had a lifetime of purgatory waiting ahead of him, too. Alas, he was on an earlier flight to Melbourne, but he helped kill the first four hours.

Then I wandered, looking around for some thing to buy. My pattern for the better part of 3 hours was walking to the end of one terminal, resting my shoulders cause damn my 7KG bag + 1000KG “little handbag” carrying all the actual heavy stuff like magnets and keychains and spoons (don’t ask).

At 1pm, I found a little collection of chairs, hidden at the end of a terminal, behind some potted plants. I say chairs but I mean loungers. I nestled into one, wrapping myself around my bags, and promptly slept for 2 hours.

My nap gave me the refreshment needed to make it to boarding, and I headed out in search of sustenance.

I ended up fawning over a bag that had a really pretty print, but the practicality issues were eating away at me. I tried it in this way and that and looked inside it 100 times, but I just knew that the size wasn’t practical or functional for me, and I’d never end up using it. The girls at the store didn’t seem too disappointed though, they got cuddles with my new Lotso-Huggin-Bear I picked up at the Disney store.

How I managed to refrain from buying 101 Star Wars magnets, pens, plush toys, I’ll never know.

I continued my world of shopping, complaining to mum about my itch to buy something since deciding against The Bag. She suggests some perfume (ehh…) and then a watch. A watch! I’ve been using the same one for years, and it’s gone through a reconstruction and many, many battery replacements, but I love that thing.

So I go on a hunt, remembering a whole isle of watches in the more centralised shopping network of the airport. I end up asking help narrowing down between three, and buy two of the same but in different colours because I couldn’t make up my mind. Thank you aunties and uncle who contributed to this delectable purchase.

With this, I figure it was time to give my flight a check to see if they’d announced the departure gate. Nope, 2 hours to go and no gate.

I depart to get a tea, and wait in line at the overburdened-as-usual-starbucks for about 30 minutes. I get back and there’s still not a gate listed. I make a pact that if it’s not there by 8pm, I’ll go talk to airport information. So far, I had counted 11 earlier delays on the board 

Meanwhile, I’m chatting about the whole ordeal with Erica, who tells me she expects a blog update about the tea obsessed departure board goblin, so here it is. 

While writing this, a gate has been allocated to my flight, with 7 minutes to spare. So off I go, to the land of departure gate waiting areas, and 11 hours away from home.

See ya soon, folks.



Day Forty-One

Well, it’s been a while since I left home, a while since I posted, and is only a short while before I’m home again.

Day forty-one. Whoozah.

Picking up from where we left off on the previous post, I left Dublin for Amsterdam on the 19th of June. Tash, the mutual friend putting me up, directed me with the help of Google maps to her location once I landed at Amsterdam airport (my third time there this trip) and I was welcomed with open arms.

It almost felt like home. I had my own room, the girls were lovely, and totally didn’t judge me about my lack of need to do anything (well, not when I was around anyway). I quieted my self-made feelings of guilt by telling myself I’ve been non-stop exploring the world for 5 weeks prior, sick days not included, and deserved a little R&R before flying home to dive straight back into being a functioning member of society.

On my first day, I got a shopping itch. It was my last stop, aside from a short trip south to Rotterdam, so I knew how much money was left now more than ever, and my stacks were looking pretty bland: two postcards sent home, 5 posters sent home, a Jameson’s scarf, and some magnets were all I had to my name.

I went out in search of The 9 Streets, which is apparently a good shopping destination comprised of shops and eateries spread out across, coincidentally, 9 streets. When I was supposedly there, I was underwhelmed. Given a revisit with company it may have been a decent excursion, but alone I felt like I was getting continually lost, there was a lot of construction going on, and most of the shops were something I could find in New Zealand.

No matter, I decided to walk home through the Museumplein and check out the Van Gogh Museum and then anything else around it. I meander my way there, hiking over canals and nearly dying at the hand of insane cyclists all the while.

