By the end of this week, I’ll be setting foot on Japanese soil. Normally, a trip back home should be nothing but exciting. Thoughts of enjoying delicious food, shopping at Don Quijote (Discount Shopping Store), and finding countless ways to savor my return to Japan flood my mind.
But as the departure date draws closer, I’ve been having nightmares more frequently. When I picture myself in Japan, my body starts trembling. In the book The Courage to Be Disliked, one of Adlerian psychology's teachings states that "trauma doesn’t exist" (though Adlerian psychology doesn’t actually deny trauma's existence). However, the physical reactions I experience are beyond the control of willpower. When asked what kind of psychological scars I’m carrying, it’s difficult to give a clear explanation. What I can say is that, to me, Japan is a place where I’ve completely raised the white flag—a place I’ve deemed insurmountable.
It’s like facing an opponent you can never beat. You keep fighting, but in the end, you surrender, burdened with pain. Even if that opponent is no longer part of your life, just sharing the same air becomes terrifying.
To Whom—or What—Did I Surrender?
It’s hard to clearly define the “target” of my surrender, but if I were to summarize it crudely and force it into words, I think it was my belief in myself—the self who thought they could solve everything. I had this absolute core of “how things should be,” an ideal self. I did everything possible to bring that ideal into reality, but in the end, I couldn’t solve anything—not even a fraction. I had to surrender to my own powerlessness and immaturity.
Strangely enough, this act of surrender was something I reached after my father’s suicide. In a way, I see it as his final gift to me. And now, because I surrendered, I’m far happier than I was back then. Of course, I still struggle daily, face inner conflicts, and often get frustrated with how Sashiko is treated in the English-speaking world. But I’ve gained something truly precious, and protecting it has become my life’s purpose. This sense of fulfillment is thanks to the 49 days between October and December of 2013, which led me to surrender.
Seeking Forgiveness
When I look at it from another angle, I suspect that I’ve left behind a sense of guilt in Japan—a guilt about having “run away” and a powerlessness over failing to resolve things. It’s a heavy, shameful feeling that I can’t bear to confront directly. That’s likely why I couldn’t set foot in Japan for 10 years until 2023. Even after my brief return this year, when I wasn’t as tormented by PTSD, Japan still feels distant.
I don’t know whom to ask for forgiveness, or even if I’ll ever be forgiven. But the feeling of regret remains scattered throughout my heart. The place where I finally surrendered was in Sashiko. This one-time return trip also came about through Sashiko, thanks to the wonderful connections I’ve made. With deep gratitude toward Sashiko, I hope that someday, somewhere, I’ll be able to retrieve that white flag.
This time, I doubt I’ll have the strength or energy to reclaim it. But by returning more frequently to the Japan that once felt impossibly distant, I hope to gradually bridge the emotional gap between me and my homeland.
Soon, I’ll be back in Japan. Thank you for your care.