I suck at forming new habits.
I think that, given the choice, I might have opted to have remained a neonate, safely ensconced in my mother’s bosom.
Eat, sleep, eat, sleep, repeat.
Instead, I was thrust into adulthood. In a country where you choose your destiny at 18, I made the semi-calculated semi-random choice to be a doctor despite my inclination for quiet, creative introversion.
Over half a decade later…I find myself forcefully placed in a not-quite rural health setting in a province thousands of kilometers from almost everyone I love, trying desperately to pay down my student debt, become a competent intern, become an intentional long-distance friend, become intentional about making new friends, create art independent of the supportive environment I previously had, remember to call my grandmother…basically trying desperately not to throw up from every additional inch of discomfort that is stretching and pushing me to Adult.
As us former kids like to say, Adulting is Hard.
I could probably try to get more sleep. I should probably eat more. Read more. Write more. Sing more. See more. Be more.
Bur then I wonder why it has to be so friggin hard. Why can’t I just wake up one morning, fully actualised, fully grown up, weaned off of everything I used to be as I crawl out of my cracked caccoon and emerge a glorious butterfly?
(Do butterflies crawl? This metaphor feels weird. And do butterflies even know how good they have it? They basically hibernate their way through metamorphosis! Why wasn’t I born a butterfly? I bet butterflies don’t sit around wishing they could just stay larvae, they probably don’t even remember how easy life used to be because they…sorry. Focused. With it.)
It’s while contemplating these inane metaphors, however, that I realise how fortunate I am. I may have graduated eyeball deep in debt, but I graduated. On time. With enough common sense (and more than a little life experience) to know that debt is a venereal disease requiring immediate management. I may be a universe away from my loved ones, but I have loved ones who miss me and love me and sometimes tell me so. I just need to put in a bit more effort to return the favour. I may be horrible at making new friends, but I’m relatively personable and although introverted I’m far from shy. And I have art. Where someone else might have been driven mad by the isolation and the simultaneous life changes, I’m strangely fueled by it. Inspired. Pushed.
Also, my grandmother still loves me. Everything else pretty much pales in that light.
I don’t need to be weaned. I just need to start embracing the alternatives life feeds me. It’s been years overdue.