My life is a mess.

Well, kind of. I feel like that’s what everyone says. When I say it’s a mess, I mean that nothing has gone according to plan. And, as someone who panics a little when the bus is running two minutes late, is kind of devastating. So I’m doing what every modern young woman does in a time of crisis – I’m starting a blog.

“Crisis” is a big word, but that’s precisely why I’m using it. At 20 years old, I’m a college dropout living 3000 miles away from home, with no friends in my city, selling lotion and slinging french fries to get by. It really feels like every aspect of my life has crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces over the past year, and now I’m stuck trying to make something of what I have left.

So, record scratch, freeze frame, how did I get here?

I thought for most of my life that I’d be a performer. I started to sing after a combination of severe Anorexia, anxiety, and depression nearly took my life at 13, and I never looked back. Performing gave me a sense of confidence that I’d never had before; it made me feel strong, and joyful, and like I really belonged. It was also one of the only things that gave me a taste of normalcy in my teenage years, because for the most part they were spent learning how to correct my unhealthy thought patterns and figuring out what combination of medications would give me a sufficient level of serotonin.

I began getting some real training and doing shows with my local theatre every year, and (if I do say so myself), I became pretty damn good at it. As I reached the end of high school, I knew without question that performing was the only career I wanted to pursue. I got accepted into one of my top choices for a musical theatre-focused post-secondary program at the age of 19, and it felt like my life was starting. I packed my bags and set off to The Big City™, completely and utterly ready to make my dreams a reality.

And then everything fell apart.

Away from my home and my support system, the mental illnesses that hijacked my brain before I’d even gotten my braces off came back stronger and more ruthless than ever. What set it off initially was the realization that a career as an artist was not all glamorous dressing rooms and constant bookings. I should have known this, considering I spent a year touring with a theatre company before I began attending school, but my naiveté had me believe that once I lived in an area more saturated with theatre and once I had the proper training, I’d be on Easy Street. But believe it or not, the people who land dream roles, who get to pick and choose what shows they participate in, who make enough money to live on their own while still having time for a night out with friends, are the exception and not the norm.

As the reality of a career in the arts became clearer to me, the instability and sporatic-ness of work that this career would entail sent my anxiety on a rampage. I spent most of my second semester of school with a dark cloud over my head. I was barely functioning. One minor inconvenience could set off a full-blown panic attack. I entered each and every day feeling like I was walking on eggshells, on top of stilts, on top of a unicycle, on top of a tightrope. (Sounds extreme, but those of you who have ever experienced an anxiety disorder will get it).

I felt the anxiety in my body, too – I had a permanent, piercing stomachache that prevented me from eating a lot of the time. I lost weight, noticeably, and even though I was (am) still at a healthy BMI, the change upset my parents because they worried my ED would take over again once I moved away. I didn’t know how to explain to them that, no, I wasn’t deliberately restricting my calories, it’s just that I was so nauseous and stressed all the time that the mere thought of food was enough to make me gag. Because that’s so much better than starving on purpose.

 I lost sight of why I wanted to pursue music in the first place. In a lot of ways, I felt just like I did when I was 13 – terrified, of everything, cripplingly insecure, and constantly trying to determine and control the way things would turn out, even though doing so is impossible and always makes the stress worse. Music, the thing that was once my escape from the incessant cycle of psychiatrist visits and therapy sessions, instead became the very source of my distress, all within a matter of months. I quickly came to the conclusion that, should I continue, a career in the arts could quite literally kill me.

So I dropped out. I dropped out, but I didn’t move home because part of me was too proud to let anyone back home see me fail at a career that many of them didn’t believe in in the first place. Coming home felt like a walk of shame, as if I was saying “You all were right, singing isn’t a ‘real’ job.” I couldn’t expect anyone to understand that the career was just the tip of the iceberg.

That, and I fell in love with the city. I loved its vibrancy and loved the independence that being here grants me. I knew whatever I decided to do, I would be able to find a way to do it here.

Which leads me to now. It’s important to note that overall, mentally, I’m doing okay. I’m certainly not where I want to be, but I’m better than I was a few months ago, I’m healing, and I’m okay. I’m not in school, but I’m starting back at a “real” college in the fall, to study something that will hopefully bring me some satisfaction without ruining my life in the process. I picked up a couple of part-time jobs to help cover rent during the summer. But honestly, that’s about it. I didn’t really make any close friends at school, because, funnily enough, channeling all of your energy into not breaking down every day can really impact your social life. I’ve been spending a lot of time self-reflecting, trying to be more invested in how I take care of myself, trying to learn how to cope with my (sometimes) dysfunctional brain when I don’t have my parents next to me or my therapist a 3-minute drive from my house. This has led me to ask myself some hard questions, and I tend to take to writing to sort it all out.

I also realized that something I’ve always wanted to do is share my experiences with other people, perhaps out of narcissism, but (at least I like to think) it’s more out of a desire to show other people that it’s okay to feel like you have no idea what the fuck is going on. I think it’s really important to see the ugly, messy side of other people’s lives, especially in an age where every little detail is Facetuned and wrapped up with a pretty little bow and a heart emoji before being broadcast out to the world.

I don’t know exactly what I want this blog to be yet, I just know I need a space to compile all the weird feelings I have about figuring out my place in the world. My growing pains, if you will. It could be in the form of a poem, a journal entry, or even just unorganized word vomit that I felt I needed to get off my chest. It’s gonna be weird, and messy, and candid, and complicated, just like the girl behind it.

So, whether you use this page as a source of inspiration for your own journaling, as a way to temporarily escape the bullshit in your own life by reading about the bullshit in mine, or if you’re from my high school and you want to make fun of the weird theatre kid who now thinks she’s important enough to share her life story online, I’m happy to have you here.