Time is a funny thing. We seem to be under the delusion that time continuously marches forward. But it doesn’t feel like it moves forward. It moves backwards and in circles, and somehow ends up back where it started, but in a different way. Yesterday encroaches on today, as a comfortingly familiar friend or an unpleasant reminder. Tomorrow looms threateningly until it has passed and becomes something other than what we expected. Then it becomes part of Yesterday, a dream for a future that doesn’t exist, which now resides in the past, but makes it presence known in the present.

I’m trying so hard to get back into writing. Yesterday I picked up an anthology of short stories. I flipped through the pages and read the blurbs about each author, doubting I’d ever see my name in one of those spaces.

I fear I’ll always be a foolish amateur, scribbling away and writing nothing of value. It’s hard enough to carve out time to write. When I do find the time, I feel discouraged and so I write nothing. Or nothing important. Instead I write about myself, when I really want to write about something so much bigger than me.

Lately, I’ve been afflicted with a sudden loss of focus. It happened in that important job interview three weeks ago. I was trying to focus, trying to stay on track. Then, without warning, the world faded back into focus and I realized that I had no idea what had been said for the last minute or so. It happened again today in class. It’s happening too frequently.

What disturbs me most is that I don’t know if this is a recent problem, or if it has been an affliction all my life and I have just now begun to notice.

Head aching just a bit, mind wandering, sorting through problems, looking for solutions, thinking of projects yet to be completed. Listen to the music, dance to the beat, letting it drive out any semblance of doubt. It’s not really as hard as it seems, just keep on walking, keep on breathing, keep on thinking, and seeing and singing a catchy tune. Keep on trying, continue believing. The headaches and the worries won’t last. Can’t stop to look for direction and still keep the doubt away. Just keep walking, and you’ll reach the destination you never knew you were always seeking.

There’s too much to learn. How can I be expected to teach when I don’t know enough?

Every time I learn something, there is so much more that I don’t know. I feel like I have mastered one tiny square, but the whole ocean just keeps expanding.

I’ve spent all term studying one Victorian novel, and I still know so little. What if a student asks me about workers’ rights and unions in Victorian England? Or divorce laws? I won’t know the answers, although I know about literary genre, education, and the Victorian circus.

It’s just too much. Too much.

I’m so tired. The problem is that my exhausted mind hasn’t caught up with the rest of me. It’s running mental circles, disabling the ability to focus.

Did you know that lab rats die after being deprived of sleep for two to three weeks? I don’t know if the same timeline holds true for humans. I’m not experiencing visual or auditory hallucinations yet, so apparently I’m still okay. I have, however, lost the ability to spell, and I forgot what day of the week it was three days ago. Or was it four days ago? I ever can keep track.

I wonder if rejection ever gets any easier. The worst part is that, despite how it always feels, rejection is rarely personal. It’s usually arbitrary – more about them than you. It’s not what you did or said that caused the rejection, it’s how they perceived it, or maybe it’s their personal problems.

If this sounds like a rationalization, that’s probably because it is.

I’m not even sure I can define the word rejection. It’s a decision which you have limited control over. They say no for their own subjective reasons.

Or at least, that’s what I try to tell myself.

With yesterday’s disappointment and a morning shift at work, I should have known this would be a lousy day. Eleven o’clock found me crying in the break room.

I’m not irrational. I know that this lost opportunity is just one little set-back. I can pick myself up and keep going. And I will.

But work today was a problem. Four years of reliability and hard work for little pay, though I have more education than many of the full-timers who are paid more. I think I’ve earned the right to some respect, not snippy comments and micromanagement from lazy coworkers.

I’m tired of empty platitudes.

Frustrated, I turn to the best psychoanalyst I know: my cat, Runt-boy.

Why is he named Runt-boy, you ask? Because when he came to me, he was the smallest of the litter. Scrawny, with bones poking out in all directions.

He was also brave, stubborn, and affectionate. The most out-going of the bunch. He’s a silly critter, and a bit fickle. But he’s come a long way from the skinny runt.

I’m sure there’s a lesson in that, but I’m not ready to deal with it just yet. Instead, I enjoy my companion’s contented purring.

These past few days have really been hell. Right now, I know I’m a bit depressed. And I have good reason, right? I just lost a terrific job opportunity. Finals are next week, so stress is a fact of life. My relationship with my ex-best friend slash roommate continues to deteriorate. I’m reevaluating many of my relationships while dealing with grad school trauma. I have a lot on my mind. It’s understandable. I should cut myself some slack. I’m not giving up. Just a bit down in the dumps. Having a minor pity party. It will pass. I has to

I was intensely proud of myself yesterday. A classmate was given one of the teaching positions that I was denied. He was so excited, apparently expecting that I would have been hired as well, that we could celebrate our mutual success. He looked genuinely shocked when I told him my bad news.

