Empire State of Mindfulness: Returning to New York City

The ever constant beauty of New York City

at the Central Park reservoir

The last time I set foot in New York I had sat on the hard wood floor of my stripped apartment and waved goodbye to my life there as if that process was as simple as packing up my furniture and bags into cardboard boxes and waving goodbye to them. After a last lunch with friends on a freezing cold sunny January day in 2014 my life as a New York resident ended and my life in London with Mat resumed full time.

Sean at Dublin airport helping me get from plane to plane despite feet, back, stomach etc. problems. If you meet him in the future, you've met a celebrity. The guy literally knows everyone in the place.

Perhaps you might understand then, especially if you read my earlier post, that I was very nervous about returning to a place that had given me so many mixed memories of bitter-sweetness. I loved (I love) New York that I didn’t know what would happen when I returned there for a great friend’s wedding. I’m not supposed to predict the future (meaning thinking about all the things that are coming up and considering each possible outcomes that could occur). It’s actually a thinking trap or a false perception that doing that – thinking about all the “maybes” and “mights” of future events makes me less worried or stressed about them. It actually makes it a lot worse.

This can be a pretty accurate picture of the concentration of my thoughts, 

and there's little room for mindfulness (or any activity) when this happens

Now sometimes I find this useful – at work it can help me to stay on the board with the list of to-dos (and to create things that aren’t on that list but might be valuable to add to it!). With moderation so that I don’t burn out I have found this to be a career enhancing skill to possess – that ability to switch my brain into overdrive mode so that I am not only thinking about the current to do list, but the non-existent to do list, plus the overall strategic approach to the pieces of work I’m leading. However, this time I am trying to take a chill pill and stop wondering what if, and just live a bit more in the moment.

When Harry Met Sally...a classic and a depiction of depression in New York because of lost love. (Plus a happy ending.)

"...when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." Harry Burns

The minute we arrived off the plane things were already so different. I wasn’t waiting in my apartment for a text from Mat saying he’d just got off the plane and was on his way; I was sitting beside him and he was holding my hand as we landed and looking out onto JFK. We held hands in the taxi and laughed about the traffic. (Okay, so we didn’t laugh about the traffic, we laughed about the fact that the traffic still sucked and wasn’t it annoying and he was still holding my hand when we arrived at the hotel.)

Back in NYC, the city that never sleeps. Luckily these days, for me, I do.

I guess a wedding-themed trip is always going to have a focus on romance, and I welled up like a true cliché when the beautiful bride walked down the aisle to meet her groom Phil, a friend from university. It reminded me how wonderful my life with Mat is and how lucky I am to have him – again and again. New York is very different returning as a visitor hand in hand with my husband and knowing that we’ll leave together. I am a big believer that we are all able to help to make ourselves better by working hard to put into practice the tools we’ve learned to combat those horrid thinking traps that seem to plague me in numbers akin to the number of cockroaches in this stunning and sordid city. But sometimes, it has to be said that I recognise that making an actual change in my life can make a huge difference to how I feel.

Getting hitched in the city. Perfect wedding and reminder of my own

amazing good fortune to have my wonderful husband.

When I returned home to the UK I let go of all the stresses that came with trying to have a functioning marriage on two continents, along with paying two sets of bills every month, paying for two properties and trying to live on whatever was left over. (Thank you, Subway, I am thankful for your $5 footlongs, though despite what you said the calorie count was the fact that I gained 10lbs living in the US for two years doesn’t inspire me with confidence. Sorry Jared Fogle.) The loneliness and stresses had really got to me and the physical process of releasing that, while sad, was also liberating and relaxing. Of course, then I started a new job and new challenges started, but it was great to let go of my double life.

A Picasso at MoMA. I can easily imagine the woman seeing her different reflection experiencing the challenges of existence, presenting an outward face of calm contrasting with an inward face of unrest.

