inky pinky ponky

As far as I'm aware, as far as I can remember, I've always found it relatively easy to make decisions. The choices have been fairly easy; the options always stacked for me to favour one over the other.

This has not been so for the last three, three and a half, almost four months. It's no secret that I have been plagued with choice anxiety at every turn. Some of it has been the object of eye-rolling smirks - which flavour of ice cream to buy, which meal to order, how to dress for the day. But then there have been the more serious - where to live, what job to accept, when to admit defeat.

This indecision - and my life in general - is spiralling out of control.

I've been asked which job I took: the answer is neither. Although, I suppose that's not quite accurate. I did accept one.

(Oh, here, here is some more drama for you: the driver testing places all over Ontario have been on strike for weeks. I am unable to get an Ontario drivers licence which many jobs require. This has cost me a number of positions now. Even though I have both an International and New Zealand licence. I was offered two jobs in one week: one I had to turn down because of the lack of licence, so I accepted the other subpar position. Four hours later I was re-offered the first job with a plan to sort out the licence issue at a later date. After much consideration, I reneged on my acceptance of Job B and accepted Job A. And subsequently got the run around (more drama, I will spare you), and then, well, here the story continues...)

I accepted one job. But then melt-downs happened, ties were severed, and I gave up. I couldn't take it anymore, I couldn't stand being here anymore, so I spent an entire day corresponding with my travel agent (more drama) in an attempt to secure a return ticket. I was set to fly out of Canada today. I emailed a select few friends back home quietly to arrange plans on the other end, to cushion my fall back to New Zealand.

Honestly, it felt good. It felt so good to have done something decisive. I'd been unhappy here for so long and it was a relief to see the end. My heart was heavy at the dreams I would be leaving behind, but the relief was overwhelming. Letting go of the struggling and the striving that just hadn't been working was what I needed to do.

I started to write my fourth post, admitting that I was returning home while my blog was still in its first blush of new romance.

But. The week progressed. I found my thoughts shifting once again.

How could I go home? I thought I had come to terms with all I would be passing up on - the very real chance to have a permanent future and potential family on this side of the world. How could I really go home without seeing this to the end? How could I be so weak? How could I give up so soon? How would I live with the regret once I was home? What if I was about to make the worst mistake in my life; the one that would irrevocably change my future and ruin something that could have been amazing?

It was all happening so fast. After three months of what felt like slow underwater movement with no progress, suddenly I had exploded to the surface and was moving rapidly towards an open door that was due to slam shut. I didn't know which side to be on when it closed.

I wanted desperately to stay. I wanted desperately to leave. I second guessed every thought, every feeling, every decision.

I cancelled my rescheduled flights. I stepped backwards. I spent a day - a week - hibernating. Trying to regenerate. I decided to give Canada one more chance. A month.

And then things were better. For a week I felt grounded and zen-like. I came to terms with either outcome. I decided to let go; I had been struggling so hard for so long to stay here, and this time I decided I wouldn't. I wouldn't struggle. I would still apply for jobs and I would still attempt to make a life here, but if it was still determined not to stick then I wouldn't fight it. I would have my answer. The anxiety and stress had been killing me, so I let it go. I decided that every day here from this point forward was an unexpected bonus. I would just enjoy the month and see where it led. It would give me a little more time to either figure out a way to stay, or to become accustomed to going home.

It worked for a few days. It was a relief to feel slightly normal again, rather than the miserable shell of my former self that I've become. Unfortunately, my fresh, new, light outlook wasn't to stay.

I am back to uncertainty. To desperation. To swinging violently from one exteme to the other.

Yesterday, I wanted more than anything to stay here and see how things would play out. To see if love and life here was in my future. To see if I was going to thrive and flourish with the help of my favourite person in the world (barring family).

Today, I am weary and my outlook is dark. I am done, I am done, I am done.

This is the biggest decision I have had to make for myself, and I can't. I can't. I don't know what I want or need. From where I'm standing at this intersection, my two options are as equally unappealing.

I can stay in Canada, broke and miserable and bereft of joy, but with the chance of love.

