Some of my best memories are of sitting in front of a computer, writing furiously and staving off sleep. Magic, romance, intrigue were weaved into stories shared by strangers. It built bonds, created fleeting and intense relationships, sparked ideals and molded me into what I am today.
Night and creativity fostered friendships. It gave me an instrument, a blank canvas, a way to vent.
It gave me a voice.
Now I just feel trapped in it…
Hello anxiety, my old friend. We meet again.
Sometimes I feel like my life is borne of frenemies; the best friend who makes life hell for a misunderstanding, the almost friend who makes everything into a competition, the tormenting and exhausting thought process that keeps you up at all hours.
At 16, being lost is normal.
At (almost) 25, I feel anything but.
I look at my peers and see their lives take shape. Their blank canvases have slowly filled; colours of careers, of plans, of relationships and lives are in sharp contrast to the emptiness and half-finished sketches that seemed to have littered my life. Degrees, pets, lovers, milestones, goals all seem to be there. The to-do list is full and being checked off as we speak.
For all the competence that I’m surrounded by, I’d love to be able just to say it:
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
I can’t say why or how I got here. I cannot even pinpoint the exact moment it happened. There was no tragedy; there was no horrible childhood, no one act that changed me forever. No matter what happened or when it happened, I feel like I’m missing that one piece that everyone else had. Like the Ikea set that’s missing those four integral screws, I feel like I’m not functioning properly.
Instead, part of me feels like I’ve just bought into the dreams and ideals of someone else. That I’m settling for something because I honestly don’t know what else to do with myself. I sometimes wonder if I picked this because I wanted it or because I knew I had to do /something/ with my life; that I needed to amount to more.
When does more become enough?