A Cluttered Life

I hate when it happens. It makes me feel small as I choke on the tears that won’t fall and words that stay unspoken. My head gets so loud and my surroundings so quiet I feel like I’m trapped. The walls are closing in and I’m slowly drowning in the pools of static from the TV. I sink deeper into the depths of my memory and it feels hopeless to try to swim back to the surface. Yet, for just a moment, the despair morphs into a plea for them to return.

Then the good memories come rushing back; it smothers reality. They justify the pain I experienced at their hands and point their fingers in my direction. I don’t mind being blamed. I don’t mind being wrong. I don’t mind the violence if it means I can stay with this version of them just a little longer.

It starts with hello; a simple introduction. Particles of participles are formed into olive branches and extended with a smile. “Hello! Are you [redacted]?” 

That was our first formal introduction. We had only ever messaged twice over Instagram to ask about being roommates and deciding what color microwave we wanted in the dorm. You were different back then with tired eyes and an all-black wardrobe. When standing next to your mother you couldn’t tell the two of you were related. “It’s so good to finally meet you.” 

A fragile friendship happened too fast between us. During freshman year we were inseparable; now, we’re barely acquaintances. I guess when I look back, the cracks started in sophomore year when you met Blaire. There’s so much to hate about her. I hate her storage facility's worth of problems. I hate her for the time she lost her work vest and you had to leave and search for it in the pouring rain. I hate her for every time she has taken you to Waffle House; every time she’s encouraged you to get drunk in her washup boy toy’s room. I hate her for ordering you around like a pet. I hate her for being more important to you now and how you find every way to make it clear. But I hate her most when you look happier at her side than you ever did with me.

 I was a wreck and I tried to tell you how I was feeling. “Did I do something [redacted]?” You dismissed me. Every time. My fear of abandonment was your crutch to keep you from being honest with me. After awhile, I stopped trying to talk because I saw something in your eyes that I had never seen before: pity. And I hated it. “It’s all in your head. Nothing’s changed.”

I know people get busy and things change. I never wanted to be your only friend. So I started to get soft. I let you yell at me. I let you kick me out of my own room so you could move in. I let you push me into a corner so you could have all the furniture exactly how you like it. I thought that by letting you do whatever you wanted would make you like me again. I missed you. I missed how we would laugh for hours, watch Game of Thrones, and make Groupme memes. I missed seeing your smile. I still do. And then Junior year rolled around and everything came crashing down. 

I made my peace with barely seeing you around the dorm and you barely speaking to me. I grew complacent with living in a dorm room of things that are somewhat mine. Then I got the message. “[Redacted] said something.” My friend Lily texted me and I got a taste of what you really thought about me. In the middle of the public library you called me classist, needy, and other things I never want to repeat. Your “friends” laughed all around you–egging you on to continue. You didn’t stop. It stung. It wasn’t the words it was the fact I had to hear them from someone else. 

It hit me all at once. I’m never going to be enough for you. I’m never going to matter to you the same way you matter to me. So I left you a note. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? We need to talk.” I cried myself to sleep that night overanalyzing every memory. Suddenly every happy moment was plagued with the worry it was never real. The next day we talked. I was calm and mature. “Tell me how we got here [redacted]. Tell me what I did.” You couldn’t answer me. Eventually, you tell me you always envied me since the beginning. You were jealous of me. I’m not angry. I just sit and listen. “Is that all you have to say?” 

You tear up. I still wonder why you did. Despite how hurt I felt, seeing you upset hurt me more. All I ever wanted was to see you happy. That’s why my next words hurt me more. “I’m leaving, my things are packed and ready for when my new room is ready. From today on out, you and I are nothing more than acquaintances. We’ll never be friends again.” Your eyes glazed over. You never expected me to leave. 

It’s been half a year now. I see you around campus sometimes. Just last week, I heard that you were telling people a different version of what happened and why we weren’t roommates again. 

