If 2012 was a year in which nothing truly remarkable happened—I continued working two jobs, living at home, hanging out with friends—then 2013 is about to become the exact opposite.
March 2013 in particular. I’ve already established that I’m going on a 5-day solo trip to London, with a quick St. Patrick’s Day stop in Ireland. My parents recently announced that we’re moving from this house to another one in town, with plans to rent it for at least the next two years until my youngest brother graduates high school. Then, they will look into moving out west—more specifically, Las Vegas or somewhere in California. Talk about big moves. As for me, I’m not quite sure what I’ll be doing in two years, but at the moment I’m focused on the next two weeks, in which not only will I have to continue working my two jobs while packing for my trip, but also packing up my entire life (I mean, bedroom) for this new house. Yikes. According to my dad, we can start moving our stuff there next week but we won’t be actually living in there until April 1.
Which leaves me to this next bit. While packing up stuff I found a couple of my old journals from high school. Read through one from 2006, the year I was 16 and a junior in high school. It’s a strange thing, encountering a previous incarnation of yourself. It’s like…you can still feel every morsel of pain and teenage angst that that person was going through, but at the same time you want to show her the light at the end of the tunnel. What was I like at 16? Well according to my journal—and let’s remember here, I seem to be the type of person who only writes when angry and alone and confused—I was a very angry and alone and confused girl at 16. Not many friends, no boyfriend, nothing exciting going on.
Seven years later, here I am at 23. What’s changed? I noticed that for the most part, the fuel to my fire in high school was the tension with my dad. Back then, he would never let me go out. Like, ever. Pretty much every other entry consisted of me crying about how I was trapped in this house with no life and no prospects. But to say my dad has lightened up now would be an understatement—he no longer calls me at 11 in the evening on a Saturday night, demanding I be home within the hour. No questions asked if I say I’m sleeping over somewhere (although only God knows what he’d say if he found out I’ve been sleeping over at a boy’s house as of late). It’s funny how things magically change when you turn 21 and have a car, a full-time job, and a college degree.
But the part that slightly concerns me was, and still is, my anger. A lot of entries began with “Am so depressed” or “I’m so fucking furious” or something along those lines. The scary part is, I know I still feel those emotions today. Sometimes I wonder if I do have a serious problem. Even my newly minted boyfriend (still feels really weird to say that!) has pointed out I have a lot of passionate anger bottled up inside. Hell, I even had a Xanga username once that was called savetherage. I know I get feisty and mad a lot. But I like to think I’ve done a magnificent job not letting it overcome my life. I have passions. A lot of those journal entries also consisted of me writing to do lists and declarations that “I will be productive with my life today.”
And that’s just who I am. I’ve learned that I need to constantly feel busy and productive with my life. I don’t like feeling useless. My life is so filled with activity now, with jobs and friends and hobbies and trips. While I tend to whine a lot, I know that in the past near 2 years since I’ve graduated college, life’s been a lot easier since those hellish high school days.