I'm scared of turning 30. I'm scared of what I don't know. I'm scared of having kids, or not having kids. I'm scared of getting married, or not getting married. I'm still scared of making mistakes. I'm scared of not being successful, of never writing a book, of never getting published in The New York Times. I'm scared of regret. I'm scared of getting cancer, becoming weak and frail. I'm scared of dying.Read More
When it comes down to it, I guess I just feel ready and have that gut sense that it's the right time to go back. Does it make me all kinds of emotional? Oh yeah. I've already had several nostalgic crying spells and expect more before I leave. But it's still the right call. I miss the people, I miss this place that was always home before and maybe could be again.Read More
In spring 2013, right around my 28th birthday, I came back to one core desire. I wanted to meet someone with whom I could build something real. What that would look like or how it would happen I wasn't sure. But I wanted it. I was ready.Read More
I'm a freelance writer, but to what end? Presumably the writing I am doing now should be building toward something, should be part of a body of work that can be used to achieve a next goal. But what is that next goal?Read More
It's been a little while since I concluded my series on my year of living in Chiang Mai. I hadn't planned on taking a break from posting on here after I finished that, but it appears to have been a good time for a break. Writing that series helped me get closure on a lot of things that happened during my first 12 months in Thailand, appreciate everything I've had here and cleared some mental space for what's next.
I went into the last full month of the summer somewhat uncertain of what the rest of my year would look like, but knowing I was feeling restless and ready for some changes. Since turning 28 in April, I have noticed an underlying sense of...urgency, perhaps, to figure out what comes next, a feeling that I've entered a new stage of my life.
Birthdays have never freaked me out; I never fretted about turning a year older. After all, another year on the planet seems a cause for great celebration, not despair. But 28 did freak me out. It's close to 30. It's firmly in the late 20s. Suddenly things that I used to put on the mental backburner seemed much more urgent and important: my health and overall well-being and what I was doing (or not doing) to maintain it; my finances; my professional ambitions; long-term goals for a romantic relationship and starting a family.
Earlier this year there was a lot of buzz about Meg Jay's TED Talk on Why 30 is Not the New 20. While watching it, I had a moment of fleeting panic - what if I've wasted my 20s? What if I've gotten everything wrong?
The panic subsided when I evaluated just what I've been doing for the past eight years of my life, and considered the investments I've made in myself. I graduated from college and grad school, gained valuable professional experience working at a newspaper and freelancing for reputable publications, traveled, evaluated long-held biases and embarked on a path of learning about people and the world that has changed my life.
Most importantly, I have invested in self-growth and development, which has changed the way I see myself, solidified my values and laid the groundwork for the types of enriching, supportive, healthy relationships I want to maintain and cultivate.
So all of that is great, and I'm thankful for the experiences I've had up to this point. It's been an incredible ride so far.
But that doesn't mean that there isn't room for growth (isn't there always?) and that it's not worth asking questions about what comes next, where I want to live and travel, whether my priorities are shifting and if so, what are they, where do I want to be focusing my energy going forward.
I still haven't answered all of those questions for myself, but some priorities have become clear. The top priority is my overall health and well-being. Once I started reading seriously about fitness and nutrition, I was alarmed to realize how much of my diet and lack of exercise were likely exacerbating my feelings of anxiety and depression. I won't go into all the gory details here, but suffice it to say that some changes needed to be made.
This is an ongoing journey for me, but an important one, so vital to making real progress in any other area.
I'm not sure what the future of my work life is and for the first time, that excites rather than terrifies me. I love writing and will focus on creating a body of work I'm proud of, though I am eager to learn new skills, such as design, that will allow me to do more professionally and creatively. I'm excited to think beyond my self-imposed constraints of “I'm a writer and that's it; that's all I will ever be” and see where that takes me.
I'm also not sure where I will live next, though I have some ideas in mind and all of them have some great potential benefits. In the meantime, I've continued hanging out in Chiang Mai and have decided to visit America this fall.
It will be the first time I've been back since I moved to South Korea, and I am deliriously thrilled to have booked the trip. For a long time, the prospect of visiting the States seemed daunting for a number of reasons, not the least of which was how much I've changed and how much my relationships with people there have changed.
But I've wanted to go back for a visit for awhile now, and decided that this fall would be the time to do it. The idea had been there for months, and then one night, I found an incredible deal on a flight and took the plunge. I expected some waves of anxiety or a feeling of “What the frell did I just do?!” but to my pleasant surprise, all I felt for the first week after booking the ticket was elated.
The response I got from people when I told them I was coming to visit was so warm and enthusiastic, it was impossible not to get swept up in the moment. I felt totally at peace with the decision, and genuinely happy to plan for the visit.
I fly out a month from today and will be there six weeks. It's a short trip for having been gone such a long time, but I'm going to make the most of it. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, to visiting some of my favorite places in the States and to spending some time in cities I've never visited before.
I planned the trip for October in part because that is my favorite month and I have missed autumn in America something fierce. I'll get to enjoy all the fall colors and the pumpkin and apple treat goodness for the first time in three years. To say I'm looking forward to that would be an understatement.
Oh and the food...I'm already fantasizing about the food.
It will be an emotional trip, I have no doubt. I also think it will be an opportunity for me to reflect on where I want to live next, what I want out of my lifestyle and what I'll do in the coming year. There are some trips that I just know are going to be great opportunities for growth, which adds to the excitement and eager anticipation. This is certainly one of them.
2013 has been interesting so far, with many highs and some lows. But fall has always been my favorite season, and I'm going into this one looking forward to some wonderful things.
As far as Spinning Free goes, I'll be posting more frequently, and am working on moving the blog to a new platform that I think will give it a more elegant, enjoyable look. I hope to have that ready to roll out in a week and look forward to sharing it.
This is the fifth and final post in my Unexpected Year in Thailand series. To read the other posts in the series, click here. It is now exactly one year since I arrived sweaty, tired and elated in Thailand, not knowing that I would spend the next year of my life in Chiang Mai.
Even having looked back and seen my struggles with depression and anxiety during the past year, I find that what I feel more than anything else is gratitude for all I've experienced in these 12 months. Playing in the world's biggest water fight, releasing lanterns at the Yi Peng ceremony, sleeping in a bamboo hut in a hill tribe village in the mountains, volunteering with elephants, hanging out with friends at a (vegetarian) piranha fishing resort, interviewing a world-class chef in Bangkok. The list goes on and I know years from now, I will still treasure those experiences and what they taught me.
But most of all, I will treasure the people with whom I've shared those experiences. I've written a lot about the negatives and how badly I felt before I came to Chiang Mai. But to close out this month of reflection and this month of blog posts about this year in Thailand, I want to talk about the people I've met here and who are so important to me.
Back in September, when I found out my friends Will and Skeeter were planning to come back to Chiang Mai as well, I was stoked. Skeet was heading back to the States in October so I knew he'd only be here a short time (he has since returned to Chiang Mai with his partner - I'm telling you, this place has a way of getting under your skin) but Will was also planning to go back to Beijing. We figured we'd hang out in Chiang Mai for a little while and then head to China, just in time for a bitter cold winter.
But then people started giving us all of these reasons to stay: "You can't miss the Yi Peng festival or Loy Krathong; people come from all over the world for those!" and "The winter months are the best time to be in Thailand; not humid, not rainy, just perfect weather!" (This was quite a selling point for someone like me, who hates the cold.)
The real reasons to stay, it turned out, would be our friends. When I arrived in Thailand last summer on a quest to get my head on straight, I didn't expect that the journey would be aided by other people. I already had good friends in China and the States; I didn't expect or think I needed to make close friends in Thailand. I thought I'd find maybe a few interesting travel companions at best.
I don't believe in God or fate or destiny, but I believe deeply in the power of the unconscious and its intuition for what we need in order to heal ourselves and grow. I needed Thailand. I needed Chiang Mai. I needed a space to break down, really break down, to be afraid, to face my fears, to be sick, to be sad, to grieve. I needed that so much more than I realized, which is something I was unwilling to accept or see clearly until recently.
I needed to allow myself to be happy and appreciate the beauty in the world, too, and to really, fully enjoy being healthy and alive and engaged. And I also really needed friends and love and compassion; I needed to receive those things and to give them. And I had that, in an abundance that humbles me and makes me grateful in ways I'm not sure I’ll ever be able to fully express.
There are so many people I've met in Chiang Mai who have inspired me, impressed me, given me much to think about and been a pleasure to know. But there are a few in particular who I now count among the dearest in my life, and who I hope to know for many years to come.
Will has been my closest friend for several years now, and this whole Chiang Mai experience - the good, the bad, and the outrageous - would certainly have been less exciting and less enriching without him. He's a better friend than even he probably realizes, is one of the most genuine, smart, thoughtful and inspiring people I know, and a fantastic human being.
