I’m struggling to write this. This is my first blog post in ten months.

I’m taking four courses, all in various areas of my major: Gender, Race, Sexuality and Social Justice (GRSJ).  I never thought that would be my major when I arrived here, but there is no other department that has impacted me on a deeper level.

It is not a happy major, though, because the majority of my time is spent reading about various inequalities of the world: sexism, racism, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, ableism, nationalism, classism, et cetera.

I’ll see a movie now and point out the various points of wrongdoing throughout it, and I will very much be a “feminist killjoy”. It goes well beyond movies, though, most western media is a complete mess. (take for instance the media coverage of Paris, over that of the 147 killed at Garissa University in Kenya back in April — where was the Facebook filter for that? the tumblr logo changed? the YouTube homepage standing with Garissa?)

I’m struggling to write this. This is my first blog post in ten months.

I tried to blog about entering therapy over the Summer for my anxiety/depression/eating habits, but I thought it sounded too pretentious so I stopped. Therapy doesn’t work for a lot of people, and I’m very fortunate to have had a positive experience and to have the privilege to be able to get help.

I did try to write something during Thrive week, but I found it a little forced-sounded, so again I stopped.

I had a panic attack that lasted four hours this summer, and for me panic attacks feel like someone unexpectedly pulled my chair out from under me (that falling feeling on repeat). Needless to say I was not feeling very “Cool for the Summer” (I feel like that reference was really late to the party, but I’m in third year and I don’t have time to party.)

I have for many summers also neglected to eat regular meals. (One summer I would go on some cheerios and a kombucha for the day). So, eating disorder is perhaps a better way of filing this one, but I’m still in denial over it. My body is not represented in media, so I tried to look like what was around me for years.

I’m struggling to write this. This is my first blog post in ten months.

I’m trying not to censor myself, but it’s really difficult. Am I writing this right? Am I a writer yet?

I bought my first collection of poems called Prelude to Bruise by Saeed Jones about a year ago, and I really recommend it.

Can I tell you a secret? I applied to the BFA Creative Writing Program back in March, and I was rejected in May. It hurt a lot, as much as I tell myself it didn’t. Rejection was never part of “the plan”, and as much as I may exude a carefree energy, I am very much one for planning. The whole process was really invalidating as a writer.

I don’t know if I am doing this writing business properly. I am not published in enough places, and sometimes I freak out about that because what if I get rejected again? (Plot twist: I am applying again in March.)

I know someone who does a lot of slam poetry now, and I question if that’s what I should be doing. Isn’t that what writers do? I am not as good as the others. (picture me in a lapdog pool, versus them in a wave pool.) This self-sabotage must be part of being a writer?

I’m struggling to write this. This is my first blog post in ten months.

I’m struggling to write my research proposal that’s due tomorrow. I haven’t had to write one of those in two years, and I do feel rather out of my element.

There’s also a coupon for All Bran bars on my cabinet. (I forgot that when I went grocery shopping.)

Sometimes Academia is really scary and I don’t know if I’m cut out for this world. I have six papers left to write this term. Third year is a complicated love story of me and an institution, a major, a BFA application, my body, the jingle of “shouldn’t-i-have-applied-for-co-op?”, exchange, scholarships, should-i-be-considering-grad-school?, did I eat enough water soluble fibre today?

Third year is a not a rom-com, not a teen drama, does not carry the witty banter of an indie comedy, does not have time for the back and forth of a psychological thriller. Sometimes we don’t sleep in the same bed, sometimes I get mad about the duct tape on the walls, or the laundry comes out too wet and three hours pass in the dryer.

I’m struggling to write this. This is my first blog post in ten months.

But sometimes the coffee is strong enough, and there’s enough sunlight in the day, and the leaves on the tree outside my window are so gold I feel like I live on top of a podium.

We are young and naïve still (third-year and I). We love to say “I love you” as much as “I hate you”, and we don’t cherish the people around us enough, but we are slowly learning this complicated cohabitation. I promise we’ll be better roommates soon.