I moved to Cyprus around Christmas time on account of the fact I ran out of money in South America and had to move back in with my parents. These are not words that a 30 year old should ever have to write, but hey, when you have a penchant for tours and shiny things it was probably going to happen.

So yeah, things have been pretty shit because the whole fucking island closes down in the winter which means no jobs. Now, I'm not well suited to work, I'm not gonna lie to you, if someone handed me a million quid I'd be off around the world quicker than you could say, "Window or aisle seat, madam?" If I had the choice to never work again I sincerely doubt I would. But unless I'm curled up in the cupboard with a blanket over my head trying ignore the general existence of Reality, I do need to work, if only to break up the grinding monotony that comes with having no money.
I'm lucky I could stay with my parents or I'd have been fucked and not in the way I strive to be when I meet someone with particularly fabulous boobies.

Add to that my decision to stop taking my meds, because screw you meds, I'm probably not even bipolar anyway aaaand cue the spiral into a pit of self loathing and abject despair. Ah, The Pit. The bottom of this Pit isn't new for me, I spend a significant amount of time here on a regular basis. Shit, I spend so much time here I redecorated and hung new drapes. So yeah... probably about time I found a psychiatrist and got me some more meds in order to restore some semblance of what passes for normality in my brain and rediscover at least some shred of self worth.

And to add insult to injury, I'd gone from working in the biggest gay bar in New Zealand to being the only lesbian in what felt like a 200km radius. And there were very few people my age. Maybe about seven of them. And I only really got on with one of them because the others were, well, kinda unwelcoming, and certainly not on my somewhat erratic wavelength. Hang on... what was that? Is that the tiniest violin in the world? Playing just for ME?

I did get a job as a waitress for a short while but here's the thing about working for Cypriots. They're cunts. There's no way to dress this up and make it look pretty, they're slave driving mother fuckers. So, say you're working 6 nights a week, 7 pm until 2am. You're getting paid €600 a month for this. Now, don't go reaching for the calculator just yet, there's more to come.
It starts getting busier earlier so the waitresses start taking it in turns to start at 5pm, still working until 2am whether all the waitresses are needed or not. This does tend to lead to a lot of standing around and scratching your arse, but you can't go home. Or sit down. Oh no, there'll be none of that taking a break shenanigans.
It gets even busier and they take your day off off you. So now you're working 7 nights a week, starting anywhere between 5pm til 7pm until around 2am. Oh wait, if there are still people left, even though they can't order a drink because the bar's closed, can you go home? Of course not, you have to wait for them to finish and leave of their own accord which means you could be sat there until 3am.
And how much do you get paid a month taking into account this increase in hours? €600 a month. No, that's not a typo. Because Cypriots don't pay by the hour, they pay by the month, so they can and will work you into the ground for no extra pay. At all. Not even a bonus. And don't get me started on the scams they pull to do you out of your €600 a month. Needless to say I lasted a grand total of two weeks.

But anyway, let's screw in that light bulb before you run yourself a hot bath and reach for the razor blades. I found a psychiatrist who started me on Lamictal, an anti-convulsant which, provided your skin didn't fall off, is one of the best off label treatments for bipolar type II. And I got a job for the season working for a Welsh bloke who pays by the hour as a studio bitch in a tattoo shop in Pernera, a tourist area close to the beach. Fucking awesome. Basically I get paid to talk about tattoos and check out chicks in bikinis, both of which I do lots of for free in my spare time anyway.
So hopefully things will pick up and I'll claw back some confidence or I'm pretty much gonna spend the rest of my life curled up in a dark corner sobbing into my bottle of vodka and rocking. Cyprus tripped me up but fuck it, it's just one country, I know that most places I go I'll have a circle of friends and a job within a month of arriving. Just because I carelessly misplaced my luck this time it doesn't mean it's ever going to happen again.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm off to learn to drive like a Cypriot which will involve trading my indicators in for an extra set of headlights to flash at people who have the audacity to drive at the speed limit whilst driving really really close to them after seven pints of Carlsberg.

Can't beat them? Then you might as well join the cunts.