I’ve never been afraid of dying; we are all making our way in that general direction, some faster than others, but at least it’s a certainty. What really keeps me up at night, tossing and turning in my bed, is being alive. Being alive, right now, on this planet, means I have to make choices–and that great abyss of unknown possibilities frightens me much more than the inevitability of death ever will.
I’ve put off applying for new jobs because I’m afraid of picking the wrong one. I’ve avoided grad school because I’m afraid of picking the wrong program. I’ve even avoided writing for months because I’m afraid of picking the wrong words. I realized this morning when I crumpled into a heap in my bathtub, shampoo and last night’s mascara running into my eyes, that I need to let go. Depression runs in my family, so over the years, I’ve often wondered if maybe I am depressed. The problem, though, is that I don’t feel sad. I don’t hate myself. I don’t feel like my life is hopeless. I am, however, completely and utterly terrified of making the wrong move. Maybe in 2014 it’ll be time to shake off my drunken haze, step out of the security of my bedroom, and fucking do something.