Having an absolute meltdown towards the end of a 3 months sabbatical
Feeling shit when you're meant to be having the time of your life
I’ve been thinking about whether one trip can change your life, as so much promotional material loves to suggest.
A weekend away, no. A week or two, unlikely.
My biggest life changes have always come about in a moment of crisis. Until those moments, the relaxation and escape of a holiday served as a much needed balm. It was never a trigger, but a chance to restore before plunging back into the fray.
But, long-term travel is a different beast.
It gives the chance for things to truly unravel. Space from your usual bubble, your usual crutches.
And truly unravel is what I did during my first time-out since my student days. My partner had leave between his law conversion ending and his training contract. He had two months, but I asked my team for three. You can read about that here:
After two months together in Indonesia, I flew to Australia to spend the rest of my time with two of my closest friends. These wonderful humans had to bear the brunt of some of the unravelling that ensued.
Cue my birthday.
They planned me a day out with all the best intentions.
I thought we were returning from a campervan trip around Kangaroo Island to my friend’s house in Adelaide, to chill and eat dinner at home.
It transpired we were going on a surprise cycling vineyard tour.
Wine and cycling, what could possibly go wrong.
I hadn’t cycled for years and am a lightweight at the best of times, not aided by weeks of barely more than half a beer in Indonesia.
I got far far far too drunk.
I fell off my bike.
I ripped my favourite trousers.
At the next winery, I walked back towards the table from the bathroom. I could see them laughing away, framed by truly glorious golden afternoon sunlight. And I started crying, hard. Ugly big tears.
They came with me down a lovely grassy slope, away from this perfect set up of sun-kissed Australians enjoying their wine.
I’m so sorry, so embarrassed, I’m just drunk. Not been drinking much. I sniffed and snivelled.
With some tension released and then lots of chips consumed, I did manage to hold it together. I made it to the next winery. Puffy eyes focussing hard on my friends’ bikes ahead of mine.
Then the next part of the surprise: we were camping again at a nearby site and my friend’s boyfriend was cooking up one of his famous bbqs.
All I actually wanted was to be back in a house, watching Netflix with takeout whilst knowing plumbing was metres away.
I sulked like the mature adult I am, but kept it together. The campsite toilets were nice and clean and large amounts of food looked soon to appear.
Everything was looking back on track. Until he started cooking and everything reeked of garlic. Which I really can’t eat. Especially back then when I was only a couple of years post glandular fever which had given me a very strong fodmap intolerance (onion and garlic = stomach feeling like ripping open)
Meanwhile, I’d received a birthday message from a parent.
I analysed it with my phd levels of alignment to their brain. The resulting pangs in my stomach helped clear up the wine haze.
I went and hid in the toilets whilst repeatedly calling my partner, messaging ‘code red’. Hoping he might magically wake up.
At some point I started sobbing in a toilet stall. I think I even remember dramatically sliding down the door to the floor. I’d had the best time of my life these past months, and yet this dark cloud had curled its way through time and space to remind me of its hooks. I remember thinking, what a waste it all was.
After a while, my oldest friend came and found me.
I remember her staring at me blankly as I said something like: I know they are so unhappy I’m not home for my birthday, that I’m away. So for me to not even be happy now, what’s the point.
She said something like, this is not right.
I looked into her eyes and saw no comprehension.
This was not my oldest friend not understanding me. And deep down I think for the first time I started to realise I was wrong. Something was very wrong. Something that was not me being selfish. Something more to do with a saviour complex and the allure of playing the victim.
Coming back to London that winter was hard. Back at work, despite my neurotic handover with reams of instructions for every scenario, it felt like nothing had happened.
I was immediately more bored than I had ever been in the office.
And I did leave the job a few months later for a startup. With bean bags and everything! Perhaps thinking this change of scene might be the answer. You can read more about it here:
But to quote myself…
…I needed to move worlds entirely, not just sideways.
There were much worse times to come. Years to pass before I was able to put up boundaries, and/or cheat by running away.
But this trip did something.
Far away, uncontactable through the unavoidable spin of the earth, your sense of self can begin to feel nebulous. And just maybe in that blur, you’ll be confronted with the gap between the reality you’ve created for yourself and what could be possible.
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