I haven’t written for the past week. That’s how it felt like. Looking at the last few posts, I realized how impersonal they were. And how I’ve been avoiding confronting myself lately.
I’d like to think it’s the usual hump, the big gap, the missing part, or at least that space between here and there that you can’t quite decipher. I’d like to think that I just have nothing much to write. I’d like to think so many things… but I have been thinking too much.
The end of the program is near and as much as I want to finish it, I have a feeling my luck is thinning out. I don’t even mean that as a pessimistic point-of-view; I say that as a matter of fact. I received my grades the other day and I have never felt so ashamed of myself. Adah asked me if it’s just my grade-conscious self talking, but when I look back at my track record since high school, I don’t think I have ever failed in such epic proportions.
It kills me not only because I might not get to be part of an institution whose thrusts I believe can mold responsible and socially-conscious because. It kills me because I left everything to be here. Writing. Teaching. Photography. I left everything, risked everything that I have learned for four years and practiced for three, just to be here.
And I made everyone believe in me. I made everyone hope and pray for the best. I made them root for me and be proud of me. I made them not ask me questions or delegate chores over the weekend because I am “mentally exhausted”. I made friends I’ve always thought I’d keep for life. I made enemies whenever I felt the slightest sign of doubt or the hint of hesitation in understanding and support.
And now, it just might all end just when it’s about to commence.
I don’t know where to pick myself if and when I get kicked in the rear. Every single fallback plan I managed to orchestrate did not even come near to pushing through. “You are now tagged as inexperienced, having not written for a year.” “You are now tagged as entry-level because of inactivity in the education field for the past year.” “Your lack of experience in the past year has rendered you incapable of becoming a part of our team.”
All of a sudden, I lose all bragging rights. Even the companies who were clamoring to get me when I was still employed with my previous employer didn’t even take a second look at the things I learned in the last 12 months. Because it’s not artistic. It’s not about writing. Or the arts. Or history.
It’s all numbers and technicalities and processes and procedures, all of which I have never encountered in my entire life until that day I decided to jump off a cliff and do this damned thing.
I wonder now what would become of me. If I have to start from scratch. If I have enough money put away to start from scratch. If I can start from scratch. If I have enough balls left to start from scratch. Or if I can stomach the fact that at 24, I am starting from scratch.
I wonder how I got here. I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t take the offer. If I didn’t join the program. I cannot say I did not learn anything because the things I’ve learned, I wouldn’t have paid for to sit down and read through it. Although to some extent, it was forced upon me, the manner in which these things support the institution made me like them. Ugh.
But it doesn’t seem to like me back.
Is this the new form of unrequited love? Or am I merely a creative individual trying to box herself in hopes of having a more stable future (which will also involve early retirement, putting up a gallery, and a writing room overlooking the front yard garden)?
Did it really have to end here? In a coffee and tea house, ordering lemon chamomile because according to the menu, it has a soothing and calming effect? That I have to pay for comfort? For peace of mind?
How did I get here?