Chapter 5 - Southern Europe - claustrophobic

I feel tight. Like a clock that’s been overwound. Like a … oh I can't think of a word that's right. When written down, my feelings always sound like a bad novel. I have to try so hard to keep control or I’ll snap, pinging my parts all over the landscape. Tears are always just there under the surface ready to sting when I see a frightened child, a tender parent, a mournful dog. I can’t think straight, or too long or of too many things, and it’s getting worse, not better, with time. It’s all I can do to decide what I am going to eat today or where I’m going to walk.


I just got a letter from Mom and Dad telling me they don’t mind about themselves but I should really write to Babby. Andrew, I write postcards to everyone, including Babby, constantly! I must send 20 postcards a week! Don’t these people talk to each other? Maybe it’s their way of saying they want to hear from me more often, but why can’t they just say that? Why do they make it seem instead like I’m doing something wrong? I caught myself wandering around muttering “shoulda, woulda, coulda” over and over. I think I might go crazy. I start to think about what it would be like to just step in front of a train and everything would be over in a second. No more ties to family or world. No more feeling inadequate. No more having to know where to go or what to do each day. But instead I look both ways, buy my tickets, and wrap up well. I wonder if I really am being sensible or if I am just a coward after all.


It’s rained almost constantly since I arrived in Toledo. I loved it in the beginning but now everything is beginning to seem claustrophobic – El Greco's long people, narrow streets, steep stairs winding around courtyards filled with plants. I have been everywhere several times. My brain feels squeezed. I need space. I have to leave.