Ambiguity breeds anxiety :(

Skipper, the ultimate in waiting..."When will I be Barbie?"

I thought that after graduating, it might take a while to feel like myself again, but I'm finding that I only get moments here and there where I really feel sane and stable. Don't get me wrong; I'm not unstable, but I just feel, well, different.

Being in school, no matter how hard I worked, little I slept, and how poorly I cooked for myself (oatmeal x three = a day's worth of meals), I always had a purpose, a destination. And most days, especially 99% of the days of last year, I was genuinely happy with my life. But today, me with a masters degree is less happy and satisfied than me without said degree. And that doesn't make me happy.

I don't like being a pessimist, a cynic, a complainer. It's one thing to complain about Syria, Afghanistan, or factory farming, but it's just not admirable to be a stick-in-the-mud for no reason other than "Well, I dunno. I just don't feel like myself."

I spoke with a colleague this morning about this phenomenon, and he replied, "Yeah, that never goes away."

Sheesh.

I am bad at being patient.

After waiting two years to find these in my size, when they arrived, all I could think was, "Meh"

So I moved into my new office today, and found that in spite of my saying that "yes, that's okay with me", it did not feel okay to have someone else's things in the office. The previous occupant needs a little bit of grace to move her things out. And in that moment (which extended into a school-day long of feeling crappy and anxious), I realized, "Hey Megan, you're not as patient as you thought you were." Shit. I was afraid of that.

I have waited for a lot of things in my life, and for some of them, I am still waiting. Scratch that. I've been waiting for a lot of things for my whole life. I thought that this waiting was making me a patient person, but in fact, it isn't. I've become angry about the waiting. I'm angry with God for the hand I was dealt. I'm angry at God for not plucking me out of my own life, and giving me a similar, but easier, alternate reality. Instead of being an adult about the whole thing, I've allowed my three-year-old self to run the show, and she's constantly asking, "Are we there yet?" And I don't know what to tell her. "No, we're not there yet. I don't know when we're going to be there, or if we'll ever get there, or if I even know where it is we're supposedly going." Is that what I say?

Whatever I end up saying, I want it to be something that helps me to be more patient, that points me in the right direction, instead of where I am at the moment, the decidedly wrong direction. Somehow, I need to learn to be patient for the things I want. But it's so hard. I want it now!

Also, I'm terrible with change, so that might not be helping the situation. Prescription? More cowbell!

Is this the bottom?

I went to teppanyaki last night with coworkers for an end-of-the-year celebration. The place was packed, on a Tuesday, in an otherwise boring strip mall. It seemed odd to me. Good, even great (economy-wise), but odd nonetheless.

Last week, I went to my bank, and a young man was hiding outside, unseen from the security guards, selling M&Ms. He asked me if I wanted any (It was 102 degrees). I said "sorry". And it was in that moment that I thought, "this must be the bottom". People ask for money on cardboard signs on every corner, young people without shopping carts. Adults selling candy outside banks. Suddenly, I was transported to Peru, where children sell candy on the streets, and on the buses, where each car is accosted at every stop light, with people selling their wares, trying their best to survive.

But in happier news, my generic chocolate sandwich cookies have reappeared on their store's shelf, and I eagerly shared my joy with the first employee who seemed like she might care. And she did. It was a wonderful moment.

Coping with inventory

Being done with school is so strange, I just wander around thrift stores aimlessly. I pick up some cool vintage hubcaps, or a set of Czechoslovakian glassware, but then my hands get dirty, or I imagine the glasses breaking, and I leave without getting anything of value.

I look through shoes with a hint of melancholy. I look at books hoping the guy who works here will talk to me already, but he doesn't even look my way. I look through dresses hoping I'll find a fun one for a friend, but sigh and my vision gets blurry.

