...I tried to explain Eurovision

Ah, it's that time of the year again (or it was)! The time of the year when all of Europe (and Azerbaijan, Armenia and Australia????) comes together and sings in a beautiful festival celebrating the unity of all the people in Europe. Or, to be more accurate, it's the time of year when we all try to pretend we don't hate each other and that all the wars, genocides and other horrible things haven't happened (unless you're Ukraine). No, but for real though. If you ask any European during any other time of the year they will tell you how much they hate the citizens of their neighbouring country (maybe not hate hate but strongly dislike) but during Eurovision we're all such good friends. 

Living in Europe you grow up with Eurovision and it becomes a natural part of your life. Even if you don't follow it you still hear people talking about it, see it in the news or read about it in the papers. It is almost impossible to avoid it completely - believe me, I've tried. There was a time I hated Eurovision because it seemed completely pointless and boring and for a while it really was because we all knew which countries would vote for which songs. Germany giving 12 points to Turkey? What a surprise. Serbia voting for Montenegro? Who could have seen that coming. Russia getting points from every single Eastern European country? Shocking! Everybody knew what was coming but we were still watching it, even if we pretty much knew the outcome of the show. 

Now, when I went to study in Japan I pretty much expected to miss Eurovision entirely and I was okay with that. However, since there were so many other Europeans (and by 'many' I really mean 'a handful') in the building, we decided to make a night out of it. Besides, it was the perfect chance to introduce a bit of European culture to our American friends. First, however, we had to get them on board with it. We tried to prep them for what they were in for.

'Well, there's this singing competition we have in Europe... except that it's not only about singing...' we tried to explain.

'So, is it like a political thing?' the Americans asked.

'No! Well, a little bit. Well, yeah, but you can't be political... like your song can't have a political message.'

'So it's all about the songs?'

'Uh, not really... We just... every country chooses a song to represent them and then we compete in a very friendly manner.'

'Okay. And the best song wins?'

'Hahahahahahahahahahahaaa! No.'

'The best... singer wins?'

'Nope. Not at all.'

'Then... who wins?'

'The song that gets the most votes, of course.'

'So it should be the best song, right?'

'That's such a... sweetly naive way of looking at things...'

'Hey, I've heard it's like 'The Voice' but with European countries competing with each other!'

'Hahahahaha. No. Nothing like that. At least the contestants in 'The Voice' can usually sing.'

'So.... you don't have to know how to sing to compete?'

'Not really.'

'Then... what do you need to do to win?'

Good question, that one. Sometimes you need to wow people with glitter and gold, literally (looking at you, Azerbaijan). Sometimes you need to shock people with crazy costumes (I think we all know what I'm talking about here). Most of the time you need to be Swedish. It really helps if you're a minority singing about being a minority. You guys remember when Serbia won the Eurovision? Do you actually remember the song? Yeah, me neither. But we all know why it won. To be fair, it was right after Montenegro broke up with Serbia and I guess Serbia really needed the confidence boost (although lord knows the song was barely there). And hey, sometimes you just need to go all out and just dazzle people with... well, everything. People won't notice your song sucks when you throw snow, a priceless violin and an olympic skater at them. It helps to set things on fire. 

So, after describing the main... point... of Eurovision (pretty sure it was still a bit murky for them) we decided to show them a few of the past winners of Eurovision. After showing them several videos from the past years we were met with horrified stares and a lot of questions.

'What.... what even is this?'

'Why did this... shit win?'

'Is that a man or a woman?'

'Why is there a stuffed chicken on the stage?'

'What is going on here?!'

'Why is Australia participating again?'

Okay, they weren't really getting it but we still managed to get a few them on board. Some of them were even cautiously optimistic. Others... not so much. We thought we could make a drinking game out of it - take a shot every time a song is about love - but then decided against it because we realised we'd be passed out before half of the songs were finished. Still, before the show started we had to supply the Americans with alcohol because there was no way they'd be able to get through it sober. The Europeans were fine - we were used to the madness.

So, how did it go? Honestly... it was one of the most hilarious Eurovision grand finals I've ever sat through just because one of our American friends tried to apply logic to the show and it was like watching someone try to carry water with a sieve.