New York living can be as high octane as you want to make it and I used to be someone who would just go, go, and keep going forever until at some late point it was time to stop working or partying…and sleep a bit until the next day when it started over and over again. This is truly the opposite of mindfulness. I could let three months go past and hardly notice that it had happened, because I’d never stopped the whole time. Now I am savouring my moments in New York. We have our list of the ‘must dos’ because my husband and I – in spite of all of the difficulties and loneliness - both felt we had some of happiest memories in this crazy, beautiful city.

Running the reservoir. Always a must-do activity for me

On this five day trip I’ve had a rest each day, done at least one activity (e.g. visiting a museum, a landmark, taking a slow walk-run in Central Park), one meal (or maybe two, yep, definitely two) and drinks in one of our favourite places. I've also enjoyed writing postcards home to my friends and family. I used to write them every time I went away and I've missed not sending those missives of friendship and love from wherever I go to keep in touch on paper, rather than via our internet-focused existences.

Keeping on running. A glorious day for a run (/ walk!) in Central Park

Taking a slower approach to New York is very new for me, but I have been mindful of each experience. I’ve breathed more slowly (believe me, if this doesn’t sound like much, then it really is for me. 

Savouring the hot dogs at Schnippers. Oh yes...

...and savouring the art (the SHOE art) at MoMA (all by Andy Warhol)

I am Miss Hyperactivity…or at least I used to be), I’ve looked around and noticed what’s around me this time, tried to taste (tried a good few times to taste) the pasta, the burgers and the cocktails. I’ve made myself sit down and write this today while Mat goes shopping and relaxed. (Although, dear reader, I am just a little apprehensive at the prospect of his return from this mission given that he and I, partners and compatible in so many ways, are polar opposites in this regard, so I need to practise some deep breathing in case he shows up totally freaked out!) 

A night under the stars and bright lights of Manhattan.

All dressed up and telling myself to be confident in myself.

I’ve also tried to become a bit more body confident (which is another perpetual struggle, especially after all the weight-gaining meds, to wear my clothes with confidence and feel beautiful no matter how many size double (or triple) zero sharp New York women are wandering around, which used to bother me so.

The newly re-opened and beautifully refurbished Tavern on the Green. 

Here's the terrace on a stunning evening.

I have realised that I have spent so much time on previous holidays trying to race through everything and trying hard to have a good time that I made it almost impossible to have one. I’ve answered that question that everyone always asks you on your first day back at work (you know, “How was your holiday?”) with a lie. Nearly. Every. Single. Time. So you’ll see some holiday snaps throughout this post, some of the art I saw, some of the places I returned to and looked at with my new, clear and calmer and more content eyes. And if I’m stressed out tomorrow, well, at least I wasn’t today – or today so far. And that’s good enough for me. Till next time. x

Japan is an Anagram: TOKYO to KYOTO

TOKYO to KYOTO, Shinkansen style.

Travelling on the Shinkansen (bullet train) has long been an ambition of mine ever since I saw it as a child featured on Blue Peter, and of course that other time I saw it – in Entrapment – where Catherine Zeta Jones magically disappears, which probably would have been the best course of action for that watchable-though-terrible film in its entirety. It was pretty exciting, therefore, that this is how my journey in Japan began. Or nearly anyway.

Yep, These hair cuts were totally acceptable when I was a child.

And the shirts are now in style if you're a Brooklyn hipster.

Travelling has now become something I almost never do, so to contemplate a 14 hour flight was no mean feat. I flew business class to enable me to lie flat, armed with enough pain killers to tranquilise a horse and my usual coterie of anti depressants and side-effect-countering medication to stem the tide of anxiety at the unknown effects of travelling such a distance after such a catalogue of ailments and injuries over the past year.

Merci Beaucoup Air France!

Business class is an extremely strange experience. Rather than feeling you're crammed into a carriage of four hundred people all sitting within spitting distance, and that's just the adults (let's not talk about the children...not on fourteen hour flights. Just no) I felt like I was practically the only person on the flight at all. (And luckily it was very quiet in business so I did what I do best and nicked all the pillows to make myself a little comfy nest for my back, elbow etc.)

Seats appropriate for the vertically challenged. 

In the sense that being vertical is a challenge.

