You're only free when you're asleep, baby.

In the wake of what feels like my world crumbling around me, I am faced with a very difficult question.

What do I want to be?

I thought I had figured this out.

I never much worried about the meaning of life when I was young. It was always a non-issue to me. It's funny, looking back. How often I saw things like that.

At the age of 12 I thought I had my life figured out. I guess we all do.

I thought I understood things. I thought that things like songs and books that didn't resonate me were because I was above them, but they were above me.

"Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage" is a lyric I have heard since my youth. But it never spoke to me until I was an extremely angry young adult realizing that my anger could never itself change my circumstances.

I never understood so many songs. I never understood what it was like to be so angry at an unfair system. To be in love. To be lost. To feel trapped and not by school, or curfew, or lack of a car.

I could get in my focus right now and drive. But where would I go?

California. Chicago. New Orleans.

And then I would be somewhere on the road. Penniless. Unemployed. Lost.

Alone.

I never anticipated I'd be at a point in my life where I had a boyfriend. And we loved each other. And were adults. And still couldn't just get married on a whim.

He asks me what I want to do. Kids, right? But what about before then? What am I going to do before and during and after motherhood? Who am I?

And I don't know.

Anyone who knows me is going to say CAKES. CAKES, IDIOT.

And I like cake.

But I also hate cake.

I am good at cake decorating. Not incredible. Better than you, probably. But it is not my passion. And sometimes it makes me a little angry that people assume that about me. You know me so vaguely that you think all I am, all I can be is a cake decorator.

But how can I blame you? What am I without it? Who are we without our vocations?

I made $11.38 an hour as a decorator. For a full shift I consistently worked 9:30-6. Occasionally 7-3:30. Never closed. Never stayed later than 8pm (except for one very strange overnight shift where I worked from 5pm-1:30am, but we don't talk about that. It was exceptional.). And I got to be creative. And I got to make about $800 a month, part time, after taxes.

I also used to have panic attacks in the morning before work. And those went away, mostly. But sometimes I ran late despite living down the street, because I couldn't get my emotional shit together and be normal. And I had constant anxiety over the inconsistent schedule. Because while 9:30-6 is a constant, I had to come in on unscheduled days regularly. They paid me. I'm not saying I was exploited. It was fine. But it was overwhelming, and since we were only scheduled a week at a time anyway, it was very very stressful to receive a schedule I couldn't trust. On top of that, I highly prioritize having Sundays off of work. If you don't, that's fine, but that's one thing that is very important to me for a number of reasons. And weekends are the busiest time for food. And as a decorator I needed Full Flexibility, which basically meant I had to cross my fingers and trust my boss every week.

I haven't had a full-fledged panic attack since I quit my job a few months ago. I have come close. I have gotten overwhelmed, and I have felt anxious. But I have not had a huge meltdown in a shockingly long time for me.

I loved my job. But I also hated my job. And you need to understand that. It's not that I worked with bad people - I really loved all of my co-workers and enjoyed our time together. And I was patient with customers. And I made beautiful cakes and had a great time. But for a few reasons, it was really hard on me. So I am hesitant to go back, regardless of my mental state.

I have a wedding to pay for, and I am in no shape to work. And i feel helpless. And I feel trapped. And I feel lost.

I have $800 saved up. Even the cheapest weddings in the world are more expensive than that. And certainly the cheapest apartments.

And I used to trust God. Because God has a plan. And God works miracles.

But I trusted God. And I trusted his miracles. And death won anyway. And my faith lost against cancer.

I am in the midst of the biggest depressive episode of my life since I was hospitalized at 15. Which is fairly normal, given the circumstances. But every day is a fight, and so far I am winning, and yet I still feel like a loser. Because people ask me what I do, and I don't know what to tell them.

I don't know how to make money. I don't know how to feel better. I don't know what that thing is going to be that gives me purpose. I always put love in that space, I guess. And now I have it and it's not enough. And when I am married, I will have a lot of time by myself. And I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

And if you tell me to decorate more cakes I am going to snap.

I don't really want to talk about it. But I am continually discouraged by people assuming all is well when I feel like I am drowning.

I love music. But nobody is going to pay me to sing fall out boy in my bedroom. And I love travel. But nobody is going to pay me to go on road trips. I am a flighty, fickle, artistic person. And I feel trapped in a world that measures my worth quantitatively, by the tangible. But I'm not tangible. I am a great mess of feeling and confusion. And maybe this is what it means to be almost 21. Maybe this is what it means to be me. But I am exhausted and discouraged and I have no answers, only fear.