Worries

Something happened today that was so wonderful, I’d go as far to say that it was practically magical. I got an email saying my visa was issued and my passport, with its new, sparkly visa living inside was on its way! Thank you Queen! Couldn’t’ve done it without you. I won’t let you down. (For those of you that don't know, a visa, in this context, is not a credit card, but something I applied for that allows me to live and study in the UK for an extended period of time.)

Getting this visa has, without a doubt, been the peskiest, most worry-causing thing I’ve ever had to do. More so than making the decision to go abroad, more so than actually applying for schools, and, yes, more so than my fifth grade spelling bee (and that was terrifying). Ever since June, I felt this constant pressure on my chest and what I can only describe as horrible little visa elves living in my shoulders and neck and pushing my muscles together all the time. Realistically, there was absolutely no reason for me to be nervous at all, but I was cripplingly, debilitatingly nervous and I’m not really sure why.

I think it might have bothered me so much because, well, firstly, I worry about everything, but also, everyone was already talking about my move as if it was a totally done deal. And it was, essentially, but my mind loves cycling through worst-case scenarios and the nagging thought that my visa could be denied never left the back of my head. Every time I got excited about moving or told friends that I couldn’t wait to see them, the little part of my brain that hates me chimed in with a, “Hey, but what if you can’t actually go and everyone is just super disappointed instead of happy and you’ll never leave home and aaaaahhhh?!” 

I kept feeding this irrational thought that everything on my application had to be flawless. Which it did, in the sense that I had to meet necessary criteria and all of my documents had to be legitimate, but I’m a relatively unthreatening eighteen-year-old with an astounding lack of a criminal record, so I’d like to imagine the United Kingdom Border Agency had very little to be suspicious about. But, as you can guess, that didn’t stop me from panicking about every little detail; whenever I had to sign something, my hand was shaking like it was experiencing its own personal earthquake because I was so worried that if my signature wasn’t perfectly crafted, the UKBA would dub me not good enough and toss my application (and with it, my very heart and soul) into some bin with all the other rejects. “You call that cursive?” they’d scoff.

I’ve always been a perfectionist, but this was a new level of ridiculous, to the point where I almost started crying at the post office because I couldn’t figure out what package to send my application in. That special, pull-yourself-together-why-are-you-even-allowed-to-leave-the-house kind of ridiculous.

But, obviously, it all worked out! I'm happy and proud of my ability to do something as important as this by myself. I'm also proud of the fact that, despite all evidence would suggest, I did not have one single brain aneurysm. Good for me.

Now that that's out of the way, all I have to do is... oh, well, everything else.

Savannah

Countdown: 17 days
Currently listening to: Keaton Henson - Birthdays 
(for the five millionth time)