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3 Years Later...

I haven’t written on this blog in three years.  Whether or not I am done with it I’m not sure... I mean, does anyone even use Tumblr as a platform anymore?  So much has changed over the past three years, and my last post (a poem about transition and beginnings) is as fitting now as it was then.  At the start of 2015, I was unemployed, sick of the corporate world and the city.  I was craving a new beginning, and I found it - starting graduate school for Counseling Psychology in Salem, MA.  F and I moved into a lovely little place by the ocean in downtown Salem, and I was able to rejuvenate and reinvigorate my sense of learning and sense of self.  I finally felt more like me again.  F got a job in computer programming, the field he’d gone back to school to study, and I ended up taking a full time position with the Sisters of Notre Dame after working there part time for a couple years during school.  We got engaged on Christmas of 2015 and married almost a month ago: June 3, 2017.  Now, at age 26 as a married woman, I feel the desire to begin planning for another transition.  I still have 3 classes in finish in graduate school and we have another 2 years on our lease, but in 2019 I have a feeling that this major change will come again.  Change is scary, yes, but it can be positive.  If you listen to your gut, you usually know when you need it. Even if you can’t consciously admit it to yourself. 

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Beginnings are delicate moments, The beginning of a building no less than the beginning of a friendship or of a marriage. And how do these things begin? With a glance, a word, a phrase. Intuition, not reason guides us, Which is why the moment of beginning has often been the occasion for magic.

The Most Beautiful House in the World

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Atlas Shrugged and the Power of Ayn Rand

I started Atlas Shrugged back in college, but after reading the exposition knew I wasn't ready for it.  I'd finished The Fountainhead a year prior, which resulted in me volunteering to leave the city and work at my uncle's farm for the summer (huge mistake).  For reasons I didn't understand, Ayn Rand's work touched something inside of me that I didn't comprehend or want to acknowledge.  Sitting on the couch with Atlas Shrugged, I can see it clearly now.  Whether or not I'm willing to accept it remains to be seen.

There are many flaws to Rand's work, so by no means do I admire her or fall prey to her philosophy of Objectivism.  The reason I picked up Atlas Shrugged a few weeks ago was because I wanted an easy, thoughtless read, and Ayn Rand is my version of a Suzanne Collins or Stephenie Meyer novel.  I wanted something I could escape into, a guilty pleasure book.  I preferred Rand's characters to those in popular books these days because at least they portray conviction, intelligence, and morality (though whether or not their morals are sound is up for debate).  

I got wrapped up in her story and admit falling for the dramatic plot and romance.  As for her ode to capitalism, though I do agree with her on some grounds, I am sick of her 3-page-long rants from d'Anconia and Galt.  We get it, Ayn.  I wish she would do more "showing" as opposed to "telling"-- something her heroes claim as the moral high ground.  But I continue to read on, enraptured by the characters of Dagny, Francisco, and Hank.  

I find it interesting how the people in Rand's novels a) have so much confidence and b) are able to understand each other just by looking into each other's eyes.  There is a lot of that.  I also find it interesting how she portrays her industrialist protagonists, considering that as a writer, she has no experience with industrial or corporate America.  I think there are some CEO's still out there (the Level 5 leaders referenced in Jim Collins' Good to Great) who possess similar personalities to those Ayn was reaching for, but how would Ayn know that this kind of leader existed?  Her work is based on idealism; life has made me a realist.

Still, despite my critiques, the book was still able to stir something in me. So Ayn, I guess you succeeded.

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Apathy

My replacement started at work today, so I'm camped out on the 12th floor to avoid interaction.  At least they aren't making me train her.  Knowing that I will be leaving here at the end of the week is a relief.  I am happy to escape the corporate world but am disappointed about how this went down.  Sure I'm angry, filled with hatred towards this new woman and my team for betraying me, but yet, as I just realized today, I have not fought for my cause.  I could have expressed more emotion and tried harder to prove I wanted to stay.  I didn't fight.  Reflecting now, that says it all.  I didn't want to be here in the first place, else I would have fought for this job.  I told the world I was happy because that's what they want to hear, but I was lying to them and myself.  I did like some aspects of this job and this company, sure, but it wasn't me and I was going to have to change to become what they wanted.  

