I said it would never happen, I’d never do it, or even consider it, as I barely escaped with what remained of my sanity. But the truth of the matter is, I’m a sucker for punishment and I miss it like f’ck and I am seriously thinking about moving back THERE.
I’ve had a good 4+ years here in the UK, sort of. If you don’t include the fact I was underpaid, undervalued, bullied in my workplace and lost all but a shred of my self-confidence. My mojo had been crushed beyond repair, or so I thought at the time.
The MAIN BLAME AWARD goes to…
I chalk it up to a woman I call ‘The Pale Rider’ a bloodless, pasty-complexion micro-managing know-it-all that should have dressed in black robes carried a scythe to live up to her wrath on creativity and one who wouldn’t know it if it were five tonne anvil and it fell crushing her to a to a pulpy sludge on dingy stick-on office carpet. As one of the many minions, you were told repeatedly and explicitly to refer to ‘The Bible’ – which was a past issue of the mag she would have overseen and what she considered as the perfect issue, but in actual fact was the blandest of bland templated format. However this stone law would go out the window when she was was having a bad day or one of her fits of Münchhausen Syndrome. (What does it really say about a boss referring to their work as a divine example? Yeah.) She ruled the realm of publishing purgatory in the East Midlands where you’re less than nothing, and even if you’re talented – you’re ultimately disposable. Yeah, I worked for, and was published in a national magazine – SO WHAT?
One day last June I decided I was tired of anxiety attacks, crying in the bathroom and grinding my teeth while sitting at my desk under under institutional lighting and this oppressive regime. I paced the office perimeter three times before mustering the courage to hand in my resignation then I waked out carrying my coffee mug and whatever shred of dignity I had left, without regret. However I did stop writing almost altogether. (This is my comeback at overcoming that glitch.)
It’s not like I feel England has kicked my ass, it’s actually toughened me up and I’ve expanded creativity in many other ways. Living in the UK has been a learning experience, and I’ve evolved and grown with knowledge and experience that I never thought possible, but I finally had to ask myself, “Is this where I want to spend the rest of my life?” It’s not. Sparing you all from all my moaning and grievances regarding politics, prices and quality of life (like everywhere else in the world), I’m just not inspired, I need Italy. (Perhaps now I’m probably in a little bit of a better position in some ways, to handle life there.) Italy filters out the noise of the civilized English-speaking world and even when she’s kicking my ass and things are shit, she tells me not to worry, it’s all going to be fine and that I should just make myself some pasta and tomato sauce, just chill the f’ck out and ride the wave. Which is usually spot on.
Extracting myself from England and jumping into a new unknown is terrifying and I expect will be a lengthy process logistically. I have no idea how I’m going to do tit and I don’t expect any transition to be easy. I predict many fits of tears, deep breaths and shaking fists. She will undoubtedly test my patience over and over, but I need her love, lawlessness and infuriating vibe to feed my crazy. I need my wonderful friends that love me, and ‘get me.’ I need sunshine, fabulous food, inspiration… and my old eyes back.