(Hear me bemoan my first world problem!)
So, it has been a week since moving back to South Florida (well, tomorrow it will be, but nothing will have change by then) and I have already begun getting anxiety. Woo!
Anyone who knows me knows that whenever I get anxiety, this means depression. Oh, yes!
Hello, old friend. Fan-fucking’-tabulous to have you back.
Now, this breed of anxiety is different from the one I experienced back in France. There’s a sense of urgency tied to this one. A feeling where everything in my body vibrates, my breathing is fast and my thoughts are racing to all the possible ways I can take to get the hell out of here. The funny thing is, I feel lost. I feel like there is no way out and that I am going to get swallowed up by suburbian life, get a boyfriend with a fresh tape and drive a tricked-out ’94 civic to do grocery shopping at Wal*Mart.
(No offense to those who do).
I feel silly for airing my thoughts and for, those who follow, to see that there is simply no pleasing me. I’m here but I want to be somewhere else. And when I’m somewhere else I want to be here. It’s terrible. And I’m very judgemental of myself, so…yeah. Fun all around!
Don’t get me wrong, though! I have gotten a very warm welcome by old friends and family. It was great to see familiar faces again; to hear their voices and watch their quirks in action once more.
I am truly blessed and lucky to come back to people I love.
But then, there’s that nagging thought in the back of my head and that funny feeling in my chest, like I’m drowning.
Nothing feels like it’s mine anymore, which does not help the feeling of being an outsider. I don’t even have my own set of house keys (not that I’ve left the house much these past few days). I forget where stuff goes around the kitchen, I don’t know how to work new things, and I don’t remember TV channels.
Furthermore, none of my old clothes fit me so I’ve cleaned out my closet and replaced the old stuff with whatever I brought with me from France. In a few days will be put into another suitcase that will go with me to Middlebury for 6 weeks.
I guess it’s this in-between and the lack of stability that’s been affecting me. But I feel if I slow down now, I will not gain back my momentum.
And that’s really scary.
Also, these said clothes have been getting me plenty of attention.
I am by no means a fashion victim. I don’t even consider my personal style to be flashy or fabulous and yet, I made a quick trip to the supermarket the other day (where I got hopelessly lost) and I got gawked at more than I want to admit.
Who knew haarem pants would scandalize overweight housewives in tight mom jeans and neon tank tops?
I think one of them in particular would be more surprised at the amount of sugar her Dr. Pepper 24-case had. As a matter of fact, I’m scandalized by your poor eating habits, how you’ve let yourself go, and your sedentary lifestyle. (It’s hard to miss your love handles).
But what can be expected from people in a community where no one leaves? A place where everyone is so comfortable where they’re at that they don’t seek to move, to better themselves?
I am not any better than anyone but how can anyone be so complacent? So “ok” with their monotonous lifestyles? How!?
I wanted to go for a walk today, because I was incredibly bored (another side-effect of suburbia). I figured I’d walk to Target, but then I thought about it better and I suddenly got really depressed because I knew exactly what I was going to run into, so I changed my mind and figured I’d walk around the neighborhood. And then the reality of it all hit me: what for? There’s nothing to see! There’s no place of interest, nothing to look at, nothing to discover.
So now, my walk will probably be just to keep myself active and clear my thoughts and look at the pre-historic wildlife that surrounds me.
It’s hard being back, man.
Every night before going to bed, I have the same feeling I had when I was a kid and slept over someone else’s house. Yeah, I’d sleep and all, but it felt weird. I just wanted to go home, really. And that’s exactly that’s happening to me right now: I want to go home. I want to go back to my little apartment with the shitty shower and no oven. I want my desk; I want my things. I want to open my window and people watch down below. I want to plop on my pullout couch and eat couscous out of the pot.
But I can’t, because I am “home”.
Maybe I wasn’t so wrong when I wanted to leave in the first place. I did outgrow this place a long time ago, and it’s taking me this challenging experience to make me realize it and not (dare) forget it.
Falling back in love with the city I once loved so much and longed to return to is going to take me longer than I thought.
I’m sorry, Miami, but I don’t think this is going to work out for us in the end.