All Grown Up

From the first encounter with disappointment at a young age, we are taught that things happen for a reason. We are led to believe that if we are good people, we will be treated well by others. We think the people we fall in love with will love us in return, and that our hearts won't steer us wrong. We plan our lives from high school through college, from age 20 to age 40, from our first job through retirement, believing that we will live and abide by the blueprints we have laid.

And as we grow up... we realize we were wrong about everything.

If someone would have told me what life would be like at 27 I would have laughed at them, or maybe even slapped them.  Being the ultimate planner and control freak, I was convinced by age 16 that I knew exactly what I wanted, precisely where I was headed, and what direction my life would take. Now, I sit on a daily basis and try to wrap my head around reality. I replay details and memories in my head, trying to understand how I, being the "smart girl" that I am, could have been wrong in what felt like the right decisions.  I think about the choices I made, wondering if I've given enough to my career, debating the pros and cons of not following a traditional route, and feeling like I somehow missed the boat that everyone else jumped on years ago.  I consider myself old, and not because of how I look or act, but because MY ship sailed a course that bypassed youth and went straight to adulthood.

I feel alone, and grown ups aren't supposed to feel alone. They're supposed be strong and reliable, taking charge of situations and not wallowing in self-pity. Grown ups have bills to pay, mouths to feed, functions to attend, warm bodies to sleep with at night and responsibilities to uphold.  Some people are forced into this role way too early; others never quite make it there.  Is that really fair?  Why are some able to selfishly extend their youth, make a mess of things around them and leave the clean up for the unfortunate ones who stepped up to the plate way before their time? 

Why do I feel punished for being who I am, an alien amongst my peers, struggling to find a place to belong and a life that I'm comfortable with?  At some point the frustration of giving and giving to everyone and everything, just to receive so little in return, pools like black liquid in my heart, filling the gaping hole yet leaving me completely empty.

We live in a world plagued with "Peter Pan Syndrome."  The economy is a mess, monogamy is virtually dead, you can stay in school forever earning various degrees, thanks to the internet people can extend high school drama well into their mid-life crisis, and through all of this we put the blame of our misfortunes on everyone but ourselves.  Words are weapons, full of accountability, because somehow, somewhere, it was documented and publicly displayed on a website, blog, or social networking community.  In a sense, everyone has reverted back to a child-like existence, full of excuses and not willing to take responsibility for their actions.   Any chance to take the easy road is pounced on, no reason needed, because it will not be challenged.  It's accepted.

Well I will not accept it.  I will not apologize for being a grown up.  I am a fighter, and I shall not back away from real-life, even as it throws heart-wrenching, painful curve balls that crush my spirit and my soul.  I will not feel sorry for making decisions that do not please other people.  I refuse to take the easy road, for on the easy road there is nothing to learn.  There is no excitement, no spontaneity.  Without challenge, there is no true success.  Without suffering and adversity, there is no appreciation.  Without loss, there is no gain.

Most importantly, I will not settle.  Whatever my "grown-up" life is comprised of, it will be so full of passion and beauty that when I wake in the morning my chest will ache with joy.  And for everyone still hanging out on the playground, running from the Grim Reeper of Childhood, clinging to the Ghost of Youthful Past... you don't know what you're missing.