Girl, Whatever!

Journal 10/6/25

For a good portion of the time I spend inside my head, I try to remember if there was ever a time that I existed outside of it. Realistically speaking, I think there had to have been. Surely, somewhere in my nineteen years of life, there was a point where I was drenched in an overwhelming sense of ignorant bliss. A solid portion of my childhood where my innocence served as a shield from the inevitable endless worry that I would eventually be faced with. I have to wonder if the constant worry and overthinking is actually endless, though. If I choose to believe in a time before it, then I almost feel obligated to believe in a time after it. But then, when exactly would that time be? When do I reach a level of clarity that allows me to make peace with my worries and accept them for what they are? What if that’s just what death is? What if I have to spend my whole life worrying about getting to that moment of carelessness, and then that moment is death? Do I spend my whole life worrying about dying? What if I’m not okay with dying? What if I’m scared of it? Not even what if; I know that I’m afraid to die. What’s odd is that I’m not dying right now. The future isn’t guaranteed, but at the moment it doesn’t seem like I’ll be dying soon. There’s no reason I should need to make peace with my death at this specific moment in time. But what if the key to leaving my anxieties behind is accepting the inevitable nature of death? How will I be sure that everything I’m doing isn’t the wrong thing? If I’m not sure, how can I be okay with that? I have a million questions constantly cycling through my mind, and I’ll probably only ever answer two of them. I don’t know why I think so much, and I don’t know why all of the thinking that I do is wasted on the questions that make me feel the most scared. I get frustrated with myself because it bleeds into every part of my life. When I’m with people, when I’m alone, when I’m working, when I’m falling asleep at night, and then when I’m waking up in the morning. My questions don’t get answered just because I’m having fun. They wait patiently below the surface until I can give them my undivided attention again. Despite how things seem, I do the work I should be doing. I go to therapy, I’ve seen the psychiatrist, I talk about my feelings, I form meaningful relationships, I’m close with my family, and after all of it, I’m still my brain. Will everybody hate me if they know the way that I actually feel? If I’m honest, would they still keep me around? What if everybody already knows and they just don’t mention it? Do I stress them out? Are they trying to help me? Am I hurting them? What if I’m so self-absorbed that I’ve been an awful friend? What if I’m ruining people? Do I dull their spark? Am I a bad person? Is asking this a selfish thing to do? I feel bad, but I don’t always think that I am. I second guess myself so much that I can’t even be sure what it is that I think. I’d like to know what kind of person I am at my core. If I strip away all of it, would I find that I am just a product made up of all of my worries? Who am I without them? Do I like her? How do I know that I’m good?