I’m here.
But it still doesn’t feel like it. It doesn’t feel right or real.
But I’m here.
At Heathrow Terminal 2, waiting to board a plane back to Bangkok. Back to almost a decade ago, to that place I landed at the start of my journey, and the last time I actually wrote in this blog. I remember those days preceding the flight and everything that came after very well, almost like it was yesterday. When I was such a different person.
I was more sociable, hopeful, optimistic and Bright-eyed. More invested in adventure and moving on from the darkness of the past and on to a brighter future.
Somewhere sunny, like Thailand.
And here I’m sat, 10 years later, feeling like a completely different person; not quite knowing what I’m doing here, or why I’m flying out. Clinging to the safety and familiarity of the mental prison and poisons I have become so intoxicated with.
But one thing I remember feeling, thinking and writing in my blog way back then:
“I am fucking terrified.”
Looks like I’m not so different after all.
Drag me off the hot coals I stand on so I can seethe about some injustice that I won’t step away from. Pull me off the sticky traps that I spend all my time and energy trying to get free from (but not too much time and energy or I might actually succeed).
Strip me bare of the my issues I don’t want but keep, of the resentment that was never mine to hold but I carry anyway, and the pointless ambitions and aspirations I try to drive deep into my soul and exorcise what I really want.
And I’ll be fucking terrified.
Whether it’s 10 years ago when I had a family to miss, straightened hair to maintain, more money than I knew what to do with and no place to come back to…
Or 10 years later when I have nobody but phantoms to blame, curly hair to fight with, no money nor any idea on how to make it, and no desire to leave the place I was, now I’m in the airport.
I’ll still be fucking terrified.
Take it all away and maybe I’m still the same person I was.
When I think about that, the fear feels like a friend. Welcoming me back.
When I booked this trip 2 months ago, I could only feel excited about… Well, everything!
Getting away from the confines of my small studio, the endless to do list full of miserable distraction, the endless parade of videos full of miserable distraction, or the miserable distractions of maintain my misery by giving up all the distractions.
I was excited about staying in a nice place, to walk around the streets and get lost, to happen across street food vendors and walk into 7/11 again to bring back toasties and other treasures back to my new home.
I got excited over the thought of pampering myself with spa days, buffets, getting taxis to places and pleasures I could never afford in London.
And more than anything… I was excited to get back in touch with that person who started this blog, the one who could feel so much excitement, see so much potential in places and people, and would stop at nothing to see the world.
Before I booked this trip, I thought I’d never feel those feelings again, or be that person again.
Too much had happened to me. Too much time had past. I wasn’t who I was anymore, as much as I wish I was.
Over the last 2 months, as I lost my mind to the manufacturing and maintenance of extremely important and awful things that are definitely worth losing sleep over, I forgot about this trip and the gift it was supposed to be to myself.
As the time drew near and I found myself passing security, I felt like I was going to burst out in tears. I wanted to turn back.
I should be excited. I should be happy. I should be so many things I’m not. And all I am is scared.
What’s wrong with me? What happened to me? Why can’t I be like I used to be, 10 years ago?
That person that was…
Fucking terrified.
Oh, hello old friend. Sorry I missed you for so long.
I think I’m starting to understand.
I think I’m coming home.
I won’t be long…
And I think I’m excited about it.
