While I’m not returning directly to the American city I lived in previous to my venture in Southeast Asia, I am returning to the country. I’ve been in Southeast Asia for 8 months, and I admit that I’m growing weary of Asia. I’m becoming tired of my inability to discuss concepts other than “Where is the bathroom?” “Do you have vegetarian food?” “How much?” with people. I miss American culture and the English language. As a writer, language is crucial to my way of comprehending the world, my ability to express myself, and the connections I can hold with other people.
When I experience a language barrier for a prolonged period of time, I feel uncomfortably unsettled and unaware of my surroundings and the emotions of others. I left New York because I wanted to experience a part of the world where the privileged didn’t reside. I wanted to learn about Buddhism, structures of other nations, the problems they faced, and meet people who functioned at a much slower, less career-oriented level. I certainly achieved all of my goals. I didn’t expect to permanently reside in Thailand, but I wasn’t sure how long my stay would last.
I’m excited to return to America where I have friends and family, where I can find English books and talk to other writers, where I can eat the foods I’m most comfortable with, and where I do see myself settling. After living out of a hiking backpack for weeks, washing many clothes in various sinks, guessing as to what will arrive when I order my food, and wandering about with large unfolded maps flapping in my face, the idea of joining a food-coop, having a physical address, and a bedroom filled with furniture I actually own is a relief.
I leave Bangkok on Sunday morning and arrive in LA, where I will stay with my brother. I’m not sure how I will react to this city, which I’ve never visited. I don’t think I’ll be able to call the city home, yet it will feel like home in so many ways simply because it is American. I’m contemplating returning to New York afterwards for the sake of finding work, sorting out my belongings, and seeing friends again. When I was abroad, I realized how depressed I was in New York.
For so many years and all through college, I thought New York was the ideal place for me. Its cutting-edge trends, its raging art scene, the glitter and excitement, the variety, and the people: direct, ambitious, intelligent, flirtatious, and hardworking, burned with lights that I envied and adored. Having lived there for 3 years, I realized how the light fades, the glass chips, the diamonds are actually hard plastic. New York suited me during one period of my life. I reflect that upon my move to New York, I was overeager, anxious, impatient, and terribly insecure. By the time I left New York, I was drained by its fast pace and trendy nature. I longed for simplicity and peace. I thought that establishing my career established my identity, which was another reason I moved to New York in the first place.
When I realized that I didn’t care about establishing myself at a company and only wanted to improve my writing, and that I needed to stop fretting over my lack of published work in in various notable zines and the absence of a work-in-progress novel in my repertoire, I no longer felt so comfortable in the glittering city. Which is why I left. I can’t blame New York for everything.
I will always long to compare myself to others, I will always battle anxiety and a desire to achieve a million things instantaneously. However, after residing next to mountains in Thailand and meeting people who never experienced the itch to haul themselves up the career ladder, I do think residing elsewhere has certainly helped me. I’m on the lookout for a new home. It’s been a pattern: I go somewhere that I think is home only to discover that it’s not. At some point, I have to wonder if home is a location or if it is simply my perception and my ability to peacefully function.
