Insecurity..my nemesis.
I honestly don’t know what I’m doing here. I feel like a poser, a fraud..being in college is for someone smarter than me, it seems. Why do I feel so unintelligent in my Lit. classes? They speak of Frost and Hardy and Yeats as if someone gave them the answer to the depths of their soul. Well, where can I pay the toll to get the answers too? I want to know the secret to poetry and British play on words. I want to know why I cannot come up with or comprehend these insane comments or interpretations of literature. Am I not supposed to be here? Am I not supposed to try to love this? I love reading. I almost love writing. So why do I fail at this? Why do I fail at feeling like I’m good at something? I feel like I have no drive anymore..did I ever have drive? I feel like I’m not passionate about anything in particular. I don’t live for Literature. I don’t live for music. I love them both, but I go about for days without doing either, it seems. Does that mean I’m a failure? A failure to be passionate? The only thing I’m passionate about these days is stuffing my face with pasta alfredo and hot dogs. I hate this feeling. I feel worried all the time. Anxious. To top it off, I don’t think I’m going to be able to finish on time at school. I completely looked over two classes that are a requirement and it’s setting me back for summer classes. I feel like I can’t finish. Will I even be a good teacher? I’ve never taught a class and the thought of it makes me want to vomit sometimes. What if they hate me? What if I suck? What if I tell them a verb is really an adjective? Oh God…what am I doing here.. I feel like curling up in the fetal position and crying for a week. Is this how every other college student feels eventually? Before the breakthrough? Is there a meltdown? A regurgitated complaint of three years of suffering into one week of agony? Does it hit everyone like a bag of bricks? (A big bag, I might add)..Everyone tells me to relax, but no one understands.. they don’t understand how I’m feeling. How I’m functioning. I’m floating day to night, night to day, wondering when I’ll wake up and know that I’m doing the right thing. Can I just have a sign? Maybe I just needed to write. Sometimes I feel better when I plaster my soul on this blog thing. Sometimes just knowing that other people know at least SOMETHING about my insides helps me get through. Maybe they’ve been here too. Maybe this is just normal and I don’t know it yet. If that’s the case, then oh boy. I don’t want this. Maybe I should try to write a novel and forget everything else. Screw reading other authors’ books and poems, I’ll write my own!
I think I’m done. West Wing will save me.
