An Apology to My Past: or, How I'm Rocking My Present

Recently, I’ve been thinking about my past. Maybe it’s because I feel grateful for my present (Dare I use the H word?). Maybe it’s because I’m surprised by how many years I wasted angry (At what? Everything. Nothing. Who knows.). Or the number times I scoffed at older folks who told me I’d mellow out someday (Miss Patricia,  boppin’ at Wawa).  Or that I wonder about the people in my past who could be holding on to my mistakes, unforgivable (I’m sorry. I truly am. Won’t you please forgive me?). And don’t forget the molehills I turned into mountains (more like mountain ranges).

My recovery has been slow. Bit by bit. Timid, at first, fearful that the damage was irreparable. But with each successful step, I grow more confident that I'm on the right path.

Over the past year, I’ve done work to recover my academic reputation. Paying that overdue library fine. Reviewing my transcripts. Culminating in re-enrolling in a graduate program I left incomplete. It feels good to put my life right-side-up on paper. Of course, this is only the beginning of that up-ending. I have some more work to do. But I can see that I’ve improved. I just hope my improvement is visible to others.

Last year, I read, “War of Art.” My one regret: that I didn’t read it 10 years ago. What I saw as failure, what I felt as unmatched disaster, was just fucking life.

“We know that if we embrace our ideals, we must prove worthy of them. And that scares the hell out of us.”

For years, I piddled away at college courses, expecting to walk out into the world with a career handed to me. Because that’s why we went to school: to get a good job. Instead of relishing those collegiate moments, I rushed through classes anticipating the end, the result, the grade. Check off that box! Then, in those jobs, I found myself restless and bored, even confined. I fought back with sass and attitude. And maybe a tiny bit of bitchiness. This is not why I went to school! But it’s what people are telling me I should be going. Right? Right?!?! I thought hopping from job to job would soothe my anxiety: the newness was always appealing. But I couldn’t run forever. I had to face the truth: I would never be happy in a “job.” Now, I am facing my demons: attending graduate school and putting my brain—my thoughts! my ideas! my fucking soul!—up for grading and public scrutiny. I am terrified. But I am the most excited scared I can remember being, like, ever.

“Casting yourself as a victim is the antithesis of doing your work. Don’t do it. If you’re doing it, stop.”

Seriously. Just fucking stop.

I see how easily I settled into the victim role. And I am ashamed of not only what I did to myself, but how I made others feel. Expecting that they treat me as a victim, too. When, really, I was only a victim of my head. Granted, I can see that I truly should have sought professional help; that deep of a depression is dangerous and to say I “made it through alive” is not a badge of honor I want to wear. But, mental illness aside, during my Dark Days—Ok, Years—I received a lot of good advice, a lot of support, and a lot of opportunities. None can I point to and say: Yup, that helped me. Of course it didn’t help me! Because I hadn’t read “War of Art” yet—Ha, no. Because I was just trying to keep my brain from killing me, to survive. I wasn’t ready for good advice or experiential wisdom. I wasn’t ready to stop being a victim.

I was a fool and I am sorry for that.

“Defeating Resistance is like giving birth. It seems absolutely impossible until you remember that women have been pulling it off successfully, with support and without, for fifty million years.”

Take that, Victim Jess. Perspective makes me feel anything I want is possible. Not because I have everything I need to do it correctly the first time, but because others have done it already. In fact, it’s part of the reason I decided to go back to school. To understand that a challenge—from losing weight to finishing school to mending a broken heart—is surmountable soothes my anxious mind and takes the victim excuse off my table.

Now that you’ve read more about me that you probably ever wanted to, I share with you items that helped me through my bull shit:

Website: Life Hacker

Life is always easier with quality hacks. 

Book: How I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me

Book: War of Art

Book: The Nerdist Way

Book: Fuck It.

Music: The Civil Wars

I've only recently started listening to The Civil Wars. But good lord they have grabbed my soul.

Music: Kelly Clarkson: Breakaway

When I was sad and victimy, a friend told me that I should buy some Kelly Clarkson and just rock out in my apartment. He was right. And I did. And you know what, I felt pretty good. This also put me on a crap-pop binge of Ashlee Simpson, Lindsay Lohan, and Avril Lavigne. But quite frankly, nothing is feels good as screaming "Since U Been Gone" to your ex-boyfriend who can't hear you because he's moved on.

Music: Barenaked Ladies: any song

My favorite band. Even now, when I'm feeling blue, I just sing along to any BNL song and I can't help but grin. Silliness is sometimes the best remedy for inexplicable sadness.

TV: Sex and the City

The same person who told me to buy Kelly Clarkson also told me to watch Sex and the City, because I was single, I suppose. Whatever the motive, buying the DVD seasons became a treat for me. Each paycheck (ie, every other week), I would go to Best Buy and buy one season. Being surrounded by happily coupled people was fucking sad. Especially when those happily coupled people were witness to my heartbreak on a daily basis. So embarrassing. So watching single ladies be awesome felt really, really good. 

Dog: Berger, my corgi. Who I can probably credit most with keeping me alive during those Dark Years. Thoughts like "But what would happen to Berger?" kept me more grounded that you'd think.

I feel like all that training in failure and heartbreak made me better able to handle the real failure and heartbreak I've experienced in this part of my life. Like losing my big brother. Or watching parents grow older. Or dealing with my father-in-law having a massive stroke. Or taking the leap to work at home. There is no room for victimhood here. This is the shit that counts. And I hope I'm making it count.