The French Revolution: Transition

I called home last night for the first time since the move on Saturday, to hear mama's voice. I rambled on to her about my profs, people who express with passion the romanticism of grammar, and swoon over the 100+ word sentences of Charles Dickens. (I'm not kidding.) Then she asked me about the commute, the cat, and how everything was going. How was I feeling?

It was then, I had a moment of pristine verbal clarity, something that does not happen to me very often. "Mom," I said, "No one daydreams about the transition period."
No thirteen year old on the cusp of puberty lays down in the evening, starry eyed about growing pains and acne. They wax hopeful about new heights, about breasts and curves, about muscles and low voices. The end result.


I never sat with my psychologist, pouring my heart out about the excitement of struggling with my social anxiety. I looked forward to a time when heading into work wouldn't be the cause of tears and panic, when I didn't care so much about what people had to think of me. When I could feel 'normal.'

So, I guess what it boils down to at this moment in time is: Am I 100% happy?

No. Of course not, I'm in transition. I've been in the city not but a week, without a full week of classes under my belt. I've not yet stretched my legs out and headed to the higher ground. I haven't had much opportunity to make new friends, or build a new life here, or get into a routine. Those things take patience and time. When people spew entire whip-lash paragraphs of Quebecois French at me, my brain still shuts off, like it's white noise. Je ne comprends pas. This English-outcast mentality has put my confidence offside. Where once I felt strong and confident, I now feel.... paled in comparison. Reverse ugly duckling syndrome.

I knew this wasn't going to be easy, and I'm not miserable, I'm just incomplete.  I have to make what I want for myself. "Putting yourself out there," is nowhere near as simple as it seems.

I had a similar discussion with my friend JG, who lives in Liverpool at the moment, but is planning on making the move to Edinburgh. I lectured him that moving to Scotland wouldn't be a cure all for any discontent he had with his life. I said he would have to take pains and put in effort to get what he wanted. Well, it seems as though I may as well have been talking about this to myself. Advice that I ought to take straight into my heart, until I find my niche, where I belong, and this new brave world of happiness. I guess we'll see. It's a little premature to be developing anything, and little early to be despairing too.

Awkwardness. And they say you only go through puberty once?