“That’s great,” I congratulated him, sounding happy because I truly was. He looked a bit guilty as he thanked me.

I’m jealous by nature. I often envy my friends’ successes. But I was truly happy for him, with no jealousy involved. And I’m proud of myself for that.

I am so tired of this project. It has to be done by tomorrow. So much for me sleeping tonight. Just over an hour until midnight. The project will get done. I have two sections left. And a conclusion. Do I need a conclusion? I’m going to be dead on my feet tomorrow. So tired of stupid project. I wish I had a magic wand and could make it disappear. How does the saying go? If wishes were fishes… I would have drowned by now. Actually, I don’t know how the real saying goes. But I guess my version works.

Sometimes I feel so young. I’m sitting in a bar (which, for me, is unusual in and of itself) talking with fellow students, who I’d like to consider friends. I’m the only one who isn’t drinking (I wouldn’t even know what to order if I wanted to drink), and as if that’s not enough, their conversation reminds just how little I know. One talks about living in France, one talks about St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in Ireland. They talk about previous jobs and experiences, and maybe it’s just the lack of sleep, but I feel so young, inexperienced and inadequate.

I woke up this morning feeling like the world was ready to attack me. So much has happened in the past two months, so many thwarted opportunities and sudden changes. I wanted nothing more than to bury my head in my pillow and sleep. I tried. I tried really. But it just wasn’t happening.

So I got up. I scheduled the next meeting with my research partner. I contacted both of my employers and laid down my schedule. One by one, I ticked off issues. There are still more to deal with, but I’m going to revel in my proactivity.

I fantasize about being in control of my life. In these dreams, I firmly tell my boss “I quit,” before walking out the door. I walk up to an employer and calmly explain why I am perfectly suited for the job and they would be foolish not to hire me while they still can. In these fantasies, I look firmly into my friend’s eyes and say “I’m tired of you taking advantage of me, and I’m tired of your pity parties.”

In my fantasies, I am calm, assertive, and most importantly fearless.

I wish I could live in those fantasies.

I think that each of us are contained in a bubble. If we let anyone get too close, push past the surface, breach the oily exterior of our bubble, then we might just burst, consumed in flames of our own pain and rejection. The bubble must remain impenetrable or it will cease to exist.

But what if we aren’t bubbles? What if we are webs, intricately interwoven to form connections, threads reaching across open space and bridging gaps.

Or what if we need disruption? What if we need to let the bubble burst in order to learn how to feel?

It seems that I was wrong,
‘cause you said that I would never find myself alone again.
It seems that you’re wrong,
‘cause I said that we would always stand together ‘til the end.
I’d thought that we were different
from the other fish in the sea,
but the truth is
we never even wanted the same things.
Now we’re just running in circles,
and hurting the same way,
‘cause we made the same old mistakes again.
And we’ll never find out
how different our lives could be,
if only we could make this thing work
between you and me.

I’m finding myself with a serious case of procrastination. It’s not so much that I’m lazy. It’s just that I’m not terribly excited about what I’m doing right now. Even when I am excited, my mind still wanders to more interesting things and I find myself unfocused for several hours on end. Then I find myself wondering if anything I’m doing even matters at all and the next thing I know I’m wallowing in frustrated self-pity over something or another. Sometimes I wish I could be coldly logical and suppress my feelings. Then maybe then I would get something done.

I flip through old photos
and can hardly believe,
the smiles and the laughter
that were between you and me.
We thought we could have it all,
and we thought we’d never change.
But how could we know
that life’s not a fairy tale
or some Friday night TV show?
Now I’m chasing some dreams
that seem just a bit dimmer
than what we once thought to reach.
But you and me,
we’ve gone different ways,
and no matter what I say,
you just don’t see
that the path that I’m on,
doesn’t have room
for both you and me.

As a child, you always heard stories about brave heroes and noble quests, characters who courageously face dangers, fears, and endless challenges. They always persevere, they always stand up for their beliefs, and they always prevail in the end.

No one told you that life is more difficult, more frightening. They didn’t tell you that it’s harder to be brave when you don’t know for sure how it will end. They didn’t tell you that sometimes the smallest steps are just as difficult as the longest journeys, or that fear will never disappear just because you try to be brave.

Why do I write? Why do I spend my time doing this? Why do I always spend my time longing to write, and then procrastinate out of fear of writing something stupid… or worse yet, writing something that might be decent only to find out that no one cares. It’s odd, because writing should be a personal thing. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But it’s so wrapped up in audience and the ever present worry: “will they like it?” Who cares if they don’t? That doesn’t mean anything. Nothing at all. So just suck it up and write!

I didn’t want to get out of bed this morning. Sometimes it hits me so hard that I simply can’t function, can’t pull myself together.

