And what now?

I started writing this blog when I was 22 (and I've only written a handful of posts - maybe I suffer from a lack of motivation). I had this, what I believed to be, profound notion that if I started writing about the things I wanted to learn, maybe it would help me "figure things out." I'm almost 27 and I still feel that pressure of being lost.


I'm currently in bed with two cats, while my dog heavily sighs in his crate. I think I'm still working on figuring out who I am, never mind where I'm supposed to be. My animal farm is simply a distraction (or so I've determined it to be). And honestly, part of me thinks that this animal farm is becoming an excuse to keep me grounded right here (in a job I'm not sure of and in a space I'm not sure of).


When I was younger I didn't want to go to college. I wanted to join the Peace Corps or something like it. Then, I decided that I needed to go to college because I would be able to better serve another country with a degree (and they preferred applicants with a degree). Well, the truth is I went to college because that's what I thought I was supposed to do. Nearing the end of my college career, I filled out half the Peace Corps application and had two of the three recommendations before I chickened out. I feel very strongly that I am meant to help people and I feel this weight of needing to leave my mark on the world. I'm not saying that I don't have a good job, because I do, and my job also does have an element of helping people - I'm just saying that I know this isn't where I need to be. But where am I supposed to be?


Along with suffering from a motivational problem, I also suffer from a lack of confidence in anything I do. Once upon a time I thought I was really good at writing. Now, I'm not so sure. I've found myself being that person who comes home after work, takes off my shoes (and pants) and just sits down to watch TV for the rest of the evening. Finally, once I feel sufficiently tired (or I acknowledge the fact that I do, actually, need sleep to function the next day) I go to bed. I go for months without even picking up a book. When I was younger, I read like my brain depended on it to live (which, in many respects, it does). I don't even really want to admit that the amount of time I spend writing is embarrassing for someone who once called herself a "writer."


Unfortunately, I do not have the answers. And I get worried that I will never have any of the answers. And I am petrified (quite metaphorically "(of organic matter) changed into a stony substance") that I will fall into this deep pit in which I cannot get out from. A deep pit of self-pity because I failed to recognize my full potential with only myself to blame. Becoming one of those people who constantly bitches about her job, but does nothing to change it... I'm already there.








Petrified: http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/petrified