Yesterday marked two months since the start of my trip, and whilst I have had an amazing time, seen so many incredible things, and made wonderful friends, I also found myself back in a hostel bed trying to hold back the tears which wouldn't stop flowing down my cheeks.
It felt like a relapse, back to my first night in Bangkok, where the tears also would not stop. But it also felt silly, I'd been here before and I didn't think I would be here again. I'd conquered the loneliness, the fear and the culture shock. Still, I had known exactly what had caused it that time but this time I was at a loss.
Homesickness? Maybe. Anxiety? Probably. A nervous breakdown? Sure felt like it.
Out here two months is considered nothing. Backpackers here would probably think of that as a holiday. People travel for years, and dread the thought of going home. Life's a constant party. People move from one place to the next without even stopping to look at the scenery.
In just two months I've managed to travel to four countries, all so different from each other. Each with their own culture, traditions and language. But equally at the same time they have all flown by, each stop a pin on a map, before plotting the pins which mark our next destination. Just as you begin to fall in love with a place, you're back on the road again. Then again, at the same time, if you don't enjoy a place you just move on, zip up your bag again and book the next bus out.
Even so, it's not our fault. There's so much to see in each place and visas limit your time in each country. You might feel like you could spend two weeks in one place, but do so and you'll be missing what somewhere else has to offer. Plus you want to see the whole of a country. You don't want to limit yourself to only experiencing one spot. You may have fallen in love with the beach, or the city, or the jungle, but spend too much time there and you'll lose out on a whole other potential love story.
However, the constant travelling, the constant movement, has taken everything out of me. It seems so over dramatic to say that I need a break when I'm on a holiday, but I constantly find myself yearning for the next destination, or for home, at the expense of everything else. Though I may enjoy a place, I am anxious for what comes next and the constant planning of our next destination has an impact on the current one. I even have countdowns which clock the days, hours and minutes until I travel back to Thailand, which I loved, and where my little piece of home would join me.
As I lay in bed tears running down my face, all I could think about was flying home. It would only be temporary and I could fly back out to Phuket in July, for a real holiday, in the first country I had fallen in love with. Talking to friends and family they urged me to think it through and not make any irrational or hasty decisions. I said I would sleep on it and once again booked into another hostel, where I could relax and take time to think through my options.
Sitting by the pool in the new hostel, my urge to book a flight home remains. The tears still fall down my cheeks, this time concealed by sunglasses, and the anxiety of not knowing what I will do still hangs tight in my chest. A friend told me that any big choice takes three days to decide on, so I will try to wait that long, but I make no promises.
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