Last night, I came to the realization that I've fallen deep into the sophomore slump -- the very thing I feared may happen this year. Just in case it hasn't happened to you, or you can't remember the feelings, I'll recap: lack of interest in classes, complete unawareness about your future vocation if you can even pin-point one, thinking only about the future and never appreciating the now... overall, just a feeling of restless and disappointment. Before you start recommending a psychiatrist for my depression-like symptoms, let me explain.
Over interim, I had the fortunate opportunity to travel to Namibia and Botswana, two English-speaking countries in Africa. I confess that this experience was eye-opening in so many ways; not only did it cause me to become more aware of the conditions of many African countries, especially in Southern Africa, it gave me the conviction that Africa was a place that inspires me. Whenever I sat down to my journal to pen the day's events, emotions flowed onto the page -- the writing never seemed to end, there was a continuous stirring inside of me. I thought this would be my only opportunity to travel to this intriguing continent; as my 18-hour flight began its shakey ascent into the sky, I promised myself I'd be back -- whether it was in 2 years or 20.
Arriving back at Wofford, I had a high that never seemed to quite wear off. Not only did the mention of Africa send me into a fit of discussion, everything else seemed to matter a little more. I wanted my life on track. I wanted to be proactive. I wanted to write -- something I've done over the years living in apprehension of what criticism my writing would receive. I never even stepped into the game; I practiced behind closed doors and refused to let anyone see the results. I was scared. I still am.
Anyways, back to the words. The words I couldn't keep down. Words were everywhere for a blissful couple of weeks. Even if they were forced by assignments or obligation, I delighted in the feel of these words -- forming like rain clouds in my head and pouring out of me... drop drop drop on the keyboard. I had lived in a drought for months; I welcomed the rising flood. I began to regret my decision that I didn't turn anything into the Journal. That gripping fear had arrested me. No matter -- I promised myself I'd do it next year. I was finally buying into that old illusion again: who says I can make a life through these words?
But they're gone now, I'm sad to say. My excitement and general love for most of my classes have diminished, too. I remember when I was eager, always wanting to share my opinion in class; now I check myself before I open my mouth. What happened to me?
I recently got a letter telling me I've been accepted to study abroad in London next fall -- ever since that letter, all I've wanted is to empty my savings and go. Don't get me wrong, it isn't Wofford -- I love this school and it isn't the one that's changed. It's me. I don't know what it is I need or am searching for, but it isn't here. Whether it's papers or meetings or romantic interests, I'm tired of them all because there isn't any progress. I'm stagnant, glued to the floor when all I want to do is break into a sprint.
I'm very sorry if you read this hoping for any kind of cheer or lesson. If you want the closest thing I can get to a happy ending, here it is: there's a reason they call it a slump -- because you can always get out of it. Though I'm back in my drought, the rain will come again. Besides, you can't live a life of rainy days.
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