As this semester begins to wind down there are three things I am certain with:
- Calling myself an adult is a joke within itself
- I’ve learned how to survive a good week with less than 12 hours of sleep and sustain myself on coffee, coffee, and if I’m in the mood to splurge, coffee with espresso.
- I’m afraid to write down my own thoughts and ideas. Because I’m scared I won’t be able to articulate them right.
I’m swamped with assignments, and life’s never-ending hurdles. And this is where I find myself thinking or spacing-out the most. Not the best time, but I guess it’s just my mind’s way of coping with the stress; I used to write to relax.
I can admittedly say I stopped doing so this time last year. I stopped taking care of myself, and taking time out of my day to reflect on my actions, come to terms of what I’ve done, and write down ideas that have popped into my head.
Since this time last year, I can genuinely say, sitting down and writing down what’s on my mind is the one thing I miss the most- and the one thing I regret. I’ve gotten back into my first love again recently- taking the time out of my busy schedule to read pages of a book that I used to be able to devour with a span of hours.
Perhaps it’s because last year, life had finally given me the taste of adulthood. My life became a continuous routine of waking up, commuting downtown, going to school, sleeping, scrambling to do assignments, and then working a part-time job on the side. It’s not as bad as some people have it, but it was enough to drive me to a breaking point this time last year. I was exhausted, I was broken. And I spent every spare minute I had sleeping or trying to have some social interaction with people; I should’ve studied more, I admit that, but I personally feel that I would’ve suffered more if I secluded myself in the library.
However, sleep was always my end goal, no matter how many ideas I had pop-up in my head that wanted to be written down, no matter how badly I wanted to stay up one more second to read and how badly I wanted to go out and be with my friends.
But that’s not why I stopped writing. I think it has to do with the fact that last year I finally learned what university level writing is like, and it turned me off from writing creatively, because of all the stress and anxiety that came out of turning out a paper, or a script with too many deliverables that it made my head spin and I couldn’t come up with an idea that felt real to me. Or maybe it’s because I just couldn’t find good enough words to share. Or maybe it was laziness (which, may have played a huge part in my life, I’m not going to lie). Or maybe it was fear.
Fear that maybe what I had to say wasn’t good enough. But that’s when I realized how bad of a storyteller I was, because I wasn’t giving my own voice a chance to speak.
I don’t know what’s happened to me, but I’m trying to find the words to express how I feel again. In a step to self care, and in a step towards going back to doing something that I love.
Since this time last year, I’ve learned so much and I’ve felt like I’ve had to focus on those new skills and not practice the skills that have gotten me here. But now I guess it’s time for me to break from that cycle, and express my thoughts and my voice like the thoughtful, analytical, creative, and educated woman I am.