NOW that I’d become that bit more immersed as a migrant in the east of Scotland, the reality of living life over the seas from home started to sink in. By the start of 2012, I was entering my fourth calendar year abroad and while it would lead to some great memories, it wasn’t always plain sailing.
Writers like myself generally take a very positive and lighthearted approach to our columns. That’s what we do. That’s not to say that things in our own experiences were always full of laughter. “The night is darkest before dawn,” they say and I felt that early 2012 was my most turbulent time as an emigrant.
Unlike the year before, I was living in a much more menial-looking flat just off the main Glasgow road. The power was run by a top-up key card, which tended to cut out when it felt like and the pipes under the sink, on two occasions, burst without any sense of pre-warning.
Tough times
I was living on my own too. At least in my first few years in Scotland, I had flatmates and fellow teacher-trainer students to bounce off. This time it was different. As a newly qualified teacher, I was in a new school, a flat I had no love for, no friends nearby and I had never felt so alone in all my life.
The English department at Broughton High was fantastic. A very female-dominated group whose staff room was full of boyish banter and craic. The school itself was wonderfully modern with its wide-open spaces, stunning library and idyllic sports fields and city parks all within a stone’s throw.
It remained however that such laughs were only shared up until about four o’clock every day. The staff and kids went home to their families and their activities and I went home to my four walls of quietness and loneliness. There was no point in moving back to Donegal at that time. What jobs were there?
The pressure that goes with being a teacher is always high and I was feeling it big time in the spring of 2012. I was still enduring the reality of my dad’s passing 18 months earlier, I was lonely in a big city and my starting salary didn’t last long in the face of plush city prices. I was struggling.
I started to miss things that I had taken for granted. Being a sports team member or nipping to my local pub where there was always someone to chat with. I couldn’t ring my dad and tell him anymore and I didn’t want to be worrying my mum. The emotional turmoil started to build more and more.
On one particular Monday afternoon in March, I felt low and unwell all day at work. I couldn’t wait for the day to be over, but at the same time, I dreaded it in equal measure. The last school bell of the day rang, I walked back to the flat and I couldn’t help but feel like a dark cloud was hovering over just me.
As soon as I got back, I thought lying down in bed would sort me out. It didn’t—not straight away anyway. For the next few hours, I twisted and turned and I sometimes wept. Night fell and as tired as I was, I couldn't sleep and any time I ate, I struggled to keep it down. All of the emotions were gathering at once.
Still in bed, with beads of sweat dripping down my back, I mustered up enough energy to phone the school and fob some story about having the flu. I spent much of that same day being haunted by guilt over Dad dying, about being a financial burden and the stress that went with my profession.
When Tuesday evening came around, so did I. I probably had the longest hot shower of my life—thankfully the power didn’t cut! And I remember soothing myself afterward by pulling on a comfortable hoodie and trackies over a serving of hot nourishing soup and sandwiches. But the battle was not over.
A fresh start
I knew there and then that things needed to change for the better and it was only me who could do it. My Head of Department was Nicola—a Glasgow lady of a County Tyrone background. While I never officially told her I had some sort of ‘stress breakdown.’ I felt that she knew something wasn’t right.
I’m the first to admit that my teaching standards had slipped, even though I was still in the early days of my career. While I never did anything wrong like needlessly shout at a child or face a barrage of parental complaints, I still think that there were times that I made Nicola question her decision to hire me.
She stuck by me though. “Ya need to look after yersel,” she’d say and I enjoyed our chats about Celtic’s past heroes like Lubo Moravčík and Henrik Larsson. Her husband was also a fan and they kindly helped me out with an extra on one occasion. She was more than just a boss and I’m forever grateful.
I told her over one classroom discussion—where just us two were present—that I was fully aware of how I let my emotions affect my work of late. Even though she didn’t say anything, she didn’t disagree, but I think she admired my honesty and ownership.
Teaching is not a job you can float through and I was learning that you have to keep yourself right before you can lead others. Myself and Nicola didn’t wrap up this chat with a dramatic over-the-top hug or anything like that. I gave my assurance to put things right and a firm thumbs-up from her was enough.
A sporting chance
I started back playing five-a-side football every Friday afternoon with a group of Scottish lads. I went for jogs and took in the beauty of Inverleith Park and made occasional trips to the bookshops around Stockbridge. I became clearer in my mind and this led me to believe that I could still end the school year strongly.
Back at the school, Nicola pulled a few strings so that I could start a new initiative. Gaelic football was a long-term passion of mine—and let’s not forget that Donegal were the reigning Ulster Champions from 2011—so we worked out a plan where’d I coach the game to students with behavioural issues.
I’d also give them a weekly lesson on the history of the game and the cultural impact it has. It was only meant to be a wee Monday afternoon kickabout thing, but the news caught fire. All of a sudden, I was asked to be a guest on Highland Radio’s GAA programme and it appeared on all forms of GAA-related social media.
The fact that was coinciding with the notable rise of the Donegal time in 2012 truly reignited my passion for the game. I had to get back involved. I had assumed that any teams in Edinburgh were just playing for their university sides. Mix-matched jerseys and playing on a makeshift rugby pitch. That kind of thing. I was wrong.
I discovered that there was a fully-fledged adult club called Dunedin Connollys. I made a point of joining up and immediately the door opened to new friendships and being a part of something to give me a proper focus. I made a point to help the club where I could by initially becoming their Public Relations Officer.
It wouldn’t take long for them to help me out in return. Not only had Connollys given me a chance to get back on my feet, get fit and make new pals; but they also became a platform for me to operate as a better writer and a coach. Moving on into 2013 and 2014, this evolved into my greatest and happiest memories of Scotland.
I moved into a new nice-looking flat, where I became roommates with a close friend from home. I secured a more permanent teaching role and, not long after, I became a published author, an All-Britain Championship-winning coach, and, above all else, I gathered a wonderful selection of close friends.
Life would still throw the odd stumbling block at me, of course, but after the darkest night, maybe this was the new dawn.
Follow Johnny Foley on Twitter: @JohnnyFoley1984. Keep up to date with his new podcast on Twitter too: @ArmchairFanatic
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