Worth Living For

Recently, I’ve done a lot of soul-searching. I’ve thought a lot about life, my future, and what it’s worth. I’ve thought a lot about death, it’s purpose, and its consequences on the people that are left behind. I’ve thought a lot of thoughts I never thought I would, never wished I would.

I’ve been searching for something worth living for. When I’m down and depressed and nothing’s going right, I want there to be one thing that can automatically cheer me up and remind me of happiness. I didn’t care what it was, I just wanted to have a rock to lean on when I’m not feeling my best.

Until recently, I thought that thing was music. Music has been a huge part of my life ever since I was five. My love for it began in a old rented classroom in school choir, but it expanded far beyond that. It was the joy in every day and it was guaranteed to bring a smile to my face.

It still does. But something told me that it was not the thing I was looking for.

I was once in a really bad place. After years of my mission to find something worth living for, I had begun to give up. Lots of events in my life seemed to echo this sadness. Some people that are near and dear to my heart fell ill. I felt completely useless. I’m no doctor. I’m no surgeon. I’m no cancer researcher. I am just a girl who still hasn’t grown up or found who she is yet. What sort of use am I to the world, or to anyone? And obviously, when one thinks these delightful thoughts about life, you’re also bound to think about the grim alternative.

Then I realized. When I was sad, my first instinct was not to reach for my viola or to sit down at my piano. My first instinct was to reach for my phone. No, not to play Trivia Crack. It wasn’t to watch YouTube either. (surprise, surprise.) It was to talk to a friend. I actually hated this reaction. To me, it showed me that I was weak, weak enough to not be able to live on my own and have to rely on others for happiness. And then I realized, wasn’t that exactly what I was searching for? Something that would always make me happy…….people.

As a child, and even as an awkward teenager (sorta), I remember my parents chiding me for caring about others too much. I was the ultimate pushover. If there was something I wanted, but someone else wanted it, I would definitely give it to them. Seeing a smile on someone’s face made me happy, at whatever cost. I remember writing about how when I thought of doing something, ¬†two questions would come to my mind. Should I do it? What will other people think of me if I do do it? I know ever person needs some sort of awareness of others in their life, but I was being ridiculous. Others feelings came before my own, others needs came before mine. I had no purpose in life other then to make others happy. I was living for the people around me.

I used to think nothing was wrong with this. I still think nothing is wrong with it. But there’s a voice that whispers the cons of this way of living, fueled by my parents chiding and by my doubt. I don’t know if this is healthy, but it works, so for now I’m okay.

A friend once warned me that people are a dangerous thing to live for because they aren’t always there and they don’t always care. I agreed at the time and said so to her, but it still seemed sensible to me.


People. Her trust in them fleeting and as fragile as a brittle winter twig. One wrong move and one sharp crack and black.


I still haven’t found something worth living for. I’ll put my trust in people for now, but I still want something more, something more stable. No matter how many times I reassure myself or someone else reassures me that I am cared for, the paranoia in me screams that they’re just saying that, and that it means nothing whatsoever. Maybe the paranoia is right. But if people are the threads that connect me to happiness, no matter how fragile those threads might be, I want to preserve them. And even if I don’t know why I’m living, the best thing I can do is to live.

One Thing

No, it’s not the One Direction song.

If there was one thing I liked about myself, it would be my ability to write lyrics, make up a tune, find those lyrics three years later, and still know the tune. It seems even more impressive when I consider how bad of a memory I have for things that are so-called of ‘importance’ (passwords, locker combos, phone numbers, the date). I love finding small notebooks of writing (could it even be classified as writing?) from years back and becoming immersed in the simplistic thoughts of seven year old Jessica, whose main source of stress was whether she could finish her library books before they were due.

I want to be as carefree as the little girl who ran around fashioning bows and arrows out of sticks and stones. I don’t want to worry about adult things. I don’t want to grow up.

That’s probably why I love old things. The history and the richness of a past fascinates me. You might see an old guitar case, but I see a riveting story waiting to be told, about a girl who falls in love with a street performer after dropping a shiny quarter into his case.

I don’t want to be remembered as a name or an old photograph. Or even for the truly good things I’ve done for people (which, trust me, are few and far between).

I want to be remembered as a story.

Hello world!

So I’m a human whose hobbies include listening to music, making music, writings blurbs that don’t make sense, and talking to various inanimate objects around my house.

I’m not sure what I’ll post on here, but a friend recommended trying to blog, so here goes.