Posts Tagged ‘selfhood’

25
Jan
2018

party girl

categories: me

I did my best to participate in the debauchery and depravity that is college life. In all honesty, I went to college to…you’ll never guess…get an education! Really. No one forced me to be there. There were no parental units guilt-tripping me into attending. The cocaine-toting, binge-drinking party-goers sort of swirled around my book-reading, homework-doing college self.

I am definitely not trying to paint some picture of a good girl. That, I was not. But, I was studious. And, I took college seriously because I was genuinely interested in learning. I had always loved school. As an escape from home but also as a place to learn about the big, wide world outside of my small-town life. I wanted to know everything. I wanted to experience everything.

I spent much of my high school career focused on extracurricular activities — college was the place for learning, I decided. College was the place to finally get a sense of the world around me. The history, the culture, the literature. I was a product of shitty, small-town schools, with the occasional incredible teacher but mostly a sea of small-minded, right-leaning, mostly white, mostly christian people. I was caught in the middle of the conservative reality of the town I called home and the liberal, commune ideology I’d grown up around.

College was, for me and for many others, a place where I could finally be myself. Or, rather, be the self I always wanted to be. I could shed the reputation I had earned/inherited, get labeled with all new adjectives, stick myself into the categories and groups I felt best defined me or supported me, and make all new friends. Friends who knew nothing about my background. People with whom I could start fresh.

It was exhilarating for me. Moving 3,000 miles away from where anyone knew my name was the most important gift I could have given my adolescent self. The gift of anonymity–where I could feel safe and free and normal.

19
Jan
2018

depression

categories: me

It didn’t happen all at once.

The pieces seemed small and unrelated–a quilt that hadn’t yet been sewn to make a cohesive thing.

I couldn’t leave the house without makeup.

I didn’t know it was one thing. I chalked it up to the move, to my new job, to my sudden weight gain and physical discomfort.

I watched the scale tip slowly toward a number I’d never seen before, packed bags of too-small shorts for the thrift store, ordered secret clothes online and hid them in my closet.

It seemed like a myriad of things–a response to stressful life circumstances.

I cringed at the bling sound of texts, the flood of my inbox, looking at my calendar would send my stomach into knots and my heart racing.

It never occurred to me to call it something. It never dawned on me that my behavior was becoming distant, dissonant, even to me. My sense of identity, of belonging, my sense of self.

I would fantasize about cancelling engagements, come up with lies to get out of meals, shows, dinners, walks, trips. I didn’t want to see or be seen.

It didn’t manifest in a day–it slowly came over me, covering me like a heavy quilt until I felt cradled by it, enveloped by it, identified with it, as it.

I’d talk about wanting to get better but sink into self-doubt and confusion trying to name what I needed to get better from.

Friends started commenting on my inability to sit still–a paper was misplaced and needed to be straightened, a crumb was in sight and needed to be swept.

I stayed up at night–every creak of our old house sent shivers down my spine. I knew it was an intruder. I scanned the room for objects that could be used as weapons. I slept with the bathroom light on.

It never occurred to me that my growing social anxiety and paranoia could be related. That my low self-esteem and my desire to binge-watch t.v. could be interconnected. Pain masked by habit, fear disregarded as a side-effect.

I knew people with depression. That wasn’t me.

I’m a normal person. I exist in this world with the same number of problems as anyone else, probably less. I’ve got a great partner, a wonderful kid, a job I like.

 

11
Jan
2018

me: a work in progress

categories: california, me, new york

Well, we all knew it would happen eventually. California gets everyone. It claims even the most pessimistic, meat-loving, vitamin-hating, trend-avoiding among us. It has claimed me. How do I know I’ve been transported to the light side?

I like tea. That is, in fact, an understatement. I LOVE tea. I drink it every. single. day. This is not a joke. I literally drink tea every day. With freaking coconut milk! And locally-sourced honey! Oh, god. It’s too late for me. I don’t know how or when it happened. But now, there’s no going back. I crave it, I buy special large mugs for it. Only black–for now. But, who knows. At this rate I’ll be sipping Yerba mate out of a coconut shell with one of those stupid metal straws. I mock it now but I’ll be singing it’s praises in six month’s time. Mark my words. California has made a mockery of my entire personality.

