So, as I'm an English/Psychology double major (hopefully officially...eventually...), it isn't completely out-of-nowhere that I've thought seriously about being a psychologist. After all, what I would see as one of my strengths is dealing with people's feelings, talking about them and trying to come up with productive solutions. Also, I think that I have some weird innate quality that makes people trust me. Psychological empirical research might point to my light-colored eyes or rounded face making me seem friendly and approachable - I have no idea. (I'd like to think that I'm special or something, but then again, doesn't everyone? :P)
Not that it is this alone that qualifies me - on the contrary: part of the reason I am drawn to this is because sometimes when people confide in me or ask me for advice, or I just happen to be in the right (wrong?) place at the right (no really... I think it might actually be "wrong"...) time to get involved in these things, I feel completely overwhelmed and in over my head. But as a psychologist, I could get lots of proper training and refine my crude techniques and, well, maybe eventually make a difference for some people?
It's what I want most in life, after all - just to help people. (Or maybe to live on a secluded island with a dozen pitbulls... at least, that's what I start thinking after weeks like this.) But seriously, it sounds ridiculous and like there must be a catch - I'm not being completely honest, I'm holding something back, I'm just saying this to look good. ...Except this is all I've got. When I'm not helping people, I feel completely and utterly useless. Without that active role in trying to make things better, I don't think that my life really has meaning. For a while, I thought the role for me might be within the medical profession - as a doctor or a nurse, etc. Lately, however, I've been trying to reconcile this desire (and weird obsession with medicine) with my natural abilities. (Hint: they're not hard sciences and I would absolutely HATE medical school.)
On a completely different (yet actually related) track (although really, this is what was running through my head when I started this post), I'd like to let you know that today, shit blew up in my face. I was talked to by two people on different sides of a conflict. Now, that's been happening to me a lot lately, and even though I HATE it every single time, this might be the worst yet. I know that I'm not responsible - everyone has told me so. But I somehow got embroiled in this, wrapped in the middle - and it's not a pleasant feeling. People are having so much trouble communicating; I feel as though I have a major advantage with my major choices and, maybe just with some life experiences I've had, in general. What I really want to do, is sit them all down and be a translator for what I know they're trying to convey but can't (at least, in ways that the others appreciate). I know this is completely infeasible, but it's what I want. I should wash my hands of it... but "shoulds" are often not my strong point. And I know that I'm going to hear, one way or another, *(whether I ask for it/like it or not) what goes down.
Also, I handled another situation wrongly, because I was trying to both protect a friend and please everyone at the same time - I was also overwhelmed with everything else going on, and I just didn't give things enough thought. Obviously I've tried to sort things out, but I've hit a point where I feel as though nothing I say or do can be good enough; I basically let her lay everything out for me, apologized, admitted I fked up, went around in this circular pattern for a while and then told her that I understood how she felt, was going to give her space, and that I cared so much about her - and to come and find me when she was ready. I hated leaving things like that, but I finally had to accept that that was all there was - I can't turn back time and change the decision that I made (the decision that I thought was in everyone's best interest), but I can at least respect her feelings.
This is really tough, I have to say - I had a little meltdown on the steps down to the laundry room, and literally couldn't find it in me to switch my laundry over for a good 15 minutes. I like to fix things, I like to be in control - and that has been abruptly wrested from me. And I deserve this feeling. I'm going to just deal - what else can I do? And hopefully, constructively, learn from it and do better next time. I'm just upset that it's too late for this situation.
And to conclude: I am also seriously questioning my abilities to both participate in and emotionally handle something like counseling.
Sigh. Back to the proverbial drawing board.
----------------------------------
(PS - I think I have really, "officially" crossed the line into "blog person." I was having a really hard time with all of this, and feeling very alone and vulnerable, but writing it down and "getting it out," confiding in "someone" (Hello, internet!) was actually super helpful. I feel like I owe someone a large thank you, but I don't know quite who? College? Major? Class? Professor? Other? ...Help?)
Friday, February 26, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
overinflated responsibility
It's 4:43 pm on a Tuesday afternoon and I stand in the rain with a too-light jacket, a worn sponge and gloves soaking wet with snow, scrubbing at the chalk that proclaims "RUGBY!" on Thomas Hall. At one point, as my fingers start to go numb and I've lost my balance and tumbled off the stairs, landing squarely in a puddle I wonder - What am I doing?
No, I have not picked up a piece of chalk in days - weeks, possibly months. No, I did not tell anyone to do this. No, I didn't even know it was being done, or have a chance to stop it. But because the instructions that I was partially responsible for resulted in this, I still feel responsible. And that's where we get right down to it - my feelings of responsibility.
We should backtrack to recent events - a very clear pattern will emerge. Prior to this scrubbing, I met with the Director of Facilities to take responsibility for the building-chalking on behalf of the team (not intentional - we were apparently just not clear enough that the freshmen knew to stick to HORIZONTAL, rain-washable surfaces) and assured him that the cleanup was being done and promised updates and potential requests for cleaning supplies, should the need arise.
The "too-light" jacket? One of my friends was, ah, fairly intoxicated and running around without a shirt on in the snow. I put my jacket on her (having to chase after her to do this)... she is still fuzzy on some of the details of that night and has no idea where my coat is currently located.
