Existential Crisis #241

I’m hoping I’m not the only person in the world who has asked the question of who am I and why am I here and am I even worth it about 240 times, and this would make it 241. I think we’ve all been there but maybe not followed by long periods of low mood, anxiety, depression, catastrophising and intense fear. I was always told that I’m highly emotional, too sensitive and a tad on the dramatic side. I don’t even know if it’s possible to have an annual existential crisis but I sure do seem to go through it every year. I’m currently questioning my personality. Am I quiet, deep thinking, insecure, and small. Or am I opinionated, whitty, imaginative, loud. Am I both? I’m also questioning my choice of career. It hit me today that physiotherapy was a haphazard decision that I sort of landed at after a few logical deductions. But what did I really want to be and why hadn’t I become that person. Also is that person dead now, or can I still be her? I would have been a writer. In an alternate reality I studied English. And traveled, immersed myself in cultures and told stories. I harnessed the art of story telling and expanded my view. In another world I am an anthropologist of sorts: figuring out what makes a person, weaving characters together from minute and monumental detail. In an alternate universe I am free. Like a galloping wild horse or a delicate butterfly. Logic thrown out the window, passion burning an unquenchable fire in my soul. I paint not because I am a talented artist but because I live to create. I sing and write songs for days at a time with reckless abandon and not nit picking over imperfections. I make pottery because the feeling of the clay in my hands let’s me know I’m alive. I sit; breath in nature and God’s creation and let it fill me until I overflow. Oh how I want to be her and for her to be me. What happens to a dream deferred? Maybe I can merge these two Roxanne’s somehow. Maybe they can meet and share stories of their childhood, pick the most important parts and reinvent themselves. Maybe instead of beaten around and bruised I can come out of this one strong. Secure and new. Remodeled. Roxanne 241.0 

It really is true what they say: it’s easier to build strong children than repair broken (wo)men.