Tag Archives: anxiety

a bit anxious.wow.

My blog is public, which is why in several posts I have explored how vulnerable I should be with my readers. But, basically, I pretty much know all of you that read my ramblings about my challenges as an expat, and how anxious all of theses challenges make me feel. Well, I thought I knew you all… But I did what I promised myself I wouldn’t do– looked at stats. Who’s reading. What countries people are in when they are reading it. From what link or app they clicked through. Hmmm… Reddit. That’s interesting. And scary. Oh I know who referenced me. How nice of her. She’s always been so supportive. Awww okay theses comments are nice. Except ONE. And the negative self-talk rushed in.

To be honest that comment wasn’t even that bad, and from someone whoprobably isn’t my audience anyway. But it was a reminder that I am public. People will have opinions. I will likely constantly reevaluate what I’m doing with this blog but, for now, I remain committed to telling my truth. I do not believe that pretending everything is just fine is beneficial for anyone. I do not want to discourage anyone from taking massive leaps in their lives if they want. I actually encourage it. Do. The. Thing. But real talk is essential if we expect people to make informed decisions. Real talk is necessary to break stigmas. Real talk has shifted my perspective on what I’m experiencing.

Guess what y’all, I was ill-prepared for what I was going to experience in Nederlands. I thought I was completely in my lane. I wasn’t even on the right highway. But would I change it? Not at all. Despite my going on about the challenges, I would not move back. I just wish I had known more of the crappy bits. And I think many of us would agree that we often think, “No one told me it was going to be like this.” My purpose isn’t to dissuade others from taking chances but to be real about what the challenges have been for me. All things that I am overcoming as I gain insight into my new home.

So to the Reddit gal, make the move to Holland, honey! Enjoy the tulips, the fresh air, the freedom to cheaply and easily roam Europe. But know black face is acceptable here. Vitamin D deficiency is an epidemic here. Dutch friends are rare for an expat here. And come with a job contract already signed or enroll in a University because it’s hard to break in here. Know all this but still, Do. The. Thing.

Photo by Aaron Burden

As a side note, I am going to start sharing some of what I am reading, watching, listening to. I’m not sure why except that it’s my blog and I want to so… there you have it. Ha! I’m always looking for recommendations so please share with me too!

Living in Wonderland

Every time I sit down to write, everything seems like a jumbled mess. In theory I am trying to break it up into separate experiences but how do I talk about x without talking about c, to get to y? Everything I do, see, hear, taste the whole experience is all interrelated so sometimes (all the time) it is difficult to organize it on paper. Also, I feel like everyone wants an American In Europe, Audrey Hepburn story and I’m afraid mine is all tears and anxiety and more like… Alice In Wonderland but she never wakes up. It’s interesting and colorful, but I’m often hella confused about what is going on around me.

For instance, I’m sitting on my garden balcony, staring at a functioning windmill, thinking “This is so beautiful. This is my real, every day life.” And I am listening to my neighbors, who are sitting in their gardens chatting, thinking to myself, “I wonder what they’re saying…I wonder what everyone is saying, actually.” And this is my real, every day life. It’s complex. There is so much beauty in this experience, swirled intricately with so much anxiety about the unfamiliar and not understood. Any minute a caterpillar might start talking to me, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t understand Dutch.

Not understanding what is going on around you is a blessing and a curse. I often feel a sense of relief that I have no idea what people are saying. They may or may not be talking about me and since I don’t know, it in no way affects my day. They also might be talking TO me (“Mevrouw! Mevrouw!” Oh me? I’m Mevrouw). Also taking three months to find Turmeric because it’s actually called Kurkuma here is somehow tear-inducingly frustrating. Because it’s not just the Kurkuma, it’s never JUST about the Kurkuma, is it?

When I made the decision to move here, I was adamant about NOT finding a tribe of Americans. I did not move to Europe to surround myself with Americans. I felt that wouldn’t be fully embracing the experience. Two years later I’m screaming, “WHERE MY AMERICANS AT?!” I’ll even take a Canadian, at this point. Because it is common knowledge here, apparently, that it is very difficult to fit into a Dutch tribe if you are not Dutch. I have spoken to Dutch people that agree and others that say it isn’t so. I have decided, after I attended a workshop, that there is validity in the argument that they’re just not that into us. Otherwise why would we need a workshop about it?

I did learn, however, that me craving American people is not just about Dutch versus expats relations but because my poor little brain is tired and just wants familiarity. A break from always having to think of the right words, translate, assimilate to customs and cultures. And if you know me you know that International Boyfriend and his offspring are Brits. In an episode of Parks & Recreation Tom Haverford says to a British man, “I speak English and THAT is not English.” And I FEEL that. We both speak English and we in no way speak the same language.

