I hate that really sweet, little voice.
Truth is, folks: I'm scared as all alkjdfoiwelkjaldkfjoiusljl.
Making future plans and carrying them out can oftentimes be two horses that are coloured very differently.
i.e. I make the plan to apply to my university of choice to study my degree field of choice and don't get accepted/can't find a way to make money in the meantime/get drug out of the country by my hair whilst kicking and screaming.
All-in-all, discover a few, oh, minor dead-ends that might just result in total and utter disappointment.
Being that total and utter disappointment is something I am never fond of facing, I usually take the mature road and ignore whatever it is that is bothering me, don't talk about it with anyone, proceed with business as normal, think I have the whole world fooled and everything in the hand until someone mistakenly and unknowingly poses the question of, "So what are your plans after this?" and I hear a voice coming form my innermost depths (that suuuuurely is someone else) saying, "I DON'T KNOW BUT YOU DANCING ON MY BACK ABOUT IT PROBABLY ISN'T GOING TO GET US ANYWHERE NOW, IS IT?!?!"
And it's then that I realize that I might be a teensy bit stressed about those "future plans."
To avoid any such mishaps this time around, I have decided to try a new and different approach.
I started off by crying.
I am NOT a crier but, seeing that that whole bottled-up-emotions tactic was leading me nowhere, I ventured to the movie theatre to see the new Baz Lehrman film, "Australia" and hoped/prayed/pleeeeeaded that it would be horribly devastating, that every character might die, and that I would be brought to tears.
I figured this might help.
Well I cried all right.
And then got mad because I couldn't stop crying and because I was beginning to feel that all my searching to "feel" was just a bit over-the-top for me and that I was better off not having cried for three and a half bloody hours during a film featuring witch doctors and kangaroos. I felt like a fraud. I had stolen the crying-in-movies joy from the true diehards around me by crying louder and longer than all the rest of them.
I suggest never trying this method of therapy as you feel like a big phony afterwards and then you're just the big phony with the red nose, puffy eyes, hoarse voice, and a fantastic headache. Extremely unprofessional.
And those diehards all know you're a phony, too. They KNOW.
My second approach was to communicate with my mother a bit more about what it is that was bothering me and apply the mother-daughter rule of asking mom for advice. Cause moms always know, right?
After a few instances strongly resembling the aforementioned scenario of polite-question-from-innocent-bystander-awarded-with-a-swift-kick-to-the-knees, I feel like I am getting a bit better in the daughterseekingadvice department and that is mainly due to the fact that my mother is in the US, I am in Germany and she can't smack me a good one for acting like a madwoman.
That and she's unbelievably patient with me.
In keeping with the name of the game and being fair to the blogging public, I should include that my third approach was definitely one Vodka Gorbatschow.
He's a swell chap and he does you proud until he leaves you the next morning and you realize that the "sweet nothings" he had been whispering to you the night before were all in your head and that he had had actually been beating you with your shoes.
Be all this as it very well may:
I am recording on here that my future plans are very tentative, that I am applying for this and that university and applying for this and that job and looking for this and that place to stay.
I'm sure that, as situations arise, that I will feel more comfortable talking about the huge elephant that has been standing over me, staring at me, drilling holes in my head, for the past few weeks, and I will be a little more specific. But, for now, don't ask for specifics.
Specifics I can't do. Specifics I won't do. At least not right now.
After all, I'm still a work in progress and it's baby steps, people. Baby. Steps.