"Raise your hand if you want this job."
Silence.
(Even the crickets are afraid to make an appearance - or a peep - in this story...)
So, here's the dealio:
I studied psychology because I found it interesting; it intrigued me. I've always been a curious little midget, wondering why certain things happen, why we act a certain way, etc. (I actually used to go up in a tree with a notebook and binoculars to study my neighbors.) So, being the hard-working student that I've always been (I felt too guilty even taking a sick day in elementary school, I didn't want to get behind on homework
However, the study of psychology is quite different from the practice of psychology, and
I am just now starting to realize that I may have very little desire, or ability, in helping others with their problems. This isn't to be mistaken with lacking a heart - I am 86% certain that I do have one - I just don't know if I'm cut out for this role or profession.
I began college with hopes of majoring in English and Education. The funny thing is, I graduated with neither a major nor minor in either of those departments.
I've always enjoyed writing, and if I'm being honest, I think I am fairly good at it. I started writing poetry when I was eight years old, and wrote a notebook-sized novel when I was twelve. I'm not saying these pieces of writing were impressively well-written; I am merely stating that my penchant for writing began early on in life. I enjoy trying to find the right words to express something. Words, when carefully crafted, chosen, and organized, have an amazing ability to illuminate our souls, to bring to the surface these ideas and emotions floating around in our bodies. It's as if our emotions are fish, swimming aimlessly in the sea, and a good writer is able catch them, reel them in, and show them to us.
Actually, this isn't exlusive to writers. I often find this in music and art as well. Sometimes I listen to a song and think, "Wow, that is exactly how I feel." The melody, the harmonies, the tempo...all comes together and somehow manages to reel in those emotions and expose them to our ears. It's quite amazing. An artist may have a painting, and you think, "Wow, this is how I picture love. This, right here." It could be a painting of an old couple holding hands on a bench, or it could be an abstract combination of swirls, lines, and colors. Whatever it is, it manages to express the seemingly unexpressable.
So, there seems to be two sides of me:
1. The Rachel who thinks she should be a good little psychology student and continue on her merry way towards a graduate degree in psychology or social service, and enter a field she may or may not care to pursue.
2. The Rachel who enjoys writing and wants to pursue that avenue more, but knows that all writers are crazy, poor, lonely, or some madly genius combination of the three.
In a nutshell, being in a quarter-life crisis sucks. I am unemployed and not sure what path to take in life. I desperately want a job that I not only succeed in, but that brings me personal enjoyment and satisfaction - a job that taps into my inner passion and talents.
Yet, I have this terrible, terrible fear that I will thoroughly SUCK at whatever career I choose, and I refuse to be less than mediocre, and I never want to be a poser or a fake. I'm just too f*cking scared to make any decisions right now, because I don't want to go down the wrong path. Yet, I don't even know if there is a right or wrong path. I just have this fear, and it paralyzes me from being able to take any step forward right now.
Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
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"Writing is easy. You just open up an artery and bleed." -- Red Smith
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