Looking back on my life, it is abundantly clear that I was not ready for adulthood at age 18. My objective in life was to be happy with myself, which I thought would come automatically when I left home. Instead, I carried the grievances of my childhood for many years, and that extra load knocked me off balance countless times. After years of wandering and a lot of trial and error, I finally got my footing and can honestly say that I am substantially happy and as cured as I want to be.
At 18, the resources I needed to find happiness were not available, otherwise my high school counselor would have told me about them. He did the best he could and endorsed a college he thought would be suitable. But what I really needed was a college that would prepare me for real college. A school that would help me feel and act normal. Because that’s the first thing children of alcoholics want to be—normal. My eyes would have lit up at the prospect of attending the university that specialized in normal.
Here’s how I imagine it.
First-year students would be called Damaged instead of freshman, and we’d be fine with that. I shudder at some of the general education courses, like Focus 101, Settle Down 101 and Attitude Adjustment 101, 102 and 103. I can almost hear the screaming.
Second year would be called Healing. The upper-students, the ones in their third and fourth year, are most endeared to Healing students. They know how tough that first year was, and with their encouraging smiles, they say, “You made it!” as they pass in the hallway. The professors smile a lot at this group, too, because they know what’s coming next—third year, the class of Hopeful. This class is the most serious. They’re learning what it takes to live an emotionally healthy life, and they understand there is work involved—a lot less talking and a lot more practicing—a challenge they fully accept. No partying for this bunch.
Of course, the final year is called Normal. These fourth-year students are esteemed above all the others, and they live by one mantra—Stop Trying So Hard. This group laughs at themselves a lot. Invariably you’ll hear two Normals talking in the quad, and the conversation always starts out the same. “When I first came here, I was a mess,” then they laugh some more. The first-year students can’t believe they will ever stand tall like the fourth-year students, but the proof is there in the flesh. It’s a great system.
This imaginary university would boast of a diverse campus. All children of dysfunctional households are welcome. Easier to form teams for intramural sports. The Abused vs the Neglected. Orientation would be a hoot. Imagine all that baggage! But you’d never be told you brought too much. On the contrary, at registration, they’d ask to see it all. The more baggage, the better. Because at graduation, you get to leave it all behind.
A degree from a university like that would have opened a lot of doors for me. Obviously. You have to pass Opening Doors Instead of Closing Them 323 to graduate. Then I would have been ready to open the door to the regular college I ended up attending. Incidentally, that regular college didn’t have a baggage limit, either. Only I didn’t leave any of it behind after graduation—apparently, I didn’t want to lose my cleaning deposit.
Into the Comfort Zone 