I stumbled across a “Torture Museum” whose poster had a large wooden chair embedded with spikes for sitting criminals onto. It looked interesting, some more medieval stuff, and reminded me of the “Inventions of the Middle Ages” documentaries I used to watch in the weekends. It was awful. There was some rough artwork depicting a lot of torture devices, but none with explanations on how they were actually implemented. The info cards around the place named a device and what someone might have done to earn that punishment, but didn’t point to which device matched the name. There were a few relics, physical pieces in the museum, but again I say few.

I carried on to the Museumplein to discover all tickets to Van Gogh were sold out for the day. I walked around the park a little, having no-one with me to take a photo in from of the I Amsterdam sign, I took a photo of all the other crazy tourists.

I made my way home, and Tash asked if I wanted to go to the ballet. Yes, of course. We bought tickets for the next night.

When I say “we” bought tickets, I mean I gave my card to Tash telling her it was my shout, and she booked the tickets. While we were walking to the event that evening, she was trying to liase with some friends from work and flatmate-Georgia about where to meet. Georgia was telling us to go to a completely different venue than what was printed on our tickets. We research, and Tash has bought us tickets to a contemporary, interpretive dance number entitled Nicht Schlafen or similar. We trudge along to it.

A nightmare. Which maybe is what it was supposed to be, a waking nightmare in which no-one gets any sleep as the title may suggest? I’ve never thought I would be interested in this type of dance, admittedly having never seen any to base this on but kinda really feeling like it’s not my “thing”. Turns out I can trust myself and my gut feelings. I wanted to leave, but we were at the end of a row in which it would be blaringly obvious. We tried to just drink a lot of wine, but you weren’t allowed to take anything into the theatrr. More entertaining than the show was the audience. The venue was actually rather large, and surprisingly full.

I refuse to believe people knew what they were signing up for, but the lady next to me cried during one part as if she had obtained total comprehension and it was a moving piece of beauty, where I had no idea what was going on. I’m obviously just uncultured. The first 30 minutes were 9 people on stage running into each other at high velocity, screaming and ripping each others clothes off. The rest of the show kind of felt like that still. The only thing I know for sure is that at one point, a pair were representing a horse and trainer, and the horse subsequently died after being stabbed (?) to death.

The next day, I went to the Heineken experience first thing to avoid crowds. I had prepaid my ticket, which was an excellent choice, and trudged through the opening history.

The commemerative trowel used to lay the first block that built the brewery.

We walked through an introduction on how beer is made, which I skipped thanks to some lessons at the Jameson’s factory where they indicated at which point in the brewing line refinery is stopped to make beer rather than moving on to create whiskey. 

The vats were pretty cool, though.

In towards the interactive part, there was a station where you can personalise the label on your own beer, ride a small 4D ride “where you are the beer” as you follow the brewing process through a factory from the inside. As well as many walls and ceilings made of bottles, with lights glowing out from behind.

They taught you how to drink beer with a small half pour, including how to maximise the life of your foam head to stop your beer from oxygenating.

There was also a number of photo stations and interactive zones like a huge podium that acted like a keyboard set to percussion mode when you hit different parts of it, and a beer pouring station.

Good to know after some 5 years since being behind a bar, I can still pour the perfect beer.

There was a room where they honoured the sports they are supporters of, in which the Haka was playing on a loop in the background.

Finally, you could take a punt at kicking a (digital) conversion for yourself, and then the bar. Your wristband gets you two free drinks, as well as the half pour that taught you how to drink earlier in the experience. Beer for breakfast, mother would be proud.

From there, I do finally go to the Van Gogh Museum, picking up this fine photo before seeing the no photo signs.

The store was a wonderful place for gifts, where I got some things for mum, dad, and myself.

I spent some more time with the streets, marvelling at how everything was so same-same-but-different, and then turned my attention to repacking my bag and weighing it with Tash’s handy luggage scale.

Some redistributing of items between the two bags brought me under the 7kg weight limit for carry on, and I still had a couple of items I could leave behind like my ratty one-use umbrella bought in Rome, the last of my travel shampoos, and the ability to wear two shirts on the airplane.

