I ran into Mr. xxxx today. He looked the same, but older, and I recognised him immediately. He recognised me too. He is no longer teaching at xxxx, but he’s not retired either- he’s tutoring and retraining at the moment. He was surprised that I had done Commerce instead of English- or any kind of arts degree. I told him thank you for encouraging me so much when he was my teacher- he was the first person to really encourage me to write. I slowly became more confident because of him. He said it was a pleasure and I was worth the investment. He asked me if I was doing anything with my writing. I told him I hadn’t tried to get published or anything, but I still wrote. He told me I should definitely try to get published. When I told him I had been thinking of becoming a teacher, he told me that I would make a good one. He told me he’d always seen me in something creative, but then, everyone has to make a living- although the market for Commerce jobs isn’t very lucrative at the moment.
I was okay for a while, but later as I was flipping numbly through a copy of Marie Claire (I had hid it from him because I didn’t want him to think me vapid) I started to cry. I felt so sorry for my young self. Me-at-fifteen just had no idea. I feel so sorry towards her! I’m sorry I made her take Commerce, and then stick to it even though she sucked at it, and I’m sorry that I’m still apparently hurtling down this ladder and looking for accounting jobs as if I really mean it. It really hurts. I suddenly feel the awful hindsight- or is it foresight? of looking back and looking forward at the same time. I should not be this person. I miss it so much. Writing, and feeling buoyant and optimistic, and loving what I do, and having it all mean something to me. I was happy because he recognised me, and that he felt I was a person worthy of remembering- a student he would not forget- and then sad, because I did not turn out the way he thought I would- the way I thought I would. And I still cannot take that leap of faith and follow what I think are my dreams.
It hurts, it hurts. A keening sensation in the back of my throat and the pit of my heart. My poor, simple fifteen year old self! Ah, I feel so sorry towards you. But probably, if you glimpsed the future, you would feel sorry for me.
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I don’t know who to talk to this about. I think xxx is angry at me (conjecture, but seriously) and who the fuck could know what I mean?
