The Great Relocation... Part 4

A quick recap

On 10 August 2017, my visa application was denied for a second time. And after a solid freak-out, Bagel and I were going to have a logical, rational, heart-to-heart about what to do next.

What were our options?

As soon as we were able to, Bagel and I had a good, long call to discuss our options for moving forward. They looked something like this:

Option 1: Keep reapplying for the B-2 cohabitating partner visa, knowing that I probably would never actually be granted that visa for longer than a month or two at best.

Option 2: Move out of the cottage and into a matchbox-sized cottage somewhere else where I’d have to pay rent to establish ‘stronger ties to South Africa’, and hope that the consulate would grant me the B-2 cohabitating partner visa for a longer period. Although, this plan didn’t sit well with us because I wasn’t making a solid income while freelancing, and I couldn’t really afford to move into a smaller place that was probably going to cost quite a lot each month. Also, the chances of the consulate actually granting the visa (and for a longer time period) were still pretty slim.

Option 3: End our relationship completely because long-distance relationships are horrendous, and we’d both always said that we’d sooner break-up than do long-distance anyway. However, now that we were in the situation, we actually couldn’t bear the thought of just calling it quits and carrying on without each other.

So, we settled for Option 4: Stick it out and soldier on through an exceptionally difficult long-distance relationship for the next four months until Bagel could fly home in December, and we could figure out next steps together.

Easier said than done?

Absolutely. The month that followed was probably one of the most difficult months of my adult life up until that point. There was just an insane amount of ‘stuff’ going on and I really struggled to cope.

Literally two days after the unsuccessful visa interview, I went through some pretty dark and life-changing family stuff. I’m not going to get into it now; probably not ever. But it was bad and it continued up until recently.

In the week that followed, I finally unpacked my luggage and a few other treasured items that I’d already packed in preparation for the big move. I cried the whole time.

I spent time spring-cleaning the cottage and moving what little furniture I still had around. I did a bit of nesting so I’d feel a bit happier and a better sense of ‘belonging’ in the cottage since it was going to be my home for the foreseeable future.

I changed my bedding and moved the bed right up against the wall, because I didn't have to leave space for Bagel to climb in on that side anymore.

My mom sent proteas to try cheer me up; they helped.

When it was time to throw the proteas out, I picked some bougainvillea from the garden.

It was heartbreaking and refreshing to pack away my empty suitcases, and have a clutter-free bedroom floor again.

My little kitchen after my first proper spring clean.

My little lounge after my first proper spring clean.

I didn’t get much sleep during August and early September, because I was staying up super late to be able to chat to Bagel, but I was still trying to wake up at a reasonable time so I could go into the office now and then while freelancing; and if I wasn’t at the office, I was working from home. When I did sleep, I didn’t sleep well because I struggled to adjust to the new noises and surroundings of the cottage without Bagel there. It’s funny how when you’re used to sleeping next to your person every night, you immediately feel unprotected when they’re not there anymore. The same noises that never used to bother me at all now kept me up for hours; every little ‘drip’ or ‘rustle’ I heard was obviously the sound of a serial killer coming to get me, right? I know it’s silly, but that’s sleep-deprivation and anxiety for you!

A turning point

My anxiety (and subsequent depression) also made me incredibly insecure and paranoid, as Bagel and I found out during that month. I was not coping with our long-distance relationship at all, and on more than one occasion, I found myself still up at 4am on the phone with Bagel, crying and shouting and questioning if we were crazy to be doing this. I’ll unpack how the distance affected our relationship in more detail in a future post, but it was after one of these horrible late night/early morning calls (where Bagel and I found ourselves in a serious discussion about whether or not we should continue our relationship at all), that I had a bit of a revelation. Okay, maybe ‘revelation’ isn’t the right word; but I reached a turning point and I knew that it was time for me to go back to therapy.

This was the image I shared on Instagram the day I decided to go back to therapy.

