When I returned back to university, following my complete first horrific year, I gave myself two weeks. I was medicated. My doctor told me I needed it. And I gave myself two weeks.
I met up with my high school love that summer, but he wasn’t interested in me at all. Well, just one night. And then, I was, I guess, old news.
And I told myself, when I got back to the city that if things didn’t get better within two weeks, I’d go home. My dad told me, and my mom too, you know, that I could always come home. If it didn’t work out, I could come home.
So, I picked my classes. I was encouraged to take English courses. My family knew I loved to read and I loved to write. So I did. I took American literature, and I developed a soulful relationship with the novels that I had to read. So much so that the two weeks flew by. It wasn’t the class. It was the professor, who unbeknown to him, saved my life.
He was amazing. A piercing in his ear. A realist. A human. I went to class each class, each day and I felt a little better about my own insane life.
He turned literature into the beauty that I knew it to be. And he made it so that I didn’t want to quit. I developed a serious, well, love or crush on this man. This man who made me re-believe in life. Who seemed to feel the words the way I did.
He, a university professor, me a student, and still he changed my life.
I didn’t get 90’s in that class. I didn’t get a 4.0. I hardly had the drive to pick myself up and read the novels that have become my favourites, like Lolita.
But gradually, I reconnected those lost pieces.
And I began a romance.
And it saved my life.