Bet You Thought You’d Seen The Last of Me

Ardent fans of my blogs (…cricket sounds…) may remember when I visited Oxford for the first time, and swore to myself that I’d come back to the United Kingdom for graduate school, and well…here I am, a candidate for a Masters in English Literature with a focus on Contemporary Writing at Queen Mary University of London.

I’ve found writing this obligatory “I’m back” post very difficult to sit down and write. (How unlike me, I know.) In some sense, it should be easy! I’ve triumphed! Accomplished a goal! It may not be Exeter as I planned as a 19-year-old – 23-year-old Abby didn’t even want to apply – but I have moved back to a foreign country for a year with no family, no connections, and nothing that can tempt either a Mr. Wickham or a Mr. Darcy figure. That’s nothing to sniff at!

And yet, I alone really know the motivations of coming here – how me being an awful example of a human being spurred me to apply so that I could stop being a burden on the people I love, at least for a year.

Whew, are you into those kinds of downers? May I suggest taking a look at my non-London blog, Anxious Adventures with Abs. It’s all about depression, huzzah! There’s also some travel and literature mixed in.

When I arrived in London, I was perhaps as prepared as you can be. I kept agonizing over various things as a person with anxiety is wont to do, but you know, I had all my immigration papers and I had the means of getting places and consuming food. I didn’t quite feel that “I’m meant to be here” spark as I did the last time I came to London when I touched down, but I felt capable. Perhaps more capable than last time, because I’m on a good medication, I have access to a phone this time, and I’m not afraid of doing things alone anymore.

I’ve done all the things – attended orientation, gone back to visit some of my favorite places, done some of my pre-class reading (there’s this one piece of literary criticism that’s 54 pages long and I take intense notes for litcrit because it’s not intuitive for me and I just…,) made use of the kitchen, spoken to other human beings, etc., etc.

But I didn’t have a Mashal here waiting for me like I did last time. Mashal and I became instant friends and stuck together for the majority of our time together, because we happened to be placed in the same room. Providence. Or something. But now I have my own room (AND MY OWN BATHROOM) so I have to force myself out of it to make human connection or whatever. Chance isn’t necessarily on my side for making friends.

But aren’t I supposed to be punishing myself? The original reason I applied was because I knew that I had to get away, to stop hurting my loved ones. So maybe I SHOULD be imposing isolation on myself.

It’s not like being alone is a bad thing. I love an independent woman; don’t we all? But a year without in-person, heartfelt communication is a little much for a little depressive like myself. And while I need to embrace being alone, I also need to snap out of the thought spiral that the world would be better off without me doing anything but doing my part for consumerism.

I’m not putting pressure on myself to make friends. I’m going to go out of my way when I feel it’s right, and be gentle with my introverted and frightened little self when things don’t feel right. My biggest fear is losing things from being a bad human, and so it’s hard to open up and make heart available to more smashing, intentional or otherwise.

I’m aware that this is all INCREDIBLY privileged talk, and I’ll be working to change that, but this is where I’m at for the moment. Ready to keep things moving, just a step at a time, until before you know it, I’m a better person.

Is that too much to hope for? Literature says no. So I’m going to hold out.