Confessions of a Gaijin: Episode 7 – The Summer Of Our Discontent

It’s summer here in Kansai region, and all is not well.

The region has been wracked by typhoons over the last week or so. Real, actual typhoons that play havoc with public transport and knock stuff over a lot. Last week on the train, I witnessed the surreal and eerie spectacle of dozens of mobile phones going off at once with a ringtone I’d never heard before, all broadcasting centralised evacuation warnings in other parts of the region. It reminded me of that bit at the end of The Lawnmower Man when the phones start ringing across the planet just before the end of the world.

The end-of-the-world theme feels appropriate in a lot of ways, as the last couple of weeks felt so tough as to be post-apocalyptic. I had a solid fortnight of fuck-ups at work. None of them were intentional but all of them were felt very deeply and however hard I tried to dot the eyes and cross the tees, I kept putting a foot wrong at least once a day. And as it turns out, the Japanese really don’t take it very well when you get stuff wrong. I was met with cold, unforgiving eyes and stern reprimands when all I was trying to do was get through the day in one piece and maintain some semblance of professionalism. I would come home every night exhausted and demoralised before the shitshow rodeo started up the following day.

It all came to a head last week when I had to sit down with my manager to talk about some health problems I’d been having off the back of all the stress; tension headaches, chest pains and worst of all: insomnia. I’d only sleep for three or four hours a night before my body would slap itself awake and be unable to drift back off, leaving me with hours to lie there in the dark, immersed in torment. I utterly detest insomnia. Once upon a time it would only be an occasional visitor who would hate-fuck me for a few hours before vanishing until further notice, but up until recently it was a constant, unwanted companion that delighted in plaguing me at all hours, refusing to respond to hot drinks or binge reading.

The symptoms followed me everywhere; a mini-break in Tokyo last weekend was 50 per cent fun and 50 sleepless nights and lying in my bed feeling as if my head was going to explode like that guy in the movie Scanners. Exhausted and miserable, I stumbled about the baking hot streets of the metropolis in a daze.

It got to the stage where I was taken to see a sleep doctor last week, who prescribed me gentle medication to help me sleep better. It’s working, and I feel more rested now than I have in weeks but still; sleeping pills. Fuck me.

Last night I stood in my apartment, drinking a beer and listening to Slayer and feeling somewhere between upset and furious. Was this it? Was this my grand adventure? I’d been putting every shred of myself into the job and, three and a bit months in, all I’d appear to have gotten in return was a prescription for sleeping pills and a profound sense of disillusionment. My apartment, which was once my base and cosy sanctuary, had turned into a lonely, sweaty bachelor box. How on earth had everything gone so far south?

[Tweet “”My odyssey in Japan was in danger of turning into another sour fruit in a bowl that was already full of them.””]

I still felt very lucky to be here, I was still doing and seeing some incredible things, but at the centre of it all was a schism, a tangible sense of incompleteness and worry that a hundred sleeping pills wouldn’t be able to shift.

And for a moment, I wondered what would happen if I just gave up.

I went through so much last year with the breakdown/breakup. The idea of more arduousness seemed about as appetising as a dogshit salad. I was fried beyond belief from working so hard, I hadn’t enjoyed a proper night’s sleep in weeks. I missed my family and my friends. I felt starved of interaction and affection. I missed London, and my odyssey in Japan, the one thing I hoped would be some means to rediscover myself, was in danger of turning into another sour fruit in a bowl that was already full of them. Maybe I should go home. Don’t I deserve to truly, finally, take it easy?

But.

I know how that particular story ends. It ends with me going home, enjoying a week of domestic bliss at my parent’s house and then I am right back where I started. No job, no structure, no plan. No fucking clue. The people and things that I missed so much would feel special for a short while and then I would be back to casting a cynical eye over them and wishing I was somewhere else. And most importantly, I will never know what incredible opportunities I might have encountered had I stuck it out.

Concurrent to the discomfort and misadventure over the last few weeks was a powerful feeling that I felt very deeply, namely that if I went the distance, the payoff would be fucking spectacular. I don’t know how I know this, but I do, and if it turns out I was misinforming myself than I will deal with it, but for now, I am hanging in there, if only to see what happens.

As uncomfortable as all this is right now, it is showing me things about myself that I wouldn’t discover otherwise. Who knows what other epiphanies or revelations I will uncover if I keep marbling forward. What I have in front of me is the opportunity of a lifetime. What kind of moron would I be if I turned it down just because of a few months worth of general malaise?

I’m still not one hundred per cent sure if this gamble will pay off. I’m talking a good talk but walking that particular walk is another matter entirely. But I also know that however shitty things get, or feel, they always manage to right themselves in the end.

So, I will see the job through, or at the very least, give it my best shot. I will work the problem and turn it around. And if it really does get too much for me, at least I will know I tried. Not too long ago, it kinda felt like I fell apart a little bit. Now I am starting to putting myself back together again. There’s everything to play for.

Let’s see what happens next.