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[theskjaldmaerdiaries]

On Beginnings.

In which I consider how I’ve been affected and shaped by beginnings, introductions and the concept of reinvention. 

I’ve never been very good at beginnings.

Not just of the writing variety, either, though they’ve definitely plagued me on many an occasion as I’ve sat, staring at a blank document on the verge of tears as I attempt to conjure up from the depths of my mind the first line of a story, an essay, an email. 

But I’ve never had much luck with other types of beginnings, either. Especially the social ones. I’ve always felt there’s nothing more daunting than being told “but this is an opportunity to reinvent yourself!” As though it’s an option, and not instead the expectation it actually is, or at least seems to be to me, anyway. 

The most nerve-wracking of these new, shiny beginnings have to be finding yourself in a new place- be it a new school, workplace, university, town, or even country. I think back to when I was twelve, and after having a pretty rough time of it, was determined that I’d reinvent myself upon starting secondary school. To my very first induction day, I wore an overly-bright High School Musical t-shirt, a high ponytail, and an overly-earnest smile, all while surrounded by consciously cool almost-teenagers desperately trying to rid themselves of any lingering evidence of childhood.

Needless to say, it didn’t go entirely as planned. 

Fast forward seven years (I know, but that’s another story for another time. Maybe.), and I find myself about to enter university. Even more so than starting high school, where I still had my primary school classmates who’d known me since I was five to contend with, university seemed more like a real clean break. With few exceptions, no one there knew me, and I could be whoever I wanted to be. 

Of course, it wasn’t as simple as that. If primary school had dented my confidence somewhat, then secondary school had taken it in its fist and pulverised it into dust. Putting myself out there was somehow the most exciting yet terrifying thing I’d ever encountered. I have to admit, I over-compensated somewhat. Looking back, I think I came off too eager, and maybe even a little clingy, and naturally it scared people off. But, just as you have to throw spaghetti at a wall to see if any of it sticks, some of my frantic Fresher’s friend-fishing (how’s that for alliteration?) did pay off, and I still talk to some of the people I met my very first week (though how they still put up with me, I’ll never know!)

It doesn’t need to be said that when you try, sometimes you fail. And I tried out a lot of things my first few weeks at university. Sometimes you discover something that you fall in love with immediately, and everything just clicks into place. Other times, you find yourself faced with cliquey, closed-off society committees, or the sad but true realisation that all-night benders just ain’t compatible with the commuter life, or that you just don’t have any talent whatsoever in a thing that you love. I wish I could say that some of the setbacks I encountered only served to make me stronger, but they didn’t. Not at first, anyway. Instead, I dwelled too much on these setbacks and not enough on the successes of first year that, by the time I started my second year, I was right back where I started, only without even the confidence to try anything this time, because the way I saw it, I already had, and failed, and it had done a real number on my emotional wellbeing, so I just gave up. I put all my focus into my studies instead, but I still felt frustratingly stagnant; as though I wasn’t branching out. By Christmas, I hadn’t made any new friends, I wasn’t contributing to the university or the community in any way, and just felt completely and utterly purposeless. 

I don’t really know when the shift happened. In January, I cautiously signed up to a new society, and actually spoke to new people for the first time since first year. I was a class rep, and quite enjoyed being the bringer of all the knowledge. I applied to an editorial post at the student union magazine, and was accepted. In the summer, with no job or internship lined up, I started volunteering hours at a local charity shop- and it was one morning towards the end of August, while making the short walk to the shop and contemplating my imminent return to university- I realised I just didn’t care any more. Not about my studies- I was more enthused to return to them than ever- but about impressing people, and taking part in the ridiculous speed dating-like approach to forming friendships that everyone does during Fresher’s week, presumably to a bad case of FOMO. Maybe it was the fact my second semester of second year had been a vast improvement on the first and it’d never even registered until that moment. Maybe I just realised that I was too old for Fresher’s, anyway. (Once you pass the halfway mark, you don’t have to impress others. Others should be trying to impress you.*) But whatever the reason, I came to realise that the beginning of third year, far from the dizzy, frantic high of first year and the crushing low of second year, wouldn’t actually be a beginning at all. It would instead be a continuation, a slow and steady climb up the same hill- and that I was okay with that. 

Now, what was I saying? Ah, yes. I’m terrible at beginnings. I’ve written this huge essay about the highs and lows and the yays and woes of my time at university, and haven’t even introduced myself. So now, I’ll do my best to save face and end this with a real beginning, of sorts. I’m Taylor. I’m an English and Creative Writing student from Scotland. I have a tendency to ramble (as I’m sure, by now, you’ll know!). I’m rubbish at beginnings- and I’m not too brilliant with endings, either. I like middles. Jaffa Cakes are biscuits in spite of the name, and nothing anyone says will convince me otherwise. I’m not scared of spiders. Pineapple belongs on pizza. (Now I’m not even sure if I’m introducing myself, or making anyone reading this close the tab in abject disgust at my awful opinions. But I stand by everything I said.)

Now, if only I could figure out how to end this thing...

*I’m kidding, of course.