A man bumps into me at the airport and curses under his breath. He glares at me and I stare back, and for a split second he looks sorry, but there’s no time for it. He is a stressed old man, running after unexpected hiccups. I’ve felt this way for months; my tense neck and shoulders attest to it.
I sit down, in the plane, around me Vietnamese students, all wearing the same red hoodie with a German flag on it, students starting a new life in the country where I was brought up – nervous about the cold, about their future, excited for their new homes and making use of the language they’ve been learning for years. My family is sleeping next to me. I watch films, thinking only fleetingly, superficially, about the past two weeks we spent in Vietnam. I have yet to process the trip before I tell you about it. Or rather, to show you what I’ve seen.
I procrastinate not only the simplest of tasks, but feelings as well. Like the way I’ve been feeling before going on this holiday. I rarely went online, the Instagram app died on my screen and TikTok was an escape. I watched films on my list, to cry and to indulge in something unreal happening outside of my life. Here’s what has been going on.
My landlord kept increasing the rent, so existing didn’t feel fun anymore. I couldn’t enjoy moments that I wanted to hold dear, with people that I love spending time with, because I felt so anxious. Nothing could change that state. I had to get out. I had wanted to move out, in my own time, but this called for action straight away. I sent off a cancellation of my contract without having booked a new place. After that, I dove heads deep into finding a new flat.
It was almost impossible to go to flat viewings because they all happened during work hours. I called in sick for a week to attend them all, which my doctor granted, seeing how pale and small I looked in her seat. I lost sleep and appetite because of how uncertain everything was. I seemed to stand in my own way. There were so many things out of my control and I didn't know how to handle it. I cried a lot and complained a lot and kept going to flat viewings. I couldn’t plan anything in the future because I was stressed about the Now. Months passed without me noticing. I was floating, bumping into lampposts.
Then I viewed a flat in an area I like, and came to find nine other applicants standing right there with me in the alleyway for the viewing. I didn’t have much hope but I sent out an offer right away. Eventually, with much relief, I got that flat. It’s mine now, waiting for me across the sea. I still have the move ahead of me, which I had to jam into the same day I arrive back home, inevitably riddled with jet lag. It was a crazy decision to make, but I was scheduled into work every day after that. The future scares me, but I haven’t felt so much relief in a long time. So much relief I’m happy to cry. So much relief I feel like even the hard things pass.
It’s been three weeks since writing that on the plane. I’m now at my new desk that came with a wrong manual, at 9:20 AM, sipping on a cup of Black tea. My move was chaos. I had my friends and my sisters’ friends helping me out. My friends helped me build furniture at my new place, and pick up second-hand furniture from Ebay strangers. I felt so grateful that I cried before bed. Now you must have noticed that I cry a lot. I don’t often know where else to release my emotions. I like it.
I cleared out my old flat, did a quick job for returning it, looked frantically for remaining keys, and finally let go of it entirely. I waved Goodbye to the gate on the last day, and got on the tram and smiled. With the keys taken from my body, I felt a stone drop from my stomach. I felt my shoulders un-tense. I felt my headache clear. My forehead relaxed. My head cleared from clouds while the winter slammed in, snowing on my paths.
But I can breathe. I like breathing in my new place. It’s quite cold, since it’s an old building, but the street lamp comforts me at night. The walls look pale, but with my next pay check I’m buying paintings.
And then, and then, and then. Everything fell apart at once so that it could all come together for me again. I understand that now.
I could do pottery class. I could work out at the gym on free mornings, maybe when the worst of work is over. I could make more tea, prepare lunch the day before. I could have a dinner party. I’ve got Prosecco on my dinner table. An oven, buzzing as it heats up. My neighbour’s cat greeting me.