I tried to return to home on January third. Saddled with too much luggage, I got off the train hailing a grand taxi for half a dirham more than the actual price. Two additional cab rides and several halfhearted waves later I arrived at the village I had done my best to create my home. I walked along a dirt path stopping to buy some triangles of cheese, up a flight of unlit stairs, and put my key into the lock turning it counterclockwise to allow myself entry.
I made it inside, but somewhere between the threshold and the confusion that had collapsed upon me, I faltered.
Auto-pilot. Every morning I made a breakfast of oatmeal, sugared dates, and applesauce. Twice a week I visited the children at the S.O.S Village. Three times a week I sat listlessly at my requisite classes at the Nedi Neswi. Four times a week I exercised at the local gym. Five times a week I shopped at the hanut because staying inside all day would be illogical. Six times a week I climbed out of bed though the air and sadness chilled me. Seven times a week I would cry from the grief of those who had injured me reading Psalms 23:1 "The Lord is my shepard, I shall not want."
Please God, don't let me want anything. In Jesus name amen.
I had only my oatmeal to look forward to and it tasted delicious as I watched piles of dishes amass. Piles of clothes amass. Piles of garbage amass. Needs go unmet. Lifeless words leave my mouth. Necessity subsume fulfillment. Vulnerability overtake strength. Nightmares overpower dreams. Pandemonium take rule.
I watched helplessly as disorder took over my home so consuming was my ravaging unhappiness. I survived on cookies to keep my blood pressure from dropping, fifteen dirham meat sandwiches to fuel my body with protein, I refused to buy my packets of C-Bon guzzling down soda to feel full and ward away hunger. It tasted like so much food. Regardless, I lost five pounds.
I lost sleep, perspective, trust, esteem, peace, utility.
I lost myself in an abode meant to protect me, but left me shelter-less. I could no longer handle the daily pressure. I crumbled.
When the old man had patted me on the bum and I looked around for objects to defend myself I knew that my coherency about security was in jeopardy. When I returned with the ill-begotten tagine and cried while I made my breakfast, cried while I ate my breakfast, cried while I clean up my breakfast I knew that my home was no longer in Morocco.
My mother, she just seemed so far.
On the train up to Rabat I cried until panic eased my mind into blankness1. Until the severest worry I was capable of having was whether I should walk or take a petit taxi to Splendide and I had no emotional availability for the violating infractions several men had perpetrated against me.
During the walk to Splendide and over the course of those two challenging weeks I would say, "When I am ready to go home then I'll know that I am better." My house reflected my disorganized state of mind. It was my sorrow reified. I placed the terms of re-arrival upon the realistic though I've learned lofty notion that when I could keep home then I would be able to keep myself. As my service has concluded, Peace Corps stipulates that I am no longer legally permitted to accrue debt. I am now faced with the genuine reality of homelessness. I will be losing my home and with that the personal benchmark that I designated for my medical clearance. I cried when I realized what was going to happen. My home my world. Small and furnished sparingly, but brimming with life. I don't want to lose it. I am not ready to leave it permanently.
Leaving A.O. was the penultimate decision I made for my service. Going back to the place of my anguish, the smiles of my students, the comfort of my sitemate, the familiarity of my streets, the fickleness of my workload, the joy of my breakfast, the rituals of my daily life, the messes that I need to clean up, and getting off the train, taking three grand taxi rides, walking up a dirt path, waving with the grace that this medevac has afforded me, turning my key into my door, and walking boldly into my home will in'shallah be the best.
1. There are over 100 symptoms of anxiety. Under certain instances of extreme responses to stimuli cognitive function abates.
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