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.
