I have so little hope of a conscientious person finding peace in this life that my life has infinite potential to surprise me, and I cling to that.
Every day I wake up, I don't yet know until I know whether I've slept in, what the weather is like, whether my hair is untamable, whether my clothes will match and fit well, whether I'll be able to find what I need on time, whether I'll have time for breakfast, whether I'll get deathly ill at the last minute and will still get points docked from my participation grade because I didn't email my professor before class. And that's just the first two or so hours of my 16 hour day.
That's not the world I knew growing up.
We were lied to. We were told that we could be anything we wanted to be. Desire was as much as being; effort was as much as achieving. All of our unhappiness as children would one day disappear as we set off on our own and killed a few dragons, met the one of our dreams, and soundly, cleverly defeated the villain. We were princesses – we were Pollyannas and Anne Shirleys. We were knights in shining armor – good hearted pretty boys. Even if we were ugly – our fairy godmother would give us a makeover and then life would come together for us. Even if we were dirt poor, riches would be magically granted us. If we just believed.
And then we grew up and we realized that none of our innocence was true. It was founded on lies. On fairytales.
Would you agree with this? What's been your experience?
Coming next
Part II: What I would tell my children
Part III: Is there hope, still?