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing."- C.S Lewis A Grief Observed

Growing up, college was modeled to be a linear journey. There was always this misconception that as an incoming freshman, you needed to know exactly what to do and where you were going. I found this did more harm than good. In light of this, I figured I would write about my experience briefly since I have one semester left in my experience. 

In 2022, I started college as an Environmental Science major before the program merged with environmental studies. I was wide eyed and bushy tailed, taking 14 credit hours–something I would learn later was not a good idea due to graduation hour requirements. I was used to excelling in everything. I came from a gifted program that preached that I was special. Here’s the thing: in college no one is special. Thus, this semester is what I call the semester of “mistakes.” It was my first taste of adult freedom; I fumbled a lot. 

There were a lot of “firsts” this semester. I failed my first exam in Elementary statistics. I went to my first college party (to which I learned quickly that I am not a party person). I got my first college boyfriend which ended in a nasty breakup my second semester–more on that later. I worked my first real job. I transitioned out of it soon after to work a more comfortable role as a Dean’s assistant. I also got my first ever C+ in a class. I’m sure it’s no surprise when I tell you it was Elementary statistics. It’s something I had a meltdown over at the time, but I realized I learned so much because of the inherent struggle. 

Second semester freshman year was revolutionary. I took my first Anthropology class with a professor who would change my life. I fell in love with subject and now, I’m a double major in Anthroplogy and Environmental Science & Studies. That professor became a mentor, a second father, and a forever friend. He has since moved countries but I think back on my classes with him fondly. In the middle of discovering a hidden academic passion, I broke up with my college boyfriend. It was nasty. I’m talking screaming, infidelity allegations, and lots of tears…the holy trinity of drama if you will. My one piece of advice I would give anyone who is starting college would be to NEVER date someone who is a professor’s son. Especially one who will be your professor in the future. To add to further drama, I was forcibly withdrawn from my General Chemistry course after my professor accused me of cheating because I failed every exam. Words were exchanged but I’ll never forget the sentence he said that has haunted me: “You obviously aren’t ready for the rigor college provides. You’ve disappointed me.” It was humiliating. 

Despite the challenges, I was on a roll. I aced every final exam: 3 out of 4 were 100s, and the other was an A. Eager to continue my academic success, I enrolled in summer classes. I also made another mistake: I took 10 credit hours, worked 2 jobs, and participated in an internship simultaneously. It was hard on me mentally and physically. There’s a part of me that missed the routine and busy hustle. I was a front gate greeter, working 20 hours a week, the other 10 were devoted to my office assistant gig. My internship with Riverkeepers was a good chunk of time but one that would solidify where I wanted to go in my academic career. But all good things come to an end. Through my hustle and bustle, I started to neglect my health. Money was tight and a lot of nights I went hungry. Funny enough, my heavy reliance on spinach ended in me being hospitalized for a calcium-based kidney stone. This was just a few months after my rabies scare and treatment so if money was tight before…it was certainly tight now.

Equipped with one week of vacation before the new school year started, I was eager to get back on my feet. I kept my same roommate from freshman year…a friendship that would continue until the fall of Junior year. This semester was by far one of the least eventful. I got a new boyfriend, transitioned jobs to work as a Departmental Associate for the Environemntal Science and Studies department, and tackled 17 credit hours. I also took one of the most beneficial courses of my career focuses on life design. I thought it was silly to take a class circling around reflection, but it was here I met an amazing mentor and finally had things click: I had the power to direct where my life was going. Somewhere in the mix I got a major concussion but it leads to one of the funnier stories I tell people. To give it to you briefly, I showed up to my methods class, not being able to see out of my left eye, sunglasses on and wobbly on my feet. Despite medical professionals benching me from classes for the week, I was determined to present my research. Somehow, I was able to answer questions and present well. I have a photo of me somewhere standing next to the poster looking concussed out of my mind, a lopsided grin on my face. Now, it’s become a gag in the department that I show up regardless of ridiculous circumstances. 

