Just over a week ago, I returned from the Netherlands. I was there for two weeks, mainly because we had to shoot some videos for the Prikkelplanner*. But since I was there anyway, I also took the opportunity to see my friends and family, photograph four people, record corrections for the audiobook, and interview someone for my new book.

Because I was tighter on money this time than last time (wedding photos, a honeymoon, and lots of Japanese taxes really take their toll…), I decided to stay mostly with friends and family instead of in hotels. The first week, I stayed with my brother in The Hague. After that, I moved (without my suitcases—my dad would bring those to Schiphol later) to Tjarda’s place in Amsterdam. She left on vacation a few days later, so in the end I only saw her for two days. In between, I had my only short hotel stay: two nights in Almere. Once again, it turned out to be the perfect base—this time to visit Cynthia in Zwolle for our planner recordings.

_{* Prikkels is Dutch for sensory input}

Of course, staying with friends or family is also really nice, don’t get me wrong. But it does come with a few more sensory inputs than staying in a hotel. So during the last few days, alone at Tjarda’s place, I mostly just crashed. I had every intention of buying out the entire Hema and stuffing my suitcase with snacks for François, but I lacked the energy and spatial awareness to pull it off. (“How much will actually fit in the suitcases my dad’s holding onto?”) Luckily, there’s a small Hema at Schiphol too.

As planned, my dad met me at Schiphol with my luggage and with the new edition of Maar je ziet er helemaal niet autistisch uit, which my publisher had sent to his house. Then I spent thirteen hours in an uncomfortable airplane seat, and just like that, I was back in Japan.

Normally I’d jump straight into the shower and crawl into bed when I get home, but not this time. While I was away, a postcard had arrived for me: my new residence card was ready! When I set foot back on Japanese soil, I had only half a week left to go pick it up. Since I didn’t quite trust myself or my body – and, to my own surprise, wasn’t completely dead that morning – I decided to take the train home, freshen up a bit, put on clean clothes, and head straight to the immigration office. I waited there for about two and a half hours, but in the end it worked out: I’m now Spouse of Permanent Resident. That means I can do whatever I want in Japan, as long as I stay married. No more Business Manager requirements. No more stress about annual reports. What a relief.

The next morning I dragged myself to my Japanese class (“Of course I can make it!” I had said weeks earlier, a bit too optimistic), checked the mail at the office, took the train back home, and then… Bam. Crash.

Last time, I said I felt so blessed. Not torn between two worlds, but present in both. This time, though, I did feel torn. Or well… You know what it is? Autistic people often struggle with object impermanence. This means that if you can’t see something, it kind of stops existing for you. I have that with people too. If I don’t see them, I almost forget they’re there for me, and I can feel incredibly lonely. To counter that, I have photos on my cabinet at home, to remind myself that I have friends, and that I can send them a message or invite them over every now and then.

But with the Netherlands vs. Japan, it works a bit differently. When I’m in Japan, it feels like time in the Netherlands stands still. As if nothing at all happens while I’m gone. I have this with other things in my life too. Many of the places I’ve lived still exist in my head—as lives I could seamlessly slip back into, if I wanted to. Of course, that’s not how it works, and sometimes that hits hard. I used to live in Amsterdam. Then quickly moved to Zaandam, but for work I was in the capital every week. And now? Now I barely recognized anything among the rolling suitcases, fatbikes, and matcha shops. (I had a shoot at the NDSM wharf and what the hell has happened there?!) The Hague messes with my head almost just as much. I still recognized Rotterdam, but at Riemer’s place there’s now a baby crib waiting where my desk used to be. I had conversations with several people about the past, and sometimes we saw things through a different lens for the first time—the lens of now.

At home, I asked François to join me in the shower. We always have the best conversations sitting on the edge of the tub. François, film nerd, calls it The Multiverse. A concept in a lot of superhero movies, where individual films don’t share a timeline, but each live in their own universe, where events from earlier films might not have happened at all. Sometimes I wish I could time travel. No, not time travel. Multiverse travel. That I could go back to my room in The Hague, but in a world where I never moved to Japan. “Oh, but do you want to go back? You can go back, right?” No, see, I don’t want to go back. I have my life in Japan now. I have François. But sometimes it feels like all timelines are still floating around somewhere. And that I could visit them, if I could just find a portal. Of course I know better. The only thing I can do is fly back and forth every now and then. And that’s about as close as I’ll ever get.