Menus in three languages were presented; Champagne offered; real glass, real knives and forks and, most importantly, real pillows were mine for the taking. Food was presented in a way that almost looked tasty, and even my breakfast croissant tasted like a croissant and not some half defrosted packet of puff pastry. Films were available (more than the usual number in French, well this was, after all, an Air France flight). I love the way the French rename their films to suit their own preferences. I remember laughing when my French pen pal circa 1995 confirmed that Home Alone was – in France – called “Maman, J’ai Raté L’avion”. (I think Home Alone Two was also called “Maman, Encore J’ai Raté L’avion”.)

Admit it, you thought I'd made that up. See?!

I had never thought of "Silver Linings Playbook" as "Happiness Therapy"...

Luckily I made it – arriving in Tokyo at 7am on a grey morning not unlike weather one might expect to see in England, and managed to move my (hand luggage only) bags along the many moving walkways towards the immigration desks.

At which point I realised I had made a gross error in assuming it would be a smooth pathway through super-efficient Japanese gates. Although my foot problem has now been diagnosed as not a stress fracture but tendonitis, and although I have been wearing (off the shelf) orthotics in my shoes to correct my gait and help me walk without pain, I just cannot stand up in line for more than about 3 minutes before I feel distinctly unwell. In fact standing is without a doubt the least possible of all postures for me, as it fatigues my back, my arm and my feet and I’ve never been able to stand up for long anyway.

Note: this picture is from Google images.

I wasn't rude enough to photograph the genuinely long queues. And then put them on here.

When I started dating my (now) husband almost ten years ago one of the biggest compromises in our budding relationship was the fact that there was no way that I could stand at a pub bar for a drink. Even in my injury-free state, it was sit or go home. Cursing myself for not asking for a wheelchair from the aeroplane, I asked a very nice security guard who brought another official who brought another official with a wheelchair – success! – and suddenly my tired and aching back, arm and feet were rolled through customs without a second glance at the other four hundred people waiting.

One of the many, many, MANY reasons why Nige and I are unmatched.

So sad. So very, very, sad. 

The Japanese (I have now found consistently true) are unfailingly kind and go out of their way to be helpful. In general I am so grateful for the help available to people like me who have (albeit temporary) disabilities which make travelling pretty impossible without flat beds along the way and moving vehicles the rest of the time in which to sit or lie. The Japanese, however, take this to a whole different level, and in transit I was always able to find an escalator or elevator to help me toddle along to my next point of transport.

Thank you, THANK YOU, Japan, for realising that English people are not thoughtful enough to prepare and actually learn your language. I'm sorry!

Having exchanged my Japan rail pass for an actual Japan Rail card, off I crawled towards the monorail, then the JR train to the Tokyo hub where I could catch the Shinkansen to Kyoto and take the bullet train. From some of the photos you will see how many different options were available. It is absolutely incredible to me now, having visited many of Japan’s subway, monorail and Shinkansen stations, how any visitor not used to the Roman alphabet can possible comprehend our London underground system or our trains. I haven’t attempted this myself, but I’m fairly sure that you cannot press a button on any of our various automatic ticket dispensing machines that turns all the instructions to Japanese. No longer any surprise to me now that many Japanese tourists arrive in coaches for their tours of England. How on earth would they be able to navigate a country which expects you to have a pretty darn good working knowledge of the English language if you want to do anything at all?

Yeah baby. This is how we roll.

In Japan there are three classes of Shinkansen, the fastest being the Nozomi, mostly used by commuters, which travels at roughly the speed of light and helps you to arrive at your destination before you left. Okay so none of that is true, but it doesn’t make as many stops so is the ideal commuter train. These trains are unavailable to the Japan rail pass holders. (Note: if you’re going to Japan make sure you buy your JR pass a few days before and have it sent to you / pick it up in your own country, as it’s far, far cheaper to do this than to buy it in Japan itself). The next option is the Hikari, which travels very fast, but makes more stops, so you reach your destination about the time you left. Ha. I’d recommend the trains. (Then again I am a nerdy train spotter by all accounts.) They’re very clean, run like clockwork, have lovely staff offering you many completely indistinguishable food and drink items, and beer / wine if you feel that 9 am is an appropriate time to be drinking (It isn’t).

