I was born in Brighton to an Egyptian mother and a Scottish father. When I was 12, my mother became ill. My dad had left us and my mum wasn't able to look after me, so she sent me to stay with my uncle in Hollywood. I didn't say goodbye to anyone. I didn't plan to stay in the US – I just never went back to England.

When I was 18, I went to college to study art. My status hadn't been an issue until then, but when they asked for my citizenship papers, it began to dawn on me that I might be asked to leave the country. I quit college and went under the radar – working as a DJ and freelance illustrator. I decided that as long as I stayed out of trouble I'd be fine. My uncle and his family had come to the US as immigrants and were now American citizens. I assumed that one day it would work out like that for me.

A couple of years later, I applied for a green card. I told the immigration officer that I'd been here for almost 10 years, that I'd arrived as a child and that I was a decent, law-abiding American. He handed me a voluntary departure form which I had to sign, agreeing to leave the country within three months. I didn't leave. I stayed in LA and carried on with my life.

The next time I heard from immigration was 13 years later, on 5 May 2010. I was asleep in bed with my girlfriend, Gaby, and we were woken at 5am by knocking on the door and a torch at my window. I knew straight away it was the police. I actually felt relieved. I was sick of hiding, and certain that if I spoke to the right person I'd be allowed to stay. I told Gaby I'd see her later and asked the police if I could grab my sunglasses before we left. They laughed and said, "You won't need sunglasses where you're going." I thought they were joking.

Then we drove through LA to pick up others. When I saw people crying and kissing their families goodbye, it started to click that something serious was happening. I was put in a room with 75 men and six hours later handed a letter with a check box that read: deported for 10 years. I wasn't allowed to see a lawyer. I was driven to the airport and flown to a detention centre in New Mexico. The plane was pitch dark and my arms and legs were handcuffed. I wet myself trying to get to the toilet.

Otero County processing centre is a huge warehouse in the desert. I was shown my room: a 50-man dorm, with bunk beds lined along each wall, a security guard in one corner and five exposed toilets and showers in another. There were no windows, just the buzz of halogen lights and the sound of men from various different countries shouting, fighting and playing dominoes. Although I didn't know it at the time, this would be my home for the next three months.

At first I was optimistic about getting out. My friends in LA gathered a petition of 4,000 signatures demanding my release, which I presented to the deportation officer. "I'm good at my job," he said. "I'll do everything I can to make sure that you're deported." After 22 years of living in LA, it was all over.

I spent the rest of my time at Otero drawing as a way of coping. We were allowed outside for an hour every morning and I'd enjoy hearing the birds and looking at the sky through the bars that covered the walled courtyard. Sometimes I'd ask to visit the doctor, who was in a different building and required a trip outside. I caught sight of two sunsets that way. Gaby flew out to visit and I put in a request asking the officers if I could give her a hug. They said no, so instead we held our hands up to the glass and cried. We'd been together for five years. It was the last time I saw her.

I was deported on 29 July 2010. I have no family left in the UK, so I went to stay in Manchester with a couple of guys I'd met in LA two weeks before I was arrested. It's 10 years before I can even apply for a visa to visit America. For now, I'm living in London trying to build a new life. I'm DJing again, doing a radio show and I stay in touch with the US on the internet, but the bottom line is that I'm living in a country where I don't know anyone and I feel like a foreigner. I left my life in LA. It's still my home.

• As told to Sofia Ignatidou.

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