I decided to post this entry from my journal, because I felt that others, especially new graduates, would be able to take something from it. I am generally a positive and upbeat individual, and I love dry humor. However, ever since high school, I have suffered occasional bouts of depression. High school was the worst; it was a time of utter lifelessness and constant pretending.
My journals of the time are deceptively vivacious, but that is because my dad told me to fight the sadness with joy. If I pretended long enough, he said, it would become true. Mind over matter was his favorite phrase while I was growing up. And he was right. I gritted my teeth and clawed my way out of that hole with false laughter, determination, and a blessed end to puberty. Most people, except a select few who were there, don't know this about me. Usually my down moments now are reserved to one or two days a month, when I feel tired, lethargic, melancholy, and detached from others for no reason. My version of PMS, I guess. I don't get mad, I get sad! (Cue Glad Bags commercial music).
But after graduating with my undergraduate degree in Biology this last August, moving back in with my parents, and starting the as-of -yet-unsuccessful search for a full-time job, I felt like an utter failure. The future was uncertain, but worse than that, I wasn't even sure what I wanted anymore. I was slowly realizing that mainstream academic research was not for me. I didn't want to be a lab rat for the rest of my days; a drove of possibilities stood before me and I wanted all of them except for the one that I had already chosen.
I was in a terrible limbo and paralyzed by indecision. Deep down, I knew what I wanted, what I had always wanted (to return to English and writing, my first loves), but I did not have the courage to admit it to myself nor to others. Getting a Master's degree in English was not practical; getting an M.S. in science was. What would I tell my parents? What would I tell the people who had invested in my scientific career, who had expected great things of me? That hopelessness and shame increased my down days significantly.
Such a "Down Day," occurred recently. I wanted to share my diary entry, because I know others, friends of mine included, feel the same at times. And because it is important to remember that although you may feel like a trod-upon cow patty one day for no apparent reason, you could feel like a prancing unicorn the next. That said, I want to be clear that I would never, ever hurt myself, and neither should anyone. Life is so ever-changing, and those of us who are slaves to these periods of dark and light must realize that hope is like a migrating bird. It may fly away for awhile, but it will always return, especially if you stand waiting for it with open arms. Putting out suet helps, too. Birds love that stuff.
All right. I've blathered enough in this intro (sorry...I'm garrulous today). Here's my journal entry:
My bed is warm, but the bleakness of deep winter has stolen over me, and my headphones, along with my thoughts, are hopelessly tangled. I don't seem to have the energy to attempt to fix either of those issues.
I keep forgetting the date. I keep writing 11-2-2013 instead of 2-11-2014. I have to pause, too long, and remind myself: no, it's February. It's month six, yes, six, of this Limbo, this uncertainty. Time it seems, stopped months ago.
I wish I could be an ever present glowing light for others, for myself. I think I must hide my torment--those grey periods of lethargic dimness, of restlessness and boredom, self-inflicted, all, when things that pleased in the past fade to nothing, and the waiting begins. Waiting for the sky to brighten again, for the energy to rush back into my bones. Waiting to feel laughter bubble up for no reason than that I am alive, alive, and so lucky.
And the clouds will part--they always do. Of life, well, life is capricious. I have always known it, which is why never, never will I succumb to those periods of hopeless darkness, nor to the anxiety I feel as I watch great stretches of my life stolen by these feelings; time ticks away, and I sit here, watching, waiting, wanting to move, to thrust forward with all I have. If I do, I know I can accomplish anything. That I will feel better. Yet I am so tired, so often.
Bursts of energy come, and then, I am one of the hardest-working individuals I know. But then come the days when I go to bed often and early, because nothing seems worth the effort. Frustrating, that there is no reason, that my pain is self-inflicted. I feel so weak. I have parents and family who love me, support me, let me fall back into them when this job market and my mental paralysis have turned me from independence.
I have friends. So, oh, so many in the scheme of things. More people who care for me than I would have ever thought possible. A select few, I can tell anything to. Even fewer, I feel the resonance of kindred spirits with. It is as if when they speak, it is my words, not theirs, which fall from their lips.
And I hope to them that I am a positive force, that they don't know that some days, I cannot be with them, no matter how lonely I am, because I am just too tired, despite the full night of sleep that I have gotten.
It comes out here, in my writing.
A friend recently said to me after reading my creative writing portfolio [I paraphrase], "It's so good!" he said. "But some of it is SO dark. Knowing you, I never would have thought--" That there was so much darkness in my soul? I'm glad. I'm not glad that some of my writing comes across as dark, because I'd rather be a Terry Pratchett than a Sylvia Plath, but I am glad that no one expects it from me. I try so hard to live in the light.
I have friends who truly epitomize kindness of spirit--who have this contagious childlike innocence that ripples unassumingly around them. It is impossible not to feel it, tangibly reverberating deep inside the places you forgot you had. It makes me stronger to be with these people.
I want to be like that, to find inner and outer peace, and to spread it organically, like music in the air. Time goes on, and sometimes, for a long time, I can find that pool of tranquility and proactive love.
But it is so hard to walk gracefully and at ease--to feel the freedom to pause and gaze around you--when you feel as thought the road you walk, if it even exists, is not only invisible but hopelessly wandering. I like to see the road, but more importantly, I like to know which one I'm attempting to walk on.
At this point, I am so crazed with possibility and consequence that I am entirely willing to follow those brightly glowing will-o-the wisps, even if they cause me to fall through Sphagnum moss into a bog. Will-o-the-wisps are beautiful, enigmatic, and fade quickly. You think at first they are some playful fae creature, leading to a place possible only in your dreams, only to discover (once you've fallen to the bottom of a wetland) that in reality they were merely puffs of swamp gas brought on by anaerobic bacteria searching for electron receptors.
It is much less glorious to die at the hands of bacteria farts than faeries, but I digress.
I still don't know if I have the courage to risk everything for my dreams, but I know that I am not alone, and I can never give up, because tomorrow I will wake up and the sun could be shining. If not, I will do my very best to make my own sunshine.
It is better to follow hopeful lights for the chance of finding your way than to wander in lost circles in the fog forever.