From rural...

I may have slightly exaggerated the true speed of Shinkansen, but the speed at which the landscape changed before my eyes kept them open in spite of my enormous fatigue and pain, and I took many, many photos of varying degrees of blurriness to capture the city blocks, apartments, houses, fields, mountains, rural land and rivers we passed along our way. Like a time-lapse capture documentary of the geography of a country, the bullet train is worth the ride just for offering a true glimpse of the very varied landscapes of Japan, at a glance.

...to industrial, in under three hours. Like magic.

Given my aforementioned slightly wounded state, to which I now add painful blocked ears from the plane’s descent and a sudden raging cold and sore throat, which I would be unsurprised to learn came from my general anxiety at flying thousands of miles away from all the support networks available to me at home for my depression, it would be fair to say that I was feeling rather delicate on the train. It was, then, by some miracle that I made it in my jet-lagged, pained and dazed state onto the Shinkansen, though not before watching a curious TV show in the station waiting room featuring two men each sitting on a basketball trying to dislodge the other from his seat by yanking on tea towels which both held (two towels, crossed over) over a number of minutes. Bizarre. I’d rather watch Gardener’s World, I think.

Yeah, Lorraine. Sorry, you still don't make the cut. Sorry. 

Although if you fancy trying the basketball game I might tune in. Maybe.

2.5 hours later I arrived in Kyoto, which is just under 300 miles away from Japan. Amazing. More amazing still, my friends successfully found me at the station without any use of mobile phone technology, especially despite the many, many exits there appear to be at most railway stations in Japan. More on Kyoto soon. But immediately after lunch it became apparent that no, I would in no way be making it through the afternoon without a good three hour ‘nap’ and that yes, the travel had not left me unscathed. More soon. Now sleep. さようなら Sayōnara for now! 

Laptop On Tour Once More! Part One: Ceci, c'est un blog, pas une blague

Alors, mes amis, je suis arrivé à Paris! Yes, today I have finally left Teddington and am on my way to my first holiday in eight months, and since having my terrible physical accident! It's exciting but a little bit scary.

Paris and Le Tour Eiffel (just seen), from the air

Some things remain normal of course, one of them my best and beloved terminal (terminal) 4 at Heathrow airport, where to stand a chance of making your flight on time it is best to arrive seven hours before your flight is scheduled to take off (i.e. delayed, cancelled, moved to another day, be grounded by rain...), to travel business or blag your way into the fast track queue to escape the endless tedium of explaining to an official who has no interest in working whatsoever that your laptop cable is, in fact, a laptop cable, which tragically leaves only five minutes to buy everything in sight in duty free, despite the fact that you need none of it, especially the M&Ms, and finally take your seat in the queue. Yes, of course I'm joking: you won't get a seat, and twenty minutes before there's any chance of learning whether your flight will actually take off at all you're going to be joining twenty thousand other people who've materialised as if from nowhere in a long line to make sure that their assigned seat isn't given away to four other people, also hoping to get on the same flight.

Just another day at Heathow. 

So, situation normal so far. I am very, very lucky to have been able to fly business class on this occasion, with a great deal I considered worth it when putting my health - back, foot, arm, head (in both senses) - first, rather than 'out' on the mammoth plane journey upon which I am about to embark.

Le Petit Dejeuner. Actually quite nice for airline food.

Of course situation is not quite normal, because it is still only a few days since the tragedy of Germanwings and flight attendants are understandably being more attentive to safety than ever before. (And I say flight attendants as I didn't see any pilots or co-pilots on my first trip. Much has now been said about the Germanwings tragedy, and some of it has been (and is about to be) said by me.

Last week I spoke to Grazia magazine, who were looking for a female to speak to them about her own experences of having depression to see 'what it's really like'. This feature will appear in Tuesday's edition of the paper while I am away (I'm going to Japan by the way, but am writing this from the lovely Charles de Gaulle airport). I was asked about many aspects of my depression - how it started, how long I have had it, the struggles that I have had and the things I have achieved in spite of the (at times) wholly debilitating nature of this condition. I am hoping that my involvement with the news feature will go some way to widening the perspective of life with depression.

