BREATH AND REBOOT

I'm not sure if I have made it apparent enough in what has felt like countless recollections of how this year has pro(or re)gressed, but I'm not necessarily all that happy with where I'm at. As easy as it feels to jump to the assumption that obviously I wouldn't be entirely content with having moved back to the exact location I took out four years of dozen-thousand-dollar loans and a college degree to get away from, within the last few days alone it has really struck me how muvh deeper, and less easy to fix, the root of my problem is. 

At first it seemed like simple loneliness. Quickly transitioning from a life of constant socialization, productivity, and places to go, to a significantly quieter, drastically less social, and unfortunately less productive way of life that I was perhaps not as ready to adapt to as I would have liked to be. Admittedly, I did, to a certain degree, expect it to feel this way - a kind of solemn isolation I had once kind of adored that I figured would catch back up to me at some point. But you always have that little shred of hope that you'll figure it out. And now I'm beginning to feel that that hope was more aligned with a sense of delusion; a sense of delusion that I'm also beginning to think allowed me to settle. I haven't settled in every way, I still have the aspirations I have always held at the forefront of every move, but settle in a way that has affected how hard I work to reach it. I have high hopes and low expectations, which have come in handy on numerous occasions. I'm not someone who will always be chasing the next rung of the ladder, never satisfied with where I currently am. But in this case, I think the amount of "realistic" thinking I have been apart of has created what I could only describe as failure. 

When I first arrived back to the place I once again call home, I justified my unfortunate return with a strict and concise schedule. I planned on making a certain amount of money, move out by a certain date, work a certain amount of days. I planned what jobs I'd get, what experience I would have to add to my resume by the time I moved forward to find a more career centered job. But what's more, I planned on what I'd on my free time - making clothes on these days, writing on these days, sketching and draping and decorating and painting. I'd work out harder than ever, "what else will I have to do?" I tell my college friends time and time again, cementing that I will not be the only one with high expectations of this next year in my life. It's not like I was solely shooting for the stars, but more so shooting to land among them, given the time I had at my disposal. The downside of planning in advance is that no matter how realistic you think you're being, you still aren't ready for the harsh reality. And the reality is I've failed. I've failed to land even the lowest of low grade jobs, I haven't made even a scrap of the money I had hoped to have earned at this point, garnered zero of the long term experience, I hardly write anymore - at least not in any substantial manner - and I currently stare down the barrel of a sleeve pattern that no amount of math nor restructuring will allow to fit within the arm hole it was measured to be sewn into. The worst part is, it is entirely my fault. 

This is not a result of some systemic disposition to keep me away from the future I crave. I'm not being overlooked or oversimplified. The simple truth that I have come to face is that Im simply not as good as I'd like to be - or much worse, not as good as I thought I was. The last few months have been a non-stop struggle of what I feel, what I deserve, and what I need. I feel like lying down, I deserve to be noticed, and I need to work harder. I am in a near constant debate with myself, deciding if what I'm doing, and what I've done, is enough - enough to get me where I want to be, enough to feel productive for the day, enough to know that I am still trying. The worst part is that the harder I grow to be on myself, the less motivated I seem to actually get anything done. Writing productivity is at an all-time low, and sewing capabilities seem to have completely halted within the last week alone. I don't care to work out, run, or walk. I don't want to sell or make clothes, much less post blogs about it. The pressure that I alone am placing upon myself is too much for me to reach the high expectations that I alone hold. I simply refuse to have it the easy way. When it really comes down to it, all I need to be doing right now is making money, the one achievement I actually am contributing to, though admittedly not as quickly as I may have liked. But unlike school, a job is, in most cases, just that: a job. I don't leave work feeling fulfilled, as if I have just completed a pivotal step in attaining my lifelong dreams; all I did was clock in and then text my manager because I forgot to clock out. And that deepseated itch - that craving - to feel like, even if I am as far from it as I ever have been, I did something worth bragging about with my day, has continued to be left unscratched.  

Without an entire world of forceful motivation, it becomes exponentially harder to feel like you've done anything at all. Yes, I've made some clothes, applied for some jobs, and written some blogs, but I've also been doing that since I was 19, and have little to show for it after all this time. I need that zest I once had - non-stop encouragement and inspiration just from living the life I was. For weeks, I've been feeling simply bad. Bad that I havent made it to New York, mad I havent made it in my career, mad that I have made it. But just recently this week, I had a conversation from a different part of my life, though one that has felt equally lack-luster. In the midst of my new-found solidarity, the "friends" setting that some dating apps have begun to offer has been, at least, mindlessly entertaining. It goes without saying that dating apps in general carry very little in the way of mentally stimulating conversations, but every so often, you encounter a diamond in the rough; a normal person, capable of mainting a normal conversation.  Alex and I chatted for a solid few minutes, exchanging life stories of the most summarized variety, and eventually getting into the less mundane acticitivies of our day to day lives. It didnt take long for the conversation to get real, and quickly we began exchanging stories about the post-grad life. The pressure, the motivation, the fear I have spent the previous four paragraphs diving into in graphic detail. He empathized with my craving for a routine, something to keep me consistently locked into the potential future I hope to live out sooner rather than later. And he responded with "You can't force it - it never lasts".

Simple as the notion is, it was a thought that had never occured to me. Trying hard, and trying often felt like a given. To build a routine, a habit, a schedule, you have to force yourself into it at first before the rest falls into place. It seemed so logical to me, that I had never thought to question why I always fall back out of it; until now. When you exists (almost exclusively) in an environment that promotes how hard one must work to achieve their goals - or rather, how hard one must constantly work to hopefully, one day, have a chance at achieving their goals - your brain becomes hardwired to accept little else as reality. And though it is the case that, especially within the fashion and writing worlds, you do need to work very hard for a very long time, I have spent the last four years thinking about little else. Every moment feels wasted, every project not nearly good enough. It is an endless on-going battle to impress the hardest critic - myself - to the point that even now, working enough and making enough money, I still feel like I am wasting time by not working on fashion and writing every waking moment. And in that conversation, with a little man on my little phone, casually discussing the ups and downs of college and the fallout, something finally broke through; a realization. A realization that I had, indeed, been forcing it for quite some time. 

It seems ironic to complain about the pressure I put on myself while simultainiously failing to meet any of the daily goals said pressure had put in place. But the reality is, since Bumble BFF unintentionally struck a nerve with me some odd few weeks ago, the motivation I have been feeling for the last few months has finally begun to synch up with an actual desire to do it. This is where the root of my own, and Im sure others, problems lied. It wasnt that I wasn't actually failing. I havent lost the passion for fashion I always had, I still love writing more than the words I write can express, and whats best is, now that I have slowly been removing the pressure to do it all, I'm beginning to remember how much I love it. I havent forced myself to write things I dont care to share, nor sew something I wouldnt even wear myself. For the first time in a while, I can feel myself actually enjoying the things I hope to spend the rest of my life doing, and much to my own surprise, a routine has begun to form in it's wake. I still need to do it. I need to write and I need to sew and I need to do it regularly, what I dont need, is the constant harsh pressure to exceed at it right away. Thats the biggest privilege, and most overlooked aspect of my life right now, I can do things for the love of it. I dont