I've been in South Korea for nearly six months. I left three days after my birthday and now I find myself wondering if any new urges to move on or move back or stay still will surprise me. Holding still does not come naturally to me.
In truth, I have always moved to escape some part of my past or my self. When I came here my dad had been gone four months. Between his death and my arrival here the depression that hovered over me from my late teens into my twenties morphed into numbness. I had constant anxiety and insomnia. I stopped eating but drank too much. I threw myself recklessly at love hurting myself and several others in the process. I felt isolated from my family and alienated from my friends. I was rootless, floating aimlessly from place to place, hoping whatever was weighing me down would let up someplace else. And finally last year, with no job, no permanent place to live, and no forseeable future, I felt I had to get out of the States to start over. These are feelings I've rarely shared with anyone. I was broken.
Whenever I move I remember that saying which haunts me like a ghost - wherever you go, there you are. For a while the newness of being in a foreign country completely distracted me from the weight I had been carrying for years before. But my habits under stress and the truth that I was still very much in the depths of grieving the loss of my father and my own shame at my lack of self-worth crept back into the peripheries of my life like an old friend.
I look at the pictures on my Facebook profile. I remember a friend asking me if I was truly as happy as I seemed since relocating. And the answer is... yes! Getting on the plane to come to South Korea was the first time in my life that I chose me and not someone else. That I did something frightening because I thought it might teach me something from the outset. I didn't do it for a man, or a friend, or because of some perceived betterness at being there as opposed to anywhere else. I chose to go to a place where I knew no one and left everything known behind me, left even the potential for romantic love, because I had to. I believe I was dying.
The moment I got on the plane my life began to change in a way I never thought imaginable. Believing long enough that I, my sanity, my heart and my soul was worth the 10,000 mile trip caused a shift in me. I'm still grieving, I'm still a love addict learning how to walk the journey of someone who loves themselves first. I still stumble along the way. I've already recklessly fallen into and lost love in the six months that I've been here. I still catch myself in old patterns. I'm still tempted by old self-destructive habits. The difference is the joy I carry with me now as I face these challenges. The difference is the friends by my side who saw my hurting self and loved me whole again. The difference is gratitude, each and every day for being able to wake up and try it differently until I get it right, for me.
Being open about these challenges, telling on myself, is a liberating process. And so I hope through my sharing that the weight becomes less burdensome, and my heart opens more still.
In truth, I have always moved to escape some part of my past or my self. When I came here my dad had been gone four months. Between his death and my arrival here the depression that hovered over me from my late teens into my twenties morphed into numbness. I had constant anxiety and insomnia. I stopped eating but drank too much. I threw myself recklessly at love hurting myself and several others in the process. I felt isolated from my family and alienated from my friends. I was rootless, floating aimlessly from place to place, hoping whatever was weighing me down would let up someplace else. And finally last year, with no job, no permanent place to live, and no forseeable future, I felt I had to get out of the States to start over. These are feelings I've rarely shared with anyone. I was broken.
Whenever I move I remember that saying which haunts me like a ghost - wherever you go, there you are. For a while the newness of being in a foreign country completely distracted me from the weight I had been carrying for years before. But my habits under stress and the truth that I was still very much in the depths of grieving the loss of my father and my own shame at my lack of self-worth crept back into the peripheries of my life like an old friend.
I look at the pictures on my Facebook profile. I remember a friend asking me if I was truly as happy as I seemed since relocating. And the answer is... yes! Getting on the plane to come to South Korea was the first time in my life that I chose me and not someone else. That I did something frightening because I thought it might teach me something from the outset. I didn't do it for a man, or a friend, or because of some perceived betterness at being there as opposed to anywhere else. I chose to go to a place where I knew no one and left everything known behind me, left even the potential for romantic love, because I had to. I believe I was dying.
The moment I got on the plane my life began to change in a way I never thought imaginable. Believing long enough that I, my sanity, my heart and my soul was worth the 10,000 mile trip caused a shift in me. I'm still grieving, I'm still a love addict learning how to walk the journey of someone who loves themselves first. I still stumble along the way. I've already recklessly fallen into and lost love in the six months that I've been here. I still catch myself in old patterns. I'm still tempted by old self-destructive habits. The difference is the joy I carry with me now as I face these challenges. The difference is the friends by my side who saw my hurting self and loved me whole again. The difference is gratitude, each and every day for being able to wake up and try it differently until I get it right, for me.
Being open about these challenges, telling on myself, is a liberating process. And so I hope through my sharing that the weight becomes less burdensome, and my heart opens more still.
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