Something happened to me recently: I became scared of everything.
I write about my anxieties and fears often on this blog and sometimes I write about them in a joking manner, but lately it’s become not as funny as an episode of Two and a Half Men.
No, lately my days are filled with wanting to sleep, crying, panic attacks or near panic attacks, obsessively checking WebMD, not wanting to leave the house, leaving the house, but driving back to make sure that the door is locked a third time, fear of traveling and various physical aches and pains due to all the above.
I’ve never been depressed. Even in my early twenties when I spent many a’ emo nights writing tragic song lyrics with eraseable marker on my mirror, I knew I wasn’t depressed. I knew that I would no longer feel this way one day and that all my mixed emotions were due to not knowing who I was or what I wanted.
And it did all come together.
I figured out what I wanted and I got it.
I went after it and I fucking took it.
At least I thought I did.
Now I feel like I’m right back at the beginning of the tunnel, but I don’t have the underlying hope that it will all turn out ok anymore.
They say you know you’re depressed when you lose hope. I still don’t think I’m designed to be depressed, but lately, hope seems like a dream I had a long time ago.
But what do I have to feel hopeless about?
Where did this feeling come from?
I haven’t quite uncovered the answer yet.
Maybe it was turning 30 and finally, finally having to accept that I’m an adult.
Maybe it’s because I’m not exactly sure what my career goals are anymore. I achieved my goal of becoming a writer, but now what?
Maybe it’s because my chosen vocation pays very little and turning 30 has made me realize that I don’t want to be a “starving artist” for the rest of my life.
Maybe it’s because I’m starting to understand that we’re all mortal and I have no cushion to soften that reality.
Maybe it’s because I work from home, spending too much time on a machine that wrecks my posture and fatigues my eyes; maybe I spend too much time in my head.
Maybe it’s because I no longer have my place to escape to, no “happy place,” no soundtrack and no fantasy to get lost in.
Maybe it’s because I have guilt and embarrassment for even feeling this way.
Maybe my loss of hope is only because I feel idle. I’m mourning the death of my childhood, and I’m realizing that I indeed have no idea what I want.
We probably never know what we want, but the goal is to keep moving forward, “they” tell you to keep moving onward, because the alternative- sleeping, crying, panic attacks- is not an option.
Unless you want to sit idle.
But being motionless is so much safer, so much less scary.