2.27.98 (a.m.)

A year ago I was home. I don’t remember what I was doing. Let’s see… today is the 27th. I would’ve been there for nearly two weeks and it would’ve been just about the time Dave was arriving for his two weeks. The weather was bitingly cold, it seemed. I kept wondering why I couldn’t take it after the chilling Korean winter, and decided it probably had something to do with my expectations of a mild Seattle climate and all that wet. Today I feel uneasy. A little torn. The other day I felt courageous, daring to forego a trip home for a trip to China. At the time it felt like a no contest decision, like nothing would be sacrificed. I was not chomping at the bit to be home again. That state of mind is what I consider normal. Normal people do those kinds of things, take those kinds of risks, are not wide-eyed and clinging to the leg of security from fear of living. I am only normal rarely and always fleetingly. Yesterday and today I’ve been thinking about the consequences of not returning home. Being the superego, the worry wart: No visits to the doctor for another year. No researching at the UW for my professional future. It would mean, probably, putting off grad school for yet another year. (But then, I’m still deciding whether or not I’ll need time to adjust to America before I sign my life over to a university anyway. So that avenue is tenuous no matter what.) Can’t get cash, can’t buy new clothes, new appliances, etc. for one more whole year. It would mean that my very next trip home would be the move. That would be weird. Sigh. I’m trying to be strong about it and not worry. But it’s more than just China. G-ma is moving this weekend and even though I’ve been relishing the distance these last few days, the desire to go back has been tugging at my consciousness. I’m not letting myself acknowledge the loss I’m feeling about the house. Memories. One half of my childhood: the most salient half. It is easier not to do anything - to be sloth and rely on the powerful force of inaction to prevent me from actually dealing with it. Sloth in remembering. I have decided to stay here. An option presented: Someone Dave works with has the same free United Airlines voucher we do (the one we’re using to go to Osaka). I can have it, he says, to go to the States. Oh. Joy. An option. I have to deal. I’m astonished. I have no excuse. I could go in a heartbeat. But, oh, I’m so fearful of flying. Long distances are the hardest, the most stressful. Seven forty-sevens are especially freaky, for some reason. I hate this. I hate being afraid to fly. Why couldn’t my fear of dying manifest itself in something else? Fear of heights? G-ma has that. That’s inconvenient too. How about spiders? Why not just some simple hyperventilative reaction to them? That I could manage. But I live on an "island" across the world from my home. I always have to fly. I feel better if I don’t fly alone. Because I don’t want to die alone. I’m still not going home. Visiting the house, my family, all that crap is not worth 24 hours of hell in the air. When I take my fingers out of my ears and listen to myself, I realize that going home wouldn’t accomplish what I want, which is to be heard by those who matter, to have my ideas weighed carefully (and implemented), to have my feelings validated. It’s important for me to see the house, but that is the only thing I could expect at this point. And anyway, it’s in disarray from the possession transfer and shuffle; it wouldn’t be the same. I will just have to remember. (And… it’s odd to mourn the passing of something that felt longer like a prison than a home or safe place. I’m confused by that.) There are still those vouchers. I could fly to San Fran, stay with Yvonne, visit the good ole U S of A and still go to China instead of taking home leave. But... The fear is always there like a wall, forcing me to miss opportunities that I want to take. I’m held hostage. The conflict is so frustrating; it wears me down; I want to scream and let it all go.

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