Ruby, Mika and Hilary - affectionately known as my biscuit sisters - will forever be woven into the fabric of who I am. Ruby, who taught me the meaning of Minnesota nice and who delivers even the harshest truths with love and support; Mika, who inspires me with her willingness to defy conventions and her passion for the oppressed; and Hilary, who I knew was a kindred spirit from our first meeting, when we talked religion, corporate America, writing and a million other things over beers.
There have been so many smart, interesting, passionate, kind women I've met here - Kailyn, who reminded me constantly to be generous and nice simply by so embodying those qualities herself; Sarah, whose effervescent personality and willingness to be unique and embrace the world (not to mention amazing dance skills) made me want to let loose and enjoy life more, too; Alyse, who is friendly, giving and game for a laugh no matter what else is going on; Jules, Laura, Agnes, and so many others who touched my heart and who I'm so glad to know.
Before I came to Chiang Mai, it had been a long time since I had had a close group of girlfriends and here, I was fortunate enough to become friends with a group of women who are all passionate, hilarious and warm. They reminded me of how vital it is to have a community of women you can relate to, cry to, and with whom you can drink copious amounts of wine and just really be yourself - scars, mistakes, dreams and all.
The men I know here are wonderful as well. In contrast to the stereotypes put forward about men's inability to emote and empathize (which I disagree with, by the way), Neil and Rob are both sensitive, compassionate, intelligent, well-read and also hilarious. Neil's earnestness and integrity, and Rob's candor and unique sense of humor make them both so much fun to be around. The romantic relationships between Neil and Mika and Rob and Hilary have taught me a great deal about relationships, and inspired me in their closeness, intimacy, and honesty.
Skeet and his partner, Ally, came back to Chiang Mai later than everyone else, but it has been great having them here, too. I have long been impressed by Skeeter's talent, creativity and passion for music, and his commitment to being a good person and standing up for what he believes is right. Ally continually reminds me to question my own biases, to consider the other side of the story or argument, and to be just in my considerations, an area that remains a challenge for me - but a worthwhile one.
Then there are May and Num, the wonderful people who run the guest house where so many of my friends and I have lived. They have really made Chiang Mai a home and made the place where we live somewhere special.
And there are so many others I haven't mentioned who have made this experience as great as it has been. Together, these people have taught me so much about relationships, honesty, bravery and about the world, and I only hope to be able to return the favor. And they have made me laugh, endlessly, which is such a gift in and of itself. It is a privilege to know each one of them.
A special bond developed among our group and while many have left Thailand to travel to new places and start new chapters, we'll always have Chiang Mai, and the hopeful plans to reunite and be part of each other's lives in another part of the world.
When I stop to think about all of the special occasions, the hangouts, the jokes, the stories, the experiences I have shared with the friends I've met in Chiang Mai, I feel overwhelmed by a sense of love and gratitude.
To commemorate this year in Chiang Mai, I decided to make a short video with some highlights of the time I've spent here. The music is "Safe & Sound" by Capital Cities. I chose this song because while listening to it one day, I thought, This is exactly how I feel about our Chiang Mai crew.
I'm not sure where I'll head after Chiang Mai or when exactly I'll go just yet, but I do know that I will always look back on this time as being among the most special in my life, and will be so grateful to have lived in this special place with such wonderful people.
This is the fourth post in my Unexpected Year in Thailand series. To read the earlier posts, click here. About two months ago, I was talking to a friend about feeling like I was in a transition period in terms of my professional life. I was trying to decide what types of stories I want to be writing, the type of work I want to be doing, and mapping out my goals for the rest of this year and beyond. A few days later, this friend sent me a link to "The Desire Map", a book by Danielle LaPorte.
Admittedly, some might read that title and roll their eyes, writing it off as New Age-y fluff about living your best life. And sure, there are some things in there that don't resonate with me, like aligning your chakras. But there is also a lot I have found quite helpful, not the least of which are suggestions for shifting your perspective from bitterness and negativity to one that brings your outlook into alignment with your desire to be happy and fulfilled.
LaPorte invites readers to identify their Core Desired Feelings, or CDFs. These are what you want to feel regularly in your life and can include everything from happy to sexy to wealthy to inspired - pretty much anything you can think of.
So I considered my own CDFs, and came up with a list that included happy, abundant, safe, debt-free, creative, loved and loving, and a range of other words. But the one that really stood out to me was generosity.
I've always considered myself a reasonably generous person. I enjoy buying gifts for people I love, I like doing things to brighten their day, and am usually happy to help a friend in need, whether that's with money or time or some other type of assistance. One thing I don't ever want to be considered is miserly.
But this past spring and early summer, I started to feel...well, like a miser. Not only when it came to money, but when it came to my time, patience, empathy, compassion. I found myself getting impatient with people, and with myself. And I stressed out more when lending people money, or covering a dinner here and there.
To put this in context, my year got off to a pretty rough financial start. I was robbed on New Year's Day, and had to spend money I had saved to cover my living expenses replacing some of what I had lost.
So that sucked. But it wasn't the end of the world. I knew I'd get back on my feet and that the whole episode would just be a good story.
But getting back on my feet was harder than I thought it would be, and I started to feel badly about myself. I kind of got stuck in a rut when it came to work and my finances, and those negative feelings made me crabby about other things more often than I would have liked. I was aggravated that I felt I always had to monitor my bank account, annoyed with myself for not making more money faster, and then even more annoyed with myself for not doing something to stem the tide of frustration I was feeling in general. This was all exacerbated by the fact that I was trying to decide where in the world to move next and what I wanted to do creatively - which are really exciting decisions to make, by the way. But I was blinded by my crabbiness and negativity and saw all these opportunities for growth as added stressors.
I really wanted that outlook to change. The negative thought spiral was hampering my creativity and drive, and I'm smart enough to know that you have to step out of that cycle and get some perspective in order to move forward.
So one afternoon, I took myself to lunch and went shopping for art supplies, deciding I'd try a new creative outlet. I read some of "The Desire Map" during lunch, and found that one passage in particular really resonated with me.
LaPorte wrote, "In the toughest of moments, what makes me feel better is thinking about my core desired feelings." Instead of staying stuck in a negative thought pattern, she reflects on the way she would prefer to feel in that moment. This helps her make choices that will bring on those feelings, rather than just bitching about how bad things are.
I loved this idea. I like to think I'm generally a happy person, but I have been known to latch onto a bad mood or a grudge, sit down in it and refuse to move for long past the sulking expiration date.
I decided to try LaPorte's tactic that afternoon. Rather than stress out about the cost of my lunch, I thought, "I desire feelings of generosity and gratitude, and a sense of abundance." I didn't want to be miserly with myself, or with other people. I wanted to do good things for myself, and feel positively about that, not go stare at the numbers in my bank account and raise my blood pressure by berating myself for spending $5 on lunch.
Armed with this consciousness of my desires, I set off to finish up some last-minute errands. It was hot and I was tired after eating, and annoyed that I couldn't easily locate the local post office. But I was determined to not get cranky. For every negative thought: "It's hot out", "I have work to do and this is taking forever", "Who insists on mailing hard copies of documents anyway?", I recognized those complaints but then countered with some gratitude. "I'm grateful I'm healthy enough to walk around and run these errands without assistance", "There's plenty of time to get things done today; I'm not on deadline"; "I'm excited to be working with this new client, so it's a positive that I need to go to the post office at all."
Surprisingly, this actually helped. And the more I was able to shift my mood, the more goodness I began to notice. I was grateful for the generosity of the cashier at 7-11, who not only gave me directions to the post office but walked me there herself and translated my request to the clerk who mailed the documents. I found myself feeling increasingly grateful to be in Chiang Mai at all, and reflecting on the many times people in the city had shown me kindness and generosity, even though they didn't know me.
When I arrived home to the guest house where I'm living later that afternoon, I found several friends and fellow residents gathered around a table on the porch, sharing food. They invited me to join them and before I knew it, I had a full plate of food, a glass of whiskey and a shot of some other type of alcohol that had been fermenting for a year and had just been opened by one of the guest house owners. He and one of the other men encouraged everyone to eat and drink, making sure we all had enough or did not go wanting.
Here, I thought, are abundance, generosity and so many things to be grateful for.
For the first time in awhile, I made myself sit down and relax and socialize in the middle of the afternoon, rather than rush to my room to get back to work. I enjoyed the food and the company and the warm, breezy weather. And I allowed myself to really reflect on all I had to be grateful for, and be thankful that I was in Thailand, among friends, surrounded by people who were willing to give and share what they had.
And I considered all of the people I have had the opportunity to meet this past year, all of the strangers who have shown me kindnesses, and the friends who have been generous with their time and patience, and with sharing their own stories with me. I'm not saying money isn't important or isn't helpful, but I think it's easy during lean months to get caught in a web of scarcity and forget that abundance and generosity aren't only the products of financial wealth.
I've been trying to be more conscious of when my thoughts and feelings turn toward annoyance, frustration, impatience and this overall sense of being in scarcity mode. And I try to shift out of that now by doing something for someone else, or treating myself to a massage or just thinking about what I could be grateful for in the situation. It usually does help and has made me appreciate all the positives in my life, rather than living in the negatives.
