I’m back in Germany, visiting some friends in the city where I completed my last master’s degree. This trip has provoked a lot more anxiety in me than I expected, partly because it’s not just leisure-travel, but also a bit of work: I left a bunch of my stuff here with friends/former roommates back in 2017, and now I’m here to collect that stuff, which, I guess in my mind, has become more of a burden, not exactly junk, but certainly things that I’ve not needed the last two years. And on the camino most of us learn to minimize, to get rid of junk. My friends were kind enough, though, to lug my laptop to Lisbon when they visited me this past February.
Yet it’s not so much the literal things that’s been burdensome. Really, it’s returning to a city that I loved, but didn’t love me back. I hate to sound all sentimental about it, but this is the root of my ambivalence coming back here. I am looking forward to seeing friends again. But I’m not that excited being in, or confronting this city in which I’ve invested time and money to be the birthplace of an academic future. But in a very basic level, I just wanted to belong, to call this place home. Unfortunately, the personal history, friendships, relationships were abruptly cut, lost, and then also this future never flourished, or was, in fact, aborted. My friends knew I wanted to continue with the PhD program here. They went to my graduation, listened to my pontificating valedictorian speech. I think we all got our hopes up. And then of course those hopes were dashed to nothing. I’ve moved on, or am still moving on. But now I’m back. What the hell.
And that’s not even the worst part now. I mean, my depression isn’t as bad now as two years ago, but it looks like I still don’t really know what the hell I’m doing, where the hell I’m going. I may not feel as lost as two years ago, but I am still adrift.
The camino two years ago helped me see that the prestige of the PhD didn’t matter so much, that when it comes to leading a good life, I didn’t need to line up with some age-old institution like the university. I also knew I still wanted to write. I knew I still wanted to read and be read. But I didn’t need to be so hung up on being accepted or read by an academic community. And then after the camino, sometimes when I think about what I’ve lost without others’ (judging) thoughts or looks, I think, no one really knows where they’re going. I’m sure a lot of others are better planners than me and have got a sense of direction. But really, honestly, the only thing we know with absolute certainty is death.
I dunno. I don’t mean to sound all hippie, or lost and cuckoo. I’m aware, I think, that I’ve just been wandering, wandering, wandering. Just sort of letting the winds of fate, the whims of whatever take me wherever. And then I think, well, at the heart of our existence, we’re all wanderers in the unknown.
On the walk along the River Neckar towards Altstadt, I thought about how I’m “persona non grata” to myself. My friends here have welcomed me, but I know I will not stop at the uni to say hi to former professors. Really, I’m persona non grata to myself as I walk around this city with a heavy heart, still with shame for having been rejected, still not fully accepting myself for what I lost.
