Warning: Somewhat lengthy post, explaining the debacle of the last few days in case you're curious.
Would it help to say that I don't know who wrote the last few posts?
Well, I'd be lying. Because I know who wrote them. Someone inflicted with food poisoning (thank you, Amtrak!) and general malaise wrote them.
Basically, here's what happened: I got to Vancouver. I spent the day running around Granville Street seeing the sights, tying straightjackets on buskers (true story), and Quatchi-hunting.
When I got back to my hostel room, however, something changed. I was feeling very sad, for some mysterious reason, and exhausted and a bit nauseous. But I chalked it up to the fact that I hadn't eaten in awhile and that I was anxious about being alone in the big city.
Right after my "Vancouver Gutsiness" post was sent off to the Internets, in which I emotionally explained my general sadness about being away from home, all that running around, and nervousness from being in a strange (and very large!) place, and (I realized later) a certain food item purchased on the train that afternoon...caught up with me.
So, you COULD say I was enjoying part of the Vancouver nightlife. I just skipped the "fun" part and went running off to the "sick", "exhausted", and "upchucking all night" part. Yay!
Obviously, I was a mess the next morning. And all I really wanted to do was go home, because I still felt sick. And I feared very much the ribbing I might take for doing so, because I always write myself into a gutsy corner and assume that everyone cares as much as I do (which...uh...they don't...it's my life, yeah?). So after a good ten minutes thinking it over (if that), I called Amtrak to reschedule my departure, told the hostel I was checking out a day early (and they gave me a refund...so nice of them!), and started packing.
I hopped a train to bring me home (btw...train travel with food poisoning was probably not my smartest move, but I survived) and I arrived last night at 10:00pm with no sleep, no food (I was scared to eat), and feeling like I had the miserable word FAIL stamped on my forehead in red letters.
Why am I telling you this?
Because this is what we tell ourselves that life is all about.
In this Pass/Fail world we live on a diet of successes and backslides. And I'm pretty sure I've harped on this before, but it's always relevant. Because this is the culture we live in. I was so ashamed of coming home early that I almost stayed in Vancouver just to prove a point, praying that I would be miraculously healed and trying to pretend like I'm having a good time.
You know what? I'm STILL not feeling 100%. One more night in Vancouver would have been hell, and not worth the feeling of "accomplishment" at having stuck to my guns.
If I'm ranting, I'm mostly ranting at me, for believing that everything is measured by the same yardstick.
I woke this morning to sunshine and the knowledge that I can take it slow, take care of myself, relax and get better. I spent the day at ease, scanning fantastic blogs I had missed, finally appreciating Flight of the Conchords truly for the first time (I was a stubborn holdout), and reading novels I hadn't got around to, yet. Cuddling with my new Quatchi plushy and sipping chicken broth.
Why do I always have to tell myself that it's OKAY to be content, even if it comes in the wake of what one might call a failure?
I don't know. And maybe I never will.
But that episode of my life is over, now. I took it. I learned. Let's move on, shall we?