The year that was

A year ago today, I left London, unwillingly, sadly, and not on my own terms. Here are some thoughts, on what followed...

When the clock struck midnight last year, and we turned the page on 2011, I felt a sense of relief at putting that year behind me. 2011 began with hope at where I was headed, and 2011 ended, well, with hope at where I am headed. In between those two midnights however, there were a lot of hopeless midnights, where I felt the only place I was headed was further down into a well of black.

I had big plans last January, that included career advancement, European travel, and truly becoming a Londoner, and not a long-term visitor. Whilst, I was still reeling from my Grandma's unexpected death in December, I could easily see the positive road ahead. For the most part things were good. I had worked very hard to get to this place; months of low-paying jobs, nights spent unsure of my place, and struggles to understand English education at my job. I had spent so much of my time in London feeling uncertainty of job, money, and friends, I knew that was soon coming to an end. After all my hard work, I was almost there, just one more hurdle. The one I thought was surely the easiest, after finding a job, fighting to ensure that job stayed funded, developing my 'urban-family' support system, and learning my way around. I had done everything I was supposed to do, and soon, I'd be on my way.

Then February began and well, it all fell apart. The work visa wasn't coming, it was easier to get rid of me than fight for me, and a mere twelve days later, I was saying good-bye to the city, the life, that had become home. So, I headed back to my other home, where I had to figure out what was next. I had to figure out what you do when you've done everything,when you worked hard, when it still isn't enough. What you do when you miss your new home so much, but don't want to hurt those in your old home who just want to help you. What you do when you lived in a capital city and are forced to move back to the small town. What you do when you get accused of being superior, when the truth is simply that your experiences have changed you. What you do when your career is snatched away, and you have to find a new one. What you do when you hate being stuck inside, but don't want to be outside either. What you do when you feel betrayed, but still miss that which betrayed you, all the same. What you do when feel stupid for believing it would work out. What you do when you didn't get to say good-bye on your own terms. What you do when you are running out of hope.

I can't say that I have the answer to those questions; the only one I have is that, I think, all you can do is try not to drown in those questions. I think you do have to feel them, and you have to give credence to them. Perhaps, I wallowed, perhaps I spent too much time feeling bad for myself. I don't know. All I know is that the way I kept from drowning was to take the time to cry and be angry and talk about it and feel betrayed. To be grateful that I had some place to go, but still think it is okay that this shouldn't have happened to me. To understand that I am still relatively blessed, but to be mad as hell that this ended the way it did. To let time do what it does and scab over the wounds and let them begin to fade.

In time, I found another job. One in the U.S., but one that I like nonetheless. I have spent time with my family making up for so much time spent away. I celebrated my Mom's 60th birthday and my sister's 30th. I have started to reconnect with friends. I am figuring out what my next steps are. Where I am going; where I am headed.


A year later, I am still sad. Still angry. I still feel betrayed. I still miss London, my friends, and my old life. I am still caught with unexpected waves of nostalgia for a double-decker bus, my independence, and strangely at times, the smells of London. But, not all the time any more. I feel better; I have some hope again.