Centerpiece: Turning the Page on 2019

Turning the Page on 2019

By Lara Yener

When the clock struck midnight on 31 December 2018 in Istanbul, I made a silent wish among the shouts, cheers and fireworks painting the sky. I wished that when I am welcoming 2020 a year on from that moment, my life will have been freed of the internal struggles that had traumatized my mind and turned my life upside down during the past two months.

It wasn’t Barnard itself that had tortured me so, but the institution had unfortunately triggered an internal turmoil within me and had, by that point, so many bad associations to its name that they almost drowned out the happy memories from my first month here. It had all started with one fearful thought during a First-Year Seminar class in late October—I still remember the

way my mind tore through my heart and stomach like a dagger—and by December I was fairly convinced that I was suffering from OCD. I wished for the new year to whisk it away as abruptly as it had come.

Barnard got colder and so did I. January and February stormed by in a breeze; Barnard had snow days and I had more free time on my hands to mentally obsess over every fearful impossible scenario that seemed to get louder and closer by the minute. I stopped going to class; I had no desire to learn about the world when I was busy trying to keep my own from crumbling. I stopped calling my parents to tell them about my day because I was able to convince myself that I would never be able to share the true depths of my mind with them anyways. I remem-

bered making an effort before to tell them about what was going on within me, but that train had already passed. It got me nowhere and so I made myself at home in that numb void. I wandered into Riverside Park frequently and gazed over the Hudson, feeling myself longing for someplace I’d never been before.

I remembered being a fighter in November, and December, and even in January and February. Now I felt more like a veteran who can’t make home feel like home again— numb to the point where I’d lost vision of what I wanted for myself. Formals and mixers came and went and I tricked myself into thinking that one night in EC would be powerful enough to whisk the bad little thoughts away (I will admit: it was fun while I was able to trick myself). Bacchanal rolled around and I discovered that partying in the day could be more fun than forcing yourself to get pleasure out of being stuffed in a sweaty EC suite with fifty other freshmen in an attempt to “get your kicks” on a Saturday night.

A year went by, May came around and I started packing. That very last day at Barnard—it was actually a fine day, with the sun shining and my motivation to revel in the joy of existing somewhat restored—I packed up all my leftover food in my dorm and gave it to one of the homeless men I frequently saw at the entrance to Morton Williams. I don’t think I’ve ever been frozen in my tracks the way I was when I watched his reaction to taking the hefty shopping bag out of my hands. A sad mix of surprise and euphoria danced on his expression and he said, “This... this is a lot …” before raising himself up, looking me in the eye and through my soul and saying, “Is this coming from your heart? Because I don’t want it if it’s not.” I, with my propensity for ruining emotional moments out of nervousness, said, “Well, it’s never too late!” and then he laughed and said, “I liked the way you said that!” before looking at me once more and promising me, “You’re going to be ok. You’re going to be alright.”

As my plane took off the cemented ground of New York City, I secretly wished that I’d be coming back a woman freed of everything

that had tormented me during my first nine months at Barnard. But there were days in between that time and when I came back to NYC when I felt like I did nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again. At the time it felt as if my entire plan of regaining my strength and life would collapse if I hadn’t beaten this demon by the time I circled back for my sophomore year. Looking back now, within the last month of 2019 (and the 2010s decade), however, I know that that wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, and that was alright, because I ended up learning invaluable things—both about what I was battling and, more profoundly, about myself—during this first semester. One of those things was finding comfort in my own confusion and wilderness. It reminded me of a time when I was twelve and distinctly pondered about how I felt more at home out on an adventure because, as a cheesy Internet poet had put it, I was “never as free as when I am lost.” At first, it hurt to realize how my battle with OCD had torn that essential piece of my spirit apart from me and made me into a woman now afraid to be lost and free. As I was furiously trying to deny that this part of me had changed so, a rare calm— one that only really pays visit in my times of heavy trouble—took over to utter the words, “you may be afraid of exploring your world and getting lost, but you’re going to do it anyway, because your courage solely stems

from your fears meeting your determination to not let them win over.” OK, maybe she didn’t write those words out in front of my eyes, but it was enough for me to at least keep pushing on.

2019 is almost over and I’ve learned so much just in the past week. I made a new friend, in the truest sense of the word, and they helped raise me up from a place so dark I thought I must’ve been invisible. They changed my life in a matter of hours by simply being their authentic selves, and I realized just how much I’d missed that cozy feeling—it’s been so long since I’ve seen myself fully. (So thank you for all the times I heard you speaking to another person about me, and it was in affection, trust and admiration. Thank you for showing me what I could be when I was so lost within myself that I couldn’t even find it there.) I’ve lost myself this year and not yet found myself entirely, but as I’ve already said, I’m not afraid of being lost anymore. As I’m writing this in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, I’m able to feel Barnard encompassing and nurturing me and giving me a home here in NYC for the first time— not because it’s answered all my questions, but because it refused to let my hand go as I slowly restored my lifeblood running its course through me. 2019’s pages may have been battered, stained, ripped around the edges—but once the story grips you, that’s never enough to make the reader put down the book solemnly. My own story is one of the most beautiful things I can perceive, and I feel so good knowing that I’m doing one of the things I enjoy best—fierce rebellion—by choosing to turn my page over to 2020 instead of letting the book slip through my fingers.