Before I left for Athens, a friend jokingly asked me whether I was worried that during my year in one of Europe’s sunniest cities, I would have nothing to write about. What if the sparkling seas and endless souvlaki made me so happy that I was cured of the neuroticism that got me this column? “I’m not concerned about that,” I told him. With a brain as cursed as mine—and sometimes I genuinely marvel at how expert it is at creating unnecessary unhappiness—I was confident that I would always have plenty of material. “I would be mentally ill in any lifetime,” I said, “in any universe. In any country.”
But during my first month in Athens, something miraculous happened: my mind went quiet. Both the people and weather are so warm here that the city seems to physically embrace you, and I felt uncomplicatedly happy in a way I hadn’t in years. I didn’t need to do my usual mindfulness exercises to stay in the present moment, because how I could I be anywhere but here, admiring the lemon and orange trees that line the busy streets? I was drinking it all in, the roar of motorbikes, the sound of people exchanging greetings in this new and strange language. I found myself instinctively searching for high places from which to look upon a city flanked by mountains and the Mediterranean, with the Acropolis standing proudly in the middle.
People warned me that when I first moved to Athens I might struggle with loneliness and culture shock, but instead I felt present and happy. And when this lasted for a week, and then two, and then three and then four, I began to wonder whether I had successfully done a Mamma Mia!, and if moving to Greece really could be the answer to all my problems. No need for my usual Sanity First plan, I thought; Athens was taking care of my mental health for me. I found myself eating well, sleeping well, drinking less, socialising with confidence, making good choices that would normally require a rigorous regime of mental healthcare for me to achieve. “What will this newly psychologically healthy and well-adjusted person write about in her column?” I began to wonder.
Then, ladies and gents, it happened: I got a bad case of food poisoning. It was the kind of food poisoning that has you chained to your bed and the bathroom for days, that has you lying on the floor begging for the sweet release of death. It was the kind of food poisoning where, after your third day of barely sipping water, you begin to doubt that eating was something you ever did, the idea of food feels so distant and inaccessible. Then there was a storm, and a ferry trip I’d planned to a nearby island was cancelled due to—God forbid—bad weather. A week later I noticed I had started to develop bad acne due to having to wear so much sunscreen. Another week later my phone broke, which then meant I got locked out of the mobile banking app I was relying on. One tiny irritant emerged after the other and, lo and behold, my old familiar thinking patterns crept back in.
It was barely perceptible at first, at least not to me. I was sleeping a little worse; my jaw began to ache. I walked all the way to the wrong building for my classes without noticing where I was; I absentmindedly threw a ticket I needed for a day trip into the bin. Friends gently raised the possibility that the worries I voiced to them were random and irrational. “Do you think that might be OCD?” one asked, after I messaged her in a panic. Reader, it was OCD. Of course it was OCD. OCD is a chronic long-term condition, and it will never rest easy for long, even in Greece.
I found out later from a friend who has worked internationally that it is very common for people living abroad to have a honeymoon period when they first arrive, followed a couple of months later by a dip in confidence and wellbeing when reality sets in. This resonated with me instantly, as the only other time I’ve had a month-long break from my OCD symptoms was during the honeymoon stage of a romantic relationship. While change is a well-known trigger for OCD, for me the excitement of a new adventure can also keep it at bay for a while.
While Athens is, in my humble and unbiased opinion, the greatest city in the world, I can now confirm that the naysayers are correct—moving to another country cannot rid you of your mental health problems. But if I have to do an emergency mindfulness stroll, at least I can now do it along a gorgeous Greek beach.