After many UberEats deliveries, it was time for Blink 182 in Rotterdam.

So, last night, I trained to Rotterdam from Amsterdam, checked into my hotel that photos promised to be awesome, lovely, and kitsch, which the lobby was, but turned out my room was just old. Oh well, only one night and a safe place to stay for the concert. I head off in an Uber, find my seat (cause screw general admission when you have no-one looking out for you) and make friends with the guys next to me.

The location of the seats was awesome, the night was great, the music epic.

In the end, I had to wait 30 minutes for an Uber back to my hotel due to high demand, and I was freezing. Compared to how hot most of my days had been, my fingers felt like they were going to fall off. It was 15°C, Pete messaged me from home letting me know it was 5° there. Joy.

Today, I trained back to Amsterdam, having bought some Blink182 merch and having another fight with my backpack, and checked in to my hotel airport.

In 15h and 35m I’m boarding my plane to start my journey home. The new release movies have been updated on the in flight entertainment (thank the lord for being away over a month) and I have about 9 hours of screen entertainment by way of movies. Accompanied with food, music, and reading my kindle, the journey shouldn’t be too bad.

Seeya soon, home. Miss you terribly.



Day Thirty-Two

Coming to Dublin was probably the greatest last minute decision I could have made.

We landed at 10pm, and the sun was still setting, leaving everything an eerie twilight grey. All the signs in the airport were in English. Not just the directional ones, but the adverts too. It felt like heaven.

I caught a bus to my hostel, and checked in. There were two entrances into the dorms from the lobby, and I’m sure the receptionist told me to take the right one, but by the end of the unpleasantries I went straight through.

The hostel is a maze.

I’m sure they do it so you have to sleep in the hall at one point and save them running water costs. I have no idea what happened but I knew I had to be on the second floor, she was adamant about that, but I was to be in room 29 and each floor seemed to only be going up in 6-10s. I was following the “Rooms 20-29” plaques through mazes of halls and stairs and more stairs. Eventually, I started going downstairs again until I came across a tiny little cubby like area at the bottom of a staircase, with no plaques and a door that read “fire door”. Now, it doesn’t say “FIRE EXIT” but I still stood there confused, trying to figure out if I had followed the plaques wrong. I head back up the stairs, double check the sign that sent me down here, and head down again.

I push through the door, with no where else to go, and discover room 29 on the other side. Random, random layout in this building. I push through, collapse on my bed, and fall asleep.

I’m up the next morning to head to Murray’s Bar for the live screening of All Blacks v Samoa. I ask for tea and they don’t ask which fruity-green cocktail I want, just bring out a steaming mug of good, black tea. Dublin, I love you. A decent eggs bene and some rugby to start the morning, and I’m off.

I make my way to the Jameson’s factory on Bow street, and buy a ticket for their tour. 

While I wait for the 12 o’clock start, I ponder their gift store. I’ve bought next to nothing while I’ve been here, and spent far less (I think) than anticipated. I wonder about getting dad a scarf, because he’s metro like that – and it’s his birthday, but mum advises while he likes Jameson’s, it isn’t his favourite. The tour is called up, and we head in.

We learn about the history of the brand, the process in making the liquor, and eventually a comparative taste test. The taste test results in the whole group having 3 shots before 1pm in the afternoon, and a complimentary drink is still on offer with the purchase of our ticket.

I sit at the bar and order their mixed version, instead of straight, and watch it get made as nearly a 50/50 while my body screams woah tiger we still have to walk back to the hostel. I take a nervous sip and it tastes amazing, not a single shiver of hard liquor reaction runs down my spine. An Australian joins me, I hear his accent and he hears mine and we’re fast friends, chatting over our drinks so we don’t appear alone at a bar. He splits off to meet up with his girlfriend arriving that day, and I decide to buy the scarf for myself. I’m incredibly happy.

