Back home, many people consider a job overseas as a real perk (if you completely ignore the negative long-term ramifications of the diaspora).
I’ve been working in Indonesia for a month, and I haven’t seen that green pasture everyone’s so excited about.
It was a blast at first, moving away and finally gaining independence. I wrote a really dramatic letter to my parents asking for freedom, back when I just wanted their blessing to visit a boyfriend in my hometown, and it’s nice to let my parents know that I was at least serious about my goal.
I relish the idea that I had shattered everyone’s expectations by living in a foreign land instead of curling up in my domestic shell.
But like all newly liberated things, the euphoria of being thrust into the air always comes first before a crash landing.
The truth is that my job isn’t as I expected. Every day, I do something I know in my heart that I have mastered, but then I end up feeling like an idiot. Most of it is my fault, being too assuming.
It’s hard to have my days consist of getting bogged down in a mire of errant punctuations and treating subject-verb agreements as if they were life and death decisions. It’s hard to know that, for the next 11 months, I will be cleaning up stories rather than producing them. I am the impotent pen.
There is always a time in a person’s life when they have to make the tough decision between doing something they are passionate about, or doing something for the sake of doing something, for fear of withering away.
Unfortunately, my passion just folded up. And I’m starting to wonder if the struggle is worth it.