Things People Don’t Tell You About Being an Expat and Home Appliances
Nobody said it was easy, but no one ever said it would be this hard
How It Started
I moved to London almost two years ago on a skilled worker visa. I thought it would be all tea and biscuits. I can’t say that I did extensive research before moving here. The company I was working for remotely offered to relocate me, and I immediately said “yes”, and in less than thirty days, I was in London. I did not research the conditions of a skilled worker visa, the cost of living in the UK, the life here, or anything. It felt like ‘tea and biscuits, yay, let’s do it!’ I left everything I had back at home: my air fryer, my carefully curated collection of novelty fridge magnets, my comfort zone, and mostly everyone I knew. But the hardest one was my air fryer. Sometimes, I think about how my washing machine had its room, and now that I have seen the housing crisis in London, I know that it owes me five years of rent.
I arrived here thinking my life would be as easy and comfortable as it used to be, and SpareRoom humbled me in no time. After living in a three-bedroom house, I realised there was no way I could live in London without house sharing, and I am an obsessive-compulsive cleaner. I used to clean my ceiling just because I could. Oh, and I came here without any housing arrangements. I stayed at a friend’s house share for fifteen days, and in the meantime, I viewed houses that my washing machine would not rent. Thinking back, my decision to move here was as impulsive as someone giving themselves DIY bangs at 3 am because life was not giving.
Eventually, I found my dream room with amazing flatmates, who became my dearest friends at the end of these two years. I was home-sharing with an Italian guy and a Portuguese chef. What’s funny is I did not even lock my door, not a single night. However, I had occasional weird paranoid thoughts in the first few months about them smelling or stealing my panties (or anything that included my panties) while I was not at home. Also, I am a heavy sleeper; what if they watched me when I was asleep? I’d never know.
When I moved into my room, I was unaware of the landlord’s responsibilities. I did not know the agency had to clean it before I moved in. My carpets smelled like weed and grunge music, and the previous tenants went the extra mile and doused the carpets in fabric softener to mask the smell, all in a cunning attempt to get their deposit back. At the time, I was fuming at their audacity, but now I am happy for them. They probably needed that deposit, although my room smelled as if Fairy made a fabric softener called “Soft Hemp Breeze.” It took me days to get rid of the odour, but I was happy. I felt like I made it.
To give you a clearer idea who I was back then, I could only sleep on a memory foam mattress with pillows that had anti-ageing properties, and I’d put drops of lavender oil and turn on my diffuser to sleep. Now, I sleep on a used mattress that might have witnessed things I can’t dare to think of, or else I’d lose what is left of my mental health and my sleep. I’d sleep with my carpet smelling like a mosquito, my libido, but I was happy. Life was beautiful. I was relearning things, like left-handed traffic, how to say aluminium, crossing the street, and paying bills and taxes. Oh, and sometimes I go over the moon when I stumble upon treasures in the trash. Mind you, I’m not out actively scavenging, but if someone’s moving out and I spot a pre-loved chair in pristine condition, it is coming home with me.
How It’s Going: The Three A’s
But it all changed after a while. No longer tea and biscuits, hello 3A: Anxiety, Angst, and Ambiguity. For people who are God’s favourites and do not know what a skilled worker visa is, it keeps you in the country as long as your employer keeps you. It is the voice at the back of your head when you apply for a loan or try to get a bank account, and you read the question, “Is there any circumstance that is likely to change in the coming six months?” then you pause for a second because you don’t know. Even when you show up every day doing your best, there is always this fear of getting sacked from your job, and now you have to leave again, the life you just started, the Brita you just bought, the magnets on the fridge. All the commitments you want or likely will make in the coming six months depend on this visa. I want a better Brita and a microwave, but I don’t feel comfortable having a committed relationship with housing appliances. However, I was just made aware that the mini fridge I have at my house is mine because the previous tenant left it while leaving. Small wins.
When I felt comfortable enough to commit to a working setup and got a desk and a chair for the BEST corner of my room, my company started laying off people in an execution style. Pew pew. One by one, I witnessed departments being shut down and people getting fired without a plausible reason. The worst thing is they did not do it in a single day or a week. These layoffs were stretched to two months, keeping us on the edge like a horrible foreplay that would not end. I kept my head down and continued to work, but it was very traumatising. My team decreased significantly, and I was waiting for my turn to come. My best friends at work, who were on a sponsored visa like me, were fired. When you are an immigrant in a country, you bond over similar experiences; you become each other’s family, a support network. Mine was falling apart, and I could do nothing for myself or them. We often joked about getting fired now and then and trauma bonding over fear, but it finally happened very unexpectedly, and it felt unreal.
I started obsessively looking for clues about who might be next. I was closely monitoring HR’s huddles with team members. I’d have panic attacks every time I saw HR visiting our office from the HQ office because they usually only appear when they want to fire someone. Like Edgar Allen Poe’s Raven, when the HR visited our office, it was a bad, bad, bad omen. Of the 25 of us, only four managed to stay, and we were moved to the HQ building to join this new team. It felt like everyone was out to get me and my team or plotting against us and nitpicking our work to find reasons to fire us. From having our building, we were crammed into a single room. It felt like the first day of school. I wore my prettiest outfit, matched my undies as if anyone would see them. It wasn’t like someone would come up to me and say, “Hey, I don’t like the ideas you came up with,” and I’d flash my matching undies, and everything would be okay, and I’d keep my job, and it will be tea and biscuits forever. No, but somehow, it gave me confidence. We had to look confident but not too confident. We had to strike that perfect balance that said, ‘We come in peace 🖖’ and we did. Every month, as if we were in a Netflix show, a new character who’d challenge our work would unlock. They’d be introduced to us, and we’d have to prove ourselves repeatedly.
I woke up every day feeling drained. All my energy was spent on doing a good job, keeping my job, and proving to everyone that I was doing a good job. I also had to defend my territory so no one would sneakily steal my position. Each day, I had no idea if it would be my last, as they never gave any warning or clues, and our contracts allowed for termination without cause.
This perpetual state of uncertainty kept me from enjoying myself. I wanted to eat healthy, run in the mornings, maybe even run a 5K, and enjoy my life. But I couldn’t. I’d come home after work feeling like I ran a marathon indeed, and I’d heat a meal deal and curl up in bed, going over what happened at work that day, looking for more clues. Me and my closest friends at work, we would do after-hours plotting possible scenarios that were likely to happen and what we’d do if they happened. My body was in a constant fight-or-flight mode, with my anxiety and panic attacks escalating daily. I was craving stability.
What’s Going to Happen Now?
Maybe it’s time to stop asking this question. I keep promising myself that I’ll let it go. I reached my breaking point once, crying on the top of a double-decker bus, overwhelmed by work. It was then I promised to stop overthinking, to let go of my Brita. Whatever happens, happens. I just need to focus on doing my job well and exploring new opportunities, even if it’s daunting.
I do love my life here. This impulsive decision brought so many meaningful experiences and people into my life. I often wonder how different things would be if I hadn’t met them. Despite the jokes about home appliances, house sharing, and lowering my standards, being an expat has its challenges.
I wish I could say my resilience had paid off and that I have found another job that would sponsor my visa; where they not only adore me, but they’d erect a shrine in my honour, and they hold hands dancing around it, chanting prayers in my name, for my health, wellbeing and my residency permit. But that’s not the reality — for now.
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