The day I decided to return to Chiang Mai last summer didn't start on a high note. In fact, it was one of the lowest days I had had in the past couple of months, and that was saying something. I woke up around 11 a.m., exhausted as I had been when I went to sleep the night before and with a dark mood festering before I even got out of bed. My body ached with the effort it took to sit at my desk and work for a few hours. The pall of numbness with which I was becoming all too familiar had enveloped me by lunchtime and breaking through it felt like too great a feat to even attempt.
While making a decadent grilled blue cheese and olive oil sandwich I thought might cheer me up, I noticed a few bottles of wine leftover from the housewarming party my roommates and I had thrown a couple of weeks before. I wasn't necessarily fiending for a glass of wine at 1 p.m., but it occurred to me that wine usually brings out some kind of emotion in me, whether happy or sad. Perhaps if I got a little drunk, I could at least feel something. Lying in bed crying all day would have been preferable to this nothingness.
I sat back down at my desk and drank a few glasses of wine, waiting for rage or sadness or even an unlikely jolt of happiness to break through the malaise. I finished the bottle and crawled back under the covers.
Nothing. Still fucking nothing.
A few weeks earlier, I had finally confronted the fact that I was likely depressed, and that my life was in need of some major changes. On the surface, all was well - living overseas, career as a freelance writer, surrounded by good friends, lots of opportunity. But inside, I felt like my soul was being crushed slowly but steadily under the weight of cement blocks.
The intense feelings of despair, exhaustion, lack of direction and interest in certain parts of my life and general emotional chaos had been coming in increasingly large and long-lasting waves since sometime in May, but I refused to deal with it at first. Too many other priorities, too many deadlines, too many places to be, people to please.
One afternoon, I was editing some writing for a client named Noch Noch Li, who has written extensively about her experience with depression. I was reading over a passage about the symptoms of depression when something clicked. Headaches, lack of interest and motivation ... It all sounded too familiar. A cold sweat washed over me as I finally let my focus settle on one thought: “I'm depressed.”
The irony was that I had been working with Enoch for months at this point, and while I greatly admired her courage and strength in sharing her story, it never occurred to me that perhaps her work resonated with me for a deeper reason.
I realized then that this was not the first time I had gone through depression. Once I allowed myself to say the words out loud, I could clearly see the other times in my life when my internal world was screaming out for my attention and I refused to pause and give myself what I needed.
My first semester at grad school had long been a source of shame because I had dreamed of getting into Columbia Journalism School for years, and then felt I had let myself down entirely when I started to spiral into a place of darkness, discontent, and poor health. People would ask about my time in journalism school and my first instinct, rather than be proud of my accomplishments and the writing I had done there, was to rattle off some quick response while internally reciting a litany of perceived failures: I didn't network enough, I didn’t challenge myself enough, I didn't pursue more interesting stories, I didn’t spend enough time enjoying New York, I should have spent more time in Brooklyn, I gained too much weight, I didn't go on any dates. I recently reread some old emails sent to a college friend at the time, and see now that I was in a pretty rough state emotionally, and should be proud that I accomplished anything at all during those months.
The same happened a couple of years later, when I was living in Washington, D.C. On the surface, everything was great - good job, lots of opportunities, living in a beautiful house, close to college friends. But I spent entire weekends sprawled on the mattress in my basement bedroom, ordering Domino's takeout in my robe because I just could not muster enough energy or interest to leave the house on my days off.
And here I was again, longing only for the comfort of my bed, where I could sleep for hours on end and check out from the world.
When I realized things were off track in Beijing, I felt ashamed that I had gotten to this point again. Shouldn't I know better? I had worked with a therapist, valued self-work and personal growth, had invested hours and hours of my life in improving myself ... and I was depressed?! How mortifying.
Part of my emotional journey this past year has been to pause and gently shift gears when the shame and negativity spiral kicks in. I've learned how deeply parts of me fear negative judgement from other people, and dread the idea of being perceived as a “failure.” On some level, I thought if anyone knew I was depressed, they'd think I was a fraud, a poser, who didn't really understand or value self-knowledge, or who had burned out, wasted years of my life, become a loser.
I know this is harsh self-talk. I know it. I would never talk this way to someone else. But that's been another part of the process: learning to treat myself at least as gently as I'd treat someone else, and learning to compassionately unpack the negativity one fear and false belief at a time.
The day I realized I was probably going through depression in Beijing, I knew I wanted things to be different this time around. They had to be different. I had tools now, resources. I knew how to take care of myself, could see the changes that needed to be made. I was scared as hell but I vowed that I'd get through this and come through stronger on the other side.
After I finished working, that is. After this month’s client projects were wrapped up. After the party I planned to attend on Saturday night. After I had pitched another story, edited another page, scheduled one more date, one more lunch, one more interview.
I’d tell myself that the important thing was that I was aware that I was struggling, and aware that I needed a break. I'd take one. Eventually.
So looking back, it's really not a huge surprise that a few weeks later, I was still struggling to get out of bed, still seeing my future through a fog of gloom, still feeling like I was just barely keeping my head above water.
The tears refused to come that afternoon in spite of my best attempts at a wine soaked breakdown. But they came later that night, when I (soberly) started hysterically crying, finally admitting how scared and lost I felt, and finally able to say “Something's gotta give” and mean it. Drinking wine with lunch in order to feel something was not how I wanted to cope with my problems. I knew better than that, deserved better than that.
That's when I decided to get a change of scenery, slow things down for a bit. And I felt positively giddy about doing that in Chiang Mai. In addition to the slower pace, I looked forward to traveling again, which always brightens my spirits.
It's funny, the things that happen when you finally start listening to what your body, your moods and your emotions are telling you. When you finally stop pushing the most important things to the back burner and being honest with yourself. I wasn't immediately spry and chipper again after booking my flight to Thailand, but I felt more relaxed, more optimistic. I was taking steps toward helping myself. Things would get better.
At the time, I kind of thought that two months would be enough - I'd go to Chiang Mai, relax, write, journal, and come back to Beijing with a new outlook on life and a brand new approach to work. All would be well.
The thing is, my ability to work hard and achieve was never the problem. I had always worked hard. I can hustle. There has never been a major goal I’ve set for myself that I did not achieve. Which is great. And I love that about myself.
The problem was that I had long neglected certain parts of my inner world. Long-held, intense fears about failure, loneliness, shame, humiliation. Those don't go away overnight after a few good crying jags. And neither do ingrained habits, like working all the time, taking on assignments that don't yield that much in the way of pride or financial benefit simply because you can't conceive of not working, ignoring your own preferences and priorities because you think it's what you should do for someone else’s benefit.
These things take time to understand and change, and require consistent attention to and compassion for yourself as you move toward a healthier place.
And I knew that, on some level, when I started down this new road on my personal growth journey last summer. But that didn't stop me from falling down many more times and learning it over and over again during this past year.
My one-year anniversary of living in Thailand is coming up at the end of July, and while reflecting on the past 12 months, I decided to write a series of posts on this most unexpected year in my life. When I flew to Thailand last July, I planned to stay two months. I wanted to heal from burn out, ease back some of my work commitments so I could take care of myself mentally and physically and work on creative projects I had set on the back burner for some time.
I knew I needed a break back then, but I didn't know how badly I needed it, or the extent to which some serious emotional healing needed to happen. I expected to return to Beijing by the end of September 2012 and more or less resume life as it had been when I left.
I ended up staying in Thailand for a number of reasons, all of which I will cover in forthcoming blog posts, but wanted to say a few words of introduction to this series of musings.
The past year has been one of the most beautiful, difficult, emotional, messy, exciting, maddening, and rich I have lived so far.
As I wrote in a post last summer, I initially left Beijing for a couple of months because I was burned out. I love Beijing, and fully intend to return at some point. But last summer, I just needed a break.
I was working to the point of exhaustion most of the time, often on things that didn't mean much to me. With the exception of a few projects, I didn't feel I was building a body of work that I could be proud of. I started to feel ashamed and unhappy, angry at myself for what I perceived to be a squandering of the opportunities and experiences I had had in the past.
My personal relationships were also in flux. Some relationships became strained, while others were strengthened. It took me a long time to realize how deeply those shifts affected me and contributed to my endless feelings of exhaustion.
There was a lot of good in my life at the time, but sometimes I just felt like I was drowning. I was often sad and angry, but more than anything else, I was just so damn tired. No matter how much sleep I got, I was always exhausted. Things that once seemed appealing now seemed either altogether uninteresting or simply too much effort to even conceive of doing.
I had been in Thailand earlier in the year and wanted to spend more time in Chiang Mai, so that seemed an obvious place to go for a change of scenery The city is small, and manages to be both lively and relaxed, which seemed a good mix for me under the circumstances. It's a place that attracts those who are trying to "find themselves" or are making big changes in their lives, and the idea that I'd be around other people trying to figure some things out appealed to me. The cost of living is generally significantly cheaper in Chiang Mai than in Beijing, so that also made it seem a good choice of place to stay while I wouldn't be working as much.
