My boyfriend bought tickets to the Graspop fesitval in Belgium, which will take place late June (holy shit!).
I’m totally excited about it, though as I was contemplating it this past weekend, I felt an overwhelming sense of panic. It didn’t really hit me until late on Saturday evening, as I was getting ready for my nap. I didn’t completely understand what was happening, but I felt some sort of nuclear explosion of confusion and disarray.
I consulted with the inner child, as I was pretty sure she was feeling the reverb of the explosion and probably had a clearer sense of what the fuck just happened.
“It’s too much. Too many things,” she said. “And everything is new. It’s frightening.”
It’s true. In fact, it is pretty overwhelming when there is a lot going on, and this lot is a bunch of new experiences I’ve never had or haven’t had for a long time.
Though my friend thinks that since I’ve been with my boyfriend for over a month now, he’s no longer my “new” boyfriend – he’s still new to me. Especially as he’s the first guy I’ve been with in three years.
Besides that, there’s the Graspop festival which will be the first metal fest I’ve ever been to. Then, there’s the prospect of a new job, and I’m already freaking out about the interview, and how much I don’t wanna fuck it up. Then, there’s the horrid possibility that our apartment will be sold and we’ll have to move out and look for a new place, and there is no way in hell that we’ll ever find an apartment as awesome as the one we live in. Then, there’s the holidays with the parents and the wedding and the family events and the new Arch Enemy record, and probably a whole bunch of other stuff I can’t wrap my head around because then it’ll explode… again.
The fact that some of these things are positive and some are negative is irrelevant. The fact that they’re all new is what’s causing this panic spiked with atomic radiation.
I tried rationalizing it – all beginnings are tough; it’s the fear of the unknown; baby steps; easy does it; insert another cheesy cliche here – but it was still a cockroach-case for me. Scared shitless.
I can’t eat. I feel like an active grenade. It could be PMS, but you know what? I’m sick of blaming my menstrual cycle every time I feel some sort of emotional discomfort. I’m overwhelmed like a kid under a Christmas tree, trying to make up her mind on which present to unwrap first, knowing that some of them may contain anthrax. PMS has nothing to do with it.
The saga continues…
Peace, love and I’ll buy new sheets to match the fuckery.