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adulthood.

August 9, 2014

lately i’ve been feeling complicated. what a trite term – yet there is really no other that describes my mental state. as someone who has dealt with anxiety her whole life, i know when my levels are high – breathing becomes really hard to do, and lately i’ve been struggling for breath. it’s because all of a sudden, life seems like it’s… set. at least for the next little while. all of a sudden i have a full-time job, an apartment, a retirement plan, lunch dates, other dates, outfits, a book challenge, grocery lists. it’s such a strange new stage – half of my friends are already past me, getting hitched and knocked up and buying houses (eep) and planning families, and the other half are still feral gypsy maniacs who travel, give in to the id. i’m in a weird liminal space, and it’s thrilling and strange and scary and reassuring all at the same time.

i’m on the shady side of 25 (i’m not 25, thank god). dirty 30 is coming up soon enough, and yet it feels like i’ve only just reached the cusp of adulthood. at my age, my mother was married and was about to start a family. at my age, my friends are already doing what they always wanted to do – or at least, that’s what it seems like; that’s what they’re telling the rest of us.

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well, what do i like to do? what have i always wanted to do? write, of course. and lately i’ve been a little caught up in adult life and have been neglecting the writing. all of my muses (who are all burly men right now, funnily enough, many of them with beards – i guess the queer ingenues of the past have filtered away – for now) are shaking their big fists at me. but i’m in the middle of projects right now – what on EARTH do you DO when you’ve finished that one manuscript that was fun and fulfilling and emotional to write, and are now faced with the gaping of maw of what-the-fuck-do-i-do-next? i still have a thesis that needs to be started all over again and rewritten into a proper, not-shit novel. i still have poems that are pressing their heels at the membranes of my guts.

so in this time of holy-smokes-i’m-an-….-adult??, i know that i can, tritely enough, always come back to the thing that feels familiar, even in its unholy unfamiliarity. writing is the place where anxiety has no space to exist, because my brain is so tangled up in other things, in planning and moving people around like chess pieces and wondering who of my friends i can trick into editing THIS work and thinking of synonyms and wondering if, of course, everything i write is shit. (“is it shit? i don’t know if this is shit. more wild turkey, and onward, i guess. at least it’s offensive” seems to be my motto.)

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so onward, i guess. there are things to be written, and nights to be had, sitting at my desk with one knee pulled to my chest and a glass of bourbon beside me, wondering if what i’m doing is useless or worthy, wondering if everything i write is shit. but isn’t there a wonderful pain doing that? i think i’ve always been a bit of a masochist.

adult life, i’m coming for you.

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