It's Hard to Be Happy

In my last blog post, back in January, I summed up how the fall semester had gone by saying that I let things slip. I felt behind. I wasn't making as much progress as I wanted to.

Three months later, I'm doing better.

More obligations = more motivation, and I've been keeping busy with assorted lit courses, preparations for my trip to Greece this summer, and working as copy-editor on our campus literary journal. I've been working out regularly, writing something [almost] every day, remembering to call my family more, and just in general I have been more on top of things.

This culminated in a night about a week ago where I felt cautiously optimistic about myself as an individual, about my prospects as a writer, and about life in general. "I'm not perfect, but I'm doing ok."

Of course, I was tackled the following day with anxiety about all my insecurities, particularly worries about the future, my career, etc.

I started my workout planning to think about my WIP, and instead my brain hit me with all those stupid questions: "Why don't you have a polished manuscript yet? What the heck are you going to do for a living? What are you freaking doing with your life?"

Suddenly, reminders of those worries started popping up everywhere--in the books I read for class, in an essay I needed to copy-edit, in Tumblr posts that crop up, everywhere.

I still feel like I'm currently in a better state than last semester, but that doesn't eliminate the absolute suckishness of having doubts about the future, and my self-worth, and everything else.

Trying to hang onto the positives. Stay optimistic. But it can be so hard to be happy sometimes.