The farthest away from home must be America. Many people I have met, from many different countries, have said a lot about how Americans’ care for others is mostly on the surface. Many people find a hard time fitting in. Many had gone through depression and homesickness and other kinds of disorders. Many struggled a lot to find themselves among the changes and new environments at this stage of life.
I feel that. I understand that, because I had been there. Everybody smiles at you. Everybody helps you. But you’ll still be left alone, until you find your own way to get out of it. I had been there.
But I was lucky enough. I stopped to listen to myself — my body and my soul — to know what I really needed. And by recognizing and admitting the problems, I got answered when reaching out for specific helps. Days of tears stopped, setting a different path for a sudden change in my mindset, that an introvert must find a community that she belongs to. And I did, indeed.
The furthest away from home, I wonder if it’s Bellingham, or New York City, or Houston, or any places in between. I was thrown into a crowd of strangers just so many times, found my way out that many times, and now I’m positive that although days might be filled with tears, there will be happiness when I find myself at the end of the tunnel. I will put myself together, and get ready to shine again.
In me there is always an urge to break out of the box. To find a different home and to meet different people. Despite having a moving life with no long-term relationships, I still dream of being able to go here and there, settle down for a good amount of time, listen to others’ stories, then jot them down, pack my backpack, and leave for goods.
Fears? Yes, there are. There are so many of them that the voice inside keeps telling me to stand up and to conquer them. After all, I don’t really know where I got this warrior gene, but it’s strong. It makes me keep moving.