Mind Eclipse

I regretted returning home as soon as I found myself there.

It wasn’t anything new; it was always like this.

I missed being back home, but within the next few weeks upon returning, I was already at my wits' end and with my luggage packed.

I couldn't help it; it was the grey reality of my hometown and my unhappy childhood memories, living in my old room's walls and furniture like sad ghosts that didn't know where to go.

Although I was almost thirty by now, I never felt like a proper adult in my family home. On the mental level, I remained a helpless teenager imprisoned in the toxic dynamic between my mother and grandmother, and the rest of our family.

My family home was never a place of warmth and love; no, it was my private hell, filled with never-ending arguments and painful words. Simply being there was enough for me to relapse into old negative thinking patterns, and unhealthy behaviors.

I’ve never felt truly happy in there, and so I felt plagued by the thoughts of leaving; which was why I left abroad for the first time, and kept leaving every time I came back for a longer time.

I just couldn't stay here. Staying felt like letting the past swallow me alive, and forcing  me one of its elements again. And I, I didn’t want to let its merry-go-round make me sick.

So, after enjoying what was there to enjoy (mostly Berliner doughnuts with rose marmalade) and meeting up with those of my friends who miraculously didn't forget me yet, I started planning my next trip (of course, a working one).

I liked what I knew about Amsterdam. Since my fellow compatriots who went there told me about excellent earning opportunities for physical workers, I decided to give it a shot.

*

Luck was on my side, as within just one week, I got hired by an international work bureau in one of those giant warehouses which sold imported fish.

There were lots of freezers here... After learning what to do, I diligently began unpacking frozen seafood and putting it on ice. It seemed like light work at first, but doing it hour after hour made my hands ache from cold and my arms - from tiredness.

Still, it was better than being an English teacher in Cambodia. I felt like a paid monkey, repeating “apple!” “banana!” and singing and dancing to entertain my five-year-old pals.

I still don't know how I managed to pull this off.

Anyway, it was much better than the language school back in my hometown in Poland, which was filled with frustrated parents that begged me to teach their teens the language, almost as if I could open their minds and put the whole dictionary inside...

I knew I should find a proper, long-lasting job rather than a seasonal one, but it wasn't so easy. As a migrant, you were always starting from a lower level than other locals, no matter how outstanding your resume was. It took time to make connections and effort to persuade somebody to give you a chance hire you...

At least, though, I was free from my family's judgments and expectations... for some more time. There was nothing worse than hearing the dreaded question over the phone, again: when will you settle down?

I wanted to settle down; I really did! I longed to have a place that I could call mine and for a person that I could call home, one that I would hug and kiss whenever I wanted to forget about the whole world.

But this wasn’t so easy. I was still single, and to make matters worse, I kept auto-sabotaging my dating options, as I could never stay in one place long enough to meet somebody... I was one of those cursed wanderers who felt at home both everywhere (well, aside my family home!) and nowhere... I liked the places that I went to, but just for a short time. The more time passed, the more intense the urge to leave and start over became.

I guess I could call myself a digital nomad... Even though I didn't have a blog. But perhaps it was a blessing. Cause everyone had a blog nowadays, even those with nothing to say!

*

After a particularly exhausting week at work, I threw my uniform into the washing machine. Watching it twist around with water and washing powder, I wondered what could help me unwind and feel refreshed.

I meditated upon my options for a long time under the shower. Then, I decided to wear something fancy and spend my evening in the Lost Cause, a hippie pub that I had heard about from my roommate Tavas (he was from Lithuania).

The Lost Cause was a dimly lit place with a bar and a few tables. The smell of incense and marijuana lingered in the air, which made me feel like I was in a surreal, narcotic dream... There were fake exotic plants here and an old jukebox as well.

I drew on my cigarette and then let out a cloud of smoke, admiring the vintage posters of iconic people, from Marilyn Monroe to Bob Dylan. They were cool.

When I got bored of exploring, I sat by the bar. The bartender was an African man with long, white dreadlocks who wore a shirt with a peace sign. He seemed nice and asked me a few standard questions while pouring my local pilsner: what's your name, where are you from, all that stuff.

Shortly after he left, I was blinded by a sudden flash. I glanced in the direction of the light, but instead of angels crying upon my vagrant existence, I saw a young guy holding a retro camera. He was tanned and had black locks and tunnels in his ears; oh, and he wore an old-fashioned white shirt with a perfectly ironed collar and a black cardigan on top.

Looking back to his camera, it immediately made me think of those sold seventy years ago in my country, back when it was still called the People's Republic of Poland. Aka, the times when people had to queue to buy cheese and considered shock workers their role models.

Now, everyone talked only about self-care and encouraged you to take a five-minute break...