Baby Steps

It's a sultry but overcast day here in Cardiff. There's no sun, barely any breeze, barely anything. The view from my window is placid and colourless. I'm sat in my airless room, on the bed, the window wide open, despite my aversion to terrifying the neighbourhood with my musical tastes. A dog is already howling, but it’s more likely to be the fault of our terrifically noisy, newly-adopted African grey parrots than me.

You've been on the plane to Boston for fifteen minutes. Maybe less. I think you were boarding as you said 'Goodbye, I love you', judging by the background noise. When you hung up I suddenly felt lighter inside. I realised that actually, subconsciously, I’d been waiting for your call all day.

"Ooh... I... can't keep on without you," gloops a syrupy voice from my computer speakers. I secretly reserve sentimental drivel amongst the stacks of screamo and death metal files for odd occasions such as this, where they’re kind of appropriate. Ever the dramatic one, I have a habit of making music videos in my head, directing a girl who looks suspiciously like me- 'Girl looks, lovelorn, out of the rain-streaked window. Traces a raindrop with her finger. From the other side of the glass this looks like a tear running down her face. Boy wanders around restlessly, evidently thinking of her' etc.etc.etc.

I'm not completely incapable of independence, though. Far from it. It's just that my summer never really started, in terms of achievement. I wanted to work abroad to practice my languages, or at least get paid for something here, just to be able to pay my way a little... But, while I was feeling sorry for myself for all those months back at uni, jobs were disappearing. And I didn't think of it at all, not for a second, not even sure at the time whether I was still going to be alive the next day. Annoyingly, emotional breakdowns don't account for application deadlines. I'm scared that it'll look like I've just been lazy and procrastinated all summer.

Of course Mr. Lovely And Well-Meaning Boyfriend says that's not true, I'm still sorting myself out, and that will take time. He says I mustn't make myself dizzy coming off my tablets too quickly again. He says that I can still be productive and happy even if I'm not working; at least I'm working on my studies and my novel and my music and stuff.

Pfft. As if anyone but me cares!

So now I’m kicking my own bottom into gear, so to speak. I plan to tone the aforementioned bottom with daily workouts, meet up with friends and volunteer at the local Oxfam bookshop (frankly, with the thought of being surrounded by shelves and shelves of tempting spines several hours a day, five days a week, I needed very little convincing.) I’m posting every Thursday on a friend’s blog, about anything that comes to mind- last week, staying with the boyfriend in Sussex, it was me singing the praises of the English countryside- this week, uninspired and forgetting it was already Wednesday night, I dug a humorous vampire poem out of my archive. Penfriends have all been written to, surprises in the post for a couple of friends who’re having a difficult time lately. And best of all, I keep reminding myself, despite all the mental drama, I have passed my first year at university- 1% away from a First, thanks to the happy rules of rounding numbers. Delighted, I printed off my personal tutor’s lovely congratulatory email and tucked it into the pages of my diary; something to give me a boost whenever I glance at it.

None of it sounds particularly meaningful or significant, and I suppose it isn’t. But you can’t make huge leaps overnight- I for one am sure of that. So, for now, it’s baby steps towards the goal, the goal of being happy and staying happy and bringing happiness to others. I can do it, and I will.

My boyfriend made me promise to message him every day he’s gallivanting to let him know how I’m getting on, though he’s not sure when he’ll be able to check his emails. Thinking about it, I may well send him this post tomorrow. Because it’s a good start. And the fact that I’m still here to write it tells him that he must have done something right.