This is part two in a three-part series. If you haven’t read Part 1 yet, you should definitely start there. For those of you who are caught up . . . on to part 2!
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Once preliminary axing was done, we removed a few more places that were not great fits for us (start date too soon, job he didn’t like, poor medical infrastructure), and were left with 45 job/city combinations that we ranked Medium or High. Our selections were largely in Asia or Central and South America, though we’d thrown in a few European posts too since there was no downside to including them. When all was said and done, our “Highs” ended up being Lima, Lisbon, Manila, Montevideo, Santo Domingo, Tegucigalpa, and Zagreb. Of those options, Manila, Philippines was the one we were most hoping to get.
For the past seven weeks, every Monday to Friday Nick had reported to the Foreign Service Institute (FSI)—the quaint, college-like campus on George Washington Boulevard where new officers learned to be Diplomats. Flag Day was the culmination of his basic training, called A-100. Depending on what position he got assigned, he would then continue on at FSI to do some combination of language classes, job-specific training and regional studies.
I could have really used Nick around that morning, but he’d slipped out at 8 A.M., a half day’s worth of classes to get in before the noon ceremony kicked off. The nausea I’d awoken with had morphed into a general feeling of foreboding, lodging itself deep in the pit of my stomach. It was like my body knew something bad was about to happen, and was begging me not to proceed. If only I knew someone else here well enough to come be with me and provide comfort! But alas, I was alone in this, with several hours to kill before I rode over to the ceremony with the other spouses.
I needed to shake off the persistent feeling of panic and found that pacing seemed to do the trick. As I paced back and forth, back and forth, across the worn, drab carpet of the corporate apartment we’d been assigned, I centered all my efforts on trying to determine what had me so worked up. Come on, Sarah! You did years of therapy and are a trained life coach. You can figure this out. You know panic is a response to fear. But what is it, exactly, that you’re so afraid of?
I paused my pacing, took a few deep breaths to center myself, and gently felt into what was below the panic. Nothing came at first, but I stayed with the discomfort and after just a few more minutes of quiet introspection, a flash of insight materialized, making it crystal clear what the issue at hand was. Ultimately, this was all about control, or my perceived loss of it, to be more exact. Not this again! As if on cue, my eyes rolled with annoyance, a heavy sigh expelling my frustration into the air.
This was not unfamiliar territory for me. In my early 20’s I’d struggled mightily with control and received boat loads of therapy to learn how to distinguish that which was within my control and that which I needed to let go of. I’d come a long way in my relationship with control, but every so often that old panic would reignite, like an angry bear rudely awakened from a long winter’s sleep, and activate the fight or flight response in my body.
The difference this time was that it appeared to be of my own doing. By saying yes to joining the foreign service, I was effectively handing over control for a lot of the major decisions in my life. I mean, was I really going to allow the U.S. Government to pick the cities I lived in for the next 20 years? To choose all of the homes or apartments I resided in? To select the furniture I’d use (which I’d heard was quite ugly and the same in every government residence)? Was I signing my life away in saying yes to marrying Nick?
The more I thought about it, the more this foreign service thing seemed like a terrible idea. What if I hated the place we got assigned? What if I couldn’t find friends and got lonely or depressed as a result? My husband would have fulfilling work, but would I?
But honestly, what choice did I have? Nick was doing this, with or without me. Was being with him enough to offset all the control I’d be giving up in my life?
This line of self-questioning proved unhelpful (surprise, surprise) and only served to fuel the panic more. Worse-case scenarios flooded my head. I envisioned myself stuck in a dank apartment with no friends and nothing to do. I envisioned a loved one dying and me not able to make it back for the funeral. I envisioned being sent to one of those 13 Mexican border posts (they told us we could be sent ANYWHERE, no matter what we put down as our lows) and not being able to walk out on the street because the chance of danger was too great.
I was spiraling out of control, lost in my head with no one to calm me down. Oh my God. I was going to throw up. Quick Sarah, get to the bathroom! I ran to the toilet, clumsily lifted the seat and threw my body to the floor. I could not believe this was happening. The vomit flowing out of me seemed infused with the anxiety itself, so much so that when it was over, I felt a palpable sense of relief. What the hell Sarah? Get a grip on yourself. For better or worse, you’re doing this. Pull it together. Now.
To be continued . . .
