The Walking (Quarter) Dead

I haven’t been very active on here the past few days. Between work and my class and a handful of shows last weekend, writing time has been minimal, and of course my anxiety isn’t helping much. But thanks for sticking around, kind person who is reading this blog post!

Do you ever feel like the number of things you want to accomplish in life far outweigh the number of days you have to achieve them? Because I’ve been slowly realizing that’s one of the driving forces behind my feelings of discontent lately.

(This one’s not going to get too whiny, I promise.)

I recently came to the realization that I’ll probably never reach the level of success in music I used to dream about. In all honesty, I don’t think the Bon Jovi-like brand of jetset-around-the-world-and-be-on-the-cover-of-People-magazine rock stardom I fantasized about as a child exists anymore (barring Taylor Swift-tier artists), and even then, I would not be comfortable with that much attention. I’ve learned that my niche is behind the scenes, writing the songs or playing the instruments or even just mixing the sound.

You see, for the longest time, I felt this race against time to establish myself before I aged out of the “young and attractive” window and was no longer viable as a new artist. I remember when Carly Rae Jepsen came out with “Call Me Maybe” my freshman year of college and how everyone my age was freaking out when they found out how old she actually was — 26. I was only 18 at that time, and I already felt the pressure. It’s a relief, not having to stress about any of that stuff anymore.

But I still feel like the clock is ticking on my music career. And my writing career. And my entire freaking life.

I spent the entire evening binge-watching The Walking Dead. The thing is, usually, I try to avoid binge-watching anything, because of my fear of wasting precious time I could be using to do something productive. Lately, I’ve lost a lot of motivation to do much of anything of value, which in turn drags me down even further. It’s a vicious cycle, an ouroboros of suck.

It’s probably not healthy to push yourself to do “productive” things 24/7, but it’s a compulsion I can’t quite rid myself of. I can’t shake this nagging feeling that I’m careening toward an inevitable death daily and how one day I’m going to be this bitter old lady resentful of how few of the things I set out to do actually got done. The average person lives to be approximately 75-80, maybe 100 at best. When I look at it that way, I’m already a quarter dead.

And in all honesty, this isn’t a bad outlook to have in moderation. Life is a gift and we shouldn’t waste it on frivolous crap. But we also shouldn’t beat ourselves up for taking a breath every now and then and actually enjoying it.

So go ahead, take a break and watch The Walking Dead. Or play Mario Kart. Or just take a walk outside. Life’s too short to waste it all worrying.

Small Victories Are Still Victories

So I’m almost done with the first issue of the comic series I’ve been working on for the last decade.

My biggest fault as a writer is probably my lack of follow-through. I get really excited about an idea, get the first few pages done, re-read them, decide they suck, and start from scratch. In the case of this story, which I have literally had floating in my head since freaking high school, I kept bouncing between mediums. Like, it would work best as a graphic novel, except I’m not very good at art, so maybe a novel-novel. Except the story lends itself better to a visual medium. WAIT NO, A TV SHOW! I’ll just write a script and give it to someone who can do that kind of thing. Except I don’t know many people who can, and the ones that do won’t want to work with me. Maybe I’ll write the story and someone else can do art? Except all my art-friends have their own projects, so maybe I’ll draw it myself. Except I’m not very good at art. And the cycle begins again.

For ten. Freaking. Years.

I’ve finally decided that I’m never actually going to publish this story if I don’t get something written, and I’m never going to get anything written if I don’t write at all. The last story I wrote (and finished) that wasn’t for school or work was penned four years ago. I’ve started to realize that there’s some truth in that stupid saying “use it or lose it.” I noped out of music for a solid year and a half after my last band broke up. Can I play guitar? Yes. Do I actually play like I have a legitimate, collegiate degree in music? LOL NOPE.

I guess that’s part of the reason I started this blog too. A little article I can type up during my lunch break is better than daydreaming about all the crap I could write, possibly, someday (yet never actually write).

