Repatriation Blues

The USA immigration system is one giant clusterfuck of a ball ache (presumably – being a non-bearer of balls). Add a tangerine colored cockwomble that seriously just needs to spontaneously combust already, and well, immigration headache for all, and not just the muslims that the media are reporting on.

Immigration is affecting everybody. I should know. In the space of six measly weeks I have just packed my life up. Wait. Nope. I sold my life. Everything about my life for the last three years pretty much belongs to somebody else now, or my memories. The only souvenir I have to show for it is my one year old, who is presently battling with jet lag.

We are back in England and it is horrendous. I hate it. For no good reason. Positivity doesn’t hang around long when it is near for the briefest moment. There are lots of positives; closer to friends, closer to family, a suddenly ability to cook because i recognise the ingredients…

But, oh my god, why is everything so on top of one another? Where is the space? Where is my forest view outside my window? Why can i hear traffic at all hours? What the actual fuck am i supposed to do about school places? When the hell does school start?

Repatriating is by far and away a lot harder than expatriating. I didn’t cry for days like this when I moved. Yes I cried, but not like I had lost an integral part of me and not for days. Most of my relationships were fake so easy to leave. I don’t think a single connection i made in Chicago was fake. Well, apart from the snooty bitch playdate I attempted with a stuck up mom of three when I first arrived.

Leaving America was so hard to leave all of the friends I had made. But it isn’t like I had a choice. I thought I did, and I chose to stay longer. Pansy ass lawyers with mickey mouse degrees put paid to that idea. Apparently a death in the family prevents two lawyers from submitting crucial paperwork for six weeks. TWO. A first and second chair. What, were they married? Sorry, somebody died and all but your delay just completely span my entire world and crushed it.

So here I am, a hot mess of a Repat Mamma, attempting to get a grip and hold it together and not lose my shit. It isn;t clear if I am succeeding.

One thing about repatriating. It’s one giant anti-climax. When you are outbound, it’s one huge adventure. Moving back – to an apartment that pre-dates me, and doesn’t feel at all mine feels like moving backwards, with the nosy wankers that I left behind looking on while cooing, ooh look at the pretty failure.

England sucks today. But – as is being frequently pointed out to me – so did America when i was only four days in.

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