*Hi there, this is just a piece of writing about how I've been feeling lately. I do not expect everyone to read it, certainly not those who've come here primarily for vintage fashion, but it felt cathartic to write and share (regardless of whether it's read or not). To those who are knew to my blog, thank you so much for stopping by and I assure you I'll return to vintage in my next few posts. Thank you*
Aside from holidaying and general busyness, the reason I
have been away from blogging has been fear.
Fear that I will not complete what I want, will not achieve
the goals I have set, will not have lived the way I want to live.
It is not a fear specific to blogging, nor even writing in
particular, though I guess that’s what has brought it on.
This year marks my fourth year at uni and as it is, my
honours year. I’m expected to create a thesis, 15 thousand words of something
meaningful and impressive. Something that I can study for a year and something
I, alone, can create.
But I can’t. I am paralysed with indecision and emptiness;
and with that I am full of fear.
I work at a retirement village, it is my first and only job,
one that I have keep for over six years and I like it, I really do. Sure, the primary reason I have it is to pay
the rent so to speak, but I do find joy in it besides the money. I really like
talking to the residents about their lives. I like learning their names, their
perks and quirks and I like hearing about their day. I like thinking I make a
difference (even if it’s a small one) by smiling and laughing with them each
week. I like learning from them.
But, as to be expected, there are quite a few sad and
unavoidable things that come with working at an aged care facility.
Though I do not work in high-care (like a nursing home, yes
there is a difference) some people who live here do suffer dementia, some Alzheimer’s,
some Parkinson’s, some suffer from different types of depression, anxiety or
disorders. Quite a few have physical disabilities.
But, I want to be clear. Despite all of this, the village is
a mostly a happy place. It is not a cage where the elderly are hidden away. It
is not a prison or a cuckoo’s nest. It is their home, just like yours. What
makes these people incredible is that they don’t focus on what they lack or the
problems they have. They do not focus on the years they have lost. They do not
dwell on what makes them unhappy. They just live like the rest of us; better
than most of us really!
But yes, there are some sad things.
And yes, some people die here.
But this is not what I fear, really.
I mean yes, it does terrify me. Death, dying is terrifying,
but I think the reason I’m so petrified is that I will die having completed nothing.
I avoid thinking about it. I concentrate on frivolities,
like fashion and current trashy television. I rigorously follow the plots of several
dramas, comedies and crime shows. I fill my day with chores, errands,
meaningless nothings, but nothings which feel important enough at the time. And
when the fear nibbles my toes, I pull them tight up into my bed and hug the
sheets till my fear melts into the shadows unable to reach me.
But my fear is there, and it is furiously strong. Strong
enough to wake me up in a sweat, so that my panting wakes my partner in worry. Strong
enough to chill me while I wait for a coffee and overhear another person’s
ambitious plans. Strong enough to make me write about it, again and again. Editing.
Always editing, hopelessly wishing I could edit my life too.
And it reaches me at the most unexpected times. On the
train, in public; I strangle my tongue so my tears aren’t noticed by the
stranger’s backs across from me.
I ask, what to do?
I ask it again and again and again. As a question, as a
plea, as a silent prayer and as a resignation.
What can I do?
What do I do?
Help.
I do not want to finish incomplete.
And as my deadline for a thesis steadily draws nearer, the
only thing that is clear is that I cannot do nothing.
