The absence of a self, of color. Every day it feels like I have less to show for who I am. My room is tidy, because I live in a house that is not my own. I have no decorations on the walls that define me. I used to wear sweatpants everyday, but now I’m dressing up, honing in on a single aspect of my identity. I’m loosing my words, even. I live with a family that speaks Italian and I’m the English native who is meant to speak English with the kids. I can speak Italian, but I’m the English native of course, who is speaking to the air; because by the time I finish speaking my words go in through one ear and out through the other.
Understandably. We’re antsy, I’m spending more time alone because the kids don’t want to do any of the activities I offer, and now I don’t know what my role is. “The English Au Pair” the English Something-or-other who lives here. I can’t write because I’m sick of it. I really appreciate the people that call me, because it’s a cure, someone who will hear, and it’s unfair. I want to be home too.
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