Peppermint [Asahi Azumane (part II)]

~fulfillment ?~

Its been a habit of mine to shower in complete darkness.

The modest apartment I lived in for a year before sharing it with a freshly graduated Yachi in New York has a window smack dab in the middle of the bathroom, so making sure to shut the blinds or even better, shower in the middle of the night to avoid making contact with the mirror has been a priority of mine. The poking and prodding gets too time consuming and Im a busy woman with places to be.

The past few years of my life haven't been quite eventful. Taking the train to school, going to a lecture, annotating what felt like the thousandth book that week in the library, then taking the train back home to Yachi already starting dinner. I helped the best that I could, chopping and stirring. Then I insisted on cleaning up and after some near physical altercations with my tiny roommate, its become a routine. Some days, I'd be getting ready to bartend at a pub nearby for some extra cash. It's either that, or I huddle up in my tiny bedroom, dirty clothes and forgotten, moldy mugs with a depth of one inch of tea left in them, tucked into my unmade bed, typing up my latest independent writing project. 

And this consistent schedule led to a habit that Ive had since high school; wallowing in self pity for most of Saturday, then push everything down to finish my first book. And this book, surprisingly, did quite well. What was it about, you ask. Just imagine every single first world problem a middle class teenager with parental issues and a constant thirst for validation could have. "Such a pity party", is what certain critics graciously said. I agreed with them for the most part. My book was simply a constant reminder that I made the decision to package up and sell my vulnerability to hundreds of thousands of people.

Angsty poetry was what I wrote then and that was what was popular at the time. The cover was simple, and inside were little crappy sketches. Gardens, mint leaves, fabric samples, and a terrible rendition of the Eiffel tower was a few examples of the drawings I insisted on sprawling across the pages empty spaces. I have made many questionable stylistic choices in my younger years, so keeping the fonts simple and letting my words speak for themselves was a good choice.

I wasn't asking for pity when I wrote this, and it wasn't necessarily a cry for help. 

My publisher made me do a few signings which in all honesty was relatively fun once I got over my anxiousness over meeting what people call "fans". I made it very clear that I didn't want to do much more than that since I still had school and my sanity to worry about. And school. Ugh, school.

My second and third year of high school had trained me into being a multitasking beast. I was juggling managing the volleyball club, school, and not one but two part time jobs. I got into my own groove, never telling my parents about me working, and instead saving money by being frugal whenever I got my allowance for groceries when they were on yet another business trip.

I'd like to say that I looked stable on the outside a majority of the time. My low points led me to be comforted by my best friend since Karasuno, Hitoka. She was always someone I held close to my heart, and was the type of friend to make you drink water when you forgot, so much so that at one point she forces you to download one of those plant watering apps and names your plant after her. "You wouldn't want me to die, would you?" is what she'd always say.

Now before you complain-- whine that my cycle of self pity goes on far past high school, far past the volleyball team, far past a certain #3, I want to make it clear that my life living in New York isn't as miserable as I had displayed it just a few hundred words ago.

And my life back in high school also wasn't as miserable as I liked to make it seem. Sure, every now and then it was a bit of a shit show, but I like to say that it could always be worse. I made money, learned how to manage my time, made friends, travelled to a big ass city for school, took courses I was genuinely interested in, and slowly but surely I began feeling more content.

Now, before you complain again; how on earth do I do this when you think of my heartbreak? Being outed? Overworked?

I managed because I knew I could. Sure I got angry, tired, confused. But sometimes you just have to move on. Sometimes you have to move forward instead of thinking too hard about the past. Call it medication, call it growing up-- I like to call it concerning myself with the things that matter. 

The hardest part of young adult life wasn't the guilt. Some kind of strong wanting of being able to do everything differently. It was learning how to forgive yourself. Thinking about other people, and simultaneously doing what's best for you. Dedicating the time and effort into making your life the complete opposite of a 9-5. Unpredictability, excitement, and occasional fear in hopes of having some semblance of fulfillment. Fixing the growing pains as you continue to grow. And we never stop growing, do we?