Well, nothing boosts my enthusiasm for open borders like:
My fiance (who was at the time between grad school and a job) paying $535 to file the petition for me to come to the US, and me thinking that if he didnât have rich parents, we couldnât do this
Waiting 6 months for k1 visa to be processed and sent to the embassy.Â
While I wait, worrying about how my history of mental illness will affect my visa eligibility.
Looking up horror stories about the medical exam
Reflecting how relatively privileged I am, compared to most aspiring immigrants.
Being asked to pay ÂŁ300 for a medical examination, plus the costs of travelling to London and stayong overnight, to check I am medically allowed to get a visa (and getting the money from Rob, and again realising that if he didnât have rich parents I wouldnât be able to jump through the legal hoops to marry him)
Going to the medical exam. Being asked to strip in front of a stranger, who loudly counts my scars
Bing told, because of my history of depression and suicide attempts, they will need more information about my medical history. Worrying I will be denied a visa.
Getting my GP to send the information.
Receving no response from the embassy doctors, because they gave my GP the wrong sddress to send the information to.
Having to make many, many stressful phone calls to my GP and the embassy doctors to find out this is the problem.
Getting my GPâs administrator (who works for the NHS, and who is taking time out of her day from helping people WHO ARE ACTUALLY CURRENTLY SICK, to comply with this stupid ableist gate-keeping bullshit) to send it all again to the right address. Feeling kinda guilty for wasting her time but not having another option that isnât âbreak up with Robâ or âask Rob to leave his family and his career because I didnât want to waste a womanâs timeâ)
Not receiving any apology from the embassy doctors for giving the wrong address (but receiving lots of apologies from my GPâs administrator, even though itâs not her fault)
Being told by the embassy doctors that it is all fine, and now all I have to do is schedule a visa interview at the Embassy
Scheduling a visa interview at the embassy. Having to pay hundreds of pounds again (I canât remeber how much, but it was just shy of ÂŁ300) and reflecting, again, that if Rob had the same income as me and no rich parents this would all be impossible.
Being contacted by the embassy doctors again and being told, "Atually we made a mistake, you will need another assessment with a psychiatrist. Yes, you will have to come down to London to see our approved psychiatrist. You will have to pay another fee, but donât worry, itâs only about ÂŁ350.â Wanting to scream at the phrase âonly about ÂŁ350.â Telling myself itâs oky because I can get Rob to pay for it. Knowing that if Rob wasnât a data scientist who comes from money, I would not be allowed to marry him and there must be so many poor people whose internet-born relationships die for this reason and being so angry and exhausted.
Trying not to be too mad because there are so many WORSE injustices in the US immigration system, because this system literally KILLS people and I am just being inconvenienced
Being very mad that this system literally kills people. Being so mad I am shaking physically. Deciding to think about nothing at all, curling in the fetal position and pretending I am a snail curled up in its shell and the whole universe has disappeared and there is only happy numb little snail!me safe in the shell which is now the limits of existence.
Wondering if I really want to move to a country that is too interested in âfreedomâ to provide a proper social safety net, but not interested enough in freedom to let me in if my self-harm is âlikely to recurâ. Deciding I do, because Rob is there. Also because one day I want to become a citizen and say âThis is AMERICA! We have FREEDOM! If you look down on people who choose to cut their OWN ARMS with their OWN KNIVES, you are being UNPATRIOTIC!â
Also, reading the news, and remembering Britain is not much better.
Trying to schedule an appointment with their approved psychiatrist. Being told he is on holiday for two and a half months.
Calling the embassy doctors again, and finally getting the number of another approved psychiatrist. Scheduling an appointment the day before my interview at the embassy, so I only have to travel to London once. Refelcting that I might have been in huge trouble at work if that had been impossble and Iâd had to take too much time off at short notice.
Wondering if the US applies these medical criteria to ALL potential immigrants. Wondering if refugees are ever denied asylum because their trauma makes them self-harm. Deciding NOT to google this because if the answer is yes I will turn into a ball of white-hot rage and cause the planet to explode.
Having my psychiatrist appointment. Having to re-live the worst experiences of my life in front of a stranger. Having to remain calm when I describe my suicide attempts because I donât want to look like I am still crazy. Being asked invasive, medically irrelevant questions about my sex life. Having to explain the concept of mutual masturbation over Skype to a fifty-something stranger.
Wondering, briefly, if all this bullshit is worth it. Looking at a picture of Rob I have saved on my phone. Knowing it is worth it.
Going to the embassy interview. Being told they couldnât issue a vis yet because even though I have had all the medical examinations done, they still need to read the reports from them. Being told my visa is not guaranteed until whoever reads the reports designates me as officially sane enough to be an American. Being told I will haveto wait for an email that will tell me this.
Briefly contemplating yelling âI AM A VERY STABLE GENIUS!â at the embassy official. Deciding against this course of action.
Reminding myself, for the zillionth time, that I am having a much better time than the vast majority of aspiring immigrants. Finding this horrifying rather than comforting.
Rage-donating to International Refugee Assistance Project.
Not being able to sleep properly for days while I wait for the email.
Getting the email. Feeling the second-greatest wave of relif in my life. (The greatest was when I realised that Hell is not real and death is truly the end.)
Revelling in being a VERY STABLE GENIUS
Thinking about all the people who did not get a good email.Â
Thinking about all the people who are literally dead because of closed borders.
Thinking about how my own country (UK) de facto condemns people to death because of its hatred of refugees and economic migrants.
Thinking about all th people who died in the Holocaust because Britain and Amrica and many other countries dnied them asylum.
Thinking about how Einstein was very nearly denied escape from the Holocaust to America because of his left-wing views.
Thinking about how Ann Frankâs family died because they were denied refuge status in the US.
Thinking about how I have had to walk for a few months in a sewer of bullshit that comes up to my knees, but Iâm fine now.
Thinking about how many people have drowned in the vast, vast ocean of bullshit that I donât have to experience as a culturally-Christian white Anglophone from the first world.
Knowing that the amount of bullshit I have had to deal with is basically inconsequential COMPARATIVELY, but itâs still not fair.
Knowing I could still, thoretically, be denied entry when my plane lands.
Knowing that I will be taxed without representation for years before I can apply for citizenship. Being kind of okay with this weird irony in my particular case (someone jokes that, as I am British, this is ârevenge for the redcoatsâ.) Being less okay with this irony in the case of huge immigrant populations - LEGAL immigrant populations - who are treated very badly by the government and who are taxed and who have no vote because they canât afford the fee for citizenship.
Promising myself that when I get there I will see if there is anything I can do that will fix this.