When Shit Goes Awry

The last week has been rough. In preparation for my move here, I didn’t really think about how it would look, but not like this: me spending most of my day sleeping, deciding whether I’m starving or really need to vomit, staying inside my too-cold tiny apartment, only venturing out for an hour at a time to hastily grab groceries before I struggle home and have to take hours and a nap to recover from my excursion. I feel like an invalid, without the romance or the spa. I haven’t had any wine or cheese and only one baguette (which didn’t hit the spot). I missed the Galette de Roi of Epiphany, a puff pastry filled with almond cream and a special porcelain trinket that makes the finder a king for the day. The only time I feel inspired to write is when I’m at a restaurant, which isn’t very much: my stomach is so topsy-turvy from the pain medication I feel like I’m wasting my money and my meal. I spend what time I’m awake scrolling through Facebook or Instagram or watching stuff on YouTube. I’m not just tired, I am exhausted: I’ve never slept so much in my life. The frustration I feel at not being able to communicate in French and automatically being identified as American even just uttering the word, “um…” is pretty overwhelming and I’m so close to saying, “Fuck it; why do I even bother?” I feel like I can’t function, either physically or relationally because I feel like such shit. Everyone is telling me this will make a great story, and sure, maybe. But right now, I feel like I’m wasting Paris.

Prior to this adventure, I kept saying I was looking forward to January 2. January 2, in my head, meant that I had arrived and moved into my apartment and things were settled. I knew what my routine would be: every other day, wake up before 7 to get to the market, grab a baguette, have a small breakfast, write for a while, pop into a museum for an hour or so, have a little lunch, go for a run, workout, yoga, read, then dinner, either at home or at a new cafe, then end my night tucked in bed, reading some more. Each day here has been erratic and I only accomplish about 1 out of the four things I say I’m going to do. And I take that one thing as a huge win because of how much energy it takes. I have yet to go to a market and instead, have been to Monoprix and the Carrefour Express (both chain grocery stores) twice. It’s been cold but also warm and I’m either over- or under-dressed. There have been approximately 2.5 days with sunshine, but I’ve been too sick to enjoy them.

I want to have a pity party - is this what people would be jealous of? I spend all my time in my apartment, maybe at the start of a great depression. I could say I feel isolated, bored, restless, misunderstood, and tired of platitudes, but all of that would be false. I don’t feel any of that - I just feel the overwhelming sense of failure. I’m a planner. It’s who I am and something that I love to - I love knowing what I’m going to do (partly because I’ve always known what I’m supposed to be doing) and deeply ingrained in this futurist ideology is the inability to let things go. And by things, obviously, I mean control. If things don’t go according to my plan, I normally fall apart. The breakdown I had after losing my NROTC scholarship and therefore jeopardizing my entire education. The panic attack when I felt stranded in Norfolk because my flight was delayed. The supposed heart attack when my roommates couldn’t participate in moving down the street. And this first week, despite not knowing how I wanted it to go, was completely out of my control. I feel as if I didn’t prepare myself for shit to go awry. I told myself before this move that whatever happens, happens. It’s out of my hands. And right now, I feel like I’ve failed myself because I haven’t really held on to that mantra. I’m still so mad that I’m not as mobile, that I’m not as mentally flexible with this change. Not being able to run is hitting me way too hard for someone who really dislikes running - I get so sad seeing people running along the banks of the river.

It just…it’s hard. And by not accepting this whole entire sprained ankle-blackout incident as just another part of life, I’m limiting myself from enjoying the fact that I had a sprained ankle-blackout incident in Paris. I’m not enjoying the ability to take a nap when I need to. I’m not enjoying the freedom of not knowing what day it is and absolutely not having to. I’m not enjoying the luxury of having so much free time that I can make whatever decision I want, even if that decision is to sit on my couch and watch “The Crown” with French subtitles. I’m not enjoying the present and not being in it, which, as a futurist, has always been my biggest challenge. I’m very aware that these patterns will likely play out the rest of my life if I don’t change anything and I am very aware that I need to make those changes. Weird. You’d think something slightly traumatic without being fatal would make me seriously examine the way I operate in life.

This morning, after a couple of days being off my pain meds and the nausea slowly subsiding, I felt like I had to get out and do something that may or may not be Parisian. I set my alarm for 7:45, which will probably be the earliest I wake up on a non-trip day, so I could finally go to the Louvre. It was a little strange to notice how good it felt, having something almost dictate my life. I felt rested, which I think was the first time I felt rested all week. I was ready to go. And getting out the door so early, I was able to take stock of what it’s like to live, not in a fantasy world of an idealized Paris, but in a Paris where people go to work and go to school and walk their dogs and buy their bread and do life. A father waiting patiently for his daughter to walk along the street after admiring a neon bright store front, an older gentleman coaxing his dog onto the sidewalk to avoid an oncoming truck, a man tucking a baguette into a reusable shopping bag after exiting a boulangerie. The main street of Ile St. Louis was hushed in the way that early mornings everywhere are. The sun was just starting to rise and I was in the midst of typical Parisian life.

I passed a shuttered up shop with a large paper sign taped up in the window that read, “It’s not what happens. It’s how you handle it.” A lesson I’ve been trying to learn my entire life but especially the last seven days. I said I wanted to be uncomfortable because I knew that would foster growth and how I’m handling this entirely uncomfortable thing that’s happened will determine what kind of person I grow to be. Still feeling the effects of it, I’m reminded of the scar I have at the webbing of my middle finger. I got it after stabbing a grapefruit I was holding then screaming bloody murder because that’s what you’re supposed to do when there’s gallons of blood coming out of your body. The healing process was kind of brutal but now I don’t even remember that pain. I did learn, however, you have to be careful of how you cut things, duh, but also to think about getting from Point A to Point B in the smartest way possible and that in turn led me to living my life from an “action leads to consequence” center. The indelible effect of the trauma is still there, but it’s also morphed into something that goes much deeper and has a lasting, intangible beauty.

Of course, this means I will certainly need new headshots to capture that beauty of a scar on my cheek.