I have two weeks left here, trapped in this city, with my life coded out in coloured time-tables, handed out every other Sunday afternoon.
I can’t tell how much of it is that I’m not ready to be here, in this country, trying to make my life work, or if it’s just this schedule, these expectations, this program, that’s making me crazy.
The other day I mentioned that I hate kids. Someone said “you may have picked the wrong profession.” I said “yes.”
They say “Why did you come here?” and I say “I don’t remember”, because I’m not willing to say “I was running away.”, because I don’t want to talk about it. I know better than that. That’s not how to make good choices.
I say “I’m a terrible student.” and they ask “Why?” and I don’t want to talk about it. (Or maybe I don’t want to think about it. Maybe I don’t want to answer that question yet.)
I have two weeks. I have to scrape through two more weeks. Then I’m getting out of here.
I just don’t know where that means yet.
I can’t keep running away from things. I need to be moving *to* things.
So, all I have to do is figure out how to get through this fortnight, and then also how I’m going to be *improving my life* after that.
Easy enough, eh?