Memories

As the school year here in Giessen comes to a close and we start taking our final exams, as I begin to pack up my things and everyone begins with their goodbyes, I find myself here once again writing my observations and perhaps baring a small part of my soul.

In the weeks leading up to this post, I have not been online as much as I normally am. In fact, I have tried to stay away from the computer altogether. I would rather not divulge the sordid details of my life and the reasons for my absence, but I will say it was a painful series of situations that attacked from more than one angle. A painful series of situations that on my worst days, still seem will never end. And maybe they never will. But at least I’ve somewhat come to accept that. As a friend of mine very recently told me, the Russians have a saying. It goes something like “if someone has a knife to your back, it means you’re ahead.”

It was one part of the situation that prompted someone to urge me to just “go home.” And go “home,” I shall. Go home, I must. For even though it’s sad to go, if one never leaves, it is impossible to come back. And therein lies the bigger tragedy. (Besides, I don’t really have $22,000 just lying around to pay back the scholarships and grants that funded my time here in Germany, but were contingent upon me finishing my time at Denison.)

I will admit I am to blame for the pain caused from a few of those angles. And for that, I am truly sorry. I am sorry for everything from the truths I’ve not revealed to the scars I’ve etched on another’s cheek. Maybe in America I’ll get a second chance. After all, it is the land of opportunity and second chances, is it not?

Several people have asked me if I am happy to be going home. I don’t know what to tell them. Strange as it may seem, I don’t want to go back. But on the other hand, I don’t want to stay here. Though I don’t have any particular love of Germany, and couldn’t see myself as willingly coming back for more than a few weeks, there’s something about the thought of leaving one of my adopted second “homes” that strikes a bit of sadness in my heart. (And if this is hard, I hate to imagine what it will be like this time next year when I’m leaving Denison.) And though I’ll be going back to a land where milk doesn’t taste like coffee creamer, where one doesn’t have to pay to go to the bathroom, and where the skies are not cloudy all day, it was in Germany where I met people, forged memories, and complained about crazy Germans being their crazy German selves. And to have to leave all of that behind and start over again will be tough. It seems I have caught myself in the classic “you-can’t-go-home-but-you-can’t-stay-here” syndrome. (That’s not a real disorder; I made it up.) I may have messed up in Europe, but if there’s one lesson I’ve learned from The Great Gatsby and from life, it’s that you can’t run away from, cover up, or forget your past. It’s a part of you, for better or worse. And maybe that’s where some of my sorrow at my impending departure from Germany stems from. It’s the bittersweet memories that bind me to this place.