This is not a test

"Graduation?" My mam snorted incredulously. "You graduate from college, not secondary school!"

For me, however, I felt the only way to describe this incredibly melodramatic transition from student to mere mortal as a 'graduation'. As we all sat in the dining assembly crying our eyes out, (No? Just me? It's not news to ye that I'm a massive loser anyway), I found it difficult to envision life beyond the classrooms, the teachers, the students and the school that had, essentially, made me who I am. Afterwards, I joked about asking if I could stay on permanently, hidden away in a supply cupboard, content with my life as a good student.

My graduation marked the end of an incredibly challenging year for myself and my fellow Leaving Cert students. It also marked the beginning of the exams themselves. From January onwards, the stress of school, as well as other factors, built up enormously. As someone who is renowned for putting herself under a great deal of pressure when it comes to tests, the Leaving Cert just didn't seem like something I would, in the end, be physically able to do. Months of exam papers, predictions, rants, oral examinations, practicals and scouring for universities would all boil down to a week's worth of exams for me. "These are the exams that will define you and decide your future!" they told us.

I'm sorry, but that is bullshit.

As much as the SEC, your teachers and the Department of Education wants you to believe that the world is going to spontaneously stop the day you and 1 get our results - it won't. Life doesn't begin after the Leaving Cert. It never has, and it never will. In that week in August, if it turns out that I have indeed fail Maths, there is no doubt that I will be exceptionally disappointed. But I know that life will go on, and in my final hours it won't be remembered that I failed Maths in my Leaving Cert. Sure, if you can tell me all the characteristics of a desert biome, I'm thrilled for you. But the Leaving Cert doesn't measure human qualities - how funny, nice, selfless or determined you are.

I am now at a point in my life where I believe I am facing an even bigger test than the Leaving Cert itself. I am approximately half a month into my summer break, and I have found myself teetering in the middle of some kind of emotional see-saw. I'm not entirely sure what's going to happen over the next few weeks. Summer is always given such an air of importance among people my age - between its temporary nature, the good weather and the freedom, it is truly a unique time where anything is possible. For the most part, my life is now limitless - no restraints such as exams, study or school work to hold me back. What am I going to make of myself? What am I going to become?

Scary prospect, isn't it?

I'm not asking much of this summer. I want to enjoy myself, after what can only be defined as 6 months of torture. I want to spend as much time with my friends as possible, as I will going to college in Dublin and they will be facing into exams themselves. I want to drink copious amounts and inevitably puke on myself - again. I wish to attend every concert under the sun, and travel: the thoughts of spending my summer in this small (and equally small-minded) shithole feels me with dread. I will work, and, in turn, waste spend all my money on frivolous items. I am not a person who buys into the idea of having 'no regrets'. My whole life is basically a tidy collection of regrets big and small. I can only hope that I won't add too many more to my list this summer. I want to laugh loudly and not have to be sorry about it. I want this summer to teach me more about the world and myself than 5 years of education ever could.

This summer will be the ultimate learning curve. As a 17 year old with a seven year old mind with a fantastic memory, but lacking in 'street smarts', I need to learn my place, and ultimately, make better decisions, in order to succeed in college and beyond.

Not entirely sure how I'm supposed to study for that, mind ...


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Growing up won't bring us down

"His name's Tulani".

I corrected my nan on the name of one of her South African care-workers - she'd mistakenly referred to him as 'Carrigtwohill'.

"That's it!" She said, pointing and shaking her hand in his direction, as if she'd figured it out on her own. "I knew it had a T in it. I've gone terrible deaf Fionnuala girl".

My nan was now in hospital permanently - sound of mind, frail of heart and body, eyes as blue as a porcelain doll's. The same, however, could not be said about her fellow patients.

"Get out ... Get out ... Get out ... GET OUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!" A pleasant old 'dear' had greeted us as we entered. Away with the fairies. "She's probably better off", my mam remarked. "Madame Butterfly", my selectively deaf grandmother had called her.

As I sat on the stiff mattress of the hospital bed, I allowed myself to take in fully this new environment. Shelves filled with adult nappies, assistance bells at the bedside, jellies on the table, the able patients' knitwork lining the walls ... Is this what awaits me? Is this what we wait for with bated breath? Is this really what I wish for when I complain about my life and long to be older?

