The Post-Graduation Anxiety

With summer quickly approaching, a slew of articles on how to survive in life post-college and photographs of my high school classmates in caps and gowns popping up all over my timeline, I’m coming to a very serious conclusion: graduation. is. fucking. terrifying.

And yes I know, that’s not a very original epiphany, but it doesn’t lessen the growing ulcer I’m pretty sure I have somewhere in my body. I’ve been waking up, and after crossing of the few remaining days left on my calendar, immediately start checking my body for random stress-induced tumors. Because this level of fear has to be lethal. Honestly, I’m thinking there’s a high likelihood I’ll drop dead before even making it to that stage.

No, really, I swear, I’m SO happy that dim-witted asshole who teased me in elementary school has already found employment with a 401k plan, an apartment on his own, and just adopted a puppy. SERIOUSLY, I HAVE ZERO RESENTMENT. AND WHAT EXACTLY IS A 401K PLAN? HELP.

…I’ve been told that I’m an adult. I’ve legally be one for 4 years, but I will still call my mother crying when someone breaks my little, naive heart. I still lose myself in grand fantasies when I’m walking to class, envision myself with a microphone in one hand, confidence in the other. I dance my way to class, completely unaware of just how much I use my imagination to survive. I choose day-dreams over real people too often. But maybe it’s because I know I’m the only one who can keep with these wild ideas. I zone out during my Shakespeare class, and suddenly I’m being interviewed on The Ellen Degeneres Show. She’s asking me questions about my budding rap career, poetry, writing, general badass-ness, my award for curing cancer, etc. It’s a long interview, because let’s face it, we’ve got a lot of material to cover. I’m always somewhere, anywhere except for the actual moment. The moment is too overwhelming. The moment is what I do now, and what I’m doing now doesn’t seem to be enough. Maybe I’m too scared to even try.

Ugh, I hope you just grimaced at my melodramatic, whiny angst. Because I sure did. I’m starting to think that nobody has it figured out. There are those of us who are just better at faking it. Those of us who know how to paint a more stable picture. But if we really had a handle on this whole life deal, would people even want to stick around? Would butterflies cease to exist? Would sweaty palms of uncertainty be a thing of the past?

Maybe it’s this unknown that keeps us all pushing forward. These heart-palpitations that keep me up at night are actually just here to remind me I’m alive.

I’m alive.

I’m alive.

I’m fucking alive.

And it’s time to go do something about it.

To the class of 2014, let’s go do something about it.