My first week as an expat

This morning marks my first week alone in La Ciotat. Exactly a week ago, I drove Błażej to Marseille to catch the train to Paris, and Roncia and I were left alone, happily, if a little anxiously, returning to our new home alone.

What was causing my anxiety when I had everything organized, had the most necessary items with me, and had my own car and money in my account?

Anxiety always finds a reason to settle in, settle down, and patiently wait until it can ugly surface. As usual, I had many reasons, not all logical, not all rational, but not all unfounded either.

Alone in a foreign country. With a language level I wasn't satisfied with. Without local friends. Without a job, with an uncertain future. With all my old insecurities and sorrows. But also with a multitude of wonderful people just two clicks away on my phone, armed with a new local SIM card, so I could have phone and internet coverage anywhere, anytime. With a dog I love more than anything, who sometimes causes me worry, who sometimes gets tired from caring for alone, but who is nonetheless a source of endless love and immense peace. In a beautiful, warm place, full of kind people, and most importantly – by my beloved sea.

But do all these positives only play a supporting role? Of course not. That would be too simple. Because what if I can't cope? What if I don't meet anyone here, what if no one likes me, what if I don't create a good new life? What if I don't develop a career, and God forbid something happens in Błażejowa, and everything falls on my empty, underpaid head? And so on, until we reach a number equivalent to the number of rocks on the nearby beach.

So for a week now, I've been waiting for everything to fall apart. I don't know if I can allow myself a small dose of pride and a slight confidence that everything is still okay. I haven't cried yet, and only one morning was marked by a dip in my mood, which I quickly and effectively dealt with myself. But isn't such self-satisfaction and self-deprecation a bit too arrogant? Will I trigger an emotionally unbearable avalanche of failures and sadness? I don't know what to think, or even if I should think at all. Wouldn't just thinking about it bring to pass everything I deeply fear?

Hence this so-called blog, so-called diary, so-called notebook. Inspired and spurred on by a friend who baselessly claims I have something to say and, moreover, know how to say it (or rather, write it). So if you're reading this and wondering why some woman with a perfectly good life is sitting around pouring out her pathetic sorrows online, then know: firstly, you can always turn this site off, don't read things you don't like; secondly, because I can, because I think it helps me, because I want to try; thirdly and finally, it's not my fault, it's my friend's, so if you want to scold someone, I'll give you their contact information. 😅

Long story short, I would like to say hello and welcome you all from my little corner of the internet.

Under the wonderful blue sky of southern France, with love, patience and hope.

xoxo,

wero