Holy guacamole batman. I’m making this. It’s happening. I don’t know when but it’s catalogued for later and it’s most definitely going to happen.
This week has been really amazing. Sometimes it’s nice to pretend.
There was a time when all I did was write. I have notebooks full of my writings. Angsty, nonsensical, grammatically incorrect. Somewhere, I don’t know where, I stopped. There are files on my computer, loose leaf pages scattered in my notebooks, proof that sometimes I tried to write again.
When I started college, before I spent years trying to be a doctor, before I changed my mind and became an exercise science major (whatever that is), before I talked to the psychology department about changing my major, years before I finally realized I hated all of that and found a love in anthropology and religion, I was an English major. Orientation, two days after high school graduation, I signed up as a Lit major. All I wanted to do was read classic novels and take classes on Jane Austen and Mark Twain. Write shitty essays that I thought were poetic and artsy.
I doubted myself then, just as much as I doubt myself now. I shouldn’t have then, just as I shouldn’t now.
Somewhere, I don’t know where, but I forgot how comforting it is to write.
When I was in the fourth grade we moved to a new neighborhood. I didn’t know anyone. I couldn’t ride my bike to any of my friend’s homes. Our above ground pool was torn down at the old house and we had yet to invest in another for our new backyard. My favorite things - the pool, the smooth roads for roller blading, sleepovers with my best friend - were gone. That summer my mom bought me a huge set of Babysitter’s Club books at a garage sale. I spent the whole summer sitting in my new room, in a scoop chair, the ones that look like bowls and no one ever seems to know what they’re called but everyone loves them, reading every last one. When I was 10, I thought that was the worst summer ever.
This summer is the perfect blend of frustration, dissatisfaction, heartbreak, loneliness. It lacks fulfillment, motivation, comfort, wishes.
In some ways it’s as though this is my chance to figure out what kind of person I am. Am I the mature rational thinker who sticks around for a job she dreads because it pays $25/hr and she can save that money to put down on her student loans, pay for her Ph.D. applications, and help her move at the end of summer?
Or am I the brazen 25 year old that runs away from her unhappiness? Who throws her money and her hopes into something that could fall apart so easily and send her back to the last place she wants to be?