I told you that the world was too frightening, too stressful, too much. You wouldn’t fix it, even when I asked you to. You said I needed to get out of the house, get some exercise and fresh air, spend time with people. I didn’t want to, but you asked me to do it anyway. And you were right. I would be angry with you for that, if you hadn’t said that you loved me.

They say that opposites attract. Fire and Water. Warm heat and chilling cold. Love and hate. I doubt that’s what they meant, but it’s true nonetheless. Fear and desire mix with happiness and despair. It’s never enough, and yet it’s too much, too intense, too risky. We’re caught in some kind of limbo. Purgatory. So close, yet still so far away. The world is black and white. It only looks gray because we cannot distinguish between the extremes that are pulling us apart. We see gray because it hurts too much to see the stark contrast of hope and pain.

It’s amazing how good it feels to spend time with friends. I am a complete introvert, and consider myself to be somewhat socially unskilled, perhaps a bit antisocial. But today was wonderful. One minor disagreement (of which I had no part, though I also failed to play peacemaker as I could have), but other than that, fun was had by all. What’s more, I spent over eight hours with a bunch of my girlfriends and never once wanted to run away, never once felt threatened or inferior. I felt comfortable, relaxed, and content. For me, that was a real accomplishment.

Sky high
and singing out loud,
driving sixty miles an hour
with the windows down.
Beaming sun and wind tossed hair,
with a breeze blowing through me
like I’m not even there.

How do we hold on
to what we can’t even define?
‘Cause I’m moving along
and the day’s just fine,
but how do we know
where tomorrow will begin?
And what if I find myself,
ready to give up again?

The world passes by
as I’m cruising on down,
but I’m trying hard,
and living like I’m free,
because I won’t give up
on things that are unseen.

Why were we made this way?
Balls of emotion,
capable of so much
pain and grief,
joy and wonder.
Full of life,
whether we want to be or not.
The intensity is overwhelming,
enough to blind,
to paralyze or empower,
to give wings and provide flight.
Burning white fire of pure emotion,
swirling in patterns we can’t even
comprehend ourselves.
It seems debilitating,
a weakness to be suppressed and
hidden away.
But if that’s true,
than why were we made this way?
Full of potential
and conflict,
able to love and hate
with passion and compassion
in the same instant.

Seriously, how long does it take for my department to decide on the TA appointments for spring term? Call me crazy, but I thought that such decisions should be made, oh, I don’t know, maybe before spring term starts.

Welcome to academia. Nothing gets done in a timely manner. I guess I should get used to it. But it’s still inconsiderate, and surprisingly unprofessional. Most significantly, it’s driving me crazy! I can’t make plans, or tell my boss when I can work. I can’t prepare if I don’t know what class I’m assisting with. So I’m left feeling woefully unprepared.

It turns out that the department completely forgot about the TA positions for spring term. Is that supposed to make me feel better? How do they offer you a job (a small, mostly insignificant job, but a job nonetheless) and then forget it ever happened? They apologized of course, blamed it on miscommunication. But I still feel somewhat… what? Unimportant? Microscopically small? Forgettable? It’s a wonderful way to cap off my spring break. I spend my days (including my entire weekend) working a menial, low-wage job, then get sick, then am conveniently forgotten. Which does nothing to boost my self-esteem.

Confidence.
Maybe it’s an illusion, a mirage,
a projection that wavers,
glimmering just out of reach.
An aura that twists the air,
bending and shaping the spaces in between,
convincing others to see
only what you want them to.
Could I bottle it,
spray it on like a perfume,
hiding behind a smile and a
confident exterior.
The charm, the allure, the magic
that attracts and supports.
It’s a mask, a veil.
And on the inside,
I cry,
but no one can ever see.
That’s not how things are supposed to be.
Honesty is a vulnerability,
that cannot be believed.

I told my dad that this next term (which starts tomorrow!) is taking me so far outside of my comfort zone that I might need a GPS and an off-road jeep to find my way back.

He just laughed and said that we have to do uncomfortable things because it’s the only way we can grow.

I think growing is overrated.

I don’t like feeling uncertain, or uncomfortable, or unprepared. I feel like it’s somehow my fault. Except it’s not. It’s life. I can’t always be prepared. Certainty is not assured. So, I just have to make my best effort.

Stepping back on the not-so-merry-go-round again. Is this a sick cycle carousel or the ride of my life? We keep on spinning, and planning, and fighting to keep believing. It’s crazy and dizzying, but we keep on going.

Today’s a new day, a new week, a new season. A fresh start. Does such a thing really exist? I hope so. I want to shed the old baggage, and move on feeling new and refreshed.

How do we persevere? Through hope and determination, tenacity and faith.

There is something admirable about giving everything you have, even if you don’t always succeed.