Sometimes life has the ability to throw a curveball at you. And it usually comes in a time where you’re least prepared to handle the aftermath. Which -let’s face it, we’re not major league baseball pros, any of us- usually is a complete clusterfuck of everything and you end up feeling like a juggler with one or ten too many balls in the air.

I have Lego Pirates for my 3DS unopened. I’ve yet to finish my Lego Star Wars. And Lego Harry Potter. My house looks like a small but effective bomb exploded inside and of course I’m hosting a party on Saturday. To which I’ve promised to bake a cake. Thank fuck everyone’s pitching in on the eatings, I’d be doomed otherwise.

I could manage all of this, would this be the usual time of let’s say two years ago.

But it’s not.

Enter curveball: child teething, hence being difficult and craving almost every second of my day.

So I’ve had to make some adjustments in the daily routines. I have the choice of either blogging about all the things I have on my blog planner. Or keep my sanity and keep the child from screaming his head off.

We’ll see eachother, most likely soon, but I’m not making any solemn promises.

I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, mainly because I have an appointment coming up next week with the mental illness people. I guess I should try to find out what the triggers for my mood swings are, but I really have no clue. All I’ve gathered is that when I’m manic I want to write (and i do write) and I listen to mostly trance and ambient. I have no idea why, but it just is a really good combination: mania, writing and trance music.

But I digress.

What I would like to really get a hold of are my insecurities and fears and how they affect me and my mind. Because how is it possible that during a mania streak I have zero insecurities, I’m lovely and witty and basically an all-around goddess of fucking everything. While depressed, it’s no surprise that I feel like the feed that bottom feeders feed on. That -as I said- is no surprise, but what is interesting, are the insecurites I have when I’m on my “normal” mood. Or what I feel like is sort of the default me.

Of course there is your basic variety of physical insecurities like being overweight and not particularly attractive and I could do with bigger boobs, but then there are the not-so-visible ones. Like the one where I’m used to being the one filling awkward silences between two people who are trying to get it on. See, I’ve always been the third wheel, the chaperone. No one (before my husband but that’s another story) has ever shown genuine interest in me. It’s so painfully accurate what I read once on some light-hearted tumblr text post: My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard and they’re like “Hey your friend is sexy is she single?”.

I’m not -at least not totally- complaining about being the comic relief, I’m complaining about the assumption that I’ll be there to fill the void. Somehow my friends got used to it and then depended on it. I know it’s partly my fault, like I haven’t said no to that. And now, since most of my friends are happily in a relationship, I find that I’m not needed anymore. Which really is what it sounds like: I’m not useful anymore and therefore I’m not good company for a night out. Which results in me being alone on the weekends.

I would like to change my … for a lack of a better word: role in my pathetically small circle of friends, but I don’t think I can. Because if I’m not the class clown, what am I? Do I even know myself what I would like to be?

I’m afraid tho that the truth about me being alone on the weekends is something completely different. Something that I’m terribly afraid of. It’s that everyone else grew up. That I am the only one left of my friends who still likes to get shit-faced and hit the dancefloor to make a complete fool of myself and be drenched in my own sweat. I don’t know if it’s some stupid survival instinct that makes me cling to that feeling of being young and carefree, or if it indeed is really what I am (i’m leaning towards the latter, honestly, that i just am like this), but it terrifies me something incredible when I think about it.

Maybe I’m not at their level. Maybe I’m an embarrassement to them.

And that, children, is my biggest insecurity: because I don’t know who I’m supposed to be, I feel inferior to everyone else in my life.