5:00 am on Friday night? Taking care of someone. (This was not when my jacket was lost, actually - separate incident.) Enough said.
Last week - working on a Plenary resolution on behalf of a group and going to a required workshop that no one else could (for most, "would") attend.
I have been told repeatedly, especially lately, that these things are not my responsibility - other people should be doing more about the chalk, especially the people who actually had chalk-in-hand last week; people should just be left to their own devices - they will take care of themselves. That I need to "stop being so stressed out," and "take a break" and "let someone else do it."
But things like the chalk can't stand; it reinforces EVERYTHING I try to fight against with the team. I swear, we are NOT a bunch of assholes. Ruggers are some of the most caring, responsible, amazing people I know. But there is a reputation, and I can't deny that certain individuals sometimes take certain actions that reinforce it. But I simply will not just wait for someone else to magically take initiative and get it done. (As it stands, there were four of us yesterday - and it's not fair to ask those three to come out again when we all know that there are far more people involved.) And if I don't help do it, who will? I would only feel more responsible if someone (or a few someones) did it all alone and no one helped, or worse, if something terrible happened that I was there to prevent and failed to.
This sense of responsibility is highlighted by recent events, but I know that it has always been a part of who I am. A few clips from my earlier life:
- During group projects in middle school, I would consistently end up taking on most of the work because no one else would - I wanted things to get done and I didn't want anyone to fail.
- When I was 13, I stopped eating meat, because I felt "responsible" for the animals that would die to feed me. (I don't hold anyone else to these standards, mind - some people need meat, etc. I just don't feel as though I should eat it.)
- At age 6, I remember helping to clean up the yard of a neighbor to my daycare for absolutely no particular reason. (And when everyone got in trouble for being outside the yard of the daycare except for me, I went to a corner and put myself in timeout.)
- In high school, I would participate in certain classes to excess - because no one else would and I felt like someone had to keep things moving and not put it all on the teacher.
There are plenty of other examples, I'm sure - this is just what comes to mind at this minute. More important than the examples themselves are the feelings that go with them; I am an incredibly guilty person (which goes along nicely with all of this)... I guess I might end up addressing at another time?
But this responsibility is taking its toll, especially lately: I have had a headache pretty consistently for almost a week now; I've been sleeping terribly and it's torture to get up every morning; my eating has also been atrocious, in terms of simply actually making it to meals or eating enough at them; I think my immune system has been trying to fight off something, because I just haven't been feeling "well" lately; I'm exhausted - not just physically, but mentally, emotionally - everything. I just can't keep going at this pace. I lost it a little in the dining hall today, and was scared, not that it happened - but that I could tell that it was just the tip of the underlying proverbial iceberg. I'm drowning in this, yet doing absolutely nothing to break the cycle.
I'm pretty sure I just told the last three people I talked to: "If you need anything, let me know - I can help."
No, I have not picked up a piece of chalk in days - weeks, possibly months. No, I did not tell anyone to do this. No, I didn't even know it was being done, or have a chance to stop it. But because the instructions that I was partially responsible for resulted in this, I still feel responsible. And that's where we get right down to it - my feelings of responsibility.
We should backtrack to recent events - a very clear pattern will emerge. Prior to this scrubbing, I met with the Director of Facilities to take responsibility for the building-chalking on behalf of the team (not intentional - we were apparently just not clear enough that the freshmen knew to stick to HORIZONTAL, rain-washable surfaces) and assured him that the cleanup was being done and promised updates and potential requests for cleaning supplies, should the need arise.
The "too-light" jacket? One of my friends was, ah, fairly intoxicated and running around without a shirt on in the snow. I put my jacket on her (having to chase after her to do this)... she is still fuzzy on some of the details of that night and has no idea where my coat is currently located.
5:00 am on Friday night? Taking care of someone. (This was not when my jacket was lost, actually - separate incident.) Enough said.
Last week - working on a Plenary resolution on behalf of a group and going to a required workshop that no one else could (for most, "would") attend.
I have been told repeatedly, especially lately, that these things are not my responsibility - other people should be doing more about the chalk, especially the people who actually had chalk-in-hand last week; people should just be left to their own devices - they will take care of themselves. That I need to "stop being so stressed out," and "take a break" and "let someone else do it."
But things like the chalk can't stand; it reinforces EVERYTHING I try to fight against with the team. I swear, we are NOT a bunch of assholes. Ruggers are some of the most caring, responsible, amazing people I know. But there is a reputation, and I can't deny that certain individuals sometimes take certain actions that reinforce it. But I simply will not just wait for someone else to magically take initiative and get it done. (As it stands, there were four of us yesterday - and it's not fair to ask those three to come out again when we all know that there are far more people involved.) And if I don't help do it, who will? I would only feel more responsible if someone (or a few someones) did it all alone and no one helped, or worse, if something terrible happened that I was there to prevent and failed to.
This sense of responsibility is highlighted by recent events, but I know that it has always been a part of who I am. A few clips from my earlier life:
- During group projects in middle school, I would consistently end up taking on most of the work because no one else would - I wanted things to get done and I didn't want anyone to fail.
