I’m less than 12 hours away from taking a plane that’s going to whisk me away to Europe, a place I’ve always dreamed of going to since I knew where it was and all I feel is SHEER PANIC.
Panic about how underprepared I am, panic about how it’s going to be terrifying if I don’t get on that plane for reasons of bureaucratic red tape, panic about how well I’m not going to fit in with my white sneakers and tropical clothing. Let’s face it, I belong in Spain like The Spaniard belongs here. We just don’t.
I’m half-packed and half-convinced that this is a great thing. What am I doing, right? I should be freakin’ excited and flaunting my good fortune, but I’m not. I have my list and documents but I feel there’s something terribly wrong that’s going to happen. It’s making me nauseous even on an empty stomach.
Let me go grab a drink to calm my nerves.
On second thought, I better not. It’s better writing while I’m on the edge as it will present you a more accurate picture of what a lunatic I’m becoming. It’s my Christmas gift to you. You’re welcome.
Just so you know, I’ve actually stopped writing this entry for an hour or two to have a mild panic attack as I’ve closed my luggage and forgotten the combination. Yeah, I’m all outta whack these days. I’m just holding on until I get to Spain and I can finally relax. Well, as relaxed as someone who’s perpetually paranoid and insecure can get.
The only thing that’s made me feel better is a stupid tweet from The Boyfriend: Leaving Santander to fetch @uneditedmara
All is well until my next panic attack. You’re going to stil be here, right? :s
One Comment
I’m still going to be here.
Um… by “here”, I meant Singapore. Oh and you misspelled “still”. Sobrang panic?