Perils of Forbidden Promises
Where, along the arbitrary timeline of life, does it say we must have our lives mapped out by graduation day? Where, in the unspoken script of adulthood, does it demand we learn first, and work later? Where, along the arduous road to self-actualization, does the finish line become the ultimate goal post?
Oh wait, this is what I’ve been internalizing my whole life.
At 26 years old, the realization that I’ve suppressed my identity isn’t startling. However, the realization that I do know some of who I am, is.
If I know who I am, what then? If I know who I am, and I’m simply denying myself of that truth, what does that say about me?
I want a career. There, I said it. Long terrified at the thought of random, unfamiliar social interactions, a career has always felt impossible — an insurmountable feat in the face of an already substantial pile of adversity. Sure, cognitive distortions have clouded my inner dialogue, attaching unrealistic declarations to otherwise neutral phenomenons. In the case of professional development, though? Always and never typically applied. With fluency the inescapable whack-a-mole, sustained interest a fleeting concept, and maternal support, nonexistent — it’s no wonder I never allowed myself to dream.
College? More like escape route to me. Pursuing a degree of advanced study? More like, “which path would cause the least amount of mental anguish?”
I’m done suppressing. But now, I’m forced to embrace a new kind of terror: lost time.
Social media is triggering. Seeing people in the grocery store is triggering. Working in a grocery store is triggering. It’s rare to go one day without stumbling across a post, milestone, or success story from someone I went to college with. I’m faced with automatic, repetitive reminders of my own failures on a regular basis.
I want to be a writer, yet when asked who I admire — I stare blankly with nothing to say. I am a photographer, yet when asked what I’ve been working on lately — again, I stare blankly, with nothing to say.
Longing for a fearless existence while simultaneously tangled in a web of self-fulfilling deceit, I hold myself hostage daily basis. Striving toward what I can’t yet stomach, I toss and turn in the morning, writhing in the agony of who I could be — if I just wasn’t afraid anymore. Yearning five hundred steps ahead of what my body can handle, I play hide and seek with my mind. Hiding myself in plain sight, seeking what I can’t yet allow myself to want — I am an artist in denial of who I truly am.
Climbing the rusted steps of a path not yet established, I lay here, stuck.
Hovering above and below the finish line I so idealistically cherish — I remain, paralyzed.
Caught in the breeze of near-contentment, I lie awake in restless fantasy — captivated, yet immobilized.
Will I ever crawl out from beneath the weight of my own unrealistic expectations? Can I allow myself to take even the smallest, incremental step? Can I welcome the fear, extend compassion for its presence, and move forward anyway?
Can I trust the feeling, but question the story?
Today, I think I will.
