Maps and Decisions

Six weeks ago, I made the decision to leave Korea at Christmas. It was a hard day. I once said that leaving a job uses a lot of language similar to a break up. I had to say, "This isn't you, it's me," and "I am so sorry to do this to you," and "This isn't fair to you," all while crying my eyes out in front of my administrator. She was very understanding, thankfully. We agreed I would leave at Christmas and I began making plans.

Two weeks later, they told me they had found another teacher to take my place mid-November. I would be leaving a month earlier than planned, with a lot less money than I wanted. It seemed like the best decision, though. Stress and Lyme disease don't work well together. There have been days when my panic attacks keep me from going out the door, days when I feel I will pass out during class, and days when I forget the day or my students' names, and cannot make out what people are saying. It is best for everyone, including my students, that I leave and let someone else take my place.

My students all had different reactions. A few classes were incredibly sad and brought me candy and chocolate as a gesture of love, all of which I sadly cannot eat. A few did not seem to really care, and a few others actually thought it was funny and started calling me "Sick Teacher." That was on the same day that one of my kindergarten kids said, "Yay. Teachuh leave."  I went home and cried.

I had a really good plan when I came to Korea. All of it looked so shiny and beautiful. My map had so many great places and ideas on it. None of it included getting Lyme disease, being sick a lot, experiencing crushing loneliness, or being angry and frustrated every day. None of it included some random person in the Bronx getting my debit card information and buying themselves a bunch of stuff with it. None of it included being so emotionally drained that I can't write without crying. None of it included being upset at God.

There is no map for what I am doing or experiencing now. I do know that I am going to my parents' house in California. I do know I will be seeing a doctor and trying to recover from Lyme. I do know I will eventually be moving out to Wisconsin to live with my sister and her husband. The future is remarkably uncharted, and that isn't comforting. I like knowing where I'm going. I like knowing that what I am doing has a purpose. Healing from Lyme takes so very long. It is not something you can set a time for. My specialist isn't going to say, "In three months you will be fine." There are so many obstacles still to come. I don't know how I am going to get through this.

When I made the decision, I avoided telling anyone for a while, preferring to carry it in secret. I tried writing about it, and no words came. Honestly, I felt afraid of people's reactions. I don't want any of the Christianese sayings, like "God has such a big adventure planned for you." Right. Laying at home in bed is an adventure. Woohoo. I don't want people saying, "God is showing His love to you in this time. You can trust Him." Okay, thanks. I'm having a mental and physical breakdown over here, but I'll wait for that feeling of Almighty love to kick in. I have actually experienced someone telling me "Other people have it worse than you and they run marathons." *Pause* Okay, thanks for that. *Walk away quickly* I know that my pain is not as bad as others, but it is my pain, and I cannot allow other people's opinions or poignant platitudes to dictate how I work through it. That's part of the reason I am finally writing this.

My tone may surprise some people, given the smiling photos of me on Facebook every other week. Please don't think those were posted as false fronts. There really have been moments of beauty here in Korea. My health and overall lack of well-being have overshadowed them, though. For every good day or moment, there have been three bad days.

I want all of these decisions to mean something, to count in some way. I want to see the map and where this journey is going. Shortly after I arrived, someone gave me a map of my area of Seoul. I hung it on the wall by my desk, liking the look of the bridges crossing the Han River, and the subway lines winding to any and every place I could want to go. It was a tangible reminder that things were going according to my beautiful plan. Recently, during what I will simply call the Terrible Day, I tore the map down and ripped it to shreds, tearing piece after piece until there was a pile of map fragments on the floor. I took scrap after scrap, glued them down on blank journal pages, and scribbled confusing directions and arrows all over them. That's what my life looks like right now: a messed up map that no one can read.

Before I came over to Korea, a lot of people said I was brave. To me, deciding to move to another country wasn't brave. Making the decision to leave that country, after all the work I had put into moving there, that is something I consider brave. Every decision I make from now on is one step further into the Unknown. Although, I realize now that all of life is that way: a collection of steps into uncharted territory. I may map what I have seen and make my decisions for tomorrow, but only God knows what's on the other side of this mountain.