Italy Post #7

Dear Readers,
I cried in earnest today. Not for the first time either, sadly. Its not that I don’t want to be here. Its not even that I’m homesick, although I do find myself missing Westmont. Or maybe just the community at Westmont. I’m disoriented by my place in this small group of people; I’m not the chapel band singer, the Writers’ corner tutor, or even the English major. It’s terrifying to stand on my own again, without any labels to back me up, no activities to prove my worth in this place. I’m finding it difficult not to refer to the things that I’m known for at Westmont, whether its chapel band or chamber singers; I can’t avoid these labels, but at the same time I want to distance myself from them, to be known just as Erika.

I posted earlier that I was surprised to see how close everyone was getting. I don’t regret that post, and I don’t want to make it seem untrue. I’ve made great friends here already, and I hope that in the end I will be friends with everyone here. Yet both my roommate and I have noticed that the Gordon people are starting to become a clique - they sit at the same table every meal, they include each other exclusively in their outings, they talk amongst themselves with no extra effort to include others. Its not frustrating because I’ve definitely found good friends among the people on this program, but it still gives me a lot of sadness.

Which leads directly into why I cried tonight. Its been so frustrating being here and having MS. At Westmont its not that big of a problem - if I’m having symptoms, I deal with them directly, whether that’s sleeping more, choosing my classes wisely, or even just walking a lot slower than everyone else. I can’t do that here. We all take class together at the same time, from 9-12. There are also a lot of trips involved, which usually include a rigorous amount of walking; its not quite ideal. While I’ve come to realize the drawbacks with this program, I’m also in a controlled community - there are 24 of us. Matt and Dr. Skillen want me to present my situation to the whole group (everyone has to do something like this, so its not weird); that would mean my entire community would have that knowledge of me. No more explaining, no more awkward absences - everyone would know.

But not only this medical concern has been on my mind - Dad has. I can’t help it - I worry. I worry that this trip was the wrong thing, that I’ll regret not having stayed home for the rest of my life (melodramatic yes, but still...), that I’ll be missing out on some precious time. I know life is tempermental and we have that enduring hope in the return of Jesus. But I still worry; I can’t help it. And I think that’s the thing that really hit home tonight - when I found out Dad was alright, all of those worries rushed to the surface of my mind, while before this time I had been restraining them in the interest of my own health and the trip.

So I bottled it in. I didn’t cry, I just went back to the sala and studied. Dinner came around; people gathered in groups and left for the Locanda del Lupo. I ran back to my room for a jacket and followed another Gordon student into sala to wait for any other stragglers who might still be around. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, the Gordon student got up and left for dinner without a word. And without me. I think that was when I really broke down. I realized that in this moment, in this culmination of emotion and sadness, I have no one around me who knows me, who could talk me through it and comfort me.

So what’s the rest of the story? I walked to the restaurant in tears, arrived on the brink of breaking down, and finally my friend Becky took me on a walk so I could regain composure. I ended up making it through dinner without another episode, then went to the duomo by myself and cried. And cried. Then I came back to the monastery and cried. I’m crying right now.

And I think its OK.