“The mental torture of knowing that in the eyes of others you are fit to play, but feeling completely unable.” – Niall Breslin (Me and my mate Jeffrey)

This line put words to the debilitating pain I’d felt as I dragged myself out of bed, brushed my hair, tying it in a plait again, then got on the train filled with people who seemed so far away from wherever I was. I walked through the streets of Perth to start my shift at a bookshop.

I was eager to get an “easy job” while living abroad because I figured that’s what I needed: ease, low stress, flexible hours, chatting with people while being surrounded by books. I figured I wasn’t fit to go back teaching, I needed something that was less consuming and not mentally challenging. Now I couldn’t even make it through a shift in an “easy job” without feeling like my bones were in physical pain, and felt extremely useless because of it. I was too embarrassed to talk with friends and family who were working 9-5, Monday to Friday, overtime hours running around in banks or schools or hospitals, while my job was stocking shelves in a bookshop listening to 80s music smiling at customers – something that sounds like my dream on paper. I couldn’t comprehend why I couldn’t just do it, as Nike recommends, so I made it my mission to prove to myself that I could.

Each morning, I pulled out the trolleys filled with books, unrolled the carpet, tidied the kids’ section, stocked up shelves. I made space and room for people to move around, little did I know I was actually making space and room for my thoughts and feelings to untangle and emerge from the depths of wherever they were hidden. They kept me company in the quiet mornings as I sipped coffee, even though I’d never invited them. But once they started visiting, it became harder to get rid of them. Like a chatty neighbor who just wouldn’t fuck off no matter how much you rush around and try to busy yourself and show them that you just don’t have time. I thought they’d eventually settle down, but they only got louder and rowdier as the months went on. That’s what it was like once the ghosts of my past started to haunt me in the bookshop. Once the pain and reality of losing my brother decided to join me. It was hard to smile at customers and respond when they’d ask how I was. It was hard to organize the fantasy section where I’d stumble across childhood books that I used to steal from my brother’s bedroom. It was hard to know what to respond to my best friend’s texts asking how my day went.

Somedays I’d discover a book in the business section, wondering if he’d have liked it. If he already knew about it. Then I’d browse through the travel section and flick through books on India and Thailand and South America, entertaining my heart which had already packed its bags and was just waiting for me to catch up with it and brave our next adventure together. I’d alphabetize novels, wondering why I was in a shop staring at books instead of being at home writing them. Whenever I arrived home, I could spend hours creating and reading, lost in the flow of words. But in here, it was like the clocks were stuck in a moment that just wasn’t moving forward. I’d remind myself to be grateful. Pull out self-help books with words of encouragement as assurance that I wasn’t losing my mind and things would get better with time. I’d try to make the most out of the job by instigating conversations with customers or finding inspirational quotes in books and writing them on the display sign. I even made my own playlist with upbeat songs to get me through this.

On particular days, when it felt like I was completely consumed by the pain, little moments of magic happened. Not always, but there were some dark days lit with hope. A spiritual book would be staring at me with a sentence I needed to see or a customer would chat with me like I was a person with emotions, not just a transaction. One Thursday afternoon, when I was trying my hardest not to cry, a lad strolled in and handed me a crumpled up piece of paper. I was half expecting for it to be his number followed by a cringy chat up line that’d be too much effort to respond to. But instead of all that, he said something along the lines of:

              “I hope you don’t mind, but I spotted you through the window from across the street and thought you looked lovely and might need something to brighten your day.”

He walked out without looking back. I unfolded the piece of paper which had a smiley face drawing on it accompanied with words of encouragement. When I repeated this tale to friends, I think they were excited at the prospect of a potential partner. But that’s not what it meant for me. It was a little reminder that even in the midst of feeling ‘completely unable’ and useless, I was seen and noticed. And a little sign of hope that I could get through this. That I was more than this.

I burst out crying the day I handed in my notice at the bookshop. I cried and released a pain I’d become friends with, and once I started crying, I couldn’t stop. My actual friends gave me a big hug afterwards, healing away the hurt. The rain poured down just like a scene from a movie. One of my friends said to me, “What you did was really brave.”

I laughed in response, drying my eyes. “I don’t feel brave. I could barely speak becuase I was crying so much.”

“Just because you are crying, doesn’t mean you aren’t being brave,” he said and those words have stuck with me since.

“Vulnerability is not weakness, it is the most active measure of courage.” – Brené Brown

Before I left that job, I made a list of rational reasons to back my decision up when people asked ‘why’. My list was filled with meaningless sentences like ‘change is good’, ‘in need of something new’ and ‘want to travel more’ rather than ‘I have been completely miserable and in pain in this environment and can’t stay here any longer’ or ‘I am neglecting what I want to do by continuing on with something I think I should be able to do’. I don’t regret any of my time at the bookshop. Weirdly enough, I fully believe it was exactly where I was meant to be and served its purpose through a hard time of grieving. I just wasn’t being true to my own purpose. Don’t get me wrong, some days were a lot brighter than others and filled with joyous laughter, but the absence of my brother never felt more apparent walking around that empty shop. I learnt a lot and unexpectedly worked through a lot. But I now know that what appears ‘easy’ isn’t always what’s right for me. And what makes sense to others, won’t always be what makes sense to me. Instead of asking ‘what’s wrong with me’ I’ve started asking ‘what’s wrong with this situation’. I’ve learnt to pay attention to my emotions because all they want is for someone to acknowledge them, listen to them and allow them. Sometimes they might be trying to tell us something. They may be trying to whisper: This is too much for me.

From now on, I won’t wait till they scream or shout till I decide to honor them. We can only prepare and plan and predict so much. At the end of the day, we are not robots.