source: The New Yorker
I often write about my anxiety on this blog.
Maybe you’re sick of reading it, or maybe you can relate. Maybe you’re a hypochondriac like me. If you are, share a soothing comment down below; it’s nice to know I’m not the only nerveball out there.
My anxiety has been ragin’ strong over the past year, and I’m not sure at what point I will finally recognize it’s an issue.
Last night, I was afraid to go to sleep because I thought I wouldn’t wake up. That probably should have tipped me off as a problem, but it didn’t.
Going to the doctor’s office last week because I had a 99.3 temperature and diarrhea and having the nurse tell me that I’ve voluntarily been to their office eight times in six months should have sent off a warning signal in my brain.
But it hasn’t.
I just continue to let my fears and anxieties consume me like a person with tape worm at a buffet. It can put me in a bad mood and sometimes it makes me not want to get out
I turned 30 last June.
Ever since that day, I’ve been writing less and less on this blog. Half of the reason why is because I started a grown-up writing gig that takes up a lot of my time and mental energy. The other half of the reason why is what this blog post is about.
After turning 30, I became a mess-bag of anxiety. So much so, that all I could think about was my anxiety, and I didn’t want to turn this blog into dozens of posts of me going, “I’m dying! WE’RE ALL DYING!!!” I did write a couple of posts regarding my anxiety and hypochondria, which you can read here and here– if you feel like reading about an unhinged 30-year-old (who doesn’t?)
From most accounts, women LOVE their life after 30. They say that they understand themselves better and no longer make the dumb career/relationship/financial choices that they did in their twenties. These women say they feel more comfortable in their own skin and would not go back to their twenties for ANYTHING, even if it meant
My jealous neck
“Comparison is the thief of joy.”
I don’t know who said it and I’m not sure the Internet does either, but my friends at Vinca put these brilliant words on a necklace for me because
they know I’m a insecure and jealous turd of a blog post I wrote regarding 10 Different Ways for Artists to Fight Doubt and Insecurity.
In the post, I listed “stop comparing yourself to others” in ten variations. That’s all you really need to remember to fight artistic doubt and insecurity. Oh, and that whiskey will get you through the cold months (and I don’t mean winter).
In the insta-fame society we now live in, it can be very difficult not to compare yourself to others. When hard-working musicians see talentless teenagers make the news rounds because of their atrocious Youtube hit, feelings of confusion and denial may blister. When driven writers see 12 year-old fashion bloggers inking multimillion dollar contracts with fashion lines, the want to drink oneself
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’m at a point in my life where I have no idea what my next creative step is.
There are so many ideas I want to bring to fruition, but indecisiveness due to fear is holding me back (like it always does).
Do you have that problem?
Don’t you wish you could just turn to a random stranger, grab them by the collar and drool, “PLEASE SIR/MADAM, TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD DO WITH MY LIIIIIIFE!!!”
Maybe that is why so many creative friends hire life coaches. Sometimes it’s easier to have someone else tell you what your next step should be.
Or sometimes it’s easier to default to what Prince would do.
I have an obnoxiously talented and beautiful friend whose biggest obstacle is this exact thing. Everything she attempts turns out excellent: music, art, film- you name it! But her indecisiveness and fear of failing holds her back. I constantly tell her, “JUST DO! JUST CREATE!” and when she does, she feels AWESOME, but she typically abandons the project and never finishes. Sadly,
Reading signs such as “you’ve gone to a bar and left because it was too loud” and “there’s an increasing number of musical artists you haven’t heard of” brought me great comfort; I’ve learned that I’m not the only curmudgeonly, 80 year-old-feeling 30 year-old out there. Since Austin is Never Never Land for hipsters, I often feel like the odd woman out.
The Buzzfeed post gave me the confidence to share my own signs of turning 30 (and as you will be able to tell from #1, turning 30 child-less) . I hope you can relate.
If not, I’m going to go crawl underneath my recliner chair AND DIE.
1.) Your mother tells you more and more often, “I don’t get it- you never wanted to nap this much as a child!”
2.) Watching Games of Thrones is sometimes better than having real sex.
3.) When you drive by college students, you find yourself saying things like, “Look at that stupid asshole
Today I turn thirty.
I never imagined this day would come (I said this exact sentence while watching the series finale of The X-files).
We would stay dirty, stinky kids forever, right?
Thirty just seemed so unthinkable, so impossible. Didn’t life just stop at 27, like it did for Jimi, Jim and Janis?
I didn’t plan for a life after thirty. Thirty meant homes and marriage and babies and none of those things ever resonated with me. I’m an only child of divorced parents who always wanted to work in Hollywood, so needless to say, a life of solitary seemed like the direction I was headed in. And for awhile, I was very much alone. For the first half of my twenties, I was glued to my career, and was existentially lost and angry. My career as a personal assistant was not the right fit for me, but I was determined to make it work- at the costs of friendships and my mental health. I was a mess, getting drunk alone at night in order to deal with my confusion, blowing
My anxieties are reaching an all-time high lately, I thought as my doctor scolded me for touching my boobies too much.
“Quit squeezing your boobs!” is what she said, actually.
I had scrambled to the doctors after I became convinced that one boob was firmer than the other, thus meaning that a giant tumor was taking over the right side of my body. In fact, I’ve been having muscle issues on my entire right side for months now, and instead of being logical about it (the right side of my body is my mouse hand and I spend over 4-8 consecutive hours on my computer a day), I constantly dwell on the idea that I have side cancer.
I’ll refrain from getting into details on my boob-squeezing obsession, but I will say this: boob-squeezing is a slippery slope. If you think there is something wrong with your boobs and you constantly squeeze your boobs to see if something is wrong, then your boobs are going to hurt and then you’ll REALLY think something is wrong with them.