The next I know when

“Heather, just sit down and write.” “But I can’t. I no longer have the words.” “Yes, you do. They may not be the perfect ones-” “I used to be such a good writer.” “-but they will be good enough. Just sit down and bring the keyboard closer, Ok?”… “Ok.”

I have been trying to decide for weeks if I was going to share this with you. This time that is both a sucked in, breath-held silence and yet a roiling internal volcano. There are moments when the fires burn through me just as with others I am struck immobile by the weight of loneliness upon my shoulders. I try to rally and usually fail even while knowing the treasure of being truly loved. It is a forever, no ever time.

Let me go back a bit.

As many of you know, when I decided to stay in France after the surprise of my separation, it was tough. No-one would hire me save for finally a job as a receptionist at a hotel and that was only due to a favour called in by my ex’s new companion. I worked hard, really hard. It is the only way that I know how to work. The first day I showed up in a Prada jacket that was quickly ruined from sweat stains under my arms. I was the oldest person by far, save for a Night Auditor who is roughly my age, has been there for 25 years and is untouchable. And so I felt that I had to do extra to try and find my way (if not to fit in) amongst my colleagues who were half my age, who could have been the children that I never had.

I have a list somewhere on my computer of all of the comments that mention me by name on websites such as Tripadvisor. “Every hotel should have a Heather,” says one. I remember the person who told me to make that list “for one day, in case.” He lasted two weeks or so, maybe three and moved on to easier pastures.

I didn’t. Although, I started at the hotel in July of 2017, it became official that November. My bosses were kind about my insomnia and I only work evenings. When I was hired as a professor at the local university, they switched my contract to 35 hours a week instead of the normal 39 so that I could do my Friday afternoon classes. But that same director forced me to resign from teaching when he felt that it was overly taxing me. Either the teaching or the hotel. I had no choice but choose the latter for financial reasons and more importantly, for my visa to work in France. I miss the sound of the classroom, my playing jazz much to the bewilderment of the kids creeping in to speak my language, English. There were no rules, I taught what I want how I wanted. It was a first attempt at my trying a to work a job in my way and it felt wonderful.

Of course, things and people and society change which each breath we give but both the arrival of Trumpism and COVID accelerated a movement of “each person for themselves” that came so quickly and so assuredly that I think that we still haven’t really seen it for what it is. Or perhaps are beginning to do so.

Was I lucky that I was supported by the French government during the lockdowns? Absolutely. But when the hotel first opened afterwards, I was often the only employee present on the property at night. I felt scared. I once confronted a drugged up man who was inches away from me, behind the reception desk, looking for the cash drawer. Times felt desperate. Clients, after so long in seclusion, seemed free to say whatever came to their minds with politeness discarded, not even an afterthought.

As with all of my colleagues, I took and took and took their disrespectfulness. The pointed, jabbing fingers or the inappropriate “tu” instead of “vous” in French or Americans yelling (or sometimes crying) over a lightbulb out in their room. About things that were largely not at all under my control. It came down to an evening where a Brazilian woman became ferocious because she had been assigned a handicapped-equipped room (for those not in the know, they are often the biggest). For some reason, she took it personally and demanded another room. We had none available. She began to scream. “What is wrong with you that you gave me this? Why? Is it because you are fat and ugly that you did it?”

I walked away and hid in the kitchen for a few minutes to catch my breath. She was still at the reception when I returned and became so violent that I had to threaten to call the police. My boss was amazing when I got through to her and told me what to say. One of the chefs from the kitchen came out to stand next to me, protectively. The woman left and the next day I went to Italy for a planned break with my honey.

But something had snapped. And it wasn’t just that one incident. If the word that is most often used to describe me now is “resilient,” it is for a reason. So in Italy I ate and ate then drank too much while L tried to find his way to me. I looked to the stars over the mountain where we stay, trying to find a reason or meaning and in a way, I am right there still.

With the insistence of my psychologist, my psychiatrist (yes, I have both) has put me on work-leave for burnout. That started in mid-September and it is now the beginning of November. I see my psychologist once a week and have done a lot of reading about my current state, where I am permanently in “fight or flight” mode. Survival. Tired and wired. Which brings me back to that initial conflict of feeling that I described.

I have gained a lot of weight during this pause. It is as if my body is preparing an outer shield for battle. And yet it makes me ashamed, just as I feel for being on sick-leave, so that I often don’t want to go out in risk of being seen by someone I know, even though a bit of contact would do me so much good. Next week I won’t accept the invitation to an art opening that I would love to attend as there is too much risk that my ex will be there. This despite my current companion supporting me and loving me, exactly as I am, which is new and gratefully received.

So what do I do while I find my way, yet again? On a good day, I try to wipe the slate clean. In forgetting these current, strange circumstances, I look at my surroundings like the tourists that I cater to and try to be glorified. That is what these photos mean to me. I am also reading a lot about what I am going through as if I could translate my mind to my heart. There is more than it is wise to share here but the stakes are high for me to stay in France. May this beauty hold me, carry me and sing me to the next certainty. Or a feeling of long lost and then retrieved agency. Until the next I know when.