- When I was 13, I stopped eating meat, because I felt "responsible" for the animals that would die to feed me. (I don't hold anyone else to these standards, mind - some people need meat, etc. I just don't feel as though I should eat it.)
- At age 6, I remember helping to clean up the yard of a neighbor to my daycare for absolutely no particular reason. (And when everyone got in trouble for being outside the yard of the daycare except for me, I went to a corner and put myself in timeout.)
- In high school, I would participate in certain classes to excess - because no one else would and I felt like someone had to keep things moving and not put it all on the teacher.
There are plenty of other examples, I'm sure - this is just what comes to mind at this minute. More important than the examples themselves are the feelings that go with them; I am an incredibly guilty person (which goes along nicely with all of this)... I guess I might end up addressing at another time?
But this responsibility is taking its toll, especially lately: I have had a headache pretty consistently for almost a week now; I've been sleeping terribly and it's torture to get up every morning; my eating has also been atrocious, in terms of simply actually making it to meals or eating enough at them; I think my immune system has been trying to fight off something, because I just haven't been feeling "well" lately; I'm exhausted - not just physically, but mentally, emotionally - everything. I just can't keep going at this pace. I lost it a little in the dining hall today, and was scared, not that it happened - but that I could tell that it was just the tip of the underlying proverbial iceberg. I'm drowning in this, yet doing absolutely nothing to break the cycle.
I'm pretty sure I just told the last three people I talked to: "If you need anything, let me know - I can help."
Saturday, February 13, 2010
a typical Saturday
So it's 2:30 am on a Saturday night and what am I doing? Give you 3 guesses. (But I'll bet you don't need the last two; hint: check the timestamp on this post.) Don't think I'm too much of a big dork. I did a lot today. Here are some highlights:
Woke up before my alarm. (Remember how I told you before that I love sleep? Yeah, that NEVER happens.)
Went to brunch early to set up for tabling (selling stuff at brunch). Had some excellent freshmen take over tabling so that I could leave and try to get some work done before heading back to my dorm to do some super important soph rep stuff.
Took an Implicit Association Test for a Psych assignment that told me that I have a "slight preference for gay people over straight people" (in the 7% of people who took the test), and a "moderate preference" for African-American people over European-American people" (in the 4%) - whatever any of that actually means. (Jury's still out on that one; I'm not holding my breath for a response any time soon.)
Tried to meet with other dorm presidents to work on a Plenary resolution - and no one showed up. (A few at least responded with regrets to my e-mail and made helpful suggestions.) Did what I could with it and submitted it. Am concerned about presenting it at SGA tomorrow.
Held a fundraiser in which almost no one responded to my e-mails (starting to wonder if these are actually getting through...) and had help from mostly one person, LA - to whom I currently feel eternally indebted for her kindness, willingness to help and ability to communicate via e-mail. (We got to babysit a cute child, though, so my aggravation with the entire situation was much abated.)
Watched "Stuart Little," colored in "Horton Hears a Who" coloring books, ate pizza, played with blocks and dominos and had a surprisingly large quantity of amusement from the Photobooth option on LA's Mac. (Who knew?)
Finished up delivery for another fundraiser. Had actual help this time and was incredibly relieved and grateful for people who actually check their e-mails.
Had an unfortunate incident with a can of cherry soda and an explosion. (I would...)
Had a "homework" / "eat Augustina's food" party with CS in the MCC. It was kind of epic - as all of our "homework parties" typically are. Finished an assignment.
Came back and tried to get into bed at a decent hour - and ran into my freshmen in the bathroom, coming back from a party. Checked in on them and was so glad to find that they had looked out for each other. (Not that I would expect anything less, but I was still incredibly pleased and proud.)
Throughout the day: was a rebel and kicked some ice chunks & snow piles and used excessive swear words in ordinary conversation to vent my excess frustration and aggravation with this day. (And found this to be a hilariously appropriate Facebook status. Bonus!)
Like how I sort of dissociate and write in bullet points when I'm too stressed out/cluttered to think in a coherent form?
Yeah, cue end of post.
Woke up before my alarm. (Remember how I told you before that I love sleep? Yeah, that NEVER happens.)
Went to brunch early to set up for tabling (selling stuff at brunch). Had some excellent freshmen take over tabling so that I could leave and try to get some work done before heading back to my dorm to do some super important soph rep stuff.
Took an Implicit Association Test for a Psych assignment that told me that I have a "slight preference for gay people over straight people" (in the 7% of people who took the test), and a "moderate preference" for African-American people over European-American people" (in the 4%) - whatever any of that actually means. (Jury's still out on that one; I'm not holding my breath for a response any time soon.)
Tried to meet with other dorm presidents to work on a Plenary resolution - and no one showed up. (A few at least responded with regrets to my e-mail and made helpful suggestions.) Did what I could with it and submitted it. Am concerned about presenting it at SGA tomorrow.
Held a fundraiser in which almost no one responded to my e-mails (starting to wonder if these are actually getting through...) and had help from mostly one person, LA - to whom I currently feel eternally indebted for her kindness, willingness to help and ability to communicate via e-mail. (We got to babysit a cute child, though, so my aggravation with the entire situation was much abated.)
