From the U.S. to T&T and the small things in-between
At the end of 2019, I hit rock bottom.
I chose to move back to my home country of Trinidad and Tobago after a long fight in the United States. My mental health had deteriorated to a point that I was essentially forced to return. That year, I made the tough decision to leave my PhD program, and graduated with my MA in July. I battled the American job market through August so I could stay on OPT. I got a job in September, only to end up being demeaned and demoralized by my supervisor for two-months straight. By November, I had moved more than five times, back and forth along the east coast. I was burnt out.
I desperately wanted to stay, convinced that returning home was a mark of failure. I didn’t want to leave behind my partner at the time, my favourite ramen spots, or the safety of my semi-rural neighbourhood. I wanted to stay in the land of milk and honey with the conveniences of capitalist living — the packed, narrow aisles of Trader Joe’s; and coming home to ‘next-day delivery’ packages. I’d miss strolling The High Line after another trip to the Whitney, Angel Olsen on the weekend, and competing at USA Powerlifting meets. But, despite all these things, I was unhappy, mostly alone, and struggling to make ends meet. I had forgotten that the United States was also the land of making things difficult for immigrants to stay — especially in the Trump era.
With my parents being immigrants themselves, there was an immense pressure to be successful, or to at least be seen as successful in the conventional sense. I thought they would be disappointed with my return (I was already not a doctor or lawyer, after all). And at the same time, I was grieving abandoning my PhD program. Suddenly, I was no longer an academic (my original career trajectory) and was trying to figure out what I wanted to pivot to next. I no longer wanted to be part of the Ivory Tower, and even though it was the best decision — to stop doing something that was no longer serving me — a huge part of my identity took a hit. Who am I now if I am no longer doing this?
Time was quickly running out to find employment after graduation (OPT granted a total of 90 days of unemployment; after that, you had to leave). While scouring LinkedIn endlessly for job opportunities, writing cover letters, and visiting an on-campus career advisor, I was constantly anxious and fearful that I would simply have to go home. As much as I loved Trinidad, it felt like moving backwards. I didn’t want to go back to the small social circles of my early twenties. I thought that Trinidad and Tobago didn’t have opportunities for someone with a MA in Linguistics. All the trauma of my childhood and adolescence was interwoven with the island — the home of my abusers, a reminder of indiscriminate violence. I worried about falling into a deep depression upon return; that only struggle and terror awaited me. I catastrophized. Thus, not only did I not want to leave the U.S., I was scared to go back to Trinidad.
Through my partner, I got a job with a tech start-up (knowing people still trumps merit and hard work under the ‘American Dream’, of course). For a time, the anxiety seemed to have alleviated — with that job, I could stay. Still, that relief did not last long — melancholy took anxiety’s seat and shadowed me wherever I went. I worked remotely, at home, alone, for a company of only five people. I was directly under my supervisor (who was younger than me and named CEO) with no co-workers. I had moved away from my few friends in Connecticut to New Jersey where I didn’t know anyone. From being micromanaged to being dismissed in e-mail threads and getting text messages at midnight, I hated my job. I cried often. There were many things that weren’t working, and with no co-workers to compare experiences with, I often wondered, “Is it really so bad or is it just me?”
And so, I went from being unhappy that I didn’t have a job to having a job and still being unhappy.
Like chronic physical illness, ignoring the symptoms of your chronic mental unwellness — convinced that you could push through it — results in inevitably becoming very sick. You crash into the wall, defeated, debilitated. I became so sick my relationships and daily life were falling apart. I gave up health and happiness in pursuit of a false belief that I needed to stay in the United States and that I must not return to Trinidad. So there, at rock bottom, with nowhere else to go, I took a one-way flight out of JFK on December 10th.
On one hand, I was relieved. I was no longer forcing myself; no longer resisting. When you hold onto a rope for as long as you can, it starts cutting into your palm. Each finger wrapped around begins to ache and burn. Releasing is the only solution. Peace washes over and you wonder why you didn’t let go sooner. On the other hand, I was distraught. I knew it was going to be hard and that I needed time. The thing I wanted the least had happened. Through the bleak December into January, my mind was home to a barrage of negative self-talk. Unwilling to rest, these doubts rebounded — side to side — within my chamber of self-flagellation. I’m not good enough. I can’t do this. I don’t want to be here. I’m a failure.
And yet (with that much needed time), in the dark pit of rock bottom, serendipity revealed itself — illuminating the cracks and crevices, warming my cheeks with the hidden blessings of making the right choices for yourself, no matter how hard they may be.
