“Leave me alone!
Don’t leave me alone!”
– Twenty One Pilots, Kitchen Sink
It’s been two weeks since I got off a plane at LAX and walked across the arrival tunnel of the Los Angeles airport.
A handful of passengers chattered about how excited they were to “set foot on American soil” again after 11 months of international travel. I was too busy wondering at exactly what point the airport carpet stopped representing “foreign soil” and began representing this sacred “American soil” being spoken of, given that no soil existed inside the Californian airport (and probably none outside, either).
I strode across the terminal doorway, the sounds and sights of English restaurants washing over my senses with little fanfare. The “G” on the sign for T.G.I. Friday’s flickered on and off, stuttering and tired – like me. A worker waved me to a long line of international arrivals, and the man stamping my passport smiled patiently as he asked, “So, where’re you coming from?”
“Vietnam,” I replied at length, mentally shuffling through my last 48 hours to produce the correct location.
He smiled again, passing my weathered blue booklet under the smudged glass. “Welcome home. Next!”
This might be a really weird analogy – but have you ever seen one of those Lifetime movies where a character has a major organ anonymously gifted to them by a deceased donor, and then can’t shake the feeling of deja vu?
(Maybe a bit of a stretch…)
The way I’ve felt since being home – it’s just like that. Dizzy. Disoriented. That I’ve just woken up from the blur that was the World Race, and it now mainly resides on the fridges of my psyche, choosing the most awkward and unsuspecting moments to crash back into my consciousness with the reminder that, HEY. I happened!!!
The first week of being home felt like being strapped onto a roller coaster going 120 miles-per-hour. And, dang, man. I hate roller coasters.
At every turn, just when I’d be brave enough to open my eyes again and spit the bugs out of my teeth, I was plunged back into a high-speed corkscrew, metaphorically puking my guts out (and then apologising for it).
Events, reunions, laundry machines, and literally every emotion imaginable.
There were moments I was so happy I thought I’d die, and a few moments I actually wanted to just die.
And in the mix of jet lag, visitations, car rides and re-learning how to use a microwave, I think I sort of just…went into survival mode.
While everything that I wanted and missed was available to me again, I responded by running from it. My first six days back, I wore a variation of the same outfit six times, completely forgot to shower, and ate mostly leftovers. And while I was dying to just lock myself in my room or spend the day in the woods, off the grid, I had everyone I loved trying to track me down and hold me close.
Something I didn’t expect about re-entry at ALL is that it’s a two-way thing. I’m getting back after a year away, sure. I’d be spending time catching up with and soaking in all my loved ones. I knew as much.
What I was blindsided by was the adjustment process everyone around me would go through, also.
My enthusiasm for spending time with my family and friends was outmatched only by their enthusiasm. And after two weeks of intimate coffee dates, mid-day brunches, sleepovers, glasses of wine and a tri-state road trip, I came to one conclusion:
I am more loved than I ever knew.
I’m also feeling guiltier than ever for asking to spend time alone.
Every night last week, I laid in bed being wracked with guilt for every little moment that day when I had felt overwhelmed or annoyed.
I really rushed her through that sentence, I shouldn’t have done that.
He asked if I’d stay longer, and I decided to leave early.
Could she tell I was frustrated when she kept quizzing me about my year? That was so uncool of me.
Eventually – I swear this is true – I’d get up and crack my bedroom door a little, as if the act of creating an opening to my room somehow atoned for the space I’d attempted to put between me and the world that day.
Leave me alone!
Don’t leave me alone!
To be horribly honest with you guys – the mere thought of sitting down to write something has been giving me that same foggy feeling as being chased in a dream. Like, you know you should probably get your butt in motion and get going in any direction, but your body feels like lead and, whadaya know, you’re standing in three feet of wet cement.
Even writing this blog has me feeling like a bit of a failure. I spent my last month planning and designing a new website, full of features and categories and stories. I even had a logo made.
And yet – it’s not time yet.
It will happen, I’ll make sure of it.
But it’s not time yet.
So I’m back. Back on this blog, back inviting you to journey with me all over again. Only this time, the journey isn’t a multi-continent, missional-minded backpacking journey.
The journey this go-around is more learning how to live every-day life, walking in the freedom I received on the Race.
It’s allowing myself to rest without shame.
It’s maneuvering through the next five weeks of life in Michigan before the next chapter in Georgia begins.
Many more stories are to come.
As always – you’re invited to come along for the ride.
With love,
Kayla
