All These Waitings

For the past four nights, I’ve been waking up at dawn, flooded with negative thoughts. It’s not a sudden awakening brought on by noise or disturbance, but a slow one—where the dream gradually drifts away from the world of fantasy, and your brain slowly realises you’re in bed, dreaming. So I pretend I’m still asleep. If I can remember the dream, I even try to finish it, to trick my brain into not noticing that I’m awake—but it never falls for it. And there I lie, as thoughts begin to rise, climb, suffocate. They play catch between brain and consciousness, between consciousness and nerves, between nerves and heartbeat—and the more they climb and tighten, the further sleep drifts away; and the further it drifts, the harder it becomes to call it back.

It took me a while to realise the reason is probably stress. After all, a person should know when they’re stressed, shouldn’t they? But one of my survival mechanisms—since as far back as I can remember—is denial. I don’t think about the problems; I distract myself with anything possible, just so I don’t sink into them. And yes, I do have reasons to be stressed. I’m at a crossroads, unsure what tomorrow may bring in several respects. It seems the pressure has been building, and now it surfaces every morning at dawn, waking me up and gnawing at me.

So I thought I’d try a different approach. It’s a rainy day, with weather warnings—what better day than this to stop distracting myself with work and errands, and instead allow myself a break. Today I’m taking the day off, leaving everything at the door. Don’t try to keep busy all the time, don’t work yourself to the bone—let the worries have space. Let them be. Let time stand still—and write about it.

I’ve already told you about coming back to Lisbon and landing in the heart of a storm: the holidays, the events, the wonderful distractions. But now the winds have calmed a little, and here I am, sitting, waiting. What am I waiting for? Quite a few things:

I’m waiting every day for news about my husband’s stepfather, whose condition is poor. We speak to them every day, hoping for good news—but sadly, that’s not what we get. The moment he reaches the point of no return, we’ll be boarding a flight to South Africa.

I’m waiting to find out what will be with our trip to Israel—but we can’t go anywhere until we return from South Africa, and who knows when that will be. In the meantime, I miss my country, my friends, my family, and I feel the longing in every bone of my body.

I’m waiting for my Portuguese passport. They said it would take two years; it’s been four. I do have a residency card, but it’s not enough to rent a flat, buy a car, open a bank account—all those important things one sometimes needs to do in Europe.

I’m waiting to see my two closest friends from Lisbon again—both of whom have moved, each to a different country—leaving me feeling lonelier than ever; realising there’s no better time to move than now, while I, ironically, cannot go anywhere.

And I’m waiting—and this is the hardest wait—for answers. My bottle has been cast into the sea. I’ve sent my manuscript to several publishers, and I’m waiting to hear back. I’m a ticking time bomb, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I know these things take time, sometimes a lot of time, but until then, I’m waiting myself to death—for the email that might change the course of my life.

So with all these waitings, all these “holding-ons”, all these “what-will-bes”—is it any wonder I wake up at dawn, flooded with worry?