Confessions of a Gaijin 2: Prologue – You Can’t Go Home Again

Previously, on Confessions Of A Gaijin

The school Christmas Party for all the adults students was fun, even if it felt like work in a lot of ways as it involved me working the room while a bunch of Japanese people sat around looking nervous and uncomfortable. Mercifully, I was able to drink alcohol so that made the whole process a little less arduous. After a few hours, almost everyone was drunk and festive and the evening was officially a success. At one point there was a party game which involved me having to do a Bruce Lee impression. It got a big laugh from the whole room and I felt very pleased with myself. When some Japanese people get drunk, their faces go really red so at one stage it looked as if a few of the students had severe sunburn. After the party, the staff and I necked all the remaining alcohol while cleaning up. Turns out that drunk hoovering is a blast.

The school Christmas party for the kid students was also fun. A lot of fake snowballs (rolled up bits of discarded photocopier paper) were thrown at me during the party games and I got to dress up as Santa Claus. Moments before the latter took place, I envisioned some dream scenario where the little ones would lose their shit en masse at the sight of Santa and I would get a case of the warm fuzzies as I handed out gifts, fighting back tears or joy and wonder while discovering the true meaning of Christmas or something alone those lines. In reality, I wore a revolting fake beard (tainted with the DNA of all who had donned it before me) and handed out packets of sweets to polite but restrained and ungrateful-seeming Japanese children (outstretched hands, token thank yous). Also the belt on my Santa costume snapped as it was so flimsy. I have definitely felt jollier.

I went to see The Force Awakens in Osaka, which currently boasts the biggest IMAX screen in the country. Going to the cinema in Japan is a delight; no-one says a word in the theatre, not even during the commercials, and when the movie is finished everyone gently stands up and dutifully makes their way out of the auditorium. There are only 10 minutes worth of ads before the movie starts. The seats are plush and comfortable and the staff bow as you leave the cinema. It’s heaven. I really enjoyed the movie; it’s better than Return Of The Jedi and almost as good as The Empire Strikes Back. I’m not sure why everyone was gushing over Harrison Ford; I felt like he was a bit creaky and probably relieved to be done with the whole thing. Kylo Ren was a great bad guy even though it was a bit surreal watching the dude from Girls waving a lightsaber around.

I went back to London for six days. I really wish I could tell you that it was a restorative experience which made me feel whole again, but it wasn’t. The whole time I was there I felt like I was in a dream or on a movie set. Almost none of it made me feel grounded. So much of what I saw was drab and filthy; there are chicken shops everywhere and a grey pallor looms everything. I popped into a MacDonald’s at one point and felt like I was in Soviet Russia; unhealthy, miserable-looking people stuffed round tables while gazing glassy-eyed at their meals and chewing like cattle. I went to the cinema and the first thing I encountered inside the theatre was a boy who looked about 10 years old, sobbing in despair while his mum berated him in public (“That’s the LAST time I’m taking you ANYWHERE!”). The adverts went on for 30 minutes and one of them featured Jeremy Clarkson. I was in a dystopia.

There were a few lighthearted interludes; I was wandering through Piccadilly Circus one evening when Journey’s ‘Don’t Stop Believing‘ came on my iPod and for a moment, the combination of bright lights and uplifting music made me feel like I was in a Richard Curtis movie. It was wonderful seeing my friends and family again. I had stories for everyone and I kept hearing people say they were proud of me. Only a couple of them know how much of a struggle the last eight months have been. All my smoke and mirrors and Instagram photos have managed to convince everyone else otherwise.

It didn’t help that while I was there, I was beset by man flu, exhaustion and jet-lag. It felt like as if I was perceiving everything through a haze; never quite there, never quite in the moment. I spoke with a friend on Skype not long after I got back to Japan and she said that while she was chatting with me at a pizza restaurant in Dalston, I was like a hologram. I expect I was.

A few things about London had changed, but they were entirely cosmetic; a different shop front here, a new bar there. Most of it seemed exactly the same, and not in any way that felt comforting. Being back in London reminded me of emotions I’d been juggling when I’d left in the spring; heartbreak, confusion, uncertainty. All those emotions returned to me within hours of being back. My surroundings seemed over-familiar in a way that couldn’t possibly help me learn or grow as a person. This isn’t a place I can see myself living in ever again. It’s time to find new places and make new memories.

I started 2015 with a lot of hopes that were tied to the external; I thought, however foolishly, that I might be able to reconcile with my ex (herself currently in Asia), and an offer from her last February to stay in touch while I was out there felt like some kind of providence. I emailed her a month after I arrived and never received a reply. Over Christmas I discovered that she’d blocked me on Facebook. As I boarded the plane last April, I hoped I’d find a cosy little niche for myself within months of arriving in Japan and live happily ever after. By summer I was fighting a daily battle to stay afloat while fighting off insomnia, misery and burnout. Life had all sorts of lessons for me.

This year is different. There are no false assurances hanging over me, no outcomes I am attaching my happiness to. On January 4, I landed safely in Tokyo. While sitting on the bullet train later that morning, I fished out my iPhone, opened up the Notes app and typed out a quick memo to myself;

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start creating the year you want to have.”

So it begins.