by Amber Garner
I woke up this morning and the first thing that came to mind was how much I love what I do. That is, how much I’ll love what I do once I get to do it. After years spent meandering as an undergrad I discovered my professional calling but six months post graduation, and since the epiphany I’ve done nothing but affectionately apply myself to all manner of preparation. I roll over and hazily glance at the near-complete work on the desk, thinking the same thought that has badgered me the last few months: What took me so long to figure this out?
In college I was dreadfully lost, knowing I should be there, but without any real purpose, and I was tied up more often with tidying trauma than with actual coursework. Eventually I finished school, having only discovered the joys of academia during the final term of a seven-year stretch. So it goes. For me that question was less a matter of lack of desire or ambition than one of emotional and psychological distraction.
I spent my young adult life dissecting the mess that was my youth, a memorable amalgam of intimate tragedies, horrific occurrences, and behavioral issues (i.e., acting out… aka “cries for help”). Add to that a few post-teen years of monetary indiscretion (most notably in the form of student loans) and general self-destruction (most notably with drugs and alcohol… though for a time I was a stripper). In this I never thought myself unique. Lots of people have been raped (check) or molested (check), have functioning drug addict mothers (check) or less than stellar fathers (read: abandonment) (check), or were punished inappropriately as an elementary student, perhaps with threats of grade repetition (check) or placement in lower-level reading groups, lower-level classes, or even total non-learning environments such as the janitor’s office (sigh).
College, then, was a kerfuffle: seven years at three different universities, trudging about in various departments, never liking one over another, nothing feeling right. I had so many seemingly disparate interests and, at the time, so little discipline, that the thought of choosing a single focus was more daunting than dealing with what was being discussed in the counselor’s office – and what was being discussed always took precedence over coursework. I performed exceptionally well in the classes I enjoyed though I dropped or withdrew from as many as I passed during my extended stay in the safety (read: stasis) of academia. All the while I yearned for something to ignite my passions, and hoped that this fervor would drive me to work alongside my psychological turnover instead of submitting to it. But no match struck; I settled on studying religion and philosophy just because I was fond of several of the professors. Period.
It was more pressing for me at that time to relearn how to approach actually living than to learn what was actually being taught. To be fair, looking back I don’t believe I could have had one without the other. The fact that the spark came later doesn’t even bother me – I’m content with my choice and with my time in school. I’m just plain giddy to have that spark and refuse to moan about the time prior to its discovery. So what’s the big deal, then, if I’ve figured it out?
Simply put, I worked really hard not to let my history become the dominant theme in my narrative. Of course, paying attention to, rooting out, and moving beyond all the BS required a particular mental endurance, a gumption that sapped strength and concentration from other, more fruitful endeavors (like responsible budgeting or accountable collegiate observance…). (I concede that some can do both simultaneously but I wasn’t one of them; I might be now, I hope, but definitely wasn’t then. All that happened to me helped form who I am.)
Unavoidably this interior deconstruction/reconstruction entailed years in therapy through a comical abundance of personal, academic, and professional mistakes; irrevocable, many of those mistakes – especially those involving my appalling misappropriation of private lender-funded… life – haunt me worse than any demon ever could.
Arrival at adulthood, or what I like to refer to as the post-mess epoch, meant existing without the sully of the past and with a bright appraisal of the future; however, this meant not only the acceptance of my heuristic self, but also the acceptance that I was in a lot of debt.
So here I am, an emboldened 27 year-old with a stout work ethic, a ferocious drive, and finally (thankfully), passion with direction… oh, and close to $100,000 in loans with no options available at my current income level for consolidation, nor any feasible means of paying them off. All avenues have been exhausted – there is nothing I can do save be garnished (25% in case you’re curious), and hope that my future employer doesn’t mind when Title III no longer applies.
Despite my best efforts to develop my eagerly blossoming professional self it seems as though I’m sort of… fucked. I hold myself responsible for all manner of incomprehensible stupidity: embracing poverty is but one aspect of owning my past. I’m still convinced that if I work harder than everyone else, completely throwing myself into my trade, that I’ll be able to acquire a position and do what I am wont to do regardless of a garnished wage. I’ll probably never own property and it will be damn difficult to rent with shot credit (not to mention paying for basic living expenses), but I honestly believe that sincerity and integrity will carry me through any material difficulties just as they carried me though all the mental hardships. I’m quite tranquil after finally ridding myself of the internal chaos and feel that nothing unfavorable can faze me; all I have to do now is keep my spirits high while cleaning up after the mess I made during the healing process…