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 getting (more…)
(tap, tap, tap)
Is this thing on?
I’m going to write a blog post today.
It’s the first time I’ve felt like doing it in awhile.
You see, I started a new writing job that has (happily) exhausted my ability to drum up words at the end of the day, in addition to a dad health scare (blood clot in intestinal artery; dad had to be subjected to me texting him every hour while in the hospital for five days) that left me frantic and emotionally spent.
Oh, and I’ve also had crippling anxiety lately.
Sadly, I’m not using the word “crippling” lightly here. I wish I was. I wish I could use the adjective “funkifying” instead.
I thought my anxiety got better after starting the new job; I figured that financial security and a routine would help set me back on track. And in some ways it did. However, I’m beginning to come to terms with the fact that if you have anxiety, there is probably no immediate magic, sparkly eraser for it.
So, as I mentioned before, (more…)
This past week, my writing work has picked up to the point where my mind is left strained, incapable of producing intelligible words after a certain point. Though I’m beyond thrilled and appreciative to have the work, it leaves me with leftover brain mush to spew out onto my blog. My blog is a big part of my life and I made a promise to myself to write every day (a promise I haven’t kept), but on days when my mental and emotional states are taxed, I want nothing more than to write “BLARGHHHHHSMAPPPPPPP!” over and over in this empty white space.
But last night at 2AM, I forced myself to upchuck thoughts onto paper with pen, something I hadn’t done in awhile and something that ended up looking like a child wrote it. It was difficult and often ugly, but a good exercise in knowing that I could still partake in the art of journal-scribbling.
My life has gotten very regimented. I go to bed around 12AM-1AM, wake up between 8:30AM-9:30AM and write and interact on the web until the waft (more…)