I turned nineteen yesterday.
In my eighteenth year on this Earth, I completed my first year of medical school, amongst other things. But you know what, I am not just going to stop there because my accomplishments are more than just “amongst other things”. Here is a list of notable events in the past year: passed my driving test, enrolled into uni, moved out, moved to London, got a posh arse Southern accent, failed an exam, passed more exams, got a crappy diagnosis, found myself again, made so many friends, fell in love, fell out of love, got mind blowingly drunk, multiple reunions, and so many memories.
I feel proud of myself for how I managed to survive the last year, which can be summed up with the word struggle. I have no wish to sound melodramatic, but if my last year was written into a novel, critics would analyse the theme of struggle in multiple directions. The struggle of being alone, the struggle of the constant piles of work, the struggle of surviving in a foreign place, the struggle of depression and stress and anxiety and the never-ending feeling of not-good-enough.
In this sense, I want to dedicate this (whatever this is) to floor 2 prison block, the most wonderful and dysfunctional group of people who I will treasure the memories with forever. It’s a miracle that we did not have even one argument through the whole year even with all the landmines surrounding us. They always wanted me to write about them, and so this is for you. To 220, thank you for always listening to my rants about boys, and my plethora of non-existent boy problems. To 223, 224, 225, thank you for always being there for me, for being my source of home and comfort, thank you for the advice and the good times. To 227, I think I might have liked you even before you pulled that stunt. To 230, thank you for being so kind and patient, and for the laughs. To the rest and all of you, I say this: I knew I would love London before I even set foot in the city, but I never realised how much I would grow to love our corridor. This year at Dawson Hall has made me stronger in multiple ways and I am grateful to you all for the support; my own room was often a lair of despair but I only need to step out to be embraced by your collective warmth, and this has been my saving grace multiple times throughout the year. You have all helped me without even knowing it, and I am so happy that we have made so many memories together.
I believe I hit the peak of my life quite possibly at age 18. Thus, I am scared of my inevitable growth into old age, she write at age 19. It’s absurd, and believe me, I am fully aware of it. It seems futile to worry about age at this point or any point through life. I simply wish to remain in this year of my life where I am surrounded by good friends, and living in zone 1 London, even if I am stuck in (what I perceived as) a tunnel in which there is no light at the end. I am frightened by how suddenly my life can change in a year, knowing how much I changed in my 18th year. At the end of it, I feel good. I feel comfortable with myself and in my body right now. I am with the people who I want to be with, doing what I love, and content with my state of mind.
And I am scared because I think that is everything you want for a happy life; I don’t wish to spiral down again if I were to lose it, when I have finally tasted happiness after all these years.