Watched "Stuart Little," colored in "Horton Hears a Who" coloring books, ate pizza, played with blocks and dominos and had a surprisingly large quantity of amusement from the Photobooth option on LA's Mac. (Who knew?)
Finished up delivery for another fundraiser. Had actual help this time and was incredibly relieved and grateful for people who actually check their e-mails.
Had an unfortunate incident with a can of cherry soda and an explosion. (I would...)
Had a "homework" / "eat Augustina's food" party with CS in the MCC. It was kind of epic - as all of our "homework parties" typically are. Finished an assignment.
Came back and tried to get into bed at a decent hour - and ran into my freshmen in the bathroom, coming back from a party. Checked in on them and was so glad to find that they had looked out for each other. (Not that I would expect anything less, but I was still incredibly pleased and proud.)
Throughout the day: was a rebel and kicked some ice chunks & snow piles and used excessive swear words in ordinary conversation to vent my excess frustration and aggravation with this day. (And found this to be a hilariously appropriate Facebook status. Bonus!)
Like how I sort of dissociate and write in bullet points when I'm too stressed out/cluttered to think in a coherent form?
Yeah, cue end of post.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Fuller, erotica & me
I realize that I now have to admit to actually being a blogger; I had a blog idea during class today, scribbled a note in my margins and started writing it in my head on the way to lunch. I don't know what's gotten into me, I don't know if I'm ok with this, but there you go - it's how it is. I guess I might as well go with it, especially since the "it" is the Margaret Fuller reading that we discussed in class today. (And we all know that while I may still be in the process of being slowly won over by this blogging nonsense, it would not have all started without the catalyst that is American Women's Writing Life.)
Fuller's "First Friend" section struck something with me, something that I haven't much discussed in public, at least not in anything more than abstract, vague terms that haven't really intimated what I'm really thinking. As I was reading it late last night, two alarms went off in my head. The first was the Bryn Mawr-perfected "erotic alert." (I'm sorry Bryn Mawr, I don't mean to single you out; it's probably just what I get for being an English major at a small liberal arts college.) The second was "Huh... Fuller's descriptions of these feelings eerily closely mirror an experience that I had."
Now, I have to say that the juxtaposition of thoughts of myself and the vague idea of erotica is a completely unfamiliar (and uncomfortable) concept.
I certainly didn't think of it that way at the time; I was only thirteen years old. I should probably give a bit of backstory: I started volunteering at an animal shelter when I was 11 years-old. I went every single Sunday with one of my parents and we helped clean the shelter in the mornings. I was in love with the entire experience. As time went on, I started developing a sort of closeness with the shelter staff; looking back, I kind of think of myself as their sort of collective pet. They passed me back and forth between them on different jobs, teaching me things as I went along, talking to me about their lives and a bit of mine. They seemed, quite frankly, astonished at my 11, then 12, then 13 year-old self taking on such things as cleaning dirty cat litter pans and scooping out dog yards. For my part, I was, quite frankly, astonished that I was being entrusted with "important responsibilities" and that these impressive, almost god-like adults seemed to enjoy my company.
As you can probably tell, I was thrilled with the entire thing: I lived for those Sunday mornings and afternoons. It was a unique childhood experience, something that I believe has really made me into who I am today. I learned how to work, and work hard; it's a pretty physical job at times. I learned how to work as part of a team, about the dynamics of the workplace and some of the complications of adult interaction, about how to give a kitten an IV and about how to give a dog medication in a piece of liverwurst.
While over those three years many of the staff came and went, a few of them stayed, and out of those few, one woman took a particular interest in me. Her name was K. (or, at least in this blog it's going to be - I don't like mentioning people on a publicly accessible forum without their express permission) and I thought she was basically the most perfect person in the world. In reality, she's probably not. She was about 31 when I met her, pretty but fairly ordinary looking with shoulder length brownish, blondish hair, depending on whether or not she had highlights in it with a degree in Biology from a college in the area that probably didn't reflect all of her intelligence. (Last time we talked, she had just finished a Masters' Degree program and was teaching high school kids with behavioral problems - and I honestly can't think of anything more suited to her, on a number of levels.)
Anyway, I don't exactly remember how our closeness came about, but I think it had something to do with her being a youngest child by quite a lot, and me being an only child - and neither of us having younger or older siblings respectively. She took an interest in me and took me on as a sort of apprentice; she let me work with her all the time and tried to teach me everything about anything she knew about. (One of my favorite lines from her: "Stick with me, kid - I'll teach you everything you need to know about... dogs.") We spent a lot of time together at the shelter and we gradually started doing things outside of work; she got along really well with my parents, who, I think, sort of considered her to be some kind of daughter/niece hybrid. She occasionally took me out for lunch or dinner; she came to my softball games sometimes; we saw a movie and painted pottery once. She eventually took over as Director of the shelter, but the responsibility and confining aspects of the job (having to worry about money and managing people in a less direct way than she had as a supervisor) got to her; she left after only a short time in the position. That could have easily have been the end of our friendship; but it wasn't. She called me to tell me that she had resigned... and promptly made plans to come to my next softball game.
