149 - Rough Patch… continued (Tbilisi, Georgia)

NOSTOMANIA [nos-tuh-mey-nee-uh, -meyn-yuh] (noun) — an overwhelming desire to return to familiar surroundings, or to one's home; obsessive or abnormal interest in nostalgia; insanity brought on by homesickness.

LIFE ON THE LAM CAUGHT UP. I was tired, unwell, and grappling with a long-established existential malaise. For the first time in a year and a half, I considered going home. In hindsight, maybe (definitely) I should’ve. I ran, though I’m not sure if I was running away or toward some delusional chimera of my own creation. I hadn’t worked in almost two years, burning prospects to the ground. I didn’t believe I had anything to return to… besides a mother who missed me (needed me) more than I realized. Lost. Unable to look back. Too scared to look forward. You can’t run from yourself, though I made a valiant effort. Darkness fell. It followed me home. There’s light at the end of this tunnel. There has to be. What if it’s not a tunnel? What if I’m in a hole, going the wrong way? What if I want to turn around, but can’t seem to find the strength? What if going deeper has its own soothing allure, breeding a fatalism that fades from siren to lullaby?

Drugs. Alcohol. Gambling. Money. Fame. (Insert personal vice here.) We all have a path to self-destruction, a dependency waiting to be realized. We’re all addicted to something. Some compulsions are more acceptable than others, but all can lead to perdition. My obsession was a feature, not a bug, of a quest to live unencumbered by convention… right? I’ll go out there, paint myself into a corner, and force a reckoning. I’ll figure it out. Fuck yeah.

I’m a not-so-recovered travel-holic. My addiction was (is) wanderlust. (Or is it novel encounters?) It consumed me. Had I channeled it constructively and established a fallback position, there was a chance, however small, I could’ve figured shit out. I burnt bridges that didn’t need to be burnt.

Before my extended sojourn, I attended law school, passed the bar exam, then screamed, “Au revoir” to lawyerhood. I parted ways with reason and rationality by enlisting in the US Army. Some thrive in the military. They’re built for it. I am not. I don’t subscribe to the “all servicemen/women are heroes,” but those who serve honorably, who dedicate themselves to something greater, deserve respect, whether or not you agree with the military’s practical application. I wanted to thrive. I wanted to find my niche. All I found was frustration and cynicism. It was a desperate move from a desperado and only fed my existential angst. I escaped early with an honorable discharge. I’m neither proud nor ashamed of my withdrawal. It’s what had to happen.

I still had school debts, so I accepted a position with a military contractor in Baghdad, Iraq. Actual skill wasn’t necessary, not with a Top Secret/Sensitive Compartmented Information (TS/SCI) clearance. Yeah, I needed the money, but it’s my addiction to novelty and an unwavering curiosity that propelled me into a combat zone. All I had were news reports ranging from sycophancy to merciless condemnation. What was it really like? An in-depth accounting is beyond the scope, but suffice it to say, the military-industrial war machine was on full display. It wasn’t a pretty picture. My position (along with the vast majority of private sector adjuncts) directly resulted from bureaucratic corruption, bloat, and all the seediness innate to government contracting. After two and a half years, I paid off all my debts and stashed some serious coin. In the process, I blackened my soul, perhaps leaving permanent scars I’ve never fully appreciated. So, I ran, and I’ve been running ever since, if not literally, then metaphorically.

Back in Tbilisi, I’d reached a crossroads—where to go and what to do next? I’d become a quasi-family member at my homestay. I’d heard a “sibling” refer to the “American guy's room” in a tone suggesting permanent residency. A few more nights, and I might’ve got my name on the door. I blame the Georgian Foreign Ministry’s somewhat astonishing three-hundred-sixty-day “no visa” requirement for citizens of the United States, Canada, and Western European countries. Three hundred sixty days? Not a good way to light a fire under my ass. I was stagnating. So, pack it in or trudge ahead? I trudged. It’s all I knew how to do. After a week of convalescence, I trudged to the breakaway republic of Abkhazia on Georgia’s northwest flank, experiencing an existential crisis of its own.