For the first three years in the States, I was so profoundly home-sick that it was a complete torture for me to convince myself that my new address choice had been the right one. I'm not even sure why exactly I didn't pack up and go back. Most likely, it was the curiosity to see what would meet me at the end of nostalgia mixed with the total lack of energy to pack. Larisa, a wonderfully pragmatic friend of mine, spent many a lunch (luckily, we worked near each other) drilling the same maxim into my brain, "From the experience of many of my friends, the first three years in a new country are very difficult and soaked with home-sickness, but if you manage to tough it out, the reward is amazing. Just trust me!" I didn't. I just switched to my auto-pilot to go through the motions. All the energy I could possibly summon was invested into my emotional survival in the surreal sadness of the nostalgia-world I had created for myself. It is so strange for me to look back to these times now. On the outside, everything in my life was good. I had a husband, I had work, I had friends, we went to parties and weekend getaways, and long vacations, we drank, we ate, we had fun. The inside of me was painted gray though. I don't think I was depressed. I was just extremely sad, bouncing on the thin border separating me from real depression. Only during my trips to Russia would I suddenly come back to life… And then – one sunny morning somewhere around my 3-year anniversary in New York – BAM – I woke up knowing, "I am happy here!" It was a miracle. Of course, the process must have been gradual, but I really haven't noticed it. Larisa was absolutely right. The prediction worked! Some years later, I was telling the same exact thing to my friend Erica who was temporarily moving to Dubai at the time with her husband. And what do you know, after the three years of nostalgic sap, she was back to her normal cheerful self as if nothing happened. Why three years, I wonder… And I also wonder if there is a formula for multiple moves (not that I'm contemplating). After all, the experience you gain while creating a new comprehensive life for yourself in a new country should count for something and hopefully can be factored in to decrease the number of sad months. ¡Ojalá!, as the Mexicans say, "Let's hope so!" (just in case, you never know).
Before that momentous day it felt like there were two distinct "ME"s, and now I finally became ONE again, my Russia-grounded colors slowing finding their way onto my NYC self-portrait. After the mix reached the 50/50 mark, it balanced there for quite a few years: I considered both places home, I could be happy in either.
Today though it has become very clear to me – "I am from New York". Don't get me wrong, I still love being here, hanging out with my friends, being force-fed by my mom, enjoying the beauty of Saint-Petersburg. All of this is absolutely fantastic! It's just not home anymore. This is very confusing: every time I leave my mom's apartment, the one that I had lived in till 19, I breathe in the painfully familiar smell of yellow leaves on wet asphalt… I have always called it "the smell of home". What should I call it now? I have never smelled it anywhere else in the world, or even in Saint-Petersburg for that matter, just near my childhood apartment. Maybe now Saint-Petersburg is the "home of my childhood"?..
No comments:
Post a Comment