A friend of mine recently asked me if my four years of leaving “the old country” was worth it. I don’t know if she was just making conversation or trying to get me to be introspective or what. But it’s an interesting question, especially today.
Today is my fourth migratory anniversary. At this time, on this day, four years ago I left the USA and embarked on a relatively straightforward path.
On my journey I discovered that, when left completely in charge of my own life, I am fundamentally incapable of following a relatively straightforward path.
And now I’m on a plane bound eventually toward San Francisco, Calif., to pay too much to study for three months so that I can get a job and not end up sleeping under a bridge and eating out of garbage cans.
Am I glad I left? Definitely.
Am I content with all of the bad choices and resulting heartache and depression and confusion and anxiety and lack of money? Hell no.
Am I looking forward to being back? Definitely not. Do I feel defeated? Yep. Will I let that get me down? Totally.
Will I leave again the second I get the chance? Hell yes. To completely bastardize a GoT quote: