And it's weird.
Very, very weird.
I've been back in the U.S. since October 1st, exactly one year after leaving. I made a quick detour to visit the family in Pennsylvania and then, a week and half later, resumed life as "usual" in Brooklyn. Went back to the same apartment, one of the same jobs, and have been trying to get back to my same life. But it's not working.
I suppose it's no big secret to anyone that I haven't been the happiest in the past two months. It's a little combination of a lot of different things. Missing friends in the UK and trying to reestablish friendships in the U.S. that have grown apart. Staggering student debt coupled with paychecks that don't come close to keeping up. Hugely long work days, at two bordering-on-full-time jobs. And always, a crushing fear that my life will never, ever feel as satisfying as it did last year. During my Gap Year.
In Europe, it's very common for kids to take a year off between high school and college. This "gap year" is used for travelling, experimenting and general adventuring. It's a rite of passage between 17 and 18, sort of paving the way to becoming a grown-up and making the transition as fun as humanly possible. It's a lovely concept, and one that is sorely lacking in our American "hurry up" style of living. In a lot of ways, last year was my gap year. But, not quite.
See, there's a big difference between taking a gap year at 17, and doing it at 28. at 17, all of those adventures feel like firsts. Beginnings. The start of something wildly awesome. When you're 28, those same adventures feel a little more like once in a lifetimes. And they serve as an intermission between the stress of the few years prior, and the uncertainty of the rest of one's life. In the academic sense, my year in London is a gap year, but as the eponymous Tube announcers like to remind us, mind the gap... it's tricky to navigate.
In a lot of ways, I should be very happy now. I earned my Master's Degree with Distinction from a UK institution. I've published several different essays in the past two months, have presented work at one conference, and been inciting to be a panelist at another in a few months. I'm in love with a terrific guy. My family is healthy and supportive and well. All in all, everything outside of me is perfect. It's just everything inside of me that is rebelling. Big time.
I'm prone to anxiety and fits of melancholy as it is, as high-strung and Victorian as that sounds, but this has been a particularly bitter few months. There's this almost hysterical kind of sadness that sets in nearly everyday, in which I start to tell myself that no year will ever afford me as much artistic freedom, as much space for professional growth, as much job satisfaction as a year that I have already lived. As a goal-oriented, always jumping for the next thing, kind of person, this is maddening. And, to put it simply, depressing.
I had amazing experiences in Europe. Travelling, meeting people, performing in different countries... normal, awesome gap year components. But I also stole a year away from American adulthood. In my stolen days, I made art. Full-time. With incredible people. And, most importantly, I made art in an environment where art was important. Never once did the words "would you like fries with that" have to pass my lips. Life revolved around studio time, museum visits, artist talks, critiques. The British library and I became BFFs. I filled 11 journals with writing, serving as fodder for an art practice that I didn't know I had. If life is a donut, then last year, I filled that bad-boy with the warmest, most delicious, gooey, gourmet artistic filling I have ever tasted. And dammit if now, I don't want eat anything but donuts. Ever again.
Since i've been back in the States though, financial contraints have required me to go on a no-sugar diet. No sweets, no extra calories, and definitely no donuts. If you're following my now-laborious metaphor, you understand that I am craving art like Chris Farley as a Gap Girl.... I'M STARVING.
Of course, this leads to a shaky emotional state for your narrator. I try to give myself a talking-to when the panicky Jane Austen's set in, and sometimes, it works. I can head it off by telling myself that this is just a phase. That I won't always have to work two jobs just so I can home and work my real job. I assure myself that someday soon, I'll just be happy. And I will finally, finally, just let myself be content... an elusive feeling upon which my elusive fantasies are built.
Most of the time though, I resist my own efforts at soft-kittying myself. Instead, I sit in the bathroom, and I cry. I keep a travel eyeliner in my pocket at all times to destroy the evidence before I go back to life as "usual." It's a weird kind of sad, growing not out of an immediate stimulus, but instead a deeper, more profoundly odd place, a fear that the gap between me and my gap year will become a chasm. I know I can't live the last 365 days over again, and I'm strangely okay with that. I just don't ever want to get to a point where I forget WHY I did, and why it was worth it. That's the gap I need to mind, to keep everything I have worked for alive.
It's time... Time to make the donuts!