So basically, my brain never gets to come down and just be. Not in the Dutch world and not in the British home. Not in the market where nutrition labels are completely different (what is 100 grams anyway? This package isn’t even 100 grams so why is everything nutritionally per 100 grams?!). Or units of measurement (now eyeballs things and thinks, “That’s probably about 15 ounces, I guess. Whatever I’ll make it work.”) We have a lot of unused packages of things because I mistranslated. I can’t open a piece of mail without my Google Translate app open. Or wack frosting jobs on cupcakes because rather than translating I assumed it would be what appeared on the package photo (Fun fact: did you know that Brits say whack meaning “to throw it on”? I was not whacking frosting on cupcakes. The frosting job was wack as in ’90s term for not good. Look at me being all international now). Or leaving just about every town hall, bank, realtor thinking “We did not understand each other and I definitely did not get my questions answered.” I developed a complex because my entourage of Brits kept asking me, “Are you alright?” Do I not look alright? Is my resting bitch face becoming more serious? No, no. That’s just how they say “How are you?” Only took nearly two years to figure that one out. I tried an expat networking site but it didn’t take long for me to figure out that that is just where the international creepers go. Because who wouldn’t want to leave their local creepers for a more international variety?

In the Netherlands 90% of the population speaks at least two languages and 80% of them speak English. I often try to speak the bit of Dutch I have accumulated but the minute they hear you struggle, they switch to English. But then you can’t be their friend because you don’t speak Dutch. This is my experience. And when I have spoken to Dutch people about it they mostly agree that it’s true. In case you were thinking, “Well if so many of them speak English, how bad could it be?” Just because they speak English, it is not their native tongue so context, etc is missing a lot of times, and we are most definitely not saying the same things. I often leave just as confused as if they had just spoken Dutch to me slowly.

I am desperately trying to keep a small portion, in my brain’s judgement cortex, some hope that I will find my Dutch homegirl but I have also realized that declaring Americans dead to me here was probably a rookie move. Either way my overwhelming, everyday experiences of being an expat aren’t going to change. There will be many more grocery mistakes and frustrating language experiences. I have to accept the fact that my brain doesn’t get to turn off like other expat families who go home to familiarity in language and culture, that’s not me and it’s not going to be. So basically I’ll just be sitting here confused but admiring the windmills and farm animals with my high-quality but inexpensive wine and Gouda cheese while everyone around me carries on, painting the roses red or probably celebrating their unbirthdays but I don’t know, I don’t understand Dutch.

I would like to add a note: I am learning every day how to be a good expat in my host country. All of these experiences are just where I am at the moment. If you disagree with me or would love to point out a view that maybe I haven’t considered, PLEASE DO! Respectfully, of course.

Suck It Up, Buttercup

I never considered a static life. I suppose many of my friends and family would not call their lives static but to me, never leaving where I grew up seemed fixed, not growing, not developing, static…(don’t @ me, I understand life differently now). I don’t know why I came to feel like this. Maybe it started because I was born on foreign soil, but was not there long enough to make memories, and that fact about myself always intrigued me? What I do know is that where I was, was not where I belonged.

The intention of this blog is to have open dialogue about vulnerability so I have to tell you that I have almost always been what I called a “nervous child.” I remember very clearly the day when my father and I were driving in the car and he said to me, “I think it’s important for you to be involved in a sport. What sport would you like to play?” And my answer was, “Well, what did YOU play? I want to do what you did.” And this is how I came to be a competitive distance runner at five-years-old. I was winning Women’s Divisions at a very young age. I was good, really good. I share this story because this is when I distinctly remember the “nervous child” kicking in. I always, and I mean always, worked myself up into a terrible stomach situation before a race or track meet. No matter how good my odds for success were. This carried on into anything I did that made me uncomfortable, and still does today.

Turns out that “nervous child” syndrome I diagnosed myself with is actually anxiety. Give me any amount of time and I will consider every outcome a brain could possibly imagine. But when I was younger I was never allowed to “quit.” By today’s standards it would probably seem cruel but I think my dad’s “suck it up buttercup” attitude helped me do things that my brain and stomach would have talked me out of (it is also why I have made some terrible decisions -the “just do it” attitude swings too far sometimes- but that’s another blog…). Basically, I can talk myself out of ANY opportunity in three seconds, flat.

We took a family trip outside of the country when I was 14. At 17 I traveled for the first time without my family. At 18 I moved across the US with the intention of never moving back, having a career that required me to travel all the time leaving no room in my life for kids, maybe not even a husband. What’s that poem about the best laid plans going awry?! At 23 I finally had my first chance to travel to Europe (sans that birth stint). After many years filled with more opportunities to travel, I sold nearly all of my things, gambled on a potential job opportunity (well I was gambling on the whole thing really), packed two suitcases, two waist-high boxes (this was mostly clothes and shoes that I had no business bringing to Northern Europe by the way) and became an expat.

I never really had to think about it prior to now, but I believe that my “suck it up” upbringing, exposure to travel, my intrigue with different cultures and lifestyles, and my “nervous child” syndrome is what has allowed me to do anything in my life that might look amazing. Some that know me would say that I am a “jump feet first” kind of person; That I don’t consider the “negatives” enough. But those that really know me know that I painstakingly consider all details, of everything, all the time, to the point that it can be debilitating and THAT is when I say, “Fuck it, Buttercup. We’re gonna do this.”