For, as it turns out, 2020 is not the year to be in the United States of America. Whether it be coincidence or divine intervention, to have left on the cusp of a global pandemic was a kind of good fortune I could have never anticipated.
On June 24th, the U.S. recorded its highest one-day total in coronavirus cases at 34,700. States continue to reopen despite the virus ravaging the nation. Coupled with weeks of mass demonstrations and civil unrest, a post-COVID-19 reality is nowhere in sight. While the federal government continues to fail to support the millions of people who have filed for unemployment in the past three months, they are now also once again forced to face their long, racist history of violence against Black Americans. In the wake of the unjust murder of George Floyd, municipal bodies are being pressured to defund police budgets while militarized officers respond to peaceful protest with tear gas and rubber bullets. Combined with a defective healthcare system (causing the disproportionate loss of Black lives to coronavirus), the white supremist/anti-Black rhetoric of the far-right, economic instability, and the general grief associated with death and loss, the atmosphere in the U.S. is rife with hostility. Statues of Confederate generals are falling against the backdrop of enraged citizens rising for change. Meanwhile, others are refusing to a wear a mask, considering it an act against God. To be an immigrant in the U.S. during this tumultuous and transformative time in history is a reality I cannot fathom.
Now half-way through 2020, my situation has done a total 180. Not only am I glad to not be in the United States right now, I am glad to specifically be in Trinidad and Tobago — a country that has, thus far, handled COVID-19 with exceptional swiftness, planning and execution. With our borders closed, this island has become a shelter and, in some ways, a bubble of protection from the chaos bearing down on the world this year. In spite of our own post-colonial struggles — the racism, classism, continued discrimination against the LGBT community, gender-based violence, and crime — there remains an immense beauty and spirit about Trinidad and Tobago that allows people to flourish uninhibited like the mountain sides of the Northern Range. It is in all the small things here that have fostered a space for me to recover, to heal, and to grow. I am grateful for the waves that break against my feet along the shores of Las Cuevas. I am grateful for every sunset around the Savannah, the howler monkey swinging from stalk to stalk in Bamboo Cathedral, the symphony of tropical birds on my porch. I am grateful that I didn’t have to worry about scraping ice off my car and reapplying lip balm every 15 minutes earlier this year, that I can wear shorts in peace, to hear the joyful laughter of Trinbagonian people, and the echo of dancehall from cars driving by. I would not be where I am now — emotionally and mentally — without the physical presence and support of my family; not having to quarantine alone in the United States, wondering when next I’d see them.
So many Caribbean natives desperately want to escape to the metropole — an enduring tradition of emigration out of our region. Through colonial rule, we were taught that we and the places we came from were not good; that we were only valuable for our labour and land to enrich the lives of those up North and across the Atlantic Sea. Whether it be the Windrush Generation, or those now who are making their way through Miami and Queens, part of the desire to leave is unconsciously stamped with this feeling of inferiority of belonging to the third world. Nonetheless, for some of us, leaving becomes the turning point in which we come into true recognition of the abundance of the Caribbean. It is from the outside we can finally see where we come from objectively — accepting all its bad and good. Meanwhile, the dream of the metropole shatters and, sometimes, it takes a pandemic to remind us that no place is perfect or invulnerable.
With many of us struggling right now, it is easy to make upward rather than downward comparisons. We think about the people who have more than us and forget about those who don’t. We focus on what we don’t have rather than what we do. Earlier this year, all I could think about was what I had lost by returning home and failed to be grateful for things that I gained. Actively practising gratitude has now become one of the most powerful tools in my healing. Instead of worrying about the fact that I don’t have the predictability of fixed, steady income, I feel grateful that I have income at all while others face the stagnation and closure of their businesses. This year was meant for me to explore new career paths and reconnect with my authentic self — a difficult goal to accomplish when people are expected to stay at home and social distance. In spite of this, being home with my family has given me the space and support to explore and create opportunities for myself. COVID-19 has spawned a kind of unknown and uncertainty that can frighten someone, like myself, who thrives on routine and planning, into paralysis. None of us know what our lives will look like at the end of the year. To get through these times, we must continue to be grateful for the small things and, more importantly, to surrender to the fact that we have no control and that we cannot change that. The world is on fire, and we must move with the flames or risk getting burnt. Rock bottom is not the worst place to be — it teaches us where we eventually want to be.
