Because fuck you BEDA, I’m close.
Something odd happened after I finished my internship last week. I forgot it.
All of it. I only thought you could do that with horrible things, like witnessing an axe murderer kill your family, or getting hit as a child, but I did that with my internship. I walked by an American flag in someone’s front yard and I thought to myself, “Oh, the fourth of July is coming up soon, isn’t it?” because my brain seems to have dropped me back in my parents house just days after I moved to San Francisco, back in late June. I am aware of the internship having happened on a factual level–I can tell you what my counselor’s name was and where I was each day–but I hit a block when I try to remember how I felt or that it was even me who was there. I have a feeling it has something to do with the slightly traumatic way the internship ended for me. (Did you know that, before discovering that your car has been towed, it simply looks as though it’s been stolen?) My father tried to find the bright side to my situation, saying that this way, be like a fresh start when I move to San Francisco, but the one feeling that I can relate to whatever happened to me for eight weeks this summer is the dread about going back. I’m not sure what I did these last few months, but I know what I won’t be able to do next year.
There’s something that feels wrong and weak about being this afraid of a city, but knowing there are no other options. I’ve talked about moving to Seattle, but I’ve never even been there so it’s kind of insane to negotiate a move to a new office with new people who do not yet like me. I know I’m going to end up signing my job offer for San Francisco, but I also know that having a secure job in the states is going to make me try even harder to find a graduate programme in London. Because I’m scared to go back to whatever seems to have happened this summer. I don’t want to live a life I want to forget so badly that I actually succeed at doing so.