The Way I'm Heading

There is a condition that many of us (especially females) have to live with daily. I am not exempt from this disorder and in fact suffer quite severely from it. I see a page of black, red and orange lines with green and yellow spots and squares. A blur of arrows and colours are before me. For a CantworkoutwhereI’mgoing sufferer, maps just don’t make any sense.

I needed to get myself to Women of Letters on Sunday afternoon.  I picked up my faceless Melways and got as far as the turnoff at Chandler Highway. From there my disorder got the better of me. Was I to go left? Or was it right? If I turned my Melways upside down would that help? Why does Westgarth Street look like it’s off a service lane? These are the questions that flash through the mind of a person with no sense of direction.

I find my way to places through visual markers. Looking for a postbox, shop front or unusual house. Verbal directions also tend to stick. I’m the sort of person that goes shopping, enters a store and then walks back in the same direction I’ve come from until I see a shop I’ve just been to.

Being in unfamiliar territory is quite daunting for a CantworkoutwhereI’mgoing sufferer. “Just use you sat nav!” I didn’t bother getting it in my car because I couldn’t understand it anyway. More complicated electronic maps and distances to grapple with. There is always the mobile to “Come and get me” or the wind down your window “Excuse me, how do I get to..?” Luckily, I don’t mind approaching people because I would have been late to many functions when I simply lost my way.

I had to suddenly turn left and jump across lanes when I realised that right was not left, but I made it in good time for Women of Letters. I even managed to find the toilets from my memory of walking up a small flight of stairs last time.

It was another enjoyable and uplifting afternoon listening to distinguished women discussing their letters of complaint. Whether it was their working conditions, our disregard for the environment, employment issues, disenchantment when championing for a cause, or a distracting psychotherapist and writer’s block, it had us chugging back the vino with big belly laughs or sympathetic smiles.

On the way home, I proceeded to get swallowed up by traffic and disoriented by road closures for the Grand Prix. My hubby even had to come and meet me when his “turn left,” “travel 400 metres” and “adjacent to the stadium,” instructions washed over me like an undeveloped image.  I was there but not really there.

I battle on with my disorder and the impossibly of reading a map, but thankfully I have my own ‘sat nav’ hubby on standby to show me which way I am heading.

P.S Ironically, it’s 15 years to the day since my lack of direction got me into real trouble on the streets of BudaPest. At least I’m not scared of spiders!