3月很快，还没来得及反应，人已经回到美国了。每回到一个地方，总会觉得自己从未离开过，去年12月底回到太原时是这样，这次回到纽约也是这样，仿佛离开的日子从回忆里消失了。虽然仔细回想，那些在远方的事儿的确发生过，但是怎么也没办法和那时的自己共情，过去的事儿也有些虚幻了起来。
等待这种事儿，等的时候不知道何时是个头，但是真的等到了，一切又发生的太快。在国内的前两个多月一直是在等待–知道落户的批复总归是要来，但又不确定什么时候来，所以时间被拉长的同时又在担心着它缩短。但是当批复正式下来，时间的缩短速度快的远超想象，所有的齿轮都被加速启动，没什么缓冲润滑。从收到批复到飞上海到领户口到飞美国只是一周而已，没什么时间心理准备，没什么时间和这整整三个月告别。一时觉得它漫长，一时又觉得它太过匆匆。
回想在国内这段时间的时候，问自己问的多的问题就是这几个月是不是一点进步也没有，是不是没有达到我想要的休息级别。回过头来想想，虽然是基本什么工作都没有并且每天就是在休闲，但是焦虑一直都在意识表面或者潜意识停留。一会儿担心是不是应该在工作5年之际换个工作尝试一下，一会儿想想是不是该接着念个书，一会儿想想是不是得减减肥，一会儿又觉得自己忘了最根本的东西–我的信仰，优先级出了问题，这些日子和主没什么沟通交流。Rumination对于有躁郁症的人本就不是什么特别健康的事儿，过去三个月正好手上没有忙的东西了，那这大笔空出来的时间就只能用来反刍思考人生了。越是思考越是不喜欢自己的思考方式，自寻烦恼又没有实际建树。
这两天在几个好友的群聊里，一个朋友谈起最近的焦虑和对未来方向选择的思考和迷茫，另一个朋友安慰她说“可以允许自己多想一会儿”。虽然是很简单的一句安慰，甚至都不是给我的安慰，但它的确安慰到了我。仔细想想这过去的三个月，为什么本来是在家里休养生息的时光，我却没法抑制地焦虑，可能一部分原因就是我从没允许自己休息过。
允许这个词儿很神奇，它并不是说我从没有休息过，而是即便身体在休息，内心却没有允许自己真的停下来。没有什么时候我和自己说过，“Lina，it’s okay to stop. It’s really okay.” 即便说了，也只是浮于表面的自我激励，从心底里，我没有真正相信过。允许自己停止追逐一个自我想象的标准就好像是比登天还难。公司可以允许我休息，甚至可以很热情地欢迎我回来；教堂可以允许我休息，每周Sabbath day就是神拿来让他的子民休息的；朋友们可以允许我休息，还会一直想念我期待我回来，可我自己呢？为什么一停下来就警报大响，为什么不能享受当下，平静地度过休憩的时光？这也是我今年在信仰和心理方面想关注的课题。
这次长达三月的旅程在临近结束的时候也有很感动的部分。在去年12月份回中国的时候，我用了“回”字，在3月中和家人朋友们谈起回美国，也用了“回”字。“回”字之后是“家”，这下很真切地感受到原来我已经接受了这儿作为我的家。在美国的11年一直很大程度都觉得自己只是个客人，但这次与纽约的短暂离别给了我惊喜。原来这里有这么多人会说I miss you, we miss you；原来我也会很想念这里的人们，就像我思念在中国的家人一样；原来有人的地方真的就感觉到有家。在太原的是家，在纽约的也是家，两个家给了我等同的归属感，都有我爱的人们期待着我归来，不吝啬地说出他们的想念。幸好，我也时刻想念着他们。
Below is a Google Gemini-generated English translation. I did not edit afterwards.
March passed in a blur. Before I could even react, I found myself back in the United States. It is a strange sensation: every time I return to a place, it feels as if I never left. It was true when I returned to Taiyuan in late December, and it is true now as I return to New York. The days spent away seem to vanish from my immediate memory. Although I know those events in that distant land truly happened, I find it difficult to empathize with the “me” of that time; the past feels somewhat illusory.
Waiting is a peculiar thing. When you are in the thick of it, you have no idea when it will end. But when the moment finally arrives, everything happens too fast. My first two months in China were defined by waiting—I knew the approval for my household registration (Hukou) would eventually come, but the uncertainty of when made time stretch agonizingly long, even as I feared how quickly it might slip away once it arrived. When the approval finally came, time accelerated beyond imagination. Every gear started turning at full speed with no lubrication or buffer. In just one week, I went from receiving the notice to flying to Shanghai, collecting the documents, and boarding a plane to the U.S. There was no time for mental preparation, no time for a proper goodbye to these past three months. One moment it felt like an eternity; the next, it felt far too hurried.
Looking back on my time in China, the questions I asked myself most were: Did I make any progress at all these past few months? Did I reach the level of rest I desired? Reflecting now, even though I had no work and spent my days in leisure, anxiety was always lingering—either on the surface of my consciousness or deep in the subconscious. I worried about whether I should change jobs after five years, whether I should go back to school, or whether I needed to lose weight. Then, I felt I had forgotten the most fundamental thing—my faith. My priorities were skewed; I had barely communicated with the Lord during those days. For someone with bipolar disorder, rumination is not a particularly healthy habit. With no busy tasks to occupy my hands over the past three months, that vast amount of empty time was spent “ruminating” on life. The more I thought, the more I disliked my own way of thinking—creating troubles for myself without any practical resolution.
Recently, in a group chat with a few close friends, one friend spoke about her recent anxiety and her confusion regarding future directions. Another friend comforted her by saying, “You can allow yourself to think about it a little longer.” Although it was a simple word of comfort, and wasn’t even directed at me, it truly reached my heart. Thinking back on these past three months, I wondered why I couldn’t suppress my anxiety during what was supposed to be a time of rest. Perhaps part of the reason is that I never truly allowed myself to rest.
“Permission” is a magical word. It’s not that I wasn’t resting physically, but rather that even while my body was still, my heart had not given itself permission to truly stop. I never said to myself, “Lina, it’s okay to stop. It’s really okay.” Even if I said the words, they were just superficial self-encouragement; deep down, I never truly believed them. Giving myself permission to stop chasing a self-imagined standard feels harder than reaching the heavens. My company allowed me to rest and even welcomed me back warmly; the church allowed me to rest, for the Sabbath is the day God carved out for His people to rest; my friends allowed me to rest and waited eagerly for my return. But what about myself? Why does the alarm go off the moment I stop? Why can’t I enjoy the present and spend my downtime in peace? This is the lesson I want to focus on this year, both in my faith and my mental health.
As this three-month journey neared its end, there were moments that deeply moved me. When I went back to China in December, I used the word “return” (hui). In mid-March, when talking to family and friends about coming back to the U.S., I also used the word “return.” After the word “return” comes “home” (jia). It has now hit me quite clearly: I have accepted this place as my home. In my eleven years in the U.S., I mostly felt like a guest, but this brief departure from New York gave me a surprise. I realized there are so many people here who say, “I miss you,” and “We miss you.” I realized that I, too, deeply miss the people here, just as I miss my family in China. I’ve realized that where there are people you love, there is home. Taiyuan is home, and New York is home. Both homes give me an equal sense of belonging; both have people I love waiting for my return, unreserved in expressing their longing. Thankfully, I am constantly missing them, too.
