crying at airports

It was an unassuming day. A normal one. There was the standard traffic on the roads. People were going to work. Others, to the beach. But, me? I was on the escalator steps at the airport back home waving goodbye to my parents. I had been excited to leave. But, that August morning, I think it hit me- I will be leaving a part of myself behind. And- I voluntarily left it. At the time, it felt right. 

It had been a year. And, I was back home for two months the summer after. I was transitioning between countries again. In those weeks- something in the universe had shifted. For once, I felt loved: I felt wanted. I felt connected to the islands. Everything was calm; everyone was agreeable in those eight weeks. My hair got bleached from too much sun. We were at the Bay, one day- watching the stars falling from the sky. One, then two- then three. And finally, we lost count. The cool evening breeze whistled on the water. The baby turtles were hatching. The sand shifted beneath us every time one of us roared with laughter. It was the perfect night. And, at some point, it was 2am. I had a flight to catch at 2pm. My feet dragged as they approached the security gates that afternoon. But, I left again- to kill myself chasing an empty dream. This vanity project I now call my life. 

Then, it was October. I had been contemplating my place in the universe at Le Lavandou- specifically. It must have been three months into my move and I had already escaped. When the trip ended- when I had to leave the sea behind again- I was sunburnt and fighting back the fatigue at the departures gate in Marseille. The flight before mine was heading to the islands. There it was- a standard Ryanair aircraft with a small, inconspicuous red and white flag painted on the side of it. It felt strange to not board that flight. Instinctively, I kept following the plane until it faded into the horizon. My cheeks were wet. 

One Friday in June- it was in Luxembourg. My best friend was moving away. She cried. I cried. I could barely see her through my tears as she queued for security. She kept waving until I turned the corner to leave. We were out of sight from each other. She texted later: "I can't stop crying. I miss you." And, often- I had felt like my path here, like hers, ran out of stones to tread on. I took the tram back to the apartment that morning and, I felt it: the loss of my last genuine connection in the city. 

And now- I actually cannot remember the last time things felt normal. 

My mentor recently told me that I "will get past this". It's always the same mantra: "that one, she's a fighter". Although, what's the point of fighting a battle I've already lost? I was told that I cannot resign myself to the belief that the journey is over- that I have "to hope that it will be fine". But it's no longer about what I'm fighting for, it's become more about what I'm fighting against. 

Assimilating- it was the most difficult part. My culture is rare. Influenced by everyone, yet- part of half a million unique. I do not have my own community to lean on- or a safe language to speak in person when I feel ostracised. I’ve never known loneliness like I know it now. I’m surrounded by people. Yet, they all feel so temporary. I’m tired of keeping my mouth shut; of submitting. “Who cares?” is a phrase I’ve heard often when I share something about the islands. About myself. And, the infamous- “Oh, you can only speak English?” I’m tired of being met by an eye-roll- a cold shoulder. I'm tired of pretending that I didn't notice that the country is soulless- that I'm just another puppet wearing a suit. Exhausting work this- of constantly being called exotic: not being seen as a person but rather, as a conquest. I am being harvested in their memory- like some exotic animal in a cage. I'm not much of an actress. But, my performance here has been extraordinary. I call this act- "a portrait of a clown parading around as a finance bro". 

Hope is a grand thing of fiction. And, I clearly remember telling my mentor: "Even Napoleon couldn't conquer Russia". 

Then- on a Saturday night in Bunde- I was smoking outside with a friend in her garden. Her dogs were at our feet- one of them was drooling on my socks. She took my hands in hers and said: "You have to stop running away." She was right, of course. I ran away from the implications of a failed five year relationship, a dysfunctional family dynamic, and the reality that as an only child the responsibility of my family’s aging falls onto my shoulders. I became the very thing I thought I wouldn't become- the girl who runs away from herself. Someone- they said that I live an interesting life. But, lately, I always seem to find myself in one of three places- an airport, a train station or a bus station. Always waiting to embark somewhere and, perhaps, hoping for something better than this. I moved three times- in three years. 

And- I'm anticipating a fourth. Is my life a loop of the same constants? My roommate often catches me skulking around in the dark. "Are you happy about going home?" Well- I’m leaving the fantasy behind. A part of me feels like a failure. Another part of me is relieved. There is a certain freedom in this loss- in finally dying in the dream. My heart is weary. My mind is inflamed with anxieties. Will home accept me as I am? Will home regress me to how I was before? Who I am hated who I was there. I don't recognise myself in that person anymore.

Yesterday- I was on a bus to Bergamo Airport. When I was bored at the duty free- browsing through perfumes I presently cannot afford- this bittersweet feeling overcame me: it was probably the last time I would ever need to catch a plane to this country. For almost two years, I was boarding planes to a country that never felt like home. My paranoid premonition had already whispered this to me, way back when- that I wasn't to be too long for this place. 

My friend, she said: "Selfishly, I don't want you to leave. My life without you close by will feel small again." And, I already know what's about to happen next month- I'm going to cry at the airport in Luxembourg. Because, the girl she knows, well- she didn't run away to go back home the same. Although- I still feel unresolved.