I don't really have the words to explain how much K meant to me; I cherished every moment we had together, playing them back in my head during the week to sustain myself until the next Sunday. (Embarrassingly, I wrote down our conversations to make sure that I could remember every detail.) I could barely sleep some Saturday nights for anticipation; I dreamed of simply spending time with her. It wasn't just admiration - it was pure devotion. I thought that she was the most amazing person to ever walk the fact of the Earth and that any time I spent with her was the greatest thing that could possibly happen to me.
I'm really not sure how aware of any of this she was; I think she must have seen something of herself in me. We were incredibly similar, not only in personality, sense of humor, but, scarily, even appearance. (A few times people mistook her for my mother and she kind of freaked out... she was only 18 years older than I am.) But I don't think she knew how much I really loved her, how much she truly meant to me. Sometimes I regret not ever telling her (leaving out all of the erotica nonsense, of course), but I also don't even know how that conversation would begin, so maybe it's best for everyone.
It is really only now (as in extremely recently) that I wonder if I might have been vaguely in love with her. I had no idea what that kind of thing meant then.... (Ha, who am I kidding? I don't still...) In fact, it is only recently, now that I have similar feelings for someone else, that I am starting to identify it as potentially more than platonic...
I don't know if any of this actually means anything. But this post is getting ridiculously long, so I'm going to end it. I just thought it was something that I needed to address; especially since I've been denying it for such a long time and I still am not completely comfortable.
I just don't know what to make of this.
Fuller's "First Friend" section struck something with me, something that I haven't much discussed in public, at least not in anything more than abstract, vague terms that haven't really intimated what I'm really thinking. As I was reading it late last night, two alarms went off in my head. The first was the Bryn Mawr-perfected "erotic alert." (I'm sorry Bryn Mawr, I don't mean to single you out; it's probably just what I get for being an English major at a small liberal arts college.) The second was "Huh... Fuller's descriptions of these feelings eerily closely mirror an experience that I had."
Now, I have to say that the juxtaposition of thoughts of myself and the vague idea of erotica is a completely unfamiliar (and uncomfortable) concept.
I certainly didn't think of it that way at the time; I was only thirteen years old. I should probably give a bit of backstory: I started volunteering at an animal shelter when I was 11 years-old. I went every single Sunday with one of my parents and we helped clean the shelter in the mornings. I was in love with the entire experience. As time went on, I started developing a sort of closeness with the shelter staff; looking back, I kind of think of myself as their sort of collective pet. They passed me back and forth between them on different jobs, teaching me things as I went along, talking to me about their lives and a bit of mine. They seemed, quite frankly, astonished at my 11, then 12, then 13 year-old self taking on such things as cleaning dirty cat litter pans and scooping out dog yards. For my part, I was, quite frankly, astonished that I was being entrusted with "important responsibilities" and that these impressive, almost god-like adults seemed to enjoy my company.
As you can probably tell, I was thrilled with the entire thing: I lived for those Sunday mornings and afternoons. It was a unique childhood experience, something that I believe has really made me into who I am today. I learned how to work, and work hard; it's a pretty physical job at times. I learned how to work as part of a team, about the dynamics of the workplace and some of the complications of adult interaction, about how to give a kitten an IV and about how to give a dog medication in a piece of liverwurst.
While over those three years many of the staff came and went, a few of them stayed, and out of those few, one woman took a particular interest in me. Her name was K. (or, at least in this blog it's going to be - I don't like mentioning people on a publicly accessible forum without their express permission) and I thought she was basically the most perfect person in the world. In reality, she's probably not. She was about 31 when I met her, pretty but fairly ordinary looking with shoulder length brownish, blondish hair, depending on whether or not she had highlights in it with a degree in Biology from a college in the area that probably didn't reflect all of her intelligence. (Last time we talked, she had just finished a Masters' Degree program and was teaching high school kids with behavioral problems - and I honestly can't think of anything more suited to her, on a number of levels.)
Anyway, I don't exactly remember how our closeness came about, but I think it had something to do with her being a youngest child by quite a lot, and me being an only child - and neither of us having younger or older siblings respectively. She took an interest in me and took me on as a sort of apprentice; she let me work with her all the time and tried to teach me everything about anything she knew about. (One of my favorite lines from her: "Stick with me, kid - I'll teach you everything you need to know about... dogs.") We spent a lot of time together at the shelter and we gradually started doing things outside of work; she got along really well with my parents, who, I think, sort of considered her to be some kind of daughter/niece hybrid. She occasionally took me out for lunch or dinner; she came to my softball games sometimes; we saw a movie and painted pottery once. She eventually took over as Director of the shelter, but the responsibility and confining aspects of the job (having to worry about money and managing people in a less direct way than she had as a supervisor) got to her; she left after only a short time in the position. That could have easily have been the end of our friendship; but it wasn't. She called me to tell me that she had resigned... and promptly made plans to come to my next softball game.
I don't really have the words to explain how much K meant to me; I cherished every moment we had together, playing them back in my head during the week to sustain myself until the next Sunday. (Embarrassingly, I wrote down our conversations to make sure that I could remember every detail.) I could barely sleep some Saturday nights for anticipation; I dreamed of simply spending time with her. It wasn't just admiration - it was pure devotion. I thought that she was the most amazing person to ever walk the fact of the Earth and that any time I spent with her was the greatest thing that could possibly happen to me.
