there ain’t no sign of elvis in san francisco

I’ve begun writing again, after an unexpected pause in my professional life. It’s been two weeks since it all crashed down, and I have spent very many of those days in a hypomanic spiral, trying to avoid the thought of having three months of completely unplanned time. I filled those days with impromptu road trips, 4am dance parties, some truly fantastic but probably emotionally unhealthy sex, and many, many beers. In these last 14 days, I felt like I regressed about 14 years. It’s probably time to take a step back.

When I entered adulthood many years ago, I was two things: a perfectionist and a victim. Neither served me well, and I knew it, but I was trapped in this cycle of shame and silence and never wanting anyone to know I was anything less than the epitome of Having My Shit Together–despite several extremely public flameouts when the stress and the flashbacks got to be too much. In my mid 20s, I started, hesitantly, to talk about it. It was an experiment–I started writing my story. It got worse before it got better, but I had to talk before I could even begin to let any of it go. I ran for a decade–to another state, another country–trying to prove I was an adult. I carried it all with me though, and was never actually free.

Being unsure of your next step, at any age, is perfectly fine. It’s better than matching aimlessly through a life that’s miserable. It’s better than accepting anything less than exactly what you want. Also: you are living a story. Tell it. Who cares if no one else follows along? Shout it from the rooftops, let it hang there in the air, and walk away.


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