Well it’s been a while since I’ve shared my inner monologue on here. I guess crippling anxiety and depression will keep you busy. Jk. Not really. It’s fine I’m in therapy. But life has indeed been very busy.
I mean it has and it hasn’t. It feels like I do a lot of things that take up a lot of my time, but I’m not actually really getting anywhere. It’s like a laundry pile that just never gets done; you just keep washing clothes but it never seems to end. There’s always another towel to wash, or shirt to dry, or jeans to fold–an infinite circle of laundry. I hate laundry by the way, if you didn’t already get that.
But yeah, life. It’s weird. At 22 years of age I don’t feel like I’m doing anything I’m supposed to be doing–except for paying my student loans, at least I got that right. There’s reasons for why I’m here in this place, it’s certainly not random. And I’m not saying it’s all bad. By all accounts and my social media feeds, my life is pretty great.
I have friends. I have a job. I travel to cool places. I have a sense of humor. Sometimes I can be photogenic. I live in a dope house for free. I drive a Mercedes. I go to fun concerts and festivals. Oh, and I have health insurance. Yeah life is great.
And it is. But it’s also hard.
What Instagram and Snapchat and Facebook don’t see is me. The me who’s struggling with a flood of newfound responsibility, that I didn’t know I would have at 22 (no I’m not pregnant). The me who has to fight hard for the energy to hang out with her friends, or snaps at them for no good reason. The me who wishes for a career but doesn’t even know which one. The me whose thoughts never ever seem to shut off.
It could be worse. But it could be better. I could be worse. And I could be better; at handling stress, at balancing everything, being more mature. I am trying. Don’t let this full on invitation to my personal pitty part of a blog fool you. I am learning, and I am growing. I have support. But that doesn’t mean things aren’t still hard.
And I guess that’s the whole point to this. If you, too, feel like you’re somehow invisible. Or feel that the real you, the one who’s drowning in life and doesn’t look it, is completely hidden from the rest of the world. I want you to know that you are seen. I see you. I get you. You’re not as alone as you think you are. You can take a break. You can have a good cry. You can ask for help. The weight of the world weighs a whole lot less when you have other people to help you carry it; I promise.