On (In)Dependence

There are any number of things at which I suck.  In fact, my failures, misdeeds, malfunctions far outnumber my talents.

Like, light years far...

It's actually a little disconcerting.

At any rate, lately I've been counting my fatal flaws, my faults, my issues- the things that make me, much to my chagrin, me.  It is very hard NOT to self-examine and try to relocate yourself within yourself when you've just made a major life change.  In fact it sort of makes sense.  You've done this thing, you've made this monumental decision, and you've followed through even in the face of fear and ad nauseum worry.  Of course you take the time to sit back, take stock, and sort it out- which is considerably headier after the fact rather than when you are in the thick of it, running around making phone calls to the USDA and trying to track down tape-worm treatments and trying to slip in a phone call to foreign authorities every few days.

It's hard not to self-examine when you are essentially existing at the whim of the aforementioned foreign authorities.

I find myself now talking to new people, making small talk.  Hell, I find myself talking to myself, or my dog for that matter, making small talk.  But I hear myself say things like… 'I suck at being sick' (which I do).  'I suck at sitting still' (which I definitely do).  'I really suck at asking for help' (which I really really do).

I don't know if it's a flaw, a fault, a fissure waiting to crack into a canyon- but I'm not a dependent person.  Not even a little.  See all of the above?  All of those 'sucks' stem from the fact that I SUCK at depending on people, on anyone but myself.  Of course there is a lot of psychology behind that statement- but it's about as base and true as I can get.  I literally make contingency plans for everything because I'm so convinced and so sure that I will have to hack out whatever situation on my own. (This, by the way, has nothing to do with a weird or unloving childhood.  My parents are rocks, they are the strongest, most challenging and cherished people in my life.  They are about the only ones who can manage to take care of me when I really need it).

When I'm sick I don't act like it because that would entail me actually letting someone else take my reins for a moment while I collapse.  When I am still I am maddeningly fidgety because I'm not doing things.  I'm not accomplishing things.  I'm not making things happen.  I'm wasting… myself.  Asking for help?  That necessitates relying on someone else to step up and, indeed, help.  Which is when my jacked-up, hard-wired-to-be-hard, brain misfires.  I can't do it.  I can't do it.  I can't do it.

Not to mention that asking for help, sitting still, getting sick- all of those things, to me, means forfeit.  They mean defeat- they mean that I am letting someone else come in and clean my house- my house that I made into a mad one- my house that I built, my bed that I made.  How can I do that?  How can I ever let go of the mistakes, the misfortunes, the bad decisions that I made and let someone else… share them?

So here I am, 30 years and tens of thousand of miles later.  Still ferociously, feverishly, frustratingly independent but having to swallow that ferocity and fever and frustration for maybe the first, most significant time- so that I can make my decisions and my passions and my hopes work.  I have dropped the mantle of stubborn solitude and reached out.

Because one of the things that I do do well… is learn from my mistakes.

And until Next Time…

Norwegian Directorate of Immigration, here we come.