Beating Wanderlust
By Mileva Anastasiadou
It’s not like you chose the destination. But you step onto the car, or the plane, or the ship, attempting to find a comfortable seat. You don’t choose the seat, they tell you, so you sit where indicated, not bothering with questions. And it all seems a miracle in the beginning. The landscape unfolds before your wondering eyes and for a minute or two you see magic out there. The world lies ahead, like uncharted territory for you to discover.
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You have to learn, they say, for this trip is educational. So they start throwing information into your brain. Facts, dates, numbers. It’s important that you remember, they say, but you want only to watch the scenery through the window. You’re still eager to enjoy the journey. Perhaps I can learn more looking out the window, you think, yet you don’t dare speak. They detect your doubt as if they have been expecting it and show you people in other seats. You want to be like them and get a better seat, they explain. But you don’t mind your seat. Those better seats come with privileges, they add, only you don’t know the meaning of the word, and even though they explain, you still don’t get the point.
They finally convince you those better seats are worth fighting for. Or perhaps they don’t. So, you are now the kid in the front seat. Or you remain in the back seat.
Once or twice, you take a glimpse at those better seats. You either admit it or you may not, but it’s already in you; you imagine having a better seat, like when you’re really young and secretly believe older people are stupid, but also secretly envy them and want to enter their world to make it better.
You may or may not be able to memorize their facts. Some passengers are lucky enough to choose their teachers, but chances are you cannot. Either way, you already feel unsafe. You tell them, and they wink jokingly at you as if asking: Aren’t we all? The car may crash any minute now, the plane may fall, the ship may sink. You wish you knew from the start. Why did they bring you here? It’s the trip that counts, as long as it lasts, they promise. You trust them. As if you had a choice.
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Either way, you’re now traumatized, so they send a therapist your way. You don’t enjoy the trip because of the trauma, he explains, and you nod, because therapists know better. So they tell you. You’ve been too stressed too soon. Your self-esteem came to depend on your performance. You take it all too seriously. You either admit it or you don’t, it doesn’t make a difference. That only shows traits of your personality, but is of no importance. You need unconditional love, he finally says. And that becomes your next goal. Before you know it, you create bonds. Some of the co-travelers are interesting, but most of them are boring. Some come sit next to you, only to leave the next second, for a better seat. Then you do that too. You think it’s normal, yet disappointing at the same time. You expect unconditional love after all. They say you deserve it, but it’s hard to find. So you demand it. You act crazy sometimes, but not on purpose. Not consciously. You only want to give them the chance to prove their unconditional love you deserve.
Co-travelers come and leave. You come and leave. You can’t settle down. You even forget to enjoy the view. You’ll have plenty of time later, you say to yourself. You suspect you may have commitment issues. So now you ask for the therapist, who says you need boundaries. You say that’s the opposite of unconditional love. Of course it is, he answers in a way that implies that he doesn’t have more time to waste on you. So you discover boundaries.
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They ask for your ticket. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll find it in your pocket. Yet chances are you’re not that lucky. You search for the ticket and sometimes that takes your whole time. Meanwhile, you have to somehow pay for the trip. A stowaway, they yell before you know it, so you say you want to go out of the car, or the plane, or the ship, but they insist there’s no alternative. You yell and you scream you didn’t choose this trip, you didn’t choose this car, or plane, or ship, but nobody listens. You take a glimpse out of the window and you see the desert, or the sky, or the sea and you wonder where the magic’s gone and if you can survive, or fly, or swim. You may want to jump out sometimes, only to land onto a smaller car, or plane, or boat. Yet you cannot be sure. You may jump into nothingness instead and you fear nothingness. You never knew it existed. So you probably stay in and try to pretend you enjoy the experience. You remember the therapist’s advice; you shouldn’t take things too seriously.
The trip is expensive, they tell you. You somehow have to pay. If you belong to the majority who weren’t born with tickets, you must pay however you can. They ask for your qualifications. You tell them they should know, because they taught you. Oh well, unfortunately, you’ll have to do something else, they say most of the time. You complain for a while, but usually not for long. So you do what they tell you, which may be tiring and exhausting, but the alternative is even worse. So that’s why they’ve been trying to convince you trips are pleasant, you think. You’re supposed to like the experience. They’ve even created myths and songs about them. But you don’t. You only want to step out of the journey. You want to go home. Only you don’t have a home to go to.
Day after day, they ask more of you. And you remember boundaries. So you say no and they look disappointed, as if they knew you were useless all along. Once again, they insist you need therapy. You tell the therapist what you know about boundaries. Boundaries don’t work like that, he says. You ask why. You have to be flexible, he says. You have to be competitive to get the best seat. Get serious, he implies, only he doesn’t say it aloud and you feel like raising your hand to present your objections but you don’t. He rolls his eyes, like you’re stupid or lazy. At the moment, you think you are. Or this is a very confusing trip. It will make sense in the end, they promise. But you don’t believe anything they say. Not anymore. Or you do. For their voices are loud. So you bow your head and move on.
•
So you do as they say, and sooner or later, you find a seat that fits you. A seat you don’t want to leave, for there beside you sits a person you can have some fun with. At least in your free time. And you stick around. You don’t feel so trapped anymore. That trip has finally started being a little pleasant again. Or bearable at least. And you almost hear that old yearning from time to time, still beating inside, like a heartbeat, that longing to explore the world and keep moving ahead, enjoying the view.
Time flies. Before you know it, you’re post-everything. Post youth, post lovers, you’re almost post life. If you’re pre-something you’re only pre-death, but that doesn’t matter much, because you’ve been pre-death, since day one. This could have been a wonderful trip, you realize. If only it weren’t about those stupid seats. Who made it about those seats?
You’re still not post-love, you think, squeezing the hands of the passengers beside you, the ones you’ve chosen to travel with. One can never be post-love, until the very last minute. You take care of them with all your effort, which makes you the opposite of lazy, you realize.
If only it hadn’t been for those stupid seats, you’d have been able to care for all passengers. After all, you’re in the same car, or plane, or ship together, sharing the same destination, which none of you has chosen.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Asymmetry, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres and others. Follow Mileva on Facebook and Twitter.
Photo by Reza Aulia on Unsplash.