My guts are in my throat. And my left thumb has developed a nervous tick... it keeps sporadically twitching, twitching, twitching, and I can't stop it. It will start even as I'm trying to relax. Today, I found out that I'm signed up to really produce, and fast.
March -- Chapter I
April -- Chapter II
May -- Chapter III
Defense August.
I feel like I've just been told I have 6 months to live. Or rather, at the end of 6 months it will be decided if I should live.
Words just cannot explain how nervous and utterly scared I am. I'm really, really scared.
Yet... at the same time... there's this weird sense of relief at having an "end" in sight. There's a strange sense in which I also want to celebrate if it means this long, long labor might be over in half a year. But that sense doesn't quite compete with the mental trauma right now. AHHH! Holy crap!
Seriously, how do I do this?
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
??????????????????????????????????????????????????
Showing posts with label doubt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label doubt. Show all posts
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
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?
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?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
A day that measures more
Talking to myself:
Well, the nerves started to kick in around 4:30. Now it's close to 6:00. Has hopelessness set in? No, not quite. Just resignation. So, February 11, 2008, is it? I've waited how many YEARS for this day? 4, 5, 7? How much more can I jam in my head. It already feels like a jar of strawberry preserves. Oh, look, jelly leaking out my ear. KNOWLEDGE... must cram in. Why do I procrastinate, do other stuff, and then try to do it all in 24 hours? Am I just a masochist? Evidently. I doubt the world will stop spinning at 4:30 tomorrow. Whatever the outcome for me personally. Whatever, it will be an end to a so long a time in limbo. At least after tomorrow my life will move in one direction or the other and not be at a perpetual standstill.
Well, the nerves started to kick in around 4:30. Now it's close to 6:00. Has hopelessness set in? No, not quite. Just resignation. So, February 11, 2008, is it? I've waited how many YEARS for this day? 4, 5, 7? How much more can I jam in my head. It already feels like a jar of strawberry preserves. Oh, look, jelly leaking out my ear. KNOWLEDGE... must cram in. Why do I procrastinate, do other stuff, and then try to do it all in 24 hours? Am I just a masochist? Evidently. I doubt the world will stop spinning at 4:30 tomorrow. Whatever the outcome for me personally. Whatever, it will be an end to a so long a time in limbo. At least after tomorrow my life will move in one direction or the other and not be at a perpetual standstill.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Strange world
Blogs are strange things. It's like confessional writing, and there's really an egoism that I feel very self-conscious about behind it, especially mine. I have no darling kids to show off. I have a cute cat, who I love, but very little of anything else. No one really cares about what I read or write about, and I'm not even convinced they should. So, I honestly don't know why I'm writing this, other than maybe right now is a hard time.
I just had an embarrassing experience. My "myspace" account was phished and some horrible message was sent out in my name. A friend (that I only knew for a year in high school on Academic Decathlon team) sent me a note hoping that it wasn't really from me because she said she looked up to me. That's sweet, but I find it difficult to believe I've had much of an impact on anyone or anything. I feel utterly useless. I know we all face our little prisons in our minds, of feeling less than what we probably are. People who have nice things wish for fewer bills. People who don't own anything, wish for some symbol of status. People who have kids wish for freedom. People who don't, wish for that affection, etc., etc., etc. We all want what everybody else has or is. Actually, I've prided myself on not being a jealous person, so maybe I'm openly prideful and secretly jealous, but I don't think so. I just want to have some purpose for being alive.
I took this picture of snow in the flowers in Salt Lake City, during a trip there with my college choir. Coincidentally, it was during General Conference, and I was wandering around alone outside, listening to the Tabernacle Choir sing on the speakers. That's back in the day when I used to pray too. I used to believe there was some purpose. I thought it was beautiful to see snow with flowers, since the two come together so rarely. It was a moment of them existing, both pristine and perfect. I'm sure soon after the snow melted and the flowers were wilted for the rest of the season, but it was lovely for a moment.
Maybe there's no long rest while we're alive. It's always a lot of struggle. I had no idea this person I barely knew ever looked up to me. I'm not sure why. I did study hard and work hard in high school, maybe that's why. I always thought my books would somehow take me somewhere worth going. I don't think they lied, but they still haven't told me what it is exactly I'm supposed to be. It's hard not seeing my family except maybe once a year, and knowing that I was the one that made this choice, while spending my days just surrounded by books (as beloved as they are) and feeling a deep sadness that my life is just passing away. Days mean nothing really anymore. Days are raising the blinds, lowering the blinds... over and over. Somedays I don't even bother raising them.
I just had an embarrassing experience. My "myspace" account was phished and some horrible message was sent out in my name. A friend (that I only knew for a year in high school on Academic Decathlon team) sent me a note hoping that it wasn't really from me because she said she looked up to me. That's sweet, but I find it difficult to believe I've had much of an impact on anyone or anything. I feel utterly useless. I know we all face our little prisons in our minds, of feeling less than what we probably are. People who have nice things wish for fewer bills. People who don't own anything, wish for some symbol of status. People who have kids wish for freedom. People who don't, wish for that affection, etc., etc., etc. We all want what everybody else has or is. Actually, I've prided myself on not being a jealous person, so maybe I'm openly prideful and secretly jealous, but I don't think so. I just want to have some purpose for being alive.
I took this picture of snow in the flowers in Salt Lake City, during a trip there with my college choir. Coincidentally, it was during General Conference, and I was wandering around alone outside, listening to the Tabernacle Choir sing on the speakers. That's back in the day when I used to pray too. I used to believe there was some purpose. I thought it was beautiful to see snow with flowers, since the two come together so rarely. It was a moment of them existing, both pristine and perfect. I'm sure soon after the snow melted and the flowers were wilted for the rest of the season, but it was lovely for a moment.
Maybe there's no long rest while we're alive. It's always a lot of struggle. I had no idea this person I barely knew ever looked up to me. I'm not sure why. I did study hard and work hard in high school, maybe that's why. I always thought my books would somehow take me somewhere worth going. I don't think they lied, but they still haven't told me what it is exactly I'm supposed to be. It's hard not seeing my family except maybe once a year, and knowing that I was the one that made this choice, while spending my days just surrounded by books (as beloved as they are) and feeling a deep sadness that my life is just passing away. Days mean nothing really anymore. Days are raising the blinds, lowering the blinds... over and over. Somedays I don't even bother raising them.
There's nothing anyone can do. I'm just complaining. I'm very lucky I've been paid to go to school, but I'm tired. And the thought of not having Mars with me, makes my feelings of loneliness and uselessness all the more severe. At least he needs and love me, and I make a difference to him. What do we live for if we can't make a difference to anyone anymore? Maybe I'm just really co-dependent. I need to be needed. All I know is that when I feel like I can't give affection, lavish it really, I begin to feel myself slipping away. Even if the other person rejects my gift, I can't live without offering--whatever it's worth. Although today, that doesn't feel like much.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)