It’s been awhile.
I’ll save us all some time and skip a commentary on the pandemic and politics, about which I’m sure I have nothing new to say. They’re bad and scary. But they haven’t been all that present in my life recently.
Like the rest of us, I’ve been pretty cooped up for the past eight months… But I’d venture to say that my confinement probably involved more alarmed doors and less fresh air than most— before this week, my feet had touched the outside ground on no more than three occasions since March. Let’s just say I’ve been “working on myself” a hell of a lot, and not always by choice.
I spent a good portion of this time angry and acting it. I said awful things to people who were saving my life, and absolutely nothing to those who cared the most. I fought fiercely against helping myself. Behind that anger, I was terrified. For over five years, I’d lived guided by a set of self-imposed rules, all geared toward doing more and using less— rules that quickly began to mutate, exponentially intensify, and beget on irrational and dangerous consequences. A lot of the time, my days living under this regime were torturous. But they were predictable, they were known, they were safe— and they’d worked remarkably well to satisfy my thirst for challenge, accomplishment, and independence. Despite an awareness that my rules were also killing me, I trusted them far more than the rest of the world trying to make me change.
But now I had no choice. By law, I was gravely disabled, unable to care for myself. I had just graduated summa cum laude from Duke, been accepted to grad schools on both coasts with plans to head to Stanford, but in reality, I was trapped in a hallway because I could not and would not follow the medical recommendations of just about every doctor I’d encountered. So, yeah. I was angry, I was afraid, and I was convinced I did not have the ability to make different choices.
Nothing changes if nothing changes, though. And painful as it was, as futile as it seemed, still dragging my feet, often sliding back into old patterns, I slowly, tentatively gave a little. Nothing too wild, and by no means in a linear path, I allowed and am allowing for the possibility of change. I let myself learn from the reality of the circumstances and those surrounding me. Some takeaways, you may ask?
- Letting people in can make a difference.
- I often make decisions to avoid fear and anxiety. What could it be like to make them to move towards my values?
- Even the very worst feelings will pass once acknowledged.
- Shame heals when spoken to.
- My strengths are just as often my weaknesses.
- Aim to thrive, not just survive.
Along the way I also did my fair share of character assessments and personality type surveys, which I admit to enjoy much more than some of their scientific merit warrants. Regardless, they articulated some relevant truths about myself:
- VIA Character Strengths (one semantic clarification— a “strength” is a trait I use a lot, but not necessarily in a good way; a “weakness” is a trait I do not practice or use frequently) Strengths = perseverance (AKA stubbornness, willfulness), love of learning, open-mindedness, curiosity, creativity, perspective, kindness. Weaknesses = hope, forgiveness, spirituality, love
- Enneagram Type One (Reformer, Strict Perfectionist), Wing Two (Advocate). : Type Ones motivated to be right and improve everything, to be consistent with ideals, to be beyond criticism. They strive for “higher values at the cost of personal sacrifice.” And most fittingly: “Ones believe that being strict with themselves (and eventually becoming “perfect”) will justify them in their own eyes and in the eyes of others. But by attempting to create their own brand of perfection, they often create their own personal hell.”
- Myers- Briggs INTJ (The Architect): Particularly accurate: “Architects, independent to the core, want to shake off other people’s expectations and pursue their own ideas.” We are also intensely rational, curious, determined, and skeptical, which can translate into being overly critical and combative. Sounds familiar…
Well. This is pretty much the extent to which I’m feeling like spilling my therapeutic experiences into the void at the moment. Other miscellaneous things that the last half year held? I filled up six journals with mundane reflections and spirals of anxiety. I read a hell of a lot— just made it to 100 books for 2020, I believe! More on this to come. I made about two thousand paper cranes that stayed behind, and am working on a display of a thousand more for home (yeah, it may have become sort of an obsession…). I stopped surviving on the brink of medical catastrophe and met dozens of humans whom I’ll never forget, but along the way lost sight of my motivation and reasons to fight for a more fulfilling life.
So that’s where I am now. Home, not necessarily because I was ready, but because I wasn’t getting anywhere by staying where I was. And home is going better than I expected. I’m hanging with my puppy, doing all sorts of random art, learning Arabic, and hopefully getting back into some science soon. If you read this far, thanks, and sorry. And let me know.