I should be having the time of my life, right, living the dream ever since I moved to my favourite city. Why am I feeling a growing anguish, an actual anxiety for the past three, and especially last two years? How to say you’re unhappy when you have accomplished what you wished for?
The truth is, I feel trapped. Trapped in this place, trapped in my work, trapped in a certain relationship. I often cry out of loneliness or confusion about life. I feel stranded between two countries, a part of my heart left behind with all the people I love, the other here in the city which I chose as my true home. I miss my family and a few friends like crazy and my only regret is them being in a different town. Still, as much as that tears me apart, getting away from here would, too. I hate the job I have at the moment, for various professional and personal reasons, I got stuck at some travail alimentaire when all I want is to move forward to something more meaningful and better suited for my abilities and personality. I know a certain someone puts an emotional toll on my already fragile mental balance, that I don’t believe I can bear much longer. And too often when I talk to someone, I feel the pressure of my life being something extraordinary, as if it should be all dreamy just because I moved to my dream city. And if I don’t like it, I obviously made a mistake and can always go back. No. If I made any bad decisions, moving to Paris wasn’t among them. And the problem right now is not the disenchantment. It is my own sadness, my own dealing with life.
As weird it may sound, I’m just claiming my right to not be happy. Not as some kind of pity party, because I don’t pity myself and don’t accept nor want others to, but to remind myself that this couldn’t be some kind of a magic cure for everything inside of me. Keeping your dreams alive and even making them true doesn’t make anxiety nor depressive inclinations go away. So, saying out loud ”No, I’m not happy, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.” is lifting a burden off of my chest.
Let me be clear, again: Paris hasn’t disappointed me. Paris has nothing to be blamed for. I never truly fantasized about this life, or better put, the struggle constantly stayed a legitimate part of those images. I could blame the attacks, and the fear and uncertainty that came after, yet I honestly think it’d be too simple. It would be pointing a finger to something external. I still adore Paris with all my heart, I still enjoy its streets, its culture, its people, my new friends and my new havens, maybe more than I did in the first year, because I have truly mine now. And I need to add moving here wasn’t running away from something, since I sorted out the aversion to my hometown and waited for the time to ripe before leaving. On the contrary, leaving Paris now would be cowardice and ignorance.
Let me go deeper, now. In a way, I stopped backing away from life in Paris, took everything on me, sucking in the whole of it, putting all of its weights on my own shoulders. The first year, the bravery persisted, then I started cracking. The anxiety attacks increased and got worse. In the last year, with all the of the best moments of my life, came the new worst. And it’s then I really got it. For now, still being only half-way, it’s the price I’m paying for the life I chose and wanted to lead, which I don’t regret for a minute. If I fall, it’s not because I’m weak. Wasn’t coming here kind of deciding precisely to be strong?
I got something else, too. Just because you materialized one of your dreams, doesn’t mean everything else comes in easy. There might be a bit of disenchantment here, I admit it.
So, here’s to reminding myself to move on from it. (Un)happiness is a moment.
Ok, end of rant. Till next time.