Old Sock Drawer

Currently listening to: “Filthy/Gorgeous” – Scissor Sisters

When you’re little, everything seems so clear. Growing up simply taints things with a muddy boot.

I recall being nine, and being absolutely gripped by the desire to write. Absolutely convinced that I was going to become a writer at some point in my life, I wrote all sorts of children’s stories, complete with Crayola illustrations. And they were really good stories, too – wonderful larksome tidbits of porcupines solving mysteries of the missing peanut butter and other such. Then, at about ten, I decided that I would be a journalist one day. BBC and all. It was such a good mental picture, too: I was convinced I’d be a foreign correspondent, reporting from war-torn areas. (Yes, even back then I was an idealist. But we’ll get into that later.) Those were grand dreams. Very grand indeed.

Then along the road someone told me – no, absolutely drummed the notion into my head – that writers make absolutely no money, journalists get shot on a regular basis, and I’d be thoroughly daft to consider it, and you wouldn’t want to be daft, would you? Not quite convinced, but shaken sufficiently (both by the insinuation of perceived daft-ness and wondering how anyone could be so bloody hostile), I drifted off, much like driftwood in a vast ocean of confusion. And I fear I’ve never quite found my way back.

Through high school, I took Science courses of all manners (and thoroughly hated it). Thinking that I’d learnt my lesson, I vowed that I’d never be as stupidly impressionable again, and swore to do what I enjoy in university. So that notion of “doing what I enjoyed” had me latching onto the idea of psychology. Not too fluffy, interesting enough, but not too much of a science to terrify me. Respectable enough, albeit with certain connotations. But whatever. So now I’m here. A feeling of sheer desperation and fear and absolute panic has taken over. I ask myself if I’m certain this is what I want. Don’t get me wrong, it’s bloody brilliant (at least, the textbook is). I sit in Psych classes- I’m fascinated by the subject in itself, but dear god, once talk of neurotransmitters and other such purely biological things crop up, I’m out like a light. Then in my spare time, I continue to bury my head in books (including lots of reading on psychology), plays, poetry, and yes, BBC NEWS, all the while whinging to myself, wondering why it is just so difficult to just leap off the bandwagon and say ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. Has my vision really become so blurred that I can’t even quite tell where I’m heading?

As my Facebook status says it best: “Mary, what the hell are you doing with your life?!?”

Is selectively encouraging dreams really helpful? Of course, I realize there’s the whole question of what happens if your child wants to be an axe murderer and emerges a Neo-Nazi in troubled times and singlehandedly sparks an economic downfall while wearing white shoes after Labour Day, BUT let’s be sensible here, I’m talking about regular childhood dreams. But think- how much more expansively would we have let our minds wander? Indeed, how differently would we have turned out if instead of being discouraged, we were allowed to chase even the faintest wispy butterflies of dreams down the cobblestone path, unfettered?

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