3 year report card

Well, here I am. 3 years and 1 day after arriving into Sweden. Still alive: a surprise, Still in Sweden: something of a shock, and, Still married: a minor miracle. I wish I could say it's been a dream journey and it's all been just as perfect as I thought it would be. God how I wish I could say that. But, as any immigrant will tell you, the reality is considerably more sobering.

When I lived in New Zealand, people whom I knew had emmigrated out from England, told me that it took 18 months before they felt like they belonged in NZ. For me, coming to Sweden, it took me maybe a year longer than that. So I guess that extra year is the language. Or my arrogance/ignorance. Anyway, as my English friends told me, anyone who isn't going to make it, will go back home within that 18 month period. If you can make it through the 18 months, you'll probably be ok. I found myself drawing on that advice a lot of my first couple of years here, even trying to fool myself by counting down in weeks or months to that magical figure. It helped me to remember that what I was experiencing was normal and that, if other people could make it, then so could I. Even if I didn't feel it. Nothing like a bit of competitive spirit to get you through.

There's a lot of websites out there detailing the emotional stages that immigrants go through after arriving into a new country. They seem to be fairly consistant and are probably a fair portrayal. The problem is that, when you're the immigrant standing in the middle, you don't get to see which "phase" you're currently in. You can only see the here and now. Every now and then I stop and look back, and remember how it was for me.

Like everyone, I arrived bursting with energy and ready to take on any challenge that was placed in front of me. Confidence was at an alltime high. That lasted about 3 weeks, which was about the length of time it took to dawn upon me that I didn't have a clue what I was doing.

About a month after arriving I started at SFI school. I was convinced that I'd be able to simply "pick up" the language, and that a language school was for people who weren't too smart. I guess I was right about the second part, I was just wrong in my assessment of my natural abilities. Being in SFI helped me to feel a bit less like a freak. At least I could be in the company of other freaks.

Also around this time I started becoming frustrated with the fact that everything was different. It wasn't just the language, it was, well, just the way that people did things. Simply, they were doing it all wrong. Frustration led quickly to anger and resentment. How stupid could an entire country be ? Buggered if I was going to put up with that.

I also started applying for jobs. And that's where I got the biggest shock. I'm a pretty well educated and experienced person. I'm used to be taken seriously. I expect it. What I didn't expect was to be viewed as "second class". I was totally unprepared for that, and it hit me hard. Cue depression. Once I found it from employers, I started seeing it everywhere I turned. Whether it was real or not, I felt it. I had a job by this stage. Not at the same level I had been working at back in NZ, but a job nonetheless. More than most immigrants had. Even here though, the feelings of being indequate, of not being valued as highly as other people, remained very much to the fore. I regressed a lot into myself. Which is not who I was. I was changing as a person, and I didn't really like who I was becoming.

Cue further depression, and a sense of being lost. By now I had hit that 18 month marker. I understood a little of what my English friends had been saying. To an extent. Now, I no longer felt connected to NZ. That bond had been severed. Yet, for me, I didn't belong in Sweden either. It was a lovely country, I just didn't feel like I had a place here. A role. I felt a complete loss of identity. The language was a real battle, making it hard for me to express myself, and I had no physical points of historical reference in my new surroundings. I had nowhere to call home.

It would take me another year before I discovered myself thinking one day, that this was my home.

How anyone else has managed to live with me, I will never understand. I must have been (and still can be) the most miserable person on the planet. I will never understand why my wife has stood by me. I am ashamed to admit that I would not have supported the same crappy attitudes and rantings had the roles been reversed. Not for years at a time. Not with the way that she wore every frustration that I had. That either makes her a saint, or me a pretty shitty person. I suspect it's both. Whatever the description, I owe everything to her that I'm still here today. I'm not sure she'll ever fully understand the role she continues to play, but I hope that one day she does.

So 3 years. What's the status today ? I'm still no bundle of laughs, I know that. But I think, I hope, that I'm a bit more pleasant company. I've learnt a lot about acceptance and patience. They were never my strongest assests, so I think I'm a better person today in that respect. I actually think I'm more patient at times today that my wife. It's a bit sad that, as a result of 3 years of living with me in Sweden, she has gotten so used to jumping in and defending my honour, that it's become a part of her. I'm sad about that, because that's not her, and it's been caused by me. But we're trying to wean that off. I've received rather harsh lessons in humility and in the value of those things in life which truely matter. Again, those were unplanned lessons but, again, I think I've come out a better person for it.

Is Sweden really my home ? I finally think that maybe it might be. The language is still a battle. My language teacher tells me that it takes between 4 and 5 years for an adult to truely feel comfortable with a new language. But I can survive now. Overall, the things I like about Sweden are greater in quantity and hold a high status, than the things I don't like about Sweden. That's the biggest battle, not letting those demons take a larger form than they really are. I control more of my surroundings than those that control me. Maybe that's part of the definition of what it takes for a place to become a home.