MY
BEGINNING OF DISCOVERING MYSELF AS A WRITER
To start a new world,
you have to let go of a new one. But I’m not ready to let go yet. Change has never
been my friend, if anything it’s been my enemy. I don’t see change so much as a
negative, but adapting to it has always been a struggle for me. I’m a big fan
of structure, of schedules, of routines. Now I feel like they’re all gone. My
structure, my schedules, my routines that I’ve been living for the past
thirteen years are out the window, “on to bigger and better things.” Is this
better for me? I don’t feel ready for the next chapter of my life. I spent so
much time following the motions of my typical life, dreaming of this next big
step, but now that I’m here, about to live it, I no longer want it. All I know
now is it’s been a long time coming, and it’s going to be a longer time getting
used to.
Change is hard to
handle. You spend so much time always doing the same thing, comfortably falling
into the same routine every day, always seeing the same people, then one day
you lose it all. You find yourself surrounded by new scenery, unfamiliar faces,
and suddenly you feel very small and unprepared. You lose the people that made
you feel important as they leave that life for the new one they have also found
themselves lost in. I’ve been falling into this change for so long, but I still
haven’t found my ground. I still find myself struggling to stand on my own two
feet. It is hard to cope with change until it is no longer change, but again
becomes the same thing, my comfortable daily routine, with the same people, as
my last fades into the forgotten past.
I’m buried, deep. So
deep that from the inside, everything is dark, though I see little bits of warm
sunlight peeking through the cold crystals surrounding me. I start to dig my
way out, but all I have is a small brush. As I brush away the crystals, they fall
on top of me, finding their way into my boots, into my coat, down my shirt,
chilling me to the bone. My hands, uncovered, turn bright red and numb as the
crystals fall onto them, turning to ice cold water as they melt against the
warmth of my skin that I can no longer feel. I have dug enough to make my way
out, so I crawl back inside. I move forward, to the left, and slightly right to
straighten myself down. I continue moving forward, but then I’m stopped again,
buried. So I start digging again, but this time it doesn’t take as long to
clear the way. I climb back in again, and instead of going forward, I go
backward to gain momentum. I move forward as fast as I can, but all I do is
slide an inch or so. I try again. Again. Again. Again, and finally, I turn
right. I straighten myself out and slide forward a bit before I find myself in
control again. I go straight, and very slowly, until I reach my turn. I make
it, flawlessly, and I’m going straight again. I see the stop in front of me,
and as it becomes closer, bigger, I start to stop. But I am not stopping, I’m
still moving forward, slowly, but inevitably moving forward. The stop ahead
gets bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and bigger. I call out a warning, and then
I crash. I jolt forward, slightly, my heart races. Then, I feel another impact
to my right side, and I look back into the eyes of the woman I have just
trapped. I move forward to give her a way out and when she does, the man in
front of me does, also. We all come together and apologize, and exchange our
insurance information.
I’ve become completely
dependent on coffee. I wake up, I have a cup. I go to school, I buy a cup,
preferably Starbucks, to get me through my classes. I leave school, sometimes I
buy another for the drive home. I sip some before work, sometimes it will last
me through my night at the studio, though eventually it becomes very cold,
which is fine because I’ll drink it at any temperature. Sometimes I’ll grab a
late night cup on my way home to get me through my homework. By the time that’s
finished, I only have to lie awake for about an hour, maybe two, before the
caffeine rush wears off and I can get some sleep before I have to wake up and
do it all again. But even with all of that caffeine, I still find myself
exhausted. Even though I always hold a beverage, I always find myself thirsty.
Even with the rush, I still find myself so busy with everything that constantly
needs to be done. Coffee does not fill any of my voids, but it keeps me warm.
As I lay here in my
bed, waiting for the NyQuil to kick in so I can actually sleep tonight, I can’t
help but feel defeated as I listen to the howling winds and the sleet hitting
my window from outside. I close my eyes and dream of warmer nights, and I think
of the one we had just twenty-four hours ago. The sadness kicks in when I
realize that tomorrow we’ll be out of the forties and back into the single
digits. The devastation kicks in when I realize that I’ll have to walk from my
car to my class tomorrow in the freezing temperatures, and I can only hope that
I can make it to my art history class and be able to feel my hands as I write
down the title, year of completion, country of origin, and artist’s name of
twenty-one different works of art for my midterm that I still feel so
unprepared for even after spending the entire day studying for it. I’m dreading
tomorrow, but tonight I will cuddle under my warm blankets and sleep soundly
and worry-less.
