It’s not that I haven’t wanted to write.
It’s just that I haven’t been able to find the right words.
For someone who prides herself on her attempts to be eloquent, it’s humbling.
As a verbal processor, it’s crippling.
All I really know is that I’m not ok.
I haven’t been ok since I got back from Africa.
Or more honestly, I haven’t really been ok since I left for Africa.
You could ask me what’s changed, how I am, or what’s wrong, but I don’t know how to answer.
I’m not trying to be evasive, I’m really not.
I just really don’t know.
I don’t have words for it.
I feel empty inside.
Confused and disoriented.
I feel like the tilt of my axis has changed and suddenly I’m constantly dizzy because I don’t exactly know which way is up anymore.
I feel like my heart expanded as it froze. Now it’s melting–slowly leaking out of the cracks of the broken container and I’m helpless to stop the loss.
I feel like an empty pot facing a long line of hungry people standing in line at a soup kitchen…I know they need me, but I have nothing left in me to give them.
I feel like I’m standing at the Tower of Babel. Everything is familiar–I recognize my surroundings and the faces of people all around me, but suddenly I don’t speak the same language anymore. I’m a stranger in my own skin.
Most days I try to act like I’m ok, I think more out of an attempt to convince myself than to pretend for other people.
If I’m entertained enough maybe I can forget the questions that have multiplied exponentially inside me.
If I focus on the future maybe I don’t have to dissect the past. I don’t have to relive the loneliness, the hurt, the questions.
Always the questions are there.
Africa only answered a few questions for me.
Africa gave me a million more.