Today, I got chocolate ice cream all over my T-shirt, my hands, and even my school ID. It was my favorite band shirt, but it was okay. You know what else is okay?
The fact that I’ve had coffee two or three days in a row, that I’m still guilty about a few things, that some things are going too fast while others are going too slow. I’m turning twenty in a couple of weeks. I have finally begun my (hopefully) last year of college. But today I told somebody the truth: at the beginning, I didn’t want to be here.
I’m starting my senior year, and the universe seems to be shoving ghosts, anxieties and regrets onto my path. Or maybe they have always been there and I am starting to notice them now, with the lenses of the so-called ‘senior syndrome’.
But today I also wrote poetry for the first time in weeks. I got more hugs in the past week than I got in half a year. I walked through the rain with a geeky number of books and notebooks in my possession, and an honest grin on my lips. With every “hang in there,” every “it’s not over for you yet,” or every “you’re not alone, you know,” is there any wonder why things are okay?
I want to tell you some more, but I also want to be honest with you. So take a look at what I wrote a week ago, when I was sad, gray and (worst of all) wordless.
* * *
It has finally begun to rain in the city. The first night that the thunder and lightning played, I felt strangely comforted by it. I think one of my favorite and least favorite things in the universe is irony. I’ve been speaking like that nowadays: of love-hate relationships, of certain uncertainty, of yes to maybe with no. I don’t know.
If you have been paying attention, you might know that I haven’t been having the best summer. In fact, that has got to be the worst summer of my college life. I’m happy to tell you that summer is over, and things have been getting better. Not that much better, but better.
There were days when I couldn’t get out of bed, and the longer I stayed unmoving with my anxieties looping in my head, the more I despised myself. The more I couldn’t bring myself to do anything. I don’t know when, but I managed to get up and go outside and it has made all the difference.
I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess I needed to affirm what I’ve been going through in writing, and I guess I wanted to break my writing dry spell by writing something, however crappy.
Words have left me nowadays. For a day or two I was genuinely afraid that I might have broken up with them, but it seems I can’t let it happen. And people around me won’t let it happen, like the friend who tried to have me write away the depression and the one who mistakes my lack of words for thought…
I don’t usually like incomplete stories but I told you I would be honest with you. That is all I got to say before I felt self-hate welling in me and I had to stop writing. The words were alright, but whenever I formed them, they stung me like they weren’t my own and it felt like the sourest of rejections.
Today, I voiced aloud a specific fear I had never had before: “What if it never comes back? What if I stop loving writing forever?”
I was told that it never really left me, that there is happiness spilling from me whenever I write (and people feel it whenever they read), and that I shouldn’t force it. All these surprised me except the third. Of course I should force it. In the same way that, when the one you love tells you that she hates you, you hold her hand tighter you and tell her you love her anyway. Especially if you know she loves you too.
All I want to say is: I will write again. I promise, I will. It will be terrible at the beginning, but I need to be terrible before I can get better. I suppose that applies to all things.
(Here’s a beautiful mash-up recording by a friend of my sister’s, to make up for my badly written entry. You’re welcome.)