Coming Back

 

 

Today, I had an email exchange with a friend I met in Kenya, an American who spends a great deal of her life in central Africa. She wondered where I was, and I told her that I was back in the U.S., and she asked how the adjustment's going. "It's a big one, isn't it?" she wrote. Just a simple question, really, but I was struck. Yes. Yes. It is a big one. And it's really, really hard. Her saying that, given her own experiences with international life, woke me up. I feel like I haven't let myself admit how hard it has been since I've come back from Nairobi, as if this experience is not possible because my time abroad was far shorter and surely less intense than that of many other people. Who am I to be having a hard time about this? To admit that I am not Over It by now feels shameful, babyish. Like I can't handle it, or that I'm being melodramatic. Her saying what she did sort of gave me permission to feel what I feel.

I am not over it.

 

I haven't been able to talk about this with anyone yet, which is another reason my friend's letter caught me in the throat -- it cut through my isolation. I don't mean to sound self-pitying: I returned to a circle of wonderfully loving friends and family, people close and distant who give me more kindnesses than they know. My heart melts when I can see that, really, they are glad to see me. And I, them. All ask how Kenya was. They are intrested in hearing about amazing things that happened to me, or curious differences between life here and life there. And that's great -- I have those stories, I want to talk about that too. But it's difficult to respond to "we're so glad you're back!" by saying: "It's really hard for me to be back." It's especially difficult when going to Kenya was such a gift; to talk about what is painful feels like I am complaining, dismissing gratitude.

So, I haven't felt like I could talk about this with anyone, including myself. What is curious is that I usually take transitions pretty seriously: I went on a retreat before I left for Kenya to give space to that transition -- partly a silent yoga retreat and partly curled-by-the-fireplace retreat -- and it absolutely helped ease me into a new life in a new place. I would've liked to do the same when I returned to the U.S. But alas! Intentions thwarted!

I unexpectedly had a lot of important deadlines for articles I was writing, which, for example, meant that I spent my very first full day back in the U.S. working: I had an afternoon-long interview and tour for my Ty Cobb article, I wrestled with transportation details, and I outlined a second article that also had an upcoming deadline. The day after that, I traveled to my parents' house in my hometown, where my sister's family was in from Scotland and my brother's family was in from Nevada. I met one little nephew, the newborn with a jaunty streak of red hair, for the first time. My family hadn't been together in about three years; three of four kids were born during that time. My eager mother planned a lot of things for everyone to do throughout the month, and things moved at a quick clip. I loved our rare time together -- I got to joke around with my siblings and their partners; I got to watch my parents transform into grandparents. And the beautiful beings that I get to be an aunt to stun me every day.

But. But family-time also made for an emotionally intense space that left little room for me to "come back." I fought to be present for all of it, because I love my family and didn't want to miss it, but a lot of me held back, and I feel guilty about it -- I did miss a lot of it. Not just when I took off for a few hours, or sat quietly in the door-less room I was staying in. And throughout this same time, I had more deadlines to work on. I needed to pick up things of mine that I'd stashed at other people's homes. I began looking for an apartment, and for more work. One consuming change after another.

I'm still in a literal, physical, time of transition. It looks like the move-in date for my new home in Detroit will be in early October, and until then I'm floating among the spare rooms and couches of kind people. I think this fact, this persistence of life lived out of a duffel bag and not being sure where I'll be one week to the next, is another reason this coming back process has been so hard for me. Because what am I coming back to? Where am I?

Another reason: my friends in Kenya ask me frequently when I'm coming back. Every answer I give them feels at best hollow and at worst dishonest. I don't know when I'll be back. And perhaps I'm not yet fully present here, where I am now, because it's hard to let go of where I was. I haven't even unsubscribed from the Nairobi Now event listings yet. Once I stop feeling this as a difficult thing, the life I built and really loved in Kenya is gone. Or so it seems according to my triksy emotions.

So, now that I'm finally owning up to this, here's what coming back feels like:

I feel it as fatigue. Especially in my first two weeks back, I kept abruptly nodding off, even when I was surrounded by energetic kids. It was beyond jet-lag, I slept soundly at night, and still my chin would fall and it was as if I'd blacked out. It's not quite as bad as all that now, but there are still some mornings where I lay in bed after waking in the morning for up to two hours; moving feels impossibly hard.

I feel it as an inability to concentrate. Whether it's books I'm reading or articles I'm writing or wonderfully interesting things that a friend is saying, my attention loops in and out, sometimes in a manic way and sometimes with a sort of waltzing rhythm. I am there and then I am not. I am present, I vanish. It is dizzying.

I feel it as indecisiveness. When somebody offers me X or Y for dinner, I'm stunned with doubt. Choosing what to wear in the morning feels paralyzing. It is as if, when I have so many larger things to decide (where to live? how to support myself? -- I feel like I put myself in danger with whatever it is I'm not doing), part of me refuses to endure the myriad smaller choices. No! I won't choose!

I feel it as appetite unpredecitability. Some days I can only eat very little, other days I'm famished.

I feel it as self-loathing, in an almost comically disproportionate way. I forget to pick up something at the market, and I literally hear my mental narration make a clear sentence: "god, I'm such an idiot." I say something that comes out a little awkward in conversation, and my mental narration might shift to the second-person: "you're so embarrassing." I pick neither X or Y for dinner and feel guilty about it: "I hate myself."

I feel it as sadness. Pulses of a clean and thorough sadness that come up abruptly, that make me feel heavy.

I feel it as a sort of weird harshness in my transitions. When I decide to stop working at the cafe and head over to yoga class, I do it with brusque, tight movements. When I put down one book for another, the poor discarded book gets thrown to the wooden floor with a loud slap. When I change my clothes, I practically scratch my nails across my skin.

