Surreality

“How are you feeling?”

Sitting at an intersection with the stark glare of red traffic lights temporarily halting my passage, my friend asked me this question, which, even in the calmest of circumstances, I never really quite know how to answer; the night’s festivities and my impending future, though by no means negative, were not exactly calming.

“Half of me hasn’t even registered that it’s happening,” I respond, “while the other half is just… ‘Woah, what am I doing?'”

That night, my friends were throwing a fairly impromptu going-away party in my honor. In six days, I was to board a plane and leave the US for a period of ten months. My destination: Bulgaria, where I am to serve as an assistant teacher of English at a local high school.  Given that this is my first extended stay outside of my home country–my only other trip outside the country was to Paris for a week or two, and with a loving aunt and uncle who were fluent in French, at that–this is going to be a big deal in my life. Further, 10 months is a long time to live without seeing friends and family.

To do what little can be done to prepare for those 10 months, my mother insisted that she stop by to help me pack. I was reluctant at first, until I was informed that I have no idea how dress pants are to be correctly folded (my folding method made perfect sense to me). The first trial of my suitcase setup is currently sitting in the corner of my increasingly bare bedroom, complete with appropriately folded pants. There is a strange feeling I get in turning around and gazing at the contents of the suitcase, which were formerly stacked neatly in a dresser or hung up in my closet, now crammed into the limited space provided. Yet I had wondered up to what point would I still feel like none of this was happening, that I was in a dream or that I was just waiting to hear that there was a bureaucratic blunder and that Colby, in fact, was not intended to take this journey. That feeling is not the feeling I get when I see that mostly-packed suitcase resting expectantly in the corner.

I was afraid that there would never come a time when that surreal mindset would give way. Would I always be waiting to be hit by the reality of the situation, but never actually experience that psychological impact that, yes, this was happening to me? I had known of my plans months in advance, and whenever I discussed them with others, I usually felt disconnected from it all. Sometimes, I almost felt annoyed, as if we were meaninglessly conversing about something that was not real, only imaginary.

But now, seeing my packed belongings, it is almost hard to imagine that mental distance I had previously between me and what was to come. Almost.

This feeling had not passed towards the end of the party, when the friend who asked me how I was feeling hugged me goodbye and left. I could really only hug out of obligation, rather than genuine feeling, because, at the time, none of this was really happening. The situation did not change when I returned to the friends who remained and continued to have fun. None of this was really happening; I’m not going anywhere. And I felt the same way when I pulled over a blanket and drifted to sleep on the couch. Not happening.

The light of the sun entering the room awakened me, as it usually does early in the morning. I got up and began to quietly gather my things strewn about the room. Slowly, others began to meander about, either tossing in half-sleep on a sofa or themselves looking about the room for a lost cell phone or set of keys. I pat myself down: phone, check; wallet, check; keys, check. I look into my bag and see that my laptop and all related items are inside. One last thing to do. “Well, I’m leaving,” I say.

And so I approach each friend with a strong hug. With one I had shared many conversations about whatever random philosophical questions popped into his head. Another will be joining the military and I might never see him again. “We’ll miss you,” they say. And I reply that I will miss them too.

Exiting the house, I realize something is amiss. My heart feels heavy; I contemplate running back inside and telling them that I am having a heart attack, but I stop myself. I feel anxious; moreover, I feel sad. And that is when “This isn’t happening” turned into “This is happening,” when I realized that I would be without my best friends for nearly a year, that I would not get to hop in a car and drive past the mountains to my old hometown every weekend to play games and hang out. That night was to be one of my last with them for a long time.

My vision was partially obscured on the way home.