I’ve begun wrestling with my demons more often lately—feeling some sort of way about my life in another country. Part of it can be boiled down to money. Part of it my age. Part of it the language barrier. Part of it my lack of deep connections as friends return to their own countries.

Sometimes I lay awake at night and wonder if I’m not doing enough, pressuring myself for not fitting to the historical timeline for a woman my age (where’s my husband? my child? why am I penniless and renting?). Even when I decide I am content where I am, the demons return. Telling me I would be happier back home, with family. Perhaps I would be happier if I changed jobs. Maybe I should get a gym membership? Why am I not writing more when I have so much free time?

There’s this undefined line between homesickness and loneliness. I never missed my family previously, even when I did not see them for years. Living in a different country compounds the loneliness you feel as everything in life is different. The people, the culture, the language, the weather. I miss the nasally ring of Australians swearing at one another, the burning sand between my toes as I step onto the beach, and the nearly cloudless sky on those hot days. It’s much easier to idealise a country when you’re no longer able to reap its benefits (Vegemite & Milo. Late-night drunk kebabs).

I think about flying home and what that means for me. Would I return home, “27 years old, with no money and no prospects”(if you know you know). Would I become a burden on my parents? (iynyn part 2). What would I even do back home anyway? Have more money? Start to pay off my student loans? I’m not sure what the difference is between here and there anymore, or what I even am wishing for.

Life is sad and boring here. It’s also fun and interesting. Like back home would be the same. Am I looking to change myself? If not, blaming where I live is an easy excuse for lack of progress or change or action. What is it that I am unhappy with? I enjoy my job, I work little and earn enough to live (with a little to spare). Is it purely loneliness? If so, why do I allow my introversion to keep my inside? I have friends. More than back home. Why do I not engage more? I enjoy being alone so much that I alienate myself from those wanting to know me?

Although this has only been an exercise in stream of consciousness, I seem to have worked through something that had been bothering me for weeks. Where I live is not the issue. I am the issue. I am lacking the motivation to push myself into action, allowing myself to be swept away by the passing of daily time to the point I miss the big picture of my life.

It seems homesickness and loneliness are nothing to do with it. It’s about self-fulfilment. I’ve let myself slip into old habits and lost the me who was fulfilled in life.