In that moment, I felt like I had been wishing my life away. About the way I look, the people I spend my time with and where I spend it ... Yeah, growing is hard. Really hard at times. My secrets had spread faster than glandular fever at a GAA disco. Stress inevitably got the better of me at one stage or another. I was rejected, and in return, I rejected people. My whole landscape of friends had changed radically, to the point where I know longer acknowledge people who I previously invested all of my time into. I had complained previously about 'those people', 'this town', 'that night' ... All for what? For me to get old old and go loopy?

I sat amongst my family, in what was, essentially, an adult crèche and came to my conclusion: if growing old is hard, imagine how bloody hard being old is. I was suddenly overcome with gratitude for crappy school, drunken mistakes and horrible people who deserve to have their ears pierced with rusty nails. I have what my nan doesn't - spontaneity and diversity. I made a decision then and there to prolong monotony for as long as possible. Lord knows I can't stop the ageing process but, so help me, I'm going to slow the bastard down before I become my own Madame Butterfly.

"Are you working tonight?" My nan asked.

"Yeah I am".

"Sure God help us!" she said, shaking her head.

God help us indeed.



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Restored (*)

At last. It was hers.

Never had she coveted something so much and for so long as she had this magnificent piece. It had been calling for her from the wall of the gallery for many a year, and after a hard-fought auction she could finally call it her own. A beautiful oil painting set in a gilded frame. A portrait of a man and his wife from the 1800s, in period dress. She counted herself lucky to have found such a rare, unique work of art. Perfection.

Well, that is not entirely true. Art is not without its flaws: artists, collectors and auctioneers alike know that. Tragically, her painting was no exception - exposure to daylight and general wear-and-tear had lead to its condition being less than mint by the time it had made its way to her.

Not that that was going to stop her. She believed she had all the qualities to bring its beauty back to life. Love, affection and plenty of patience were all that were required. How hard could it be? Granted, she had never restored a painting before, but she was committed to the cause. "You were worth the wait, Lord knows you'll be worth the time and effort", she thought to herself.

She dove into the project. As she lacked the first-hand experience, she relied foolishly on the poor advice of others, who knew as little as she did, As well as that, she read a countless number of books on painting restoration. Despite her youth and lack of experience, she believed whole-heartedly she could do her masterpiece justice and give it what it deserved.








She tried. No one could deny her that. Not even the man and the wife in the painting. It became the ultimate labour of love. It is unclear as to where the emphasis lay: 'labour' or 'love'. She had underestimated the necessary investment in restoring such a damaged, but high quality painting. Weeks and months slipped away like paint on canvas. She began to see people less and less. Her own work suffered. Relationships fizzled out. Her devotion to the cause was unquestionable - enslaved by her love for the thing. How could she not be? She was overcome by its beauty. She adored it. She was the envy of all her friends for having it. Only once in a blue moon would you stumble across such a fantastic piece. She refused to give up on it, despite the hardship. They had said it would be hard, so it must have meant she was doing it right. With a heavy heart and her pupils drowned, she persevered.

Where love grows, so do feelings of inadequacy. After faltering on numerous occasions, and feeling she was simply ruining the painting, she grew disillusioned. She no longer felt worthy of owning such a fine piece when she couldn't even restore it. She grew sad at the thought of the man and wife's displeasure of being poorly restored, of being forever hidden behind a sheet never to be admired or desired again. She grew jealous of other artists with their delicate strokes, their perfect ways, their knowledge. Their eyes were filled with love and their blood filled with beauty. She had neither of those traits and she never would. Doubts permeated her weak mind. Was she not cut out for this?

The paintings hold on her was unshakeable. She agonised over its every feature. Any moment not spent painting evoked feelings of guilt within her. Any moment spent painting never felt like enough. Every mistake burned her retina and burrowed its way into her long term memory. Feelings of inadequacy continued to manifest in her mind. Slowly, she began to accept that she was not capable of restoring this priceless painting. She was not the best thing for this. The promises she made could not be kept. Tortured, she made a decision, for better or for worse.








As the furnace flickered in the dark, she thought of how happy she thought it would make her, as if she hadn't before. She had never pictured such a grim ending. Had she loved the idea more than the reality? Her love, time and effort, had it been for nothing? If so, she was entirely to blame. The heat was unbearable.

She watched her tarnished love smoke and burn and her heart ached - but not half as much as it had when she was with it.