Hindsight is a Regretful Bargain

Had someone told me six years ago that one decision would have such an astounding domino effect that would transform me into an even more damaged version of myself…I wouldn’t for even a moment have hesitated to stand up against the world.

Thinking back to those earlier days...when our conscience wasn't cluttered by our mistakes...and our minds weren't foggy from all the regret...I can't help but feel the pain of a lifetime lost. I was only a kid. I stood no chance at being heard for my ideas. Although I struggled with finding the words, many times stumbling through conversations only to be laughed at for my naïve simplicity, what I felt inside---the instinctive aversion towards their perception of what my life should be---remained, un-wavered. It was a vague yet unrelenting uneasiness I felt regarding a career that would promise to embezzle my youth away for a satisfaction that was not even guaranteed to all who dared.

The gradually waning attempts at creating light of a situation that felt too dire to comprehend began to feel more and more like a poor coping mechanism and less and less like a good-humored joke. Because to be honest, there is nothing funny about waking up every day, unhappy. There’s nothing funny about feeling a constant dread towards the future. How can you find meaning in a life that is lived in torment.

No harm, No foul

Returning home after months of living in my own head…a world filled with crass decisions, reckless excitement, and the intense paranoia that always followed – I wasn’t sure exactly who I had become, or whether I had even changed at all. Maybe the last six months of my life were simply a figment of my imagination. Could it be possible I had simply fantasized the wild nights and invented the absurd characters that had become such an integral part of my being. Answering the stale questions that my parents asked, I sounded like a tape recording…clichéd words were pouring out describing the “amazing experience” and the “invaluable lessons” I had learned during my semester abroad. They seemed so satisfied with my cookie-cutter replies, I wondered how I could ever confide in them about the truth…about how I was falling apart at the seams…about how I spent most nights crying in agonizing emotional pain that felt strong enough to induce a heart attack…how could I tell them that I started each day with the hope that it would be my last. They wouldn’t be able to handle it, I’m sure. And the realization that the people who supposedly care the most about you are the ones who you can’t even be honest with…it’s quite possibly the most alienating realization a human being can have. I can’t recall exactly how it all started but there was nothing extraordinary about the night that would mark the beginning of my descent into absolute darkness. For several weeks leading up to that day, I had been developing an apparently harmless friendship with a local (starving) artist. Forgive me for what I am about to say, but I’ve always felt a certain obligation to connect with members of the pedestrian class. Perhaps it is a way to compensate for my overtly lavish lifestyle (to justify the luxury I have not earned on my own merit…so as to say, “it’s okay, I’m friends with the less privileged, they find me agreeable so you should too”) or perhaps it’s a way to appease my deepest insecurities of never being good enough in my family’s eyes. So everywhere I go, I hunt down a morally bankrupt “nobody” who can provide me with street cred while I shower them with entertainment only first-class could afford. It’s meant to be an equal exchange. It’s meant to be completely innocuous. No harm, no foul.