third year claire torak

A month or so ago, I found myself considering doing something inherently self-destructive: meeting an old friend for drinks. All of my friends (and I mean all of my friends) told me not to on the premise that it was a terrible idea with potentially catastrophic ramifications. Given our back-and-forth, complicated relationship and the fact that we hadn’t spoken in almost a year, I knew my friends were absolutely right. So, naturally, I went, “for the sake of chaos.”

While my risky social outing went better than expected and ended without devastation, it was not the first time I’ve done something knowing it could be the death of my emotional stability. If there’s one thing I’m really, really good at, it’s giving into the devil on my shoulder.

Quite frankly, I romanticize chaos as if it were my ex-boyfriend, always craving what I shouldn’t have. Just when I think I’ve moved on, I come crawling back on my hands and knees, begging for another taste. From letting myself have a crush on someone knowing they’re in an open relationship to spending my allotted grocery money for the week on books instead, I constantly find myself seduced by self-destruction.

My bouts of impulsivity have led me across state lines, broken my heart, and resulted in accidental chain smoking all for the sake of allure.

I’ve gone through my youth willingly dismantling myself as if a life lived in chaos will make me great. But, in a world not drowning in shades of rose, I’ve come to realize that chaos doesn’t, and it probably never will.

Sure, I may have some interesting stories, but I’m learning to understand that I am so much more than all of the times I sacrificed a piece of myself just to have something to do or talk about.

I am every stupid, spontaneous trip to New York, every regretted first kiss, every drunk text, and every box of black hair dye used as a coping mechanism. I am these moments of chaos, but I am more so the menial things: chapped lips, coffee stains, an unwavering love of Hinds, and my crippling inability to read only one book at a time.

While I seriously doubt that my relationship status with chaos will go from “It’s Complicated” to “Single” anytime soon, closing that gap gets easier every day. I’m embracing the smaller moments of life—playing pool, tea parties, house shows, screaming to music on the way to Taco Bell—as the significant ones.

I’m still self-destructive, but I’m learning how to disarm the devil that’s been buzzing in my ear for so long. I’m giving in less not for the sake of chaos but for the sake of myself. Life has been much sweeter since then, anyway.