“We come to this life with two minds: the intellectual mind and the heart mind. You can determine which mind you’re using by the presence, or absence, of doubt.
If there is any doubt, you are using your intellectual mind. No matter how difficult the choice in any given situation, the heart mind trusts the direction it takes, while the intellectual mind will usually be influenced by fears based on the dead past or the imagined future.”
I had two choices. Live with my parents and attend college in my hometown of San Luis Obispo (SLO), or go to Sonoma State University in “BFE.” That’s what I called it back then, an acronym for Bum Fuck Egypt. It was a five hour drive, just fifty miles past San Francisco in a city called, Rohnert Park. My parents are paying for it, so “at least” I have a choice. I thought. Some kids don’t have parents who care as much as mine and have the funds, guilt tripping myself into appearing to be grateful. Anytime I uttered the words, “beauty school,” my father created a conniption fit. He wanted me to be an intellectual like my brother, and I always fell short (my brother read the entire Encyclopedia just for fun). My mom picked Sonoma State University because it was a smaller college, and “I could handle it.”
The best part was that my best friend was going with me. My parents also allowed me to pick my major. I picked Psychology. It was about the only thing I liked besides boys, clothes, makeup, hair, music, and the arts.
The year spent at SSU is mostly a blur. For most of the year, I lived with my roommate who walked around in her black G-string bikini with a tiny white bow placed delicately at her sacral dimple and...her boyfriend. On the first day, and to my horror, they dumped the dormitory single bed and replaced it with their double sized futon, leaving me with a narrow walkway to the toilet. Cowardly, I said nothing. My best friend became tight with her roommate, and I created exclusion and dismissal. I developed an eating disorder, lightly snacking all day while scarfing down a potato or popcorn at night (without butter). But on the weekends? I splurged on Domino’s all by myself, later labeling myself as a bulimic who never threw up. What a total head trip.
To top the year off, my dad underwent heart surgery, and I was diagnosed with Dysplasia (precancerous cells of the cervix) and had to have surgery to freeze the bastards. Little did I know that my life with the big “C” word was just beginning. I was nineteen years old.
The year from Hell did have some memorable highlights, though. My second High School boyfriend, Pete (who I had lost my virginity to when I was eighteen), came up about every other month. We would get a bottle of Merlot, pig out on some yummy take-out, and have sex all night long at the nearest Motel 6. What more could a girl want?!? Sex, food, and alcohol. Ha! If I only knew then what I know now.
I also found my love for writing and storytelling. Unlike Psych, my favorite class turned out to be DFE or, “Dumb Fuck English.” The teacher gave us a journal and instructed for us to write about our life. It was the ONLY class that I created the opportunity to be myself. I wrote and wrote and wrote. All positive, of course. I did not want to see anything that would shake the tree, and I wanted to “think” of my life as fairytale perfect. I even wrote an entire essay about how much I loved my father, continually wanting to prove to him that I was worthy of his love. I continually worried that he was going to die of a heart attack, and I needed to let him know that he was appreciated. He seemed to like the essay, but it wasn’t enough to make him happy. When I visited on school breaks, he would give me the silent treatment for the first hour of entering in what I called, home. My mom informed me that it was because I “did not spend enough time with him,” so I put on a big fake smile and kissed up to him until he was seemingly satisfied. Exhausting. I became quite a performer and told myself the story that is was all in the name of “love.” For years, I bought in and made his challenges mine, later learning that someone’s behavior is about them and not personal.
By the end of the year, I mastered all my classes and received straight A’s, proving to my parents once more that I was indeed capable of attending a bigger college. Pete lived in Santa Barbara, so why not!?! I applied to The University Of California, Santa Barbara and was accepted.
It was 1989, my sophomore year. I chose to live in a single dorm, and I was still undecided as to who I wanted to be when I grew up. I felt disabled and the pressure was on. I better do SOMETHING, or hear overtly and covertly about what a "low life" I am for the rest of my life. With no emotional support as to what I found enjoyable, I was to pick something that they would deem as practical and smart (Spirituality was not a choice, nor would I have picked it-too freaky). It was only a matter of time before my mom would call me to discuss my “undecided” major. Or rather, tell me what to do...
I pleaded, “But, but mom, please...I hate science.”
“Just give it a try,” she insisted.
At least she cares, I thought. And as my dad says, “She takes care of me.”
This is how I began to talk myself into something I did NOT want to do. My intellectual mind continued...
Hmm, my “future” husband can take care of me, and I will work one or two days a week. That sounds nice. After all, I didn’t get “Prettiest Smile” in the 8th grade yearbook for nothing (bless my heart).
In one ten-minute phone call, I made the life altering decision to become a dental hygienist. A choice for which I am ultimately responsible.
That night, I went with my new found besties to party and downed three beer bongs in a row. I remember walking back to my room, taking off my pants, and calling Pete.
In my underwear and t-shirt, I woke up the following morning in a dorm room bed that wasn’t mine. Alone and frightened, not knowing how I got there or whom I may have possibly been with. Am I hurt? Is there semen? No. Just a hangover and the excruciating pain of allowing myself to follow my parent’s dream, not mine.
The alcohol could only numb the knives for so long. I had just made (what I had told myself) a lifelong career choice, and I “felt” like I was going to suffocate. I did my best to swallow down the regret, but instead, threw up in the nearest trashcan after class. Despite my opposition to my now “decided” major, it was more important for me to be a good little girl and do as I was told. Although, I didn’t have the words to describe what was going on with me, I subconsciously knew that I had sold my soul.
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