Self Reflection

I should probably just go to sleep, but I'm up sitting at my computer. Recently I've been wondering what has happened to my efficacy, especially my self-efficacy. I can't seem to meet any of my own goals. I cannot will myself to sit down and write my dissertation, to do consistent research, or even to read. What has happened to me? Did I just get tired? Did I just get lazy? The more I fail to reach even "easy" daily goals, the more I doubt myself.

The thing is too, I have NO excuses. This is all on me. I have the time; I have the space, and I have all the resources I could use at my fingertips. I have no other responsibilities right now. I have a loving and supportive husband, who came to St. Louis for me. He does so much just to make me happy. I have beautiful friends. I have a best friend that always lets me know she understands. I have a loving family, and even if they don't understand what I'm doing, they care. And J.D.'s side of the family also supports me, and I know they send their love and best wishes for both of us.

And yet. . . . All of those loving, wonderful people and this opportunity of time and space only make it all the more difficult and painful to admit the truth. I am the only thing in my way. I am the border I cannot cross.

It's to the point that I am not my own worst enemy; I am my only enemy. Something in me feels broken, and I don't know how to fix it. As time simultaneously creeps and flies by, I feel inches of myself washing away, and there is little or no replenishment of sand. The hour glass is turned and drained. The "I" stands alone and empty, idly condemning itself.

Then I recall my other selves. Tammy of eight years ago was confident and strong. She was sure she could finish this. It seemed like the natural conclusion to her schooling, the last hurdle to whatever shiny goal rested at the end. Then there was the even younger, even more hopeful Tammy of thirteen years ago, who spoke about happiness in the moment, not at the end. Then even further back, existing now only because I remember her, was the Tammy who enjoyed staying in at recess to finish homework from the day she missed school because she was sick. The Tammy that dragged the encyclopedia with her every time her family drove the 20 miles in and out of town each day. She discovered the picture of the Bronte sisters and read all about them. She went out and found things just because she was curious and wanted to know. I remember that little girl, but I can't feel her curiosity or joy in learning much anymore. What a stranger I've become to myself.

Still under all this, perhaps why I'm writing, is a persistent, unyielding hope. If nothing more a stubbornness, that just refuses to say "enough." Too much time; too much effort, too many tears and most of my 20s-- seem to be pushing me to keep running around the track, even though now that shiny goal line seems imaginary.

How do you find the way back to yourself? How do you embrace the death of your old selves and the birth of whatever is arising in you? How do you string together the fragments that compose a life, a goal, or a self? How do you work toward something when you don't really know why you're doing it anymore? How do you overcome yourself, especially a self you don't recognize?