Relocation, Relocation, Relocation
I suppose it’s something that few independent 20-somethings consider, let alone explore; the fine art of reducing the collective possessions of their adolescent years down to the one or two large suitcases, on their last legs (due to relentless bashing from airport luggage handlers). Many verbalise their experiences and adventures in witty blogs and obsequious emails to the family. The psychological repercussions of moving to another country, though, are hardly something one can express through Microsoft Word. And contrary to popular belief, the move itself is not nearly as easy as it looks. “Have I made the right decision?” “Why is it that I made this decision now?” “How long are people betting I’ll last?” These are three of approximately twenty-nine thousand questions that have been circling through my head since ricocheting myself all over the greater states of America and landing firmly in London proper. So, how does one survive the distant and unknown territories?
In my personal experience, homesickness well and truly sets in approximately five-six weeks post-arrival. Knowing what’s going on at what well-frequented bar on what evening (and what attire would best suit), driving across town simply to partake in some frivolous Wii matches and catching up on salacious hearsay with your friends, even the routine of the post-booze binge breakfast at that new café that I can never remember the name of — but the owner used to work at that place in West End — seem to be a long-lost day dream. Instead, the constant barrage of unknown entities, locations and events seem to pin you to the ground, demand your wallet and watch and give you a sneaky kick in the ribs just for luck.
Failing something to hurl at this shifty predator one can — and always should — attempt to find solace in keeping themselves busy; very busy. Possibly more busy than one has ever been in their entire life. It’s my firm belief that what separates the sluggish and morbidly depressed and retrospective foreigner from the ambitious, entrepreneurial expatriate is simply the time one allows oneself to ponder. Too much time on your hands? Not much to keep you busy? This is the main ingredient in what my friends have lovingly dubbed ‘cooking’. Thinking is what leads to reminiscing about your old life; the safe haven where you had reached the ultimate balance of social acceptance, frivolous independence and self-loving selfishness. Now, embarking upon a journey which sees you thrust into the international churn of — in my case at least — Westernised European customs and expectations, you can’t help but feel lost at sea and naturally, wishing for your safety blanket.
Now, my dear friend. To ask you not to think would hardly be fair, let alone plausible. Surely one can gauge their own level of resistance to the tyrannical beast that is the longing for home. All I can offer is this; take solace in the fact that you have moved overseas — something that not many of your other friends can attest to — and relish in the experiences that are to come. Think not of what is behind you, as this usually leads to insurmountable pining and at least three to six weeks of second-guessing. Think, instead, of what lies ahead. You are daring to embark on the unknown and build within yourself strengths of character that will not only donate to your experiences in your newfound home, but add to your future endeavours, wherever they may lead you. You will, in the end, begin to find a sense of peace and, thus, a sense of yourself; your new self. And this, I feel, is what is truly worth fighting your inner insecurities for.
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