Partly, it was that I didn't have the effort to fight for a lost cause.  My first reaction to the news was self-loathing and depression, and when I had little motivation there was no way I was going to spend the small bit of energy I had left on fighting for cause I knew was beyond my control.  I think that's what they wanted me to do, what SHE wanted me to do, but I didn't give her a fight.  I just backed away and let her ruin our department and my life.  Why?  I'm not a coward, I just don't give a fuck.  About this job, about her, about my replacement.  Why waste energy fighting?  Eventually I was going to have to accept my reality, so why not just start working on moving on immediately?  Why not be proactive and start applying for new jobs, reaching out to my contacts, and picking up the scattered pieces of myself?

Okay, well that's also a lie.  I wasn't motivated to move on really, wasn't driven by the desire to accept my current situation so that I could heal.  And I didn't refuse to fight because I wanted to remain zen.  It's partially true, but it's not the full truth.  Anger is does not align with my zen ideals, but the true reality is that I am apathetic.

I don't know what's worse, rage or apathy.

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Nobody Likes You When You're 23 (Including Yourself)

I’m having an identity crisis.  Perhaps it’s a quarter-life crisis, though I’ve yet to hit 25.  Regardless of its title and causes, the facts remain the same— I am confused about who I am, what I want, and the point of life.  The corporate world has left me with no confidence in my abilities or appearance and I am torn between my adolescent and adult self. 

I was so established in college.  I knew exactly who I was and could easily list out what I believed in and what defined me.  I studied music and psychology, blogged regularly, and had the desire to travel and explore the world.  I was a vegan, did yoga, and dressed like a hippie.  I meditated and dabbled in Buddhism, decorated my room with cool drawings, spend my free time at coffee shops having existential conversations and reading David Foster Wallace.  I had my dark moments, sure, but overall I loved my life. 

But then there comes a time when you have to grow up.  Or so I thought.  I knew that my free attitude and appearance wouldn’t get me far in the real world, and I was scared by the prospect of having to fend for myself in an expensive city like Boston.   Reality hit, so I sold out.   I got a corporate job, stopped travelling and moved in with my boyfriend, and forgot who exactly I was and what I wanted out of life.  I started dressing in clothes I hated, started eating more unhealthy food because I didn’t have the time or effort to cook vegan meals, and stopped going to yoga.  Sure, the latter was a monetary decision (why spend $15 on a yoga class when I could do yoga in my apartment?  Course I never did.), but by letting these things that defined me in college slip away I’ve become lost and confused about what I really want.

I’m no longer a child but still warming up to the responsibilities of an adult.  I need to find a way to be myself while holding a job, paying the bills, and starting a family.  I do believe it’s possible—I just need to pick the parts of my past self that are still relevant and incorporate them into my adult life.  I am more jaded now but I’m also wiser.  I’m also lucky enough to have found my partner and to be starting my life with him. 

So what’s changed?  Exploring and travelling still interest me, but only when he is by my side.  I miss my body when I was vegan but don’t miss the hassle of having to eat a salad every time I go out to dinner or constantly craving more protein.  I don’t miss yoga or playing music—funny, since those two things held such meaning to my younger self.  I do miss live music, existential conversations, and my hippie wardrobe.  I also miss reading and writing, a lot.  I think perhaps I should re-prioritize my money, spending more on books and less on food and drink.  Maybe I should get myself new clothes that I feel more comfortable in.  Maybe I should go on a trip.  Maybe losing my job is a blessing in disguise, because now I can find something that will let me be myself.  Whoever that is.

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At the Wired Puppy cafe prepping for an interview... It feels so nice being near my old college stomping ground.

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‎You have to be the kind of person who can make the best out of a Tuesday. You know those people who live for the weekends? They’re wishing their life away. You have to find something worth living for or else you’ll look back and realize you’ve wasted your life away.

Drew Marvin, English Teacher

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Phone Anxiety

I suck at talking on the phone.  I think it's an introvert thing.  Like I'm overcome with anxiety the second my phone rings and always let it go to voicemail if possible.  How dare you interrupt my introspective ruminations and make me interact with another human being I wasn't prepared to speak to! 