Second piece of evidence: as if the tea weren’t enough. I take vitamins. Yes, vitamins. Supplements. I buy them at the hippie co-op where it always smells like sweat, even in the winter. And they have to put up a special sign that says, “No bathing suits allowed.” Because, somehow people need the specific and explicit instruction. That’s right, they need a separate sign (in addition to the classic one about the shirt and shoes) that stipulates that you also may NOT wear just a bathing suit into the store. Here’s the thing, this is not a beach town. And, this store is nowhere near a body of water. How is this something that needs to be spelled out for people? Anyway, I take supplements now. Because I guess I’m old and my body needs extra help. But, shit, I still hate them.

Third piece of evidence: I stopped eating gluten. Among other things, I have a “diet” now. Like, a diet that isn’t, “eat whatever you want, whenever you want it.” I don’t always adhere to it’s strict guidelines but when I do, I feel miraculous. Damn it to hell. It’s true. Turns out with all my medical issues, a dietary change was part of the puzzle. Recommended and initiated by my doctor. But still, now I buy goat yogurt and read ingredients on packages. I hate those people.

So, it’s official. I have fully acclimated to California life. It took ten years to be considered a New Yorker. Even after fifteen I felt sheepish referring to myself as “from” New York. It took less than two years to become a Californian. There ya have it.

 

27
Jan
2016

what does it mean to be 35? let me elucidate:

categories: me
  • Finding hairs on your nipples.
  • Finding hairs on your chin.
  • Finding hairs on your cheeks.
  • Just in general, lots of hair-finding–it’s like puberty all over again.
  • Re-figuring out your skin–I tamed you years ago, monster zits! Damn hormonal changes.
  • Rolls in new places. What’s that strange feeling on my back? Oh, it’s part of my body, hello new friend.
  • Realizing you don’t move the way you used to–“No, I’m not limping!” Wait, am I limping?
  • The way food begins to just stay put. Like, right smack in that mid-section, so you start to get that muffin-top roll over your mom-jeans. Feeling a little sheepish about all my judgy eye rolls at the calorie-counting women in the teachers lounge. I think my Dorito-binging days are over.
  • Having dear friends who you cherish and who love and support you through your trickiest times.
  • Not having any friends who you actually, secretly (or, not-so-secretly) dislike.
  • Being in a stable and mutually respectful relationship.
  • Making life-changing decisions that are scary and intense but knowing that, ultimately, they are the right decisions–and, therefore, not being fearful of change.
  • Eating well but allowing yourself to indulge every now and again.
  • Living frugally but allowing yourself to splurge every now and again–can you say, Book of Mormon! (Sidenote, how are those tickets still so expensive?!)
  • Being productive most days but allowing yourself some lazy, couch-potato, netflix-binging days too.
  • Reading good books and not-so-great ones without judgment.
  • Saying goodbye to the bands you thought were cool because it was so much work to listen to them. It’s all easy-listening these days. Give me a band I can hum to while I cook and I’m happy.
  • Being able to set boundaries. I love you and I will be there for you but I also have to take care of myself. Turns out you are no good to anyone if you aren’t being good to yourself.
  • Being able to say “no” guilt-free. “I can, but I don’t want to” is a perfectly fine excuse.
  • Acknowledging that you are not always right. Damn, it hurts even writing it.
  • Acknowledging that you still have so much to learn.
  • Knowing that even if you are not the smartest, the most beautiful, the most charming, the wittiest person in the room you still have a lot to offer.
  • Not being intimidated because someone has more information about a topic than you. Even when they’re super douche-y. Now, shall we talk about education? I’d love to reference fifteen acronyms that are totally meaningless to you and look at you like you should absolutely know what they mean. No? Dummy.
  • Starting with kindness but being capable of switching to intense bitchiness if the situation warrants it.
  • Being a legit adult. Teenagers look like babies to me. Seriously, how are they driving?! It’s difficult to admit, but I think I am a true-blue grownup.
20
Jan
2016

work // present

categories: me, new york

As I lay stretched out on my rainbow yoga mat, staring at the beautifully shaped ass of my 22-year-old colleague I couldn’t help but have a twinge of nostalgia. For being able to dress however I wanted. For dying my hair and piercing my body parts. For eating anything and everything and suffering no metabolic consequences. Am I old? Or, am I just around too many young people?

Being a teacher sort of ages you. “Ages” isn’t quite the right term. It places you in a professional stratosphere that automatically gives you respect and power–which, feels like something that comes with “age.” Spending your days with little kids doesn’t make you feel old. It makes you feel young, playful, energetic, silly. Yes, you are exhausted by the end of the day in a way that your tiny-human counterparts are not. But, you feel young at heart. And, for the first ten or so years, you are younger than the parents of your students. Which contributes to a second level of power and prestige.

