Sometimes I wonder what happened to the old me, the girl who wrote crazy lines–poetry, I guess. The girl who whipped out papers the night before they were due, the girl who wrote stupid shit on napkins at bars and gave them to cute boys after too many beers. The girl who everyone knew would do her publishing thing and perhaps write a book.
To me I feel like writing is a dirty word.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess I’ve had a lot of wedding on the brain (hence my last post), but in a way, I feel like I’ve stepped away from me, away from the everyday. I’m trying to figure out my career crisis–and you all know what it is. Law school it’s not. I’m trying to figure out what the next step is “digitally”…I’m trying to picture being a Mrs. Trying to picture how I was motivated, how I was passionate. Bub assures me I am still all these things, but how do we lose sight of who we are? And how do I have so much of this back and forth going on and I’m only 26?
I’m so afraid of regret and so afraid of making a mistake. But how can I prevent them if I don’t know what they are?
I feel like I’m getting dumber by the day, molding myself into the corporate bath water, “fitting in”. They never gave us a class on that and we’ve been doing that since birth.
I’ve felt it harder to be “me” around friends–almost as if being a “grown up” changed that. I’m not talking about broken friendships, I’m talking about how I feel like there’s so much to do with one’s life. But where does one even begin?
It’s been a long while since I’ve written truly and deeply. I come here to report on stuff. But that’s not me. That’s an article about the day’s events. I feel like just as my job is as cut and dry as can be, that’s what my writing has turned into.
And no one can wrap that up in pink.