When I was a kid I had new career ambitions on a weekly basis. They cycled generally speaking, from artist, to teacher, to writer, to doctor and back again. Occasionally new titles would pop up, illustrate and marine biologist, paramedic, radio DJ, and who knows how many more.
It was easy then, to change my mind on a whim and allow whatever book I was reading or whatever TV show was on to dictate the course of my future.
Then, all of a sudden, the future was here, and that decision got a whole lot harder.
Two years ago I had to make a choice, and my cycle of choices settled on writer. I chose writer for a few reasons, but ultimately it was because every path I wandered down always led back to it. Every whim I had to become a florist or a professional singer came less from a desire to actually arrange flowers or perform, and much more from a place of reading about it, imagining it, and a life long addiction to imagining other lives.
I use to love that feeling when writing something that flowed without thought. Hours could pass in a happy daze, and before you knew it you’d filled twenty pages with text without it being an effort at all. It was mindless, yet mindful. Detached, yet entirely your own. The perfect balance to any fragile psyche.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had that.
When I started writing, it wasn’t because I thought I was particularly good at it. Now days, I still don’t think I’m particularly good at it, and yet I really can’t imagine anything else I’d rather do with my life.
I wish I was a bit smarter, because at the moment I feel rather stupid. The older I get, the dumber I feel. I never thought it would be this way, and yet here it is.
I have difficulty structuring my thoughts, and I love making charts.
At university I study english and media. Not journalism. I read books and I watch movies and I talk about them. I’m also interested in people, so I also take classes in networked media and sociology.
The only way I can cope with the monumental amount of guilt I carry around is by imagining my heart is a brick. The guilt stems from having a rent that adds up to just under $10’000, and being reliant on my parents to pay for it, even though it’s not fair and they can’t afford it. This is the foundation of my guilt, and building off of that, I don’t call home enough, and when I do come home I mope about and act like a bitch. The degree and the thing I’ve thus far committed my life to is something I’m not particularly good at, nor is it terribly likely I’ll ever make a living off it, and it’s kind of a waste of time. A waste of time that’s costing my mum and dad ten grand so I can live interstate, and costing myself a $20’000 student debt, which I’ll never be able to pay off because I’ll never be able to get a job because my degree is useless and finding work in Melbourne is next to impossible. I get B’s instead of A’s. I whine and complain about my life instead of getting up and doing anything about it. I’m anxious as hell about money because the job I do have doesn’t pay enough for me to support myself, and i’m frustrated because the study allowance I should be able to receive I’m not receiving because after three attempts at applying for it, Centrelink keeps making it harder and harder and it’s incredibly disheartening.
My mother seems baffled by the fact that I’m nearly twenty and have never had a boyfriend, nor have any prospects of getting one, and doesn’t seem to realise how undesirable and freakish and lonely get gentle prying is making me feel. I’m trying to plant the idea that I’m an asexual hermit so she’ll stop talking about it.
I have no sense of direction, no prospects, no motivation. I’m caving in internally from guilt and frustration. I’m terrified about the looming future and about how on earth I can afford to live at all, let alone do the things I want to do. Everything I want to do seems utterly pointless. It’s like there’s no reason to do anything at all.