Twenty Five and Some Change

I am mentally, physically, and emotionally in the best place I've been in years. 

Maybe that means I am no longer a writer. 

The other night, while sharing an Uber with a friend I haven't seen in nearly three years, I stated
that I no longer felt like a writer due to my blog sitting idle for almost a year and a half. Somewhat defeated, equal parts lighthearted, I let her know that I couldn't write anymore due to having good mental health. When I started this blog, I was eighteen years old, having weekly panic attacks at college, feeling like I would never find my place within this world. Eventually, at twenty-three, I started writing through the daily panic attacks that accompanied my journey through OCD/health anxiety. But now, with a brighter outlook on life, the words just don't come as easily.

Believe me, I still try to write. Currently, there are roughly thirty drafts sitting in the backend of my blog, collecting dust. Despite the countless hours staring at an open laptop, words simply never came. Frequently, I would force myself to sit down, blog staring back at me, and silently beg my brain to piece together a somewhat decent article that I could post and immediately forget about the existence of. Obviously, as proven by my hiatus, that never happened. Anything that made it out of my brain onto the screen wasn't even coherent enough to make it to my Instagram story, let alone a full post on the blog. Every single one of the thirty drafts felt halfhearted and sloppy, and I refuse to let anyone read that. 

They say that your brain "snaps into place" when you turn twenty-five. You wake up on your birthday with a newer, wiser outlook on life. Suddenly, the clouds open and sunshine pours out, erasing any shadows of a doubt.

I can't vouch for a life changing birthday. My twenty-fifth birthday was nothing spectacular. It was freezing cold outside, with a biting wind strong enough to make me deeply regret wearing a skirt, even with tights underneath. The restaurant I chose sat us in front of the door, inviting more of that unwanted chill. My friend coming in from out of town got sick the day of and had to stay home. I only had about eight people out of the twenty plus invited show up to my party at a local bar. The bar I chose specifically for the arcade games it offered was so packed we couldn't play any of them, relegating us to a couch in the corner. Twenty-five felt monumental. The day itself did not. Honestly, it was an ordinary enough day that several years ago it may have driven me to tears, out of fear that I wasn't loved enough, or admired enough, whatever that may mean. This year though, I found myself fascinated by my life and on the verge of happy tears.

When I came to DC over three years ago (how time flies) I did not know a single soul. I was utterly alone, in a city I had no desire to live in. I, very literally, didn't leave my apartment for the first week after move-in. No small feat considering I didn't even have a working tv or a full grocery trip completed at the time. Everything was very barebones that week, including my confidence. The world outside was far too scary, and I didn't feel confident about my place in it. For the first time in my entire life, it was up to me to set my own course, and I didn't have the slightest clue where to start. 

So, a couple years later, while I sat on the old, worn-out couch in the old, worn-out bar on my twenty-fifth birthday, surrounded by eight people who chose to celebrate me, despite the myriad things they could've been doing that cold March night, I could have cried. Maybe my brain didn't snap into place out of nowhere that evening, but I looked around and suddenly felt content. 

The word content pretty well summarizes how I've been feeling in the six months I've spent since my cold, cold birthday. I find myself much more peaceful now, even at my worst. It's almost as if the world went from dauntingly large to optimistically wide.  Everything that was once unknown and terrifying is now a chance for growth. I've been speaking up for myself more often. I've stopped dying my hair every three months (though this is subject to change at any given moment). I've been attending spin class consistently and cooking large meals for myself every Sunday night. I've been going on long walks without any background noise to drown out my thoughts. I've found a self-assurance in who I am and who I could eventually be.

The older I get, the more I realize that self-assurance is really all I need in life. I have no desire to be disgustingly wealthy, and I don't particularly need to climb imaginary ladders to prove my worth. There is no longer a nagging need to constantly move around and up, just so I can be the girl who made it out of my hometown. Plenty of other women "made it out" and frankly, I have slowly reached the conclusion that those still in Erie potentially reached a certain level of self-assurance far quicker than I did. We are all on our own paths on this planet, and who am I to set standards for others? 

Nowadays, I just am. Sometimes, I catch myself sitting in a group silently enjoying the atmosphere. And though I am still frequently the loudest in the room, there is a definite peace within my moments of silence, rather than the former unease that surrounded it. Things have started to feel slower, more leveled. The need to prove myself as the funniest, the smartest, the coolest, have all eased in favor of just being. 

Of course, I am not entirely free from anxiety, both in regards to my future and my health. Anxiety functions as a sort of addiction. Since my brain is so familiar with it, I will always want to go crawling back to the feeling. Ironically, anxiety is like a safe space to me. I know it well, and perhaps it knows me even better. Just the other day I had an incident involving some bats far away in the sky, an outdoor cat with an AirTag, and a scratch that didn't leave a mark. 

Maybe this bat, cat, AirTag, scratch incident is why I was able to sit at my laptop tonight and write this. Maybe I just finally had the words to write. Maybe, like that scratch, the panic that ensued didn't leave much of a mark on my fancy, new, potentially-snapped-into-place, fully-formed brain. Maybe life is now just a tiny bit slower and steadier. My personal turmoil is (for now) no longer large enough to lament about online. 

Someday, I will likely laugh about how grown I feel at this age. After all, the older I get the younger I feel. For now, though, the steadiness I feel is refreshing. The place I have made for myself is comforting. The pace I have set for myself is confident.  The years ahead are exciting.

Apologies for my absence. Sincerely. I hope it isn't eighteen months before I speak to you again. 

Graciously, 

Sam