Panic, panic, I feel extremely lonely. I don’t know why I’m so upset, but I feel super dark today. I feel so self conscious. I feel like nobody likes me. It’s not without context. Normally I would write something more eloquent, more descriptive, but I just feel so depressed right now. I can barely think. I just want to cry for several reasons.
1.I lost my spikes and inhaler before Regionals. I’m starting to have an asthma attack and I can’t breathe.
2.Trump panic-he’s popular despite his terrifying beliefs and that is what is concerning me. People are supporting him, and I find, support a lot of the horrible things he says about women and minorities. I feel attacked. I feel cornered. I feel like a caged animal waiting for slaughter.
3. Choir is killing my voice. It comes out like gravel. All of my minimal talent is dying. I don’t know what to do anymore
4. My timeline for things I need to do before the end of the school year is shortening.
5. My friends are hanging out without me. It’s unfair of me, but I’m hurt.
6. All the radio silence.
Senior year, when everything comes to closure. And I’m killing it. I’m hitting my important deadlines; I’m improving my art; I’m making more friends than I ever have in my life; I’m more of a risk taker and self advocate than ever before; I’m advancing to Regionals in track with a very high chance of making it to state; I’m able to relax more because of a lighter class schedule, and I’m getting good grades; I have a job; I operate a positivity blog geared towards advice for high schoolers; I’ve been doing really well at making other people smile; And I’m going to my dream college in a couple of months. Things couldn’t be better.
And yet things couldn’t be much worse. My depression is tearing me apart, drawing clouds over my happiest moments and best achievements. I feel sullen and tired and like I’m just not good enough, and I can never get better. Everything feels so far off. My art has only just begun, and there are so many basic skills I need to learn that my art teacher is not teaching me. I need to form a strong base before anyone will truly be able to appreciate my art, and even then, experienced artists will scoff at my clumsy, inexperienced hand. There is always somebody better, and the judgement is killing me. Yet I must create.
And my writing has fallen to such a decrepit state, to where I haven’t been able to write much more than a few song lyrics and blog posts this year. I don’t feel the motivation to write. I feel worn down, like the magic of words has been driven to profess as the profane, no longer a halo of truth, but a thistled brush of apathy.
My singing has been forever changed to my ears. Although a pleasant sound in its entirety, the base note holds a nasally tone, and when sung loud, in a group, or into a microphone my voice sounds tinny. The e’s have a vocal catch to them. My breath control is deplorable. All in all, only one of these problems can I physically change, and even then, physically the volume cannot shift up more than a click of a dial. I don’t believe it’s possible to change the base tone of a person’s voice. Also, singing forte on a bottom of my range song daily has slaughtered my mezzo range, leaving simple songs challenging and full of vocal breaks. The fates were always attached against me for singing anyway, having asthma as well as Vocal Chord Disorder.
In music composition, my luck is also rather dismal. I play guitar with some skill, but in other instruments my command is severely lacking. Also I have not touched my guitar in a month. That and the composition software I have is so confusing, I cannot currently maneuver it. I have so many ideas, but I do not have the skill to fully realize them.
Lastly my photography has faded from my dreams. My beautiful Fujifilm XF1 has collected dust on my shelf. The reason is the saddest part. I am no longer able to see the beauty around me. Everything seems so dull to me now. Even if I were to take pictures, I do not fully comprehend how to operate the camera settings for optimal photographs, and I do not know where start with editing.
My charity ideas have faded in their effectiveness. My idea to offer free senior portraits has dwindled. The places I was planning on posting flyers are places I have not been. My social anxiety, though partially quieted through this year’s events, flares at the thought of asking somebody to put up my flyer. The bracelets which I intend on selling for charity have hit a snag in development where I’m a lazy, terrified human being who cannot tolerate the idea of a material not working. The t shirts I want to design to raise money for an asthma charity are also victims of my fear of failure. The craft camp I need to create in the summer is also looking dismal, as I am not sure how to fit it in with my new work schedule.
Speaking of my work schedule, I’m having trouble finding a second job, a night job, to make enough money to support myself at the college I’m going to be attending.
In crafts I am also stretched thin. The fanny packs I intended on pitching to local businesses have fallen to the wayside, as my confidence dwindles and dwindles. A simple factor of not being able to thread the bobbin also stops me from repairing ripped clothes. The bleach pen t shirts have been thrown aside as my first attempt involved a bleach resistant shirt, and I have not since been able to find one that is compatible. And laziness prevents me from completing a friend’s Christmas gift.
I also have not studied for my college placement exams yet despite having a full hour of office help.
Even Supernatural, my sanctuary, feels foreign to me. I am too apathetic to watch the one thing that brings me the most joy and emotion.
