Emigration

My psychotherapist (my wife) told me I need to write.
“What should I write about?” I asked.
“It doesn’t matter, just write. When you write, you feel better,” she answered.

For the last four years, writing hasn’t come easily. Since August 2020. Writing has been heavy, to put it bluntly. Life itself has been heavy. No, sometimes it feels fine, but mostly it doesn’t. Not very light. Well, sometimes it does feel light—out at sea. But on land, not so much.

“I’ll write about emigration,” I said, finishing my whiskey. And so here I am, writing. I haven’t written in a long time, so it’ll be rough. But you have to start somewhere.

You’d think: I live in Cyprus with my beloved wife, a cozy dog, and a curious son, in our own apartment, ten minutes from the sea. Work is interesting (though not everything goes smoothly yet). The winter weather is beautiful. We have enough money for everything. Life should be good, right? But no—it’s somewhat heavy.

The first few months after moving hit you like a high. You’re all positive, walking around with a happy face, speaking English, picking up a few phrases in the local language, exploring shops and restaurants, watching the stars, studying the slope of the seabed, worrying a little about your residence permit.

Then you rent a long-term place, get your kid into school, meet local shepherds, get your residency, breathe out, and try to set up a new daily routine. And this is where something goes wrong. The routine that sets in isn’t the right one. A broken routine. For example, I’ve almost stopped reading books. I used to read one a week, now it’s one a quarter. I used to play guitar every day, now it’s once every two weeks. My energy at work used to be at level 8–9, now it’s 6–7. Everything feels heavier.

I think people almost always underestimate the impact of emigration. Even when you have a loving wife, a beautiful dog, a curious son, your own apartment, and the damn sea ten minutes away—a global, and often forced, change of context shift your life of balance. Harmony vanishes for some mysterious reason. I can’t imagine how people emigrate without family, without money, and without the sea nearby. They probably all fall into depression for a while. For me, it’s just "somewhat heavy". Luckily, I have a couple of friends here, and we help each other as we can.

I wonder how many years in emigration it takes for balance and harmony to return. Two and a half years ago I thought they were finally coming back. And then the Russian president got bitten by imperialism, and we were all pretty fucking shocked here. You look at it all and think: “Shit, it’s a disaster there, rockets are flying, people are dying—so why the fuck, Michael, are you walking around with a sad face when your only problems are slow company growth and a late courier with khinkali delivery?” I still don’t have an answer. Harmony hasn’t returned.

But I don’t despair. Humans are adaptive creatures, so sooner or later life’s balance will be found again, and harmony will return. External factors matter, but it’s better to focus on what you can actually change.

Presidents will die, wars will end, and some things will get better. On the other hand, new presidents will come, new wars will start, and some things will get worse. And life is singular.

So I’ll go walk the dog, swim, read a book, learn a new song on the guitar, and hug my wife. In emigration you need to find a new balance. And a new harmony. The old one is gone forever.