First off, some notes regarding my last blog:
1. The answer to the question is: she's pregnant.
2. I misplaced my final copy of the story, so all I have is this chocolate-stained, piddly rough draft that is neither finished nor worthy of reprinting.
3. Therefore, I will not be posting anymore excerpts of the story.
4. I'm offering a cyber kleenex for anyone who grew emotionally attached to the character and the story.
5. That faint sound in your ear is not your schizophrenia (or is it...?), but rather a teeny, tiny violin. (Don't make me spell this one out.)
Alright, moving on...
(This blog will probably be the most personal - and serious - one I've written.)
As some of you know, I've made some big changes in my life in the past few months. Finally. Basically, my first year out of college was a tough one, in terms of direction, ambition, and goals. My life had become stagnant. I couldn't figure out what the hell I wanted to do with my life. Entrenched in a quarter-life crisis, I felt trapped. Anxious. Paralyzed. I rigorously researched different careers, though never quite finding a fit. Basically, I felt like Cinderella; instead of a bad family, I had a bad job: stressful, overworked, underthanked, utterly routine and uncreative. My metaphorical "shoes" were various careers, grad schools, etc. I kept trying them on for size, but nothing quite seemed to fit. Was I waiting for the "perfect" career, only to realize one doesn't exist? I spun myself in circles so many times, over so many different careers, that I almost gave up. Almost.
I basically had to decide what my priorities were, career-wise. For example, I often saw myself in a helping profession. However, was this really what I wanted to do? Or did this stem from guilt over a more selfish career? How important is money? Do I want a routine job, or one that changes often? Do I want a job where I can travel? Is my passion for writing and being creative best kept as a hobby, or a profession? Or is there a way to blend the two?
My job at the clinic was tough. There were days I wanted to scream, or cry. I would sometimes glance out the prison-sized windows and imagine myself floating up and out into the sunny day I could not enjoy. Yet, in retrospect, when I really think about it, it wasn't all bad. I met some really cool people, and I learned a lot in terms of what I want - and what I don't want - in a career. Plus, I saved up a bunch of money to use for things that were important to me: traveling, starting up a retirement account, splurge items (flat panel television...sha-wing!).
See, my main problem is my anxiety, fear and depression. I let them control me. It's easier to surrender than to fight back. They always try to handcuff me to the chair - and sometimes, if I'm in a vulnerable point in my life, I let them. Eventually, I get used to being strapped to the chair. My spine adjusts; I get used to it, almost to the point of being comforted by it. Kind of like a kidnapped victim can get used to - and grow attached - to its captor. Anxiety and depression not only isolate me - they insulate me. They cover me like a heated blanket. It's so nice and warm in that web they weave that I almost forget that they're also strangling me. I can stop with the metaphors, but note the connection. Handcuffs, webs, blankets...they all limit me from moving forward, or moving period. "Your desire must be greater than your fear." This is an old quote I used in gymnastics, and it's amazingly applicable to so many things. I need to adopt it as my mantra. Your desire must be greater than your fear.
"Sometimes you have to break down to break through." Another powerful quote. And that's exactly what happened to me in August. I rushed to an information session in Hopkins, barged into the conference room, only to be told by an alum (who would later be at the real meeting I went to) that the information meeting was for the next day. Great, now I'm already labeled the retarded blonde. The next day, I oversleep and am late to work. Work ends up being insanely stressful - I have frustrated, emotional parents and pissy doctors yelling at me. After work, traffic is completely backed up for the president's arrival. It takes me two f*cking hours to get home from work. I literally have 8 minutes to change out of my hospital scrubs and get my ass back to Hopkins (still in rush hour) for the information session - which of course, I ended up 10 minutes late to. Yeah, bad day is an understatement. I had what can arguably be called a nervous breakdown that day. On the two hour drive home, I started crying - and couldn't stop. When I got back to my house for those 8 minutes, I dropped my purse and fell onto my knees...sobbing uncontrollably (witnessed by my family, concerned and confused). My chest and arms broke out in rashes, and I had difficulty breathing. I drove to Hopkins, still crying. I somehow managed to toughen up for the information session.
This is getting long, so I will continue in the next blog (which will be soon, promise)....
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