Who are you and what am I?

Frigid, we march along our planned courses. Get the diploma, then the degree, and then that great job. But what next? Some plans have expiration dates, but I didn't pay attention.

I'm rarely completely certain about anything at all. (How's that for ambiguity?) I thought I'd end up in a bank. Instead, I became yearbook editor at my HS my senior year and became possessed with the idea of being a graphic designer. Me, the girl that struggled with stick figures, never took an art class that wasn't required, and wore plaid button down shirts & jeans everyday for 6 years. See, this is what happens when people tell me I'm good at something--I let them choose my life for me. I mean, I think I actually do enjoy that type of work, but I'm never really sure what in life I actually enjoy. I'm like a trained monkey, wired to do what it takes for a treat. I lived for recognition.

Soon, I will have been out of college for as long as I was in. Scary. Life's checkpoints seem to be flying by. Eight years ago I was plotting this grand career I would have as a graphic designer in Chicago. I don't even like big cities, but I liked the idea of working in a fancy building with a salary to match. I could show everyone how successful I could be. Ah-ha, look at me!

I was in two art classes my first semester of college. Traditional art classes. They expected me to draw things realistically. Come on, I can only do this stuff on computers--drag the lines about & such. What had I gotten myself in to? You know, I had no idea if my choice school even had a good program. It was just the easy choice. My mom went there and the previous yearbook editor was going there for graphic design. Obviously, it would make sense to follow in her shoes.

I was such a coward. It worked out to some degree. A real art school would have torn me to pieces. I enjoyed my classes, but noticed life drawing coming up on the roster. I would not be forced to draw a nude homeless person. No, sir. I decided I was bored with what I was doing anyway, so I found a new major. It was close but more on computers. Within a semester, I was receiving praise as a web programmer. You didn't miss a step, I went from graphic design to web programming. Well, with all this praise, this job must be my calling.

Four years ago I was making big plans for my life as a web developer. I could work for Amazon or Google or anything. And gosh, did web programmers make so much more than graphic designers. I was going to be living the high life. I think I really did enjoy the work. I went through a few different positions, constantly getting called to work somewhere else. I received praise at every job I took.

Two years ago, I decided web programming was eating away at my soul. How could I ever live a real life if I were always sitting behind a computer? I'm not a naturally social person. I'm like a two-year-old that can be plopped in front of some moving pictures and be perfectly entertained. I was convinced however that web programming had made me that way--deep down I was a social butterfly waiting to emerge!

A writer. That's what I'm supposed to be. English & COM professors have praised me since elementary. Ah-ha, this talent has been hiding there all along. I had just gotten distracted. I took on writing assignments at work. But it's the damnedest thing, I live in a constant state of writer's block. I'd write and re-write and so on, so forth. I was horrible. I felt I never found the right words. My mentor seemed to always have the perfect ones. He'd take my drawn out thoughts and make them beautifully simple. I couldn't be horrible, though, because this was what I was meant to be. I'd received too much recognition for it not to be.

That is how a web developer starts sending out resumes for copywriting jobs. That is how the girl that had life effortlessly unfold new avenues & exits sits here as an unemployed writer wannabe, blogging about her inability to discover who she is and why she's here at 11pm on a Saturday night.

I have basically cut myself off from the rest of the world for a month. I've only gotten praise for quitting a job that made me miserable. We certainly have spoiled ourselves. My job brought in a nice income, kept a roof over my head, and I quit because it made me unhappy. Ancestors are laughing at us all right now. Taunting, calling us "lazy quitters." I think that should make me feel some level of guilt. I don't have a family, so it makes this all less dramatic, but does it make the selfishness of the act hold less value? I've never experienced poverty. I was praised for cutting off my only source of income. It's no wonder there is a generation gap. Look at us not being thankful for those before us without such liberties and choices. In a way, I envy them. Although I'm certain it was no kind of paradise, the prospect of choosing a job being dictated by how much I hoped to eat that night does carry a certain appeal. It means it's okay if I don't know what I want to do with my life. It's okay if I'm not always sure what actually makes me happy. I wouldn't know what I was missing, and really, that is the hardest part. I'm so fully aware of all the potential that exists to love life & my career, if only I had an inkling of what it should be.