too comfortable

Today I am angry.

I am angry at all those books I read when I was younger, the books that talked about people growing up and having rites of passages and falling in love and picking themselves back up when hearts break. I am angry because they led me to believe that I had Growing Up all figured out so that I could know what to expect with my own growing up. I knew everything and deceived myself into thinking I understood everything, but knowing and understanding are two different things. And now everything is finally happening to me and I feel like a baby roughly torn from its umbilical cord with no warning at all.

I am also angry at the concept of relying on experience, and measuring yourself against the progress of the status quo, of all those philosophies and manuals and articles that pat me on the back and tell me, "This is what you need to work on to be a better person. This is what other people have done to succeed. You are not alone." Because I recognize their truth but for some reason I can't bring myself to believe it just yet and it's bothering me that I still feel so alone and so flawed!

I am angry that I find so much to be angry about when there's nothing wrong with my life except for dissatisfaction because I've lived my twenty years in a bubble and now I feel like one of those children who were given too many antibiotics as infants and now can't touch anything without getting deathly ill. I hate that I've been so lucky because more and more I'm getting the feeling that my luck is going to run out.

I want also to stop being angry. I want people to tell me to pet me on the head and I want to curl up in bed and sleep these years off. And in a few months I will reread these words and feel sick to my stomach, and I will want to delete this blog. It always happens that way.