admitting the problem: step one

One day more than three weeks ago, I graduated from college. The degree hurled me into the "real" world, at least that's what everyone has told me since memories started to form. Two weeks ago, I balanced my presence in the town I grew up with copious hours of sleep and the chosen coping mechanism of most adults. One week ago, I woke up on a leaky air mattress at my newest address with trembling fear to start a new job. I questioned everything that led to that moment--that led me to this place.

During the first training day, a supervisor shared her employment story. She ended with, "Find your happy; the rest will come. The rest will come." I stared into the far right corner of the small classroom. I thought, "What will that be?"

"That" referred to both "happy" and "the rest."

On the second day of training, another supervisor said, "The kid who pushes you away the most is probably the kid that needs you most." I lacked space on my notes sheet to jot it down, so I secretly texted it to myself. The message remained unopened until moments ago. I peeked at the message preview dozens of times each day since I sent it, hoping that the shock value of the meaning would change at least once. It didn't.

From the moment the words filled the empty spaces of that classroom, I felt that "the kid" referred to myself: I push myself away the most. That realization spiraled into every available crevice in my mind.

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During my first on-the-job-training day, I tried to melt into the walls. Each time a client or coworker spoke to me, I replied with a head nod. If necessary to speak, I used few words. That night I told a couple friends that I felt unqualified for the job. They assured me that "everyone feels that way" and "you can do it." Those words felt empty because my words were an empty lie. I know that I have the qualifications. If I lacked any, supervisors would have offered the job to someone else. Alas, it was easier to say those words than to say the truth: I lacked the emotional strength required to work with youth in emergency and traumatic situations because they all triggered flashbacks to my own.

That's what any and all studying and work related to psychology has always done for me. When I first interviewed with the psychology department at my alma mater, the professor warned against pursuing the degree for any remotely personal reason. She also warned against the pursuit for the "saving people" reason. Both warnings hold validity (and reliability--please someone laugh at my research joke), but I didn't heed them. Instead, I stuck with the program. I planned to study why the brain hurts my life and the lives of so many I care about. I planned to save people.

Yet here I am, sitting on the same leaky air mattress from last week and wondering, "How the hell did I get here?" along with, "Why didn't I stop myself sooner?"

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When I returned from off-campus study for my final undergraduate semester, I hadn't taken a psychology course in nine months. I hadn't seen my therapist in four. I was pushing myself away from what I had done for two years. Why? I had realized that psychology wasn't what I wanted to do when I wasn't stuck head first into the flooded wading pool of knowledge that undergraduate programs are.

I didn't share that with anyone until now.

Although I told a few friends that I was considering a fourth year of college and cancelling my three year plan, I never outright said, "I realized this isn't what I want to do." Instead, I laughed off, "Why is the memory and cognition class so hard for you if it's what you want to do?" I sent, "I want to add a major lolol," text messages to friends in the middle of Saturday nights. I shared, "Why didn't I take writing classes sooner?" questions with classmates. But with myself? I pushed the thought of throwing my expired plan out the window, and I pushed myself away from what could have been. My deciding factor for that path remained true: I wanted to impress people because I wanted someone to feel genuinely proud of me.

Now, here I sit--alone, unemployed, and dodging my long-distance friends like it's my job (if only that paid).

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Yesterday I submitted a resignation to the place I worked at six days. The nearly 60 hours that I logged there taught me more than any classroom ever could, so I suppose I can say that the job fulfilled my goal: figure out if it's what I want to do with my life. It is not. What is? I'm still figuring that out.

Just last night, I told a friend about one of the ten jobs I've applied for in the last 36 hours. It focuses heavily on writing. She replied, "I think writing is way more your thing."

I said, "It is. I just wanted social work to be my thing too."

That's the thing (apologies to myself and all others for the excessive use of the word thing)--I wanted so badly to be the person that I presented as in class, that I convinced hiring managers that I am in interviews, that I told my friends about when they asked who I was becoming. That person was the strong, empathetic but with boundaries, life-changing superhero that I desperately wish I could become. But I'm not that person.

I am a person who flinches at the mention of yelling and usually cries after the act of it occurs. I am the person who had, "Find a new therapist," at the top of her New City, New Life to-do list because handling life without a UPR-listening professional is not something I want to do until I have unconditional positive regard for myself. I am the person who communicates best in writing because I can see my words rather than hear them in my mind and stumbling out my mouth simultaneously--but never in the same way. I am the person who is the happiest and healthiest I've ever been, yet I am still looking for so much more.

To find that (whatever it is), I refuse to push myself away anymore--stay tuned for how to do that because I haven't quite figured that out yet either.