Today was the last day of classes. The last day of my first year of university. The last day of learning this year. Now, for the next two weeks, I have to focus on re-learning.
It’s weird to think that my first year is coming to an end. It hardly feels like any time has passed at all. I can still remember the day I moved in here with extreme clarity. I remember waiting in line, waiting to move my stuff in. I remember the crowded elevator ride up to the ninth floor.
I remember meeting my roommate, Christine, for the first time. I remember her telling me that we were the only girls in the apartment. I remember being excited, but nervous, to live with guys that weren’t my dad for the first time in my life.
I remember being scared of Cameron and Grant because they were older and cooler and Y-chromosomier. I remember becoming friends with Cameron quickly. I remember becoming friends with Grant far more slowly. I remember the nights I stayed up talking with Grant.
I remember Dustinwhoweneverseebecausehesamechanicalengineer. I remember calling him Dennis. I remember when he dropped out, moved out, missed out on the spectacular April Fools’ Day prank we had planned for him.
I remember that Wednesday night in the middle of winter, when Christine’s ex-boyfriend was over, and Grant and I got drunk on cheap wine, and he took us to the rooftop of a condo with the most spectacular view. I remember the clarity of that night. I remember feeling like I was a part of something.
I remember all those nights I stayed up with panic attacks. Sure I was going to die or fail or live a sad, lonely, unfulfilled life. I remember feeling like I was nothing. Like I was useless and lazy and a failure. Like I didn’t deserve to be here, at the best journalism program in the country.
On that note, I remember having a panic attack at Occupy Toronto. I remember feeling like I’d never be a good journalist. Like I was going to waste thousands of dollars. Like I’d already wasted thousands of dollars. Like I was a fraud. Like I was going to be miserable for the next four years.
I remember going to court for the first time. I remember feeling like a real journalist there. I remember being totally satisfied with the second court story I handed in. I remember feeling totally satisfied with the meagre 76 I got on that story, because I worked hard for that 76. I remember thinking that in high school, I wasn’t satisfied with a 98.
I don’t remember getting smarter. But I notice it in myself now. I can think about things more complexly.
I remember becoming more interested in science. In how the world works, and why. I remember thinking about things more philosophically than I have before.
I remember mistakes I’ve made. Mistakes I don’t want to remember, even. I remember being stupid, and I remember being exactly the kind of person I hate. But only for that one night.
I remember walking to Sharon’s in the middle of the night, scared because it was dark and late and the Big City, but excited, because I’d get to see Sharon. I remember talking with her and crying with her and laughing with her, and becoming closer to her than I ever had been before.
I remember growing.