“I don’t have a good job.”
“I don’t make enough money.”
“What if I can’t do it?”
“What if I’m not good enough?”
“I just wanna stop writing.”
“I just want—to quit.”
Welcome to my world of insecurity. Where everything good is bound to go wrong, and everything bad is bound to get worse.
I live here sometimes. Actually, I’ve resided on several occasions. When I graduated from college. When I first started performing. Even when I landed my first job. The scenery gets pretty dull after awhile so I tend to dread my visits. I’ve found, however, that it’s the one god-awful place I have to trudge through in order to get to where I want to be, which is to say, “myself.”
It’s been almost a year since I first graduated from college, and I can say with confidence that I’ve come a long way. Back then I was a shivering, slimey, new-born post-grad. I’d finally cut off the umbilical cord that fed me both quality education AND racist bullsh*t. I was happy but I was jobless.
I knew the routine the whole time:
“Get into a good school. Get good grades. Get a good career.”
Yet somewhere in between “grades” and “career” I got lost. I’d think, “What am I studying?” knowing damn well I was a journalist. “What kind of job do I want?” knowing damn well I wanted a job in corporate America (insert sarcasm here).
For lack of a better cliché, I was running on empty. I’d driven so far down one road that I didn’t know if I had enough gas to find another. Instead of wondering, I simply busted a U-ey and ended up here: http://abetspeaks.com (sorry I guess I didn’t pay enough to get the extra “www.”)
I’ve always felt like I’ve had to grow a couple more layers of skin to even think about pursuing what I love to do. When I started I didn’t have much of anything. Not even a decent laptop. All I had was my writing and bunch of miscellaneous ideas, which eventually became the videos on my (Shameless Plug) Youtube channel.
Up until now, I still get nervous about important “life-altering” decisions. I mean I’m only 22. I barely have enough money to buy a tent and pitch it in my backyard, yet alone buy my own place. I still cringe when I check my bank-account. Uncles and aunts still lecture me about getting a more “stable career” in the medical field. I even lose sleep over the pieces that I write, wondering if they’re worthy enough for you (yes you) and your intellect.
But despite the doubts about my work, the negativity that condenses into the little rain clouds hovering above my head, I have to move the hell on. I have to perform my routine, the only routine that really ever mattered in the first place:
“Get a story. Get a pen. Get it down on paper… and meanwhile, leave that stank-of-a-place called insecurity behind.”
– Abet Speaks