I'm really not sure how aware of any of this she was; I think she must have seen something of herself in me. We were incredibly similar, not only in personality, sense of humor, but, scarily, even appearance. (A few times people mistook her for my mother and she kind of freaked out... she was only 18 years older than I am.) But I don't think she knew how much I really loved her, how much she truly meant to me. Sometimes I regret not ever telling her (leaving out all of the erotica nonsense, of course), but I also don't even know how that conversation would begin, so maybe it's best for everyone.
It is really only now (as in extremely recently) that I wonder if I might have been vaguely in love with her. I had no idea what that kind of thing meant then.... (Ha, who am I kidding? I don't still...) In fact, it is only recently, now that I have similar feelings for someone else, that I am starting to identify it as potentially more than platonic...
I don't know if any of this actually means anything. But this post is getting ridiculously long, so I'm going to end it. I just thought it was something that I needed to address; especially since I've been denying it for such a long time and I still am not completely comfortable.
I just don't know what to make of this.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
farther removed
For some reason, I really wanted to talk to someone at about 12:30 am last night.
But I didn't know who. Or even about what, for that matter.
And that was when I remembered that I was still in the middle of that weird transition-y, college thing that everyone goes through. You think it's basically over after freshman year and you've adjusted and all of that - but oh, no. We sophomores have weird sophomoric (ha - see what I did there?) drama of our own. I could have called a friend, I suppose. But I had had my chance with the friend I had just been with, and although I was in a similar head space then, we were watching a movie, and anyway, I just couldn't find a way to articulate what I wanted to express; I settled for a few vague comments and left feeling unsatisfied and unsure. And even though I contemplated going downstairs either of two close friends' rooms, I just decided against it. I worry about overburdening my friends, because sometimes I'm the one that feels overburdened when people share too much; I have a tendency to take on other people's problems more than I probably should. I mean, I always gladly listen and internalize things and try to help them, because I pride myself on being a really good friend, and I try to live up to that. But I didn't want someone having to just deal with me. I wanted someone who has to love me unconditionally, whose job it is to listen to my life problems...
And that was when I thought of my parents.
I used get the urge to call them to ask for advice for things a lot; I talked to them almost every day last year. But these days, it's different. In order to ask for their advice, I have to explain all of this backstory about people in my life that they barely know by name. And even when I do go through all of the details, the things I want to talk to them about are so distant and removed from their world, that by the middle of the conversation, I wonder why I bothered. How can I adequately explain my friends and the intricate dynamics and unsaid things? How can I talk about touchy issues like alcohol and sexuality and my own shortcomings and inadequacies and the fact that every day I get closer to being a legitimate adult, yet still have no idea what I'm going to be doing with my life? ...Most importantly, how can I express what I'm feeling to them if I'm not sure I even understand it myself?
I don't know, maybe I just like being all angsty and misunderstood sometimes. (It certainly serves as material for reflective blog posts...) Except that I'm sure that there are lots of other people in similar, if not the exact same situations; I'm not special. But that still leaves me with the problem of understanding myself, which, might, after all, be the most important thing missing from this situation.
Yesterday, on a thrift store excursion, I was buying a sweater, and for some reason had an intruding recollection of my mom, right before I went out one night over winter break, looking at me thoughtfully as I was putting on my coat, and remarking "I don't think I've seen that sweater on you before... is that new?" I turned my head and gave her an incredulous look - "Seriously? You're the one who bought it. It was a birthday present, remember?" "Oh yeah..." she nods thoughtfully, placing it at last. "I guess it's just weird because I don't see you come downstairs every morning any more." The friend I was with rolled her eyes and recounted a similar experience and we laughed about our parents and how they don't know us any more. Except I think there was something more to it than that, at least speaking for myself.
My parents don't know me, not due to anything they've done. It's not like they're not trying. I'm the one who's gone and changed. I'm the one who no longer lives at home, I'm the one who doesn't call them or come home as often, I'm the one in the process of trying to make plans to spend the summer somewhere other than our house in New Jersey. You should know that they rarely initiate the phone calls; it's not that they don't want to, I know, but that they're trying to give me my space and let me come to them on my terms. I don't talk to my parents nearly as often as before; maybe twice a week or so. And even then, it's mostly cursory. It isn't that I don't enjoy talking to them, but that our worlds are so far removed that I don't think any of us know quite what to say. It's not that I don't still love them, or that we're not still close. It's just really different not living with them, and seeing them every day. I know that they understand this. They are older and wiser than I am and have been through all of this before.
To deal with my feelings last night, I did something that I rarely do at college, mostly for lack of time, but also really, a lack of desire: I watched TV. I watched Desperate Housewives and Scrubs. These are the shows that my parents and I watch together when I'm at home.
Take that as you will.
But I didn't know who. Or even about what, for that matter.
