January 7 （visa expires in 7 days）
For the first time in years I logged into the email account I’d used when I was still at school.
It took me a while to remember the password, but I eventually got it.
And there they were: the emails my mother had sent me.
The first one was dated about a month after I got to Thailand.
It turned out that Dalia, the old lady who lived next door to us, had been giving her updates about me, so she was aware that I had gone.
When my mother told me this, I understood why Dalia had suddenly taken an interest in me from the vantage point of her front porch.
I’d thought she was concerned for me because my mom had left, but she’d had ulterior motives.
When Dalia told her I’d taken off, gone to Thailand and not returned with the rest of the group, my mother decided to reach out to me.
But my phone number was not in service and I wasn’t on social media.
So she emailed, unaware that she wasn’t using my current address, and never received a reply.
She tried again every few days and, later, every few months, hoping I would eventually see her messages.
I didn’t ask whether she’d suspected me of seeing them and deciding not to respond.
I cried as I read the emails, wracked with guilt.
I’d convinced myself that she’d decided to cut ties and I shouldn’t impose myself on her.
When I disconnected my old phone number, I’d told myself that if she had wanted to contact me she would already have done so.
I never resented her for leaving or let myself blame her.
I knew why she’d done it – it just hurt that I wasn’t important enough for her to stay or, at least, keep in touch somehow.
I had a vague notion in the back of my mind that I might go to New York to look for her when I got out of the army.
But I never considered it seriously. I didn’t know how to contact her aunt, and an internet search didn’t help.
It seemed so complicated. I didn’t know where to begin.
She told me that the day she left was the worst day of her life.
There had been some frightening incidents with my father that she wouldn’t elaborate on – she was still protecting me.
When the drinking got really bad, she started fearing for her life, but didn’t go to the police, or even friends, because she loved him and remembered him as he’d been before.
She planned to run away once I was in the army and not at home much, so that it would have less of an impact on my daily life.
She believed I’d be safe because my father had never raised a hand to me, and she didn’t contact me for fear that would change.
Now that I understood her motives, a wave of longing that had been suppressed for years swept through me and I daydreamed about living with her again.
Maybe I was too old for that, but I needed to make up for all the lost years.
But how could I do that without losing Daniel?
Life had once been easy. The boundaries were clear, if not authentic.
I’d never been rebellious until I came out and took off for Thailand.
No arguments with parents or teachers, no bad behavior or academic problems. I knew the world wouldn’t take kindly to me if I were to rebel.
But maybe pleasing the world matters less than loving it.
I was always afraid that people would stop loving me if I did things they didn’t like.
I knew my mother would still love me if I chose to stay in Thailand.
But what about Daniel? Would he keep loving me if I decided to live in New York?
My mind raced: I’m complicated. I have hangups.
I’m hard to understand. I don’t understand myself.
I’m trying to figure out what is right and what is wrong, what the truth is and why nobody seems to know.
I want to be wild and I want to calm down.
I want everything and nothing. I want to leave and I want to stay.
God, why am I so filled with contradictions?
What do I really want, and should I want that?
Maybe it’s not in my best interests. But what are my best interests?
I don’t want my past, but I’m afraid of the future.
I love the present, but I also don’t. Is that how it’s meant to be?
Does anyone else love the present completely, without wanting even the smallest change?
But the fear of change ruining the present paralyzes me.
I was taught long ago that our fate is predetermined.
So why is everything still so crazy? Whoever can answer that question deserves a Nobel Prize.
I can’t imagine all the things I’ve missed out on in life because I was afraid, because I didn’t want to cause anyone pain. Can anybody help me?