The Gulag

A sad little fly who doesn't know where his life is going anymore. 
Photo credit to Shannon McGregor

Coming home has been a difficult adjustment. Which is weird. Because I love home. I love my family. But … I’m not happy here anymore. And I’m not entirely sure why.

Except that I feel like I’ve been left behind in the middle of nowhere. I can feel my thoughts and ideas and personality fading out like a beach towel that's been exposed to the sun for too long. And not only are my ideas draining away, but my confidence levels are also dropping quickly. Which means I’m losing energy and initiative – fast.

It gets better when I work at the shop, but it hits hard as soon as I’m off-duty. Sometimes I don’t even want to go home after my shift because I know how bad the rest of my afternoon is going to be. Today Vic (a friend of the family) came into the coffee shop and asked how life in the Gulag is going. Which was a funny intrusion of reality into my happy little coffee shop dream world.

The Gulag. That’s my nickname for life at home. Just a colorful way to say “being stuck out in a barren wasteland, cut off from any place where I can do anything of significance, filling my days with trivial activities instead.”

Vic told me a story of how soldiers used to struggle with coming home from the war. Because they’d been living in an adrenaline-filled environment for so long that they couldn’t get traction in civilian life. During the war, they faced the possibility of dying every morning they went out. And then coming home each night meant that you’d survived – you’d beaten the odds! And you’d accomplished something worthwhile. There was an awareness of the reality of things, the greatness of things. That’s what they’d been living with. And then they came home to the mundane things of life, to the unhurried, to the petty … it was difficult.

He said that that’s what college is kind of like (emphasis on “kind of”). Constant deadlines, adrenaline-enforced schedules, and idealistic conversations. And to come home, to be off that schedule, to be out of that big-picture environment … it’s difficult. I was surprised with how much this rang true to me.

For the past three school years and this past summer, I’ve lived and breathed college life (and set life, which is surprisingly similar). I’ve had to work round the clock, late nights, early mornings, 14-hour days on my feet. And I’ve loved it. Loved it. But now, I’m at home with nothing to do. And I’m floundering. I still find myself trying to live the college kid’s schedule: staying up late, getting up early, downing the caffeine to stay awake. Which is silly. Because I finally have time and the freedom to do whatever I want. I could actually get 8 hours of sleep if I wanted to. And yet I find myself staying up late. Too used to scraping by on 6 or 7 hours, I guess.

You know when you’re flying downhill on a bike, and you try to pedal, but your legs just jerk because there’s no resistance in the chain? That’s how I’ve been feeling. I feel extremely restless – I’m not a part of anything bigger than myself right now. And I’m aching to find another project. But what’s the point of pedaling if you can’t get any traction?

I’m also frustrated because I don’t have a posse anymore.  For the past few years, I’ve lived as a part of close-knit community. And I’ve become extremely extraverted and communicative. So much so that I struggle to even think or emote properly without a buddy to share my daily thoughts and questions and fears with. I’m not saying I don’t have friends out here. But I don’t have my roommates. Or the girls I entrusted my secrets with. Or the buddies who ventured into uncharted filming territory with me. I miss my pals something terrible. And there’s a part of me that I can’t access without them.

That’s the thing: I’ve lost my team, my unit. And I’ve lost a part of my identity with them.

I worked hard at school, and gained a lot of competency and confidence there. Which gave me a name on campus, a community, a skill set, a vision. I knew who I was and what I could do for people and where I was going in life. But out here, all that’s been stripped away from me. I can’t utilize my skill sets, I can’t collaborate with others, I can’t explore ideas out here. I don’t know who I am to these people. I can’t help them in the way I’ve been taught to help people (making films). Which I suppose is how a soldier feels when he’s reintroduced to civilian life.

Someone asked if I feel left out of what’s happening back on campus. And the answer is no. I don’t feel excluded – I’m glad to be done and out! (though I definitely miss it) But I do feel forgotten. Not by anyone in particular. But just in general. I feel like I’ve fallen off the truck and am now just wandering along the highway by my lonesome. I don’t even know what to do with myself or what my next moves should be. Except I know I need to get a car. But that’s a lame answer. Because a car is only a stepping stone. Once I get a car, where will I go with it? I should be looking further ahead. But I’m not. Not really.

Which is what scares me the most. I’m comfortable here. I like being home. I enjoy not having any pressing responsibilities or worries. And in all honesty, that’s probably a smart move because I probably couldn’t shoulder those responsibilities in a financially-safe manner yet. But I’m slipping into auto-pilot. I’m just comfortable enough that I’m not thinking ahead. I’m fading fast. And that majorly freaks me out.