Where does stupidity come from?


I’ve always been a clever girl.

At least that’s what they* say.

*They = my mum and my grandma, mostly. (My dad doesn’t really care, and my brother is busy with his own life).

Then why do I want to kill myself?

Mostly because I feel I have made a crucial mistake at a pivotal point in my life. I should’ve stayed home for the summer, in the moment when Edinburgh had finally become my home, when I realized I have made friends there who I can rely on and I have found a therapist that is excellent at treating my self-created problems.

Instead of chickening out that I won’t cope for a few more days and not willing to spend stupid 100 zlotys on postponing my flight.

I believe everything would’ve worked out then. I would’ve had had enough time to say goodbye to everyone, had a terrific time at Friday afternoon games, maybe found a job for the summer, earned heaps of money, found a flat for the next year, and successfully returned to study after summer.

But everyone around me told me I should go home because I couldn’t cope.

But I felt I could cope. I felt confident, I felt healthy, I felt strong, I felt in control of my life, I felt loved, I felt in place.

And yet I ran away. Again. To “home”. Which didn’t feel like home any more.

I have spent too much time abroad to feel home anywhere. I did not realize for a long time that I myself create home. I create my life, I choose my friends, I choose my future, I choose whether I can cope or not.

Not somebody else. Not even “the clever people” like my tutors, who are lecturers holding PhDs.

I decide whether I can cope or not. And I can cope. Because I am strong, because I am alive, and there is strength in being alive. As long as you are alive, you are fine.


Published by kotersey

Graduated from geography (University of Edinburgh), now student of history of design and material culture at the University of Brighton. Probably drinking iced coffee and thinking about buildings/computer games.

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