Making Munich m0ves + a timely quarter-life crises
Issue 008, check it out in its entirety here
*[SOUND THE QUARTER-LIFE CRISIS KLAXON]*
I'm having one of those moments, I’m having one of those moments, I’m having one of tho-
It’s happened, I can officially say that I’ve reached the peak in my life where I don’t know what I want to do, who I want to do or how I want to do things. I’m stuck in a rudimentary, 'who TF are we today' state of mind and desperately want out. Though I’ve been told of the quarter and mid-life crises many times over, I always thought to myself that while I would ultimately experience one, I’d be so numbed by that point in my life, I likely wouldn’t care. With my impulse decision being a swift and ill-prepared move to the Caribbean or purchasing a Louis V trunk with the entirety of my savings.
Needless to say, I’m not at either of these points as yet, but I am horrendously overwhelmed at every turn and to be frank, terrified of making the wrong adult decision.
So, where might I have realised I’d hit a lull I hear you ask. Ironically while applying for a resident visa [this will be all the more relevant in the second piece]. Though I’ve been filling out my own applications for well over a year now, paying rent and applying for billing what have you’s, I cannot say it’s ever been a comfortable experience for me. In my reluctance to fill out a form that would be my ticket to eventual freedom - that is to say, a ticket to see my family and friends back home - I froze. I'd immediately forgotten who I was, where I was born and what my current email address was. Panicking, I entered fashion_qween44@hot-, lauriie_x3@hot- before inevitably realising that no, I was no longer the 15-year-old perched precariously in front of the MSN emoticons, clouding the computer monitor with a backoff. A fully-fledged adult in the present day, and with the knowledge that neither of these addresses existed anymore, I was left to type out the name and date etched on my decaying birth certificate.
Albeit brief, this particular decision-making encounter brought me to the conclusion that I no longer wanted to subscribe to the myth of adulthood. Because to be completely honest, I didn't ask to be birthed into a society whereby I'm required to work in order to make money. I complain a lot about my issues with adulting, I know. But I find comfort in offloading my anxious spats to anyone willing to listen, and apologies crowd, but that just so happens to be you today.
It led me to overthink what I was doing as I'm still routinely poked about my not being married or having a baby on the way as I descent further into the adultsphere.
While I’m aware that for all intents and purposes I am in a “good place” in my life, I can’t help but express how terrible I feel when I feel even the slightest knockback at this stage. Over my twenty-something years of existence, I’ve become quite accustomed to being rejected like that of the nerd in a typically 90s teen flick. Whether it be not tickling my “types” fancy, perhaps not being the right kind of cool for the 'unfriendly black hottie' girl group or being knocked back by a job or two; I’ve certainly become all the more equipped when being ghosted or faced with unmitigated rejection. This has served me great purpose when applying to jobs that informed me they would, 'get back to me in due course,' and even more so when my texts are left hours unread.
But even with this wealth of experience in being left on read, none are the slightest bit comparable to being ghosted by publications. I realise that in writing this, I am likely blacklisting myself from writing for others in the near future, but it just dawned on me the reason for my low mood as of late, and my inability to create… well… anything. This quarter-life crisis comes to me courtesy of the difficult relationship I've forged with writing vs. my self-esteem over the years. Actively avoiding crafting any form of copy lately, I convinced myself that in re-reading my rambles for grammatical errors and sentence structure, I must have been a terrible writer. Sort of like when you come to the harsh realisation that the man you're head over heels in love with, no longer subscribes to your brand of charming idiosyncracies. Yes, I have been there.
At this particular lull in confidence, I realised my self-worth lays so heavy in my work and creations, that I take criticisms of my work to heart, and as of late it has quite literally killed my self-esteem dead. My creativity has been killing me. Displayed through my recent routine of day-long naps, isolation from real-life friends and an inability to pinpoint exactly why I was feeling this way.
I often express that I couldn’t care less when people don’t take my creations with the same volition in which I create them, yet reportedly I am a fraud. While my brain is at peak Capricorn status, absconding any sight of emotion with its ‘give a fuck much’ attitude, my body has been shutting down whole organs to let me know that, yes, it is that deep hun.
In March, I planned to take time, sit down and write. But when I sat down to do so, a surge of uncontrollable pain washed over me. In likely the worst migraine I’ve had to date, I found myself unable not only to create, but even to function. At this low and unable to admit that perhaps I was stressed from this barely-even-a-brush back from a publication, my body was sounding the alarm bells and telling me to rest, bitch. Similarly to how one might feel post-breakup, I found myself unable to distance myself from this minor inconvenience and instead spent the entirety of the month allowing the feeling of abhorrent failure to consume me. In short, tell me you're a chronic overthinker without *actually* telling me you're a chronic overthinker - amirite?
While there's no real logic to my ongoing crises and with anxiety's death grip at my collar there likely is no immediate remedy, it does explain my brief hiatus and reluctance to tend to my second born; this newsletter. I've of course decided that despite writings reluctance to love me back, I'm going to continue to pester her with the same volition as do Instagram bots on hot property photos.
I'm just a babe, standing in front of her chosen vocation, asking it to take it a little easier on a bitch.
[MAKING MUNICH M0VES]
So where are you based? Deutschland m8.
A year and a half, a pandemic and a few bedroom floor cries later; perhaps I’m finally ready to talk about my move to Germany.
