I’m hesitant to write about this topic for a few reasons. For one, it is very much so something I’m still working through. I don’t yet have the benefit of hindsight to tell readers (or myself) the happy ending. Don’t get me wrong, I believe it’s coming. It’s that very hope I have clung onto the tightest when I’m feeling the lowest. I also know that what I’m going through pails in comparison to others’ experiences. No one died. My life, as it currently is, will not be going through any major change as a result of this. This by no means will be the “great tragedy” of my years on this earth, but for a twenty-something, I’ll admit, it feels big. Another reason I’m hesitant to write about this, it isn’t my story to tell. Consider me collateral damage. I’ll avoid telling his story, and stick to my own. Continue reading “The Big Lie”
Being the only single girl in my immediate friend group, I couldn’t help but feel like a failure sometimes. Unlike my friends, I haven’t yet managed to lock down a guy (or girl) that is will commit to me. I’d mentally line myself up against them asking “what are the qualities they have that I don’t enabling them to find love?” For months after my last relationship, I’d do this. I’d sit at home alone on a Friday night, envisioning then cuddled up on the couch with their significant others. I third, fifth, even seventh wheeled along on outings, continue to internalizing these feelings of inadequacy. I started to project these feelings onto them, fictionalizing their internal dialogues. “Oh well Phoebe HAD a boyfriend, but turns out he wasn’t all that into her…”. I couldn’t turn off these thoughts. Instead of being able to embrace a very sacred time in my life, I felt like an un-finished puzzle. I started to think without a relationship, I couldn’t possibly be whole.
It’s only recently I’ve realized how wrong I am in thinking that way. Continue reading “Independence”
There’s not much comparable to the existential dread we all experience on Sunday nights. At no age are you safe from this phenomenon. I remember being in fifth grade watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition feeling the exact OPPOSITE of Ty Pennington as he exclaimed “Bus Driver, move that bus!” I can barely remember the sources of my anxiety at the time, perhaps who I’d sit next to on the bus in the morning. Something about it being SUNDAY night compounded that anxiety tenfold.
In my 20’s, I’ve spent the last few years blaming my “scaries” on drinking. I’d go out most Saturdays, therefore spend Sunday hungover, eating $40 of GrubHub, and analyzing everything I said and did the night before. I could write a novel on the “Shameover”.
Shameover (n): The post-drinking anxiety likely caused by a chemical imbalance that causes an individual to assume everyone they came in contact with the night prior now “is mad at them”. Typically causes feelings of complete embarrassment and shame. Continue reading “Sunday Scaries”
I have a story to tell. Before I tell that story, I’d like to get something off my chest. I’ve been a “blogger” for one week, and man shit is STRESSFUL. First of all, I’m filled with regret for the stupid domain name I just paid $40 for. Why didn’t I give it more thought? Fox Muse? It sounds like a fucking animal-watching blog. Whatever. Impulsivity has always been my biggest downfall. Secondly, how do I get people to read this? I’m curating all this content, now what? I’m really awful at this marketing aspect. I’m not ready to tie this to my real identity, so social media marketing is off the table. Oh well. As I mentioned in my first post, I’m doing this for “me” (insert cliche tone here). Now, onto the story.
Since I was in college, my mom was convinced I was destined to be a writer. I’m not entirely sure what sparked this. Looking back, has she ever read anything I wrote? Did she sneak a peak at my angsty high school journals (NOT diaries, they were JOURNALISTIC creations) and see some potential behind a melodramatic ramblings? She wasn’t the type of parent to help me with math homework every night and DEFINITELY didn’t read over my essays before turning them in. Maybe it was just that blind confidence each parent has in their child’s abounding potential.
All of that being said, when posing the question to myself “what are my hobbies?” recently, I drew a complete blank. The only thing I’ve consistently done my whole life, is write. I’ve never partaken in extra-curricular sports. I was forced to take swimming lessons, art classes, tennis lessons, and even a few soccer and basketball leagues, but nothing stuck. In high school I ran cross country and turned out being pretty good at it, but who wants to say their hobby is running? Who am I, Forrest Gump? I don’t even like running anyways. Why would anyone? I have to question the sanity of anyone voluntarily running marathons (and applaud, I guess.)