Comfort Zone

[Welcome, you are about to leave your comfort zone]

A week to go.
Next week, Saturday, I will be already in Indonesia, probably resting or chatting with my Mom or brother. I don’t know.

It is strange that instead of being exited, I become scared; I feel afraid. As I have always been saying to some people, in Indonesia, I will start a new life. I will stay under the same roof with my parents. I am sure it would be a challenge.
I will meet with Stefy on the regular basis. In our long distance relationship, if I am disappointed with him, I will ask him not to call me or end our chat. Yet, in Indonesia, I can’t. I have to talk about it, face-to-face.

I will live with Indonesian people that have totally different habits and attitudes than Dutch.

I, honestly, am scared.

I feel like a girl who is going to get married the next day and feels petrified. She will start a new life, with her husband, living together under the same roof. She will need to leave behind her life full of having fun, being alone and going out with friends.

I think I am just too anxious to start my new life and leave behind my comfort zone. In the Netherlands, I can be myself. I can be what I like and want to be. I have my own style. I like vintage. I like second hand stuffs.

I like oldies music. I like Beatles, Johnny Cash, and Frank Sinatra. I love music hits of the 60s, 70s and 80s. I love jazz very much. I love classic music. I like strange music (compare to what normal people might like). I don’t like boysband. I don’t like pop, trendy, too R&B music. I can’t stand songs that just expose cute girls with barely anything on and the singer(s) singing nothing but uh-oh, uh-oh.

In the Netherlands, I have my own bike. I don’t need to call my chauffeur to ask him to bring me somewhere, or to call Stefy to pick me up or even to call a taxi. I have a bike that can bring my everywhere, although it is an old bike.

In the Netherlands, I know how to manage stuff, how to manage my bank account, insurance and pay some bills. In here, customers are always the king; we are very important. Sadly, in Indonesia, you need to beg to get your passport. You need to insert a hundred thousand Rupiah money inside your passport to get a new passport as soon as possible.

I am afraid to be dependant, I think.
I am afraid to be different.
Am I?

I don’t know what I exactly am afraid of. It is probably just the idea of starting a new journey.

As I have ever mentioned before, I am very glad that my Big Daddy stays the same, yesterday, today and tomorrow, even when I am in Indonesia.

Elvin said to me this evening. It is actually her mom saying this “it was not easy for you to start your life in the Netherlands. It would not easy either to restart your life in Indonesia. Yet, you have [your family] and friends to help you as you also have had when you were in the Netherlands.”

Yes, indeed, phien, in my first year, I had to just accept my 3.5 Euro per hour when I was working in an Indonesian restaurant owned by a so-called good friend of my uncle. I had to cry or at least be upset when I couldn't grasp what my teachers were saying in front of the class.

I had to be defensive and fight for my right when someone who claimed himself as a family betrayed me. I needed to be totally dependant looking for a new shelter. Yet, this dependency was still not the answer to survive in the Netherlands. I needed a truly savior, best friend and father. I finally knew that being dependant was too hard; instead, I needed to depend on the true One. I did.

The first two years were full or cry and sadness as well as joy and happiness. I always cried after my shift in Albert Heijn because my Dutch was suck. I used to be the underdog in Albert Heijn.

The third year was way better. I had my own rhythm. My Dutch was improved and I did my internship in the best place ever.

Forth year was even better.

I might need to go through similar cycle in Indonesia.