I applied to become a permanent resident a year ago and my emotional and mental health have been a complete disaster ever since. Like, I have already applied to a study permit, a working permit, a temporary visa, a CAQ, a CSQ, a My Little Pony fan club membership card, and all that just to meet requirements to then be able to apply to the PR. Yes, and this is only for meeting requirements because they can still reject me if they so want it. I’ve literally spent over a hundred thousand dollars to live the Canadian dream and everything is still uncertain… And people still have the audacity to judge me for blacking out every Friday.
So of course, even though I knew (or thought I did) how painful and annoying this process would be, I still decided to continue with it because I’m all about chasing emotionally unavailable guys who will ghost me in two months challenges. So a year ago, in October 2016, I sent my papers and hoped for the best. Immigration Canada, welcome to your tape.
Ever since that moment, every day has felt like I’m that one contestant of The Bachelor that confesses their love too soon and doesn’t receive a rose afterward. The immigration office sends no messages whatsoever, not even to tell you that your files have been received – which is kind of a big fucking deal since you’re pretty much sending every single official paper you’ve received in your lifetime and you have like only one copy of each. I only know they are checking my file because every time I send something else, they invoice me for $500 for going through the hassle of reviewing my documents and they sure as hell don’t waste any time in withdrawing it from my account.
Like, I’m sorry, but dear Government of Canada workers, isn’t it your job to check those files anyway? What’s this crap of having to pay for the right to have my files reviewed?
So I’ve spent the first seven months with literally no communication from them whatsoever, going slightly crazy with every passing day, and low key wondering if I could have skipped all this trouble had I married the sugar daddy I met at a summer party (best summer ever, by the way). Then in April, I finally got an email from them saying that they had received the files I had sent back in October.
Dude, basically if Immigration Canada were a fuckboy, it would have left me on read for seven months and then slid into my DM’s with a ‘u up?’ at 03h. This is exactly what it felt like. Except, as opposed to never replying to fuckboy texts – OK, that’s a lie, hit me up, fam – I actually had to reply to this one because, you guessed it, they wanted to know what this mouth did me to send more money while they finished reviewing my file.
OK, but, like, I sent all my files in English, what’s taking them so long anyway? Are all those pretty things Trudeau says in every speech a lie? But he’s got cake, so lie to me, babe Did my hair get flat? Did I stumble into some bad lighting? Or is he just not that into me?
Collective gasp.
Then I waited for 7 more months until it finally happened. Immigration Canada wanted to introduce me to their parents my medical checkup results (aka the last step in the process). So of course I went the day after because I’m desperate I wanted to get over with this asap, but nothing prepared me for what was about to go down at the clinic.
Brace yourselves.
I went to a private clinic after almost going to a super shady one where they only took cash and they didn’t even need an ID. Seriously? I had to fucking do an MBA, and go through countless background and credit checks, only to get a mobile phone with Virgin (welcome to your tape too, bitch) and these doctors run a clinic more sketchy than the one where Michael Jackson died?
This is so unfair.
Anyway, after the very embarrassing situation of having to pee in a cup (there’s just no acceptable way of doing it), I was called in by the doctor for a regular checkup. The minute I got there he asked me to strip down and stay like that. Of course I immediately texted my friend if he had had to get naked for his checkup and the answer was a big bold ‘No’.
So, like, was I about to get checked up or married? Because, I mean, the doctor was way above my preferred age bracket but I’ve always wanted to be the Ms. in ‘Dr. & Ms’. Seriously guys, my ambition knows no limits. Of course I freaked out because had I known I was going to be naked in front of my future husband, I would had done some crunches.
Thank God there was no psychiatric evaluation because I was clearly going more batshit insane than Taylor Swift.
Enter the last exam in the shape of blood tests. I’m not terrified of syringes but I’m also not a heroin addict, however I flinched a bit when I realized that the nurse had just begun training. As someone who has had the absolute worst experiences in hospitals I knew that I was about to get fucked. Then again, I’ve known many other things and have still gone and done them and paid for the consequences (which I also knew about) later, so, like, fight me.
So of course this woman fucked up, not once, not twice, not thrice, but four fucking times. She just didn’t know how to do it and while I’m all up for education, she could have fucking practiced with someone else instead. I finally asked her if she could call her supervisor because I honestly couldn’t take this bullshit anymore. The second nurse arrived, gave me a good look and told me that these exams were for HIV and syphilis.
OK?
Then she made sure to say it again. And then a third time, adding that I would have to pay $300 more in case I was positive. Am I crazy or was this woman slut shaming me? Is this regular procedure or is it because I’m gay? Or brown? or Mexican?
Because the only STD I’ve caught is Feels and it was devastating I’ve learned how to deal with it, so I don’t get why she was trying to go for my wig.
Anyway, Immigration Canada, stop sending me unsolicited dick pics ridiculous requests, and just right-fucking-swipe me already. I’m not like all the other hoes. Just give me that damn rose, I’m totally worth it.
