I want to write because it’s been so long since my last post. I want to write consistently because it’s what good bloggers do. I want to be honest and raw, authentic and vulnerable. But I also want you to think of me in a particular way, to put me in the box where your other smart, strong, capable friends and bloggers go.
Except I feel weary. Silly. Needy. And that, other than the incessant demands of grad school, is why it’s taken weeks for me to compose a post. Because I don’t want to be honest about where my head has been or the places my heart has traveled. I don’t want you to think any less of me. I’m clearly doing an excellent job giving up perfectionism.
It only took four weeks of classes for me to arrive at the nervous breakdown station. It will be the first of many, I’m sure. But while I walked around my apartment crying so hysterically that I stopped to laugh at myself a few times, (for a good laugh, picture me softly banging my head against the window and wailing at the falling snow), I wasn’t thinking about how I’d pushed myself too hard or held myself to unattainable standards. The thoughts playing in my head were I’m not smart enough for this and I just want to be held by a man who isn’t a stranger.
It’s the tension that ruins me. I love having my own space to retreat and rejuvenate, but I ache to share it and care for someone within it. So I end up feeding my [very gracious] neighbor roasted pears with goat cheese and zucchini pasta and tiramisu cupcakes because the person I want to share my kitchen and my groceries with isn’t here. I love being independent and autonomous, but sometimes I just want to breathe and break and let someone else take care of me. I’m embarrassingly selfish, yet a part of my soul aches to be given the chance to love sacrificially. I’m still nowhere near ready for the mere idea of marriage, let alone the real thing, but I’m wholeheartedly ready for someone to be sure of me. I’m ready for the ambiguity and indecisiveness and noncommittal behavior that has characterized most of my opposite-sex interactions to be eradicated from my life once and for all. And I’m altogether irritated by the fact that even though the knowledge I’m acquiring here is intoxicating, it is not enough. I hate the wanting, the desiring, the needing; not because it is uncomfortable, but because I fear it will never be satisfied.
And that’s the part I didn’t want you to see – that I’m not as perfectly content as I thought I’d be with the acquisition of knowledge and pursuit of my dreams. And that I sometimes have nervous breakdowns that begin with the stressful demands of school and end in wanting love to find me. I’m learning and growing a little more each day, but no matter how busy I make myself and no matter how excited I am to become a therapist, I can’t escape the desire to be seen and to be intentionally chosen. At least it makes for great songwriting sessions.
I want to be seen
With a fresh pair of eyes
A single white tree
In a black hood of disguise
– Brooke Waggoner, Fresh Pair of Eyes