I clutched my navy blue American passport in my hand, along with my customs declaration, as the United flight I was on braked hard as the wheels hit the runway. America. My heart began to race. Even faster than it had raced the entire 10 hour flight back to Washington, DC from Frankfurt. I hadn’t slept onContinue reading “The toils of re-entry”
“Where are you going? How long are you here? Where are you staying? How do you know the person you are staying with? How did you meet? How long have you known each other? What does your friend do? What do you do? Where do you live?” The immigrations officer fired question after question at me.
I stood at the counter, silently praying she would stop asking questions and stamp my passport.
Fortunately, she did.
I had spent my entire flight across the Atlantic paranoid. When I went to check in online earlier in the day, I was informed I had to call the airline — that my trip was beyond the limit for travel and a visa was required.
My heart nearly jumped into my chest.
How could I have missed this? I thought I was good to go.
At the job I met T. He was the owner’s nephew and was working at the restaurant, too. I fell in love with him.
The awful, first love kind of way where you never think you will ever in a million years feel the way you feel about the man you are with.
Only, our relationship wasn’t a good one. T was an alcoholic, 10 years my senior, who despised life. While his self-loathing and misery didn’t rub off on me, it was entirely taken out on me. Our relationship was one of cyclical emotional abuse. It was pints of I-love-you’s with double shots of I-hate-you’s and lots and lots (and lots) of tears. And crazy wicked emotional hangovers.