On Returning

The last time I was at this establishment I was a wreck. To say I was a shadow of my former self implies, in clichéd fashion, that there was a former self to be. I do not think I was anyone in those days, nor did I feel like I was anyone. I was not there. Now, I return, triumphantly it could be said, after a hiatus of two years, and I see mirrors of myself wandering the lichen laden concrete pathways. A lifestyle as hardy as the moss, that perpetuates despite increasingly tougher conditions.

After a two year break, following a near three year battle with mental illness, I am finally back at university. The completion of my studies, once a seemingly impossible dream, now seems ever more likely as, step by step, I somehow survive, even thrive, and grow  more comfortable into the academic scene I left all those years ago as an anxious, panicked, depressive husk.

I was a slightly more mature student to begin with. Turning up with a spring in my step and a few years extra life experience over my colleagues. Now I feel like an old man, advanced only a couple of years in age, but decades in experience. But, back then, I could still have fun, I could socialise. Not out of any talent or necessity, but out of insecurity. I would drink not as a social exercise in fun, but out of an essential urge to be intoxicated. Alcoholism would have been a term I probably held in the back of my mind, but would pass over, merely claiming I was 'joining in' or 'enjoying the campus experience'. Of course, these lies are something most alcoholics tell themselves at some point. The hollow mental whisperings of denial that keep us on that easy path of never confronting the real issues, but simply masking them with the forgetful, heady airs, graces and feelings of booze.

I see, drifting among the towering stone structures, individuals finally cut free of their umbilical ties and whose first instinct seems to be to make noise, mess and their livers explode. Where once I would have joyfully joined, now I merely wince in pain and curse these people, not out of malice towards them, but out of projection. Out of a loathing not of them, but of me and the past that I consider such a mistake.

Do I envy their youth? Of course. Do I envy their lifestyle? Of course. Do I envy the freedom with which they can enjoy themselves free from the trappings of their own, ever mumbling, minds? Definitely. But at the same time I must accept we are different, them and I. We have different backgrounds, different experiences, different lives and different desires. I see their alcohol fueled social gatherings and their merriment and I feel slight envy, yes. I must also, though, reflect on the fact that I have had my time. It did not go well, and I wish I could have enjoyed it more. But I had my time to do what they are doing and now I must move on.

Now, instead of pondering when I shall have time to frequent the bar, I ponder when I shall have time to frequent the library. Instead of looking forward to meeting new people with whom to drink and make merry, I look forward to meeting new questions, new challenges, new areas of interest in my subject and hopefully those to share it with me.

My mind has been whirring away trying to work out what is a genuine insecurity. Am I now an old man? I stay in, I read, I chat to those important to me, I go to bed early, I wake up early, I cook good food, I eat healthily, I take care of myself - mostly in isolation. The kind of redundant tedium we would generally associate with middle age appears to be my lot at the moment. "Am I now an old man?" I ask myself. It has taken a while to come to a conclusion, but the answer is no. I am merely a much more experienced young one, with different needs to these youths who so immerse themselves in indulgence. I am here to indulge my mind, and enrich my life, not indulge my body and enlarge my liver.