The first week back.
When I first arrived in Brisbane and settled into my new life, it was amazing how well I slept. I wasn’t sleepy during the day, but at the end of the day I was always exhausted. I remember not even going out that much at night the first few weeks because I just didn’t have the energy to stay out until 4am.
Now, I am back home in Florida, and haven’t been able to sleep normally for five days. I arrived home around noon on Sunday and slept for an hour or two in my bed (this was a strange feeling), and woke up thinking it was Monday, but it was really only 3 o’clock and my house was empty, because mum and dad had gone to the store and if there is one thing I’m not used to, it’s an empty house. A place other than the beach where I am able to actually collect my thoughts, for once. Without the smell of alcohol or the looming reality of the impossible mess in the kitchen that without a doubt I'd end up having to clean. Anyhow, I name these factors which have made being at home quite comfortable and lovely: my mother doing my laundry and making me food and generally keeping the house impeccably clean--not that it isn’t always impeccably clean, my dad not giving me a hard time about taking 3 hour naps every afternoon for the past 5 days, the dogs even seem to be behaving better than usual. I do secretly think they are trying to make my transition as smooth and pain-free as possible, which is very nice. I never even cried. Even while unpacking. It was as if I was numbed by these newfound luxuries.
However, one thing in particular has been bothering me since I returned, and that is how I lost a sentimental souvenir while in Fiji (I realize I haven’t blogged about Fiji yet, I will backtrack). It was a surf lifesaver shirt Az and Matt gave Lindsey, Candace, and I. I believe I mistakenly left it at the hostel I stayed at in Nadi, and by the time I called a few hours later to inquire about it, I suspect a fellow traveler had already picked it up, as the maids hadn’t put it in the lost and found. Bastards. But my fault ultimately. I am comforted by the fact that I still have the shorts and hat but…maybe one day I’ll get a replacement shirt.
Then last night, I felt miraculously tired at 9pm so I jumped at the opportunity to go to bed early. I woke up around midnight with a Facebook message from Lindsey on my blackberry. Again. Reverse culture shock, usually I would not have read this message until the morning. Technology that is always there. Even in your sleep. I read it obviously, and she basically told me, yeah, it’s disappointing you lost the shirt but don’t worry, it could have been worse (among other words of comfort). Truth. I fell back asleep.
Then, around 3:30am I woke up again. Sweating. I had turned the air conditioning down in my bedroom when I first got home, because though it was at 78 degrees F, that was about 5 degrees colder than our air con-free apartment got, on average (not including the last few weeks when winter set in). So when I woke, it was about 85 degrees in my room, and the ceiling fan was turned off. I jumped up and turned the fan on. Better. Then, Lindsey’s message flashed in my mind. “It could have been worse.”
Shit. I scrambled around through all my drawers tossing t-shirts around. Where was my ‘Sweet As’ shirt the three of us got in New Zealand? Shitshit. Think. Then I thought laundry room. I started digging through a load of wet white’s sitting in the washer. There. I grabbed the damp shirt, so relieved, and then collapsed to the floor, crying, wiping my eyes on the wet fabric. Crying. Over a shirt? Well, no, not really. Just. Over everything.
And that was the first time I cried upon return from studying abroad.
Now, I am back home in Florida, and haven’t been able to sleep normally for five days. I arrived home around noon on Sunday and slept for an hour or two in my bed (this was a strange feeling), and woke up thinking it was Monday, but it was really only 3 o’clock and my house was empty, because mum and dad had gone to the store and if there is one thing I’m not used to, it’s an empty house. A place other than the beach where I am able to actually collect my thoughts, for once. Without the smell of alcohol or the looming reality of the impossible mess in the kitchen that without a doubt I'd end up having to clean. Anyhow, I name these factors which have made being at home quite comfortable and lovely: my mother doing my laundry and making me food and generally keeping the house impeccably clean--not that it isn’t always impeccably clean, my dad not giving me a hard time about taking 3 hour naps every afternoon for the past 5 days, the dogs even seem to be behaving better than usual. I do secretly think they are trying to make my transition as smooth and pain-free as possible, which is very nice. I never even cried. Even while unpacking. It was as if I was numbed by these newfound luxuries.
However, one thing in particular has been bothering me since I returned, and that is how I lost a sentimental souvenir while in Fiji (I realize I haven’t blogged about Fiji yet, I will backtrack). It was a surf lifesaver shirt Az and Matt gave Lindsey, Candace, and I. I believe I mistakenly left it at the hostel I stayed at in Nadi, and by the time I called a few hours later to inquire about it, I suspect a fellow traveler had already picked it up, as the maids hadn’t put it in the lost and found. Bastards. But my fault ultimately. I am comforted by the fact that I still have the shorts and hat but…maybe one day I’ll get a replacement shirt.
Then last night, I felt miraculously tired at 9pm so I jumped at the opportunity to go to bed early. I woke up around midnight with a Facebook message from Lindsey on my blackberry. Again. Reverse culture shock, usually I would not have read this message until the morning. Technology that is always there. Even in your sleep. I read it obviously, and she basically told me, yeah, it’s disappointing you lost the shirt but don’t worry, it could have been worse (among other words of comfort). Truth. I fell back asleep.
Then, around 3:30am I woke up again. Sweating. I had turned the air conditioning down in my bedroom when I first got home, because though it was at 78 degrees F, that was about 5 degrees colder than our air con-free apartment got, on average (not including the last few weeks when winter set in). So when I woke, it was about 85 degrees in my room, and the ceiling fan was turned off. I jumped up and turned the fan on. Better. Then, Lindsey’s message flashed in my mind. “It could have been worse.”
Shit. I scrambled around through all my drawers tossing t-shirts around. Where was my ‘Sweet As’ shirt the three of us got in New Zealand? Shitshit. Think. Then I thought laundry room. I started digging through a load of wet white’s sitting in the washer. There. I grabbed the damp shirt, so relieved, and then collapsed to the floor, crying, wiping my eyes on the wet fabric. Crying. Over a shirt? Well, no, not really. Just. Over everything.
And that was the first time I cried upon return from studying abroad.