I hate my life, and I hate myself. There’s no reason to believe I am a failure except for the unbelievably high standards I set for myself. Because I know I could just get it all done if my Depression wasn’t so intent on rendering me immobile and incapable of motivation. And if my anxiety wasn’t so intent on ruining all of my accomplishments and goals. I just want to sleep all the time, and I’m just so tired of it.
It’s the stupidest thing, but then again it always is. This time it’s an awards banquet that has you down. Words come out of the coaches’ mouths, and you know they aren’t about you. You have fallen out of favor. You are old news. Suddenly many failures rush to your mind. Your attempt at art. Your diminishing voice due to singing forte at the very bottom of your range daily. You think about not making it to state last year, and you think about not PRing all year. How you’ve never been good enough. You’ve never been top tier. You force tears back through sheer will. This is supposed to be your crescendo. But instead it feels like you’re dwindling away into dust, like you’ll just disappear.
I feel like I’m disappearing. The world is moving all around me, and I’m a ghost. I wonder if it’s possible to be haunted, not by the person you were, but rather by your present self who is standing back and watching your life unfold. I am tired of this world, and I am haunted by the ghost of myself.
Last night my parents called me downstairs. When I got to the living room there was a wrapped package for me. “This is kind of an early birthday gift,” my Mom says. I rip open the packaging to reveal an antivirus software. Okay. That seems good and practical. I thank my parents and get ready to leave.
“Wait,” they say. “There’s another part that goes with it.” I turn around to see a suspiciously sized package. My stomach fills with dread. I open it to reveal just what I expected, a brand spanking new laptop. This one is silver whereas my last one was black. I cringe at the change. It’s thin which I appreciate and there is no way the corner can unhinge like in my old laptop. Yet I’m freaking out.
I really hate new things. It’s like I build up a loyalty to my certain brands and model of electronic devices. I hate adjusting to new functions and new problems. More importantly I don’t see why they couldn’t have just fixed my old laptop for $60 rather than drop a few hundred bucks on something new. Plus this means I won’t be getting anything else big for my birthday. I can think of things that hold way more practicality to me.
By the end of the night I’ve somewhat warmed up to the new laptop even though I don’t want it. It seems normal enough. The click key malfunctions and the mouse is jumpy, but I figure that’s just because I just started it up.
The next morning I get out the laptop to use and I find that the mouse jumps around and is still just off. The right click key is still really slow. A nervousness latches to the pit of my stomach. I look up reviews of the laptop and find that the touchpad issues do not go away. More importantly I find out the retail price of the laptop is about $800. I assume my parents wouldn’t have bought it if it wasn’t on sale, but still. Now I’m freaking out because I just want my old, cheap laptop back. I can’t even talk to anybody about this without being the brat who is upset because her parents bought her a brand new, expensive laptop.
So I’m having a panic episode. But I have to go to choir and participate even though I feel like I’m dying. And all I can think about is how to bring it up to parents that I want the laptop returned.
And then, when I’m using it later, the screen FREAKING DIES. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT THAT? I JUST WANT MY CHEAP, FAMILIAR LAPTOP.
I started an Instagram account for a scholarship opportunity. I never expected to actually use it. In fact, I didn’t even write the password down. Then I started to draw, and I wanted people to see my art. Everyone wants to have a voice. I wanted mine.
Flashforward to now. I have 57 followers, mostly people I know but also some strangers. My account is a mixture of personal and art. I try to post at least two posts art for every one post personal and no more than three posts a week. I have a system.
Yet social media has me totally stressed out. I don’t know if I should move my personal stuff to a new account so as to keep my current art followers and gain new ones, but then I have to deal with telling people about my personal account and more importantly I can’t shift the likes and comments on my personal pictures to the new account. And if I change my account name, what if someone unfollows me out of confusion.
Also networking kills me. I’m excited to like pictures I like and support new artists, but the follow for follows game is killing my spirit a little bit. I get so excited when I get a new follower because I see it as progress in my art. I see it as support for my developing art style. But when the person unfollows within the next two weeks, I feel insecure. I thought I was supported, but instead I was just being used. I’m such a small account with mostly followers I know, so I can see when people unfollow and who unfollows. Also I literally have “do not follow for follows. That’s just cruel,” in my bio, but people just ignore it. And the whole thing is dumb anyways because I’m such a small account, so I’ll check out anybody who likes my photo’s account anyways.
Basically I’m stressed out about the dumbest things.
And social media is ruining my personal relationships. To be more clear, I’m ruining my personal relationships because of how obsessed I’ve become with likes, comments, and follows. At least I keep my blog private. I think I need to take a hiatus from Instagram in order to regroup my emotions and become more stable before I return because I feel very vulnerable right now.
Also I got a Facebook, and I don’t know why I check the feed because I really don’t care. It’s just a way to connect with my future classmates.
