Uncharted

As someone who used to write avidly as a form of self-expression, I find that this is the best forum for me to share my stories. I need something to get me through this journey called life...and I find writing to be cathartic.
Once upon a time I imagined myself as the character I was writing and that was the only chance I had to show all of the facets of my being. I could let myself shine without being afraid to show the imperfections that made me uniquely me. Now, after quite a long, twisty venture, I have become closer to that person. I'm still struggling; we all are.

I have spent the majority of my existence as the youngest member of a dysfunctional suburban family. We lack class and we swear like truck drivers. Or, rather, they do. I escaped for a brief while to go to college--a time when I learned to curl my hair, embrace red lip stick, and drink expensive wines. I left my high school boyfriend in the dust many times and came back to collect the pieces I'd left behind each time I returned home and regressed to the ripped-jean and button-down wearing girl I had been before. I left him for a best friend from a circumstance closer to my own. We were all bred into poverty. We were all bred to do hard work and manual labor rather than to pursue academics. A few of us stepped outside the boundaries though. I went to a prestigious school where I polished myself and moved on to someone who had picked them self up by their bootstraps and enlisted in military service to change their situation. Like all good things though, that came to an end and I moved on by adorning myself in high heeled boots, sipping gin martinis, and moving on to my next victim.

I find myself now a bewildered twenty-two, uncertain of how I came to make these decisions and wind up where I am. I find myself staring out into the distance surveying my life and the people I've come to include in it. I've begun dating someone younger than myself whose passions and ambitions rival my own and make me envious. I was once younger and more passionate, but the years have worn on me. At seventeen I had the world at my fingertips. I could have lived in London, or Paris, or New York, and studied engineering. I chose New York and studied psychology as I was fascinated by the human mind. I battled my depression. I fought off the pressure of a mother with OCD and an alcoholic, potentially bipolar father. But I wound up exactly where I started. Not sure of which path to take. Only now I'm older and more weary and my choices have been widdled down and refined.