Shattered

"Your time is limited. Don't waste it living someone else's life."

Thank you, Steve Jobs, for saying what we all wish we had the balls to say. If only it were that simple. We were all raised by parents, who were raised by parents, who were raised by parents, all of whom did so with specific expectations of THEIR ideal life in mind. Grow up. Go to school. Get a job. Marry the sensible option. Don't move away. And, as tradition would seem, raise your kids in the same manner you, and the generations before you, were.

Kids grow up and do this. These kids, grow to adults, living fine, happy, and productive lives doing this. No one gets hurt; at least I would HOPE this seemingly "safe" option would allow pain to be at a minimal.

But what about the kids who dare to stray. The ones who dare to take the path with the sharp rocks, the steep drop offs, and that freakin' dense brush. These are the ones who are stuck between having a spirit and soul DIFFERENT than the generations before them... and, yet, are being pulled and tossed between how it SHOULD be, and how it could be. And don't get me started on the adopted child, forever struggling finding their identity when they're, without a doubt, made up of two very different existances; that of their genes, and that of their bringing up. The last thing you want to do is to hurt your Mom and Dad, the ones who have earned the title, and who have raised you from the crying, screaming child, to angsty teenager, to identity-struggling adult. Who would? You love them. You care for them. You respect the heck out of them. They may not have brought you into this hellish world, but they saved you by giving you the life you know of today.

That should make the decision easy, right? Honor how you've been raised and become the traditional member of society.

Where does that leave the other, very real, part of me, though? The part that wants to stick it to tradition, and bomb down that unknown mountain trail... not looking back.

More likely than not, a medium must be found between the two halves of me, no matter the acute differences. Maybe i've spent the majority of my life masking that other half of me...

Is it time to find it? What if i'm too late? What if the mask is too constraining and tight?

I haven't asked for hardship, yet, it's been thrown my way... and, hey, turns out i'm still breathing. I didn't ask, that I know of, to be adopted. To be short. To be pasty white. To be bad at math. To be a dog lover. To be a wanderer. To be a questioner.

I didn't ask to be depressed.

I didn't ask to have anxiety.

I didn't ask to love; to love someone against the ideal tradition that's been so precisely planned for me.

Does that make it wrong? Does that make me bad? Aw, to love whom I love. It would seem to do so fastens the mask of shame tighter around my tear stained face, yet, to not...leaves me choking with regret. Oy vey.

More on this later.