Hating Paradise

Today, I am a hater.

I hate everything. (Cue chorus of "I Hate Everything About You.")

I especially hate this city and everything about living here.

This  morning when my alarm went off, early on a Saturday morning so I could drive my husband into work (work on a Saturday?!), I hated the alarm, I hated the over-enthusiastic cheerful warblings of the birds outside, I hated the truck driver that hit my husband so that now he has a broken foot and crutches. I hated having to carefully inspect my toothbrush for ants before brushing my teeth, I hated the still-unfixed toilet after four service calls to get the flusher fixed. I hated the unfamiliar house that will never really seem like home, even though it is, for the next couple years. I hated the smoky dirty air, and how it is attacking my lungs, even in the house where we have air purifiers and filters running 24/7. Then I hear my littlest angel cough and I double-hate the air, no, triple-hate it for giving him asthma (and for the emergency room visit and hospital stay that is part of the reason that I am so bone-dead exhausted). I hate that I got pneumonia right when we got here and now that I’m better, I feel like I might be coming down with something new. I hate the language I can’t understand, no matter how hard I try. I hate the complete helplessness of illiteracy. I hate trying so hard to learn a phrase, only to have someone stare at me like I’m speaking gibberish. I hate tones. I hate the chaotic driving on the wrong side of the road, where I am constantly fearful of blinking and missing an erratic movement of a motorcycle driver or scooter or rickshaw or truck or pedestrian, all of whom seem completely oblivious to any common sense rules of the road. I hate the sense of panic I feel when I misunderstand my GPS’s instructions and miss a turn (should have taken a sharp left, not a slight left) so that a 20-minute drive turns into a 45-minute ordeal with several U-turns and tiny, crowded alleys. I hate having someone explain where something is and not having any idea what they are talking about. I hate the weird smells and feeling constantly slightly nauseated because of something I ate that my stomach isn’t used to. I hate the bugs, the mosquitos, the ants (everywhere, the ants!). I hate the litter. I hate how I never know how to answer the question “Where are you from?” I hate not having roots. I hate not having any friends (friendly acquaintances are not the same). I hate the tears that threaten to erupt and then start and just will. Not. Stop. I hate everything. And most of all, I hate myself for hating everything when I am living in paradise.

And this,  my friends, is culture shock. It’s amazing how clinical it is. You can read up on the symptoms of culture shock and know exactly what to expect and that it’s completely normal when you move to a new country, no matter how awesome that country may be. Still, it’s different living it than reading about it. I feel guilty for feeling it. I know there are a million things to love about this place. A million reasons to be grateful I am here. I try to strong-arm my emotions into happy and positive and confident. And tomorrow, probably, I will be grateful to be here and in love with this adventure. But today? Today I am drowning in the misery of culture shock. And I hate that I can’t just drive down to Safeway and buy a gallon of Chocolate Moose Tracks ice cream to drown my sorrows (add that to the list: I hate the fake ice cream here!).

(Update, three weeks later: Obviously, I don't hate living in Thailand. Culture shock makes you think crazy things sometimes, but the great thing about it is that it is temporary. For me, part of transitioning and settling into a new place is acknowledging the bad along with embracing the good. This post was extremely cathartic and I can confidently say that culture shock this go around is done, but I won't be surprised when it hits again the next time we move.)