The Queen Has Arrived, and She’s Anxious AF
I spend a lot of time thinking about what I love, planning on how to do what I love, strategising on the best ways to get to point where there are no geographical, mental or emotional boundaries that hinder me from doing what I love. What I don’t spend a lot of time doing is what I love.
Exhibit A: The idea for a web series has been marinating in my brain this summer. I have scenes, moments I at least think are entertaining, characters that are sympathetic and flawed enough to be real but oop! Nothing written.
Exhibit B: I can’t remember the last time I sang. Instead, I’ve been pretending my favourite songs are… actually mine. Peep this: after prolonged internet buzz around this mysterious, always-well-dressed, vocally and physically beautiful singer (read: me), I finally perform Child’s Play (it’s a comment on male performativity) and Two Weeks (yes, I still listen to it religiously) at Coachella, or the Grammy’s. Maybe even Glastonbury as part of a glorious and emotional homecoming. It doesn’t matter that these two songs would make for a highly inconsistent, abruptly short set. Or that I don’t rap and my vocal style is wildly different from FKA Twigs. This is the dream, and I’ve had two-hour commutes from Williamsburg where I temporarily worked to Long Island where I temporarily stay, listening to only these two songs on repeat. It’s terribly embarrassing.
I dream, sometimes out loud, always whilst awake, because actually doing what I love scares me. It terrifies me so much I’m rendered useless, frozen in front of a computer screen unable to write, silent in a quiet room, anxious my natural voice will take up too much space. So very concerned about my shit not being ‘good enough,’ I ensure my shit doesn’t exist. It’s high key self-sabotage. It’s equally crippling and ridiculous.
As much as it feels like, I know that I’m not alone here.
Since graduating from a PWI (only!) two months ago, I’ve been living at my aunt’s house on the other side of Queens, applying to and not hearing back from jobs, going on pitiful runs (it’s currently too hot to step outside, so not my fault), sending out the least annoying emails I can, venturing to the city often, and worrying/comparing myself to others way too much. I had 0–100 plans when I graduated, but I thought I would be steadier by now, with an emotional, as well as physical, home base. I thought I would have some form of imposed structure, knowing that it allows me to be more creatively productive than having a whole stretch of a day ahead of me. I knew this shit would be hard, but I thought I would be happier. And no part of me could be prepared for the psychological effects of rootlessness. Trying to be an artist/writer on a very restrictive F-1 visa? LOL. K, girl.
Despite the effects of general anxiety disorder, aka shame at not figuring my whole life out in two months, I’m #stillhere. I’ll certainly continue dreaming Drake lyrics (it’s a problem). I shall also try to forget the comforts of citizenship. I’ll try to focus on myself in comparison to myself only. And I shall try to write the bad side of my brain away in a somewhat topical fashion, hopefully without too many crippling weeks in between. This is exactly, kind of, not really what Medium is for, right?
This is all to say: the queen has arrived, and she’s anxious as fuck, and if you know any cool kids into creative writing, film or music in NYC, hmu.