Stranger

I’m not new to this kind of depression that occurs when returning home from being away for a long time. The Big City is no different from how I left it when I decided to sail away for two years in the Caribbean. 

“What do I actually have to show for from this journey?”

All I have is two years worth of travel stories, but lately I almost want to choke myself if I start another conversation with, “I bought a boat no experience.. Solo sailed.... I lived in DR….”. 

When traveling you are surrounded by other traveler’s and it’s common to start the conversation with,  “I am in search of a true self.” In my case, I say something like, “I’m on a journey to uncover the limits of my existence and to see things differently.” which is a perfectly acceptable purpose to have and say to other travelers. However, those sentiments should be accompanied with a warning. 
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Most of the travelers have varying versions of ‘finding oneself’ and those conversations lead to, “I found myself at 4am during a climb up an active volcano.” , “Well, I found myself three times before breakfast.” as if suddenly it became a competition of the best place to find yourself. Everyone becomes a walking self-help testimonial.  The stories that are most laughable are those of missed fights, botched tours, getting lost, paying a bribe, or barely escaping danger. 

The ultimate point is finding what you like and want to continue doing.  If you are lucky enough to find that. 

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Here’s the rub, “F*CK finding yourself!” 

For me, I found myself ultimately seeing things that changed me.  So when I return home and find that, nothing has changed, will not change, or wasn’t even supposed to change.  That is when the depression first starts. The only thing that dulls the pain is when a tell a story that inspires someone.  Others times a refrain from telling a story for feeling like i'm trying to make someone feel bad for not doing something similar.  We all have our own goals and ideas.

As venture around to my old stumping grounds I start to feel like stranger. I attempt to explain things from my new perspective. I attempt to correct all the misinformation, myths, false ideas, warnings, etc .. The resistance is so insurmountable that I start to doubt whether  or not I make any sense and if all that stuff that happened really happened. Even more depressing, wondering if any of it mattered. 

Im so glad that I write in my journal. I know  that I didn’t imagine it and that it mattered. All of it. 

Everything that happened while I traveled was f**king  important, and probably more closely linked to my purpose more than anything that I could’ve done at home. While I traveled I encountered people and situations that completely changed my understanding of the world.

There were times that I felt freer with my kisses, fell in love without fear, unaffected by the impermanence as I and my lovers later parted ways. I learnt how to rely on total strangers to navigate a language barrier in some of the most remote places.  And like most of us who are faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges, we reach for a new understanding of spirituality, philosophy, and the want to detach from unhealthy desires. 

The "truth" of returning home from travel is that everything at home will stay exactly the same. 
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However silly this may seem. I understand the paradox in this matter. No matter how long I'm gone, there will always be a familiarity to the place that initially shaped my life, but I can’t shake the feeling of being a stranger. 

46 days and counting in this strange land.  “What now?”