Next month, I’ll be moving to a country where I don’t know a single soul.  As my departure date draws nearer I am beginning to remember what it feels like to have a sort of screaming anxiety constantly threatening to burst from the rear of my skull and into my everyday life.

This isn’t the first time I’ve pulled a stunt like this, and the natural apprehension that comes with a large life decision is compounded by the haunting memories of my last international disaster.  

My only solace is that my starting situation is different than the last time I left the country.  Eight years ago I left the United States because I had nothing else going for me, I had failed out of college (I told people that I left for other, less pathetic reasons) and was rotting in my parent’s converted attic working a series of short-lived minimum wage jobs.  I was desperately lonely as most of my friends had moved on and every time I met a woman, which wasn’t often, I could almost see their nostrils flare from the stench of failure and desperation that wafted from every pore on my body.  

At the time I didn’t know at exactly what point my life had gone wrong but I blamed it squarely on everything but myself.  And for some reason I focused my blame on my suburban upbringing even though I had no frame of reference for any other kind of upbringing to really compare it to.  Well-manicured lawns and friendly people everywhere, how can a true individual like myself expect to blossom in an environment like that?  I felt that I needed to get the hell out of dodge before I wound up in a suit and tie like my father (In retrospect there wasn’t much logic behind that considering that my father’s very good job required him to have a Master’s Degree in chemical engineering, whereas I had barely graduated high school.)

And so, with a grand goodbye and a self-thrown going away party that occurred three months before I actually left, I ran all the way to a shitty suburb of Manchester, England where I immediately proceeded to live in a converted attic, work a series of short-lived minimum wage jobs and become desperately lonely.

I fled this country in a pathetic state and I’m ashamed to say that four months later (I usually lie and tell people six months for some reason), on a plane ticket purchased by my parents, I returned similarly.  The only difference was I was ten pounds lighter and far more humbled than the last time I had collapsed into my old bed at the home of my fantastically patient parents.

I am relieved to say that eight years later my situation has improved.  This time I am leaving the country for a job, specifically the Peace Corps.  I have an incredible fiancée whose very existence tells me that I have at least some potential to become an actual and whole human being.  I like my apartment and love my cat.  My job, though occasionally boring, is in a somewhat professional setting with livable pay, and my friends are numerous and close.  This time around I am not attempting to dispose of my decaying life but am hopefully allowing my new budding one to continue to grow.  But does that make this decision to leave better or worse?  Last time I left behind very little, but at the same time I had very little to take with me.  This time I leave behind so very much, however I’m still not certain what portion of that I will be able to take with me.   

Admittedly I am not one hundred percent certain of exactly why I’m going to the Peace Corps.  Occasionally I can fool other people into believing that I am either a noble or truly good person, but I’ve never managed to fool myself.  I know what I am.  So while a desire to help others who are less fortunate may be a factor, it isn’t even close to being the driving force behind my decision.  

Someone suggested that maybe it’s because I’ve always secretly sneered at those who have settled down at an early age and gotten the job, the house, the wife and kids.  God, I hope not.  I like to think I’ve matured beyond that annoying counter culture habit of modeling my life around how I judge other people.  The truth be told, I thoroughly enjoy all of the creature comforts that come with those things (specifically big TVs and sushi) so I’m pretty sure that’s not it.  

Possibly it’s a smart career move; after all, my resume is all over the place.  More than a quarter of a century after my birth I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.  I’m part of a generation who was told from the cradle that A) You ARE great just the way you are and you can be successful in life at anything you do, and B) you ARE going to college.  While this may sound like a good thing to tell a child, the result is that today we now have an ocean of 20-somethings with a liberal arts degree in one hand, a loan application for grad school in the other, an apron around their waist and a look of surprise plastered on their face.  Maybe adding a line on my resume saying “The Peace Corps” will magically get me that well paying job my mommy and daddy promised me. You know, the one where I’m creative and appreciated and somehow doesn’t have a boss.  Where I get paid well AND wear jeans to work.  But most importantly where it’s O.K. to color outside the lines and be myself.

It could also be my deep seeded need to be not only accepted by other people but to prove that I’m better than them.  As a child my friends were few and my tauntings were many.  I desperately wanted to be friends with my peers; at the same time, I despised them passionately.  I think that explains the love/hate relationships I now have with the rest of humanity.  I have grand visions of a 35-year old me, at a party in some upscale apartment casually mentioning to a group of strangers that I was in the Peace Corps.  ‘Yeah it was hard work, but I think in the end it was I who truly benefited from my years of selfless labor for the Umeki tribe.  Oh? You’ve always wanted to do something like that?  Well, I’m sure that your life means something too.  After all, I’ve learned through my various exotic and profound experiences that it takes a lot of bravery just to be human.’  Heh.  Suck on that strangers.  Oh, and fuck you, 9th grade Alex Gray.

The truth is there are a hundred real reasons for my leaving again.  But in writing this article I’m feeling forced to boil down my reasons for simple digestion, and if I do that I think I’m left with two main ingredients, both of them selfish. (Which I’m fine with.  Any person who makes major life decisions without first and foremost considering whether or not the outcome will positively affect them in some way is probably self loathing or just plain stupid.)  

Firstly my experience with the Peace Corps will be a great help in whatever career I finally decide to wander into.  I’m hoping that it will be noticed by a potential employer perusing through a stack of resumes.  And admittedly my GPA when I finally graduated from college was not great so if I want to go to graduate school I think the Peace Corps is my best and possibly only shot.  

Secondly and more importantly I want to really and truly accomplish something.  I always felt that before a man can be a real man, or to be more P.C. a person can truly be a whole person, they need to do something, anything, that they can be proud of.  Up to and including this point my life has been a great tome of mediocrity, with the only notable chapters being significantly altered when read allowed to an audience.  Just one time I’d like to point at something without lying or even stretching the truth and say ‘I did that, I committed myself to something huge and I undoubtedly accomplished what I set out to do.’  

And besides, even if I was to throw in a story about how I single handedly saved my host tribe from a band of marauding bandits, how could anyone fact check it?