Saturday, 17 May 2014

Writing is supposed to be therapeutic right ?

A have a lot of feelings. Sometimes i'm the girl from mean girls who shows up in the gym and just wants everyone to get along.
This is a warning that my first post, and potentially every one that follows, will be completely disorganized (as if the fact that my warning comes as the second line was already and indicator)
It's been one year since i moved away from ontario, where i spent the past three years at school. I spent almost the entire first year crying spontaneously and hoping to move home. When i left i was in such a frenzy of getting out the door and starting my road trip with one of my roommates, i didn't even give myself the opportunity to really process what was happening. I had also spent the entire previous month being passively aggressively furious at one of my roommates/ closest friends. On top of trying to finish and undergrad thesis, sort out and plan a trip to Africa, and just generally not fail my final semester.
After that, after Africa, after Amsterdam, i was home. Calgary for good. Work started, work sucked. In September it didn't feel as weird as i thought it would to not be going back. It was hard though, being back. When i left for waterloo, i kind of left my life here. I grew as a person in those three years than i had in quite a while. Everyone did, all my highschool friends who went our separate ways and tried to keep in touch through the occasional Skype and summer break. Three years of changing and growing led to knowing lots of people in Calgary, and being close with almost none of them. This thought was terrifying as i tried to settle into my new post-grad, adult life, complete with adult job and all the shit that goes with it.
I figured... i don't really know what i figured. That somehow i could push myself again to become an exciting person who tries new things, and goes out of her way to find new experiences in the city she's always lived in. Who isn't afraid to go to random events and try new things alone.
But i didn't. And i'm not.
I moved out of my parents house after three months of being home. I moved downtown to live in mission/lower mount royal/ cliff bungalow (a map is no help in determining which of these areas i actually live in) with a girl who posted a roommate ad on kijiji. She's fine, we're not close. I sold my car. I started paying my own phone bill. I thought all this would be my big push to get out and explore myself in this city. Mostly i sit at home and watch Netflix.

I don't know what i'm planning to accomplish with a blog. At night when i try to sleep i find myself narrating my life, so that seemed like an indication that maybe i should start writing stuff down. I have no close friends, and i don't want to pay for a shrink. Here it goes.

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