I am notoriously terrible at blogging. As I said in the one-and-only other post on this blog, I'm just generally bad at being consistent with social media.
All that said, here I sit, burning the rest of my lunch break before I have to go to work, typing up a blog post that I'm going to tell my roommate to make me post at some point today. My eye is twitching because I'm overtired, I'm worried about homework, and it's only the third week of the semester. Those things, on top of everything else crazy in my life, lead me to my first point: I worry about worry.
I come by worry honestly, but right now, it's more than just having something to fret over. I worry about if-and-when I'll have panic attacks, I worry about my roommates leaving and not telling me where they're going, and I worry about the dark part of the night when my subconscious likes to pull up the things that haunt me at 2 AM. It's all very foolhardy, you might say, to worry about things you have no control over.
Well, you're right. But also, you're not.
I worry about those things because I have no control over them. I don't plan on dwelling on things I can't change, it just happens. I don't plan on hearing a song in a public place and having to fight off the urge to cry. And I didn't plan on my mom not coming home from work two months ago tomorrow. And so, I worry.
I don't go looking for pity. I don't tell my story to everyone I meet on campus. Sometimes, I don't even tell it when I know I should, simply because there's a part of my mind that says, "It's okay, maybe someone else will tell them." I like to keep myself folded up, folded in, giving polite smiles and terse nods because I know I won't get myself in trouble that way. It's a coping method, really, because there are only so many times you can hear the words "I'm sorry" before you want to start yelling at well-wishers, "You're not nearly as sorry as I am."
Which really, very few people are. Some people understand the pain that I carry every day. They've been there, in some aspect, and they too have tread this path. But no matter how many times others try to refer me to counseling, try to hand me a copy of Tear Soup (which I have, and it's wonderful, contextually, of course), or try to judge how I'm doing with a few well-planned questions, it all boils down to the fact that my heart hurts.
At the end of the day, I come home more exhausted than anything else, because honestly all I want to do is sit in my living room, knit, and continue my rewatch of Once Upon a Time. Instead, I get up every morning, go to class, go to work, plan club things, and pretend like my life isn't seven ways from screwed up. But it is. And I hate thinking about the new reality that I have to deal with.
And now, you've caught me rambling, and I do apologize for that. I like to make people laugh when I write and when I speak publicly, and I've fallen extremely short of that today. But I think that this will serve as a solid start to my actual blogging, and I expect you all to hold me accountable.
If you want to ask me anything at all about what I've written, you can send me an email here. Otherwise, thanks for reading this, supporting me, and loving me through all of the last two months (and more).
You're great.
xxoo,
Emily
All that said, here I sit, burning the rest of my lunch break before I have to go to work, typing up a blog post that I'm going to tell my roommate to make me post at some point today. My eye is twitching because I'm overtired, I'm worried about homework, and it's only the third week of the semester. Those things, on top of everything else crazy in my life, lead me to my first point: I worry about worry.
I come by worry honestly, but right now, it's more than just having something to fret over. I worry about if-and-when I'll have panic attacks, I worry about my roommates leaving and not telling me where they're going, and I worry about the dark part of the night when my subconscious likes to pull up the things that haunt me at 2 AM. It's all very foolhardy, you might say, to worry about things you have no control over.
Well, you're right. But also, you're not.
I worry about those things because I have no control over them. I don't plan on dwelling on things I can't change, it just happens. I don't plan on hearing a song in a public place and having to fight off the urge to cry. And I didn't plan on my mom not coming home from work two months ago tomorrow. And so, I worry.
I don't go looking for pity. I don't tell my story to everyone I meet on campus. Sometimes, I don't even tell it when I know I should, simply because there's a part of my mind that says, "It's okay, maybe someone else will tell them." I like to keep myself folded up, folded in, giving polite smiles and terse nods because I know I won't get myself in trouble that way. It's a coping method, really, because there are only so many times you can hear the words "I'm sorry" before you want to start yelling at well-wishers, "You're not nearly as sorry as I am."
Which really, very few people are. Some people understand the pain that I carry every day. They've been there, in some aspect, and they too have tread this path. But no matter how many times others try to refer me to counseling, try to hand me a copy of Tear Soup (which I have, and it's wonderful, contextually, of course), or try to judge how I'm doing with a few well-planned questions, it all boils down to the fact that my heart hurts.
At the end of the day, I come home more exhausted than anything else, because honestly all I want to do is sit in my living room, knit, and continue my rewatch of Once Upon a Time. Instead, I get up every morning, go to class, go to work, plan club things, and pretend like my life isn't seven ways from screwed up. But it is. And I hate thinking about the new reality that I have to deal with.
And now, you've caught me rambling, and I do apologize for that. I like to make people laugh when I write and when I speak publicly, and I've fallen extremely short of that today. But I think that this will serve as a solid start to my actual blogging, and I expect you all to hold me accountable.
If you want to ask me anything at all about what I've written, you can send me an email here. Otherwise, thanks for reading this, supporting me, and loving me through all of the last two months (and more).
You're great.
xxoo,
Emily
- 4:26 PM
- 3 Comments