'They can't even sing! They. Can't. Sing. Why are they even here?! How did they make it to the final?!' 

'I told you, this is not about singing-'

'Eurovision SONG contest! What else is it about?!'

'Well...'

'This is shit! Pure shit! This is not even singing!'

'That's a bit harsh...'

'What the hell is this?! Why is there a guy in a dress on the stage?! This can't be real!!!'

'Hey, don't hate on Conchita. She's fabulous.'

'Why is this song winning?! This is shit!!! It isn't even a good song! He can't even sing! WHY IS IT WINNING?!'

Because of Eurovision. This is just how it works: you throw a proud minority into the bunch and you're bound to succeed. I honestly thought our American friend would pop a blood vessel in the end of the competition, especially after Conchita won. Sure, he had a point when he said that the only reason Austria won was because they sent a trans-person to the competition. It was memorable. It was different. And that's what Eurovision is all about. No matter how, you need to make people remember you. Otherwise they won't remember to vote for you. 

Can't say our 'cultural exchange' night was a great success. We managed to make at least one American hate Eurovision. It wasn't our goal but hey, sometimes things just happen. I have a feeling he might change his mind, however. Eurovision is like deep fried oreo's - so bad for you and you hate it but secretly you yearn for it because on some deep subconscious level you hate yourself and want to suffer....... But maybe that's just me...

...all work and no play made me doubt my sanity

Have you ever been so tired that you don't remember the date or the day or the season or even your name anymore? So tired that you're unsure whether you're asleep or awake anymore? So tired that you can't stop laughing at the dumbest things just because if you were to stop you would probably start crying? No? Well, lucky you then.

So, let's backtrack a bit. So, in the beginning of April I participated in a course which lasted for three weeks. It was a very good course and a very necessary course especially for a pt working with stroke and brain injury patients. I knew I needed this course if I wanted to continue working with neurological patients so I signed up without hesitation. Ok, there was some hesitation but I've never made a decision without hesitating even for a moment. I have commitment issues, alright... 

Anyway, a few months pass and I finally get a letter from the course instructor. She sent all of the participants some articles, information about the course and the schedule. The first week didn't seem so bad. Sure, the days were longer than I'd expected (from 8.30 to 17.30) but only an hour so I thought I'd survive it. The second week... was worse. It started on Monday and ended on Saturday... Well, I wasn't looking forward to working on Saturday but... I thought I could handle it... Then I looked at the last page of the schedule. Week 3 started on Sunday... 

'Wait!' I thought, 'If week 2 ends on Saturday and week 3 starts on Sunday... That doesn't make sense... Where's my weekend?' 

It took me a while to do the math (because I suck at it) but I finally figured out that we'd be working two weeks straight with no breaks and then I'd have to return to work for two days. No rest for the wicked. I was... less than happy about it. I was downright enraged. Okay, that's a bit dramatic but I was pretty upset. In fact, I was convinced that by the end of the course I would murder someone. My sanity is questionable at the best of times - add in fatigue, sleepless nights and an overload of new information and you get a maniac ready to snap at the drop of a needle. I was convinced that those three weeks would be hell. There was no way I'd be able to enjoy this course. No way!

And then I did...

