A couple of days ago, four to be exact, marked three months since I left home.
Three months is generally a point at which things looks less than wonderful. New jobs become familiar and new relationships lose their shine. This vagabond life has had the edges worn off, and I'm looking forward to stopping, but I'm also quite comfortable being beholden to no place and no person. This form of travel is the ultimate indulgence in selfishness and freedom. My time is mine own, my decisions need refer to no one else for approval or compromise.
Today, I woke up to a letter forwarded to me, regarding the work cover that paid for my medical costs for my fibro and RSI treatment back home.
Hunched over my measly free breakfast in a pub on a Monday morning, blindsided by tears and a rising stress that shook me with its relentless and unexpected onset.
All the majesty of glaciers and blizzards, ancient castles and quirky museums, dingy hostels and luxurious private rooms, all these days are nothing but distractions.
This letter reminded me that, no matter how many times I tell myself this journey is something I always wanted to do, I nevertheless undertook it as a retreat, that I gave up the life I'd built because my hands, my body, and an overwhelming depression one by one closed the doors and windows and threatened to trap me, that everything I'm running from is traveling with me.
Three months, and the change isn't enough.