Or I can go home, broke and miserable but in familiar surroundings, at home, and start to rebuild my life. Minus my best friend.

I cannot bear the thought of staying here. And I cannot bear the thought of going home, empty.

I've been told numerous times to just make a decision and stick to it. See how well that's worked for me so far? The stakes are too high, one way or the other. No matter how many different angles I try to approach this problem from, I cannot find the answer. What I once found easy has now become an impossible feat. I am completely unable to make a decision, and the ones that I do eventually make, I renege on. I have become flighty, unstable, and unpredictable.

I do not know what my next move is, and moreso, I do not know how to decide what it will be.

eff em ell

I recently moved into a house without an internet connection.

I signed a lease that will take me through to next May. I needed to make a commitment to being here, to not folding my hand and crawling home prematurely.

I like the house. I like the roommates. I adore the kitchen. But the internet thing? Not so much.

I steal it from the neighbours. In my more noble moments I feel guilty about it, but I have no other options.

No, you do not understand. I really have no other options.

The weak connections are sporadic at best. Sometimes I’ll hook onto a network that will give me five minutes of spotty internet access. Just enough time to check and write emails, but by the time I hit send the connection has dried up.

Other days I can get on for hours at a time, but by then the emails and updates have piled up and I can’t bear to face it all.

My laptop broke a few weeks before I left New Zealand. I would dearly love to hike down to the nearest Starbucks (or rather, Tim Horton’s) and sit with a coffee and donut while I browse the web at leisure, however because of its condition my laptop needs to be permanently plugged in to a large desktop monitor.

So, I don’t reply. I barely update. I am isolated and I miss the people who know me.

Also, there is no home phone.

No home phone, and no stable internet connection that will give me access to skype or similar.

My cellphone? I have no credit rating in this country yet, so cannot be approved for cellphone plans. I am on prepay. The phone I bought? Though I asked for a Sarnia number I was given something unfamiliar, something that – I’m told time and again when I give it out – is long distance. I didn’t know until it was too late.

I am charged exorbitant amounts to make calls. And to receive calls. I chew through my credit at an alarming pace, and I barely use the thing.

I called to see what my options were. I am not likely to have a credit history until about December, but even then it has been damaged by phone companies performing credit checks that have been denied due to the lack of history. Including companies that claim no credit checks are needed for a plan.

I cannot have my number changed to be local, because aside from my email address, it is the only contact information listed on my resume which has been distributed to hundreds of stores and companies and offices.

I recently stumbled upon – and became addicted to – a website, FML. Sometimes I think I should submit my last three months to it.

I have only leaked out depressing updates so far. This is unfortunate, but – here I shrug helplessly – accurate. These are all I have in me right now. I do not have pleasant news. I am struggling. I am at risk of drowning in sadness and disappointment. Every Monday-through-Friday feels uncomfortable, like a lifetime passes me by in a slow-motion flurry of failure and missed opportunities. I am utterly miserable (what a drastic pairing of words), and never before have I cried with such frequency and intensity. Not even close.

I can’t fold. I can’t, for reasons I am not brave enough to divulge publicly. I can’t go home yet. I have to see this through. But I have to admit that staying here is slowly killing my spirit.

I have no choice. The alternative is more unbearable than this, as incomprehensible as that is on a Monday.

It has been a long time since I have felt like myself. I used to know what I liked, what I wanted, where I stood, and what I could do. I used to be quietly confident, though shy (it’s a combination that works, I promise, despite its seeming contradiction). Now I find myself riddled with insecurities and choice anxiety, with doubts and fears whispering away at me even on the sunniest of days.

Michael brought to my attention that I’m four months out from my birthday. I feel like my life has stalled and is in the process of rolling backwards. I’m regressing in my worldly accomplishments. I have nothing to show for my (almost) 26 years. I work seven hours a week if I’m lucky, and I am broke. I have one friend in the vicinity, 100 miles away. On weekdays I am friendless and desperately lonely. I am homesick.

I’m sorry. I’ll cheer up soon, I promise.