Everytime I think about how scared I am about leaving, I re-read my diary entry from my first day at University:
I hate it. My flatmates are lovely - Sarah is mad, Beth is quiet but reminds me of Soph and Rosie seems cool. But I'm just so homesick, the thought of being here for three years is too much and it depresses me. I want to go home so much, I would even be happy to go back two years and do my A-levels all over again. My future here is just so uncertain and I don't like it. The only time I felt peaceful yesterday was when I forgot I was leaving [home]. I'm crying now and I shouldn't be - I'm a student, I've dreamt of this for the whole of my life but the reality is so far away from my conceptions of it - in my mind I didn't miss home this much.
(Now, ignoring the lack of paragraphs and First World Problems tone of the entry, I think we can see that I wasn't such a happy bunny on my first night away from home. At all. Most people celebrate their first night of freedom by throwing up on a one night stand; I ate pesto pasta and moped.)
I then like to read the next entry, a week later on Sunday 8th October:
Can't believe it's only been a week. I feel so at home here and so happy with my mates. When I think about how much I hated it when I first got here......I must have been mad.
The rest of the update is primarily concerned with boys and drunken stories, so I've left that bit out. No one wants to hear my 18-year-old self's thoughts on those matters.
To summarise: Yes, emigrating is shit scary. But I'm pretty sure I'll be OK. Aus won't require me to write essays about Kant and has lovely weather. The same cannot be said about my (beloved) University city.
(I've honestly not made this up. If I had, trust me, I would've made my younger self sound far more eloquent and worldly wise.)