Despite an exercise in extreme travel frustration when it came time to leave Beijing, I arrived in Thailand at the end of July and knew immediately that I was right to have come. What the subsequent 12 months have brought me has been unexpected and wonderful, and I will treasure the time I have spent here for many years to come.
When I decided to write something about this upcoming anniversary, I quickly realized that a single post wouldn't do. So I decided to write this series, which is not only about Thailand, but about friendship, depression, doubt, self-care, travel and growing up.
The topics of these posts have been bouncing around in my mind for awhile, but I couldn't bring myself to write them until now. I'm so grateful for all I've had and experienced and shared this past year, and hope that by writing about it, I'll come to appreciate and learn from it all even more. And if anyone reading these posts relates to some of what I've felt and been through, so much the better.
To read the posts in the Unexpected Year in Thailand series, click here:
"Before we go any further, I have to tell you something."
Eric looked at me expectantly but I could feel my nerve wavering. This was the talk I had been preparing to have for days, but now that the time had come, I wanted to forget the whole thing and go back to making out.
We had only been dating for a few weeks but things were going well. Eric was nice, funny and respectful. We liked each other. It didn't hurt that he had a ridiculous body. There was no apparent reason not to keep heating things up between us.
"I'm a virgin. I'm waiting to have sex until I'm married. So we can't have sex."
"Yeah, that's fine. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."
I should have been relieved. Hadn't my fear that the virgin card would bring things between us to an end been abated? Instead, I turned away from him, tears in my eyes. I was embarrassed, and angry that I felt so hemmed in by the constraints of Catholicism, the religion I had practiced for most of my life. I was 24, and seriously sexually frustrated. But at least I was making God happy, so that was some warped consolation.
I had been raised on the promise of Heaven for the faithful, Hell for the wicked, and the latter group included fornicators. I was told that God had a man chosen for me and I was to trust in His plan and wait for "the one." No sex before marriage. The message had been burned into my brain during 12+ years of Catholic school. Never mind that the vast majority of my classmates and fellow Catholics seemed to have disregarded the abstinence lesson. I was convinced that if I stayed pure, I'd be rewarded one day.
But when I was 23, I started questioning everything about my religion. And that included the Church's mandate against pre-marital sex. I wanted to be having sex, but fear of being damned in the eyes of God prevented me. I felt that I was missing out on a huge part of my young adulthood and was feeling increasingly out-of-place and uninformed during conversations with my friends about our love lives.
When I think back now on the beliefs I held then, I shudder. There are few things more irrational than telling human beings that they must utterly refuse themselves an act that they are biologically wired to perform. Forcing people to deny their most basic impulses or to feel shame at every hint of a stirring in their loins is cruel and foolish. We've seen how well such practices have worked out for the multitude of Catholic priests exposed as child molesters, and in the many cases in which abstinence-only education has resulted in high rates of unplanned pregnancies.
Having abandoned Catholicism, and religion, altogether three years ago, I can see now how warped and backward my thinking was. I used to cling to the promise that God would lead me to the right man and that it shouldn't matter to a guy whether or not we had sex. It's absurd to me now that I ever believed such a thing. I know that I would not marry a guy or commit to a serious relationship with him if he refused to have sex with me. It's an essential, intimate part of a romantic relationship and I would not expect someone to pledge his life to me before we had determined if we were compatible in that way. Yes, I realize there are a number of other areas that are vital to a long-lasting relationship. But this one is a requirement of mine.
I resent the fact that sex, and all of the fun related activities, were such a source of guilt and fear during my formative years, all because of the teachings of a corrupt and antiquated institution. But I am grateful that I awoke to the realities of the Church's teachings in time to heal and get to know myself as a sexual being.
Things between Eric and me ended before I made the leap into atheism and decided to become sexually active. When I did start having sex, my early experiences came with what I suspect are the same insecurities and uncertainties that accompany a lot of people's first forays into that area. But I felt no guilt. I felt no shame, and no fear of burning in the pit of Hell for all eternity. The only judgment that concerns me about my sexual activity now is my own.
Last night I watched the season two finale of Girls, and was compelled to share some of my thoughts about it. This isn't about why Girls is such a damn fine show, whether or not Lena Dunham is a feminist hero, or even about how brave she is for showing her naked, "real" body on camera every week.
My love of Girls has always been an intensely personal one, and this blog post is personal as well. I do think this is a high-quality show and am always happy to have a spirited debate about what makes it such from a critical point of view. But that's not what I'm writing about at the moment.
My initial interest in Girls was piqued by a New York Magazine piece that referenced the painfully awkward sex scenes and the "realness" of the main characters' naked bodies. I was skeptical of the promised gritty, realistic portrayal of how 20-somethings live, and watched with the expectation of being proven correct in my assumptions.
But I liked the show immediately, so much so that I proceeded to hold regular viewing parties with friends, in Beijing during season one and in Chiang Mai during season two. My friends and I would debate the merits and flaws of the characters and divulge who our favorites were. Each of us confessed that the character we found most endearing was the one who reminded us most of ourselves.
From Hannah's first monologue, in which she declared that she thought she could be the voice of her generation, or "a voice of a generation", I knew I had found a kindred spirit in this character.
Throughout both seasons, I have winced at her willingness to debase herself for a man, cringed sympathetically when she was called out on her self-absorption and empathized perhaps a little too well with her spiral into anxiety, OCD and presumably, depression.
I saw some of my own worst qualities reflected back to me and much as it pained me to watch them, I also thirsted for more. Here at last was a character who reflected not the traits I was proud of or aspired to possess, but the things I feared and was finally ready to see in myself.
It's been nearly a year since I entered into a period of emotional upheaval, intense reflection and many months of emotional extremes. In some small way, the presence of Hannah Horvath in my life was a comfort, a validation. I was mortified by some of my internal thoughts and insecurities. I didn't want to tell other people about what I saw then as the horrors in my head. Instead, I could watch Hannah and take some comfort in the fact that anyone who could write such a character must occasionally grapple with the same brands of insecurity, self-doubt and uncertainty that I was feeling.
The development - or regression - of Hannah's character in season two particularly resonated with me. Certainly I could relate to the messiness and futility of her relationship with Adam in the first season, but I didn't really need to see my own mistakes with men mirrored back to me to learn my lesson. I knew that what Hannah was doing was kind of fucked, much in the way that I knew my own behavior was every time I made excuses for a guy who had repeatedly shown he wasn't good for me, just so I could feel a little less bad about continuing to be involved with him.
It was the unraveling of Hannah's inner world that kept me hooked on the show during season two. Perhaps I projected some of my own life onto the character, but I related to her apparent fears of not being able to deliver on professional promises, of being a failure, of being alone. The sense of being disconnected from everyone around you. The harsh reality of sitting, alone, in your apartment in your pajamas, unwilling or unable to get out from under the covers and face the world. Were these not the very things I had been berating myself over for months in between bouts of lethargy?
Where Hannah had OCD, I had panic attacks. Seemingly out of nowhere, I would find myself imagining my own death by suffocation. This would lead to me hyperventilating, clinging somewhere in my mind to a thread of rationality even as I broke into a cold sweat or hot flashes, paralyzed until the all-encompassing fear had subsided. "You're not dying; you're alive and you're OK" became the mantra that kept me in the moment. These attacks became so frequent at one point that I briefly went on Xanax in order to make it through the day without going through the physically exhausting and emotionally draining process at alarming intervals.
I was embarrassed and it took me a long time to admit to my close friends what was going on. I probably would have continued taking the Xanax had it not exacerbated my depression. Instead, I started working with a therapist again and can happily say I haven't been back to such a dark place in months. But I remember it. And I'll always be able to empathize with what it's like to be there.
It's cliche at this point to thank Lena Dunham for presenting her audience with heavy issues in such frank and raw ways, but I thank her all the same. In Hannah Horvath, she gave me a character I needed to see and love at this point in my life, a character who has helped me better see myself. And through writing this character, she made me feel a little less ashamed and a little less alone on the morning I woke up viciously self-attacking for sleeping with a guy I knew didn't respect me, or the many days I could barely get out of bed because I felt so much like I had sold out as a writer and had failed at all of my goals and dreams.
There is so much to be said about the season finale of Girls, both about the writing and story lines and the potential social commentary. But my initial reaction to the show, and the season, was gratitude for a character who is, if nothing else, a very real embodiment of some of the most serious issues that many of Dunham's fans face.
When I was in grade school, I loved Valentine's Day. Adored it. I relished picking out those boxes of marvelously corny valentines, usually Barbie and/or Batman, to write out for all of my classmates. Valentine's Day was one of my favorite days at school - an entire afternoon blocked off for exchanging cards, eating Dunkin' Donuts munchkins and watching movies. What's not to love?