The first week was pretty bad though. My head was still operating on 'work mode' and I was bombarded with tons of new information every single day for eight hours in a row. There's only so much my tiny brain can take before it starts to overheat. I honestly felt like my brain was smoking inside of my skull. Or bleeding. Or both. Old information was thrown out to make room for the new. Old information like the location of my car keys or what I needed to get from the store or grandma's birthday (didn't miss it but went to visit her a day early, which is actually the better option). By the end of the first week I was already disoriented in space and time. I remember sitting at work one morning, staring at the computer in front of me and being convinced that somehow I was still in bed. I knew I was sitting up but I felt like I was wrapped in a blanket and staring at my laptop, trying to find a new TV show to watch. I wasn't sure if I was awake or dreaming. If it was a dream it was a boring one. If I was awake... well, then I was screwed because I was barely functioning anymore. A part of me wished I was at home... Okay, that's a lie. The whole of me wished to be home. I guess my mind was already there because it sure as hell wasn't with me.
The second week... wasn't as bad as I'd suspected. We got to work with patients again and even though my brain was on fire most of the time, I was slowly getting used to this new rhythm. At least I thought so, although I did feel like my sanity was slowly slipping away. I started laughing at everything and anything, giggling like a maniac at the most random things. Like birds. And pillows. And food. Pretty sure my bloodstream was 80% coffee by that point. I remember sitting at my kitchen table one evening with a tomato in one hand and a fork in the other, trying to figure out why I was there and what the future had in store for me. I think I was in the middle of making a salad but then got distracted by god knows what and ended up trying to stab the tomato to death with a surprisingly blunt fork. Somehow that also seemed hilarious so instead of making the salad I just spent five minutes laughing at the tomato. Then I ate it. It didn't make it into the salad. I was tired. So very, very tired. The part of my brain keeping me sane had stopped working entirely.
So, I've known for a while now that if there's a hell, I will be going there. I'm just a terrible, terrible person. My heart is as black and bitter as the coffee I drink and my soul... well, I'm pretty sure they forgot to give me one when I was born. Guess there was a shortage of everything back in Soviet times. Couldn't even get good souls anywhere... Maybe I'm secretly ginger, I dunno. But this course made me realize something: if I do go to hell, I won't be going alone. I found out that at least two of my colleagues have a similar dark sense of humor which is bound to land them in a fiery pit of doom eventually. Maybe this place attracts people who... look at life a certain way... Or maybe it's my amazing influence that withers other people's souls... although I'm not really conceited enough to think that's true. In any case, I found that I wasn't the only one making jokes about things no human being should laugh about - and that made me feel a little bit better about myself.
I still felt like a horrible person though... but I was okay with it. At least I wasn't alone. Also, I have the distinct feeling that to be a PT you need to be a somewhat horrible/sadistic person. Because if your patient isn't in pain then you're not doing it right. Okay, maybe its not that bad but truth is, sometimes in therapy you need to put patients into positions they're not comfortable with. You need to push their limits, take them out of their comfort zone and whenever you stretch them they will be in pain - that's how it's supposed to be. Taking pleasure in causing pain is not part of the job... but it makes it a lot more fun. I can't remember how many times I've had the following conversation while stretching a patient:
Me: 'Does this hurt?'
Patient: 'Not really.'
Me: 'What about now?'
Patient: 'Its- Okay, yeah! It hurts! It really hurts!'
Me: 'Excellent!'
Patient: 'You can stop now! I don't think my leg is supposed to bend that way!'
Me: 'Shhhh... It'll be all over soon.'
Okay, maybe that last part isn't true but usually, when they say tell me it hurts, I try to stretch them a bit more - because as long as they can still talk they can handle it. Once they start screaming I slow down a bit. The funny thing about stretches is that even if you make them scream and cry out in pain, patients are always willing to come back for more. During the course we had one patient who we had to stretch every single day - he was moaning in agony every time, turning red in the face, sweating and cursing under his breath - and after every day he still smiled at us and told us he would be back the next day and that he enjoyed himself.
By the end of the third week I was... kind of at peace. I didn't understand the concept of 'free time' anymore but that was okay. I forgot to go to the store so I mostly fed off of cookies and frozen food that I had in my freezer. I once had a jar of cherry jam for dinner. Yeah, that was it. Just a jar full of jam. And I kept making extremely inappropriate and immature jokes about... well, not important. Let's just leave it at 'I'm going to hell'. And somehow someone having short arms seemed like the funniest thing ever. I was on the brink of insanity (which isn't really saying that much since I'm always there) but despite everything I was sad when the course ended. Despite the fact that it almost drove me mad with exhaustion I felt that there was so much more I could have learned. I felt I needed more time... in more ways than one. More time to learn and more time to think about what I've learned. But all good things must come to an end and before I knew it I was back at work, trying to disguise the fact that I hadn't slept in days and doing my best to function in this old new environment that seemed so foreign on my first day back.
In conclusion I can say that despite the fact that it almost ruined my sanity, I did like the course and I'm happy I participated. Would I do it again? Probably. Would I do it again anytime soon? Nope. I value sleep too much. And having a shadow of a social life is nice as well.