…where she stops, nobody knows.
Years ago, when I was far more sane (or at least had some form of a grip on reality so as to fake an ounce of sanity), and my hair colour changed monthly from pink to blue to rainbow to green to blonde and right back round, a friend said to me: “You change ideas like you change the colour of your hair.”
I have quite literally just looped the globe in the past year. Some might see this as a momentous feat – a challenge, perhaps, that an intensely adventurous and ferociously awesome traveler might set for themselves. This was not the case for me.
No, I did not wake up on January 1st, 2015, and think to myself, “This year, this year, is the one I go round the entire bloody PLANET,” while cackling from sort of arm chair and stroking a cat. In fact, on January 1st, 2015, I woke up extremely hungover, in a frantic panic to pack up the tent RIGHT FUCKING NOW because the alarm had failed, and the man lying next to me and I were about to miss our fucking bus.
We packed up as fast as we could, and slipped away into the early morning, my chance to say farewell to new friends forgone in favour of chasing a man.
A week later he was fucking gone. GONE. So, being a person of extreme passion (and sometimes hope – either complete hopefulness or utter hopelessness, but never in between), I wound up following him.
Let’s skip ahead a couple of months, so as to not bore you with the mundane details.
My heart was shattered into a billion little pieces that even the most masterful of puzzle makers could not put back together.
Let’s face it: I was never the most sane of human beings. I didn’t exactly live my life in a typical way prior to this point. I mean, I’d already been on the road for two years at that stage, and most of the time I lived in a tent and moved around by way of my handy dandy thumb. But it seems that this event, well, it sorta knocked a few extra screws loose.
I fled to Florida, where I could stay with my aunt and attempt to rewire my ridiculously messed up brain. If being a nomad, gallivanting the world alone (read: lonely as hell), and oftentimes battling the inner demons modern medicine likes to call depression and anxiety wasn’t enough, I now had a broken heart filled with betrayal and questions that would never receive their answers.
You could say I was right fucked up.
Three months into my stay in Florida, my nomadic soul cried in desperation, begging me to leave once more. So I went to Europe, because… well, just because it was somewhere else. After a few months hitchhiking around, my perpetually unsatisfied self hopped on a plane to Asia. Cause… somewhere else.
Yet as the year progressed, something seemingly impossible when combined with a nomadic soul began to happen: I began craving roots. I started despising the road. I wanted comfort and familiarity and some god damn friends to call up on a Tuesday night for beers (come on, no traveler, sane or otherwise, believes in real weekends).
And so these two clashing sides of my being battled. The cry for a home brought me down (but not to earth), while the pull from my undoubtedly nomadic soul kept me going, going, going.
So I looped the god damn world, and I didn’t really do very much as I did it. I just sorta… was.
And I remain in this state of merely being.
My passion for travel has diminished, yet my ability to remain in one place, sedentary, unmoving, with a fucking LEASE… I’m still not capable of that shit. It just goes against who I am deep down (whether I’m fond of being that human or not).
So what does one DO?
I’ve got no conclusion for you here. Seriously. There’s no story of how I overcame my insane brain. No mountains conquered over here, I’m afraid. Nope, just a story of a girl with an extremely unbalanced brain, wandering aimlessly in the hopes of finding something worthy of searching for.
Alas, while the defeat of Brainland seems not to be an imminent event, what the fuck can you do but follow that hopeless (hopeful?) gut instinct inside?
And so, after one year of looping the world, running away from my own thoughts and past, I am returning to Mexico. I don’t know if I’ll continue my hitch to Patagonia (remember? I was hitchhiking to Patagonia. It was gonna be epic. But then there was that whole heart splattering incident.) I just know that I’ve got to return there.
Part of me is merely returning to be in a conveniently located place with warmth and cheapness, and a language I can at least partially grasp (Danie’s chances of learning an Asian language: zero). Another part simply loves Mexico, despite the many memories I’d gladly allow someone to insert a giant laser beam into my brain to remove, should such a procedure exist.
Then there’s this tiny piece within that’s grasping on to the idea that maybe, just maybe, by returning to the land that caused me to spiral out of control (okay, I was never really in control to begin with, but to all who know me well, I think we can safely assert that I was at least the tiniest bit more in control prior to the adventure/shit show that was my last time in Mexico).
Truth be told, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life, or my day, or my anything. I don’t know why I move. I don’t have any plans. I have no idea what my life will look like in two weeks or two months.
So I’m just going to keep on doing and see what happens, because sometimes your only option is to just be.