But as I got older, Valentine's Day became an increasingly stressful holiday. By my junior year in high school, it became downright panic-inducing. That was the year all my friends got boyfriends and my long-held nightmare of being the only single girl among us came true. Why God was plaguing me with such emotional torture, I wasn't sure, but I set about mitigating the public humiliation days in advance (I have since relinquished the notion that "God" had anything to do with it, but that's a post for another day).
There were fewer things more horrifying to me than being at school on Valentine's Day when I was single. What was I going to do while other girls had roses and candy grams delivered to them, sit alone and die of fucking embarrassment?
Not a chance. Rather than orchestrate a cleverly timed trip to the nurse's office or a doctor's appointment that would take me out of school through lunch period - by far the most torturous stretch of the day - I decided I simply was not going to school on Valentine's Day.
Humiliation in any regard was one of my greatest fears as an adolescent, and I felt that not having a serious boyfriend when all of my friends did was a tremendous shortcoming on my part. I went through long bouts of self-loathing, admonishing myself for "fucking up" by breaking up with guys who had actually liked me.
Like most people, I had no idea what I was doing when it came to my romantic relationships as a teenager, but I was convinced that I was some unique breed of singleton. On my worst days, I lamented the fact that I was clearly a mean, spiteful person who deserved to be alone. I virulently criticized my appearance, personality, intelligence and aesthetic tastes until I was nauseated from crying and self-hate.
This made regular days at school stressful enough, but Valentine's Day, I was certain, would be unbearable. Worst of all was the fear that my loneliness and shame would overwhelm me and I might cry during the middle of the day, and that was a hell to which I would not subject myself.
Of course, I realize now that it wasn't that big of a deal. Being single, not having a Valentine...none of it mattered all that much. And no one would have treated me like a leper had I shown up to school boyfriend-less on Valentine's Day. But the shame of it ate away at me all the same.
And so, well in advance of the big day, I would announce to my parents that I was not going to school on Valentine's Day. Fortunately, by the time I reached the second semester of my junior year, they had stopped fighting me on taking days off and gave their tacit approval to my writing my own absentee notes, so this proved to be a less difficult conversation than I would have originally anticipated. I had my temporary reprieve from the shame of my singlehood.
Once I escaped the Valentine's Day Hell of high school, there came college. None of those are particularly remarkable - lots of chocolate eating and rom com watching with my single girlfriends, if I remember correctly. I still spent much of college longing for a boyfriend, and I still found admitting that I was single to be an exercise in emotional torture, but everyone's love life is a mess in college so I was in good company.
Then came the post-collegiate years of 22-24, which passed in boozier and occasionally more dramatic fashions (in one instance, a former love interest called me at 2 a.m. the night before Valentine's Day and called me "an asshole" when I got upset that we weren't spending the holiday together. Dubious though my taste in men was at the time, I did have enough self-esteem to promptly end that affair.).
The best thing I ever did for my love life, it turned out, was move overseas. I've had more flings, dates, sex and relationship-esque situations in the past three years than I did in all of the years between high school and my early 20s combined. Through the combination of therapy and some serious introspection and reflection, I learned to heal some of my own insecurities and change my perspective on relationships. That opened up a whole new world for me and I gained confidence and became a little less afraid to put myself out there.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped alternately hating and feeling sorry for myself because I was single. I no longer berate myself regularly for not being in a relationship. And when I realized that Valentine's Day was upon us this week, for the first time in years, I found myself looking forward to it.
There were no traces of shame or sadness and embarrassment. In fact, those were replaced by a sense of optimism and even elation. This is not the first Valentine's Day I've spent solo but it is the first one that I won't be pining away for or fostering resenting toward someone from my past.
It's the first one that I've felt comfortable with my single status, not because "I've given up on love forever," but because I actually feel open to love and to meeting someone when the time is right, without old fears and losses and baggage hindering my current happiness.
So this year, I'm allowing myself to remember how much I do love Valentine's Day, cheesy and manufactured though the holiday may be. And I will celebrate, probably by watching a movie and treating myself to a glass of cheap red wine. Because even though I'm single, I'm celebrating for that 16-year-old somewhere inside me who can finally be at peace and know she's worthy of love and celebration, even if she doesn't have a boyfriend.
All photos from BuzzFeed's "150+ Valentines from Your Childhood"
If I had been asked last Dec. 31 where I expected to find myself in exactly one year, on the last morning of 2012, I probably would not have said sleeping in the back room of a friend’s bar on an island in Thailand. But that is where I found myself this morning, and somehow, it seems a completely appropriate ending to the year that’s been. I’m in Koh Phangan, Thailand, and because it’s New Year’s Eve, and there is a Full Moon Party tonight, there are no available rooms and this bar is the only thing between me and sleeping on the beach.
I don’t remember exactly what I expected 2012 to be like, but it’s safe to say that it turned out far differently than I had envisioned in nearly every way possible. For a long time, I tended to think of the year as a bit of a wash, marred by stress, emotional upheaval, and professional frustrations.
But when I lifted that gloomy pall a bit, I saw that the past 12 months have been more nuanced than that.
Yes, there were some dark and low points. Yes, I worked to the point of burn out not once, but twice, this year. Yes, I went through bouts of depression and anxiety that felt at times like they would never end. Yes, some relationships that meant a great deal to me ended, in sad and less than ideal ways. And yes, there were times when I felt that unresolved issues from the past were too great to surmount.
However. There has been more to celebrate this year than there has to lament.
In the past 12 months, I’ve visited three new countries. I’ve lived with elephants for a week, experienced an intensely beautiful lantern festival I’ll remember all my life, and been to a rave on an aircraft carrier in China. My friends and I started a t-shirt company, and I had the opportunity to write for the Wall Street Journal and Vogue India, two publications that, when I was just finishing grad school a few years ago, would have seemed like a far-off dream. Some relationships ended, but new ones were formed, ones for which I am deeply grateful. And others have become stronger, more honest and rich throughout the shared experiences of the past year. I came through the other end of depression with more emotional clarity and a stronger sense of self than I have ever had before.
If there was one thing that I was searching for throughout the past 12 months, I think it was a sense of peace - an acceptance of the past, a putting to bed of old insecurities and grievances, a freeing of my mind, energy and attention to embrace all the possibilities of the present and the future.
It has been a struggle at times, but as I reflect on the past year, and all the curves in the road, the unexpected and often delightful experiences I’ve had along the way, I think I am closer to finding that peace than I realized. Perhaps I’m not quite there yet, but I’m finally ready for it. I’m ready to allow myself to let go of the regrets and struggles, the self-criticisms and the bad days. That’s not to say I’ll forget them, because all have provided valuable lessons I’ll take with me going forward. I’m just ready to put them to rest, forgive myself and move on. I’m excited for 2013 and about working toward the new goals I’ve set for myself.
I don’t want to sugarcoat 2012, but I don’t want to dwell on it either. As I enjoy the last day of the year, I will focus on one simple theme: gratitude. I’m grateful that among the bad, the stressful, the frightening, I have had so many beautiful opportunities to explore and learn about the world, to meet people and to gain a greater understanding of myself. And most of all, I am grateful to be alive to experience all of it, and to have the opportunity to move forward and create new memories, new bonds, learning from but not being imprisoned by the past.
Note: All information in this post is based on my experience, conversations with a Mae Tao clinic staff member and the clinic's 2011 report. Be aware that there are some disturbing images and descriptions in this post. All photos were taken by Will Moyer. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands and ground my teeth together. No matter what, I vowed, I would not cry. Not now. There’d be time for tears later.
The man lying in front of me was the victim of a horrific act of violence. The left side of his face was covered in a patchwork of black and red, of skin wounded beyond recognition. His eyes blinked rapidly but he barely moved. His exposed torso was partially bandaged but the cloth strips didn’t conceal the extent of his burns, which crept down his chest and toward his abdomen.
The man stretched across the wooden table was a day laborer from Burma. He had been brought to Mae Tao Clinic with severe injuries from an acid attack that had been meant for his boss. The boss’ wounds were minimal, our clinic guide told us. The man lying before us while his wife and young child looked on had borne the brunt of the attack.
“His wife tells me he has trouble sleeping,” our guide, Jue, whispered when we turned away from the man. “The acid got into his ear so he has terrible pain in his head. Cannot sleep.”
As we walked out of the surgical unit, I looked back one last time and smiled at the man, even though I cringed at the sight of him. It wasn’t his mutilated body that caused me to shrink back. But to look at his face was to imagine his pain and be horrified that one human being could do this to another.
A crisis of conscience
When Will and I decided to go to Mae Sot, Thailand, for a few days for a visa run, Mae Tao Clinic (MTC) had been at the top of my list of places to see. I had read that the clinic provided assistance to Burmese refugees and migrant workers and was eager to see the work being done there.
Until visiting the MTC, I had never before come face-to-face with the cruel realities of poverty and brutality. I had read countless articles about the atrocities being committed against ethnic minorities in Burma, about the crowded refugee camps in which thousands of people are forced to live, the high costs of health care, the plights of migrant workers. None of those articles prepared me for what I saw at MTC: a man whose face had been mutilated by acid; premature babies born in extremely bare-bones, basic conditions; and a prosthetics ward where land mine victims await new limbs.
