Happy Birthday to Me

Well, it's official, as of 12:03am, May 5th, 2005, I'm an adult. I have just purchased my first alcoholic drink in the United States of America (for those of you who are wondering, it is a 24oz Smirnoff Ice Triple Black). It has taken twenty one years, but I have finally crossed the arbritrary age the government has set for becoming an adult. The only other milestone I have to look forward to, at least one dealing with age, is collecting social security when I am 67, a full 46 years from now.

The reality of this event made itself painfully real to me earlier this week. I said, as I have said many times before, "When I grow up I am going to get one of those." My roommate turned to me and said, "You're turning 21 in a few days, you are grown up." For the first time it really struck me, I am an adult. The thing that I had been looking forward to for years finally happened. Yet, as I sit here I find myself wondering why I ever wanted to become an adult. I always assumed that when I grew up, everything would make sense. I would have my life together. I would know what I was doing with my life, where I was going, how I was going to go about it. I would be secure with myself, I wouldn't be plagued with all of the fears and in-securities that have haunted me all these years.

I feel lied to. Where are the answers, the focus, the security? Aren't these things supposed to come with age? How much older do I have to get? Will I ever have these things, or are these things that will plague me all my life? Will I ever know where I am going? Will I ever know how I am going to get there? Will I ever feel secure with myself and my friends? Will I ever be able to stay right with God? Will I be able to stand strong and not let myself be seduced by sin, now push God away while allowing the flesh to draw me so close?

Perhaps I got it all wrong. Maybe those things don't come with so much as they come with maturity. Perhaps it is a continuing process that one never fully finishes. Maybe this age set by the government is not a magical passport to security. I guess I can hope, for if it isn't, then I have 46 years to wait, in hopes that it will change then. Of course, maybe it will all fall into place when I graduate from college, for then I will not only be an adult, but I will be moving into the "real world". If I don't have it all together then, then something must be really wrong with me.

P.S. I have finished my drink, and according to the Internet, my blood alcohol level is .03%, which means I can still go driving! It's great being 21.

Blind, Irrational, Real, Fear

It amazes me how much of my life is ruled by fear. I usually like to think of myself as fairly brave, well, at least not a coward, and I think that is true in most cases, but when it comes to people, specifically my friends, all my bravery leaves me, I feel like a little girl facing a monster. I fear what they think about me, what they will think of me if I do a certain thing, or don't do a certain thing. It seems as so long as they are around, I am orchestrating my life so as to make them think highly of me, or at least so that they won't think less of me, all the while not letting them know I am doing so of course. In so doing, I not only hide that but also many other things. It seems as if I have become a master of hiding my feelings, and not only my feelings, but my thoughts. I can look a best friend in the eye and say that there is nothing wrong, even when I've been on the brink of tears for weeks. I can stand there and smile and laugh even when there is nothing I would rather do than hide from everyone I know. I can listen to a friend talk about himself for hours and never mention a thing about myself, even when I am near bursting with the desire to talk about myself.

Why do I hide so much? Fear of course, but that isn't all of it. I don't like talking about myself.....well, that isn't entirely ture. I want to talk about myself, I long to talk about myself, but I don't. Partly because I view what I usually have to say as unimportant, and don't wish to bother anyone with the boring details of my life. But also, I hate the way I talk. Whenever I talk about myself, it always comes out jumbled, taking too long to tell so little information. I fail to make a point clear, or fail to have a point at all. I include too much detail or not enough detail. I ramble on about things which, experience has shown, no one cares about, or no one understands, not because they aren't smart enough, but because I am unable to explain it well. All in all, it turns out to be a waste of the listener's time and effort in trying to grasp what it is I am trying to say. I have tried to learn from my past mistakes, so now I simply try not to talk about myself or my thoughts at all, preferring the painful silence. Doing so of course presents its own problems, mainly the denial of my desire to talk about myself, about what I am thinking, what I am going through, a desire shared by most, if not all, people. When I do simply not talk, the longing to do so seems to build up more and more, until it feels like I'm about to burst. At times I do burst, but I usually end up regretting it, strengthening my resolve to stay silent in the future. Writing does allow for some release, although it isn't fully satisfying, it's like eating salad when what you really want is steak and potatoes.

If I ever mentioned this fear, this resolve, most people would probably say it is irrational, that I should be able to talk to my friends without worrying about how I sound, how ineloquent I may be, and they are probably right. But knowing this doesn't make me any less afraid. Aren't most fears irrational to begin with? Does knowing that it is irrational make it any less frightening? Any less paralyzing? I wish the answer was yes.