Real Life Wednesday: What’s Your Passion?

Want to know something wild?

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These Wednesday posts. When I share whatever I feel and write about things I do and love, whether it’s important or dumb, the minute I go to hit publish? EXTREME ANXIETY. Like wake-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night anxiety.

Like, anxiety that necessitates texting a friend and needing reassurance. Anxiety that has me telling Eddie before he walks out the door that “there is no way I’m posting this!” because I just feel… weird.

The truth is that they make me feel super uncomfortable, open, vulnerable and exposed. Like, hey! Hit me! I’m telling you even more about alllll the things in my life.

But. It’s forcing me to go outside of my comfort zone. I am loving the feeling of feeling uncomfortable, except I also sort of hate it. A lot. Then I wonder how I can grow (as a person, as a writer, as a freak) if I am not forcing myself to do things that make me feel uneasy. This is one way. Even though it makes me want to punch myself in the face at the same time.

I’ve found that this is where I can write whatever junk I want to write about, the things I am crazy passionate about – other than food but still sometimes about food that I might not make. More about life and less about omgs and imobsessed and I made this pizza and you have to try it before I lose my mind. You know?

I’ve been passionate about writing for almost my entire life, though it’s gone in and out. I’ve talked about this to death but what I was a kid, I’d spend hours writing “stories” in notebooks – basically my versions of Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley High. I would get so wrapped up in those stories and my own that I’d have a tough time focusing on real life. (Obvi not much has changed.)

When I was in sixth grade, I’d sit in front of the computer (which was pretty new at the time) and type up little poems and stories about love and heartbreak, because apparently at the age of eleven I was heartbroken.

It wasn’t a major loss. Trust me. I don’t even think my mom was freaked out by my weird writings. I think I was just pretending to be a tortured artist.

I journaled often – um, my favorite entries are the ones when I was clearly angry and ripped open a page and wrote mean things about my brothers. It was so hilarious but so drives home the point that I physically CAN’T get things out of my mind/heart unless I write them down. Happy or sad. Angry or elated. You know the drill.

It’s not like I write any great literary works of art and I sure could benefit from a good long sesh with a thesaurus and probably even a dictionary. But that’s not the point.

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I don’t even know if I can’t explain how I feel about writing. Writing notes, writing my thoughts, writing stories, writing daily ramblings to invisible internet friends – all of it. It stirs something up inside me but makes me feel at home at the same time. I feel physically full when I can’t write. My head isn’t clear, I’m generally overwhelmed and to be oh so completely cliché, I don’t feel complete! For real.

I want to say something here a la Ryan Gosling in The Notebook and how it awakens my soul but that would be taking it too far. Maybe. But it’s true! Exclamation points and all.

Towards the end of high school and all through college, I pretty much ditched writing. Like, writing anything. I obviously had to write papers (which was something I never minded) but for enjoyment or release or therapy or growth… it wasn’t happening. Being (or wanting to be) social took over. Before I went to college, my parents tried to get me to major in English or some form of creative writing to which I would (literally) scream WHAT!! THAT IS SO BORING! THAT’S NOT ME! And that was that. I wasn’t interested.

When I first started my blog, it was like… lightbulb. Hello, brightest lightbulb ever. A few weeks in I went over to my parents’ house, sat in the kitchen and bawled like a freaking baby. Like ugly cry, can’t breath cry, hiccup cry. I was wailing I JUST LOVE WRITING SO MUCH! And all I was doing was talking about recipes. But it was enough for me.

I know. So dramatic. I think that comes with the passion thing.

I take passion to another level… except for the things I don’t care about. Then I’m apathetic. Basically, I’m passionate to a fault.

So me.

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{I can’t find the original source of this photo – if you know it, please share.}

I’m rambling on about all of this today because I’m so curious. What are you passionate about? I will admit that I am such a passion-driven person (read: not rationally driven, hint hint) that I have a difficult time understanding when others aren’t passionate. I mean, doesn’t everyone have to be head over heels about something?!?! I think it makes living, like… worth it. It’s what makes me work really hard every day.

As invisible internet BFFs, I’m kind of dying to know what makes you tick. What makes you wake up in the morning or what is it that you HOPE to wake up in the morning for one day?

If I am not doing something I’m passionate about, it eats me alive from inside. Lots of people don’t understand. I’m paralyzed if I’m not following it.  Okay well. I don’t mean like in a Hannah-from-GIRLS type of way. But you know. Do I make sense? Probably not. Hey! Maybe next week I’ll not write ten thousand words. Something I am not passionate about: expressing myself in a few sentences.