Romanticizing

I really thought college was for me. Over a year ago, two summers ago, before college, man, that seems like a lifetime ago.

College is supposed to be the best four years of your life. And, don't get me wrong, they're alright. The freedom is nice, the change of scenery is cool, and I love my job. There are plenty of things that I've been blessed with since I dropped everything in my hometown and went to the capital of the state three hours away. And the fact that I know I should be happy, I should feel blessed, I should have the sun shining out of my ass, it makes me feel worse. Because I'm not always happy and I don't always feel blessed and I certainly don't have the sun shining out of my ass.

But I'm here. And I'm trying to make the conscious decision to just be happy. But I'm fucking not. I should be. All signs point to happiness and I can't fucking grasp it.

Why? What's so terrible in my life that I can't hold on to that feeling? Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

But it seems lately that I can't drag myself out of bed. I spend my time dreaming about being home in my own bed with my own friends and just watching football with my mom. Those dreams make me yearn for what I can't have anymore. And that's the comfort of knowing that the time I have to leave home is far away enough that I shouldn't worry about it. Well, time caught up with me. And it's here to bite me in the ass.

I think about that moment; the one where I was putting all my shit in boxes and hoisting them off to my car with a shit-eating grin on my face, ready to start my own adventure.  The adventure turned to purgatory.

Maybe I romanticized the idea of college. I thought it would be some lavish, unreachable goal that I had somehow managed to earn and I would be rewarded with mind-blowing new friends and adventures I would spend the next few decade telling stories about.

I have a few stories that I would tell over and over again because they were great times with great people. But when I tell those stories, it's like I'm telling them from a third-party perspective. Like those stories were something I conjured up in my head. Or I story I read somewhere that I pictured myself in the midst of.

There are very few people in this world that I can count on. People that I know I could send an "S.O.S." text to and can expect my phone to ring a second later. And the thing is that I rely on those people. I expect them to never leave my side and be there for me until the day that I no longer need them. And in my mind, I know on some level that that's what will happen.

But in my heart, I know that's not the case. Yes, those people love me. They would do pretty much anything I needed them to do as long as I ask. But I'm not their first choice.  I'm not the person that they sit around at a party or a hookah bar or a bonfire and think, "Man, this would be so much more fun if Isa was here." No, I'm not that person.

Sure, they love me. Because it's convenient for them to love me at this moment.

But what if it wasn't. What if I moved out of state? Would I move out of mind? What if I dropped them completely? Would they miss me? Or would I just play a small role in a little anecdote they told at a dinner party a decade from now?

I like to believe the best in people because I truly believe that every person strives to be the best version they can of themselves. But, I could be wrong.

There are times that I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. But I don't try very hard to change the person staring back at me. I no longer possess the motivation to seek the better person in me. I'm sure I'm not the only one. Giving people the benefit of the doubt is what I like to do. But maybe I'm just romanticizing the idea of the human ability to be different, be better.