Liberation and bondage coexist here.
Conversations with my mother have become a painful strain of repetition in which I try to vocalize the sporadic rhythm of my twenty-three year old thoughts and she tries to refrain from telling me that all of these thoughts are premature and maybe ignorant.
These days it seems our conversations are never void of constructive criticism. And while I’ve grown and learned a lot of things, accepting criticism (however constructive and rooted in love) is not one of them. I miss the freedom of sharing my ideas in the safe space that only mother and child know. For years I’ve done it by the book. After high school there was college and after college there was this allotted break where I got an entry level job in my field and some time to breathe.
But breathing feels good. It gave me time to submerge myself in my creative ideas. I found myself in things I didn’t have time for before. I found things that move me; not just sometimes, but every time I open myself to them.
In my last two semesters of college I took creative writing classes and met people who loved the creation of characters and worlds as much as I do. I’d never felt more understood than I did in that environment. I bought a camera and started capturing all the magical moments in life. I was breathing. What’s even more, I was good at it.
So here I was four years into a psychology degree, finding an outlet for my creativity and it changed me. It’s hard to explain now that I can’t imagine another two to three years in school for something that doesn’t move me. It’s also hard to reason spending another two to three years in school for something I may never find a career in. Hard to imagine that maybe there should be no school at all.
So here’s the conflict: passion vs security.