My new home often enough feels saturated with piano music. It annoyed me a whole lot when I got here, and there was a point in time when I thought to myself ‘If that person plays that thing a second past x:00 I shall go downstairs and tell them as forcefully, and politely, as possible to please stop.’ I eventually saw who was playing upon investigating one day. It was a person who had seemed to be quite nice when we had met before and since that day I’ve been able to enjoy rather than get annoyed by the music (most times). But then, it got me to wondering… “Why did that piano playing disgust me so much?”
…and then I remembered the last time that I had played. 
The last few times I played the piano, years ago, I broke down crying and subsequently gave up with the thought “I’ll never be good enough.”

I wasn’t good enough for my music teacher. I think that she disliked me just as much as I disliked her. After passing grade 1 solo piano, she decided that I should jump to grade 3. I wasn’t ready, I made too many mistakes, and the feeling of ‘being a failure’ was probably never more salient within me than at that point…up until that point I had enjoyed playing music. But, whereas my teacher approached playing a piece from a very mechanical point of view, I tended to approach music…as probably with most things in my life…from an emotional, feeling view. I had to take my time with music, get to know it at my own pace. I wasn’t afforded that, so I got nervous, made mistakes, was then told how horribly I played, started hating playing music, got to the exam and broke down crying in front of the examiner…a mature English man…he gave me another chance to try again on another day, and I went back and cried again. I failed.

I don’t think that I’ve played the piano, or any musical instrument for that matter, successfully since… and thinking of playing again tends to fill me with a confusing mix of emotions– longing, shame and fear. This is only one memory, one experience, but it’s safe to say that since being in England, my mind is so flooded by different feelings, past and present, that I’m finding it more difficult, than I anticipated it would be, to cope, to move; to believe. So many things trigger memories, so many things trigger hurt, so many things make me feel inadequate, so many things get me frustrated, so many things make me feel lonely, and so many things are revealing just how weak I really am.

But at the age of 14, I knew that speaking in front of a crowd scared me…so I volunteered to lead morning assembly at school in front of hundreds of girls…and I continued volunteering until I finished school- and by that time it didn’t scare me (as much) anymore. 
Someone stopped me whilst I was walking through a building here and said “I know you…you’re the person who made the presentation at the Graduate School of Life Sciences seminar last week”. I smiled and said ‘Yes’. I thought (actually, I know) that my part of the presentation was quite flawed. I stuttered, tripped over my words and was still a bit afraid; but I was the first and only one to stand and freely volunteer to guide the planning of our newly formed group. I was the first person to volunteer to speak at our presentation-despite being one of the most introverted people ever. I stood up when no-one else wanted to and I was the only one who didn’t need extra coaxing to present to a large group of new graduate students, impromptu, on a just researched topic. I certainly was not the best speaker there, six other groups began with speakers and they all sounded very well spoken… but I spoke! Years ago, at 14, I made the decision to step out of my comfort zone so that I could become a better me…and now, 10 years later, I was able to stand in front of a group of PhD students, MPhils, Doctors and Professors in the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen in my life and present a topic at a moment’s notice.

I know too many amazing, talented, gifted people –myself included at times- who tempt failure with fear and lack of belief in themselves when they have exactly, and maybe even more than, what it takes to succeed. It may take some time -maybe a few weeks, maybe a few years, maybe 1 million tears- to overcome weakness and stand up; but I’ve come to appreciate that where there is a will, there is a way– and when you begin to travel along that way you realise just how strong you really are.

Sometimes I feel like I’m watching, flipping through the pages of a very interesting comic book…
…still trying to figure out the story. Still trying to figure out what my part will be as I’m sucked in.

This is the book that I take with me almost everywhere. I think that I might soon have to find a way to password protect it because it’s beginning to transform into a diary of sorts…(if only I could load an app onto it). I write notes from lectures in it, random observances, jottings, and sketches…especially when I’m bored or it would be awkward to snap people and things that catch my eyes.
These particular sketches were done because my hands were kinda bored at a talk, and I didn’t really need to watch the speaker…my ears handled the majority of the sensory input concerning what the speaker delivered.

I only really started pen-sketching in it last week though. 
I went to a talk by a really ‘big’ person in the university. The room was filled with many distinguished looking people with white hair, and some younger ones too with brown hair. There were few people who looked like typical students. 
My friend (still feels kinda weird using that word with some people I’ve just recently met-although I really really want to use it and think that I should) Yup, my friend and I got lost on the way there. The entire route we walked would probably count as a half-marathon. We ended up reaching about half an hour late and the guy at the door told us in an undeniably stern voice ‘You’re late!!…try to find a seat quickly!!’

When you’re late for a talk by the Vice-Chancellor…
Get boofed up (scolded) as you enter the room…
A room which happens to be largely populated by older people…
Who look like a sort of stereotypical ‘Elite Professor Collective-version U.K’… 
With white hair, in dress clothes, coats hung on a rack in the corridor outside…

…and ‘baby-academic’ you have to find a seat in the second row to the front of the theatre, where everyone will have an unobstructed view of your tardiness and ‘rude’ late arrival, it gets you to thinking “I need to find a better way of documenting this than holding up a camera and snapping a picture!”

So I pulled out my book, and I sketched. 
…and that was the beginning of that.

