I can’t clear my head. I don’t remember what it feels like to be content, to be blissfully unaware. I hate that I sound so melodramatic. I don’t understand why “melodramatic” is more popular than simply “dramatic” when they have pretty much the same connotations. I dislike that I can’t control emotions. I hate that I don’t know how to deal with people. I can’t quit worrying. I loathe that every worry is completely probable.
I worry that this year is going to be terrible.
I worry that I won’t finish my thesis on time. I worry that I won’t finish it at all. I worry that when I do finish it, it will be subpar. Pathetic. Useless.
I worry that I won’t be able to handle everything I have to do. I worry that I’ll be overwhelmed and paralyzed. I worry that time will fly by both too fast and too slow, allowing me to revel in all the things I’m not getting done as I watch everyone around me grow more and more disappointed.
I worry that I’m not funny.
I worry that my magazine will suck. I worry that all our (my) great ideas will circle slowly down the drain because they involve participation and no one ever participates in anything, even (especially) people who said they would. I worry that we’ll never go anywhere, never be anything, never pick up, never accomplish a thing. I worry that what we’re trying to accomplish in the first place is meaningless.
I worry that people will be my undoing.
I worry that I won’t have a date to all of my best friends’ weddings.
I worry that I’ll never accomplish anything I want to because I won’t have the money or the courage or the motivation or the gumption or some subset of the above. I worry that if I do take a chance, it will push me down and ground my face into the dirt. I worry that I’ll never find what I love doing, that I’ll never find my calling. I worry that if I do get what I want, that I won’t be happy with it. I worry that I’ll live forever stuck in a state of mediocrity and inexperience and scrabbling desperately at the cliff face never going anywhere.
I worry about the past.
I worry that I have no idea what I’m doing after college. I worry every time someone pats me on the shoulder and tells me some story about an “arts” major they know taking years to find a job that doesn’t involve food or retail. I worry that I don’t even want anything to do with writing. I worry that I don’t know where I’ll live. What I want to do. Where I want to live. Who I’ll be with. What he’ll be doing. Where he’ll want to live. I worry that I won’t have to factor that in. I worry that my future dog will set off my allergies and I won’t have enough room for him to run.
I worry that I’ll never make a difference.
I worry that if I try to get published I never will.
Even now, I worry that these words aren’t worth being published, that I’m whining too much. Why would anyone want to read my blog? Or my magazine? Or my thesis? My words aren’t important.
And I’m mad.
I’m mad because I worry about literally everything.
I’m mad because I don’t have answers.
I’m mad because what should have been perfect got screwed up by people being stupid.
I’m mad because fate got her signals crossed and didn’t send the same messages to people. I’m mad because what if she did and everyone just ignored her.
I’m mad because I’m a fixer. And a planner. And both of those are failing me.
I’m mad because I don’t know what to do.
I’m mad because I know how to find answers but there are no answers to be found.
I’m mad because trying to be happy never fully works and I think that’s excessively unfair.
But I suppose there’s nothing for it but to listen to happy music, enjoy friends, rant to strangers, eat good food, pray for answers and, failing that, pray for peace. Until next time, internet.