Studying Abroad Alone

By Kyra Higham on March 10, 2017

I’ve always thought about traveling abroad, especially when it came to going by myself. I never expected to do it before I was twenty-one, though. Since I can remember, I always put my feelings below others and often made sure they were happy and content. I hated thinking for myself, only when it came to education, but even then, I made my studies a priority instead of my own health and well-being. Since two months ago, I’ve been living in England to go to university. None of my friends at my home college followed me so I went on my own. I’ve always been an independent soul so the thought of living and studying by myself didn’t scare me as most would think. As days turned into weeks, however, I realized I had to take care of myself. It’s a struggle in all honesty, to transition from helping everyone to suddenly turn to the reflection and see that you’re all that’s left.

There are often two voices in my head, one that spews out terrible and insensitive things to appease my insecurities while the other treats me like a child, it sounding often like a concerned mother. Most of the time, I listen to the one on the left and stay in bed when I could be hanging out with people who claim to be friends or drink tea instead of alcohol shots. My mother says it’s because I don’t get enough exercise when actuality, it’s just a factor of mental illness. She doesn’t understand. It’s hard to find people who do. On rare occasions, I can pull myself from the layers of depression and blanket cocoons and breathe, allowing sun to come into the room. My plant welcomes the fresh water and sunlight I provide it and grows as a result. Maybe…maybe if I treat myself as I would treat my plant, my brain wouldn’t be so messed up.

My therapist knows I’m stubborn and often has to repeat herself on multiple sessions to make sure I understand what she is saying. It’s not my learning disability, it’s stubbornness. My father says I probably inherited it from my grandmother who was just as stubborn, even on her death bed. She forced me to meet her gaze one session, a particularly bad episode of depression looming over me previously, and told me something I haven’t forgotten.

“You know how before you take off on a plane, the flight attendant starts explaining the safety precautions? One of them being the oxygen masks in case the plane were to go down. They always emphasized that as they drop down, to always help yourself and make sure your mask is secure before helping others. Remember that. Help yourself before helping others. It’s not selfish, it’s self-care. There’s a difference.”

My first reaction was that it was cleaver she used plane analogies since she knows I was leaving a few days after. After I drove home, I wanted to ignore what she said as usual but my mother told me it was time to focus on myself. She was worried, I know, but I know she’s only talking about studying abroad and not wasting a lot of money when I’m overseas. That’s what I think anyways. I slept on it and the words slowly started to sink in. I even cried, panicking over the fact that I had forgotten how to take care of myself, aside from common things like hygiene and dressing myself. I often looked up ways to help myself, turning to self-help pages and taking notes for future reference. I felt like I was being selfish, not kind towards myself. I felt like I didn’t deserve such tender, love, and care.

Now, two months into living here, I often make myself food even when I am not starving. I force myself to look at myself longer than three seconds and try to smile at the reflection. I show off some skin and even go out drinking every now and again. It’s a long process but maybe one day I will be whole again. I can spread my wings and fly away to a place I can claim as my own, happiness and all.

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