(Listen: I want to be unstuck like Billy Pilgrim.)
The world consists of a number of stories: stories concerning all walks of life and all abstractions therebeyond; every person lives a life worthy of a biography. Should you walk through the library of stories, there is a chance you would happen upon mine. My story is no more unique nor lackluster than any other. But it is my own, and thus I hold it dear.
Were the world my molding tool, sans typical municipal and financial restraints, I would live in a yurt. That is the dream. I have struggled in the past years with mental illness and addiction, but I have been reassured by a society of imaginary yurts. These yurts are filled with thoughts, stories, and curiosities currently unknown to one as small as myself. That is their purpose. They are the not defined; they travel nomadically, ever-seeking. My intention on this particular parcel of internet is to share such curiosities. My intention in this writing is to share something of myself. In this existent world, I am a college student carrying a questionable degree of sanity.
My articulation of self does not come easily; words have not come easily, yet they are something I strive to produce. My dilemma with self-expression has led me to the field of linguistics. I am curious of the symbolic and sign systems through which we communicate. As one who has struggled in communicating her ideas, language has morphed away from something that restricted my identity to the very essence of it. It has morphed into a vast array of unknowable systems that give me strength. I think in some abstract means that are then processed into the medium of language. And it is through the medium of the English language that I am attempting to communicate my fascination with that very same medium. Language is the strongest substance I have to relate myself to other beings, thus it has become my greatest curiosity. Language filled yurts propel me towards a future, a future that takes from the past and continues forward.
In the past years, I have been diagnosed with severe anxiety. For a while, I attempted to play the stoic; I burrowed into a book and forced myself into another story. After bouts of self-medication I have been subjected to several psychiatric hospitalizations. It has been an internal panic that’s led me to this state. Such experiences have been far from nomadism. In the midst of the turmoil, I left my high school’s IB Diploma Programme, in which I was previously a candidate, in favor of getting help for my anxiety and depression. Through push and pull of rehabilitation, I have heard stories of souls that will forever strengthen my empathy.
In my dreams of yurts, I live with people from all walks of the Earth. And in traveling with them, I hear their stories. That is what I have come to hope for. These dreams of yurts are what propel me forward. I cannot say that I am completely healed nor that I ever shall be. Yet I have learned that it is my curiosities that keep me away from the bleakness of hospitalization.