Remember a few days ago, I was wondering about where that rage went?
Combined with some arguments with my mother (health reasons have shoved us back into living together), it seems like that question opened Pandora’s box.
I find it strange that a place is defined by its usefulness to us. Let me explain. Athens is the place I have come to get better – it’s a means to an end, according to my parents. My mother’s concern is that I will not be able to earn money, or have something to secure money when my health improves and I am able to live back home. Apparently, it’s been decided that I will live there. I’ll admit I considered it back in February when I could barely walk five metres without stopping for breath, but now, I’m not so sure.
Currently, all my stuff is there, and I am unable to access it at my whim, as I am unable to travel. No wonder I’m feeling trapped.
Anyhow, after a discussion as to what I will do with myself after all this is over, it’s become clear my mother took that desperate decision as gospel. I pointed out I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t even know if I want to live back home any more. In response, I was told to consider what I will do if I live abroad, as if there was nothing to gain from being in a country different to my own.
Apparently, “because I don’t want to” isn’t a good enough reason for longing to go back abroad… or so I’ve been told.
Well… I spent 20 years dreaming I could get a ticket out of there. No, it wasn’t torture to live there, I had a few friends (who are now scattered across the globe as they have lives of their own) but I wouldn’t say I was really there most of the time anyhow. When I wasn’t studying or exercising, I spent so much time writing and imagining plots in my head, because it felt so…limited. Sure, you’ll say I’m doing the same now. But it seems much better than sitting around and doing nothing.
Is not wanting to be there not a good enough reason? Sure, maybe before it was a case of “the grass is always greener” but I’ve had ample experience of living abroad now. I only left for health reasons, and because it felt like the only way out (my health was so bad it affected my relationships but, looking back, it probably wasn’t the only thing that led to a breakup and just seeing less of people). What I’m trying to saying is I don’t think if I was fine, I’d still be with my ex. That split might have happened either way, and I’m not interested in thinking that we’d be together, because quite frankly, it feels like we’re both past that. She’s happier now (or well, she seems happier), she’s got someone new, I’m doing better alone (except that everyone else seems particularly interested in why I’m not in a relationship…as if that means I’m damaged?) and pretty much enjoying rediscovering my love for writing. Sure, it gets lonely sometimes.
A friend of mine pointed out that back home isn’t necessarily all that bad. It has loads of advantages. Apparently one of these is that it’s quiet. I don’t like the idea of a quiet life. Especially not after nearly dying and spending a great deal of time in hospital reflecting on my life and feeling like I’ve not lived at all.
OK, I confess, I have a problem. After a long enough stay anywhere, I start to feel… agitated and trapped. Maybe it’s boredom, wanderlust, maybe it’s a case of “grass is greener”, onism, or a case of commitment jitters; feel free to analyse it as you wish.
I’m 26. After a transplant, I probably will never have a proper job – I never managed to keep a proper job when I was healthy, either. I’ve been told I can’t afford to live in my head forever; I’ll have to compromise sooner or later. But what if this is just what I’m good at? What if this is what I’ve learned from the hypocrisy of growing up (think things like being told I have to lose weight then being offered some fatty treat or dessert)? What if I’m just really good at burying my head in the proverbial sand, swallowing rage and dark thoughts, and spewing it all out in my regurgitated gunk of the written word?
Maybe I’m just not thinking like an adult. Whatever that is. It certainly feels like teen angst bundled in my chest. Or is it just piles and piles of anger, pushed deep down and stamped on because I was told it was never ‘nice’ to raise my voice, or never polite to swear? And somehow speaking exactly what was on my mind was never entirely appropriate? [I’ve learnt to ‘edit’ what I say that sometimes I wonder whether I know what on earth my original meaning was in the first place]
[No wonder I’m such a mess]
I know: never say never, but I don’t see why I should resign myself to the kind of life I’m expected to have, instead of the life I WANT to have.