Adjusting to life in Paris has been difficult, to say the least. The rhythms of my life have been thrown off completely, and recast into something both arduous and terrifying for which I have no reference point, no habits, no routines, and no familiar comforts.
I haven’t been writing because I loathe depressed writing; there was a point in my life where that’s all I was doing, and looking back on the posts evoked feelings of impatience and disgust with myself that made me marvel at my colossal arrogance, that I should pollute the world with such self-pitying drivel.
Well, maybe not drivel. It was always well-dressed bullshit, if no less whiny.
In any case, despite living here for over 3 months, I’m still adjusting. My jaw and tongue still tighten up with nervousness when I have to speak quickly or unexpectedly in French, revealing my accent. I still have trouble getting to sleep (and, consequently, waking up early). I definitely have trouble adjusting to the classes here, and the confidence I used to have in my work has fled utterly.
And worst of all, I see things or hear things and think about how So-And-So would find that amusing/interesting/odd, and then remember that So-And-So is quite far away, across both an ocean and a continent, and 9 hours’ time difference besides. I can’t help but feel that vital pieces of myself are missing. There was a period of about a week, right around Halloween, where I did not leave the house for 6 days. I missed classes, hid in bed, slept all day and read all night to distract myself.
That’s when I realized that I might have a problem.
Since then, I’ve been actively trying to not be a recluse. I think it’s going well. I’ve been going back to classes, too, though it’s been tough, since my earlier truancy has basically dried up the larger part of my professors’ patience and pretty much left me with no wiggle room at all. I can’t say I like the university system all that much, where the administration is incredibly inefficient and the actual instruction is, for the most part, hideously boring and suppressive of active discussion (and possibly, independent thought). At work I have kids who love English and thus are happy to see me, and others who hate the subject and therefore see me as the embodiment of all their scholastic woes.
At the “Cultural Adaptation” class that we all had to go through, we were given a list of the stages of culture shock: Excitement, Withdrawal, Adjustment, and Enthusiasm. I never really went through the first stage, though. I knew enough about French culture to not be precisely ‘shocked’ by it, and furthermore I am quite the pessimist in some ways, so I departed on this trip fully expecting to be unhappy and stressed. I would say that my first stage was more Numbness than anything else, and only when that started to wear off is when all the loneliness I’d kept at bay started creeping in.
But I couldn’t hide under my pillow forever. If nothing else, if I were to flunk my classes for lack of attendance my financial aid would be revoked, thus forcing me to come home and deal with my parents in the throes of hysteria over their delinquent daughter. I’d take a lecture on Medieval French Lit over that any day. At least I can daydream during the lecture.
Well, for now all I can say is: I’m working on it.
I haven’t been writing because I loathe depressed writing; there was a point in my life where that’s all I was doing, and looking back on the posts evoked feelings of impatience and disgust with myself that made me marvel at my colossal arrogance, that I should pollute the world with such self-pitying drivel.
Well, maybe not drivel. It was always well-dressed bullshit, if no less whiny.
In any case, despite living here for over 3 months, I’m still adjusting. My jaw and tongue still tighten up with nervousness when I have to speak quickly or unexpectedly in French, revealing my accent. I still have trouble getting to sleep (and, consequently, waking up early). I definitely have trouble adjusting to the classes here, and the confidence I used to have in my work has fled utterly.
And worst of all, I see things or hear things and think about how So-And-So would find that amusing/interesting/odd, and then remember that So-And-So is quite far away, across both an ocean and a continent, and 9 hours’ time difference besides. I can’t help but feel that vital pieces of myself are missing. There was a period of about a week, right around Halloween, where I did not leave the house for 6 days. I missed classes, hid in bed, slept all day and read all night to distract myself.
That’s when I realized that I might have a problem.
Since then, I’ve been actively trying to not be a recluse. I think it’s going well. I’ve been going back to classes, too, though it’s been tough, since my earlier truancy has basically dried up the larger part of my professors’ patience and pretty much left me with no wiggle room at all. I can’t say I like the university system all that much, where the administration is incredibly inefficient and the actual instruction is, for the most part, hideously boring and suppressive of active discussion (and possibly, independent thought). At work I have kids who love English and thus are happy to see me, and others who hate the subject and therefore see me as the embodiment of all their scholastic woes.
At the “Cultural Adaptation” class that we all had to go through, we were given a list of the stages of culture shock: Excitement, Withdrawal, Adjustment, and Enthusiasm. I never really went through the first stage, though. I knew enough about French culture to not be precisely ‘shocked’ by it, and furthermore I am quite the pessimist in some ways, so I departed on this trip fully expecting to be unhappy and stressed. I would say that my first stage was more Numbness than anything else, and only when that started to wear off is when all the loneliness I’d kept at bay started creeping in.
But I couldn’t hide under my pillow forever. If nothing else, if I were to flunk my classes for lack of attendance my financial aid would be revoked, thus forcing me to come home and deal with my parents in the throes of hysteria over their delinquent daughter. I’d take a lecture on Medieval French Lit over that any day. At least I can daydream during the lecture.
Well, for now all I can say is: I’m working on it.