And that was when I remembered that I was still in the middle of that weird transition-y, college thing that everyone goes through. You think it's basically over after freshman year and you've adjusted and all of that - but oh, no. We sophomores have weird sophomoric (ha - see what I did there?) drama of our own. I could have called a friend, I suppose. But I had had my chance with the friend I had just been with, and although I was in a similar head space then, we were watching a movie, and anyway, I just couldn't find a way to articulate what I wanted to express; I settled for a few vague comments and left feeling unsatisfied and unsure. And even though I contemplated going downstairs either of two close friends' rooms, I just decided against it. I worry about overburdening my friends, because sometimes I'm the one that feels overburdened when people share too much; I have a tendency to take on other people's problems more than I probably should. I mean, I always gladly listen and internalize things and try to help them, because I pride myself on being a really good friend, and I try to live up to that. But I didn't want someone having to just deal with me. I wanted someone who has to love me unconditionally, whose job it is to listen to my life problems...
And that was when I thought of my parents.
I used get the urge to call them to ask for advice for things a lot; I talked to them almost every day last year. But these days, it's different. In order to ask for their advice, I have to explain all of this backstory about people in my life that they barely know by name. And even when I do go through all of the details, the things I want to talk to them about are so distant and removed from their world, that by the middle of the conversation, I wonder why I bothered. How can I adequately explain my friends and the intricate dynamics and unsaid things? How can I talk about touchy issues like alcohol and sexuality and my own shortcomings and inadequacies and the fact that every day I get closer to being a legitimate adult, yet still have no idea what I'm going to be doing with my life? ...Most importantly, how can I express what I'm feeling to them if I'm not sure I even understand it myself?
I don't know, maybe I just like being all angsty and misunderstood sometimes. (It certainly serves as material for reflective blog posts...) Except that I'm sure that there are lots of other people in similar, if not the exact same situations; I'm not special. But that still leaves me with the problem of understanding myself, which, might, after all, be the most important thing missing from this situation.
Yesterday, on a thrift store excursion, I was buying a sweater, and for some reason had an intruding recollection of my mom, right before I went out one night over winter break, looking at me thoughtfully as I was putting on my coat, and remarking "I don't think I've seen that sweater on you before... is that new?" I turned my head and gave her an incredulous look - "Seriously? You're the one who bought it. It was a birthday present, remember?" "Oh yeah..." she nods thoughtfully, placing it at last. "I guess it's just weird because I don't see you come downstairs every morning any more." The friend I was with rolled her eyes and recounted a similar experience and we laughed about our parents and how they don't know us any more. Except I think there was something more to it than that, at least speaking for myself.
My parents don't know me, not due to anything they've done. It's not like they're not trying. I'm the one who's gone and changed. I'm the one who no longer lives at home, I'm the one who doesn't call them or come home as often, I'm the one in the process of trying to make plans to spend the summer somewhere other than our house in New Jersey. You should know that they rarely initiate the phone calls; it's not that they don't want to, I know, but that they're trying to give me my space and let me come to them on my terms. I don't talk to my parents nearly as often as before; maybe twice a week or so. And even then, it's mostly cursory. It isn't that I don't enjoy talking to them, but that our worlds are so far removed that I don't think any of us know quite what to say. It's not that I don't still love them, or that we're not still close. It's just really different not living with them, and seeing them every day. I know that they understand this. They are older and wiser than I am and have been through all of this before.
To deal with my feelings last night, I did something that I rarely do at college, mostly for lack of time, but also really, a lack of desire: I watched TV. I watched Desperate Housewives and Scrubs. These are the shows that my parents and I watch together when I'm at home.
Take that as you will.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
"Myths of identity" & "performative acts"
To begin, I should probably state my simultaneous comfort and discomfort at an assigned blog post. I know - I knew that I was in for this, because it says so right on the syllabus: "Occasionally I will prescribe writing exercises to be posted on your blog, but this will largely be your own space to create a self for public display." (Why yes, I did just quote the class syllabus on my blog...) When I first saw that, I was relieved. I am typically the kind of person who works better under direction; ask me to draw/write/whatever "anything" for you, and you will likely stump me. Tell me to do something specific, and I promise you, it will get done. So, when I saw that I would at least be given some guidance, sometimes, my first thought was something along the lines of "Huh, this won't be so bad." And then, either somewhere along the way, I got a little too attached to this thing as "my own space," or maybe I'm just nervous because the idea of an "assignment" seems like a much more legitimate thing than me being angsty about writing about myself or recounting my epic zoo adventures.
...Anyway, that's all I really have to say about that. There's no real resolution or point to it, but there you go. And that I've gotten that out of the way, I promise that I will actually do my homework now.
I'm really with Smith and Watson (of Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives) on the idea that the "unified story" and "coherent self" are "myths of identity." "We are always fragmented in time," they go on to say, "taking a particular or provisional perspective on the moving target of our pasts, addressing multiple and disparate audiences" (p.47). Even within the comparatively small timespan of a day, I feel as though there are multiple selves that I present to the world; I feel "fragmented." I really don't do this intentionally, or, at least I don't think I do. It isn't always anything as drastic as putting on a mask, either. (Although I do admit to doing that when I feel it's appropriate.) But I unconsciously present myself differently to different people.
