A day in the life of an expatriate?

A single moment is enough to scare the shit out of yourself. I don’t get it. Why did I break? Running down the stairs in tears, on my way to the last vacation dinner before taking off to my favourite city again. Why is saying goodbye suddenly so much harder than before?

Emotionally speaking, moving out and leaving my hometown wasn’t really difficult. I felt I had nothing to lose. It was one of those moments that come once in a while in your life when things evaporate and it becomes clear there is a decision to be made, the one you might always look back to as the one that changed almost everything in your life or the one that suppressed a powerful urge you had lived with for years. It was getting late to still not be ready and I didn’t choose to stay. I needed the experience of actually doing something and being independent and this need alone was enough of a motivation in the general emptiness I was perceiving. I relied on a quiet assumption me getting out of a micro-community won’t affect neither of the parts brutally. Maybe I was right.

It’s been almost two years since then. I’m well settled in the ordinary life mixture of errands and fun in the new town or better massive city and I have no actual wish to abandon it, no matter the occasional fatigue. However, yesterday, on the last night after three weeks at home (the longest period so far) I cracked. Can I really understand why, besides the fact that leaving people you love is never easy?

Only if I remind myself of noticing a growing anxiety and even paranoia in the past few months.

As much as I can love my new life and all it has given me, I have to accept the fact I excluded myself from the everyday life of most of my closest people. Not as much that they can’t be there for me (although yes, that as well), but even more that I’m not there when they need me. That I’m missing out the good stuff in their lives and don’t support them through the worst. All I can offer are words fading through space. The feeling grows and too often a chill of what might happen alarms me out of absolutely nothing. The clock is ticking and what if some day it will be too late?! Of course, it’s not completely rational, never was.

With no regrets, I still can’t get rid of an impression what I did was purely selfish.

So, there came a day in my life as an expatriate when I looked at the life I’ve created abroad and asked myself if it’s worth it to still insist. Is the mission I’ve been on completed or was it just the first part? Can all the new relationships here really make up for limiting the most important ones back home? Most importantly, which of the two lives means more to me?

I don’t know the answer yet and my sensitivity is only confusing me.

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