Second semester sophomore year, the cracks started forming in my roommate situation. The thing is, at one point, my roommate (let’s call her X) and I were total strangers. We met via the college freshman class Instagram and decided to just room together. Over time, we became best friends. The cracks came when X met an older girl. I felt like I was sidelined. I knew X preferred her over me but I just let it happen because I didn’t want things to change. X started drinking and hooking up with guys. She lashed out at me any chance that presented itself. I poured myself into classes trying to ignore the rift that was forming. I genuinely convinced myself I was the problem. 

With this setup, the summer semester wasn’t great. I was rooming with X and it was fight after fight. I felt like I was living in a space that was somewhat mine…but drowned in her things. I barely ate and managed to pass my 13 credit hours and succeed in my internship. The entire time I felt like I was drowning. I was severely depressed. Moving into our fall housing assignment brought no relief. It would be a horrible 24 hours, over which I would be kicked out of the room while she set up her furniture, my bed would be lofted to accommodate her furniture, and I would sleep that night on the floor, exhausted from moving. There’s always danger in silence. Perhaps there’s even more in forcing silence onto someone else. I still regret not putting my foot down harder.

The day before Junior year started I broke up with my second boyfriend. Things had gone cold. It was a mutual separation. Yet, I ended up the villain simply because he was so well-liked. Soon after, I would reconnect with my high school sweetheart with whom I am still together at the time of typing this. All of this to say, I was being set up for success and I felt confident in my abilities despite my depression. Looking back, this was probably the roughest semester I’ve been through. I quit my job as Departmental Associate and took on a new role as a Cultural Anthropology TA. I experienced gossip and backstabbing by X, a situation that would lead to the termination of our friendship and my relocation to a different room. The intervention I had with her still rattles around in my head sometimes. Jealousy. That’s all it really was. My success was somehow an insult to her. It’s hard to think about. This coupled with my plummeting mental health as I juggled the demands of school and work made me burnout.  I felt nervous and anxious–I was aching for stability. I managed to survive it, not tanking any of my classes and closing the semester out on a mediocre note. 

I start my journal with a fearful entry, one that mimics the panic I feel to capture my life and make it beautiful. This pressure from seemingly no source attaches itself to my pen, making it hard to connect with the page. My words look sloppy. My sentences feel subpar. The composition and organization of my thoughts breathe in messy, smudged ink. I stop to ask myself why it has to sound perfect. The answer always changes; the answer is never the same. 

I write like I have something to prove. My words write into being the armor with which I charge at the world. They must be purposeful and sharp. This has to mean something more. My defense must be impenetrable. I fight against the remaining pages, the clock’s ticking making dread pool in my stomach. It makes me sick. I’m drowning in time, scared to breathe. I’m scared to waste the seconds it would take to admit I need air. No, I just need more time. 

But why? No one will read my words. Why write into these paragraphs brilliant word plays and nuances? Why perform in an empty room? It was never a question of why, writing has always been synonymous with being. I write to live. I live to write. And yet I hate it so passionately for I can never be perfect. The imperfection drives me insane so I erase and edit and chop until the beauty is gone–a mere fragment of something once so wonderfully human. It doesn’t sound like me. So I stare at the blank page, whispering the assurances my therapist taught me: "just give it more time.” 

It’s terrifying. It makes my feelings almost foreign as I try to articulate them. I am scared of sounding inadequate. Feeling inadequate. Being inadequate. I’m afraid of a blank page unmarred with thoughts I’ll call useless later. Write something. Write anything. Write a reason down that you matter. The hours slip by and I ask myself why I should write at all. There is nothing to defend myself with but an empty page and a pen. I stay still. I feel small. The longer I sit here, the uglier the feeling becomes. Intense helplessness and anger bubbles in my chest until I slam the journal closed and fling it across the room.