I’ve got another confession to make

Line ripped off shamelessly from the Foo Fighters.

I didn’t expect this.

When the email, then the letter came, there was euphoria, there was much screaming and startling of secretaries.

But then after that, a curious reluctance to confirm it, to speak it out loud.

I think it started with the realization that it was actually real. It sounds silly, but when you want something and dream of something and think of something for more than a decade, you’re convinced that you’ve thought things through. But then when it actually happens, reality kicks in like a mule, and suddenly everything changes on you.

And then there was the guilt. Which kicked in the second I saw my father. We’d spoken about it before, and he told me that he would pay for the tuition. But talking about something that will occur in the abstract future and asking for a solid commitment are two different things. As we talked in a roundabout, circuitous way, I looked at him, really looked. And for a second, I wanted to take it all back, and pretend I had never got that letter, pretend opportunity wasn’t knocking, and hide under the covers until it went away.

It hit me so hard that the man who raised me, loved me, supported me for about two decades, who had already paid for one professional degree, was willing to give up a big part of what he would use for his retirement, so I could do what my heart called out for me to do. Just because I’d asked him. He would give up some vacations, some golf games, some new clubs, maybe a new car, for me to pursue my dreams. And I didn’t want that. And I saw that he was older than I always see him in my mind’s eye. He’d always been my father, always unchanging, always mischievous and unbreakable and eternal. But suddenly he was grayer, thinner, and suddenly seemed more frail. It scared me badly, and the guilt twisted a knife in my gut..

I backpedaled, tried to convinced him that maybe a bank loan would make more sense, maybe he couldn’t afford it. But he insisted, and I caved. We spoke of practical things, like payment, and accommodation, and housing. Throughout the entire conversation, we never really made eye contact. It was matter of fact, just another conversation. We’re not the affectionate sort, my family. But after we spoke, I hid in my room and cried because it made me feel so bad that he was so willing to give me so much, so easily.

And the fear, of course. I didn’t expect the fear.

You’d think that when you move out from every comfort zone you feel some measure of fear. But I never thought of this as any sort of comfort zone, and I never expected the fear.

It’s such an irrevocable thing. People say you can come back. But you can’t. Not in this line. Not unless you want to work without pride, to be mediocre. And I hate being mediocre.

And though I hate to admit it, I don’t know if I can stand the idea of losing The Boy because I chased the dream. I’ve never met anyone like The Boy, who just makes me happy by being there.