I love blogging and Pinterest though. That’s untarnished by the need for affirmation.
Etiquette of Instagram
Never ever follow for follows on an account with very few followers. That’s just cruel.
Blessed are those who:
Support new artists
Support young artists
Support underappreciated artists
Do not follow for follow backs
Like a post when they appreciate it
Comment nice things(this especially)
It’s county. Maybe that would be nothing special if this were any other county, but this is Hamilton county, home of the most competitive track runners in the entire state. My times would slide by in any other regional, but in my regional I need to shred some serious rubber to get to state.
Today was one of the most important meets of the season. It’s the end of the season, the crescendo. I felt a little nervous. Part of the reason I was nervous was because I did a terrible warm-up. Warming up in the infield was not allowed, but I warmed up there anyway for injury prevention reasons. I rushed through each exercise because I was so afraid of somebody telling me to stop. I needed to get all my exercises in before that happened. The other reason was that I started the meet with slight abdominal pain that increased as I ran accels. I was afraid that would hurt me down the stretch. I stretched and mentally prepared for my race. Some 200 prelim runners and I chatted before the race, setting my nerves at ease. I pray to God to just get me to finals. Then I was in the blocks.
I centered myself as I always do, by focusing on the wind. I mentally reiterate my objective and then empty my mind of thought. I focus only on the wind and the placement of my limbs.
The gun goes off, and I sprint the curve easily passing many of the runners, but I can see two catching up as the curve ends. My abs feel like they are ripping apart. My legs are so sore from the pathetic thing I called a warm-up that night. My heart is pounding. I NEED to get to finals.
I almost cry from relief when we hit the 150 meter mark, and the other two girls with me start to slow. The other girls are so far behind us that we literally coast across the finish line at a fast jog. I am so thankful that I got to throttle back that I almost cry. My mind is singing praises to God for his help.
When it comes around to the finals, I believe I’m ready. A guy offers to hold my blocks, and I’m touched by the gesture. My mind once again centers on the wind. “Don’t try and win it,” I tell myself, “Just focus on form”.
The gun goes off and I burst out of the blocks. I step on the line twice and quickly correct myself through a moment of panic. I see three runners passing me at the end of the curve. I force myself not to care. I force myself to focus on form. I’ve been doing that the last few times out. The real question is why haven’t I been doing this the entire time? I’m a senior for God’s sake. Normally I get too into the competition and stiffen up near the end, as I desperately try to pass the girl ahead and fail instead. This time I ignore place. I just focus on form
When I finally finish about a meter or two behind the the girl pack, I know I’ve gotten a great time, probably a season best. I’m ecstatic, electric. We wait for the timer. It’s a little bit longer than usual. The hand time for the winner, we’re told, is 24.9 s. I wasn’t far behind. We all wait with bated breath to hear the results.
” We don’t have the times, ” the official tells us. An indignant “WHAT?!” explodes from my mouth. The machine malfunctioned. He tells us we have to run it again at the end of the meet. My soul feels crushed. I start sobbing.
I stumble over to the turf and crash down. I’m crying and my lungs are leaving me rasping for air. My favorite coach comes over to talk with me. “You ran awful,” he tells me, I guess in an effort to cheer me up, “you got fourth. You’ll do better when you run it again.”
“Get up and cry it out,” he commands. I oblige, mostly because I’m not ready to stop crying, and I’m relieved he isn’t going to try and make me stop. I talk with a few track members, telling them I have to run it… Again.
I cry a little more. I stay a little mad. And then, when I feel better, I steel myself for my race. I get excited. I get competitive.
My teammate, Karen, who has been on the team with me all four years, and who has acted as coach, mom, and friend to me over the years, sees me and makes a beeline toward me. She wraps me in a hug and tells me she is so proud of me. We discuss the time. She hand timed me at 25.6. I say I’m pretty sure that was my fastest time. She tells me she’s sure it is. Then she tells me not to worry because the head coach isn’t going to make me run it again. I feel the weight of sudden disappointed. “Aw,” I start, “I can’t run it again.” Her eyes slide over me sceptically. “You want to run it again?”
I meet up with my head coach who tells me not to worry because I’m not running it again, but instead I still feel slightly disappointed. He says running it again would be dangerous, and they’re trying to prevent injury.
I’m mostly upset because this is a special weekend. This is the weekend of the Horizon League Championships, the weekend I find out what time I need to get a scholarship. This is an important scholarship. I am going to graduate school after undergrad, and this scholarship would severely help me cut down on debt and anxiety. I needed my time as a base point. I needed to know that I can rise to the challenge.
At least I know I worked hard, and that the athlete of the week baton is possibly coming my way because I have worked so hard this week, and I’m killing it.