I'm embarrassed by all this. It feels like it's too much. My fear is that I put all this out to you, and you read it and roll your eyes and wonder why I'm making such a goddamn big deal out of things.

And maybe you do.

Here's a little story:

My birthday was on a Sunday earlier this month. It was my last day at my parents' house, after all the others had taken long flights back to where they live. The weather was very strange. It stormed in the morning, which made me happy; the drama of it. In the afternoon, it was a cloudless, engrossing blue. I went kayaking and I spent a lot of time looking up, feeling the sky to be my mirror. In the evening, it blustered and grayed. It looked like it might rain again, so I went for my run earlier than usual. Not long after I came back, a sudden deafening roar rose up, things shook, skin cooled, the power cut off, the air hummed -- hail came, the size of acrons -- and then, in two minutes, it was gone. Totally quiet. A rose-rinsed summer evening.

At first, I thought it was a tornado. In those two minutes, dozens of trees throughout the neighborhood had fallen, and in strange ways. A beautiful, beloved maple tree in my parents' yard was sliced off at the base, as if it were done with the single stroke of an ax. A pear tree looked as if its branches were sheered off. A huge, old, old, old tree had been yanked by the roots and crushed part of a house I used to babysit in. Tree trunks sliced across the street like a giant's arms. The school behind my parents'  house had the concession stand overturned and the softball fences crumpled like aluminum foil. A barrel from the school had shot across two hundred yards and lodged itself into a broken linden tree in my parents' backyard. Shingles scattered the grass like burn marks. Two minutes.

 

.

We found out later it was a microburst -- I'd never heard of such a thing, but it is like a tornado in that it happens quick and has tornado-fast winds, but it isn't spiraling. The push of wind drops suddenly from the sky and bullets to the sides. It's very localized, which is why nobody outside the neighborhood (three streets) knew what happened.

 

 

That evening, and the next morning, were the most present I've been since I've returned. Neighbors crept out of houses and I spent hours moving up and down the streets to see what had happened, to discuss the possible origins, to share news and batteries, to make sure people were okay (no one was hurt). I helped move branches and debris, I brought coffee and muffins to old men trying to clear their trees from the street, I put together a cooler of drinks for my dad and the others chopping shattered trees into small pieces. When the sky got dark, I put on my headlamp and talked to people while kerosene light flickered on our faces. I ran into a high school classmate who I've wondered about, and worried about, for years. He was between stints in the Army, and he is much changed and not changed at all. I went off in search of news of what had happened to us, and then came back to tell the others. All the people, all of them in this quiet neighborhood, were outside. Among them, people I've never seen before. Everybody was talking to everybody else, and working hard, and showing kindnesses. And then, less than 24 hours after it happened, I drove to Detroit to stay with old friends while I searched for a new home.

 

I grieve the dead trees, and the hard costs and stress that many people experienced. But there was so much joy for me in that time of unexpected but palpable and purposeful community. It woke me up. It gave me a place to be.

 

About the Images: Top - I've been doing lots and lots of yoga lately. This is me on my birthday, post-kayaking, pre-microburst. Rest - Tree weirdnesses in the neighborhood. Wind did this.

Comments

[Daniel]

What a great read... thanks for your openness -- so many people struggle with this type of isolation, especially after moving long distances. Perhaps the one lesson I'm getting out of it is when that happens, find some reason to get involved with others, wherever that can be. Doesn't necessarily take a disaster but that 'helps' sometimes :)

[Christian Noll]

UNDERSTOOD. . .

Upon the completion of my undergraduate degree, way back in 1989, I eagerly moved to western Europe to broaden my horizons and start my masters degree.

From 1989 to 1996 I lived, worked and studied in Lyon, France and Florence, Italy.

Returning home to the United States was an unexpected Wollop.

I discovered that our country had spent fourty-three million dollars on investigating if our then president had sexual encounters with one of his interns.

I also learned that our American Congress endured thirteen months of complete legislative gridlock because of it.

I think part of the "Re-entry" chagrin is because we think we're returning to our homeland the way it was when we departed, when in fact, much has changed and so have we.

I remember one of my students asking me "Hey Mr Noll, did you see Sinfeld last night?" Sincerely I replied: "What's Sinfeld?" They crowed back; "Yeah right!"

Looking back I can't believe I didn't know what it was. I mean, back then I actually had a TV so I had less of an excuse.

There were tens upon tens of these little encounters with my "Re-entry." Some were and ARE more significant than others.

When we expatriate we are expecting to submerse ourselves in our host country's culture entirely. We are anticipating the change and look forward to it. But when we return home to the states, the change may catch you off guard. You are not anticipating anything other than maybe a few newly constructed buildings that weren't there when you left.

I completely understand the woes of returning home. At the risk of sounding unhappy, I HAVE actually said the words; "I should have stayed in France!"

The storm story makes sense. I can see how mother nature's rath might shake you from any melancholy or isolation.

I enjoyed reading this because I had a similar experience. For the longest time I thought my difficulties were my own. Its refreshing to know that other Americans have experinced similar circumstances.

Nice observations Anna! I'm glad I read this.

[Russell Hyland]

Sorry for the delay in responding to this. The things you mention, fatigue, inability to concentrate, indecisiveness, appetite unpredictability, self-loathing, sadness, are all symptoms of clinical depression. If this persists, you should see a doctor and/or a counselor. Really. Sometimes we can recover spontaneously, but sometimes things get progressively worse. Probably this is situational, caused by having to return from Kenya when you wanted to stay. But the brain can learn to be depressed (read Peter Kramer's Listening to Prozac) and it can become a more or less permanent condition. I am not a doctor, just a concerned friend who sees something that may not be there. Good luck. See a doctor if things don't improve soon.