I know I haven't posted in awhile and part of that was due to the fact that I didn't really know what to write about, or how to put what I felt down on paper, the other part was due to me not wanting to. I don't really know what I feel or how to process being home and getting back into the flow of the American lifestyle. My mind and emotions seem somewhat scrambled and more than likely that is how this blog will be so if you are looking for a nice fluent read then I apologize because you won't find it here, but if you are looking for a read that is raw and real and allows you to see the situation I now face and my new reality that I must adapt to then keep reading.
I have been home a week and have seen and talked to a lot of people, both family and friends. I find myself telling the same stories over and over and as I have told them I have started to notice something happening mentally and emotionally. I do not notice a sensation to cry at the fact that I have left Rwanda, although there have been tears shed, nor do I have a desire to laugh and play with my friends that I have not seen in 5 months. I don't really feel anything. I am emotionless. If anything I feel withdrawn, disconnected, absent. I feel like an empty shell, lost of meaning and placed in an environment that isn't my own. I look at my pictures and have even watched a few movies about Rwanda, and I see places I have been almost as if I had been there in a dream once. When I speak of the events of Rwanda, I speak as if I am telling not my story, but the story of a friend, or a story out of a book I once read. Mentally, I cannot comprehend the change and seem to be hitting a wall. I would say that is the best way to describe what has happened to me. My mental subconscious has built a wall around my emotions to keep the pain and loss of coming home take hold. It is what has happened in the past and it is my go-to defense mechanism.
I do find myself at times stopping and looking at my surroundings, wondering where the woman in brightly clad dresses are, where are the little ones running around yelling "muzungu, Muzungu" alerting the entire village to the arrival of white people? Where are the lush green forests and rolling hills and mountains that I have so come to love? Where are the moto taxies that come to whisk me away into town? Where is my home? It's in these moments of clarification when tears start to fall and memories rush to fill my heart and mind. It's in these moments when loss becomes reality. I look outside and I am reminded of my heart and the condition it seems to be in. Cold, gray, bitter, dead. The weather seems fitting, just like the day I left Rwanda. Rain was falling as I boarded the plane. The clouds had rolled in, covering the blue sky and shinning sun with a gray and black, rain promised storm. The land around seemed to mirror what was taking place in my own heart. As I walked to the plane, taking the same path I had when I had arrived, I was thankful for the rain, because it covered up the tears that were had joined in. Then, like now, the weather was a indicator of where I was emotionally. I find myself in a bitter cold, having just come from a warm and life-giving summer, waiting for the Spring that will come with life bringing warmth. I know it will come and I wait for it, knowing that even in the midst of my winter, He is still with me, strengthening me, and preparing me for what is to come.
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