Tuesday June 12. 2001
During these past few weeks, whenever I've gotten home after a weekend in Lebanon, I've just felt sad. The aimless, wandering around your apartment kind of sadness, a sadness and longing for something you've abandoned and lost. I know that I really have no intellectual reason for this sadness, but everytime I get home to Philly I feel like I'm abandoning my family. I feel like they need me so much, and I don't feel like I'm doing enough for them.
It's happened every Sunday for the past few weeks. I'd get home, unload whatever I had brought with me, check my email, give a quick call to Lebanon to let them know I had got in okay, and then sit down, and think about the emotional distance that exists between my life here in Philadelphia and my life in Lebanon. And eventually I'd end up on the couch or in my bed, crying, with that heart ache deep in my chest.
95 miles from their doorstep to mine. Exits 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25 and 26. Everytime I traverse this distance I feel like I'm growing. I feel like I'm regressing. I feel like an adult with the weight of my family on my shoulders, I feel like a little kid who just wants everything back the way it used to be.
"Half the time you call Philly home, half the time you call Lebanon home," John said to me once. "You're in between right now, you don't know where you are. I went through that period, too. Everyone does."
My stressed and compassionate mother. My distant, impenetrable father. Even my indifferent, self-centered little sister, I find I miss them all when I'm away from them. I just want a middle ground. I just want everything to be okay.
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One Year Ago:
"But go I did, and sat for three hours, trying to resist reading a book I had brought with me, listening to many melodramatic and sentimental speeches by my fellow students and administrators who came out of the woodwork for this very occasion. I'm not good at endings. I'm not good at goodbyes, either, so I tend to avoid them completely."