It had been about three years since my last appointment; so much had happened since then and in hindsight, I probably hadn’t processed any of it very well. I can’t speak for anyone else living with anxiety and depression, but I know what signs to look out for in myself that tell me it’s time to reach out for help. I’d been ignoring the signs since just before Bagel left, because I felt like having to go back to therapy after ‘being okay’ for three years would make me a failure. But the thing about mental illness and learning to cope with it, is that it’s not a linear path. Sometimes you fail; sometimes you stumble. But you can always go back (to therapy, medications, whatever your coping mechanisms are) and start working on it again.

I knew my anxiety and depression were starting to spiral out of control when:

• I was tired all the time, even though I was sleeping more than 10 hours a day (regular sleep and naps, included).
• I was eating all the wrong things all the time (especially when I was alone, and knew no one was watching).
• I stopped wearing make-up and doing my hair.
• I didn’t want to see friends.
• I didn’t answer any phone calls, even from family.
• I began isolating myself from everyone.
• I didn’t post anything to my Instagram feed for more than two weeks.

I’ve given some thought as to why these behaviors became ‘coping mechanisms’ for me. Here’s how I rationalized them in hindsight:

• If I’m asleep, I don’t have to deal with how my life is crumbling apart. Also, anxiety and depression leave me feeling physically and mentally exhausted.
• Comfort eating has always been my thing. From a young age, I’ve had this perception that ‘food = love’, so if I’m down, I eat. Also, food is one of the few things you can actually control, so when everything else is out of your control, you turn to food (even though the food starts controlling you after a while).
• I’m not going out or doing anything fancy anyway, so why bother wearing make-up or doing my hair? I’m alone and I don’t care what I look like, so I’m not putting in the effort.
• If I see friends, they’ll see how terrible I look and they’ll pity me, or judge me. I’ll also have to tell them the whole story of why I’m still here, and they’ll know I’m a massive failure and they’ll judge me. So, how do I avoid the pity and the judgement and the reliving of the whole visa interview ordeal? Just don’t see anyone.
• If I answer the phone, I’ll have to talk to people and I’ll (probably) have to tell them the whole story. If I speak to my family, they’ll know I’m not doing okay, and they’ll fuss over me and make me feel like a child. So, it’s best to avoid calls completely.
• Come to think of it, it’s best to avoid messages, visits, and any other form of social interaction completely as well.
• My Instagram feed is based largely on the #365grateful project. It’s a way for me to stay positive and find the good in every day, and it just makes me really happy. If I’m not happy, positive, or feeling particularly grateful for anything in my current situation, I’m not going to post anything. I believe in being real and honest about the good and the bad when it comes to social media sharing, so I’m not going to post anything until I’m in the right frame of mind. I also don’t feel like sharing my current situation with those closest to me, much less the few hundred followers I have, lest I have to explain things to them and be pitied and/or mocked and/or judged for it. Also, posting to Instagram and sharing with people makes me happy and brings me joy, so I’m not going to do it because I don’t deserve to be happy right now.

Looking back, it seems I had a lot of concern over how others would react to my situation, and what they’d think and say. I think I was embarrassed of my situation and my journey, and I couldn’t bring myself to share it with anyone. Perhaps I also felt like if I didn’t admit to anyone else how bad things were, I wouldn’t have to admit it to myself either. I was also punishing myself in a big way by not allowing myself to be vulnerable with the people who cared for me the most, and by not allowing myself to enjoy activities that normally brought me joy.

Now that I’ve had time to think back and ‘analyze’ this stage of my journey, I feel really sad that I wasn’t more kind to myself. But thankfully, I did do something really wonderful for myself in going back to therapy, and ’ll unpack this in a bit more detail in a future post.

Would the next month be better?

As it turns out, yes. And no. Stay tuned for Part 5 of this series to find out what happened next.

In the meantime, if you have any questions about what you’ve read so far, feel free to get in touch here or on the Candice Says Facebook page; I’d love to hear from you!

Take care,

C

x

Thumbnail image courtesy Photo by Slava Bowman on Unsplash.