When I first arrived at the clinic and saw people gathering outside the pharmacy and surgery areas, I felt a sudden pang of regret. This was a bad idea; I’m exploiting these people. My intention was to visit the clinic in the hopes of writing a piece about it, but suddenly I felt ashamed that I had been so eager to witness the suffering of other people.
And yet I also felt I had to. Having now spent nearly four months in Thailand since the beginning of 2012, I have gotten the distinct impression that there is a great deal of good being done here, but a great deal of suffering as well. I felt compelled to witness that, in order to better understand this part of the world, to grasp the horrors and the goodness happening in places like Mae Sot and, on a more personal level, understand what it was that had always drawn me to learn more about refugees and conflict zones.
By the end of the tour, my regrets were gone. It was one of the more important places I’ve visited in Asia and the experience left a profound impact on me.
The MTC provides free health care to refugees, migrant workers, and poor Burmese people who cannot afford care at government hospitals. Treatments here range from eye exams to surgeries to reproductive health counseling, all of which might otherwise be out of reach for the patients who visit the clinic by the hundreds each day. The work here is funded by donations and they are facing a critical shortage this year - a $320,000 shortage, to be exact. Without additional funding, they will have to cut services and staff, of which they are already in limited supply.
The maternity ward was one of our first stops on the tour. Nearly 3,000 babies were born at MTC last year. There is one delivery room, as well as a dedicated area for special needs babies. Expectant mothers sleep on wooden tables in a communal room. Some parents are too poor to buy clothes for their newborns. I am of the firm opinion that people who cannot afford clothes and health care for their children should not be having them, but as these women are already pregnant, that point is moot here.
To think that this is how so many infants come into this world is heartbreaking. I felt deep despair considering all the challenges these babies are up against before even leaving the womb. Many of them will likely grow up in poverty and in dangerous border zones, and on their first night in this world, they sleep in a hot, crowded room without the comforts of a private crib or bassinette, or the safety of a proper hospital bed.
To be clear, I think the work being done at MTC is remarkable and vital for the tens of thousands of people who visit it each year. I applaud their efforts at providing safe care to the many, many patients who rely on them and to giving newborns as much of a chance as possible at being healthy, under the circumstances.
The in-patient rooms for children and adults consist of a handful of hospital beds and tables. Sometimes there are more patients than there are beds, Jue explained, so some have to sleep on the floor. The ailments they see at the clinic vary widely, she said. Sometimes it’s liver and kidney problems, heart disease, hypertension. During the rainy season, there is an increase in cases of malaria and dengue fever.
The conditions at the clinic were quite basic. I thought of the few hospital visits I have had to make in my life, almost all of which were in the United States. The clean, sterile atmosphere, the curtains dividing the beds, the pillows, blankets, adequate amounts of food. Though I have visited a Chinese hospital in Beijing and found it lacking in a number of aspects, I had never visited anywhere like MTC before and it was difficult at first to reconcile the experiences.
One of the biggest impressions I was left with was how beautiful the people there were, and how quick they were to wave and smile. As we passed the children's recreation room, a group of young kids were holding hands and singing a song. Jue, who is from Burma's Karen state, smiled. "They're singing Karen songs," she said wistfully. The children singing amidst these conditions was bittersweet and I found myself once again fighting back tears.
Finding the silver lining
By the time we left the clinic, I was saddened by the amount of poverty and suffering I saw there but also inspired. Because of the work being done at Mae Tao Clinic, people who would otherwise go without have access to potentially life-saving health care and resources on keeping themselves and their families healthy.
The experience left me with the thought: in the face of so much suffering and sadness in the world, what can I do? Mae Tao Clinic is just one organization out of many around the world attempting to provide services and care for those who need it most. The volunteers and staff at MTC are proof of the goodness, generosity and empathy in the world and that’s what I want to be part of. The question is how…and I haven’t quite figured that out yet.
Update: The man mentioned at the beginning of this piece was transferred from Mae Tao Clinic to a facility in Chiang Mai, where he underwent surgery, skin grafts and physical therapy. He spent six months in the hospital, and was recently released and is now continuing his recovery at home with his family.
Click here to learn more about donating to the Mae Tao Clinic.
Since departing from Beijing about two and a half weeks ago, I have essentially been a solo traveler. To my delight, two of my close friends happened to be in Thailand the same time I landed here so I was able to spend some time with them and have been meeting some lovely people along the way.
But for the most part, I’ve been alone.
This alone-ness was kind of the point of the trip, to spend a couple of months relaxing, journaling, identifying my own preferences, developing healthy habits on my own. Besides, I had always wanted to do a trip by myself because I thought it would be a great growth experience. So far, it has been.
But it’s been some other things, too.
For one thing, it gets a little lonely. Sometimes when I’m sitting alone in my guest room reading or watching TV at night, I find myself wishing I had someone to talk to or grab a beer with. Someone to discuss the events of the day with. Or just someone to sit around and watch “How I Met Your Mother” with me on the occasional night in.
Traveling alone has also proven to be a bit stressful. When you’re with other people, there’s always someone there to keep an eye on your bags in the bus station when you need to run to the bathroom or want to grab something to eat. There’s always someone with whom to cross-reference your packing list when you’re leaving a hostel and venturing off to a new city. And there’s someone to navigate tense, frustrating or nerve-wracking situations with you. Not that I’ve been in any extreme situations thus far, but there have been times when I’ve been aware that having a travel buddy would definitely alleviate the stress or anxiety - or at least there’d be someone to share the burden.
And traveling alone can be scary. Earlier today, I arrived in Chiang Rai, a city in the far north of Thailand that sits close to the border with Myanmar, or Burma. I’ve had mixed impressions of the city so far - the food is crazy expensive and most places were closed on a Sunday afternoon, though that may be due to the fact that it’s Thai Mother’s Day so I won’t judge it solely on my first impression. On the bright side, every person I’ve met here has been incredibly nice and welcoming.
However, a little while ago, shortly after waking up from a nap, I heard a sound not too far away that sounded like repeated gunshots. I took a breath, told myself the sound could have been any number of things and tried to put it from my mind. But 10 minutes later, the noises started up again, this time much closer to the guest house where I'm spending the night.
Now, the Thai family who runs the guest house was, and still is, sitting outside having dinner and none of them seemed disturbed by the noises so I’m sure it was not gunfire and if it was, it's not something I needed to worry about.
But for a few minutes, despite my rationalizations and reassurances to myself, I couldn’t shake a sense of fear and my mind flooded with horrifying scenarios of rebels or terrorists busting into this small village-esque neighborhood and slaughtering people to make some kind of political point. I felt sick to my stomach, going to extremes and thinking, “What would I do if that did happen? How would I escape? What if I’m shot? How would I get help? What if I die?”
The sounds eventually faded and then stopped altogether and all seems to be well outside. I know the noise probably wasn’t gunshots and that the probability of a rebel group shooting up this small guest house are likely slim. But it was another moment when I wished I had someone with me. Not if there really was an attack, because of course I would never want to see anyone I care about in danger. It just would have been nice to have a friendly face here tonight to reassure me that everything was fine and to help me calm those fears.
There are a lot of up sides to traveling alone, too. Until this trip, the most traveling I had done on my own was my move from the United States to South Korea about two and a half years ago. With two layovers in a flight that took me to the other side of the world, I was traveling for two days, entirely by myself. I actually quite enjoyed it, as it gave me time to reflect and think about the new beginning ahead of me.
But as soon as I arrived in Seoul, I no longer felt alone. I became friends with several of my co-workers and immediately started going out and meeting people. All of the traveling or moving I have done since then has been with friends or to a city where friends are waiting. Which is awesome. I’m really grateful to have had people to travel and share experiences with. And knowing that moving to Beijing meant spending time with wonderful people I care about from the moment I landed was exciting and reassuring.
Still, I always wanted to try traveling alone. I knew it would be a whole different ball game than going with other people and this trip I'm on now seemed like the ideal time to give it a try. Burned out and looking for some rest and just a space to heal and grow emotionally, coming to Thailand on my own seemed the obvious thing to do.
And aside from the occasional hiccup, it’s been wonderful. I’ve spent so much time journaling, going for walks, doing creative writing, trying new foods, seeking out new destinations and opportunities - all based completely on my interests and preferences.
Only two and a half weeks in, I’ve learned a great deal about myself. It turns out long bus rides through the beautiful Thai countryside make for rich reflection and self-conversation opportunities. Many thoughts and memories, some from the past few years and some from much farther back, have been coming up and I feel as though I am able to understand and process them in a new light.
The hours upon hours of just seeing where my mood or preferences have taken me have proven rich so far and I expect will become only more so as I work toward getting healthy and really being present and making the most of this trip.
Plus, I've just been having some fun adventures. Like renting a riverside bungalow by myself and learning that while reading in a hammock on your front porch is everything it's cracked up to be...living in a bamboo hut and sleeping under a mosquito net while animals crawl dangerously close to the cracks in your roof in the dead of night is maybe not as romantic or appealing as I once imagined.
