Monachopsis: “The subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place.”

I don’t know about you, but at times, I feel as if I suffer from monachopsis. Which, in itself is funny, because up until a few days ago I had no idea that there was a word to define such a feeling. It’s not that I don’t absolutely adore my life, I do. I love my college, and my friends, hell, I even love my classes. So, when the wistful feeling twists through my stomach, like vines growing on a tree, I’m always a little stunned, and slightly confused. If I’m as happy as I say I am, then why does monachopsis occur?

I’m going to place the blame on the map on my wall. It’s a map of the world. I look at it, and see the handful of places that I have been, and the million other places I want to go. I look at it, and I remember my adventures in other countries, with other friends, and it saddens me because it seems as if it was a lifetime ago. And maybe that is why I suffer from monachopsis from time to time because I really am out of place, part of me, part of my heart, is somewhere else.

Of course, this is the problem with traveling or even being human. By design, we are meant to explore, and to seek adventure. Simply put: we want something new to love, and new to share. The issue with this, or at least for me, is that when I explore when I travel, when I seek adventure, I fall hopelessly and irrevocably in love with wherever I am. I become split.

Part of me is home, with my family. A chunk of my heart is with my European friends, somewhere along the Italian Alps. And the rest, belongs here, at school, with my friends. I am divided. Sliced in severed parts throughout the globe. But maybe, just maybe, that isn’t such a bad thing, and maybe monachopsis isn’t so terrible after all.

I am a little broken, a little out of place at times, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not happy where I am. On the contrary, it means that I have places, locations, across the globe, where I am truly in bliss. I love traveling so much, creating new experiences so completely, that I leave a part of myself behind, knowing that I can pick it up again someday. To leave a bit of oneself is an act of love. I am lucky to leave a part of me behind, to occasionally suffer from monachopsis, because it means that I have other places in the world where I am at home.

I don’t think that there is a cure for monachopsis, and I also don’t think I would want there to be one. It is necessary at times to feel out of place, for only then, can one appreciate where they have been. The places I have visited, the memories I have made, compose who I am as a person. I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, trade them for anything in the world. I look forward to my future travels, my newest explorations, knowing that monachopsis will undoubtedly occur.