I reached my one-month anniversary of arriving in Manchester on Saturday in smashing fashion.
Looking back on the past month, I naturally ask myself where the time has gone. Sometimes I feel like I’ve been here forever, but most of the time I still feel like the new kid. I’m not sure what areas have yet to click into place because it’s, well, not so tangible as that. In some sort of abstract way, I feel like I don’t quite fit… yet.
My first week of classes is done. I suppose I am a proper postgraduate student now.
I spent most of my first week sick and in bed, wanting to be outside. There’s that early anxiety when you first arrive somewhere that if you’re not as busy as humanly possible that you somehow will cease to exist. The last thing I want to be right now is invisible. I’m content to be in the sidelines, never the center of attention, but I don’t want to be alone. And yet even in a thriving university with 40,000 students and a city with many, many more than that, that’s how I’ve felt these first couple of weeks — desperately, depressingly alone.