I peeled back the white foil with black polka dots to uncork this ten dollar bottle of Syrah. It is called Penelope and has a black and white picture of a dancer, all you can see is the silhoutte of her blonde hair and the pinwheel of her white polka dotted skirt, twirling.
I started typing this entry a half hour ago, just starting the questions and one sentence and a dependent clause later, I wiped away tears and swallowed in shallow breaths to run about to set the scene for this confrontation. Candles. Music. Wine. Comfy clothes and a bellyfull of determination.
Because I’ve figured out what the hell has had me running scared and gaining ten plus pounds in the past three weeks. Of all the things that I’m terrified most of for Le Retour au Cameroun (The Return to Cameroon), what I’m scared most of all is all the leftover pain and fear. How cliche-fear of fear itself. But powerful. Pent-up emotion doesn’t expire it turns out.
I thought I could skate to Cameroon and back without waking up old pain. All of my plans have been outlined with fuzzy pink clouds and feelings. How metaphorically appropriate–to climb Mount Cameroon, la di da! I think I even thought that I was over it, to the point that I felt strangely numb about the entire experience and can speak about it dispassionately. I remember at some point during my healing process speaking the words “It feels like an experience I will carry with me always.” There is no cure. But what does cure even mean? That it doesn’t cause me pain anymore? Or simply that I don’t wake up in pain?
I am who I am today because of what happened Monday February 28, 2008. I remember after the mob invaded the university, all I wanted was to go back to my homestay family’s home. The violence of the mob had planted a seed of fear against Cameroon and against Cameroonians and I knew that returning to my family’s home, talking to my homestay sister would restore my faith and kill that seed before it could take root. Instead it became a monstrous growth as we were quarentined in a hotel for four days, forbidden to look out the window and taken through emergency evacuation procedures in the event the mob would break into the hotel. Taken further and further from that place, running to grab my things to join a military convoy across country. Walking through the doors of the American embassy, wearing the same clothes I’d been wearing for a week and smiling for a picture with the ambassador. Even now I can’t relive this moment without laughing in bewilderment.
Two days in the Hilton hotel and flying away for three cold and isolating months in France. Returning was the only thought I could hold onto when I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t form a sentence without Cameroon passing pass my lips. Fought for the first time with my family, fighting to return that summer.
And now I’m finally going back. And just like last time things are spinning out of control. Why am I going? After all this time it feels like stabbing a healed wound just to remind myself of the color of my own blood, the way it feels to twist it back and forth and watch the blood make designs on my skin. I’ve been avoiding thinking about all of this but now that I am I don’t know how drinking too much wine and crying in the dark with candles and music is better than watching three seasons of True Blood.
I have all these reasons I’ve been talking about to return. To see the school. To face my fears. To conquer my PTSD. To move past the entire experience and remember it without regret.
What am I really afraid of? Besides being afraid and avoiding pain like the plague, I’m afraid of how I’ll react when I arrive. I’m afraid I’ll step off the plane and revert to old bad habits, and not want to even be there and be counting down the days till I come back. That I will be introverted and shy and completely not myself.
I’m afraid I won’t be able to speak French or understand it with the thick Cameroonian accent.
I suppose I’m afraid something will go wrong. The fear I think I’m supposed to have is that there will be another riot–but really that isn’t something I’m afraid of—I simply don’t believe it will happen.
I’m afraid things won’t go according to plan, that I will loose control. And this is a very realistic fear because nothing ever goes according to plan. The plans I”ve made have already been shot to hell and I don’t know where to start reparing them. I’m ready to throw my hands up and let the pieces fall as they may–making another plan will just make me that much more upset when it gets unraveled.
I’m terrifed that all the ground that I’ve gained in the past two years will fall away from underneath my feet. And I will once again loose myself. I’m afraid that going won’t involve any earth-shattering realizations but simply give me more questions and send me back into the oblivion of indecision.
I’m afraid, and this is a bizzare one, that Cameroon doesn’t really exist. For two years it has existed solely in my mind and my memories. Where am I flying to? I’m afraid that the place I’ll arrive in won’t be the same Cameroon I went to two years ago. That it will somehow mock my old memories and ties to Cameroon. That I’ve created an entire Cameroon in my mind unrelated to the real Cameroon.
I’m afraid that I will forget the lessons I learned, such as how I cannot hold myself responsible for the hardships of another people. That I will let the need once again overwhelm me. That I will return bearing more guilt than I can carry.
I’m afraid that it won’t be a big deal at all. That I’ll return and realize I’ve created an enormous shadow for something that was never that big at all. At the same time I’m afraid that all those fears were founded on an entirely too real reality and that everything that could possibly go wrong WILL go wrong and that I will be in danger again.
I’m afraid that I won’t get to climb Mount Cameroon at all, that me and Katie won’t get there because of her obligations to the program she is in. I’m afraid that if we do climb Mount Cameroon that I won’t be strong enough to make it to the top, or that I’ll be embarrased by how out of shape I am.
I’m afraid that I’ll get back on the plane after two weeks and not have anything to show for it. That I’ll arrive back home and nothing will have changed.
I’m afraid my aunt will die while I am gone and that I will miss the funeral. I’m afraid that even though my mother says she understands that she really doens’t. That if I miss this funeral, my cousins will never forgive me for not being there to help them grieve for their mother. That I will miss another important family moment.
I’m afraid that can’t name the fear that is the one fear that is so important that I actually talk about. That this unnamed fear will ambush me the moment I step off the plane in Douala and I will realize the ultimate important task or spiritual precautions I should have taken or done already. That it will be my downfall.
I’m afraid that I will get typhoid. (really). I messed up the dosage of the vaccination–its a series of four pills every other day and somehow I took two, two days in a row.
I’m afraid that my parents will be terrified while I am gone. That I’ll keep getting into fights with them before I leave.
I’m afraid that I will wake up tomorrow morning the same way I have for too many days these past few weeks–feeling scared and lost and full of grief. I’m afraid that this list will never end and that after I post this it will be as if this entire experience of confronting my fears will evaporate as if it never happened. Which is why I’m putting the list on pause. For now I am too tired to think of more fears. Don’t worry I won’t loose them, they have a habit of sticking close.
And now I’m going to bed. Goodnight moon. Goodnight Cameroon. Goodnight sister friends, and goodnight fears. See you all tomorrow. Or in two weeks.
Alexandra Marie
