tired-just-tired-estoy-harta

estoy harta (i’m fed up)

Living in a small Spanish town is hard. Harder than I thought. I can’t believe it’s been 4 months, and I still struggle with being here. Still. I mean, I’m usually a pretty adaptable person, so I’m kind of shocked that I haven’t successfully done so here. I feel like almost every moment is a struggle. Nothing comes easily. Nothing is without a little bit of pain, inconvenience, or the unexpected element of surprise. I feel like I’ve been being (or trying to be) mentally and physically tough the entire time I’ve been here. And I don’t think I want to keep it up anymore. Or at least… I need to take a break from this sh*t.
***
Today, I left the bike behind at the house and walked to school instead. I got to school about 30 minutes late for my first class. I had no excuse other than, I couldn’t make it. That’s it. For my evening class, I showed up about 5 minutes late, and I flat out told the teacher – I’m totally unprepared today. She told me to go home. I did. This is what I call radical self-care tinged with a little bit of, ‘Yo. Eff this sh*t’.
***
Living alone was probably not the best decision after all, so I’ve started looking for a new apartment – with roommates. I spent time at the instituto this morning contacting the few shared apartments I found online last night. This evening, they both called back. I’ll be going to take a look at them tomorrow. Hopefully, at least one of them will feel like a better situation than I’m in right now. God, I hope so. I really need an improvement – just for my state of mind. I’m starting to feel so mentally worn down and raw-edged. Like, anything could make me cry these days. What kinda thug cries at the drop of a hat?
***
I watched two movies this weekend about folks locked down in solitary confinement. One was a movie with Kevin Bacon (who did his thing in the role, I might add) as a petty criminal who’d been in solitary in Alcatraz for 3 years in the 1930s. The other was the biopic about Ruben Hurricane Carter starring Denzel. Both felt like my life right now. Mumbling to myself, laughing to myself, entertaining myself with my own vivid daydreams and imaginings. Plus, something that Denzel-as-Ruben said in the movie really stuck with me. I just gotta focus on doing the time. Not on when I’ll get out, not on what my life used to be like in some other place. Just doing the time.
So far, I’ve done 4 months. I’d been thinking that I had 5 more months to go, and that there was no way in hell or on God’s green earth that I could possibly do another 5 months like this. But, then, all of a sudden I realized that the end of May is only a little more than 3 months away (I did start the program late, after all). 90 days doesn’t seem nearly as bad as 5 months. Maybe I can make it. Maybe.
***
I’m tired of fighting the cold
I’m tired of fighting the bike
I’m tired of fighting my schedule
I’m tired of fighting my shower
I’m tired of fighting my coffee maker
I’m tired of fighting my bed
I’m tired of the internet being so damned slow. Slow? No. slow would be an improvement
I’m tired of not having a DVD player
I’m tired of watching the same damned TV shows every damned day
I’m tired of the same crappy movies on Paramount channel
I’m tired of the cold
I’m tired of being sick
I’m sick of waiting a week for my clothes to dry
I’m sick of not having any clothes to wear
I’m sick of going shopping for clothes only to realize that I’m not made like a Spanish woman. (Yes, this dress is very nice. But where do my boobs go?)
I’m sick of going to the library
I’m sick of going to my evening class
I’m sick of this town
No. I’m over this town
I’m over these people who live here and the way they walk (Seriously? Can you f*ckin’ move, please?)
I’m over my students acting like slack-jawed yokels some days (What’s up with that? Think, dammit!)
I’m over this cold
I’m over this sh*tty ass food. Like, really, can I get one decent restaurant that either doesn’t have the same tired ass tapas that EVERY other restaurant has, OR isn’t ridiculously overpriced!? The f*ck?
I’m over positive self-talk. I’m over trying to convince myself that I can do this, that I got this, that I can make it if I just try. No. Enough of that. Today, it’s just me, my screwface, and hip-hop blaring through my headphones as I stomp-walk through the streets of Ciudad Real.
I can try again… tomorrow.

******
UPDATE; Since I first penned these thoughts almost a month ago, things have changed considerably. That apartment and those roommates I was hunting for? Found ’em. I now live with 3 other ladies of varying ages. It feels nice to no longer have only myself to talk to, and to have other living, breathing humans to share the details of my day with. I’ve even made some connections with other Americans living in town, and we meet fairly regularly to share tapas, drinks, laughter, and stories of expat life.

That cold that I was so very sick of? The new apartment has much better heating, and the seemingly neverending winter in my little Spanish town has magically transformed into spring – almost overnight. This means that I’ve been able to reunite with my rusty old bike that one of my coworkers loaned me. Now that I no longer have to abrigarme every day, I can actually enjoy the sometimes-challenging ride through town on my way to school or to run errands. I even catch myself humming or singing little tunes as I pedal through the streets – a much better use of my vocal chords than the under-my-breath curses that I used to emit.

That terrible Internet connection that forced me to go to use the wifi at the public library, where I was often prey for creepy library stalkers… it is no more. The wifi in my new place is about as strong as it gets. So, not only can I get more writing work done in the comfort of my own room, I can also watch a variety of TV programs and movies that just weren’t available to me before. And sometimes, when I am just sitting in my room, enjoying the relative softness of my new bed, or watching the sunlight stream in through the window, I hear the lilting sounds of my neighbor practicing the flute (thankfully, he or she is pretty damned good!) or the bells from the nearby cathedral chiming the hour… and I smile, and say a little prayer of thanks.

Through all of this, I’ve realized (or been reminded) that making a mid-course correction isn’t the same as failing; that suffering isn’t necessary, that when going through something that you know is making you stronger and more resilient, you still have the right and the power to say when you’ve reached your limit.

And that sometimes, ‘eff this sh*t’, is exactly the right answer.

A little reminder I wrote to myself and kept on my bedside table when I decided to stop struggling.
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3 thoughts on “estoy harta (i’m fed up)”

  1. Awesome post! Your original submission was as real as it gets! But the follow-up was encouraging and inspiring. Thanks for pushing through, and for showing that change is possible. I'm so glad things turned around!

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