It's My First Post, Where Do I Start?

No, really. I have absolutely no idea what to say, which is weird because you usually can’t shut me up. I’m quite the chatterbox, if I do say so myself. 

I guess I could start where all people usually begin, my name. My name is Chloé Zarrin Johnston, and according to Urban Dictionary: I’m a french slut (Chloé) with a golden heart (Zarrin) who lives in John’s town (Johnston). Urban Dictionary isn’t good for many things, but it is quite entertaining. Since I seem to already be going for a stereotypical introduction, I might as well go all in, with a college student’s worst nightmare: an icebreaker (which usually shatters peaceful mental states rather than barriers between students). 

I can clearly picture myself sitting in a lecture hall: cold, white walls pushing in from all sides; tables and chairs stacked up on top of one another because of poor interior design; people I don’t know slowly flowing into the class, filling more and more of the already cramped space. Nobody says anything, partially because it’s eight in the morning and partially because talking on the first day is an unspoken rule that no one is willing to break. The professor struts in a minute or so before class begins, dressed more casually than the protestors that frequent our quad once a term; he’s got tenure.  He begins to prattle off on what to expect this coming term, the basics: “You won’t pass my class unless you show up,” “Do the homework, it’ll make your life easier,” “Cell phones were created by the devil, and if I see one I will set it on fire, metaphorically, with my lighter,” etc. 

After a moments pause, he begins a new statement with a smirk only a professor can make and asks us to complete the most difficult assignment of the term, talking to other people. I can hear the sarcastic intonation egging me on from the front of the classroom, “I know nobody in your generation likes talking to other living people, but it’s important to get to know your classmates. So turn to the person next to you and state your name, class, major, and an interesting fact about yourself. I’m sure you’ll survive.” 

Pssh, yeah right old man. I’d really like to see him try to introduce himself personally to a bunch of other people that also want nothing to do with this class. But being as stubborn as I am, I silently take on the challenge; strengthening my resolve I turn to the person next to me—crap! They’re already talking to someone. My heart starts to race in silent panic, instead of doing the smart thing and looking to find a conversation partner who’s not already talking, I awkwardly insert myself into their conversation. I start this process by silently giving the, “Do you mind if I join you?” look, luckily one of the two is paying attention and invites me into the conversation without a hitch. Success! 

Unfortunately, this is the moment I get a sudden burst of social anxiety: my palms start sweating, my heart starts beating irregularly in my chest, and worst of all, my face heats up turning me into a freckled tomato (the downside of my very European heritage). These bursts of anxiety always hit me before I start a conversation, and have been a problem since my freshman year in high school (Warning: tangent incoming). 

You see, I’ve always been a year younger than everybody in my class and that’s because I started kindergarten a year earlier. No, I did not skip any grades…at least, at this point in time. Being in high school, I realized that kids are assholes. Even though I was only a year younger than everybody, I got teased relentlessly for it. It wasn’t always easy, sometimes I would enter a room and people would stop talking and openly jab, “This isn’t for children’s ears.” It wasn’t terrible though, but, unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. Going into my junior year of high school, I found out that I was projected to fall two credits short of graduating by the end of that year and so I decided to graduate early. Which was great and all, but that meant that the following fall I would be entering college as a sixteen-year-old. As you can imagine, newly-graduated high school students aren’t all that much better when it comes to teasing. 

So I began to dread the first day of classes, for my own reasons. Now you might be wondering, “Well, Chloé, it's not as if you must tell people your age upon introducing yourself.” 

For which I would reply with, “Why yes, my oddly formal and eloquent imaginary conversation partner, you are correct. I don’t have to introduce my age, but for some reason I always feel like someone is going to read my mind and find out. Or they’re going to look into my backpack and find a handwritten sign that says ‘I am 16 and do not belong here.’” Over the years, my imposter syndrome has cleared up a bit but it still troubles me at times, inconvenient ones usually. Like, I don’t know, having to introduce yourself to other students that happen to be much older than you but who think you are the same age. Did I mention that I’m not great at interacting with people my age or people in a similar age bracket?

So back to the present. In this imagined scenario, I find myself beginning my introduction after both parties have already introduced themselves and as per-freaking-usual I start to heat up in embarrassment. I’ve been in college for three years now, you’d think I’d have gotten used to this part of the process by now. Either way, I rush through the whole, “Well my name is Chloé, I’m a senior majoring in psychology, and I’ve moved twenty times.” There are other interesting facts about myself, like that I was a fencer for a brief period in high school or that I was a competitive cheerleader as a child (which is quite a shocking thing once you get to know me), but this one usually has the most fun reaction.

Obviously, for most people, moving once or even twice is quite the feat but to have moved twenty times before the age of twenty is quite a shocker. And before you even start, no, I’m not a military brat. I just had a mom who couldn’t sit still for more than a minute, let alone live in the same place for more than a year. Don’t get me wrong though, even though it sucked at times, I had an awesome childhood. Moving so much was hard to make friends, but because of our flexible lifestyle I got to do and see so much more than many other kid’s my age. For the longest time, it was just my mom and I against the world, that is, until I was ten and my mom got re-married and had my younger sister. Which I gotta say, was hella weird and still is. My sister and I have a twelve year age gap which doesn’t leave much room for complex conversations with a seven-year-old. She’s cute though, and that’s all I’ll say on the matter…for now. 

You might be wondering at this point, what the hell is this weird lady’s point? And I have to hand it to you, that is a really good question cause honestly I’m not even sure what my point is, hence the title of this post. I do have a reason for starting this blog though, and that reason has to do with a very recent mental breakdown. This spring I had a period of time go by that could only be described as my own living hell, and I struggled really hard to do basic things. I had spent so much time focusing on school and work and extracurriculars that I had forgotten about myself in the process, and when I had finally opened my eyes I was already too far gone. My mental state had deteriorated to a point that I no longer recognized the person that was living my life. Sure, they looked like me and talked like me and walked like me, but I wasn’t there. I was alive but I wasn’t truly living, which may seem like a cliché but it’s the only phrase I have that can somewhat put my situation into words. 

After a few months of living in this state of limbo, I was finally able to break through with the help of my friends and family that love and support me endlessly (which is something I hadn’t taken advantage of before). Through this experience I learned the importance of not only asking for help, but also taking the time to remember that you are important as well and you are just as worth your time as everyone else is. 

These are the moments that give life meaning, the moments where the bad makes the good shine just that much more brilliantly, where the good makes the bad feel like nothing, where you’re lost and struggling and can’t seem to find meaning in anything but when the fog clears you feel just that much more alive. Most of us are just constantly waiting for the fog to clear, and this is my attempt at forcing my way through. I imagine myself sitting in a little dingy in the middle of a lake, a vacuum of silence and unnervingly still water surrounding me. The fog prevents me from knowing which way to go to reach land. Suddenly, I hold a small fan in my hand (not anything fancy, something you’d find in a church without air conditioning in the old south) and then, I start to fan the air. Nothing magical is happening. The fog doesn’t clear instantly and my progress, if I’ve made any, is not visible to the naked eye but I feel like I’m accomplishing something. It may be something small, maybe even insignificant, but I’m attempting to do something to better myself. 

Drawing back the curtains from this highly metaphorical situation, I consider my fan the be this blog. A metaphorical fan that provides a very real release for my brain, and is slowly but surely opening a path off that dingy. I haven’t made much progress, so for now I’ll just continue to fan the fog in the middle of that lake hoping to find a way out.