Story of my Life

I sometimes feel like the background music of my life is the sigh.

I usually hear it after what could be deemed my catch phrase- “Tell me a story.”

I love a good story. But that demand almost always trips people up. All of a sudden their lives flash before their eyes and they realize the mundane nature of their day to day. More than likely they fend me off with throwing the question back at me, laughing or in more experienced cases, just flat out telling me to fuck off.  

At my core, I’m a writer. What drives me is the story. There’s nothing more interesting to me than getting lost in someone’s mind for a while. But I believe the most interesting story should be your own.

The ego is the most concrete part of the human experience. If you want a foolproof conversation starter, ask someone about themselves. No matter where your intellect lies, talking about yourself is a universal skill. So many people want to know so many things and people want to tell them. There are very few actual ‘private’ people, despite protestations of the opposite.

I’m just a writer chasing my story.

My Peace Corps group is composed of 40 20-somethings who just hang together, drink and shoot the shit. So naturally, the topic or virginity surfaces often. Apparently the fact that I still have mine shocks people. They approach with caution, morbidly curious, but not wanting to offend me when they ask what happened. I told them that the opportunity has presented itself, and it wasn’t religious or safety concerns that I had, but creative concerns. It wasn’t the story I wanted to tell. My life on paper is of infinite concern to me. The walls of my life are clustered with books, tangible evidence of my experiences.

I want to make sure that my story is one worth telling.

This is why I’m having such a hard time struggling with the decision to leave the Peace Corps. It’s the story of my life. No matter whom I choose to tell or how I choose to explain it, when the cocktail party is over, the story finished, I have to live with it. Is quitting something this big a chapter I want to have?

Or do I want to have a chapter entitled: Peace Corps- I finished, motherfuckers. And have that be the mentality that I bring back to the states. Completion that comes with anger issues, PTSD and a mild dose of Stockholm syndrome.

Right now, the thought of going home makes me nervous because I have no idea what I’d do. This was the plan for 2 years. I was supposed to have 2 years to plan the next thing and be a badass. But if I went home, tail between my legs, what would I do? Literally live in my parent’s basement, frantically trying to put my life back together? I have visions of me desperately trying to figure things out:

“I changed a light bulb one time and didn’t get electrocuted. Maybe I should be an electrician! Syracuse has a program and then I can move to Colorado and try my hand there. The 401k may not be the best but maybe I can add plumbing to it in a few years; be sort of a renaissance woman? Yeah, that sounds like a solid plan.”

And just go through this with everything until I fall exhausted into a bottle of drink or a drug induced coma. There’s no guarantee that if I leave the Peace Corps, the chapter after will tell people I got my shit together. And that isn’t the story that anyone wants to tell.

 I want desperately to not live a paper life. I want people to see the life in me, not read about it. But chasing the story is so inlaid in me, I have no idea how to break the mold and just be. Jack Kerouac, one of the greats gave writers the advice, “Be in love with your life, every minute of it.” I think the assumption is the story will find you.

 

I just hope mine doesn’t get lost.