Life is funky right now, but I'm getting through it. I went through my matches tonight on eHarmony and answered the questions people sent me. It felt productive. Tomorrow, I'm paying someone to come over and work for me for a few hours. The piles in my living room/kitchen have got to be dealt with, and I can't do it alone. I'm going to have her go through patterns to make sure they're complete, take photos of them, then seal them in clear pattern-sized sleeves. If she enjoys that, then I'll move on to something else. I have a load of stuff to work through, and it's worth it to me to pay for the help. I'm snowed under by inventory with no place to go.

Part II: Scars and Clumsiness

Define yourself radically as one beloved by God.

-Brennan Manning

So I'm lying on the canal trail, bleeding, with asphalt in my wounds and the terrible bad luck to have twisted one ankle, but fallen on the opposite side. Both sides were inoperable, and even though I lived a quarter mile away, there was no way I could get there on my own. So I figured I'd wait it out, lie on the pavement and wait for a car to drive by. I was close enough to a street lamp that I was covered in a dull yellow light.

Several minutes later, a kind, caring couple stopped in their car. They put me in their Volvo and drove me home (so close, yet so far). We'd never met, and in that delirious moment, I wasn't sure they were real (again, low blood sugar + runner's high + serious injury = delirium).

I ended up being in crutches for a week. I couldn't work because of the terrain of the job, so I lived on my couch with my legs in the air, hoping I hadn't done permanent damage that would lead to a foot amputation (I was an uninsured diabetic with a foot injury; my mind wouldn't stop swirling with worry).

When my wounds healed, which they all eventually did, I had a bright red heart-shaped scar on my knee. And for some reason, I felt like it meant something. I felt loved and protected, and today, that scar reminds me of that feeling. I don't feel foolish for running at night, or for running alone. I don't feel silly for getting hurt at the beginning of a new job. I don't feel those things, because of that little heart, reminding me that I am loved unconditionally, even radically.

Many more times in the next few years, I would experience similar reminders, none of them visible scars, but all of them tattooed on my memory forever.

Scars and clumsiness

This morning I saw this collection of photos on The Huffington Post. Scars are often jarring, disconcerting things when seen from the perspective of onlookers. But by-and-large, people seem to be proud of their scars. This surprised me; I'm not sure why (Obviously, this is not an unbiased sample, though).

I have huge scars on both knees and I don't feel entirely fond of them. They're only a reminder of my clumsiness. In my crazed long-distance running days, I fell a lot, always on asphalt. One of these injuries was particularly bad. I'd just started a new job, and the human resources manager asked me to stay after my shift to work an employment fair with her. At the time, I had even less of an ability to say "No" than I do now, so even though I was exhausted, I went.

By the time I got home, it was dark, and I had to run out my stress. There was a mile-long paved trail right by my house, lit at night, and I ran laps. By the end, I had that runner's high combined with low blood sugar and maybe some dizziness. I tripped, and fell, sprained an ankle and a foot, and busted my knee. I couldn't get up and was bleeding all over myself. It was dark outside and there was no one around.

I'll finish the story tomorrow. Oo! A cliffhanger!

Saving trash

 

There is a big shredder in [one of] my office[s]. Yesterday, I was trying to figure out how to get inside of it to get to the gold-filled middle, also known as "piles upon piles of raw material". There was no opening, no lock. I looked for a minute, then gave up. It wasn't something I was really wanting, but I thought it would be cool if I could take some home every once in a while.

One of my coworkers asked what I was doing (naturally). I said, "I love shredded paper". She replied, "You're kidding, right?"

"Nope", said I.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because it's awesome. You can put it in your compost pile. You can use it in packages. I just love it."

She stared at me for a good fifteen seconds without saying anything, and I stared right back. I was not ashamed, and I wasn't going to feel the shame that she was sending my way. But I couldn't waver in my own mind, not for her sake, but for mine. In order to truly love myself, I had to own what it is that I love, even something so small and seemingly insignificant.

Because seriously? When I get up in the morning, it isn't to make money (It's pretty obvious I'm never going to make much anyhow). It's to save trash.

I love trash, and I'm okay with it. Boo-yah.