It's the week before finals, and I had everything planned out so well. I made this schedule to finish first drafts of all my papers before the weekend because I had a party to go to on Saturday. Then when finals week actually began, I'd just have to revise my papers and hand them in. It was perfect.
And then I fucked up and didn't follow my schedule at all. I slept the days away and got distracted by everything under the sun and didn't do a thing.
It's going to be 9:00 p.m. on the second day of my perfect schedule, only I haven't done shit. And so, when my mum asked how the work on my papers was going, I finally told her I'd been a lazy ass and done nothing at all.
And she said it was okay.
"It's alright, little one. We are, all of us, works in progress. Not finished perfect products. You might become a schedule making and keeping person again, one day. But for now this is who you are, so go with it. What point in being upset? And it'll settle, a pattern will emerge and you will find it an acceptable one. So for now let it be."And as I read that, somewhere in the recesses of my cloudy, fog-blanketed mind, something lit up: I was not the same person I used to be, and I'd been trying too long to be that person.
It really was okay. I may be—heck, I most certainly am—incredibly organised and detail-oriented, obsessive-compulsive to a certain, tiny (but very real) degree, but I am also not fifteen anymore. At fifteen I was not as particular about things being clean and organised as I am now, but I did work ahead of time and stick to the routine I'd set up.
I turned twenty-one a few days ago. No one expects me to be the same person. No one, I guess, except me.
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