This past weekend was not a good one. I fell into my by-now regular routine of questioning my choices in everything from my career to the people I call friends. I wonder if I made the right decision to choose my current job over another more secure and well-paying one. I wonder if my friends are doing better than me and I’m getting left behind. Anxiety and doubt claw at me, stripping my carefully built-up walls and laying bare my insecurities and fears. I think back to the past and I feel let down by everyone who’s ever hurt me, whether intentionally or not. Painful memories keep resurfacing and old wounds get reopened and before I know it, the deep-seated melancholy buried within starts spreading throughout every fibre of my body.
I turn 27 in June. After that it’s a quick slippery slide to 30, and then what? Tears are rolling fast and furiously down my face and dripping onto my shirt. Society tells me to aspire to bigger and better things, reach for greater heights but paradoxically to be content with what I have. I’ve lost a lot of drive and motivation over the past few years. I don’t want to go out and meet people, or check out exhibitions or the newest cafe. Even music doesn’t have the same effect on me as it used to. I want to experience all that life has to offer, but I feel so uninspired and dulled by this place. Somewhere along the way the optimism of my early 20s faded, the light in my eyes dimmed and my heart grew cold and hard. I can feel myself getting more jaded by the day and I’m so scared of turning into a bitter cynic.
Try as I might, I can’t escape the feeling that no matter what I do, I remain desperately unhappy. It’s useless talking to my family; I can’t relate to them and I doubt they would understand. I feel broken, like a discarded toy nobody wants, tossed in a corner and left to gather dust for eternity. I was a lonely child who had few friends and because of my upbringing I didn’t learn the proper skills to communicate with others. Even now meeting new people makes me nervous. Throw in an introvert personality and socializing becomes doubly hard.
What kills me most of all is the fact that I have yet to have a proper relationship. There were times when I thought things could blossom, where I might actually have a shot at something real, but they turned out to be my own naivete talking. I was blinded by fantasies conjured in my head that I ignored warning signs even while I was acutely aware of them. It’s painful hoping and opening your heart to others and hitting a wall every time. I can’t put into words the crushing anguish of never being enough for anyone. I can’t brush away the sadness that fills me when I see the happiness and bliss that seems to come so easily to others still eludes me. All I can do now is to hope for the fog to lift.