I often pah those who mention, after seeing a photo or hearing a story, that ‘you must be so brave’ in regards to living abroad. and I still believe that. a life spent traveling and away from the norm is one that finds a much easier acceptance in those who have a hard time accepting lifestyles. sure, there’s a language barrier and finding lightbulbs in anyplace but America might be the most annoying thing ever, but after that, those first few months, things become easier. your ride to work is monatonous, but mine might be a cultural experience. you pay bills and so do I, but with different currency.

so basically don’t ever let someone go on-and-on about how much courage it takes to live someplace else.

myself included.

that being said, there is/was/still exists something that scares the shit out of me.

it’s a call.

a call I numbed myself for with cocaine and whiskey and vicodin and cigarettes and anything else I could find when my brother was in Iraq.

I couldn’t answer that ‘unknown number’ with my own hand.

it’s the call.

I got it while I was in the U.K., a message from my sister saying ‘Dad’s in the hospital’.

this call.

he was fine, just a tick bite gone bad, but it won’t be the last time he, or Mom, or my brother and sister might not be.

and that is the longest plane ride you’ll ever have.

I had forgotten about it since moving back, but was reminded once more in a new friend who is about to purchase this ticket.

there’s nothing worse.

so God bless, _________. you put whatever you need to into your mouth, nose and ears to make it through.

as even writing this has made my stomach turn.