The urge to go home is so strong it’s overwhelming. It rises from my gut like nausea, and pulls at my consciousness. But we don’t have anything there now. We’d be starting over completely from scratch. We’d have to buy a car and a fridge and a bed and a hoover and a hairdryer… Everything. How could we ever accomplish that again?
And if I’d known then how much I would not want to live here, if I’d only realised, we could have stayed and taken all the money we’ve spent to move over here and just lived off of it until the girls were old enough to go to school and I could go back to work. Either way, the money would be gone, but at least we’d still be there.
I make mistakes like this all the time. I’ve made such big mistakes in my life, such huge errors of judgment at such crucial moments. And that’s how I’ve got here to where I am. Here, wishing I weren’t so badly it makes me urge to be sick. And not trusting myself at all any longer. Again.