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.