I'm not really one to admit when I have anxiety. Very few people are privy to my nerves and my concerns about the future, and the rest of my friends and acquaintances (so I've come to learn) seem to view me as someone who goes through life, carefree and without worry, landing in one adventure after the next, and laughing about it all the way. Which is true, for the most part. I do seem to get myself into an awful lot of "adventures." But that's also the way I tend to look at it... and tell others about it. One person's lost luggage (or twelve) is my "haha that'll be a funny blog post." But it's also REALLY ANNOYING sometimes.
The point is, I'm stressed. Really stressed. I admit it. It's July 1. I will be in Barcelona a total of 8 days during the month of July, and not in a row. Two months from now I am meant to be officially working in Paris. In other words, another city, another country, wherein I'm STILL a foreigner. Another language. Another work visa, another social security system, tax system, metro system, social system. Another apartment, another mobile phone, another bank account. Another way of life that isn't the one I grew up with. Another time to uproot myself and what I've come to know and start over again.
So basically, I freak out every day. Some days I freak out a lot, some days just a little. Some days people know about it, most days I keep it for myself... which probably makes it worse. Yesterday was one of those days I broke down and filled Frenchy in, and I admit I felt much better afterward. But that is one of the things that scares me the most about all of this - now there are two of us involved. It's one thing for me to move to another country, uproot myself, change everything, go with the flow. It's another thing altogether to ask someone else to do the same, particularly when they never particularly planned to go back to that country in the first place.
And so here I am. The countdown has started. After nearly three years, only two months remain in my Barcelona life. Finally, the sun is out here. It's hot. UNBEARABLY hot for most people. But I haven't complained because I'm just so delighted summer is finally here. Life is good. The city is clean, small, easy to manage and get around. I see the Mediterranean from my bedroom window. The beach is 5 minutes away on my moto... I probably won't even be able to bring my moto to France. I love my moto. Some of my old IESE friends are even moving back to town... right around the time I leave. This isn't going to be easy.
And yet every time I worry, my typical Noelle voice chimes in: "It could be worse. You could have no legs." Or "It could be worse. You could be jobless in a bad economic climate." "It could be worse. You could be forging ahead alone."
All true. And all of these things remind me of just how lucky I am. And yet, it's there... that nagging feeling that I've built a sand castle and now I'm jumping on it, mixing it all around, ruining it. That I'm taking someone along for this ridiculous ride... Someone who has been so flexible, so kind, so understanding, so supportive... What if he gets sick of all this "adventure?" So here I am at 1am, where I often find myself late at night these days. Awake. Thinking too much. Wondering how it's all going to turn out and yet knowing that in the past everything always turned out fine. One voice competes with another inside my head. And then another voice, his voice, telling me it's all going to be fine. Geez, I hope so.