I'm writing this at 2:17am and although I will post this much, much later it's definitely important that you remember this whole thing was written at 2:17 am.
I'm currently lying in bed, over heated but too afraid to open the window beside me for fear of whatever bugs deem my room inhabitable for the night. My boyfriend is laying beside me asleep. His breaths the only sound to be heard in an otherwise silent house. Everything around me is black. And I can't sleep.
This always happens at some point in a month. A sleepless night will transform into a time for my brain to discuss with itself every fear, anxiety and stress I have. Over and over again the same things will run through my head. But this time I'm going to write them down. In my phones notes I will try to be as cathartic as possible. Hopefully by the end of this post I'll be ready to sleep.
I'm scared. So scared of so, so many things. Too many things for a 19 year old to be scared of. I have the constant and battling fears of "I'm scared of fucking up" and "I'm scared I'm not living my life enough." Am I being smart when I don't go to that festival to save money for college, or am I missing out on experiences and fun. But I'll have more experiences and fun in college if I have more money. But what if I don't? What if college is a mistake and I was completely and utterly wrong in not going with my passion? What if all these jobs result in a down trodden Angela with no light behind her eyes? What if life doesn't actually get any more exciting and this constant state of not being quite happy enough is just adulthood and everything we were told as kids was just lies to get us through? Maybe we've been sold something. Maybe life isn't actually all it's cracked up to be but we just have to endure and get on with it. Maybe I'm living life wrong. Maybe I don't have anything or anyone other than myself to blame for how I'm feeling. Maybe I AM actually in complete control of everything that's happening but I'm just too scared to take the reins and steer my life in the direction I want. Maybe I'm just too polite in how I tackle things. But what if I'm perceived as
spoiled and stubborn if I fight for what I want? Basically I'm scared I'm living my life wrong and I'm even more scared that this is just how life is.
I am the meme of "my anxieties have anxieties." I want to travel, but I am TERRIFIED of flying. I want to do more, but I'm scared I'm not being wise with my money. I want to be independent but I'm so scared to do major life stuff alone. Travel alone? Any excitement I have is completely diminished as soon as I remember that more than likely I'll be having a panic attack in an airport toilet alone with nothing to take my mind off things than the thought of hurdling from the sky in a tin tube with 500 other people. But once I get on and off that flight a whole other world of opportunity is opened up and experiences will be 10 to a dozen. But will I enjoy or even part take in these experiences if I'm alone? I don't know. I don't know myself well enough to even know something so simple.
I want to live to please no one other than myself but every day I find myself muting myself for others. I don't take the last cupcake, not because I'm made to and not because my parents are pushy, but because it's just how I'm wired. But am I to blame for how I am? Is the real reason I put others first actually that I put the pressure on myself or was it instilled in me by the people who raised me? Or is it a societal thing and all women are like this? I definitely know women that aren't like this so am I just complaining about something that's completely in my own power to change? Are all of my "problems" actually just facts and part of life that I just have to deal with? Is everyone else who walks the earth right now dealing with the same issues but keeping quiet because they know that's just how it goes? Am I just a pussy?
Am I really actually a good writer? Are the people around me just telling me I'm good because they know me? I seem nice and I'm trying (nearly) my best so are they all just pandering to the girl who's probably not ever going to achieve any literary prowess? Do I try hard enough? Is the lack of motivation down to genuine disinterest or something much, much deeper that I don't even want to let myself think of now? Am I even writing for myself any more or am I doing it because if I stop will the 16 year old part of Angela's brain mentally torment me for the rest of my life? Do I actually have a passion for writing or am I just doing it because people have told me I'm good and I should play to my strengths? But are those who are telling me I'm talented actually being sincere? Am I striving for something just that little bit out of my reach and I just haven't realised it yet? What if I live the rest of my life perpetually reaching just that little bit too far into the unreachable? What if I spend the rest of my life scared?
And now we've come full circle.
It's 2:45am and I'm finally ready to sleep. Maybe it's the fact I slept for three hours last night, or maybe it's from tiring my eyes out looking at a screen. Maybe my boyfriends gentle breathing is lulling my eyes to close. Or maybe writing really is as cathartic as its supposed to be. No matter what I feel better, and by 2:50 I'll be asleep.
