Brain meets World

On a cold January morning, I had a quarter-life crisis—certainly not the first or last of the year. An avalanche of feelings crashed into my soul. I was feeling burnt out; I needed to escape. I was only four days into the spring semester after a month long break; how could I be burnt out already?

I was daunted by the prospect of facing German 2, a class which was more time-consuming than German 1, if that’s even possible. As melodramatic as it sounds, my soul yearned for freedom. And so, an idea returned to my wily brain, and planted itself as a tree beside water.

Freshman year, I decided to minor in reading. Now, mind you, there is no such thing as minoring in reading. But, as kind, old, naughty Brain reminded me, you CAN minor in English! “What a charming idea!” said I to Brain. And so, by George, I decided to follow Brain’s handy advice and do just that.

As a little girl, I loved reading, as much as I loved Beethoven; as a 20 year old, I love reading, as much as I love Beethoven. Some things never change. It is this love which caused me to have a strange conversation with Brain, and led me to a British literature class.

As the previous thoughts no doubt have been, the class was strange; more than once my teacher laughed at me for being a weirdo and poking my friend in the arm, like the four-year-old I truly am. But I enjoyed 3:30-5:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays more than I enjoyed any other class.

They say “All good things come to an end,” and so did British Literature. I don’t like to let go of the things I love, and so, with the advent of summer, I re-read Pride and Prejudice. Next? I re-read Jane Eyre. It’s been wonderful, visiting these pages again, for they really are old friends. In the process, however, I recognized something: I have a problem.

Just as Sherlock Holmes has his little “mind palace,” there’s a world inside my head. In fact, there’s not just one, but several. You know what? I am much more content living in the worlds I have created for myself than the one I’m in. Life’s easier in my head: I’m always the heroine, I always win my battles, and [insert-name-here] always falls in love with me. It’s pretty great. Except it isn’t.

I set expectations for myself, for others, based on fiction. I expect my life to be parallel to that of Elizabeth Bennet, Jane Eyre, Hermione Granger, Gemma Doyle, etc. But that expectation is impossible, because it isn’t real. You would think I would’ve learned that years ago, right? But I’m a stubborn person; I always tend to think I’m right; I come to realizations about myself weeks after I first formed those realizations into thought-made-word, as one kind soul has consistently pointed out. I want to be in a fairy tale—a fairy tale where I’m super cool and have super awesome skills like sword fighting and sassiness—and I get mad when reality falls short of my own expectations.

But with all those stories I love, and all the alternate realities I fashion for myself, there’s always an end: I come to a precipice where I can no longer see past what my imagination has created or what the author has given me. My imagination fails me, and I have to shut the door on that tale. Lizzy and Darcy are happily married and the pages close. “THE END” is written in heavy black print.

I don’t like, “THE END,” but there’s no going on; so, reality forces it’s big ugly head into my face and forces me to act like a sociable being once more. I detest reality more than I detest green juice that I think has fruit in it but is only kale, kale, and more kale, with a special addition of celery and spinach.

IT’S GROSS.

But that revulsion only occurs when I’m so rudely forced back into this world. The thing is, when my mind is not rooted in reality, I forget that the story I’m really in has no end. I will never be forced to see those words I so disdain and reject painted on my life. There’s adventure before me, and I am the super cool heroine of my own little world. I tell that to myself enough, so why not believe it?

You see, I like Jesus a lot. He likes me a lot too. He understands that I am a crazy child who doesn’t understand His goodness as much as I want to. He understands that I aspire to be not one fictional character, but several. And because He understands that, He reminds me that the story that I’m currently in is bigger and better than the ones that I seek to insert myself in—and there’s no rude “THE END” looming dreadfully before me.

Exciting adventures will come, on this earth and beyond this earth, so there’s no need for me to run from this adventure to the one’s that aren’t real, and the ideas that will never be. All I have to do is accept that I am a not-so-little warrior princess in His novel called life. And you know, I think I would rather enjoy the adventures He has set before me, than resort to the fictions that live in my head.

Mind you, that doesn’t mean I won’t still be as avaricious a reader as I have been known to be. And it certainly doesn’t mean I won’t think malicious thoughts about you and act like a monster if you disturb the world inside my head—sorry in advance if you happen to be the poor soul that evokes my wrath.

What it does mean, though, is that the fantasies inside my head that are clearly unrealistic—let’s be honest, I will never be a dragon rider—won’t be forced on the world I live in; I won’t expect the fiction I think I prefer and reject the reality which is, in fact, better.

Instead, I’m excited to see what the next stop is on the road of life, to wiggle my toes into the beach, and proceed to throw mud on the people who happen to stop with me.