I’ve never seen myself as a spontaneous person.
I go to bed early. At the start of every week I make a giant list of things to be done. I think three years ahead of time, trying to plan how to get exactly what I want. Except for an occasional unplanned road trip to Las Vegas, I’m a fairly predictable, boring person.
Let me tell you how 5 seconds of yesterday changed the next six months of my life.
Saturday at 1:00, I sit down to write my article. On average, a good article will take me anywhere from one to two hours. They tell me that news is easier than features, but I’m not selling my chickens yet. Five hours later, two lunches, and fifteen Facebook checks later I’m still sitting in front of my computer, 150 words short. I’m can’t fluff this. I made a goal before I decided to start writing news. I was determined not to be the loser freshman who couldn’t write. I especially didn’t want to be the one that nobody would criticize, because they were too “fragile”. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t make it sound good. I can’t finish it, because there is nothing else to say. All the sudden, I’m the loser freshman, and it kills me. I manage to get 650 words, but I can’t press the share button. I want so much to be better than I am, to be eloquent and flowing and perfect.
But I’ve failed.
Even if it was only for three hours, PoBev worked a miracle on my spirits. There was so much talent on that stage, so many brave people. It took me many years to accept that fact that I’m not born to perform, at least on the stage. I get just as much happiness out of strumming some guitar chords to myself as playing for others. It wasn’t a terrible revelation. Somewhere in high school, I just realized it wasn’t for me. If anything it pushed me into what I’m doing now. I’m good at being a behind the curtain person.
I woke up Sunday, and before I even took my head out of the warm spot it had made in my pillow, I realized that I had six weeks left. Six weeks of newspaper. Six weeks of teachers and classes. Six weeks of friends. I love my summers, I always have. But all of the sudden six weeks seemed like a dark blot. The thought living in Salt Lake for three months seemed almost suffocating. I had thought a little about it, seeing as I don’t have a job to go back to, but in that moment I decided I was going to stay in Logan for the summer. I didn’t know the how, the why, or the where, but all the sudden all of the pieces that I’ve been missing fit together. The hardest part was telling my wonderful, perfect mother. The only time I questioned my decision was when I heard the disappointment in her voice.
As I climbed out of bed and looked in the mirror, for the first time in a long time I didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t like the zits on my face or the way my hips drooped. I didn’t like that my hair wouldn’t sit right. My eyes were dull and my fingernails were a little too long. Even as a little girl, I promised myself that I would never be one of “those” girls. A girl that didn’t like who she was. A girl that looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Yet, here I was looking at myself, seeing a blank stare in my reflection.
This is all sounding very mundane. I’m a happy person, I swear. This just happened to be an odd morning. I like myself again today, but something has stuck with me. I’m not who I want to be, and I’m not working hard enough to get there. Realizing that, I found another piece of my puzzle. This summer, I want to find me. I want to run in the mountains every day and read too many books. I want to work 60 hours a week until I feel like I’ve accomplished something worthwhile. I want to go tubing on a river in Idaho. I want to finish the Bible. I want to love people more. I want to write everyday. When I come back to school next fall, I want to have something I’m passionate about besides newspapers. It’s silly enough when normal people ask me about my hobbies and the only thing that comes to mind is newspapers, but when somebody ON the newspaper staff asks you the same question, and you can’t think of an answer, you know your in a rut. I must have other hobbies, I faintly remember them. I just haven’t taken time to dig them up in a while.
The thought of staying here, not knowing anybody, brings me terrified peace. It doesn’t make sense to me either. The part of me that is so scared to be alone is also the part of me that knows I can do it.
Now I’m off to find the last two pieces of my puzzle….a job and shelter. Wish me luck.