empathy burnout

It was only at twenty four that I bothered to learn how to ride a bicycle. 

After I moved away, I rode it everywhere. The wheels rattled as they zipped through the cobbled streets. I got something called "bike rash". In the evenings- it was slow walks along the Maas. I would sit on the grass and watch clouds drift slowly across the sky. There, I could hear the quiet. I could breathe the air without damaging my lungs. I fell in love in a foreign language. In between lectures- it was watching newborn ducklings play in the pond next to the library. During countryside escapes- I ran my hands through lavender bushes until the scent sept into the fibres of my clothes. My mind was rarely cluttered in those days. 

Though, later, came the faster rhythm of working life in yet another country. It is things that seem mundane to many that I miss the most- taking the tram, that surprising bout of snow on an unassuming November afternoon. Real seasons- I lived through the slow procession of autumn into winter, the hesitant unfolding of spring and then, the burst into summer. And, the rain- the petrichor. I loved watching droplets gather on leaves and fall quietly to the ground as I walked through the park. Each autumn, they turned amber and rust- and drifted slowly to the ground. Branches naked by winter. I would wait, patiently, for their return to colour in the spring.  And with each passing month, parts of the person I had once been quietly slipped away.

Next to my neighbourhood- there was a nearby cemetery. I would often walk through there- the ennui of the everyday had gotten to me. Often, I would find myself doing random things like this. Out of boredom. Out of spite. And, in between the elaborate tombstones, I would pause- studying them. Florentine marble imported even for the dead. Then, I got obsessed with this particular willow tree. I was often late to work. I never truly explained the real reason for my tardiness to anyone. The reason was rather silly: I would get distracted with how the willow's locks swayed with the morning calm. Appreciating her was a novelty to me. She didn't seem to belong there. 

And now- the lives of the people who stayed behind feel strangely small. Not small in value- but horizon. It's the effect of a familiar insularity of a small community: of a world bound by sea, where hills slowly become mountains simply because nothing larger intrudes to put them into perspective. For my family and many of my friends, this is all they know. 

There's, sometimes, a quiet unease emanating from those around me. I suspect I make people uncomfortable. Or maybe, it's all in my head. But, honestly, time has always told- what I overthink is hardly ever untrue. I suppose, inside- I always feel like the outsider. My stories leave an unfamiliar taste on their tongues. They often sit- observe. Someone from a past life recently resurfaced- and, it seemed his romantic interest in me was coupled with envy. I sat across from him that night, and wondered whether the wine he sipped was made from sour grapes. Me, personally? Well, I love a fresh Chardonnay. It was bizarre. 

I often hear people complain about the state of our country. But that's a national hobby. They say it's suffocating to be here. And, here- people are upset when it rains. The grey bothers them. My body had grown accustomed to weeks without seeing any hue of blue- but yes, it bothered me, too. I complained about it, too. But- when it does not rain, though- my people complain about the drought. When the heat arrives, they complain about the sweat dripping down their foreheads. When the air cools, they complain about the humidity hurting their bones. They also complain about how they dream of leaving. 

And sometimes, perhaps too bluntly, I ask them why they never did.

Someone- with what I suspect was a hint of condescension- said that they simply had too many ties here. Family. Friends. Work. Roots that run too deep to pull from the soil. Then, I suppose- I suppose my life is for rent. Perhaps, I have nothing to live for here. These snippets of conversations visit me when I'm quiet- when memory has too much room to wander. People are entitled to their justifications. The stories we tell ourselves often become the only way we can live comfortably with our choices. I took the risk of leaving. Whether these last three years were a reward or merely a detour is something time will decide.

It's difficult to explain what I went through to those who never left. They do attempt to translate my experiences into their own local frustrations. But, sometimes, they quietly decide that I have become snobbish. What happened to just listening? There are certain things only other returned expats would understand- what it feels like to build a life somewhere foreign and suddenly leave it. I was asked why- and I made up an answer. I blamed my family. But, really- it was because of illness. 

I find myself speaking less and less of my time away. I grieve in silence. I was away long enough to see my home clearly again- to suddenly appreciate cycles that once felt ordinary. Somehow, I learned to appreciate the beauty of its climate. But, I guess, they will never appreciate something unless they're deprived of it. Like I was. 

But there are also small things that I miss now. 

The rickety wooden staircase that creaked beneath my feet as I climbed toward my apartment. The cheap beer which bloated me so bad that I almost always had to unbotton my trousers. The quiet amusement of sitting on the tram and inventing stories about the strangers seated beside me. I miss the man who I thought was my soulmate. I miss the people who taught me how to live in the present instead of drowning in details. I miss the friends who made foreign places feel like home. I miss sitting with them in a small bistro overlooking the old city resting in its valley, talking about nothing and everything, all at once.

Now- I'm south. I returned to discover that I still feel emotionally displaced- untethered from both the place I left and the place I returned to. I am stuck between romanticising the place that broke me and the home that seduced me back on a false premise. And, perhaps this is what the emotional exhaustion I was warned about feels like. Over these last years, I gave too much of myself- to friendships, to love, to departures, to goodbyes. There is very little left in reserve. 

The truth, when it arrives, is disarmingly simple: the world does not stop spinning for anyone. Life moves forward whether we are ready for it or not. I will not sit on my own grievances to suit another's convenience. So, I decided- I will try my best to continue living in the moment. And, to continue choosing myself. But often, it feels pointless- and mostly, I want it all to end.