The first time I wrote into this document, it was the middle of May, I wasn’t feeling great and there was whole paragraph of me freaking out about work (now deleted). The second time I tried, the government declared the Movement Control Order (now FULL MCO), and I was concerned about the days ahead. Today, it’s the end of the month and I attempt again to construct my thoughts into words.
“Within an hour of work, I had a surge of anxiety attack”
That was how I felt that morning, scared. I would then go on to distract myself by reading an article and tearing up after I finished the interview with a boy and the narrative about his dreams. They say mid 20's is the age when people start to question themselves (they, being persons on the internet, faceless voices), when we feel uncertain about our position in life, when we stand at a crossroad. My mid 20's come in a form of constant panic, overwhelming self-doubt, uncontrollable sense of lost.
I’ve been trying to get back into writing these few months. A slow process, as I get motivated during moments where I should concentrate on other things, get stuck when I actually put down time, procrastinate to watch the newest fancam of my favourite idol (maybe re-watch a funny interview if there isn’t any new content), maybe just lay in bed thinking about what I want to write about instead of actually putting words onto paper. I’ve also realised off-hand that my thoughts are a mess. There’s so much I want to say but nothing substantial. I go off a tangent in the middle of the essay and suddenly there are 3 different things going on in 300 words.
Just like how it takes 3 tries for me to write this journal.
It’s a little more difficult to be happy, it’s a little more difficult to be motivated and it’s a little more difficult to feel. I’m not sure if being stuck at home everyday is the reason why I starting to regret living like this, or if I’ve always been unhappy but was never stuck in a place long enough for me to really think about it. I get annoyed when people tell me to be thankful of what I have, because I am thankful, I am so glad I get paid every month, have a warm and adequately area of habitat, I even get to lavishly enough buy reckless non-essentials just because they’re cute. Yet it doesn’t stop the envy, and I get angry at myself for not being thankful enough. Me, a spoiled brat.
Somebody once told me it was so good that I knew off the bat what I wanted to achieve out of school. So brave (just kidding, nobody said this) and smart, to go for an education path with more at stake. What they didn’t know was that my motivation wasn’t because I loved and was passionate about it, it was because I wanted out of the poverty line and out of being looked down on. I thought I was good at it, and that I will be able to be good at it. At one point, a friend asked me if her sister should pursue a career in the same field, and I told her to choose between what she liked and what she knew she would be great at, because I chose the latter (bad career advice?). These days I’m not so sure if I’m even good at it though, I’m just trying to.
At the same time, I say I love writing, but to be honest I’m not sure if I could ever step away to fall back and make it a career. So that’s me, stuck in a limbo of feeling like an empty shell because the pandemic has taken away the very few human interactions I have and left me busy contemplating how much wasted youth I’m throwing away laying on my bed. That sounds so entitled and makes me angry at myself again because, it’s a privilege to even have time to do nothing.
So that’s why I’m writing this journal, even if there’s no direction or useful thought process. I write this so I can escape the idling and slowly get used to the process. Like my last piece, not for others, just for myself, because I like it and don’t need rewards for it. Maybe like this too, I will be able to find out what I really want to do with it.