Of course, I don’t want to be alone all the time. I love having my friends around and embrace the chance to spend time with them in a place as lovely as Thailand. I’ve been going to meet-up groups and getting to know some other travelers, which has been fun. But I am also learning more than ever the importance and value of “me” time and believe that by the end of this journey, I’ll be stronger and healthier as an individual and a better friend, listener, partner - a better everything - to those I care about.
And that will be a very good thing.
Five months ago, I wrote my first post on this blog. I had just set out on a month and a half long vacation to Malaysia and Thailand, and was simultaneously eager to visit new places and also burned out to the point of extremely unhealthy exhaustion. At the time, I declared that this was an opportunity for me to rejuvenate, get inspired and reconnect with myself.
The reality turned out somewhat different than that.
Through a combination of personal issues and diving back into work less than two weeks into vacation, the trip was far less relaxing and rejuvenating than I had expected. While I saw some incredible places and have some fond memories of the trip, I came back to China only slightly less burned out than I had been when I left.
While traveling, I dove headlong back into work before I had really had a chance to rest, took on new projects, overcommitted myself, and then was surprised when a couple of months later, things began to unravel. For real this time.
It started out as a few bad days - throbbing headaches, irritability, a feeling of boredom with my work and circumstances in general. "I just need more sleep," I told myself. "There's no reason to feel upset. It's just X thing that's stressing me out. I'm fine."
Then came the full body aches and the exhaustion that had me napping multiple times a day, reluctant to do much of anything that required me to leave my apartment.
I had to admit something was wrong. Some days were great, and I'd feel happy and enthusiastic about my life. Others were the exact opposite, and I'd find myself filled with shame for not doing better work, not being further along in my career, frustrated by certain aspects of my personal life, and above all, exhausted at every level.
Things weren't out of control, I knew. Yes, I was going through a tough time, but I could make changes, figure out the root of the problem. I made regular appointments with my therapist, which helped. But I also recognized that I needed a break. A real break.
It was 4 a.m. on a Monday and I sat on my couch crying, confiding in a friend about how I'd been feeling. I described the sensations of exhaustion and numbness, and a sense of being unmotivated and emotionally drained. Intellectually, I knew that there were a lot of things to celebrate in my life, and that there were a number of work projects I was doing that I loved and was proud to be working on.
Somewhere in my mind, I knew all of that was true, but I couldn't connect with it emotionally. Most of the time, I just wanted to curl up in my bed and hide.
"I just keep having this thought that I want to go away," I told my friend. "I want to be left alone for awhile, to really let things go and give myself a break."
"Maybe you should," he said. "Maybe you should just go somewhere and be by yourself for awhile."
The relief broke through as soon as he said that. It was exactly what I had been thinking privately in recent weeks. To go away somewhere, to give myself a second chance at that relaxing, rejuvenating vacation. To really spend time traveling, tasting, experiencing - not keeping one eye on the scenery, and one on my computer screen. A vacation during which I'm not spending most of my days holed up inside a cafe working or stressing about things beyond my control.
The more I talked about it, the more excited I became. Yes, I could go away somewhere beautiful, somewhere quiet, somewhere fresh. I could rest, meditate, write, meet people, return to exploring my love of photography. It all seemed so colorful and easy and right.
By the time I crawled into bed as the early morning light broke over Beijing, I had decided to go back to Thailand.
The relief and excitement I felt in the following weeks told me I had made the right decision.
Still, the similarities to the beginning of my last trip could not be ignored. Burned out, overworked, running on perilously few hours of sleep and emotionally drained, vacation was meant to be a sanctuary, an oasis toward which I had crawled, fueled by the promise of rest and relaxation. The same patterns that had brought me to that point last time are what had brought me to the same place again.
Vacation is not a cure-all for what ails me. I know that. I have to deal with the underlying issues that push me to take on excessive amounts of work, to set aside things I'm passionate about in favor of less worthy pursuits, to become preoccupied by things that are not emotionally healthy, to move so quickly through my days that I don't stop to reflect, breathe and keep perspective.
It hasn't been all rough, though. Things brightened as soon as I committed myself to taking a vacation and taking that time to myself. I found that, while I hadn't broken the old habits, I was becoming more conscious of them, being more proactive to start healthy ones and feeling more appreciative of the great people, relationships and circumstances in my life.
Despite the chaos surrounding the actual travel out of Beijing, I left on a positive emotional note, and feel confident that I'll be to open myself up to the good things and all the new opportunities there when I come back.
In the meantime, I am happily back in Chiang Mai, Thailand, and consciously appreciating this second chance I've given myself, and all of the opportunities it represents.
I've been in Koh Phi Phi, Thailand for about a week, and the experience thus far has proven to be full of beautiful beach landscapes, a neverending Spring Break party scene (which is not quite as charming as it sounds, depending on your perspective) and moments ripe for self-reflection. A few days ago, however, I stumbled upon something that took my thoughts outside of myself, for a moment anyway.
I was about to enter a quiet beachside bar to check out their happy hour situation, when I spotted a sign for the Phi Phi Tsunami Memorial Park. I had already passed numerous tsunami evacuation route signs during my walk, so I had already been thinking about the tsunami that hit Thailand in December 2004. Up to this point, those thoughts had mostly been of the "I know it's unlikely, but what would we do if a tsunami hit while we were here? Would I be able to get to safety? What if that's how I die? Is the evacuation route actually of use to anyone or do most people die anyway?" variety.
The memorial park was quite small: a few thick overgrown flower bushes, three benches and a stone memorial covered in plaques naming those who had died. Aside from three cats sleeping on the benches, I was alone in the park.
As I stood in front of the small memorial, I started to get that sick feeling in my stomach. That vaguely nauseous one that creeps into the gut when presented with the reality of death, and of lives that ended abruptly, without any warning.
A handful of pictures and letters had been placed around the memorial by loved ones who had come to pay their respects. The photos are now faded from the elements, but most of the faces are still visible, and haunting.
One plaque described a man and woman as "missing in the tsunami disaster on 26th December 2004." Somehow that chilled me more than if it had simply said "died in the tsunami of Dec. 2004." Immediately I imagined the man and woman, whose names had been Craig and Barbara. I imagined what death had been like for them, and for all the others listed there. How their bodies had washed away, and were never seen again by those who loved them.
The tragedy felt immense to me. I found myself crying as I read the other notes and inscriptions that had been left, ones that recalled a man named Jeremy's sense of humor or one survivor's hope that he would live a life of which those who had perished would be proud.
The three benches had been purchased in honor of two young men who died that day in Koh Phi Phi. One's name was Connor. His parents had purchased not only the benches, but another plaque as well. There was an inscription promising to honor his memory, and below that a photo. The tears welled again as I looked at the picture. It was a graduation portrait, perhaps from university. He was probably about the same age as me.
The other bench bore simply the name of another young man, James, and below it the word "Irreplaceable." He was only two years older than me.
The stories, and the photos, went on. Just beyond the small park was the water, calm and beautiful, receding to low tide. I thought of all the people I had just seen on the beach, all also young, on holiday, happy, partying, most likely all with the expectation that they'd make it home, or on to their next destination, safely from Koh Phi Phi. I thought of Will, and Kelly and Phil, who were off snorkeling for the afternoon. I thought of myself.
I shuddered imagining the morning that tsunami hit, the fear, the panic, the desperation that must have seized people. I cried thinking about lives ended so quickly. One night you're out playing beer bong and socializing at tacky Banana bar, the next you're dying, killed by a force of nature you neither expected nor could have escaped.
As so often happens in those moments, the mild irritations I had been nursing earlier in the day seemed far less important than they had 15 minutes ago. The idea that I could die tomorrow has always been one that helps shift my priorities into perspective. I know it's cliche, but it's a good way of recognizing what's actually good and bad in your life, and what's absolutely of the highest importance imaginable and what doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of things.
I tried not to dwell on the thought the rest of the day, though. I tried instead to be present and appreciate the incredible beauty surrounding me. Sure there were a few empty beer bottles sullying the otherwise lovely flower bushes, and sure it would have been more pleasant if the beach had been a little emptier and less riddled with drunk Euros today, but are those really problems to be dwelled on? No.
The rest of the day I spent indulging innocent whims: walking and shooting photos along a seaview path, savoring a glass of chilled white wine while lounging in a hammock and reading A Dance With Dragons as the sun began to set over the water. They were small pleasures but they mattered. I decided then that if I should have the great misfortunate to meet my end in some tragic way, the way those poor souls when the tsunami hit Koh Phi Phi, I would like to know that the day before, I paused for at least a moment to remember what was important and to be present for the little things that make up a life.
