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I regretted returning home as soon as I found myself there.

It wasn’t anything new; it was always like this.

I missed being back home, but within the next few weeks upon returning, I was already at my wits' end and with my luggage packed.

I couldn't help it; it was the grey reality of my hometown and my unhappy childhood memories, living in my old room's walls and furniture like sad ghosts that didn't know where to go.

Although I was almost thirty by now, I never felt like a proper adult in my family home. On the mental level, I remained a helpless teenager imprisoned in the toxic dynamic between my mother and grandmother, and the rest of our family.

My family home was never a place of warmth and love; no, it was my private hell, filled with never-ending arguments and painful words. Simply being there was enough for me to relapse into old negative thinking patterns, and unhealthy behaviors.

I’ve never felt truly happy in there, and so I felt plagued by the thoughts of leaving; which was why I left abroad for the first time, and kept leaving every time I came back for a longer time.

I just couldn't stay here. Staying felt like letting the past swallow me alive, and forcing  me one of its elements again. And I, I didn’t want to let its merry-go-round make me sick.

So, after enjoying what was there to enjoy (mostly Berliner doughnuts with rose marmalade) and meeting up with those of my friends who miraculously didn't forget me yet, I started planning my next trip (of course, a working one).

I liked what I knew about Amsterdam. Since my fellow compatriots who went there told me about excellent earning opportunities for physical workers, I decided to give it a shot.

*

Luck was on my side, as within just one week, I got hired by an international work bureau in one of those giant warehouses which sold imported fish.

There were lots of freezers here... After learning what to do, I diligently began unpacking frozen seafood and putting it on ice. It seemed like light work at first, but doing it hour after hour made my hands ache from cold and my arms - from tiredness.

Still, it was better than being an English teacher in Cambodia. I felt like a paid monkey, repeating “apple!” “banana!” and singing and dancing to entertain my five-year-old pals.

I still don't know how I managed to pull this off.

Anyway, it was much better than the language school back in my hometown in Poland, which was filled with frustrated parents that begged me to teach their teens the language, almost as if I could open their minds and put the whole dictionary inside...

I knew I should find a proper, long-lasting job rather than a seasonal one, but it wasn't so easy. As a migrant, you were always starting from a lower level than other locals, no matter how outstanding your resume was.