Grieving the Loss of Career Dreams: Prologue

I used to love to write. How I loved feel of lined paper as I dragged the tip of my graphite pencil against the surface. Noticing that paper must not be a smooth as it appeared. There must be roughness that would hold the flecks of pencil in place. This dance of friction and creativity held what I considered to be the voice of my soul.
I composed self-reflective essays, short stories, persuasive pieces, and poetry. Oh did I write so much poetry. When I find old school notebooks, I can find on the backs of pages a variety of poems. This started in grade school and continued through two different undergraduate degrees and a masters program. Eventually, I moved my composition online. I was never prolific, but the attempt at the art form brought me joy.
I will not say that everything I wrote was quality. Much of it was full of the angst of youth and certainly more than a few pieces were self indulgent. Occasionally, I would argue that my words would form and meaningful idea. I have few poems in which I take pride. (Naturally, anything I write in raw form shows embarrsing evidence of my learning disability - missing and mispelled words not all of which are caught.) If ever I found myself particularly passionate about a topic, the word almost seemed to compose themselves. Writing become as instinctive as breathing. I could scare contain the story or essay.
I am speaking of course of past events. I have not been able to write like that in years. I am not sure exactly when it transpired or the exact cause. Though I suspect, it was the weight of many things. Some time during my Ph.D. I developed a writers block that I could no seem to shake. I attemped a blog piece for RHUL. I finished it, but it lacked something.  Perhaps it was the rejection of my first scholarly piece. It had been a struggle to write, every thought a hardship and hours of labor proved insufficent. Maybe it was the schedule. The uninpired thesis. I am not sure. I have written during and since, but loath nearly every composition.
If I go do the dark places, I think I know why. The process of getting a Ph.D. was a slow death. I began my graduate program full of hope and exhuberance. It has been a challenge to earn a second undergraduate degree in physics. I had overcome my naysayers and I had finished. I was acceppted to my first chocie school. I had fulfilled a dream of not only studying science, but now I had the chance to research at the elite level. Late nights studying driven by a passion for the field had brought me here. I was so excited.
I remember the day I finally heard back on my corrections. The process was finally over. There were no celebrations. There was no hope. My dreams lay drowned in a shallow pool at my feet. My naysayers never left and I joined their ranks.
I had recently left a position where those in power took advantage of how easily those climbing the rungs could be silenced to use me as a vessel for abuse stemming from there own frustrations. This after a lengthy process of navigating other insecurities in the form of insults. After being treated as though my purpose was to further the careers of others. If I only had more passion, I could do more for them. I had proven nothing.
Life progressess forward and so did I. So a job found me and I began the impossible task of making amends. Amends for the years wasted. Amends for the suffering I caused. In the process, I am cognisent of the emtional draining I am be to be around. Especially in the moments when I am energy is so depleted I can longer lift my hands up to secure a mask in place to cry behind.
This project is to grieve the lost of career dreams and passions. I will be following the 5 stages of grieving death. Perhaps it is a nothing more that self indulgent angst. Or perhaps through sorrow, I can find my voice again. Maybe there is freedom from guilt. Or at least, I might get a little better a wearing masks so as to be more pleasent to be around.

 

Why I Race

Last year I made a goal that I would write more often and I completely failed in that object. Instead, I fell into deep despair. The thing about despair is that it robs of you of time. Days and weeks slipped by with hardly a memory to be formed. Life was cruel. I watched my efforts and dreams rot before me. I lost a friend who loved me unconditionally and gave me a safe place to have emotions. My life was uprooted again.

So here I am now, starting over, rebuilding, with an uncertain future. Many days are dark and often filled with pervading hopelessness. I am weary of cliches and truisms. These bring no comfort and often cause further decent. I am self-aware of the drain this has placed on my family and on the friends who have chosen to stand by me. They deserve better. So I must race again. I have signed up for Gravel Worlds, 150-mile gravel bike race and I will be signing up this Saturday for the Lincoln marathon.

This spring, I will spend the hours needed training each week. I will savor the process.

I do not race because I am fast. In truth, I am quite slow. I do not race because I am a natural athlete, in fact, I am quite the opposite. I do not race for my figure. Exercise sometimes has the side effect of a reduced size, but not always. I have previously written on this subject.

I race because:

It gives me mental clarity.
My mind is often a muddled place. I am trying to recover from several different past traumas. I am trying to be excellent in my work. I am trying to ask interesting questions. I am trying to be a good friend. I am trying to be a caring wife. I am trying to give my child what she needs. I am trying to perform at an acceptable level knowing I can always get better. My thoughts languish and become molasses. When I run or ride, I have nothing but time and myself. I am draining no one but myself. My thoughts are allowed to ebb and flow. To endure a long session, one must release impending deadlines and focus only on the task at hand. I am free to think and feel. The emotions I have buried come to the surface. I am left to face them and then leave them on the trail. I have the time to have ideas. I have the time to see beauty. I often return with the ability to have fierce concentration. Even though training takes time, I am often more productive.

It gives me a safe identity.
On dark days, I find the deceit involved in polite social interactions tiresome. I struggle to find a safe topic of conversation. I will not talk about politics as it causes too much rage. I rarely engage in pop culture. I am bad a mommy conversation and as a full time working mom with a husband who takes on the caretaking in the household, I often cannot relate. The training involved in distance training gives me something to talk about. I can escape painful questions of my origins and instead discuss the merits of different shoes. I can seem friendly and sociable. I can make friends. Sometimes seemingly shallow talk provides a respite.

It is cheaper than therapy.
This is related to the first point. I know I need professional help to heal. However, this is not something I can do right now. Whether I am getting help or not, I still need to persist. I have to do something to survive. Training doses my brain in endorphins. The time to process brings me closer to better mental health. The cost of entry is the cost of one therapy session. This will give me 8 months of dedicated training and thus 8 months of effective therapy I can afford.

It brings me joy.
I need joy. I need to have happy reasons to wake up. I am so grateful for my husband and my friends. I know these relationships have been emotionally unbalanced as of late. I need to find some exuberance so I can be better friend and wife.