Fear.

There are multitudes of travel diaries, journals, and blogs to be found both on the internet and in print. Any country you can think of, the odds are, you’ll find something on traveling there. Generally, the run of the mill travel testimonial begins with something about how aimless the person felt. Then they might go into the ‘epiphany’ stage where the light bulb clicks on and they decide to embark on the chosen adventure. From there they might move on to the difficulties the writer faced while coping with the language and culture barriers in their host country. Usually, everything is neatly tied off with the ever vague “experience of a life time” and “they-all-lived-happily-ever-after” tacked on as conclusion.
From my experience so far, none of these stories seem to start at the beginning. And by beginning, I don’t mean the first moment you step on foreign soil and are hit by a tidal wave of alienation that leaves you both temporarily shell shocked and the homesickness starts to take root. I mean before all of that: the planning process and the period where you begin to adjust to the idea of moving. What none of these testimonials seem to cover is the fear. Because trust me when I say, the terror can hit you long before you get near an airport.

The first time I moved overseas by myself, I was studying abroad at the University of East Anglia in Norwich, England. But the two things I had going for me, were that I A) already spoke the language fluently, and B) my mother and little brother were coming along to help me move. When you’re just barely 20 years old, you’re still at the age where nothing is too daunting as long as your mother is with you. She did all the flight and hotel arrangements so I was really just along for the ride, so to speak. The reality of the situation didn’t sink in until the moment the taxi carrying my mom and disappeared around the corner for the last time. I wanted to run after the car, to catch them before they disappeared entirely. It was just nearing dusk, when the shadows creep into the final untouched corners of the room and all of a sudden it hits you that you’ve been sitting in the dark all that time. I stood in the gloom, chilled by the house’s derelict dampness, staring at my surroundings. My roommates wouldn’t be arriving from Spain for another two weeks and I was unaccustomed to the muted sound of British suburbs.
I cried a lot those first few weeks. I was sure I had made the wrong decision and I wanted my mother to come back and take me home. I had traveled before that and had even lived in Okinawa, Japan. But I had been with my family then.

This time around the fear and uncertainty started a lot sooner. It could have something to do with the fact that I plan to go for longer than just 10 months and some change. I’ve often said I see myself teaching like this for the next five years. And maybe it also has something to do with having to leave behind the two things I love most in the world which I didn’t have last time. The first is named Totoro and looks an awful lot like a baby seal. I’m fairly certain he weighs the same as one anyway. And yes, he is a cat. But no, that doesn’t change how much I love him. I could never love him any less than a mother loves her natural born child. The fact that he’s furry, made of blubber, and can’t say the words ‘I love you’ or even ‘I hate you’ makes no difference. I would still jump in front of a bus to save him. The second thing I am struggling with leaving behind is my best friend and older sister, Sarah. Yes for those of you who can count, I did have her the first time around, but it’s a long story and rather personal. She and Totoro mean more to me than anything in this world—though Sarah, I’m sorry, but I’m not jumping in front of a bus for you. It’s not that I don’t love you, it’s just that if you’re frolicking about the middle of the road, you probably deserve to break a leg and a few ribs–just sayin’. Still love you lots, though!

I have more to lose this time. Farther to fall. And it sounds a lot more permanent than going on a jaunt to England and France did. It’s the ‘Breaking of the Fellowship’ so to speak. My dad keeps going on about me leaving the nest for good, and I kept arguing this fact. It wasn’t until recently that I realized why. It’s a break from everything I have ever known. Growing up, being officially on my own, with no one to bail me out if I screw up. No mother to bandage my knee if I fall, and no father to preach at me about why scary movies shouldn’t be allowed in his house, but then still allowing me to sleep on the floor next to his side of the bed after a nightmare. Even at 24, the idea of being an adult—a real adult—terrifies me.

The last month in particular has been extremely difficult for me. It’s all the ‘what if’s’ and ‘what am I giving up’s’ that are making me hesitate. What if I didn’t go—would it make that guy want to be with me again? If I stayed, would this be the time that I finally felt like I belonged and had friends? Am I really ready to be on my own? Should I really give up this job when I’m starting to move up the ladder? Each question has made me doubt everything I thought I knew about myself and about what I wanted. Did I plan this trip just because I was bored and needed something to do? Do I really want to do this?

I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. The ‘what if’s’ will always be with me. It’s not too late; I don’t have to go if I don’t want to. But I will. The fear is natural. It’s a part of living and without it we’d be hollow—or worse, boring! I will cry a lot between now and the day I leave for Cambodia. I will probably also cry once I’m there, and then again when I move into my apartment in China. I will miss my Puss-Puss (yes I know it’s a bizarre nickname, but suck it up, he’s a cat!) and my best friend. I will miss my parents and my childhood. I might even miss the heartache I brought upon myself whilst in Kentucky. And that’s OK.