Welcome To The Real World.

I feel like every special occasion that we've experienced since age thirteen feels monumental.  Like a coming-of-age-shit-I'm-growing-up moment that we look forward to until it happens and then we're like "seriously, can't a girl get a nap time in class anymore?"

I mean, think about it.  We turn thirteen and everyone tells us we're no longer kids.  Then we turn sixteen and they give us car keys and consensual sex.  Eighteen and we are LEGALLY adults: voting in elections, buying porn and dip... ya know, because adults need rights to nudity and cancer.

We graduate high school and enter the real world of college campuses, trusted just enough to live on our own (under the supervision of our peers).  This is where the consensual sex really comes to fruition and Sex On The Beach is actually just Cherry Burnetts and OJ from the dining hall, but it totally tastes like the real thing, don't you think?

We turn twenty-one and they put beers in our hands as if we hadn't had them there before and the car keys they gave us five years prior look even scarier on the way home from a bar than they did on the way home from soccer practice.

And today, I hit the next benchmark -- I am a college graduate.  Talk about a coming-of-age-shit-I'm-growing-up moment... but the weird thing is that I have 0% confidence in how I should be feeling, or thinking, or honestly what I should be doing.  Did today really make me an adult?

Everyone keeps talking about how they're not ready for  real life and I don't even know what it means.  For example, this past Monday night we had a bar crawl for senior students only.  At the last bar, I kissed a guy (the guy who only gives me the time of day if it's not the same time new jordans are released... you all know him well).  So anyway, I stopped kissing him, turned to my friend, and she said, "Ya know, it's fine because this is the last time you can do things like that!" ... not that I'm saying she is wrong, but I received and read my diploma today and it didn't make reference to an alumni prohibition of bar-kissing.

Obviously I'm exaggerating, but it's all very confusing.  We create these perceptions of what real life will be like.  As if because I have my name on a piece of paper next to the words magna cum laude and I'm suddenly supposed to use my knowledge of mental disorders and social constructions to guide all of my actions and decisions in a mature and professional way?  I'm not saying that my education has not propelled me toward success because I actually do believe I'm qualified intellectually to enter the infamous real world, I'm just also wondering what else is changing?  What else should be changing?  How should I be changing?

If anyone has the answers or thinks they might, I'm totally down to listen, but until then I guess this is the first real life challenge in store for college graduates.  Welcome to the Real World.

Started From The Bottom Now We're Here

I've been calling this past weekend "rock bottom."  For three nights in a row I went to my closet,  selected a mostly see through top, applied a little too much eyeliner, and stepped into the tallest pair of wedges I could get my hands on... and then, I drank.  My typical five beers a night quickly escalated to seven or eight, my no-shot-taking policy flew out the window as I drank Captain straight from the bottle, and the box of wine my friends left in my room was considerably less heavy by the end of each night.  I kissed a guy I barely know, woke up in my bed with no idea how I got there, and spent two hours crying to a friend as he helped me out of my heels and into his roommate's slippers so I didn't break an ankle.  I offended a girl I'm barely acquainted with, fell down the hill outside of my apartment, and ate more drunk pizza than I even care to think about.

So, after all this, do I feel any better?  Surprisingly, yes I do.  I am embarrassed, ashamed, hungover, guilt ridden, and definitely in need of some exercise.  However, I've realized that acting out reminded me who I really am.  I am not the person I acted like this weekend; if I was, I wouldn't feel shame or embarrassment.  I let myself lose control of my emotions, of my values, and of my inhibitions.  I am definitely not proud of that, but I needed this weekend to remind myself that I am always in control and responsible for myself.

In relationships, from what I have learned, the power lies with the person who cares less.  At some point in my last relationship, I let the balance tip.  I loved deeper - cared more - and I gave him control.  I tried to want what he wanted, do what he wanted, and act in the way he wanted.  Every move I made was with him in mind.  I relinquished control.

Over the past five weeks, I have done little to regain control and responsibility.  I made excuses for my melodramatic responses to small infractions, my oversensitivity to the criticism of others, and my short temper in the face of controversy.  "I'm going through a tough breakup," I'd think, "it's not my fault."  And everyday, I wish things were different.  Sometimes I wish we were still together.  Sometimes I wish we had never met.  Sometimes I wish that he wasn't in the same state as me, at the same school as me, or at the same party as me.  I don't have control over any of those things, but what I can control are my actions and the way I treat others.  Over the past five weeks I lost sight of the fact that there is never an excuse to knowingly do the wrong thing.  My mother taught me to know right from wrong, to respect others, and to carry myself with dignity.  This weekend I exemplified zero of the things my mother taught me, and there is no excuse for that - not even a broken heart.

I genuinely believe that this past weekend was actually an experience I needed to have.  I am finding myself, rebuilding my life, recreating my outlook, and mending my heart, and sometimes the only way to do that is to start from rock bottom and work your way up.


**inspired by "Beauty in a Breakdown" firstworldthoughts.blogspot.com