It's been really hard for me to put words to my feelings this week, but here goes:

Today everything's pretty normal.  I wake up, I do some light housework, and take a couple of records and medicine over to my friend Keiran's house who's not feeling too well when he asks me in his lovely Doncaster accent, "What the fuck's happened to your country?"  "Eh, is there a fire or something?" I reply.  "Um... you probably should look at the news" he says.  I'm not sure how to react.  If I had my culture for padding, maybe I'd be feeling better?  Probably not.  I start to have one of my huge panic attacks when Keiran's roomate Pinky walks in and I calm down a bit.  Then his roomate George (who's a girl) comes in wearing a british-cut t-shirt that says "Texas" on it.  Any other time I'd be able to express my amusement.  They turn over from the news to watch Neighbours.  Probably the most healthy thing to do, but something I'm not ready for yet so I zombie off home.

I'm only ready for some sedatives, which is what my local doctor has prescribed for me for my anxiety attacks.  My doctor hasn't prescribed anything for me before but some rest and paracetamol.  I'm amazed at the British people.  I'm amazed that they played my national anthem at the changing of the guards, and the Battle Hymn of the Republic at Westminster Abbey.   I'm moved to tears every time I hear them play my national anthem.  But when I walked into the bank today and people heard my accent while talking to the teller, everybody stopped talking and looked at me.  Stared.  Same thing at the doctors, on the train, and everywhere else I've been since Tuesday.  I thought people might approach me and say something, but it's been the complete opposite.  As if I wasn't feeling weird enough already.

I'm glad I'm safe and well in England, but I'm sad that I'm going to be stuck here for a while.  I'm afraid to fly at the best of times, so going over in October is pretty much out of the question.