Breaking Up Really IS Hard to Do

December 20, 2005. That's when I left Bulgaria. Not a day goes by that I'm not reminded of my experiences there. This is partially due to the fact that I speak to at least one person I 'served' with everyday. I walked away with some truly great friends, no doubt there. But, it's really more than that. I left early. I 'quit,' as they like to say. I remember it being a very clear decision. One that seemed so logical. It was... and it wasn't.

Professionally, for the first time ever, I really felt like a failure. Sure I transferred some skills and did some good in my town, but the markers of success seemed to keep moving and I felt like I consistently missed them. I felt like I'd done a week's worth of work in about a year and a half. Even if it wasn't true, it's what it felt like. I didn't have the resources (support, interest... you name it) to do what so clearly needed to be done. It was so fucking exhausting.

Adding to that, I had spent a lot of my time dealing with some demons. Maybe even too much time. I had developed a huge, and obvious, crush on a guy - a crush following my tendency to find comfort in unrequited... er, infatuation. In concert with other life events, it ended this pattern, but that didn't make it feel any better in the moment. There was a lot of self-doubt and confusion and discomfort - not great additions to living abroad. I had good friends who were kind and understanding enough to know when to push and when to let things go, but I'm sure the thrashing of the demons made me look - and act - like a giant ass to a fair amount of people. Sorry.

The demons weren't just about men (dear god, I'm not that fucking lame). They were really connected with everything. Limiting myself. Not pursuing what I really wanted. Anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Loss. Emptiness. Not knowing whether I was over- or underwhelmed in my life. ...Shit, basically. I'd just start crying for no reason at all. You know what? It was so fucking liberating. I wish I cried more now.

All the weight aside, I didn't leave Peace Corps for it. It was as factor, sure, but I clearly remember leaving for quite the opposite reason. I felt like I was getting better - stronger, more focused, less... weighted, but that I felt like I couldn't really BE those things where I was. Too much stagnation in my town. Too many friends with substance and reality issues. Too many people flaking out on me when I felt better just distancing myself from them all together. I needed space and time - room to grow. I'd used up all I had there.

Then I came back. The American Hamster Wheel. Three months of loneliness and feeling more lost then ever. Months of walking into other people's crutches and self-inflicted burdens. I'd left because I felt like I was finally ready to leave the abyss and I thought I had a good idea where the surface was, but then I arrived back in the grand ole US of A only to realize it was the same, only with rent and bills. Adding to all of this, it was only last week that I finally found a job - nearly 2 yrs later. All of those things I'd worked so hard to shed came back twofold. I was no longer strong and focused - I was sad and aimless. Exhausted once more.

Now, employed, I get to finally try to reclaim the gains I made abroad. Not all those gains were lost, but I feel I still have some repairing to do. I drifted from certain people - some of the drifting was very intentional, but other drifting was not. The loss of two friendships in particular has kept me up many more nights than I wish to admit. Two people who I once communicated with sometimes several times a day and considered very good friends. Two friendships lost, at least in part, due to my waywardness. Two faces that randomly appear in my dreams, as if to remind me of the sorrow, in case I had forgotten.

So here I am, 21 months later, still thinking about the Peace Corps. What I did and did not do. Wish I had done, and wish I had not. Things I am glad to never do again, and things my heart aches for. Both mistakes and advances made. A heart mended and broken several times over.

I don't miss the girl I was in Bulgaria, or even the girl I've been since I returned. The girl I miss is the one in those 2 weeks or so between deciding to leave and leaving. I miss the girl on the plane with nothing but potential ahead of her. She's been broken and reassembled many times in this lifetime, only to be better each time. Here's hoping this time is no different.

Now, damn it. I really need to stop writing in this blog and go somewhere else.