-Members of the Psychometrics Centre (minus a few important people) plus family and friends. This is the group of people that I work with. 
—————————————–
The camera seems to have focused on Sean*…so everyone in the back is kinda blurry. Not my favourite picture though, everyone looks too prepared. 

“I felt extraordinarily sad and overwhelmed and holding back tears became a struggle.”
“I have a headache.”
“Feel like hiding.”
“Every time I stand I feel like sitting.”
“Breathing kinda heavy.”
“Never felt this socially anxious since form 5.”
“Feel trapped.”
“Shivering inside.”
“Heart beating fast.”
“Felt like short breath attack-hasn’t happened since I was 8.”
“As spooked and shot as I felt when alarm went off this morning.”
“Something’s wrong with me.”
“Paintings everywhere.”
“Don’t want to give up and go home.”
“Realised that I paint and write more when uncomfortable and stressed.”
“Books, lots.”

These were all comments I wrote down last night. I don’t usually post notes shortly after a very emotional experience. I tend to delay, and often times during that delay I start to feel even more ashamed of how I felt/reacted and therefore I never post what was written or share what was felt.

Since being in the air a few weeks ago, flying to England, I’ve gotten into this habit of jotting down how I feel…especially when I’m feeling very emotional. I’ve never posted any of these ‘jottings’. They usually tend to sound rather pathetic when I get back to my “Strong Kalifa” form …and I conveniently ignore the fact that I ever felt a certain way.
The quotes above were all chronologically written. I wrote as I experienced, often with a shaky hand. However, there is one line I left out:
“Keep playing in my head- “My mother will never have a house like this.””
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
My mother will never have a house like this.
I tried to. But. I couldn’t stop it. From the time I entered my supervisor’s house that thought took over, and try as I might, I couldn’t get rid of it. I became nervous, excessively so, and almost instantaneously the party I was looking forward to for days turned into a nightmare. 
My mother will never have a house like this.
The house was gorgeous. There were lovely paintings, lots of books, and many fancy looking things. It looked like a screenshot of something from HGTV after an expensive makeover…and all I could think of was “Mummy would love this”, “Mummy wants a gorgeous house” and “No-one’s home that I’ve ever visited back in Trinidad is this beautiful”. I never expected that a nice house could trigger me in that way, especially when surrounded by such great company and a gracious host, but it did…and I became sad, frustrated- slightly depressed. It just went downhill from there… “Your life isn’t nice”, “What can I do to make a home this beautiful for mummy?”, “I’m not home!”, “I’m not accustomed to fancy things”, “I look awkward”, “I’m stupid, I shouldn’t be feeling this way…especially when everyone is so nice, kind, friendly” , “You’re overreacting”.

I walked to the table where everyone was, but I felt like I was going to throw up. I went to the bathroom, closed the door and just started crying….and I kept thinking “Kalifa, you’re overreacting”. “Why are you so emotional?” “You’re so weak, stupid, oversensitive and unappreciative to come to a party and then disappear into a bathroom to cry.” “You’re pitiful!”. “Pick yourself up and get back out there!”

But the more I chastised myself, the worse I felt until I eventually thought… “You’re not supposed to be here at Cambridge. It’s too nice for you. You’re not strong enough to handle this.”

By this point my heart was beating faster and breathing became quite difficult…this lasted for a while -a long while- and people began to notice that something was wrong. I went outside, frantically trying to regain my composure. It helped, but only slightly. By the time I came back inside my heart was racing and I couldn’t breathe properly enough to speak a decent sentence…and every time someone found me in my sad state, and tried to comfort or help me I felt extremely embarrassed and often said that I was just sick, nervous or overwhelmed. “What would people think if they knew the full truth?”, “What are they thinking now?”

I eventually calmed down enough to go back to the group, but I couldn’t look anyone in the eye, because I felt intensely pitiful and ashamed. I could barely speak because I still found it hard to breathe.

But then the girl in the picture suggested that we move to a more secluded couch. I was reluctant, but I went…and I spoke to her: s…l…o…w…l…y. She hugged me, held me, tried to empathise with me (succeeded at it to the best of my knowledge) and listened to me until I eventually just broke down crying and said it…what was jotted, written and unwritten. My heart began to beat slower, and slower until I could breathe again. I felt like a weight was lifted and I was extremely grateful. I didn’t know how to properly say thanks…and my attempted response didn’t justify the magnitude of the gift.
The rest of the night was wonderful!

I couldn’t help but think though: As emotional as I feel, as out of place as I feel, as incapable as I feel, as insignificant as I feel (sometimes)….. 
As much as I may have embarrassed myself, as much as I may have acted like an emotionally immature ‘idiot’ (maybe)… 
I wasn’t alone. I’m not different beyond humanity. I was surrounded by some of the nicest people resident in the UK; people who noticed that I wasn’t feeling too well, people who tried to help me feel better, people who go out to lunch in groups and invite me, people who support each other, a person who values me enough to invite me into his home, cook for me and entertain me despite being leagues above me in personal accomplishment.
People.
I was surrounded by people; and tonight, more than ever before, I realised in my heart of hearts that even though we have different things, different experiences, different prospects, different looks, different tastes, different accomplishments…we still have the same emotions. We still have each other. We still feel empathy. We still have love…and we’re all immensely capable of sharing it.