This is my current view, the remnants of my lunch, an empty pack of twirl bites that I was generously sent by my mother, the books I am struggling through for my classes next week, a tick list of work I have to do over the weekend.
This is the sofa that I spend every minute in the apartment sat/sprawled/laying on. I don't have a desk, so I work from here, read on here, waste time on the internet here.
And if I'm not on the sofa, I'm generally in bed.
All around my apartment there are stacks of books that I'm reading or have read or will read, normally bought at an extortionate price from the university book store.
This is the view out of the main window, looking out onto a school and a car park.
And wedged under the coffee table are shoes, bags and other junk that I pretend doesn't exist.
It's not the beautiful, exciting city life that people might expect when I say that I'm living in America for the year, just two hours away from New York City.
I think I put a lot of pressure on myself and Lehigh for this experience to be wild, crazy and glamorous. For my pictures to be instagramable, each day story-worthy, crashing a million frat parties with insanely attractive girls and boys dancing around with red cups. But this isn't American Pie, it isn't a film, it isn't a sales pitch; this is my life. And I am happy.
This year, I do my work. All of it. And it feels so good. I feel like my degree has a purpose, I feel like I am actually learning. For the first time since forever I actually want to be studying English. My timetable is busy and fulfilling, I am working towards sustainable and manageable goals. I want to be in class, I want to discuss these novels and texts, which is so different to my bare minimum attitude that I had in Kent.
I am writing prose fiction again, something that I have neglected for poetry these past few years, and I am starting to remember why I loved it so much. I am given deadlines for my creative writing class and I actually like the pieces that I turn in! I am challenging myself, critiquing my work and investing in it instead of forgetting about it after the assignment is over. I find myself wanting to write more, finding time time to write more. Maybe this is the year that I write my novel.
I wake up at 6.30 before my classes and go running with the running club, normally between 2 and 4 miles depending on the heat and whether I have an 8.45 class. And it feels amazing. I feel energised and motivated in the mornings. There are only a few morning runners and they are all so lovely and encouraging, slowing down to run at my pace, encouraging me in the longer runs to just. keep. going. I can feel myself getting stronger and I love it.
I have great friends that I can spend my evenings with laughing over ice cream or playing uno in a coffee shop, they are lovely and mature and don't put pressure on me to do everything with them, giving me the space and independence I needed this year. But yet I know that they are there for me and it is so good to be doing life with them.
I was terrified that the issues I faced last year and the subsequent relapses would dominate my time abroad, that being alone would drag me back down to the pit I was in last October. I was terrified that the exertion required to make friends would rekindle the anxiety that crippled me. But even in the midst of the first weeks here when I felt so lonely, my mental health has stayed stable.
I am content.
And that sounds lame and unenthusiastic but it is everything I could ever hope and wish for. I feel settled and happy and myself. I feel like I'm doing enough. I'm going out enough, I'm eating well enough, exercising enough, laughing enough. I feel like I am enough. And it feels so, SO good to be comfortable in my skin again.
This is my year, my messy, unglamorous, nerdy, healthy, adventurous year. And if that doesn't impress you, then I couldn't care less, because the only person who has to live it is me. And I am happy.
