I’m having trouble wrapping words around my thoughts, which means I’m not sure I understand what I feel.

In simple terms, it’s half homesickness, half performance anxiety. The more I pull at those ideas though, the more they unravel.

Every expatriate I know says that months three to six are pretty hard. Quite a few of them talked about randomly bursting into tears. I haven’t been doing that, but I did sob all the way through The Book Thief, which is perhaps equivalent.

I haven’t been feeling depressed or manic, or any of the things I know how to identify. Just bemused resignation. “This is my life now.”

I am beset by overly romantic memories of London and the occasional, “Why would I give that up?” but I still want to know the world, even if doing so takes me away from people and places I love.

So, pretty confused on that front.

But come what may, we’re here until March. And fuck knows what the next 10 months will bring. When I think of my first six months out of uni, or the first six months in my last job, it’s hard to believe those times segued into the ones that followed, so different were they.

I am impatient though, even if I am better equipped to deal with change (or waiting for change) than I have been before.

Work has been a strange merry-go-round these past months. In brief, got job, hated job, temporarily lost mind, got new job, got counter-offer from old job, moved from Health to Creative.

This is perfect because it’s a great agency and ‘proper’ creative is what I really, really want to be doing.

But it is terrifying because it’s a great agency and ‘proper’ creative is what I really, really want to be doing.

What if I’m no good? I have more than two years’ experience, so I am expected to know my stuff, but I came from a small agency that didn’t focus much on teaching so I don’t feel like I measure up to the creatives here.

I know the whole point is that I’ll learn and get better, but now I have the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, I’m scared of finding out that I’m not as good in real life as I’ve imagined being.

It’s another part of growing up I guess. Watching our imagined lives stumble and get left behind as we embrace the median.

I haven’t accepted an imaginary Nobel prize since I was 17. Maybe I’ll be ok.


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