Demons

Dear Anxiety,

Hey there... Can we just sit and talk for a minute? By that, of course, I mean that I'll type and you'll, erm, listen, since this is a letter and all. Things haven't been great between us lately, I'll be the first to admit it. I think we may both benefit by getting some things down on virtual paper.

Everything is piling up, like the coffee cups covering a portion of my desk far too embarrassing to quantify for anyone who may be eavesdropping (hi, readers!). One stacked on top of the other, on top of yet another, some with little bits of trash thrown in, or the odd wad of chewed gum stuck to the lid... one is bulging a bit, threatening to give in to the pleas of the remaining contents, so intent on spilling out, making a lukewarm, sticky mess, for which I'll only curse at myself later.

No pictures this time, just a few side remarks. #1 - I really need to clean off my desk, and will as soon as I'm done here. #2 - this coffee cup metaphor is much more applicable than I ever imagined it would be when it began...

I've let us down, a bit, Anxiety, and circumstances beyond my control seem to have upset you as well. I didn't get the teaching job I'd so wanted this summer. Friends in my field are leaving our profession due to lack of work -- friends, that is, not only vastly superior to me in terms of intellect, but also with much more marketable specializations than my own. It snowed the day after I tilled half the soil in my garden. This TAship is taking up way more of my time than it should - time that should be spent on my dissertation, or, failing that, something that I actually enjoy. Stupid RN programs require Stupid pre-reqs that my Stupid self never took. I always knew Geology would come back to haunt me someday, despite the fact that I loved it, and did amazingly well in all three courses.

Maybe that's what has you all riled up these days, making me resort to taking Melatonin to be able to sleep, urging me to snap at the people I love, and who love me, and doing that weird paradoxical thing that you do with my dreams - making them so lovely and perfect that waking up feels like another crushing defeat. Yes, maybe its the fact that all of the things that I seem to love so much, and at which I tend to do rather well, leave me with progressively smaller shots at anything even remotely resembling stability. That is not our - my - fault, of course. That would be one of those circumstantial issues, over which I have no control. The world doesn't have many places for artists, humanities students, gardeners... Maybe I'll re-visit that whole vegetarian cafe idea.

Then, of course, there's the guilt. There's the fact that grandpa, the Engineer, would be SO proud of his granddaughter getting a Ph.D. Grandpa, that is, who - despite all my skepticism - I can't help but occasionally think may have visited me in my sleep as he was leaving this world.* There are my parents, who are quite possibly the most supportive people in the world, who believe in me probably more than they should, who have done everything they could to help me get to where I am today. There is my husband, who has made sacrifice after sacrifice. There are my students, who have so often provided support, even if they didn't realize that's what they were doing. Their words have often been the only thing to keep me motivated, as I stare at blank screens or words on a page that seem to jumble before my eyes. There's the fact that I know that I probably had a promising future in any number of other pursuits - concert flautist, psychologist, nurse - but, no, I just had to follow my heart. How fucking fluffy and sentimental.

You don't like any of this, Anxiety. You never have. It's not like you're just coming around for the first time - you've been a close friend for a very long while. Seriously, who starts getting insomnia at the age of 12? What's up with that? You really aren't helping. There are, obviously, a lot of reasons for you to think that you should be hanging around right now, incessantly pulling at my already tightened muscles, clamping down on the sides of my head, prying my eyes open when I need them shut, wriggling your way up my spine and out my mouth with angry, unacceptable words. I just need you to stop. I need you to be still. I need you to be quiet. You really, really are not helping.

As soon as the snow melts, we'll get back outside into the garden. I'll try to get us to yoga at least three times a week. We'll keep trudging through the work, and it will eventually get done. This can't last forever.

As for the other things, the future things, those dirty, awful things which bring out our greatest insecurities.... well, they are part of the unknowable future. You've never agreed with my thoughts on such things, but I'm the boss here. The future is unknowable for a reason, so stop enforcing your will upon it. That doesn't make things better. Neither of us can foresee what will happen, so we have to let it go for the time being. Keeping me up at night right now is certainly not going to make a job magic itself into existence in a year's time. So, please just stop.

I hope we can come to an understanding about this sooner rather than later. I have to do my taxes soon, and you just love to throw me surprise parties for that splendid occasion. Go ahead and hold off on that this year, ok? In fact, I have neither the time nor the money for a vacation, so why don't you take one instead? Take off for a few weeks, go somewhere nice and sunny - the Bahamas, maybe. Have some drinks. Chat with locals. Learn a new recipe. Send me a postcard. I'm sure it will be lovely.

Diplomatically,
Me



*For those who don't know this story: I was asleep. I was dreaming that a friend and I were walking down a long, white, doorless hallway. We came upon a hole ripped in the wall. Inside was the bedroom of my grandparents. My grandfather was on the floor, he looked up at me and asked for help. Then he said goodbye. At that moment, I was awakened by the phone ringing - it was about 4am. It was my grandmother, calling to let us know that my grandpa had just died of a heart attack. I know that there are rational ways of explaining all of this. I believe them. I know that this was likely coincidence. But it is still a hard feeling to shake - especially when thoughts of failing his hopes or expectations start to seep in.