I light a candle as I sit down to write this--the first post I've written in over a month. And though I shall not name the person to whom this post is dedicated, simply calling him "M," I will say that I write this as a prayer or my attempt to give solace to him, the story is written and the candle is lit for him.
When I came home from Paris in January of 2007, I was devastated and my nerves were shot. Up until this point I had suffered no real heartbreak, but this undid me. Every dream I had ever had had previously been attainable; success in school was guaranteed as long as I tried, which I did. High marks and praise from teachers followed, as did acceptance into prestigious, rigorous universities. Becoming a competent equestrienne only depended on my natural skill, my practice and observation of horses and trainers' techniques....you get the point. As long as I tried, applied myself, and found interest in the thing which I wanted to accomplish, they were mine.
Not so with Paris. Since middle school, my dream was to study abroad, to learn a beautiful language and speak it fluently. I wanted to live abroad, in France or Italy, experience the beauty and the differences of those cultures. And so, I found myself as a sophomore in college, being accepted into a program for study abroad which would incorporate my scholarship money and allow me to attend classes at places like the Sorbonne in Paris for the spring.
I was enthusiastic about the upcoming trip. I was so excited and I did everything right; I was the young woman who read up on the Parisian culture, who studied maps so I knew exactly where I'd be living and studying upon getting to Paris. I had maps, I reviewed the transit system and made numerous copies of my passport, visa, identification and medication information--one for me, one for my parents, one for the school center and one for my luggage. I prepared the most anyone could.
And then I got there and the roiling anxiety that had been brewing in my belly for weeks and months came to a boil. I got to Paris, went to my host family's home and the anxiety pot was knocked off the stove, anxiety spilling everywhere. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat (being in Paris, something I looked forward to), I couldn't laugh, I couldn't concentrate. I had never felt so alone in my entire life. I was completely isolated, away from everything that meant something to me---my parents, my animals (Aussie Pup was no more than three months old), my friends, my aunt, American entertainment and television. So consumed with nervous energy I stalked the city crying, spending countless hours haunting Le Metro, walking into the evening hours, not stopping for water or food, doing nothing but walking, because walking was the only thing keeping me from insanity.
I was in nine different types of pain, and I could do nothing but go home, because I felt that if I didn't go back home to the US as soon as possible, I was going back to the US in a body bag.
And so, ten days after going to Paris, right before the semester began, I returned home, to a family that was accepting and loving and not ashamed of me. In fact, it was I who was ashamed of myself. I was the one who had failed me; for the first time in my life, I could not accomplish something I wanted, I couldn't succeed. I was crushed and although this happened more than two years ago, I am still very tethered to the pain. It has colored my world ever since, and since then, it has become a habit of mine to see a situation turn out in negative ways instead of the optimistic Carolyn, who once found it so easy to believe that only the best in life could happen. Fear crept into my world; fear of depression, fear of the dying of dreams, fear of loss and isolation. "The Fear," as Hunter S. Thompson wrote in his Las Vegas-set novel is still with me.
I write this for one main reason: to share my experience with someone who is feeling something similar. He chose a path in life which he thought would give him experience and direction and after six months, he came back home. When I came home, it was to a family who loved me, who did their best to make me feel better, who were easier on me than I was on myself, and I had the ability to speak to a counselor who was supportive as well.
Unlike me, M is not so lucky. Since I don't know him extensively, I can only imagine what his heart is feeling and his mind is thinking. He's handsome, highly intelligent and cultured, possessing a depth of emotion I think many young people (in particular, men) may lack. One more thing has not worked for him, and he has returned to a less than understanding, gentle, accepting household. I believe he feels lost, and having felt like that in the past, I know it hurts.
I want to share this story with him in some small way. I want him to know that though our experiences were different, they were similar in many ways as well, and that he's not alone in feeling as he does. The truth is, to some extent, I think everyone in their twenties are lost. I know I am. And if he's feeling lost, which I think he is, I want him to know it's okay, because I'm there too, and so are many people. I want him to know that as shitty as right now feels, one day it won't feel like this, and he'll look back at this as a dark time that taught him something about life. He'll recover, and he'll figure out life. It just won't happen tomorrow.
I also want him to be easy on himself. Not only has he gone through something hard, but he returned to less-than sympathetic conditions of family and household, and the fact that he's still alive, walking, eating and functioning is something to be tremendously proud of. It is a sign of real inner strength and my fear is that with all of his modesty and self deprecation, he doesn't see that strength in himself.
Someone who was close to me and helped me through senior year, once told me that my fear of getting depressed in the future was a reliable one---in that, most likely I would experience severe depression somewhere down the road. But she said, and I'll never forget this as long as I live, that I had a sense of magic in me, a passionate fire and that, this magic would be enough to pull me through every time. If I didn't believe that today, she said, she would hold the knowledge for me and when I was ready to believe what she knew as fact, she would hand it to me and let me hold it for myself.
I don't know M very well. But he means an incredible amount to someone I love dearly, and through extension, I care about M as well. I will do my part to hold his strength in my hands, so that when he doesn't see it, I can show him. And one day, as the pain eases and drops from sight I will give it to him, so he can hold his own power in his hands.
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