I have a disease. It’s called the one year desperate disease.
Ok, I may have made up that disease, but regardless it frequently shows up in my life. Every year to be exact.
I move. I start something new. And for one year, I am on top of the world. Life wouldn’t dare getting better because my happiness couldn’t be crushed. This is it. I would think. This is what my life is supposed to look like.
But, how silly of me, right? I am a single 25 year old female with an insatiable hunger for adventure. My life will never be what “it’s supposed to look like”. It’s going to look like a huge mess that I somehow manage to hold together with my sense of humor and God.
You see, I get desperate each year. I panic because I realize that something in my life isn’t where it’s supposed to be. I fixate on that misplaced idea, desire. or passion until it engulfs my entire brain and I can’t go through a day without feeling that desperate sinking feeling.
And then I realize that when I say desperate, I really am pointing to a hopelessness in some situation. This could manifest itself in situations regarding my job, my friends, my (lack of) relationships, or just my growth as a person. For a time, I feel hopeless in that situation. I’ve dealt with it using all of my strength, until I’ve worn myself down to a pathetic version of myself and what remains is such a little hope of succeeding.
I shouldn’t be surprised when this stuff creeps back into my life, but every year, it leaves me feeling empty all over again.
There’s no happy ending here.
I’m still trying to fix it up, and the holes are getting harder and harder to cover up with the flimsy patches and pretty soon, I’m going to have to rip apart the whole thing.
But, I’m convinced I’ll survive.