Take the blood drive, today: I came in, signed in, found some friends to hang out with while waiting, and was generally pretty relaxed, social - working on coordinating our schedules and getting some more business-y things done. When one of the nurses reprimanded us for not being organized and knowing what order we were donating in (no one gave us numbers or anything; no one seemed to know whose job it actually was to know this), I immediately jumped up, absconded with the sign-in list from the people working at the sign-in table and started calling out names and assigning numbers. I assure you, I didn't do this because I like to, as my friend so eloquently put it "run shit," but as a defense mechanism - I don't like being criticized, and my immediate response (other than to feel extremely guilty) is to correct the problem by any means necessary, whether I created it or not. (I'm sure my even writing this could be interpreted as "defensive"... maybe it is?) Finally being called to take blood, I was nervous and chatty with the nurses, and subsequently extremely apologetic (Like, let's play: how many "I'm sorrys" can you fit into one conversation?) when I was rejected for low iron. Then, I was scheduled to volunteer at the drive from 4-6 anyway, and while there, I was mostly in what I guess is most accurately described as my "social/professional" zone (probably originally developed at the shelter), in which I attempted to project helpfulness, cheerfulness, competence - and was talkative to the nth degree. (This is alternatively probably seen as extremely put-together and/or extremely annoying, depending on who you are, what kind of day you've been having, and whether or not you actually want my help.) As I left for dinner at 6:30 with another friend (who was also working at the drive), I had the actual, palpable sense of, like, turning the hyperdrive off on my personality, and just being able to chill and be (mostly) myself around her, on the walk to dinner.
I went through all of these different "projections" (I use quotations to indicate that they were not, in fact, merely projections, but actually different versions of how I was/am, depending on the circumstances) in the span of a few hours, having to shift between them instantaneously as the need arose - without even realizing I was doing it. God-forbid I actually had to write down all of this and pretend to be one, cohesive person! I'm not one, cohesive person. I don't think anyone is. Not only do we obviously change from year to year, from experience to experience as we grow and change and learn and refine our "selves," but as I've just demonstrated, we even change projections depending on the time of day, who we're talking to, and really, even, just how we happen to be feeling at that moment.
Trying to force all of that into a single, unified thing would be stifling; it would be a hollow, empty shell of a person, and probably a life narrative that would be pretty dull to read.
Life is inconsistent, people are inconsistent, I am inconsistent.
...Anyway, that's all I really have to say about that. There's no real resolution or point to it, but there you go. And that I've gotten that out of the way, I promise that I will actually do my homework now.
I'm really with Smith and Watson (of Reading Autobiography: A Guide for Interpreting Life Narratives) on the idea that the "unified story" and "coherent self" are "myths of identity." "We are always fragmented in time," they go on to say, "taking a particular or provisional perspective on the moving target of our pasts, addressing multiple and disparate audiences" (p.47). Even within the comparatively small timespan of a day, I feel as though there are multiple selves that I present to the world; I feel "fragmented." I really don't do this intentionally, or, at least I don't think I do. It isn't always anything as drastic as putting on a mask, either. (Although I do admit to doing that when I feel it's appropriate.) But I unconsciously present myself differently to different people.
Take the blood drive, today: I came in, signed in, found some friends to hang out with while waiting, and was generally pretty relaxed, social - working on coordinating our schedules and getting some more business-y things done. When one of the nurses reprimanded us for not being organized and knowing what order we were donating in (no one gave us numbers or anything; no one seemed to know whose job it actually was to know this), I immediately jumped up, absconded with the sign-in list from the people working at the sign-in table and started calling out names and assigning numbers. I assure you, I didn't do this because I like to, as my friend so eloquently put it "run shit," but as a defense mechanism - I don't like being criticized, and my immediate response (other than to feel extremely guilty) is to correct the problem by any means necessary, whether I created it or not. (I'm sure my even writing this could be interpreted as "defensive"... maybe it is?) Finally being called to take blood, I was nervous and chatty with the nurses, and subsequently extremely apologetic (Like, let's play: how many "I'm sorrys" can you fit into one conversation?) when I was rejected for low iron. Then, I was scheduled to volunteer at the drive from 4-6 anyway, and while there, I was mostly in what I guess is most accurately described as my "social/professional" zone (probably originally developed at the shelter), in which I attempted to project helpfulness, cheerfulness, competence - and was talkative to the nth degree. (This is alternatively probably seen as extremely put-together and/or extremely annoying, depending on who you are, what kind of day you've been having, and whether or not you actually want my help.) As I left for dinner at 6:30 with another friend (who was also working at the drive), I had the actual, palpable sense of, like, turning the hyperdrive off on my personality, and just being able to chill and be (mostly) myself around her, on the walk to dinner.
I went through all of these different "projections" (I use quotations to indicate that they were not, in fact, merely projections, but actually different versions of how I was/am, depending on the circumstances) in the span of a few hours, having to shift between them instantaneously as the need arose - without even realizing I was doing it. God-forbid I actually had to write down all of this and pretend to be one, cohesive person! I'm not one, cohesive person. I don't think anyone is. Not only do we obviously change from year to year, from experience to experience as we grow and change and learn and refine our "selves," but as I've just demonstrated, we even change projections depending on the time of day, who we're talking to, and really, even, just how we happen to be feeling at that moment.
Trying to force all of that into a single, unified thing would be stifling; it would be a hollow, empty shell of a person, and probably a life narrative that would be pretty dull to read.
Life is inconsistent, people are inconsistent, I am inconsistent.
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