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Worldwide Ace » A Fear of Commitment

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A Fear of Commitment

13 December, 2010 (17:09) | Growing Up

I have a fear of commitment.

Perhaps this comes as no surprise, as I also have a pair of testicles and what some have described as a penis (others have described it as a flaw in God’s design or as a second brain, but I just think they were bitter). It seems to be par for the course that men are assumed to have a fear of commitment. Apologists claim it’s due to the biological imperative of sowing one’s wild oats, but it could just as easily be a fear of choosing the wrong mate.

For me, the fear of commitment has nothing to do with relationships and everything to do with my path in life.

I’m scared of committing to a job or career, assuming one is even possible in this day and age. I have friends who have chosen a field or have worked for the same company for years already. I have friends who are navigating their way through various levels of education, almost all with a goal in mind, however vague. And I also have dozens of friends who, like me, seem to bounce from job to job without any sort of rhyme or reason.

When I graduated from college, I felt my degree held promise. I had good jobs in my field while I was in school and felt that my resume, along with good references, would be enough to get me situated. I wasn’t prepared for the recession to cripple my field almost first and foremost (Journalism and its ego exacerbating its injuries). I had coworkers and supervisors well established in the industry suddenly dumped into the same job market I would crawl into. Nor was I prepared for the utter lack of caring and sympathy I had for my own condition.

I floundered, growing angry and bitter that my talents weren’t recognized, my work ethnic not appreciated, and my resume not given a second thought. In part, this is a matter of arrogance and ego. But in part, it’s also warranted. How can I expect to prove myself if my prospective employers can’t be troubled to give me the chance?

When filled with such indignation, there are only  real two choices:

  1. Turn that fire into a desire like great athletes and politicians have for years.
  2. Learn to value self-worth over the opinion of others.

I chose the latter route, and because of this, I have learned to shrug off rejection and find happiness in the little things.

And yet, there is still this nagging loathing of my aimlessness.

Shouldn’t I have a path to walk? Shouldn’t I have found success? Shouldn’t I be comfortable with my future and have a sense of where I’m headed? Shouldn’t I have to be reminded to live in the now rather than reminded to watch where I’m going?

SIDE NOTE: I worry that I’m living my life vicariously. I take more joy in the joy of others and experience more pain and sorrow with them than I do in my own life. I often feel more like a bystander who’s simply along for the ride. When someone else has a passion or desire, I find it contagious. Perhaps this is the true definition of codependency, but given my propensity for independence and the fact that I prefer to be relied on than need to rely, I have my doubts.

A friend of mine who recently turned 21 said she feels like an old woman. Other than aches and pains unbecoming of a young man, I still feel fresh out of college. More than anything else, it’s the lack of certainty in my life, and I’ll be hard pressed to add any.

I was reminded the other night that only a year ago I had strong designs on grad school. I have yet to complete an application and continually postpone researching programs. I’m doubtful I even want to work toward a post-graduate degree, one which is as unlikely to help me find a path as my undergrad degree has been.

At Eldora, I’ve thrown myself in whole hog. I feel as though I belong and I am slowly becoming a staple. I wear my flower as a badge of pride, a beacon that amuses on the surface and hides grit, determination, and hard work underneath. But Eldora can’t be a career. It only runs for five and a half months each year.

If I do want to continue my on snow lifestyle, it makes the commitment to teaching as a career a waste, as I wouldn’t be able to teach winters.

All this leaves me blankly overwhelmed by my options and underwhelmed by my desires.

Over the next few months, as the snow comes and goes and my work ebbs and flows, I’ll explore other avenues of employment for the summer. Whether that leads me to a new lifestyle or leaves me hopelessly afloat a sea of question, I have no clue.  Now that I’m off the beaten path, I’m unsure if I ever want to get back on.

I know I have a fear of commitment. The question is whether it’s bigger than my fear of oblivion.

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