Gotta Go Back to Move Forward
You’re in your soul-searching 20s. You’re single. You’re more angst-filled than a tween missing a Jo Bros concert. You’re watching the economy crumble. What do you do? Move back home, of course.
As a child, you’re given a blueprint for your first two decades. There’s pre-school, grade school, high school and (if you intend to make your parents happy) college. You take this path for granted, moaning about your desires. But when the day comes and you graduate from college, long-awaited freedom may not be the first thing on your mind.
In my case, it was crippling fear.
Severely unconfident in my capabilities and intellect (I’m convinced that "Lost" was written expressly for philosophers or mathematicians and I’m ashamed by the number of times I've used Google to remind myself where Iraq is located), I dreaded graduation. It was the final day my life blueprint would be effective.
Fortunately, Natalie, my roommate and hetero life partner, had put the same amount of planning into her future as I had … none.
We half-assed applications for one fancy, big-city job each. But our back-up plan was golden. If unemployed at graduation, we’d leave Chapel Hill, set up in New Mexico, save some cash and hop a plane to Brazil. Thank you, Mr. Back-up Plan, because we certainly didn’t get those jobs. But we did get to continue our boozy college lifestyle in Santa Fe and cap it off with six indescribable months in 13 countries.
Hard to believe, but la vida real waited patiently for our return.
Natalie moved to San Francisco and I came to Richmond. Why? Because I interned here in college and my sister lives here and … that’s it, I don’t have a third reason.
Insecure without my life partner for the first time in five years, I sucked it up and found a j-o-b. And I’ve been living the dream since 2006.
Flash forward four years. (That was quick; those years were kind of boring.) Boring, yes. Drama-free, no. Inspiring, not at all. Add up the floundering, missteps, things I wish I hadn’t said, failed relationships, bad decisions and family crises and they all lead to one place. Another "Where is my life blueprint?" calamity. Muffle the sobs, curl up in the fetal position … I know.
Yet it seems that wise sages (or friends who are older than I am) reveal the same insight: the mid- to late-20s blow. Hard. And innately. They say the veil of despair doesn’t lift until you get a glimpse of light at the beginning of the 30s tunnel.
When I start whining about being in this state (pondering my worth at the office, ordering another vodka soda at the bar after I hear some dude whisper, "She’s weird," or sitting alone on my couch watching "The 600-lb. Virgin: The Weight Is Over"), I revisit the words of those sages and find some solace in the fact that I’m definitely not alone.
Then I log in to Facebook.
Hold the phone: all signs point to me being alone. My friends are getting Ph.D.s, earning grants for God knows what, meeting soul mates and having babies. But are they really just as confused about piecing together a version of life that means something? Yes, a resounding yes. They must just be laughing through their tears.
Well, I could play that game. Instead of continuing to wallow inside my overactive mind (Analyze. Pine. Self-loathe. Regret. Wonder. Repeat.), I decided to make the Spanish language my "thing." I loved butchering the language when I traveled and … again, that’s it. Anyway, I’d go to school at night, become fluent and moonlight as a highly sought-after translator.
Until I met a boy.
That silly notion of seeking personal fulfillment no longer mattered. He catapulted into my life and made me feel like dizzyingly blissful relationships are possible … like my emotional tendencies could be endearing, like I mattered, like people could see potential in me. I tricked myself into thinking this was all I really needed.
But relationships never last when one holds the power to buoy the other to that level. When he figured out I didn’t have a leg to stand on, he left. Like a bat out of hell. Without another word. Aye, Dios mio, I should have stuck with Spanish.
Before I go on, I need to say I’m no wallflower. I’m so loud I hurt my own ears. I don’t flounder when asked to present a solid viewpoint. I can spar with the snarkiest. But, bless it; my soul is more sensitive than the petals of a decade-old flower pressed between the pages of a book.
When he broke up with me, I gave up. Without a roommate, a sense of purpose or a boyfriend, I let my little apartment on Monument Avenue become gloom central. I upped the ante by silencing my phone, reading Plath, listening to Bon Iver on repeat and doing absolutely nothing to turn the Titanic around.
The masochism suited me as I waited for the meaning of life to be revealed in a flash of light.
There was no flash of light, but a perfect storm was brewing. I was obviously a hot mess. The economy suddenly became as hot a mess as I am. And finally, my parents (who would call from Tennessee to see if I was still alive) closed on the purchase of their retirement home in B.F.E. Chesterfield.
Suddenly I remembered the words of a friend who’d read my palm a few months earlier. "Where are your parents? They need to come build a nest for you." True story. And that memory was all it took. I was packing up and hitting the Powhite to move in with my parents.
If I was ever going to resemble a resilient "adult" (I use this term loosely), the first steps would be losing the debt, amassing a savings, and remembering who I was and why I mattered … with the nudge of two parents who live only to ensure I’m happy.
The stories that follow are true: embarrassing, liberating, hilarious, touching, ironic. But don’t laugh too hard … remember how fragile this soul of mine is?
Meredith is a 27-year-old copywriter living at home with her parents. She searches for the meaning of life in iced triple espressos, The New Yorker, downward dogs and vodka sodas. Stumble through her quarter-life crisis every Monday on Richmond.com. You can follow her on Twitter @MeredithAllaire.
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