When I Get Back

I've slipped back down to the place I started. I am not happy anymore. I'm fighting the urge to stay in bed all day and not doing a very good job of it. I'm leaving the country Friday. I've been thinking it would probably be best if I never came back. I keep getting the overwhelming feeling that I will not be missed when I am gone. And that when I come back, I will be severely disappointed. Because nothing will have changed in the month I was away. I don't think it's too much to want to be missed. To have someone think about you when you aren't there and wish you were. I'm sure I will miss here when I am away, even though I don't want to.

This trip contains so many feelings for me; they are a mish-mash of good and bad. Fear, expectation, excitement, trepidation. There is no telling what is going to happen. I have a similar feeling as I had when I moved across the country; like something big is going to happen but there's no telling what it is. I keep thinking that if I'd known then what I know now, I'd have done things much differently. But isn't that always the way of it? What will I do differently about France next time? It is impossible to tell.

One thing I've sort of wished lately is that I could get some before I go. I am going to be there for a month, after all. But then I remember, oh yeah, I haven't gotten any in much longer than a month, so what difference does it make? It's not like I need something to tide me over. Because there won't be any when I get back, either. And then I remember that I am repulsive to the opposite sex and it all becomes clear. I might as well stop thinking about it, because I'm not going to be getting any for the rest of my pathetic life. Convent anyone? How depressing. I'm more celebate than a Catholic priest.

Anyway, I digress.

I'm hoping things will be better than I could've ever expected. I'm afraid they'll be worse than I ever imagined. Especially when I get back.