A week ago yesterday I felt myself on the cusp of exploding; despite regular conversational overuse of hyperbole, this is not a common feeling. Putting myself under pressure is something I’m used to, borne of various complexes. That pressure putting the cracks at the edges firmly in my periphery, however, made me feel unnervingly fresh and deshelled, dishevelled. In the seemingly relentless series of minute panic attacks and absolutist moments, between dusk and dawn, the frustrating ‘What Ifs?’ that frequently flicker in and out of view became seizable. Chief among them asked; ‘What about the other Career path?’.
Five years ago this month, I moved from Wiltshire to Plymouth to study Creative Writing, but I could’ve ended up in Swansea studying Germand & Italian instead, then maybe even beyond that studying MA Translation. That was Version II of my future, which has instead, via the BA Creative Writing and hours and hours of voluntary work (over three hundred by now), sent me on the path of Special Educational Needs and Autism study way the other end of the country, in Birmingham. Many of the experiences I’ve had are likely to be local phenomena, some probably inevitable, others still freak circumstance. To consider an alternative path of life almost seems to be an exercise of theoretical calculation rather than a creative one, in which I would need to deduce which of my experiences would in fact carry over to a life at Swansea, and which ones would change from being in a different place with different people.