I remembered today that I’m 22 years old. In the grand scheme of things, that’s pretty damn young. I still have a lot of life left. The question remains: what do I DO with my life?
I’ve survived thus far on cunning, intelligence, a little bit of charm, and a whole lot of passion. I don’t think it takes much to be as strong as I am, but truth be told I have made it through a fair number of bad and sad situations with nothing but luck by my side.
I get really “into” things, like boys or yoga or a bag of potato chips. My life is seemingly divided into split-seconds of obsession over situations, people, or things. I jump to conclusions far too quickly and then convince myself of those conclusions with exorbitant amounts of analysis. I dive in and forget to wade back out, remaining submerged until that point past prune-y where you just feel totally uncomfortable in your own skin. And then, when my torso finally hits cold, crisp, fresh air again, I shiver uncontrollably until I feel like I’m going to pass out.
Yes, I do generally react physically to emotional or mental situations. It’s just one of those things that makes me ME.
These neuroses, as I’ve come to think of them, are mine. I’ve given up trying to change myself into someone who doesn’t become empassioned by the slightest bit of eye contact; someone who can go months without wondering “what if” and replaying countless interactions in my head. I will always be the girl that comes off pretty sane and awesome but, underneath, has the same crazy gene as every other human being on this planet. The “this girl” syndrome that I’ve tried so long to avoid is actually becoming my saving grace.
At this point, I don’t really fucking care. I am me. This life is mine, and regardless of how ridiculous it might seem, I’m still leading it with as much passion and grace as one might expect.
That is to say…very little. Or maybe at least a little. I know, deep down, that I care a lot more about a lot of things that people don’t care about–that I pay attention to things no one would think to see. But I don’t think that makes me “different” or “special” or “a beautiful sparkling snowflake.”
Nope, this is just who I am. Hi, I’m Erin. When we meet, you are permanently in my brain and become a character in the semi-autobiographical novel that I will probably one day write.
So, when I say, aloud to the cashier at the grocery store, that “it sucks being in my brain,” I’m not kidding. It’s really fucking messed up in there.
But I know that I’m not the only one with a set of crazies. Phew. Now I’m reassured.
And now, I embark on this whole new chapter that is deeper and darker than ever before. Wish me and my brain luck as we cipher this one out.