Breaking up

There comes a point in every relationship when you know it`s the end.

For me, this point is normally well after the actual end has already happened. I`ll hang on in there, gamely trying to give it another go, until the other party is trying to kick me away with steel toed boots on and poking me with a long stick they bought specially. Not for me the habit of walking away from a relationship too quickly or too easily. No: I like to stay until walking is no longer possible, and all I can do is crawl along the floor using my chin as levitation.

Which is why what I`m about to announce comes as a bit of a surprise: to myself, if to nobody else. I`m leaving Japan.

Our relationship is over. It`s not on its way out; it`s not going through a few rough patches. It`s not struggling because of the weather. It`s dead: caput, rotting, deceased, gone to meet its maker. It was dying at Christmas - I had little to no interest in Kyoto, or Osaka, or Nara, and found myself thinking at the base of some of the world`s most famous temples and shrines Oh, look, another goddamn bit of red wood and some more bells - and by the time I came off my not-so-happy-pills there was really no way of saving it (drugs are the only thing in the world that can make me not care that I don`t love something: hence why I always end up on them in relationships with men). I`m not in love with Japan anymore, and yes: I`d like to be friends, but I`m only saying that to make us both feel better.

When Japan asks why I`m leaving, though, I won`t know what to tell it. But you used to adore me, it`s going to say: You said I was The One. I thought you found me exciting. And I did, I`ll have to tell it, but I don`t anymore and I`m sorry: my feelings have simply changed. I can`t change them back.

Everything I used to love about Japan now irritates me. The sound of the Japanese language - a language that deep down I still think is one of the most beautiful in the world - has started to bug the hell out of me. When my work colleagues chatter away to each other right next to my chair - inexplicably standing over me, as they`re doing at this very moment, for instance - and they make "eeeeeeeehhhh??" and "ugh ugh ugh" sounds that are very, very Japanese, I want to rip their vocal cords out with my bare hands. The children are frequently irritating me: their obsession with Rock Paper Scissoring me every time they see me now resulting in me dodging around the school trying to avoid their scrunched up little fists. I`ve lost my Rs: I`ve started speaking English with a Japanese L sound instead, which meant that the world gorilla a couple of days ago caused serious problems. I`m tired of having to say everything slowly, and carefully, and three times to be understood: I`m tired of never having a normal, natural conversation, where my brain is engaged with content, rather than simply execution. I`m sick of having to do paperwork for everything, because Japan doesn`t function unless you fill out a form for every element of your life and I do not like frigging paperwork. Which means I`m constantly in trouble. And I do not like being constantly in trouble, especially when it`s being in trouble in a language I barely understand.

It`s more than that, though. And these are the things I won`t tell Japan when it asks: the things that would hurt it unnecessarily. I`m sick of seeing green fields everywhere and signs I can`t read: I`m sick of not being able to buy a foundation in the right colour or shoes that fit me. The smell and taste of Japanese food is starting to make me nauseous: I`m avoiding soy sauce like arsenic, and the texture of rice is beginning to make me gag. The insincerity of the irrrrasssshhhiiimmaaassseee every time I enter a shop (weeeelllllccccooooommmmmeee) is driving me insane. Stop yelling at mmmeeeee I want to scream back: you don`t even mean it. I don`t want to do Karaoke, I don`t want to eat raw fish, I don`t want to look at any more goddamn rice fields. I don`t want to hear the strange chirupping sound the zebra crossings make when you`re supposed to cross, and I don`t want to have to listen to six different radios playing simultaneously when I go grocery shopping. I don`t want to see any more men that look or sound even remotely like my soulless void of an ex boyfriend. I don`t want to get stared at when I walk into shops: I want to be able to go for a goddamn dinner on a Friday night without an entire restaurant immediately turning around to stare.

Even the sea is irritating me. No matter what time of year it is, no matter what time of day it is, it`s constantly full of surfers who are out there regardless of whether or not there are any waves. All I want to do is stand on the shore and shout Stop littering up the water!

Suffice to say: I`m not in love with Japan anymore, and every day that goes past I love it a little bit less. So I`m leaving.

Unfortunately, I`m not leaving until July (unless the people I work for read this, in which case I`d imagine I`ll be leaving in about three hours). As with any long term relationship, you can`t just cut and run because the love is gone: there is administration to do, and important things to tie up. I have a contract to finish, and a lot of money I have not managed to save yet, and a book to finish off writing (that`s where I`ve been for the last fortnight, incidentally: the first draft is now done, and just needs editing). I have a school year to finish out, and goodbyes to say. And - more important than all of that - I need to work out what the hell I`m doing next, because I have absolutely no idea. The desire to hide in a Buddhist monastery in Tibet - so incredibly strong six months ago when I was heartbroken and exhausted and swearing off men forever and ever - is no longer there: a year of living on my own in the middle of bogging nowhere has killed it right off. And the desire to jump into another teaching job is also fairly miniscule. There are only so many children you can teach without getting one single sincere thankyou before you think: you know what? Teach your bloody selves.

It`s a temporary loathing: I know that. It`s the same with every failed relationship: at the point where you leave, it`s natural to hate everything. In fact, it`s necessary, or you would never leave in the first place. Deep down, under all the irritation and all the knee-jerk anger, I still care very much about Japan: deep down, of course I`m very fond of the children and the food and the culture and the language. I don`t regret being here. But I don`t love it anymore, and so it is over. And while I may return one day, it will only be for a holiday, and it will only be as friends.

I`m terrified. I don`t remember what life is like without Japan, and I won`t know where to go, or what to do, when it`s over. It has become a part of me, and the thought of being anywhere else scares me senseless. I have no doubt that when I go I`ll feel lost, and scared, and I`ll miss it horribly and wish I`d never left. And I also have no doubt that now I`ve told it I`m leaving, I`ll start wishing I could stay and loving it all over again. But it doesn`t matter. When love is gone and you know it`s not The One, the only truly honourable thing left to do is to leave before you start looking for it elsewhere. To leave before you have to drag yourself away, or end up in two places at the same time. Before you end up hating it and spoiling it forever.

But the beautiful thing? The strength to leave Japan is the strength that Japan gave me.

And - for that, and for many other things - I will always adore it.