Oh Grazia (and Katy) I love you so

On the other hand, having done many media appearances in the last year, the flip side of being interviewed for print is that my words are not exactly my own. In this case, the (really lovely) journalist I spoke to at Grazia wrote my words as if I had written the article myself - i.e. in the first person, which was a strange experience for me, as many of my specific comments had been either paraphrased or fitted neatly into a fifty word box-sized sentence where I probably spent at least 200-300 words on each topic we discussed. Fair enough, we all have confines to which we work in our specific jobs and career paths.

The strangest thing about the experience - one which I have now had twice - is the way that a participant like me is able to check the information given and give comments on the article if I am unhappy with the way that any comments have been phrased: the journalists read the text aloud to the interviewee over the phone. On the last occasion I was speaking to the Standard (who didn't end up using my quotations) I found it quite easy to receive the comments read out this way, because there were just a couple of quotations being used; in the Grazia article 500 words (roughly) are devoted to my 'first person' account. I actually took notes during the reading to enable me to try to catch sentences I felt did not express my opinions truthfully, or were too far off from what I had originally said.

(And I would like to say, that as you imagine me being sensible and trying to ensure I was being represented, there was the other half of me which was jumping up and down in delight at BEING IN GRAZIA MAGAZINE! There's even going to be a tiny picture of me in there. And when I asked them what the average age of their reader was, they said 37! So (because of course I needed reassurance) I'm okay!)

Then comes a little discussion where we debate word choices and rework sentences. All of this done over the phone. I have to say this is a pretty difficult thing to do - I could easily miss something and risk allowing a voice that is not really mine but is presented as such stating views that are not my own. The only real time this happened which so concerned me is a short sentence where the gist of what 'I' was saying was: 'in male working environments the sense that one can't talk about depression is stronger and it's for this reason that more men commit suicide.' To which I said, "Errr...where did that come from? I have no authority whatsoever to make a comment like that at all and although we discussed the fact that if a man felt (as an individual) that he for some reason had to be 'strong' and couldn't show what might be perceived as 'weakness' by admitting to any need for support with an illness then that would be very difficult.

As it turns out, there is evidence to support the above viewpoint from research; but of course I didn't conduct any research myself and wasn't happy to make such a statement at all - firstly because I don't believe it is true in those sweeping terms, and secondly because I have no authority to make such a statement. I think what we ended up saying that I knew some colleagues who were male and who had felt unable to talk about their illnesses, and perhaps that men might talk about their problems less which might exacerbate the problem.

Listening. Harder than reading. You heard it here first.

I will be flying to Japan in another hour from now and will not be able to check anything online for 15 hours, so, effectively tomorrow. This will still mean there's time before the article comes out, but this time I did take pause to wonder whether I would like to have articles in which I am quoted 'read' to me in future, rather than sent over as a PDF for me to read for myself. I think the latter is a much safer option. (Also, I just read Jon Ronson's "So You've Been Publicly Shamed) so I'm rather more nervous after the event than perhaps I would have been before.)

 I'm not ashamed to have depression,

but I don't want to be shamed for speaking out...

I am grateful to have a chance to give a voice to what depression is like from my point of view - but, as I've said many times before - that's all I'm giving. I only know what depression is like for me, not for others. I take medication that has been prescribed for me, while many others take many other things and do / do not have therapy as suits them. I am one person with one voice, my own, and my experiences may be unlike any others.

I'm very fortunate to have this blog to voice my own views on this and that, write about my vacations and my trials and tribulations. I don't necessarily write a neat five hundred words, but what you read is all me. It means a lot to me to be able to be honest in this blog. I struggled this week, for example, and managed to have a good cry at a dinner party with friends that I was thoroughly enjoying despite having massive anxiety sporadically throughout. Sometimes these things just happen. I'm not 'well' yet; I'm just working at getting better.

I need to set off for the gate now so I'll wave au revoir from Paris, and I will write some more - I hope - soon - from Japan itself. Until then, Happy Easter and, as always, take care.