Last week I wrote a bit about my failed attempt to adapt to Icelandic society when I returned to the country of my birth as an adult. Or should I say “grown up person”—because “adult” suggests that I had my shit together, which I absolutely did not.
In case you missed it:
So there I was, living in my derelict apartment that was an all-too clear reflection of my psychological state, and frankly getting more and more depressed as the winter darkness crept in. I did not feel like I fit in Icelandic society, I had been away for so long. I had hoped to go back to a place where I felt embraced, but instead I felt like an alien.
I didn’t want to admit to myself that I had made a mistake and that the idea of the place that was “home”—an illusion that had sustained me for years—was in fact just that: an illusion. Having lived in a bustling metropolis for two years prior, Reykjavík felt hopelessly small and confined. I think it is much better now—we are in a different era—but back then it barely had restaurants, there were hardly any visitors from abroad, psychotherapy was heavily stigmatized, and provinciality seeped into everything. I had no car, and not even a (landline) telephone because there was a wait of several months for new numbers.
I worked odd jobs—first as a chambermaid, then I got a summer job in a tourist shop. (Back then tourist shops sold almost exclusively Icelandic sweaters and wool stuff.) When that season ended I got a job working in a pet store, which turned out to be worlds removed from the idyllic idea I had in my mind of being constantly surrounded by animals. (Watching white mice tear each other literally to bits, or having to euthanize them when they overbred is something I’ll never get over.) I worked with another girl whom I could not stand and who felt the same way about me … with whom I reconnected about 20 years later and who is now a dear Facebook friend. 🥰
I was getting worn down, and then in October, when the day was getting shorter and shorter, something happened that completely tipped the scales.
All city and state workers went on strike, as did journalists and broadcasters. Life ground to a halt. Public transport, which was operated by the state, no longer ran. Television was dark, and there was no radio, and no newspapers. Customs officers were on strike, so in a country where practically everything is imported, nothing was being admitted into the country. Things ran out in the shops, while freight ships filled with goods, including perishables, were moored just offshore, but could not be unloaded. People were frantically hoarding things, and goods started running out in the shops. Bananas were the first to go, then other fruit, then tobacco. We who were smokers treated our precious cigarettes like gold, smoking each one as close to the filter as possible and doing all we could to make them last. I was used to taking my laundry to my grandparents’ house on the bus because I didn’t own a washing machine, but I couldn’t even get there. The strike dragged on and on, and eventually gas (petrol) started to run out, so even distribution lines within the country were halted, and people couldn’t get to work. I had never felt more isolated, my world never as small.
I was still in contact with my psychiatrist in Canada—he had suggested we keep in touch, and we had written letters back and forth.1 I could tell that he was getting concerned about my welfare and did not like the increasing desperation in my letters. I will never forget a letter he sent, in which he was the most firm he had ever been with me. He wrote: “I must insist that you return to Canada.” As someone who had not received much hands-on parenting and who was flailing about trying to find something to cling to, that “command” was something I desperately needed, and I think he knew that.
That same day I started making plans to leave Iceland.
I know many people have a dream of moving to Iceland to live. I would not want my experience to dissuade anyone from making a go of it, as it was highly subjective, and influenced by many extraneous (and internal) things. Some people do manage it successfully. Besides, Iceland today is vastly different from what it was in the 1980s, although some things have not changed.
My advice to anyone who has this dream: manage your expectations, and prepare yourself mentally. Be honest with yourself about your motivations. Are you fleeing something that you hope will be different in a new location? If it is an external factor, then yes, maybe things will be different. If it is an internal issue, then you will likely take that with you—and it may not be any easier to resolve when you are thrown into the overwhelm of adapting to a new country, culture, and possibly language—on top of everything else.
I did not think I would ever return to Iceland to live … but I eventually did, ten years later. My experience then was very different, in part because I had learned from my previous mistakes.
More on that later. 😊
You may have heard that Icelanders believe in elves. But do you know that this belief may have been their way of coping with trauma, when the processing of that trauma was difficult or even impossible? That’s what I write about in this book of 20 translated Hidden People tales, with notes.
I will be forever grateful to that man. He recognized I needed help even before I did, myself, and he became a sort of surrogate parent to me, providing guidance and suggestions when I needed them, and trying in his gentle way to steer me in the right direction. Therapists can be very different, and I definitely found one of the good ones.
Thanks for this. I'm debating whether or not to send this to a younger woman I know in Oregon who is planning a move to Iceland next year. She's got such high hopes and expectations that this will be the change she needs to be happier. I hate to burst her bubble, and she probably wouldn't listen to me anyway, but I do worry about her.
Great article. Thanks for being so honest and it was a great read. Takk!