Twenty five feels like reaching some kind of sad threshold where I’ll never quite feel like a kid again, and all that lies ahead is burdensome responsibility. Twenty four felt like it was okay to be broke because I was exploring and growing. Twenty five feels like it’s time to get my shit together and commit to something [anything] because my life is a third of the way over. Bleak, I know. I’m more afraid about the future than I ever was before, I see it as I see space: vast and dark. I suppose that makes stars glimmering opportunities. I’ll just have to be sure to avoid being sucked into a black hole, only to land in an oddly tense parallel universe where I’ll be gobbled up by langoliers. Or was it Aurora Borealis? And why did that guy go crazy? And why did the people who were awake disappear? My best friend teases me for asking so many questions, I’m just really curious. I used to be overly critical, but now I really just want to understand. He says directors would love to be in the room to watch me respond to their work [I’m very animated, i.e.: stabbings prompt me to jerk and cover my eyes, and once I even went as far as to make a pact with said friend never to stab each other]. Twenty five may feel sad and scary, but I can honestly say that I like myself more than I ever did. My recovery paradigm has shifted significantly, I finally understand letting go and am actively putting down control. I feel more genuine, and am practicing having more reasonable expectations. I feel immense grief about kid-dom being over, because I can’t go back and my parents will never be able to make up for it. Thankfully I have wonderful and supportive friends to help me move on.
I’m ten years older than fifteen year olds, and I cannot for the life of me understand why they’re always yelling. My twenty two year old roommate thinks its oh-so-adorable that I call CDs records, and that every friday I go down the local record store to buy them. I wonder if there will even be record stores in another ten years, or if everything will be digital. And what about book stores, will I have to convert to some dreadful e-reader? People give me crazy eyes when I tell them I’m an English major, “What are you going to do with that?” I tell them I’m going to write and edit. They always give a sigh of relief when I say I might teach, they don’t believe in the salability of creativity. Perhaps they don’t believe in anything. Perhaps they’re own age, combined with the world’s weight has crushed their own dreams out of them.
I wonder if I’d feel differently with someone. I think about dating and marriage significantly more lately than in recent years. Although, I don’t know many people who are happily married, most tell me: “be careful” and “don’t rush into anything” and “be prepared to ‘never be right’ again”. Husbands let out lengthy sighs and force out soft even tones when they’re wives call. They feel stuck. They believe they have to give in to “make their marriage work” and to “be a good husband.” They think it’s wrong to speak up. Wives pick at their husbands. They subtly poke and prod, thinking passive manipulation is the way to create change. They never get exactly what they want, and if they do it doesn’t feel as good as they thought it would. Neither is happy, because neither is asking for their needs to be met. I think I would be a good wife. I would want to understand my husband and be understood by him, and to accept each other as we are while also encouraging mutual growth. I don’t want to make all the decisions, I want a partner to bounce ideas off of and share responsibility with. I’m not always right, and I want to be challenged. I don’t understand committing yourself to someone you feel compelled to try and fundamentally change, and I’m extremely aware of what a gigantic waste of time that is.