“We’re going home in August,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. I spent the last forty months watching people come and go. Pack in, pack out. This is what everyone does. Now it was our turn. Except at month forty-three, he came home and said, “I’m not sure we’re going to be moving in August.”
I cried when he told me on g-chat that the chances are increasing that we will stay here for another eighteen months. Sixty-one months. I deliberately weighed myself the morning before I found out, and it was only so fitting to break 100 days of almost no eating disorder behaviors. When he told me, I felt nothing except shock. I couldn’t feel elated or distraught. Instead, I begun to worry about how other people will feel. I only let myself be inwardly emotional about changing the number on the scale I saw that morning. “I’m completely fine with whatever happens.” And I will be. I love it here, I love travelling. Yet, I can’t sleep until it’s 2am and I’ve exhausted all the possibilities of what might be.
I miss my brother. I miss my mother. I miss my father. I miss the way the desert heat affects your soul.
But, this is not a crying situation. This is not a feelings examination. So I only let myself drop a few tears before I harshly told myself to stop. And I did, stop. Immediately.
I was searching for some genuine feeling to present itself. What did I think about this–I had been asked several times. I had yet to provide a real answer, because I had already shut down to focus on other things. That number was already down by five.