I don\’t want to go to Australia unless it is absolutely certain that I won\’t have to come back here. And it\’s not certain, and won\’t be until spring or summer, and if there\’s anything that makes me incredibly uncomfortable, it is uncertainty.
If there\’s anything that makes me panic, it is not being allowed to make important decisions about my own life, unless I choose to run away.
Given the current situation, suffice to say that I\’m driving myself crazy with what-ifs, second guesses, and impulses to cut and run as fast as possible to Palm Beach, Chicago, or Pittsburgh, hopefully to never return to this wretched city again. It\’s not the city I hate, though: it\’s my total lack of involvement due to feeling like I\’m too small of a pebble to make any possible ripple in this cesspool of a frozen swamp.
If I didn\’t have to deal with people, if I didn\’t crave some small modicum of personal interaction, and if I wasn\’t so constantly and consistently fucking poorsick, this would be my favorite place in the world. As it stands, this just feels like a life sentence in a minimum security white-collar facility with no visitors in sight, let alone a conjugal visit.
I don\’t want to be rescued, I just want someone to hold my hand for once in a few years and reassure me that it\’s normal to feel stressed in this situation, that everything is going to be okay, that I have open ears listening if I need to talk — not that they\’re really open, and not that I\’d actually talk (converse about my feelings in person? you must have mistaken me for a girl), but the offer, which is truly just a token of friendship and nothing more, is what really counts. But I might as well be invisible for all the difference it seems to make these days. \”Hello, hello, hello, are you there? Agent Relaxed to space control, come in. Space control? Hello? Hey, is this thing on?\” Turns out I\’ve just spent the past six months on mute, and only in the past two or so have I really started to care.