The conversations all go the same:
“What have you been up to?”
“Oh, I’m finishing up school here soon, it’s a little nerve racking but I’m hopeful.”
And I beg to myself, to Something, to you, “Please don’t tell me I’ll figure it out. But PLEASE don’t tell me I’ll figure it out because I’m smart.”
And I wait. I sit in the irony knowing—
“Hey, you’ll figure it out and everything will fall into place :)”
And I read it over again.
“Hey thanks that means a lot.”
Because there’s nothing else you can say to me. You can’t tell me what to do next, what the best decision for me is, but most importantly you tell me I have to do it all alone.
So I distract myself with copious amounts of drugs and alcohol because I’d rather think about not dying than worry about what I want to do for the rest of my life. And I do it all over again. The next day. The next week. The next month. Spinning in circles instead of “figuring it out.”
And when the faintest stain of pink spreads across my nose and cheeks and I start to breathe in a heavy panic I call you for a favor to talk me down. But in between the tears that stream down my cheek I beg, “Is it ever going to get better from here because you seem to have it all figured out,” because I know I can only hope that you’ll actually have the formula.
But you have no answers. You make me feel alone all over again, you make me feel helpless that I couldn’t figure it out for myself, you make me feel embarrassed, but you have also made me feel angry because I think you’re keeping the solution to yourself.
Yet, I say nothing and time passes by and once in awhile those conversations come up again:
“How have you been what have you been up to?!”
“Oh, I’m just finishing up school at the moment, you?”
“God, so fast! That must be so exciting I feel like I’m so behind to be honest.”
And before I could comprehend the words that flow so effortlessly from my lips, I hear myself say “don’t worry you’ll figure it out,” and I finally understand what it means.