It’s that age old tale. The spoon they feed you whenever you’re down in the dumps feeling like life can only get further down the gurgler from here. A metaphorical clean state designed to give you the freedom to build whatever floats your row boat…
Or in my case, gives you crippling anxiety because
Has your life ever gotten to the point where you look around yourself and think; how did I end up here? And more importantly, how the holy heck do I get myself out of it?
(Or at least a less dramatic; I’m not so smitten with my job/location/lack of progress on anything goals related and I’m really not okay with that?)
Because for me, 2017 has been a consistent ride of shitter-than-burnt-toast moments and that feeling of moving further and further and further away from what’s important and where I once saw my life heading.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s been at least one really great moment that changed my life completely this year and is worth a good deal of that burnt toast. But that tiny, hopeful, innocent part of my not-yet-completely-tarnished-by-the-current-state-of-the-world brain would like to believe I can have my cake and eat it too. Because otherwise what’s the point in cake?
What’s the point in knowing exactly what I want, what makes me happy and is undeniably the only kind of purpose my pitiful existence will ever have, if I can’t have it? Am I entitled to a do-over on opening a door that’s been continually slammed in my face for my entire adult life? Sure, a few times I may have opened it and only stuck a finger in, but when I did go the whole hog and run at the brick wall in search of the platform to that magical castle, I ended up with nothing more than a bruised confidence no brick could find enough force to inflict.
Is it really starting again if you’re just taking a new fork in the road after standing still for so long your legs almost turned to stone? Or is there even such a thing as a new beginning? Maybe, we’re all just telling ourselves we have a destiny on the horizon that if we work hard enough one day will be in reach, if only to justify our own sense of self-importance.
Honestly, I feel like I have no answers to any of life’s questions. I feel like I’m going to be continuously slogging down this path until I’m 80 years old and no closer to getting there than I was when I spent my days writing about the relationship between Harry and Draco, before that was a thing. But if there is such thing as a fresh start I’m going to take it.
A clean slate on the way I see and portray myself as a woman and an author. A brand new outlook on what I can and can’t change. And most importantly, a fuck load of dedication towards this crazy obsession that is the only way to maintain my sanity, my reason to exist in this ridiculous world and the only career I’ve ever wanted since I realised money didn’t grow on trees and that I don’t want to work myself to the grave cleaning up spilled mugachinos for a living.
So this is it; the new and improved Hannah Stait Wurth, love her or hate her, no more apologising, no more excuses, just good old fashion words and fiction.