Let's introduce this like as would an influencer at storytime, that is to say, 'a lot of you guys have been asking-'. Recently I've been asked a number of times where I live, why I moved and what it is I do out ‘ere. With the latter remaining anonymous because I just don’t wanna, I am now open to disclosing my experiences as a babe in the EU.
Admittedly, I'd always wanted to trial living abroad and from a very young age. With my mother having grown up in an entirely different country, my grandparents moving from the Caribbean to the UK and my stepdad, ironically, also previously living in the city I currently call home at my age - it was always on the cards for me. I imagined that unlike Lauren of The Hills, I would not be known as the girl who didn’t go to Paris.
The year was 2019, I had just rounded up a role at a UK newspaper and was ready for a new challenge. At 26, I couldn’t bear the thought of being the freelance “writer,” who just had careless fun anymore, I craved more than that. What with my peers becoming full-time teachers, accountants and international DJs, I was more than ready to begin my own success story. Despite my Monday morning post-brunch debriefs at the office, my professional life lacked the 'eu de parfum' energy I gave off via my social profiles.
Though I know Twitter has its quips about the power of manifestation, I truly believe that this is how I’ve ended up working in an entirely different country. Following this role, I convinced myself that the next job needed to be well-paid and away from London, as I was growing tired of the hapless routine of not really getting anywhere in my career. Within days of repeatedly telling myself, I need elevation, I received a call about a job opportunity abroad. The recruiter asked if I was single (lol) and prefaced it with, “ideally we’d need someone who can move in the next two months”. I was single, horrendously so, and so leapt at the chance, as it would be the first time in a long time that my singleness actually aided a work situation. I long hoped I wouldn't have to make awkward small talk about my lack of serious romantic partners any longer.
Within a month I was fully packed and ready to move to Munich, Germany. Contrary to belief, it’s absolutely nothing like Berlin. Many of the home comforts I enjoy are not easy to come by, all shops close dead at 8 pm and the lads on Tinder + Hinge typically wear lederhosen in their profile pictures - or so I've been told*. A far cry from the world of fuckboys and late-night, ‘U up?’ texts from exes I’d become accustomed to in my London life - moving to Munich felt like going back in time. A time period where bus tickets were 40p and you always had the option of pleading with the bus driver if ever you were slightly short of change.
A vast difference from my former life, the changes in lifestyle from the UK to Germany meant that my fast-paced London life soon became a distant memory and running for packed underground trains became a thing of the past. Though I’ve greatly enjoyed my experience and the overall allure of an abroad lifestyle, despite its often perverse weather conditions, I’m not ashamed to admit to having kept it kind of a secret for such a long time. Growing up I’ve always thought of myself as somewhat of an unlucky candidate, this led me to believe that good and exciting things would only happen to me as a means to make the really very bad experiences intensify after the fact. It’s the reason I’m hyperbolic and sabotage romantic relationships, the reasoning behind my reluctance to pitch to publications regularly and why I actively do not date.
With a steady income under my belt and a year and a half long stay, I can openly admit to enjoying life away from home... most of the time. For one thing, despite the tax being a little excessive, healthcare isn't terrible. I've acquired some incredible friends, located saucy bars to drunk text friends from and Munich has played host to the part in my movie where I finally get my act together. As opposed to my native city, where I would routinely make bad decisions just to add a little *spice* to a story that would soon become a bestselling book.
While I could of course chew your ear off about my experiences as an expat and have enjoyed many of the experiences thus far, I assume you'll be looking to me as the tale of reasons why to escape the city you grew up in. But I wouldn't advise running away just because you're craving the escape. The grass isn't always greener and from peers, I understand it's like chasing a mirage. Admittedly, just before the big move, I was at a point in my life where I had no ties to London other than seafood boil and of course the very best friends I'd spend whole weekends with. At that point, I felt I needed an experience that would help me to grow from the stagnant mess I was a part of and I've certainly achieved said goal.
Living abroad can be incredible, well, before the lockdowns and what have you, but it bears reminding that it does have its pitfalls and not seeing your loved ones often is definitely one of those pitfalls. While no access to Caribbean cuisine is an equally harsh pitfall. Much like that of An Idiot Abroad I spend many of my days navigating life in München with the same vigour as do East Londoners attempting Spanish with a cockney accent. That is to say, I sound terrible when attempting to say anything more than 'card please,' at my local supermarket. My sage advice is: move wisely, but also in silence like lasagne.
*Dating disclaimer:
I explicitly do not date here lol, like I’ve no interest in even trying.
This month's #ThingsIDontMeme references Gemma Collins (dya know whattamean) iconic run in Celebrity Big Brother and my inability to text back in an orderly fashion, as of late. Ordinarily, I have been known as the friend who triple and quadruple texts; as while I'm incredibly distant in romantic relationships, I'm borderline overbearing in close friendships.
However, I'm currently experiencing texting fatigue whereby if it's not a phone call, I've completely unsubscribed from the rules of replying instantly. This week alone I've opened Whatsapp to see several unread messages and the thought of responding now seems almost criminal. There they remain, unread, unwatered and without my quick-witted responses. I'll get round to it when I reach my hour-long social meter for the week.
I promise not to leave you for too long the next time, you have my word and my word means nothing.
Love, L x