The Worst Advice Ever
As the ever delightful, Jenna Marble likes to sing “I’m a thirty-two year old lady.”
I’m older than that, actually, but the point still stands. I recently read this article which (briefly paraphrased) talked about stress and uncertainty regarding not knowing what to do when you live past the life expectancy you had for yourself. I never thought I would make it past twenty-five. And I’m still here.
I still don’t know a lot, like how to be proper adult, whatever that means. I don’t feel like one, though, so I must be failing.
The level of anxiety I experience on a day to day basis is unreal these days. I make deals with myself to get me through: I’ll be fine when I move closer to work (I’m not fine) I’ll be fine once I have my own apartment (I’m not fine) I’ll be fine when I get a raise and all my hard work pays off (I’m not fine) I’ll be fine when I get my edit letter (I’m not fine) I’ll be fine when I get a rabbit companion (Still holding out hope that this works)
There will always be shifting goal posts and I feel like I will always be trapped in a vicious cycle of promises and actualities. And the thing about shifting goal posts is they will never stop shifting. What a concept lol I went back to school at twenty-four and shortly after my twenty-fifth birthday, I decided to write stories. The universe delivered and gave me purpose *on queue*
Step One: Graduate College.
I wanted that damn diploma, that single sheet of paper, so bad, you have no idea.
Step Two: Get published.
Five years on, that purpose feels like it’s waning because I did get published soooo what comes next? I’m not satisfied with the level and quality of my work right now. I don’t want to create the same things that I have been. I don’t want to be known for one thing, and expected to do that one thing over and over. But the more work I create, the further that goal post shifts away from me because it’s becoming impossibly harder to create something in the shape of better. It takes too long, I’m too impatient, deadlines are staring me down, others don’t like my ideas, I’m not good enough…
I’m not writing this because I want you to feel sorry for me. You can take your pity and throw it into the Grand Canyon. But you can commiserate with me. A lot of us are having a hard time, and yet, we keep it quiet, especially writers. Be your best self online! Don’t let them see you sweat or be miserable! That’s the worst advice ever. I’ll bad mouth myself if I want to. Social media has never been a positive place for me so I ain’t gonna start now lololol YA GIRL IS SAD AND ANXIOUS. CONSTANTLY.
At least I’m funny, too. I’m creative. I care deeply. I’m also riddled with anxiety bullets and sleep the winters away because when the sun leaves, so does my will to live. It’s possible to be a lot of wonderful and awful things, all at once. I just don’t have any answers to go with all of my feelings. It’s weird that people expect me to.