Sure, this anxiety is fine with friends and family because I can explain my fears, but when it comes to the workplace I'm screwed.  Phone conversations are inevitable-- I can't always hide behind the cushion of email without seeming like I'm avoiding or being passive-aggressive.  And now that I'm entering the job market again, it's ten times worse.  Phone interviews are the first step in the interview process, and seeing as I suck at them I don't know how I'm ever going to get through to an employer to let them know that I'm actually a really smart and capable person.  I just have phone anxiety. 

I totally botched up an interview today for a job that I really wanted and it blows.  I even spent an hour this morning writing out what I wanted to say and an hour before the call practicing out loud.  But for some reason the second the phone rings, I'm riddled with anxiety-- I speak too quickly, forget my script ,and don't convey the intended message.  

My resume and cover letters are getting my in the door, but if I can't figure out how to remain calm when I talk on the phone how am I going to get a job?

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Numb.

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Ah, how I love being in a room filled with old books.

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Why Hockey is My Religion

There is nothing like going to see your favorite team play.  The roar of the crowd, the sea of red (or white, or yellow, or green, etc.) shirts, the comradery, the hope, anticipation, and glory of victory.  It’s a group of people who are all rooting for the same thing, who are all on the same team.  Whether or not they have anything else in common in life, they share one thing: they are fans.

I’ve always been the kid who never really fit in, and to be honest, never really wanted to.  I learned early on that I was different than other kids (who wants to listen to classical music and read books instead of playing with dolls and buying new clothes?), and by high school I capitalized on that difference and became a rebel.  I’ve never had a lasting group of friends or really felt part of a club at school.  I purposely went to a large university in a city so that I could get lost in a crowd and wouldn’t feel the pressure to fit in. 

I was also never very religious.  I was raised Catholic and went to CCD as a child, but once I hit 10th grade and learned the truth about Christianity in my history class, I realized that I was done playing pretend.  Though I declared myself an atheist for a while, I did explore Taoism, Buddhism, and Hinduism briefly in my late teens.  I came around in college to being agnostic; really what happened was that life got so busy and complicated that I didn’t have spare time in which to contemplate the heavens anymore.  It wasn’t until today that I realized I’d found religion somewhere else.

The Chicago Blackhawks, my favorite hockey team, are my religion.  They fill the same hole inside of me that others fill with Jesus, or Buddha, or God, etc. (or drinking or gambling or sex).  Jonathan Toews is my idol, and when I go to the United Center I am at my church with thousands of fellow worshipers.  My heart swells being surrounded by so many fellow hawks fans, and I feel as though I fit in for the first time in my life.  I didn’t become a hockey fan with this intent, but I realize now that why people love sports so much.  It is an alternative to religion.  It IS a religion, really.  It’s an escape from life, a ray of hope, a gathering of people with the same passion and intent.  It’s an instant connection with thousands of people you’ve never met. 

If anyone has ever asked me why I love the Blackhawks so much, this is why. 

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OK. Historically the stuff that’s sort of rung my cherries: Socrates’ funeral oration, the poetry of John Donne, the poetry of Richard Crashaw, every once in a while Shakespeare, although not all that often, Keats’ shorter stuff, Schopenhauer, Descartes’ Meditations on First Philosophy and Discourse on Method, Kant’s Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysic, although the translations are all terrible, William James’ Varieties of Religious Experience, Wittgenstein’s Tractatus, Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Hemingway—particularly the ital stuff in In Our Time, where you just go oomph!, Flannery O’Connor, Cormac McCarthy, Don DeLillo, A.S. Byatt, Cynthia Ozick—the stories, especially one called “Levitations,” about 25 percent of the time Pynchon. Donald Barthelme, especially a story called “The Balloon,” which is the first story I ever read that made me want to be a writer, Tobias Wolff, Raymond Carver’s best stuff — the really famous stuff. Steinbeck when he’s not beating his drum, 35 percent of Stephen Crane, Moby-Dick, The Great Gatsby. And, my God, there’s poetry. Probably Phillip Larkin more than anyone else, Louise Glück, Auden.

David Foster Wallace in an interview with Salon writer Laura Miller.

(via wordpainting)

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Beautiful fall leaves

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Norway