When you work with millennials and listen to their conversations–sometimes beautifully thoughtful and thought-provoking about gender and class; sometimes absurd, about sick dance parties and hilarious hookups; and sometimes offensive, “it’s just that I really thought my parents were going to keep paying my phone bill until I was, like, at least 25″–it gets you thinking about your own world. The small little bubble that you live in–filled with parenting tips and toddler tantrums, meal-planning and grocery lists, bills and savings accounts. Versus the little bubble that they live in–hookups and trash-talking, parent-drama and student loans, friendships ending and new relationships blooming. Certainly there are similarities in our lives–sometimes I come in and Glynis tells me that we are twins, wearing cuffed boyfriend jeans and oversized sweaters. Other times I come in with aches and pains, marriage woes and mom-struggles, angst over why we can’t afford to buy a damn house and we just feel decades apart. Our priorities, our goals, our relationship to the world around us. We are looking at the same sky but seeing very differently shaped clouds.

I read an article a few years ago about how much the people around you impact your life. Sounds obvious. But, this article claimed that we were not only affected by our friends and family but also by their friends and families. That, in fact, we were being shaped by people 3 steps removed from our circle. And, not just affected in an emotional sense but in many ways we are being molded by others: the way we eat, the music we listen to, our outlook on the world, our daily emotional state–whether we are prone to anger or calm, taking deep breaths or becoming anxious. This frightened me at the time. I was teaching with a nasty human who was angry at the world and angry at herself. She seethed with animosity and jealousy, rage and fear. “Oh my god,” I thought. “I am going to become like her.” I’ll start eating snickers bars for lunch and listening to Michael Buble! The horrror!

Of course, it isn’t so simple. We don’t just emulate the people around us, we are affected in subtler but deeper ways than I think we can even pinpoint. I’m not sure how Patricia affected me. Is it her fault that I am more defensive than I used to be? Can I attribute my fear of being alone to Danielle who bought a dog so she would never have to sleep solo? Did Rachel make me a better friend? Did Sara make me more courageous? Is Julie the reason I can stand up for myself? Can I thank Adam for my sense of humor? We are shaped by our circumstances, we are shaped by our families (whether we want to be or not), we are shaped by our choices and our education and our neighborhoods. But where do we end, and the exterior influences that shape us begin?

05
Nov
2015

identity

categories: me, new york

In New York you’re constantly bombarded with people on the street. People living on the street, people hanging out on the street, passersby on their way to and from work, red-eyed dads trying to get their kids to sleep at 2 AM, all sorts of folks on any given day. I would say I’m hit up at least a half-dozen times for money or a donation, a contribution, a signature or a flyer about god, about a new restaurant, about a salon giveaway, there’s always something–in fact, there’s always a million things.

Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I stop, sometimes I’m in a hurry. Sometimes I shoo them off, exasperated and frustrated–usually that’s on a really hot day when I’m in a big rush, and can’t they see my kid is having a miraculous nap in the stroller? But the interaction that always seems to leave me reeling is when I get stopped with, “Excuse me ma’am, are you Jewish?” Every single time I am stopped in my tracks. Do I lie? Is it really a lie? I’m not a practicing Jew. It’s my father’s side, so, does it really count?

And then I get to thinking about religion versus cultural ethnicity and internal identity versus external realities and how those all intertwine and get boggled up. You would think that after fifteen years in New York–and since I am besieged by this question during every high holiday–that I would have an answer at the ready. But, I don’t. Sometimes I say yes and other times it’s no.  And, no matter what I say I end up feeling kind of lousy.

Is it a fabrication to say yes? Is it a lie just to say no? Do I really want that horn blown in my face? Am I really expected to repeat that Hebrew verse? But, no matter what the answer, I feel like a fraud. If I say yes then I feel like the minute I can’t recite properly they know I’m full of shit. If I say no, I envision them walking away mumbling under their breath about how I’m so obviously Jewish and why would I lie? And, I get this queasy feeling in my gut.

Who am I versus who I am perceived or expected to be? Where do I fit in? Who do I belong to? If not to them, then to whom? Am I an island? And I start romanticizing organized religion. Which is not a useful pastime. Because, I have yet to find one organization that I would truly want to be a part of. Am I the only one for whom this happens? Is it strange that a simple question turns into a deep philosophical dialogue about selfhood and identity? Perhaps. Or, maybe everyone’s walking around questioning who they are, not internally, but who they are in relation to the world around them. Which is a very different investigation than who we are on our own–what we do, what we believe in, who we love, how we live–those are somewhat simple to determine. It’s a question of belonging and of community, having nothing to do with confidence or success or education.

Are we all still in high school, searching for our clique?