I feel like the
easiest way to stay positive is to not make any time to be able to dwell on the
negative. I don’t make time to be alone, or at least I keep myself too busy to
realize when I actually am alone. I’ve submerged myself in my work, taking on
more hours, focusing on upcoming competitions and perfecting all of my
choreography. I’ve submerged myself in my paintings, not only aiming for
A-grades but for noticeable quality, paying close attention to detail, taking
hours, days, weeks to complete a piece. In the time I somehow find to myself, I
clean my room, I sleep, I go to the gym and run until I only have enough time
to get a shower in before I’m on to the next task. I’ve found keeping busy
keeps me positive, though sometimes I keep myself so busy that important things
fall victim to the unimportant things I’ve filled my schedule with. Finding
balance is my next step to being completely content, but for now, this works.
If you ask a child what they want to be when they grow up,
they’ll give you a million different answers. They’ll tell you they want to be
a princess, a superhero, maybe even a pirate. Ask them when they’re a bit older
and their answers become more practical. This time around, they want to be a
doctor, a writer, maybe an actress. If you ever asked me, all I wanted to be
was an artist. I had my mind completely set on it. I planned out my future, new
where I wanted to go, where I was going to live, who I wanted to work for. I
walked into my first day of my first college art class, the first day of the
future I had always wanted, and had my first bit of doubt. I didn’t doubt
myself because I wasn’t doing well, but because suddenly art became my job. It
became my future, but I so badly wanted it to just be my passion, as it had
always been. Everyone always said that it’s easier to work in a field that you
love, that it doesn’t even feel like work. But even sitting in my class, it
felt like work. I didn’t feel the freedom I had always felt when I drew. I
didn’t feel any stress pour off my shoulders, but instead it piled on as I got
the list of very close due dates for all of my very intricate projects. It was
then I knew that I did not know what I actually wanted to be. It was then I
knew that I did not know what my future would be like. It was then I realized
how naive I was to have thought I knew it all. And now I feel like a child when
people ask my what I want to be. I give them a million answers, a million possibilities,
and surprisingly I feel better now than I did with my blueprint.
FINALS WEEK
The worst thing about finals week is how incredibly tired
you become in such a short period of time. There have been nights before where
I’ve said to myself “I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted,” as I drag
myself to bed after a long day of doing nothing. But you don’t know the
true meaning of “exhaustion” until you’ve experienced finals week, and your day
has gone from doing practically nothing to trying to cram absolutely everything
you have to finish before the end of the semester into a few, very long nights.
And it only gets better when you finally realize all that you have to do. You
think you have everything all figured out, then you remember about that essay
you were assigned at the beginning of the semester that’s due tomorrow, then
you remember about that science test you have to take before Monday that you
haven’t even started studying for because you’re trying to finish this painting
you need to turn in before you start your final which you still have to sketch
out and turn in for approval but tonight you don’t have time to sketch out your
final because you have to study for that other final you have to take in Art
History because you can’t list off any of the paintings you need to know like
the back of your hand. Breathe. But wait, you don’t have time to take a deep
breath, so just gasp for air and get back to work. It feels like the longest
week of your life, but the beauty of it is that it ends. It ends, and at the
ending of this dark tunnel is a bright light, and the bright light is the sun,
and the sun is summer, and the summer is warm air and freedom, and no more
school, for a few months, at least. Keep on pushing through finals week, it’s
almost over.
NEW BEGINNINGS
I feel like throughout the semester, I
started to discover my own path in writing. I’m not one for stories and fairy
tales; I love to read them, but can’t find it in me to develop my own. I found
that I write best when I’m writing from experience, when I’m explaining
something that happened to me, maybe to just get it off my chest or to try to
persuade someone else not to, or to, do it. Maybe I’m a self-help kind of
writer, or maybe I’m a columnist, or maybe I just like to gloat and complain.
Reading what everyone else wrote this year was very enjoyable, I think everyone
did great work and we should all be proud of what we accomplished. But it also
made me appreciate the way I write as well. I’ve never been very confident in
my writing, especially when it something like this class and not your basic
essay. Everybody expresses themselves differently, and the beauty of expressing
yourself through writing is that there’s no wrong way to do so. You can write stories, or self-help novels, or
columns, and someone out there will read it and appreciate it for what it is
and for what you’re saying.
FINAL REVIEW
I enjoyed spending the
semester developing these stories about myself and my own self-discovery.
Writing about my own struggles and successes and hearing that everyone else is
finding themselves in a similar place has made me feel much more content, and much
more sane. I felt that most of my posts had fallen in the category of
self-discovery and an analysis of my own day-to-day opinions, and when I
decided to move forward down that path, I found it much easier to develop my
posts. I tried working in some narratives, which was suggested to me early on
and definitely brought a new light to my writings. I enjoyed sharing all of my
moments with you all, especially all of my downfalls. I find it much more
fulfilling to share the things that don’t go so well for me in hopes that
everyone can take something from my own experiences and use that to better
themselves.
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