It’s almost midnight, the day before I’m moving to London again. My room at my godmother’s house is empty, cleaned out and somehow I managed to fit all my belongings into two suitcases and one carry-on. Although they will by all means get the degrading little stickers screaming out heavy luggage as if to tell me I don’t know how to pack. Luckily I’m a boss lady with arm muscles like a wrestler to carry them. One won’t be able to tell though when I stand at Arlanda Airport crying from leaving my loved ones to enter a future of uncertainty.
It’s my eighth time moving countries, and it’s not making it one bit easier. Inside me there is an ocean of frightening excitement running in my veins. It’s the moment before I leap, before choosing a path to go down and so many things will determine my upcoming years. Next week alone we have three house viewings and I have two job interviews. What the fuck will I say at those? Not a clue. I’m aiming for something smashing, but only time will tell. Suddenly staying here in my godmother’s guest bedroom seems a lot safer than using my one way ticket to the UK. But since when do I chase safety?
This year has been so strange and exhausting and hurtful and magical. I’m not the same me returning to London, but I believe it’s a good thing. I’m less destructive and not as tearful, definitely not cooler but surely more confident and knowledgable. It feels like I won’t break as easily, and god that has been awaited. Having been exposed to feedback about my behaviour, first impression, reactions, presentations, expressions every week at Hyper Island, I’ve gotten to know myself. With all the ugliness and charm. I’ve come to terms with people not always liking me and it doesn’t even bother me. So London you won’t be able to crush me either! But I’m definitely up for a battle.
Tomorrow I will eat my last Swedish breakfast in a while, kiss my dear dear sister farewell whilst performing my ugliest and most grotesque version of sobbing. The streets of Stockholm I will call my home for the last time in god knows how long. Perhaps never more. It’s painful and sad, but at least I’m not all relieved to run away like last time. We’re on good terms, Stockholm and I, and even if I’m not head over heels, you have my respect. Being able to say that no I wouldn’t mind living here again is more than I had ever expected.
Within 19 hours I will stand in Clapton with all my luggage and ring on Daniel’s doorbell. I will hear his footsteps running down the staircase and answering the door to put his arms around me. It’ll be the last time we say hi again after a tearful farewell. The long distance term before our relationship doesn’t exist anymore.
So guys, this is when it starts. I will be a Londoner once more and take you with me on my struggles, adventures, love stories and heart breaks. I have 37 pence on my British bank account but here I come fuckers. I expect to get swept off my feet.
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