Three weeks from now, I will arrive in England. Almost four months later, I will return home.
Home.
I'm not really sure what that word means anymore. Home is wherever I feel comfortable. It isn't a certain house, and, often, it's not even certain faces.
I've never really had a significant issue with homesickness. I adapt. I grow comfortable. I survive. Places become my home. The only time I remember being terribly homesick was my first night of college. My bed felt like it was made of concrete, and my roommate's bed squeaked clamorously. I cried myself to sleep and wanted to drop out of school. By the next day, I was fine—out of my comfort zone, but managing well enough. And by the next week, school was my home.
In spite of my apparent adaptability, I'm worried about this upcoming semester. Lately, I've found myself in the midst of sudden bouts of tears—full-on sobs. What if my luggage gets lost? What if I fly all the way over there and realize that I don't want to be there at all? What if I can't take the stress and work of a long-distance relationship anymore? What if the school work is too hard? What if I'm not smart enough? What if my roommate is a spaz, or worse, some sort of psycho slut? What if, what if, what if?
So what if any or all of those things happen (which I highly doubt they will)? I'll use this blog to vent my frustrations to anyone who is willing to read them (or anyone whom I force to read them). I'll grow stronger, smarter, more resilient.
And by the time I return to the U.S., England will have become my new home. Speaking of which, take a look at my new home. Not too shabby, eh?
