I find it sort of cruelly funny that I submitted my final portfolio of GRADUATE SCHOOL yesterday and now, all I want to do is write. Maybe it’s because this final term has felt a bit like a marathon sprint—juggling work, job applications, mental/physical/emotional health (hah; who has time for such luxuries??), and doing a rather horrible job at loving and prioritizing my people (Manuel, I love you so much)—that I feel like I haven’t actually spent much time with myself.
Honestly, ironic since I write nonfiction and all of the pieces I was revising and workshopping all term were entirely about my inner world as it relates to my outer. Honestly, I think it is because in the previous quarter of school, I both was not super concerned (yet) with future plans since I knew I couldn’t actively pursue anything until mid-September and also had a strict, intentional, ritualistic writing practice. I was really inspired by Julia Cameron’s “morning pages” (originally designed for like, medium-type artists) wherein one sits and write three pages front and back first thing in the morning as a way to generally sweep through the dust and cobwebs that have collected in the corners of the mind. While I tried to write “first thing” (usually after yoga) in the morning, I often did not, but told myself that even if it wasn’t daylight anymore by the time I sat down to write, I would do it. Even if the very last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit and write, I would do it. Some days were enjoyable and effortless, many more were harder and irritating.
I think largely, I felt more at peace with my inner mind than I do now. These past ten weeks—I mean, really, this past freaking year and a half—have been a whirlwind of never-ending big emotions. I found that when I was writing every day, religiously, I had a stronger relationship with myself; I found that I liked myself more. Now that school is done (I’m sorry I still don’t believe it…also, high key might be slightly addicted to the accountability and structure so if I go back for another master’s or PHD, please no one be surprised), I plan to pick up the habit of knowing myself deeply again. While I didn’t necessarily feel the oneness when I was in it, now that I’m on the other side, I can sense the disconnect.
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It’s been ages—ages—since I’ve written; really written: for me, for you, for anyone who finds themselves scrolling through my idle thoughts. And honestly, so much has happened. I began what became this blog post on November 19, the day after I submitted my final version of my final portfolio of grad school. I’d gone to Starbucks after therapy, before work and as I sat outside finding myself in front of yet another blinking black cursor, I chuckled at the irony. Less than 12 hours earlier I’d been fretting over 65 or so pages of words and here I was trying to write more. Per usual, though, I’d underestimated the amount of time I would have to simply sit, sip my coffee, and sort through more words, and pretty soon I had to speed walk to my car or I’d be jeopardizing a dock on my record card for being late. Everything after that happened so fast and (shame on me, I know) writing (this blog, any essay seeds, even journaling) was the first to slip my mind now that I no longer “had to” for school.
Without the discipline and forced accountability of school, I find it harder to intentionally set aside time to really write anything. That’s probably one of the most bizarre things I’ve found through writing—how is it possible that something I love so much, something that makes me feel my most authentic self, can simultaneously fill me with the slightest dread? The sheer work involved in grabbing a pen and one of my thousands of collected journals and then staring a blank page, willing the words, any words, to reveal themselves and then promptly discovering that my mind is blank and my words are crap and I really have nothing to say to myself…is exhausting. Too frequently the thought of getting my computer, ignoring the thousands of emails accumulated since the last time I opened my mailboxes who knows how long ago, all while praying the whirring of the motors and the scorching heat on my thighs doesn’t mean that my laptop might spontaneously combust on my lap is easily tabled for another docket, another day. Nah, I’d rather grab my Switch, open Animal Crossing and lose myself on my confusing little island or place mosaic-shaped stickers in their respective spots in a new age coloring book. Work on a jacket I’m embellishing; read about someone else… Anything to avoid my mind; the thoughts, the whirring, the never-ending buzz.
I’ve learned that one of my “isms” is that I live in the prep stage. The before the actual thing. My comfort zone is thinking. I seem to find significantly more fun and enjoyment in the preparing—the thinking, the harping, the obsessing—as opposed to the doing. If I could accurately convey the amount of time I devote to internal musing, I might have enough content to organize into a cohesive book; maybe I’d have dozens more blog posts, a maintained Instagram. I no longer run away from the accusations of laziness; I take full responsibility for my preference to sit and watch rather than go and do, but as a writer I need to figure that out. I need to learn the balance. I don’t know what is is exactly, but I think there is some part of me that is scared of all output (energy, words, motion) going to waste. Rather than shrugging and trudging on, unapologetically, I’m hesitant—wanting to ensure every last detail is perfect and just right which, of course, I have no idea if/when/what that is.
I left Disney almost 2.5 months ago and it’s crazy because I feel like so much and absolutely nothing at all has changed. Despite conversations had with my therapist, Manuel, and myself telling me this was not the whole truth, so much of my misery—dense and all-encompassing—had been intrinsically tied my job; the name, the place, the position. And naïvely, I equated unbridled happiness with a freedom I would only know once releasing myself from the net I felt trapped in. The freedom came—fast and with a weightlessness I’d been longing for; the intrinsic, automatic joy did not. Still, I feel as though nearly every moment I exist in is fleeting and temporary, as though I am waiting for something to jumpstart these mentally paralyzing minutes into a purposeful life.
I practice yoga and take medications and speak with a therapist and spend most of my time with those that know and love me and still I tend to feel a bit like driftwood—carried through life’s waves by the sheer force of happenstance. Is there a formula to living more presently, more curious? Some balanced equation that can calculate habits and predispositions and other mental circumstances and spit out clear-cut directions on how to do what you need to do and enjoy and allow all the other little things too? I’d just really like to figure out how to squash my utterly absurd fear of the afternoon hours and find an appropriate, healthy balance among my desires and responsibilities. And, like, figuring out a fruitful writing/personal portfolio maintenance schedule would be ideal, too.