I walk around, in a general opposite way I got here from the hostel kind of circle so I can look at new things, and stumble across a church.

The church turns out to be the only church from the Medieval era still in use today, in Dublin. It’s free entry, so I wander around, and the receptionist tells me a little bit of history but advises the cards around the building will be more interesting than her prattling on, and to watch out for the lucky stone around the corner.

It’s such a small, old place, so I touch the stone. Shop owners used to believe that the success of their business greatly hindered on them touching the stone once a day. Previously, I haven’t touched any of the “lucky” emblems around. The statues on the bridge in Prague being swarmed with people every minute, I just hate to think what’s been left on them, and if they’re ever cleaned. Maybe I’ll blame currently being sick on touching the thing, not very lucky, huh!

I wander around a little more, and round a corner to Dublinia, history of the vikings museum. You can see its very kid friendly from the get go, looking very interactive, but what the hell. Viking history is different to all the other history I’ve been looking at lately and interactive is fun.

The first floor is a concise Viking history, including a table with the Viking Runes laid out next to the English alphabet so you can spell out your name. Mostly using phonetics as not every letter has a direct translation. The floor ends talking about Valhalla and Ragnarok, and what it means for the Vikings. You exit into this pitch black room which occasionally lights up with lightning-esque flashes to reveal this terrifying wall.

We head up and learn about the settlements and Kings after the Viking rulers. It’s here that history starts to get a little too recent for me and I mostly just enjoy the interactive experience. The top floor was items on loan from the National museum and another interactive experience on archeology. It was great fun. I definitely felt 12.

The exit to the museum was through a bridge which has beautiful stained glass windows, and led into another church. I ventured outside to look at it from there.

From here, dinner time at BoBo’s Burgers, and bed.

The next morning was Lions v Maori All Blacks, which I again got up for. We lost, never really having much possesion or promising runs, but 2 South-Africans about Dad-age sat down and saw me watching the game so we chatted like old friends.

I wandered around again, settling down for lunch in an adorable Tram Cafe. I message Rimal about being homesick, just wanting to skip the end and come home, about wanting more than 2 days off before I go back to work haha. Rimal calls me, immediately, bless, and chats to me for maybe an hour and eventually settles me down about the notion of going home, and I setup a countdown timer to help me along.

I head into the Leprachaun Museum, advertised as a history lesson on Irish Folklore. It was pretty much terrible, a good way to kill an hour for me who was just looking for something to do, but I wouldn’t recommend it, to anyone.

My time slot changed while I was waiting as I was the only one who booked in, so the receptionist graciously moved me to 20 minutes later which was fine by me, and she wrote me a voucher for a free gift from the gift shop at the end of the tour for being so obliging. The gift turned out to be a rainbow lead coloured pencil. I laughed and went on my way.

From the museum, I made the long way home. Roommates recommend Sweet Miss Sue’s for dinner (or SMS) for some good fish and chips (and tartar sauce and mushy peas, my first time) yum! and the manager turned out to be from NZ having lived in Ireland for 14 years. It was awesome, but I started getting the sniffles, and my ear hadn’t unblocked from the airplane ride into Dublin, so I headed home and went to sleep.

Today, my sniffly nose has turned into a full on snot-demon, and my sinuses are clogging my ears and throat too. I went out purely in search of flu medicine, tissues, and vitamin water, had a TERRIBLE hot chocolate and cinnamon-bread-labelled-as-banana-bread and an okay lemon muffin from Insomnia (coffee chain).  2 of my 3 roommates didn’t come home from a concert last night, and at 5pm in the afternoon still haven’t been home all day. I wonder if they’re dead.

I managed to liase with a friend of Elanor’s who is hooking me up with a place to stay in Amsterdam (that place is SO expensive) and explained my homesick dilemma to her, and how I’d love to just go straight there from Dublin rather than through Belgium as previously planned, and she’s a-ok with that.

So I booked my flight to Amsterdam and settled down with some chips, updated my blog, and am now settling down to read some more. I love my kindle.