A bright child with middle-class upbringing, I always knew that my twenties would be full of exciting, positive life changes… the same way that I knew that Leprechauns stole the pennies under the sofa cushions. Okay, maybe I wasn’t that bright. But I was certainly full of imagination, hope, and the idea that I could do anything with my life.
At the age of eighteen, my tentative hopes for my twenties didn’t seem particularly outlandish:
- Education: undergraduate and postgrad degrees from prestigious universities; studying abroad!
- Career: a challenging, yet fulfilling career!
- Love: a long, happy relationship with a college sweetheart culminating in marriage!
- Life: a house, two kids and several Labrador Retrievers!
Unfortunately, what really happened was an underwhelming and disappointing reality:
- Education: undergraduate degree with average GPA; stacks of grad school rejections
- Career: a job going nowhere but down (not just a glass ceiling, but one in a gnome house)
- Love: a failed seven year facade of a relationship; upgraded to a wonderful, but geographically inconvenient long distance relationship
- Life: a house in a crime-ridden city (the bane of my existence) and a stubborn, unsocialized dog (admittedly one of the loves of my life), both of which deplete my time and life savings
I should have known better, but somehow I felt that the gleaming myths of the twenties would buck reality (you know, as if the rules didn’t apply to me) and that my life would truly be… well, whatever I wanted it to be. There are still moments when I naively believe in the unreachable, seemingly simple myth of being completely happy.
As I approach my thirties, I wonder: Is it time for me to give up the fantasy of doing something with my life, and just lower my expectations? Should I just aim to be satisfied that I exist and feel fortunate that I have family and friends who care about me? It is so disappointing to me that this love isn’t enough, and that I continue to obsess over my faults and misgivings. Some days I think I need therapy, but I don’t know that talking it out with a stranger will get me any closer to finding fulfillment. However, because writing has always been cathartic for me, this shall serve as my therapy until I can afford to hire a professional to nod at me and ask me uncomfortable, soul-baring questions.
Like in any substance abuse group session (so I’ve heard), the first step to addressing big problems is admit that the issue exists. So here it is:
My name is Lani, and I am an unwitting and reluctant member of The (new) Lost Generation.
