I expect a lot of myself. I expect top grades, my body to look a certain way, I expect to feel a certain way and act a certain way and when I don't... I don't like it. To put it oh-so very politely. I rarely live up to my standards and I HATE that, I want everything to go how I plan and life just isn't like that. I don't feel happy when I get, for example, a certain grade or when I lose weight or when I spend a day acting like the person I wish I was, I feel detached and sort of like, oh. You don't celebrate the normal, you just curse the bad surprises. Wait, that sounds a bit arrogant, maybe, it's not that doing amazing as I expect is the norm, far from it. My standards are so high that they're not often met. I expect a lot, very probably more than I should, for the amount of pressure I put on myself. But should I lower those standards, then I have to resign myself to mediocrity and there's a certain pessimism to that.
I've had to narrow my expectations, over the years. Sort of heighten the ones I have myself so that I could all but remove the ones I have of other people. I used to expect a lot of people, and I know that I hurt a lot of people by expecting some sort of everlasting patience, while being not able to give any back. I had to lower the ones I had of anything that I couldn't control directly, really, but even then I wasn't protected. I'm still hurting over having to change all I worked towards, having to give up on going abroad this September. It sounds so little and so insignificant but when I was laid in hospital beds, that was what got me through- the idea of escaping.
The idea of being free, of being able to decide that I want to go to, oh, I don't know... Latvia or Bosnia or Christ, Idaho, at the drop of the hat, that's my dream. It's a young person's dream, it doesn't fit with having a steady job, a mortgage and kids at school. I feel like there's a time limit and I missed it, anyone who wanted to do that did a gap year, as I did, and disappeared and saw and did amazing things. I saw the inside of numerous hospital wards and was fed bags of feed through my nose. What did I do? I got better and that was amazing... but it was work to be normal, it wasn't the sort of fun you have from travelling, the stories and pictures.
So fuck it, I'm going to do it delayed. I'm going to graduate, then I'm going to save enough money to put me up in a motel somewhere random in America and take off. I'm going to play completely on the OH HI, I'M BRITISH thing (and get some elocution lessons, since I have quite a broad accent that few foreigners can decipher, hahaha) to get me a minimum wage job and see where it goes. I wanted so badly to go to America in September. I'm bordering on obsessed with America, it terrifies and fascinates me. Then I'll come home, and maybe I'll take off and work in an eastern European orphanage. Maybe I'll get a real job. Maybe I won't be able to do this as soon as I leave uni, but I will. I want to be free. I will be free. I just need to fly the fuck away.