by Elisa Redza
If you asked me to introduce myself to a stranger, it is very likely that I would fumble in my head before saying that I like to read and watch anime. Firstly, those two things because they wouldn’t require much elaboration—
What genre do you read, what’s your favorite book?
Mostly fantasy; it’s so fun to discover a new world. But I think my favorite book has to be this YA contemporary novel called Radio Silence by Alice Oseman.
And secondly, it’s common enough or at least expected. I wouldn’t think to share that I like to write or that most of my favorite shows are childrens’ cartoons.
Part of me would love to tell everyone I know that I write—it’s pretty cool—but that would mean more people would see what I have to say. Even though I’m proud of the things I’ve written and the honesty I’ve dealt with each and every word said, it’s also nerve-wracking. The other part of me, the one with the loud presence in my head, wishes that it would remain a tiny secret. Creating for an audience is worlds apart from actually having one, especially if it’s from people you know.
Confidence is a funny thing. Having confidence in my work, academic or personal, is believing that it has value, that it serves a function. When I read that the theme for this issue was centered around growing up, I knew I wanted to write something more personal. I thought that it’d be right up my alley and the words would flow straight from my head and onto the document. Yet, whenever I came to write, I went blank. I was at a loss for words. Every time I began a thought, it would trail off into non-existence. Every time I could hold on to an idea, I found something I didn’t like with it: I’m oversharing. That would come off wrong. Does this even make sense? Is this even important?
It doesn’t take a person long to figure out that putting pressure on yourself and setting high expectations isn’t always a good thing. It was this exact thought that made me question my entire piece; because why should I tell people something they already know? People read books or watch movies they know the story of because they need to experience it in someone else’s shoes. They need to know and feel that they’re not alone, that it’s not silly, and it’s very much real.
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“It’s so rare that we’re actually given the opportunity to be honest about everything; we might as well try it once, and see if we like it.”
– Taliesin Jaffe as Percival DeRolo in Critical Role: Vox Machina
When I was studying law, I yearned for something more. Law is commonly viewed as a rigorous and independent field of study, and I have to agree. Hours upon hours are spent each week reading textbooks, journals and cases. I personally couldn’t fathom how anyone could get through all the required reading and have the time to analyse the recommended set of texts. At first, I didn’t think much of the strained eyes, the pounding headaches or the fog clouding my mind—I expected that this was going to happen. I knew that university was hard, and I thought I was just another struggling student. I chalked up my stress and worried about the usual ‘I want to do well and make sure this is the best it could possibly be’. I reasoned that my fatigue was due to staring at a screen for 8 hours a day and could simply be resolved with more naps. Unfortunately, sleep doesn’t fix everything.
For all the talk about everyone being different and unique, I still let myself think if something worked out for another person, it would work for me as well. If all my friends could push themselves and do well despite the exhaustion, I could too. I wanted that to be my truth too, and the best part is that it used to be. Sometimes, I wish I was my younger self. During IGCSE and A-Levels, I’d study for four hours straight before getting tired. In high school, I’d exercise for an hour right after I got home. If I wasn’t particularly enjoying a subject, I’d look for something, anything, that I found interesting to make studying more bearable. I’d stress out about school just as much as I do now, but I was always able to get through in the end.
One of the few things my natal chart got right about me is that I feel on an intense level. It complicates life a little when I feel wholly indifferent about something one day and overwhelmingly horrible the next. This, coupled with my indecisiveness, creates a wonderfully frustrating base for decision making. The only way I can describe this time in my life is with the word ‘disconnected’. I felt disconnected, both from the things I stood for and the words I’d tell myself.
“It’s okay if you need a break, but maybe you don’t need to defer. School has been stressful before, you just have to plan it all out and then you’ll feel better and everything will work out.”
“I shouldn’t text them right now; they’ve got enough to handle as it is and I wouldn’t want to be a burden.”
“Half a year would be too long, I’d get bored without having things to do. I’ll just take it easy for the rest of the week.”
It felt like instead of trying to work through all my feelings, I was persuading my mind to think the opposite. Lying to yourself is draining. One day I just stopped, and for the next three days, all I did was play Stardew Valley and finish my part in group presentations. I couldn’t do it anymore—it was like when you click for a Sim character to wash the dishes, but they wind up deleting it from the taskbar and microwaving a meal instead.
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Oftentimes, I take more than half an hour to fall asleep. On rare occasions, it can take me up to five hours to fall asleep. During those passing minutes, I’m ambushed with thoughts about the future; embarrassing memories that I fight to keep from resurfacing, things I’ve said that day that could’ve been offensive, a specific line from the book I’m reading or a potential story. Back in May of 2021, a night was spent picking apart my emotions until the truth came out, finally tumbling out of my mouth as tears streaked my face. All it took was hearing, “You don’t have to prove anything. What do you really want right now?” With each cry, another admission was let free, and slowly my heart began to feel less heavy.
If given a chance to rewind time, I could say I’d make the same decisions again because it was those decisions that led to a turning point in the relationship I had with my voice. It feels partially wrong because why would I want to make myself feel all the hurt, confusion and frustration again? Truthfully, I don’t like to think much about this period of my life. I’d rather acknowledge all the circumstances that led to it, accept that it happened, and be better to myself in the future. This is a pivotal moment of my life, but I don’t feel the need to claim it as something integral to my identity.
“History is just a way of keeping score, but it doesn’t have to be who we are.”
– Shaun David Hutchinson, We Are the Ants