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I'm sitting here trying to learn the 68-95-99.7 rule and I'm trying to remember where it all went wrong. When did I start feeling like my life stopped having a purpose? When I was going to church I felt like my life was for God, that my purpose was to serve God, and though I now feel that I was lost back then, I still feel lost now. Maybe more than ever. To that end, I understand why people hang on so tightly to God, church, bible studies, potlucks, baptisms, picnics. I understand that even if there is a tiny whisper in your head that asks you if you Really Believe, it's necessary to dismiss that thought for the sake of feeling like your life has a direction, like it has a purpose. Church gave that to me, once upon a time, but that little whisper erupted into a scream and I couldn't bear to ignore it anymore. 

There was a time when I thought I would have to be a missionary to be loved, when I thought that I was supposed to desire martyrdom, that martyrdom was only set aside for the truly holy. A lot of you have asked me what that tattoo on my shoulder means. Here's what it really means: I thought that martyrdom was something I was supposed to desire, something I was destined to if only I became really close to Jesus. That there was nothing as strong as the blood of the martyrs to speak of God's truth. And one day I realized that I didn't need to be a missionary, let alone a martyr, if I didn't really want it. That this life was meant to be enjoyed. That if I didn't travel the world preaching my love for Christ, I wouldn't be loved any less. So I stopped trying. I really did. 

Where am I going with this.

So here I am, in an apartment in La Jolla, and it's the day before my last set of midterms. And I'm faced with wondering if anything matters anymore. If my life will ever amount to anything. I feel like I failed somewhere, long ago, and I never picked myself back up. I feel like I have lived the past 22 years in a whirlwind because I was too afraid to stop and look at my reflection. Really look at Myself. That I kept shaving my head and growing out my hair only to cut it short again and changing my image, changing locations, changing interests, changing, changing, always changing because I was too fucking scared to realize that I'm still the same. I've always been the fucking same. And I can't do anything to change that. I feel helpless, like I'm supposed to know what I'm going to do with the Rest Of My Life. That everyone else seems to, that everyone at least has some idea, some ruling passion, some direction, BUT I DON'T. I know, poor me, poor girl with an apartment in La Jolla and a job as a barista. But fuck. I've been nothing but a barista since high school. But the rest of my life, that isn't really the point is it. Everything leading up to this point in my life, that isn't the point either. The point is that there isn't any. I don't feel like there's ever been. Maybe there has been all along and my prison is to spend the rest of my life figuring it out.

A resume? Can I put down that I got rid of all of my possessions at one point? Will they hire me then? Can I write down that I used to spend every cent I had on clothes because what I'm really interested in is aesthetics? I moved to Berkeley once, does that count? Will it matter that I thought I was going to drop out of college for a year? That I have made so many mistakes, so many of them, and I'm sick of making the same ones over and over again? That I need a chance, just like the rest of the world? That I believe in luck, and I also believe that some people might have a jar of it, and that mine is just about used up? Well, fuck. I guess I better get back to memorizing the formula for standard deviation.