One of my stated goals of this vacation was to delve deeper into my own personality, and gain greater insight into who I am and what uniquely characterizes me. There have been a number of topics rising toward the top of the priority list, and I made some good progress on one today. Because I've spent time in, and benefitted greatly from, Internal Family Systems therapy, my journaling and self-knowledge work often involve talking with different "parts" of myself, or different aspects of my personality. These include young childhood parts, protectors and defenses that developed in response to childhood trauma, and others that reflect my interests and passions. So it's highly likely that I will refer to "a part who said X" or "part that feels X" at certain points while writing on this blog.
For what it's worth, I have found IFS therapy to be incredibly rewarding, and I highly recommend it to anyone interested in doing self-work.
Earlier today, I had a six and a half hour bus ride through the Borneo countryside to ponder the mysteries of me. This was glorious, and quite fruitful.
Between bouts of deep contemplation, I began reading the late Harry Browne's book "How I Found Freedom in an Unfree World." The book had come highly recommended, so I expected it to be quality, but was pleasantly surprised to find myself almost giddy reading through the first chapters. Browne talked quite a bit about recognizing yourself as a unique individual, and abandoning the notion that you can or should try to change someone else. Everyone is unique, he said, and only each individual can know what is right for him or herself.
Of course, consciously, I knew this already. Obviously each person is unique and obviously only each individual can and should decide what's right for themselves, I thought.
In truth, it's not that obvious. Whenever I find myself slipping into old patterns or roles around people, it doesn't take long before alternating thrums of anxiety and resentment, and eventually frustration and anger, kick in. The anxiety happens when I begin trying to either manage or conform to other people's expectations, whether real or perceived. The resentment kicks in when I begin wanting those around me to conform to certain standards in order to allay my fears; I want them to behave in a way that is not so anxiety-provoking for me.
I don't relish feeling either of these emotions under these circumstances. I accept them as what I am feeling in the moment, and feel curiosity about my emotional experience and what is causing this upset. But I don't want to spend my time managing other people, or passive aggressively trying to manipulate other people into managing me.
That last line may sound harsh toward myself, but I fully embrace that those tendencies are within me, as I suspect they are within many people. They are there for a reason, a defense that built up a long time ago, and while I feel the urge rise from time to time, I don't act on it (at least not consciously, and not, I hope, frequently).
Nonetheless, I feel the competing urges rise when I'm not fully aware of my emotional state, and the confusion and disorientation that come with them. They're also often strongly accompanied by a fear of how those closest to me, my best friends, are perceiving me. In the past, the slightest disagreement would reduce me to tears, and a sickened feeling would grow in my gut, knowing that "the friendship is over," and I was going to be alone forever, unloved because I'm such a mess and too unreliable and too bad of a friend for anyone to bother with.
Things aren't that extreme anymore, but the fear is still there. I discovered several months ago a deep, deep fear of being abandoned and alone, and that manifests itself in many ways. One is constantly seeking the approval of others, and hingeing my emotional successes and well-being on their attitudes toward me and their behaviors.
It's kind of like when people say that you won't be happy until you love yourself; no external factors (i.e. good job, boyfriend, etc.) can ever make you truly happy until that happens. Well, I will never know my true self-worth, never truly experience that until I am confident and strong regardless of the opinions of others.
I have moments of that, and the beauty of the unconscious is that I suddenly experience warm memories of times when I felt utterly strong, fearless and blissfully independent, often at times when I need them most.
But that state of mind takes work to cultivate and maintain and when I'm not paying attention, sometimes the old insecurities come back, and with good reason. Those parts are trying to keep me from ending up alone or becoming entangled in constant disagreements with friends. I don't wish to be alone and I value the respect of those I love and care about.
Before that, however, I have to own who I am. I have to be able to stand confidently, even if that means with no else at my side, and embrace my interests, my passions, my desires and my own path, and do it for myself, not in order to secure the approval or promises of friendship from other people.
This crystallized for me today when I read a quote Browne included in his book, from Walt Whitman:
"Freedom — to walk free and own no superior."
It reinvigorated my commitment to knowing myself intimately and becoming whole on my own before asking others to love me. And it reminded me of the freedom that comes from living for oneself and no one else.
We arrived in Borneo today, and for the first time since departing from Beijing Sunday morning, I can finally feel myself relax. Before going on, I should clarify that when I say "we," I will most likely be referring to my travel companions and close friends Will, Phil and Kelly. Anyway, we left Beijing Sunday morning, took a train to Tianjin, and a flight from Tianjin to Kuala Lumpur. After spending about a day in KL, we hopped another flight, this one to Borneo, and now it feels that our vacation truly begins.
The entire month of January, and first two weeks of February, were extremely chaotic for me. I was wrapping up projects and starting others, and began writing for some great new clients. But I was also trying to pack up my apartment, tie up loose ends in Beijing until I return at the end of this trip, and maintain my friendships and the great momentum I had developed in terms of my self-work.
This was all well and good until about the beginning of February, when everything came to a head. In the turbulent first two weeks of the month, I worked an insane amount of hours and survived on almost no sleep. For five consecutive days before leaving for vacation, I was up working until 5 a.m. every day, allowing myself to pass out only when I had begun to hallucinate from exhaustion, then waking up four hours later to do it all again.
My diet consisted mainly of double cheeseburger meals from McDonald's and noodles from the local Xinjiang restaurant in my neighborhood, washed down with large doses of Diet Coke and strong coffee.
In short, my lifestyle had become extremely unhealthy, with a horrible work-life balance. I actually went three days in a row without showering because "I didn't have the time." If I wasn't working, I was sleeping. There was almost no time for anything else.
I promised myself that all of that would change once vacation started. First thing on the agenda: give my brain a break. When you start hallucinating due to sleep deprivation on a regular basis, wake up every morning confused about where you are, and your short-term memory, including about what clothes you have on your body at the moment, begins to fail you, you know things are not good.
And now that I have arrived in Borneo, I feel that pattern beginning to unravel. While the first two days of the trip have been exciting and interesting, they've also been full of travel, planning and a sense of anticipation for arriving in Borneo.
This afternoon, sitting on my hostel bed, gazing through the broken shades at pink building across the alley, I felt an oddly giddy sense of relaxation. The view from our room is nothing spectacular; this is a budget backpacking trip.
But finally getting to sit with the quiet, with nothing on the immediate horizon except indulging whatever whims and interests I want, up to and including a long nap, I felt I was on vacation at last. My brain, though tired, has stopped hallucinating and already I am feeling more alert and clear-headed, which is good since I don't want to miss any of the storied wonders Borneo is supposed to offer.
Two years ago, I packed all of my belongings and completely uprooted my life. In a few short weeks, I went from working as a writer for a Capitol Hill newspaper in Washington, D.C., a position that fit perfectly along the carefully planned trajectory I had laid out for my life ten years earlier, to teaching English to kindergartners in Seoul, South Korea. A year later, I shifted gears once again. This time Beijing stood imminent on the horizon, and the freewheeling lifestyle of a freelance journalist and editor lay thrillingly before me.
Now, as I approach my 365-day mark in Beijing, I'm about to do it again.
But this time, I'm not shuffling into a new apartment or relocating to another city I'll temporarily call home, at least not yet. This time I am fulfilling a lifelong dream of backpacking through Southeast Asia, taking with me only what I can carry, and living a nomadic lifestyle of which I've secretly dreamed since I was a young child.
This is the first post on a blog will be a personal one, though I'll combine elements of travel writing as well. It's about exploration and growth; introspection and forging a greater connection with the world around me.
The name, Spinning Free, is inspired by the song "Sweetness" by the band Jimmy Eat World. I chose to name my site after it because the lyrics burst to the forefront of my consciousness the night I decided to make this trip more than a simple vacation, and began seeing it as the turning point for the next chapter of my life.
Since hearing the song as a high school student many years ago, these two lines have felt particularly poignant to me, more so in recent years:
"String from your tether unwinds...
Sinking into sweet uncertainty"
Sinking into sweet uncertainty. I had always reveled in the idea of allowing myself to spin utterly free, to embrace the unknown with wide, welcoming arms. Even when I left the U.S. for Korea, and Korea for China, I had a plan, a strategy. I had never allowed myself to simply go in without a plan and take what came in stride. Until now.
I'll delve into all of this in future posts, but for the moment, I simply want to debut this blog to the world, and celebrate the beginning of what I believe will be a beautiful, fruitful and thrilling journey in my life.
As I write this, I am on a flight to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I have spent the past hour gazing at a sunset more spectacular and rich in its warm fiery gold and piercing pink hues than I can convey. And now, as I watch the horizon fade to black, I see the first star in the night sky and imagine that this beauty is nothing compared to what lies before me in the jungles of Borneo, on the beaches of Thailand, in the myriad wonders I will see during the next several weeks as I travel through Southast Asia.
The past two years, with all their upheaval and learning and friendship and joyfulness, have been beautiful, and I will likely reference moments from them frequently on this site.
But this change feels different. I am different. I have reached a new moment of clarity, openness, wonder and a sense of self I had not known before.
I will explore new places, taste new foods, meet new people. I will learn, about my travel companions, who are three of my closest friends, and hopefully more about the world.