California here we come.... Right back where we started from.

After months of struggling to say it, I finally managed to throw the words off my tongue with unexpected force.

“I’m thinking of transferring out of Boston and heading home”. Once I finally said it, the weight had been lifted.

Being abroad has been as much about where I’m not as it’s been about where I am. I’ve been grappling with this for a long time, and it’s long past due that I finally come clean. Boston’s made me a rather miserable person. In a lovely twist of irony, I miss California.

I miss the shallow narcissism. I miss being able to be myself and whine and bitch and not be concerned about a whole slew of arbitrary set gender roles. I’m sick of not connecting with anyone at Boston University. I’m sick of dealing with people who have to have all their ducks in a row at all times and if, by chance, one of them is out of the row then all life has to stop in order to get things perfectly straightened.

I miss being able to be emotional. I miss throwing myself into interesting conversation. I miss late night burrito runs. Hell, I miss good Mexican food at all. I miss being at the epicenter of damn near every trend of the last twenty years. I miss warm weather. But mostly, I miss the warm population that isn’t afraid of realizing that Yes, Life is All About You. I’m selfish and self-centered, and I’m tired of being crucified for it.

Most of all, being here in Dublin, I’ve reawakened the reasons why I came to Boston in the first place. Leaving California I thought that I had potential that I was going to be someone, that I would be more than a face in the crowd. Instead of having this potential reinforced and grown, I’ve taken more than two years of being told that I am average, mediocre, subpar, and just another college student. It’s the most depressing thing in the world to realize that maybe you’ve been lying to yourself and you’re not really that special or great at your talent.

In Boston, the classes range from middling to terrible. I can count the number of times I’ve been inspired by a professor on one hand. Coming here, I’ve reawakened myself to the possibility that maybe I am different, unique, and just a titch off-center. As someone said about me after class “Every time you speak, it’s like you’ve got a lot going on up there”. I haven’t heard that sort of thing in two years. Two years.

Today, I made a typical list of Pros and Cons about transferring. In the Boston column was “investment, both financial and and emotional” and “Reputation of degree”. In the California column there was only one plus written – happiness.

It was the end of October and I had just gotten off a flight to visit a friend of mine at University of Michigan, a real university. It was a complete slap in the face. People who aren’t emotionally dead inside. A real campus. The True American College Experience ™. I arrived late that night, and I was already feeling down from the trip. I flipped on the TV and the Red Sox had won the World Series. As Boston erupted into self-congratulatory boozing, I could do little but realize that I was never a part of Boston and that I’d never be. I walked over to the kitchen and grabbed a stainless steel knife. It gleamed in the shallow light of our half-lit apartment. I pressed it to my skin and remembered a saying from god knows where. “I just want to know what it feels like. Just once”.

Before I pressed it down rationality prevailed and I threw the knife back into the sink. In that moment I collapsed in a crumpled heap of self-doubt, anger, and a rare moment of clarity on the kitchen floor. My god, I thought. This is it. This is how it ends. I let out a small smile and said out loud to no one in particular “I didn’t even write anything good”.

I must have stayed on that floor for what seemed like hours. Eventually though, I collected myself and dragged my weary self over to my bed. I grabbed my cell phone and called an old friend I hadn’t talked to for over a year. As soon as she said hello, I let out a string of barely collected thoughts about what I hated about Boston and where I was currently at in my life. That anger felt uplifting. Finally, I was experiencing life again. After a straight thirty minutes of ranting, I fell silent.
“So, you’re finally ready to admit that you’re a Californian?”.
“Yeah”, I said with the first real smile in months.

The next week I walked into a Boston University office and was speedily prescribed anti-depressants. Yes, I too was now finally part of Prozac nation. Joy. Life proceeded on as normal through the usual unsatisfying mix of plodding classes, dreary relationships, and a deep emptiness. It got to the point where I confided in friends from back home that if I didn’t get in to Dublin I’d take a semester off to try and find myself amongst all the noise of daily life. I got in, and things have certainly improved since I’ve been here. Interesting in classes, good conversation, and, yes, better weather have given me a desperately needed sense of direction and purpose.

This trip has given me unexpected clarity, but I’m still completely lost on what comes next. Deadlines for schools back home have already passed, with the next available semester in Fall of 2009. Staying at Boston University is the only option I’ve got, and due to my major hopscotch, I’ve got at least another eighteen months in wonderful wonderful Boston. I’m not going to let that town ruin me. I can’t let it crush my spirit any further. I offer a sincere thanks to everyone that I've met that has made life here a little more bearable, a little more likable, and a lot more humorous.

Game On. And you can bet that the second I get that shiny degree with that accursed Boston University logo I’ll be on one of the first flights back home. Back to where I belong. I’m posting this publicly because I’m tired of pretending to be someone I’m not.

My name is Steve Timberman, I’m a Californian and I’m planning on being a writer. Who are you?