Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Birthdays, or, the intrepid walk into the unknown and the icy, crippling fear of failure… and all that follows.


I turned 22. To some, I am old (hello, younger cousins, does your mom know you know how to work the Internet? Who am I kidding, you know how to work the internet better than her.) To others, I’m naught but a tiny baby, scrabbling to pretend to be an adult, with my “pretend” job and life and my raw, ruddy cheeks and your patronizing small nods and “knowing” smiles. But, I love you and your Wisdom. Bestow it upon me, oh Wise Ones.

But actually. Please help me, grownups.

But whaddup, world. I can relate to another Taylor Swift song. Booyah. +1 Abby. 21 was a weird year. I started my ascent into legality by waking up with The Worst Hangover Of My Life. Literally. I thought I would never reach sobriety ever again. I’ll spare you the grim details, but the soundtrack of my night was Shots by LMFAO ft. Lil Jon and my morning tune was Cacophony in the Key of My Mother Screaming At Me. Also, it was Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I just vomited on myself.

Annnyyyyways, 21 brought in a slew of Things. Firstly, I was just starting in the Wide World of Media. A tiny, baby journalist, clinging for dear life to a press badge and an iPhone, constantly fearing the jig was up and I gotta get out of the press area, you small child. That never happened. But! I did get over my fear and have (almost) mastered the art of confidently acting like I’m Supposed To Be Here. Even if I’m surrounded by a zillion important people in suits and real cameras and I’m swinging around my tiny Canon. Bring it on, Edward R. Murrow Winners. I’m a millennial. You wish you were me. You want to capture me. I hold the secrets! I know about the Internet! I have all the social medias! Betcha never learned that in fancy journalism school! Ha!

4 the 412 has been this crazy adventure that I found myself on where I get to do things I like and get paid for it. And it’s hard. Bear with me. This job has been working my creativity muscle until it’s pulsating and numb. It’s draining and exhausting and I’ve spiraled into pits of complete creator’s block. Nothing seemed to work. I couldn’t figure it out. Hell, there were days where I turned on the camera and stared blankly into it, opening and closing my mouth like a beached fish desperate for air, squishing my eyebrows together to make my brain work. But through this, I learned that creativity is my backbone. I can take something and spin it and weave it into something that tells a story. Pittsburgh may be small, but it is deep. It is rich and flowing with people, places, ideas that deserve attention. They deserve me to unfasten the light dangling above my head and shove it towards them. It’s okay if I struggle with ideas sometimes, because, PLOT TWIST, I’m not perfect. I can pretend that this job is Always! Fun! And! Exciting! And! Easy! But it’s not. And that’s okay. It’s okay because I enjoy it.



Then I graduated college and started school again 12 days later.

Grad school has been this weird (as you can see, my adjectives have also aged with me) place where I'm surrounded by people who know what they want and are creating incredible things that are setting them up for the rest of their lives.

And I'm the new girl in the back going, “yeah, but, have you heard of the Internet, guys?”

I've finally had the realization that maybe I'm struggling to find energy and excitement in this program because it's not what I want to do. “Shock!” cried the readers. Yeah, same, guys. I love film and how a story can make people feel and think and literally be changed for life. A good film (even a bad film) will leave a lasting impression. You can never unsee it. I can appreciate a beautiful shot or an unconventional editing practice. However, I can't do it. I have the story but when it comes to implementing it, I struggle. I am frustrated at the time and care I need to appease professors and stay at pace with my incredible, talented fellow classmates. And to be honest, it's tiring. I don't have the passion or drive to make these films. Production leaves me in a slump. But, I do have the story.

I can melt over beautifully crafted words that will grip me on the heart and brain and squeeze and squeeze, leaving me breathless and flustered. Words are powerful. My power exists at the light touch of ink to paper and not behind plastic and lenses (metaphorically of course because my hand cramps up if I write too long #Tbh.) I've always reached to writing when every other form escapes me. It's like my brain and fingers are running in a heat faster than my mouth. My mouth is always lagging behind, tripping over itself time and time again to stay even slightly near my brain. So I write. I write it down and keep going and going until I need to stop and proofread because the sentences seem to keep going on and on and on and I forget how they started or what I was even talking about or the proper punctuation what is a run on sentence?

Okay. Prepare yourself for some insightful words from a confused and lost 20-something, also known as Every Blogger On The Internet.

I feel lost. I still don't know what I want to do. “No one knows what they want to do!” says you, knowing Wise One, my elder. But, you whimsical, jolly, wizard man with your scraggly beard (I’m sorry, I'm just envisioning you as Dumbledore right now). But. That's terrifying. I can't not know. I need things guaranteed. And I'm having a lot of problems with this Life thing where I can't guarantee anything. I'm running circles around myself, trying to outdo my past self. Do more! Work harder! It's not enough! It's never enough! Don't sleep!

But, I recently heard a quote from one of my heroes that literally brought this out of control train that is my life to a complete hault.  

I need to work hard. I need to keep jumping, climbing, crawling towards the Top. But, in the same vein, I need to enjoy life. Life, this beautiful paradox. Life, this messy, fantastic chance. It's hard, sometimes, to see the bigger picture and realize, hey, things can be worse. But you have to try. Otherwise you'll drive yourself into the ground. Unhappiness. Dissatisfaction. Fear. Why should these define me?

Okay, I'm taking off my wizard cap and stepping off my soap box.

The point I'm trying to make is in 22 I'm opening myself up to chances and listening to instincts rather than extensively thought out and vigilant career moves like a chess game (I do not know how to play chess.)

I miss theater. So I'm going to get back into theater.

I'm tired. So I'm going to listen to my body and maybe chill for like, a sec.

I have thoughts. So I'm going to write them down.

I’m not sure where I'll be this time next year. A graduate degree down, in tow with a fancy little beret and another polyester gown. I don't know where my career will be. I don't know where I'll be living. Some things I can guarantee: I will be short; I will be addicted to coffee; I will still enjoy petting dogs. But the rest? Who knows. And that's scary. I'm scared. BUT! That's life. Life isn't chess; it’s Jenga.

Hi, welcome to my 22nd year. Hope you'll be apart of it.

I love you.

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