When people talk about a fear of commitment, the object of that commitment is usually another person. People, mainly college students, have this seemingly implicit bias against relationships.
The timing isn’t right.
I need to “do me” for bit.
I can’t possibly give myself to another person when I don’t know myself.
I’m just looking to have a good time.
I’m not trying to get into anything too serious.
I’m sure you can name one of many excuses you’ve heard. I’ve certainly marketed them about myself, covering over my own insecurities, justifying my own lack of relationships experience via these masking phrases. I like to think that these one-liners are well intentioned; and I’m sure there’s much truth in these excuses.
But the college environment around commitment makes me think twice. The lack of steady relationships – beyond just “hook-ups” – makes me think three times over.
A common factor behind all of these classic lines, hidden within all of this commitment anxiety, is fear.
Fear of failure. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of losing out on other opportunities. Fear of judgment. Fear of commitment.
The funny thing about this commitment-phobia is that it just affects our relationships, but it also bleeds into so many other parts of our life.
As of late, I’ve noticed my own personal fear of commitment in the process of choosing classes. Regardless of how foolish it sounds, it’s true.
The first class I went to at Duke was a philosophy class, taught by a new professor with a thick Italian accent. The topic was Epistemology. I remember sitting in the classroom: a mix of upperclassmen and other sweaty (at least I was sweaty) and pale-faced first years. Students were actively participating in debate and discussion with the professor using words I’d never heard of, arguing points, highlighting nuances, and actively showing that they had some sort of stake in this introductory lesson.
I sat there, leg shaking; I was thinking about avoiding thoughts about this shit show that I was then currently sitting through. Immediately after leaving, I sat down on a chair outside, pulled out my laptop, and dropped the class.
Ever since then, that moment set a precedent for my academic indecision, my fear of commitment to the unknown, intimidating academic echelons of Duke. I struggle to commit to a course load every semester because of a fear that it won’t work out. The timing might be too tight. The professor might be too strange. The students might be too apathetic. The topic might be too difficult.
The threshold of commitment, for me, a college student aware of the balance of his own bank account, is the act of buying books, more often then not, from Amazon. Just a few days ago, I contemplated my course load, brooding as to whether or not I thought my schedule was “good enough;” could I do better? Could it be better? I was weighed down with other variables: the price of books, the opportunity cost of missing out on other courses, questions of the future, “what do you want to do with that?,” subtleties about grades, and so on. But really, I was swimming in a deep tub of (pardon the language) bullshit.
These decisions don’t define me. Yes, they allow me to shape myself. But they do not define me lest I allow them to do so. I took a step back, and realized how self-destructive this over-analytical, precautionary tendency was.
There is no perfect schedule. Just like there is no perfect relationship.
There is no perfect essay. Just like there is no perfect date.
An essay is an attempt – a try. Shame on those professors that treat essays as if they are a golden goose egg, meant to be perfectly round, hidden, mysterious, something from the fairy tale meant to tantalize tempt and be put on display.
Essays should be tough, rough, and never seen as just “enough.” Your identity is not attached to your work, just like your identity is not attached to your relationships – especially in reference to dating.
Your course work, as well as your relationships, are efforts at finding yourself, – efforts at carving out the nuances of your soul, your identity, your interests, your personality, your quirks, your weaknesses, your fears, your strengths – finding all of that good stuff that sits within you, without you even knowing about it.
If we cannot commit to commitment, we are neglecting a commitment to discovering who we are – as students and as lovers, as thinkers and as friends.
Commitment involves saying no.
I cannot be a neurosurgeon and a nomadic writer exploring the forests of Nottinghamshire. (I’m sure I could if I really wanted to, but sometimes, to be practical, we need to cut back.)
Commitment involves saying yes.
We cannot be afraid of affirming ourselves. We need to own our identity, own our interests, and own our own beating heart. Otherwise, we end up neglecting the commitment, which will be at the heart of all of commitments: ourselves.
Commitment involves making mistakes... it requires failure.
When we commit, we will err. We will not always get a perfect score. We will break up with significant others. We will have broken hearts. Reality check: we are all broken. Why do we need to pretend that everything is nice, and perfect, and capable of being packaged into a cute little box with a nice bow and colorful wrapping paper?
The sooner we can recognize our faults, the sooner we can learn more about who we are, and the sooner we can fully give of ourselves into all that we do.
How do we commit to ourselves?
How do we focus on self-care?
Why do we need to commit to our own identity in order to fully engage with that of another person?
Is this all selfish?
What, if anything, does this have to do with my own masculinity?
Big questions which I did not intend to stage so dramatically, but because of that, tune in next week to watch me struggle bus toward some temporary responses!
