fucked
My prospects were looking pretty dismal. No suitable jobs advertised in ages. No irons in the fire. And time running out.
Then, this morning, I finally spoke to an immigration advisor who told me I have no choice but to leave. Now. The longer I stay, the worse my immigration record becomes, the less likely I will ever have a shot at living here again.
As for my other desperate fall-back plan - to apply for a temporary extension of stay - it's apparently not even an option. Unless I get a job immediately, I must leave, it's as simple as that.
I don't even know what to say. I'm home alone, losing it. Looking around at all my stuff, wondering what the hell I will do with it all. Wondering if I should write to my former boss in Massachusetts and ask for my job back. It would be a shit salary, no vacation, and barely a step up. But it would be easy and comfortable and better than living at home, feeling sorry for myself.
Kate called, all the way from Australia, and I could barely speak through my tears. Poor girl. Don't think she was expecting that when she rang. She said that if I was forced to go back, I should at least take advatantage of the opportunity to start anew and the freedom to do whatever job takes my fancy, instead of being forced to stick with journalism. She has a point. But that would likely involve a lot of searching and waiting, leaving me to wallow at home alone in my misery and depression.
At least I'll have a car waiting for me when I go back. I learned the other day that my family has devised a plan. My dad just got a new car, and my mother is desperate to trade hers in as well, but is apparently waiting because if I come back, she'll give her car to my sister and I would get my sister's. If I stay, she will trade my sister's car in for parts. In any case, it all hinges on me. Great. I suppose I should be glad they are considering me and trying to help. But it's just another pressure and thing to consider as I try to figure out exactly what the fuck I am going to do. Not like I've got much choice in the matter any more.
I stayed awake last night thinking about it all. In some ways, it wouldn't be a terrible thing to be forced to go home and sort my life. I could handle it, to a point. I could even handle being away from Richard for awhile. But for how long? He's tied here for at least three years. Three years is a very long time. And even worse than considering my own fate back home is considering his, alone in this flat, for the next three years. It breaks my heart.
I can't do this anymore. I'm going to go lie down or something.
