(Is that title too morbid? It’s, like, one in the morning as I write this, and I don’t always make the best decisions at one in the morning.)
Here’s the million dollar question:
I’ve been preoccupied with my future, lately (always). I’ve been thinking about school and all the decisions I’ve made (or were made for me due to my indecision) and the paths I never really took.
I’ve been wondering how many of my choices were made out of fear, or out of habit, or out of trying to please others, or trying to “get it right.” (Which is impossible; everything is wrong all the time and you just have to find the wrong that works for you.)
Like, let’s talk about school, since I linked to a post about school just a second ago. Right now, my declared major is Nutrition with a concentration in Dietetics. I could do that. It will be a struggle, because math and I aren’t buddies, but it’s achievable if I work at it. And I could work at it.
But, is it what I really want to do?
Because, when I look at who I am and what I want out of my life–and I have been flipping back through my journals and re-reading what I’ve at least been writing about wanting for the last couple years–and there are a few things that consistently come up. One of those things is working from home.
Dieticians can’t really work from home. I mean, there are a few options:
But, other options? Food photography? I don’t need to spend $100K on a semi-medical degree for that. Recipe development? Not my thing. Sales rep, marketing, social media? I may as well have stuck with majoring in marketing; I’d be finished faster and it would be less expensive. Freelancing articles for health publications could actually be something I’d be into, but “freelancer” by its definition is unsteady. If I’m paying enough money to put a down payment on a house for my education, I want steady employment. I want a return on that investment.
Between the ages of twelve and sixteen, I wanted to get a degree in creative writing. I loved writing. I wrote my own original fiction all the freaking time. But, everyone told me I needed to have a “real job,” too. I could just “write in my spare time.”
So, I went to school to get that degree for that “real job” (which I still haven’t gotten eleven years later because I walk onto a college campus and just feel lost) and I didn’t have “spare time,” anymore. I didn’t have energy, anymore. And then I was out of practice, and writing needs to be practiced–
Witches. Writing is not like riding a bicycle, okay? You forget how to do it. You forget how to structure a plot and write believable dialogue. And, when you’re twenty-three-years-old and you’re writing worse than you did when you were seventeen? That’s frustrating and discouraging. And I got discouraged and I stopped. So, shoot me.
And, now I’m wondering if I missed my calling? If maybe I should get that creative writing degree because that’s what I’ve always enjoyed. That’s what I always wanted. If I’m going to freelance or work from home and have an unsteady career anyway, I might as well be unsteadily doing something I love, right?
That sounds rational.
But, it might also just be the depression actually saying, “Six more years of school, minimum? You’ll be almost forty before you finish,” or the anxiety saying, “Math? Seriously? Math? Forget six more years; you gotta factor in another three for making up all those math and physics classes you know you’re going to fail or drop.” That fucking bullshit self-loathing demon saying, “At least if you fail at writing you’ll fail at something everyone expected you to fail at, anyway. No one expects you to actually make a career out of writing.”
School isn’t the only thing I’m doing this with, by the way. There’s more, but I think you get the gist of my thought process.
So, I’m playing Russian Roulette with my future because I don’t know what is or isn’t rational, anymore.
On the bright side, I’m so confused trying to figure out if this is rational or not that I’m too preoccupied to feel sad or anxious.
Silver linings, right?
I love you all.
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