Monologue: College (Jan. 2020)
I spent a good portion of today going through my things and discarding what didn’t spark joy, or KonMari-ing. I was working on the papers section of that method. I dug up all the papers I carried with me and found acceptance letters from a few colleges along with orientation materials for one. I came across orientation materials for one college and acceptance papers from two others.
I had no use for any of the material, so I discarded it. It sparked disappointment, regret — not joy as Marie Kondo reams into the brains of all who read her work. I kept one acceptance letter, though. The acceptance letter addressed specific parts of my application. That made me feel pretty cool. It still makes me feel cool. Even though there was no guarantee I’d go to their small college, they felt like they could write me a personalized something. Truthfully, I’m a sucker for shit like that.
I don’t have the money to go to school, and won’t for a while. I’d give up a lot to be in a classroom right now with others roughly my age having my brain go a million miles a minute with questions, but I’m working on getting a car. This is not what I thought I’d be doing at this age when I was a wide-eyed high school freshman, but it’s better than what my life would’ve been if I had stayed.
I used to boil over with the opportunity to rant about what my father did to me. Whenever anyone asked me why I wasn’t in school, I’d tell them it was a long story. And before they’d even expressed further interest, I was off telling them the whole ordeal.
I’m not mad at him anymore. I can’t be mad anymore. I am so far removed from the time everything regarding my undergraduate education went down the drain — it isn’t productive to linger on it.
But I do believe, he fucked me over in a way a parent is not supposed to fuck over their child. And I won’t forgive that. I love him regardless because he is my father. That is something that will stain the record of our relationship, even if my stance mellows. Not a grudge so much so as a footnote.
I’ve got a little over three more years to go until I hit that glorious age of independence in the eyes of the FAFSA. I’ll be a dinosaur on campus. But that won’t matter because I’ll be sure of myself. 18-year-old me, as excited as she may have been to learn, would not be sure of herself at all on campus.
So I guess that’s something to credit him for in the end.