As Ireland moves towards the solstice, the summer days grow longer and, on 21st of June, peak at their maximum splendor, enjoying a sunset at almost 10:45pm and evoking the excitement of an evening in Stockholm.
The recession has kicked in full force. I operate a few one-day tours to Bray, Mullingar and Athlone, yet the landscapes look bleak. A grey cloud of uncertainty hovers over the greenery of Ireland, the hope of better days growing more and more distant.

Visas are issued with grins whilst lengthy paperwork make me feel like a criminal solely for being in the country, my every move closely watched by officers. Pure paranoia.
At twenty-three years old, I feel slightly lost. Aware of the fact that further growing up needs to happen naturally, I wipe the bitter tears of overnight frustration and look up, the grey clouds at times letting a bit of fresh blue sky through as a symbol of hope for a better personal future.

Not a single day pass by without thinking about my past, about what I had a year ago, about what I lost. It’s haunting yet necessary to keep moving forward, for if I was capable of achieving such things once, I am capable of achieving them again.

Knocked down to finally hit rock bottom and whilst cycling from an afternoon of picnics and laughs in the grounds of University College Dublin, the chain used to lock my bike jams in between the wheel and the front fork. At about thirty kilometers an hour, the bike hits full stop milliseconds before hearing a loud bang.
In slow motion, I see myself becoming airborne and falling over my arms, the stones on the rough asphalt opening wounds through my skin whilst I finally come to rest.
Passers by stop their cars and help me. An old lady asks if I feel injured whilst the energy rush tingles through every inch of my body like a spell.

A kind woman locks my bike against a railing and drives me home in her Ford Fiesta. I breathe heavily as the adrenaline starts wearing off, rendering my arms heavy and weak. The night falls, the pain is now felt and I call a friend.

At 22:50, we arrive at the A&E in St. James Hospital, a form is filled and the waiting begins.

At 23:50, a grumpy radiographer grabs me by the arms and place them into cold steel casings. The machine shoots and I am told to wait.

At 00:30, a girl with a head injury arrives. Her make up has turned red from the blood and her chubby fingers hold tightly onto shiny high-heeled shoes.

At 01:50, Margaret Whitman is first called, yet no answer is received. A vomit-smelling drug addict arrives and sits next to us, he falls asleep for the entire night.

At 03:00, a fellow patient collapses on the floor and, hand pressing against his left shoulder, implores for help.

At 05:00, my arms feel heavy and cold. Teary, I walk to the receptionist and ask for help.

At 06:15, I am called into the doctor’s office and asked to sit down. The kind-faced doctor looks at the radiography, her blue eyes grin and stare into mine before asking if any next of kin can accompany me in her announcement. I brace and blankly stare at my friend, my brain numbs.

Two broken elbows and a broken wrist. Slings, painkillers and no physical activity for four weeks are prescribed and, seven hours after I entered the waiting room, I am finally sent home.

     ‘I am getting my mobility back very slowly, I can now scratch my head and nose, reach my feet and of course, handle my own private things, but things like drinking a cup of tea or opening a door are still a huge achievement as I am completely out of strength on both arms.’

Unable to operate any tours with two broken arms, I have to forsake my job, adding weight to the shorter days, whilst the cold autumnal draft is once penetrating through the cracks of the old Kimmage homestead.

Today, I have enough strength in my arms to write this post and enough strength in my mind to think about my future. I want out, I want to quit, I want to go home.