It happens when you move country, of course, all of a sudden you have a house that you live in and a house that is your family house and this strange shadowy memory house that you, every now and again, long for when homesickness strikes. And yet, you feel strangely homeless. Displaced.
And then it fades and you make grudging peace with some of the annoyances of your new life and you make a conscious choice to say 'home' and mean 'the house I live in' and to say 'my parents' house' referring to where you used to live and it's fine. The feeling of homelessness passes. There is a future home you start building in your head, that will be a more permanent place.
And then it's gone. With one back stabbing political move I'm left drifting again, the house I live in is just a house I might lose at any moment, if I lose a right to work, if Germany or Spain or France decides not to play this round of game of politics the way British government wants them to. The dream of a house I might have had in a year or two or five is shattered and gone and I already moved away from my family home in my head. And it's confusing. And it makes me want to go and find my home, somewhere, again.
And do you know what the worst part is?
That now I will never be sure, if I go away and settle and live and make another place a home, that it won't all be abruptly taken away, again.
So I might never feel at home anywhere else.
Don't feel sorry for me. Just think about all the things that are going on in EU nationals' heads right now that no UK newspapers cover, no radio station talks about, no internet clip summarises. Talk to us. Ask us if we're ok. And listen.
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