Small victories are still victories.

I Like Me

That was the title of this little book my kindergarten teacher gave each of the kids in my class. They were all personalized with our interests and even the names of our friends (I’m imagining she had to reach a bit when she made my book, considering I could count the number of friends I had on no fingers). They were all about how special and important and awesome we each were in our own ways.

Classic millennial entitlement, amiright?

There was a time when I was convinced I would be the next Taylor Swift and Victoria’s Secret model, all while simultaneously cranking out one New York Times bestseller after another, and then quietly semi-retiring into a fulfilling career as both a brain surgeon and a well-respected professor, all because I was that pretty and talented and smart.

I’m writing this as if I’m in the throes of a midlife crisis. I’m 24. I have practically my entire life still ahead of me. And yet, I still feel like I failed somehow. Like I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe if I studied harder, practiced harder, promoted myself more, wasn’t so afraid of everything — maybe things would be different. Maybe not. Maybe this is exactly where I was meant to be, here in the same town I grew up in, where I’ll probably freaking die one day. Maybe I need to accept that. Or maybe I need to work harder to get out.

Maybe I don’t even know anymore.

I wish I could go back to that youthful optimism. I wish I wasn’t constantly wishing for more. I wish I still liked me.

 

(I’m sorry this is a really depressing blog post. The next one will be happier I promise!)

I Guess This is a Blog

So, welcome I guess?

I wasn’t going to ever start a blog, despite writing being one of maybe two things I’m actually kind of good at. The idea of putting my thoughts about things on the internet scares the ever-loving crap out of me. The internet scares the crap out of me. People on the internet scare the crap out of me. If I’m honest, everything scares the crap out of me. Yay, anxiety.

My change of heart happened a few days ago. I was recently diagnosed with depression. Like, actual clinical depression. I’m no stranger to mental illness. I’ve battled OCD symptoms my entire life, generalized anxiety disorder and PTSD were mentioned at one point, and even ADHD and Aspergers were thrown out at one point by past therapists to explain why I’m incapable of functioning like a normal human.

But hearing depression as an explanation for a lot of my issues kind of made sense. I distinctly remember being in fourth grade and thinking to myself, “I’m gonna die one day. Everyone I love is going to die one day. Life is meaningless. Nothing matters and I’m sad for absolutely no discernible reason.” That’s not the kind of thoughts you’re supposed to have in freaking fourth grade. My point is, this isn’t something new. I just have a cool little label to slap on it now.

Recently, it’s been attacking my head worse than ever. I had this horrible, nagging thought that maybe, just maybe, my entire existence is a mistake. Like, I’m here because of some fluke accident and I wasn’t supposed to be here. I kept looking back at my past and thinking about how much better off everyone would be if I wasn’t born, how many people I’ve hurt in just 24 short years. I’m an a-hole. I don’t deserve the things I have. Fortunately, it never escalated into “I wish I were dead,” and I hope to God it never does. It’s always more of a nagging, restless “I need to run away from this town and not tell anyone where I’m going and change my name and not exist here anymore” feeling.

Then, something happened that made me reconsider everything.

It was a Saturday night, last Saturday night to be exact. I was playing bass for my church’s evening services, and at one point, I was just killing time trying to forget about how much I hated my life at the moment, despite having no logical reason to hate it. Then, I got a notification from one of my former youth group leaders on Facebook. I’ll never forget how I felt. She told me she was proud of me for using my words to make people think, and then went on to add that I was a role model for her daughters.

Me. The mistake. The one who hurt more people than I’d like to think about.

Is it possible for God to use someone like me to make the world a better place?

And that’s why I’m writing this. Because all I have is my words and I’m not going to let my anxiety and depression keep me from using them. As my mom would say, in the immortal words of Sean Connery in Celebrity Jeopardy, “the pen is mightier,” or something like that.

And if the things I write have the ability to change just one life out of millions, it will all be worth it.