I did it. First day an uni! First lecture!
I felt very old compared to all the bright eyed bushy tailed students around me. My fear had been their judgement of me. The scrutiny, the look of amusement in their eyes. I had been anxious about the size of the lecture room. I had been anxious about panic, about space, about crowds, about putting pressure on myself.
When I got up, I hoped the car wouldn’t start. This can be my legitimate excuse for not following through. For not going out there. Facing people. Being forced into conversations. But it started.
My husband met me, parked my car for me to alleviate that stress for me. Even walked me to the lecture theatre. He in his suit, looking relaxed and confident, all the while belonging. Me, looking tired, frumpy and like the possessive wife coming to check out his fellow comrades. I’m sure that’s how it looked.
But in the theatre, I listened to the instructions. I was put off by students messing around and giving answers that sounded obnoxious and immature. I realised there was great comfort and sanctity amongst the mature students. And that perhaps my brain wasn’t so rusty after all. Only time will tell.
Now I have this commitment. This ‘thing’ that I do. This direction, and reason to motivate myself. I need to think, set goals, objectives. Half of me wants to bury under the covers. This is all to much. The other half thinks, for godssake grab hold of the opportunity. Do something. Be someone. It’s now or never.
Can I be consumed for ever by my mental illness? By him? Can I live as a prisoner until the day I die? Or maybe I take this chance.
I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to drown.