I am in London, sitting at my desk, staring out the window into the concrete jungle that spreads out miles.
I have been in this city for a few years now, and without revealing too much about my identity (maybe one day I’ll be open about it but now is not the right time) I can say that I work at an office and that it is not the kind of work I’d want to do for the rest of my life.
I grew up feeling like I was a somebody. I know it sounds strange and somewhat self-centered to say that I have had this feeling in my heart my whole life that I was someone special and that I was meant for great things like fame and fortune and public recognition, and as this is my yearning, working as a nobody in an undetermined job (not even a career!) numbs my mind.
I have worked hard for my dreams. I left my home country at a young age, I have traveled the world, and I have started and finished two degrees, both of which gave me excellent skills and advantage in the job market.
Somehow I have not been able to get into a career – mostly because I lack focus and don’t know what it is exactly that I’d wanna do. I have this “all or nothing” attitude of okay, I’ll either be Oprah or I’ll work in a crap job and live a shit life because I’m a nobody. There is no middle ground. And this is what causes a lot of my anxiety and depression.
In any case, I have on occasion done things that have brought me great joy, they have taken my mind off of the numbness that has ruled my existence for most of my life, and I have to say that these experiences have truly made me happy.
After excitement and happiness, it is hard to come back to the real world, but I would never say I regret any of it.
I have lived in Africa and experience watching the sun set behind the pink clouds while sitting on a red hill with a long jog around the villages behind me. I have swam in the Caribbean sea and snorkeled among tropical fish on a coral reef. I have experienced true beauty of nature in Scandinavia by riding Icelandic horses along little footpaths in the dense pine forest during hot summer days when the air smells sweet from ripening fruit and berries.
I am also guilty of escaping when the going gets tough. I fervently move around, never stick to a job, kick people out of my life if we have arguments or disagreements, and I am a commitment-phobe. How I’ve managed to sustain a relationship for a year is a miracle to me as well. Blame my borderline personality disorder, my family background, the abuse, or just plain “this is who I am”, I do need to take breaks if not move continents for good.
And again I am at a place where I want to do it. My soul is itching to go, leave, venture out and have an adventure. Go somewhere tropical, experience lazy days and pure joy.
But my mind says no; how am I going to live? What am I going to do for work? Am I crazy? Regardless, I feel the urge to leave, and I promise you, dear readers, that it won’t be long until I write to say that I am somewhere else than in this dirty old city we call London.