Am I too big for my britches?
Journeying through the mini crisis of wanting it all - RIGHT NOW
To know me is to know I have no greater fear than that of the ordinary (literally my favorite Avril Lavigne song when I was 12 was “Anything But Ordinary” — that’s how terrified of the banal I innately am). So naturally, as former queen of the mental spiral, I sometimes revisit my old diary entries just to measure how far I've strayed away from that fate.
I recently found myself locked in on some of my writings from 4-5 years ago, and reflected on what things looked like for me back then. While it wasn’t the darkest period of my life, there was a distinct, recurring thread of urgency and restlessness woven throughout every entry.
I always say I can tell what I was going through across the pages in my journal by my handwriting. In these entries, my script, usually well-placed and sophisticated read as an anxious, illegible scrawl — each misshapen letter so charged and hurried, I could almost feel my heartbeat racing through the frantic strokes.
sensational.
My appetite for success was always loud — overwrought, theatrical, intense. I admit I relished in how much the obnoxiousness of my aspirations have offended people. But behind each “I’m literally a celebrity,” preceded by an eye-roll, I was always left with the pervasive how. How the hell was I going to actually get there, IRL?
