Happy two-year anniversary to that meltdown at a 7–11.

A couple of years ago I realized a dream of mine: move from America to Japan. Here in Japan, I had my first full-time job after university, and my first opportunity to start life again after COVID. I was so excited—it’s Japan!—I could hardly wait. I had a countdown on my phone’s home screen, so every morning when I woke up I could see how much closer I was to waking up on the other side of the world.

After a false start or two, that countdown hit zero. I said goodbye to my cats and my family, and rolled my suitcases through the airport’s international terminal. I chatted a bit with a few other passengers on the same flight, and waited for our departure time. I don’t think anyone is ever truly thrilled about a 14 hour flight, but it was worth it for Japan!

What followed was one of the worst days I’ve had since living here. Japan was still heavy in its COVID-era policies; after navigating its arcane and wildly confusing COVID entry-procedures at the airport, I finally arrived at my hotel many hours later only to be thrust into more seminars, pledges, and paperwork. By the time I got to my hotel room, it was past 10 p.m., I hadn’t eaten in over eight hours, and I’d been awake for nearly 48. I stepped outside to find food, and was greeted with pouring rain. Of course, I had no umbrella.

Later that night, I had what I now know is a shutdown. I sat in my dimly-lit hotel room, numbly chewing whatever sad (and slightly damp) food I had purchased from the nearest convenience store, and stared over my absolutely packed schedule for the next few days. I froze up, quietly wept, and thought: I can’t do this. Send me back.

Unfortunately, the next few weeks weren’t much easier. I vividly remember sitting in my car parked in a 7–11 parking lot, having a meltdown after failing to sign up for a “point card.” I screamed and cried and slammed my fists into the steering wheel. I didn’t really care about the card; it just happened to eliminate my last “spoon” for the day. The stress of the move, new job, cultural differences, and language barrier had really taken its toll.

Things have improved somewhat in the couple of years since then. I’ve settled into my daily routine, which reduces stress considerably (assuming it goes to plan). I’m certainly not good at Japanese, but I get by. I’ve learned what’s expected of me at my job. Of course, I still have shutdowns and meltdowns, but they aren’t as frequent as in those initial two months or so. Notably, I got my diagnosis, which completely alters how I view and approach all the difficulties that come with living abroad and life, in general. Life here is still quite hard, but at least I don’t have to feel quite so ashamed of my reactions to it.

Many would find the way I’ve spent the last two years to be a missed opportunity. A part of me is inclined to agree. I haven’t traveled much, my attempts at making friends have failed, and I spend most weekends alone in my apartment. Whenever I talk about my life with other people, I feel embarrassed. The truth is, I’m doing the best I can to stay afloat. Most weeks, I spend all the energy I have masking at work, leaving me to recharge as best I can over the weekend so I’m ready to do it all over again the next week. To do anything more would usually require energy that I simply don’t have.

The monotony of this doesn’t particularly bother me; us Autistic people tend to like our routines. I look forward to my weekends at home where it’s quiet, the lights aren’t too bright, I don’t have to worry about being perceived, and I can freely engage in my special interests without fear of interruption. It’s bliss.

However, I came to this country with dreams of traveling Japan from Hokkaido to Okinawa. I was going to retrace Chris Broad’s adventures. I was going to befriend all the locals. I was going to be one of those expats that return home for the holidays overflowing with cool stories.

Well, those things have yet to occur. At some point, I have to accept that if these things haven’t happened in the two years I’ve been here, they probably aren’t going to happen at all.

The reality is this: I’m living in a country that loves bureaucracy and speaks a language I’m able to understand only a little of. I’m living in a country without a support network of any kind, as an Autistic person with support needs (low support needs, perhaps, but support needs nonetheless). I’m stuck in a weekly loop that—while not the worst thing ever—doesn’t allow me to branch-out and have new experiences. I’m living in a foreign country largely unable to engage with all of the things that makes living abroad worth it.

So, I’m left to consider if this is really the best place for me. And that’s a tough one. Japan was a big dream of mine for such a long time, and to consider that it may be time to throw in the towel (why are we throwing towels, anyway?) because, well…I just can’t, is disappointing.

Last year, I was reading Dr. Devon Price’s Unmasking Autism where he discussed Autism as a disability. I was hit with the sudden realization that the life I had pictured for myself might not be possible for me. At least, it might not be possible in the way I imagined it.

This is something that is really difficult to come to terms with. No one likes being told they can’t do something, but what’s far worse is to discover on one’s own that they are actually incapable of doing something.

And so, here I am, mourning the life that I imagined living.

It isn’t all bad, though. I will leave Japan eventually, and whether that happens sooner rather than later, it will have been an undeniably invaluable experience. Living here has allowed me to grow and learn about myself to a degree I never imagined. Who knows if I would’ve discovered I’m Autistic if I hadn’t come here?

Living abroad hasn’t been at all what I expected or hoped, but I’m thankful for the experience nonetheless.