A Gap Year from Myself

It’s 1:10 pm and I’m hiding in my hotel room, unable to step back into the dragon’s breath that is Bangkok.

This was supposed to be the best decision of my life. The birth of the “new me” — fearless and free, taking life into my own hands. Instead, I feel trapped and isolated, like a seed buried under this concrete jungle, yearning to flourish, yet unable to figure out how.

I should be out there, exploring the sprawling chaos of this tantalising cosmopolis, but the oppressive heat stages a coup, imprisoning me in one of her many cells. Has this trip been a mistake from the start?

No, I won’t spiral down again. I’ll resist the urge to feel sorry for missing out. At least there is air conditioning in my cell.

Should I check out the floating market? How about a ping-pong show, or would that just unleash the first-wave feminist in me? Not even a day-trip to Ayutthaya? I thought I liked history.

The thing is, I’m not here as a tourist. I’m not here as an expat either. I’m simply a wanderer without a clear mission or a place to be. I feel like Rambo, a vagrant drifting around, looking for home when nowhere feels like one.

I arrive at Khao San Road, the backpackers’ Mecca, lugging my wheeled duffel, and it hits me — I don’t quite fit in. I’m not in my twenties or on a gap year from uni, although in a way, I am on a gap year from my life. I’m not wearing skimpy clothes that leave little to the imagination, looking to get high, or gyrating to the cacophony of beats blasting from every club. Hell, I don’t even have a backpack. Yet, I’m here, and somehow it just isn’t enough.

I see a sea of groups and pairs, having fun and loving life — and then there’s me, looking in from the outside, as I always do. It’s true; no matter where I go, I am still right there with me. All those problems and foibles that I so desperately want to leave behind? Surprise, surprise — they are chasing me around like stray dogs, barking and fighting for their territory.

I’m in this state because of a breakup. I’d dreamed of this moment for so many years — finally breaking away, reclaiming what is me. But the reality feels nothing like what I imagined. I yearn for connection, but all I hear is this never-shushing chatter of every failure I’ve ever had. I find myself furious by the hour, with my ex, with myself, and with my inability to connect.

I’m tired of being an outsider, yet still attempting to engage, in my own clumsy way, trying to forge a bond with the world around me.