Worry Wart

I’ve gotten into the terrible habit of surfing the web until the wee hours of the morning at which point I become too exhausted to focus on a screen/book/bullshit so I succumb to sleep. I’ve worried almost constantly since I got here. Not that this is a new pastime for me but I’ve gotten rather obsessive. I am terrified of forgetting. The longer I live here the more it seems entirely possible to me that I could forget everything that made me happy back home. I am reticent to let myself become fully immersed in English culture (I’m definitely not going to replace ‘bathroom’ with ‘toilets’ any time soon. There are reasons for abstraction). What if I forget about Netflix and my held queue is deleted? What if I forget that I can sew? What if I forget my favorite park in San Diego where we like to go for picnics? Every time I try to explain this to people at home I get a verbal eye roll and a “what the hell are you talking about?”. But I can’t shake it. For Christmas my father gave me a small notebook as a stocking stuffer. I’ve been writing lists in it since I got here and the titles of these lists are getting more and more ridiculous. Before I left home I wrote “Things to Do in 2009” which looks fairly normal. Then there are lists for the cathedrals I want to see, the cities I want to visit…all pretty innocuous. But then there’s “Things to Do When I Get Back” and “Hobbies/Interests to Explore” and of course, “Things I Really Don’t Want to Forget”. Quite frankly, I am disturbing myself. I must subconsciously expect to be hit by a bus and sustain massive brain damage if I am making lists for nearly everything. Oh yes, there’s also “How to be More Ecological When I Get Home”. Maybe it’s a form of OCD. Oh god. That sounds entirely likely.

I hate this limbo. All I really want is some reassurance that when I get back my whole life will not have been turned upside down. It unnerves me that I basically just stuffed my shit into Chip’s attic and my backseat and left for another country. I didn’t even stop to think that I have to find somewhere to live when I get back not to mention find a job and unpack my stuff (for the 5th time in 3 years). I hate that I feel as if it is stuff that ties me to a place, that without that anchor I cannot seem to grow roots anywhere. But how deep can roots grow anyway in a matter of four months? I do not move on the breeze. I never have. Sometimes I fantasize that I am the wild woman who runs free and never stops to set up camp. But that only lasts so long and then I’m miserable because I gave up that tiny piece of home I had managed to create. I do not regret this. I needed to do it and I’m happy. I just hope there aren’t too many pieces to pick up when I get back.