the happiest public restroom stall in Boston
As reported yesterday, I had to go to Boston to do vaguely professional-type things. It was a nice trip and everything went well. More on that in a minute, but I wanted to start out by saying that, if you need cheering up, go to the first stall in the women's restroom at the Alewife T Station's main entrance (Cambridge Park side, not Russell Street) and read the wall.
Usually public bathroom walls in mass-transit hubs are a repository for the worst scratchings of the human hindbrain. But this wall, despite the determination of some misguided custodian, was like my daily affirmation written in permanent marker: a half-illegible quotation from Eleanor Roosevelt (eulogized as "The Best" in ballpoint pen); "Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind," attributed to Dr. Seuss; "I love my scottie toujours," either an ode to a girl's boyfriend or her pet dog... and my personal favorite, written just above the broken toilet paper dispenser and undaunted by the janitor's assaults with heavy-duty solvent, "Everything will be alright [sic]."
Aside from the fact that I tend to expect much worse written on the walls of mass-transit station bathrooms and was surprised to find an exception to the rule, I found myself caught, wondering why I think nothing will be all right, and when this started. I have a hard time pinpointing when, precisely, my brain took a turn to the pessimistic; I know it started when my depression decided to come and hang around, but the process of realizing that I was depressed took so long, and is so foggy, that I don't quite know when I went from a girl who decided she could do anything if she worked her butt off, and took disappointment in stride, to a woman who believes her life is spent trying to convince everyone she's intelligent and competent, and who lives in fear that, sooner or later, she'll be found out for the fraud she is and laughed out of her profession, her family, and her friendships.
Today, for example, I went to see an old professor to talk about the job market and get his advice on some project proposals I had put together. I spent the drive down (and most of the weekend, it must be said) imagining him saying my proposals were shallow, derivative, had nothing to contribute to scholarship, and on top of it all, were so poorly thought-out he had to call up some colleagues and laugh about it. I'm exaggerating on the "had to call up some colleagues and laugh about it" part, but in my mind, it didn't matter that I've known this man for ages, that he and I consider each other colleagues and friends, that he's shown nothing but respect and support for my work, and has never once said anything bad about my stuff; I was convinced, or at least the relentlessly negative part of my brain (i.e. most of it) was convinced, that this would be that inevitable time when the scales fell from his eyes and he found himself wondering what the goddamn hell he saw in aesc to begin with.
And I just... I don't fucking understand it sometimes. Call it the stupidity of youth, but I did some fairly dramatic things when I was younger, some gambles that involved either peril to my physical health or long-term financial consequences, and they came up aces. I used to ride horses competitively, and I rode amateur/owner and open by the time I was 18--the step beneath professional/grand prix, basically--and that entails doing some fairly demanding things demanding of all the courage and foolhardiness in your ovaries. And, y'know, I did them. And I was pretty kick-ass. If I won, that was awesome, and I rode the high for days (even a great round where I didn't win is still a fucking great thrill to remember, I wish I could describe it). If I didn't, well, it was back to the grind, fixing the problems, and knowing I'd work past them. Later on I dropped my major, moved 1,500 miles away, transferred, and basically started on the course I'm currently on with no guarantees that the things I wanted--grad school, a career in my favorite field--would ever happen. But I did it, because the potential gains were worth the risk.
So it bothers me--no, "bothers" isn't the right word... torments? Tortures? Rides me like a demon, I suppose, that the part of me that pulled off all sorts of stupid shit and made it work now hesitates, or outright refuses, can only think of rejection and failure where once I would have said "The hell with it, let's do it and see where it goes." It's like my skin has thinned, my tolerance for failure, my ability to see failure as temporary and able to be corrected, has diminished to where I'm now a ball of anxiety and insecurity.
I want to be back in the day when I believed everything would be alright. Even when I was thirteen and ruthlessly ostracized at school and coping with merciless classmates and a body I hated, some part of me knew it would be okay, because all that misery would vanish when I climbed onto my horse and the world got back into its proper rhythm again, the three-count of my horse's canter as we worked our way around a course. Everything would be all right because I could work to make it so; I knew what I was going through would pass over eventually. Now, though... I don't know. Whatever's broken in me steadfastly refuses to be fixed, this conviction that lies underneath the things I know intellectually, that says I'm really not very good at anything except the most trivial things, that I'm always on the outside of the places I only wish I could be.
So, yeah. I don't know why I can't go for it anymore, why I'm so surprised when good things happen--when I get fellowships, when someone likes my fucking art, for god's sake, when people actually want to be around me and talk to me. Good things do happen, everything will be okay with work and, yes, some luck. I'm talented, I've got guts, so why is it so hard now to push aside that small "maybe you shouldn't, you won't succeed anyway?" voice and just fucking go for it? When you're going for speed on a course and you can cut time by taking a line of jumps in four strides instead of five, you go for it right after the horse lands from the first jump. You don't hesitate; you go all in, you get it done. And when it works, it's the best feeling in the world. I want to shout, just thinking about how that feels. My postdoc and novel might not be as immediately visceral, but why the fear? Why am I so convinced they are and will be terrible, and utter failures?
A lot of the time, people talk about wishing they could go back to their younger selves and give them advice. I wish my younger self could tell me a thing or two. Like, you know, everything will be alright (sic). Since neither she nor I can time travel, though, I'll take what I can get--in this case, a helpful reminder from someone who, like me, may have ducked in because she'd had too much coffee on her morning commute and, while waiting for events to unfold, remembered she had a permanent marker in her purse.
So, anonymous bathroom user, this screwed-up, appreciative human salutes you. And you too, MTBA custodian, for not going in with the steel wool and acid and magic eraser.
Usually public bathroom walls in mass-transit hubs are a repository for the worst scratchings of the human hindbrain. But this wall, despite the determination of some misguided custodian, was like my daily affirmation written in permanent marker: a half-illegible quotation from Eleanor Roosevelt (eulogized as "The Best" in ballpoint pen); "Those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind," attributed to Dr. Seuss; "I love my scottie toujours," either an ode to a girl's boyfriend or her pet dog... and my personal favorite, written just above the broken toilet paper dispenser and undaunted by the janitor's assaults with heavy-duty solvent, "Everything will be alright [sic]."
Aside from the fact that I tend to expect much worse written on the walls of mass-transit station bathrooms and was surprised to find an exception to the rule, I found myself caught, wondering why I think nothing will be all right, and when this started. I have a hard time pinpointing when, precisely, my brain took a turn to the pessimistic; I know it started when my depression decided to come and hang around, but the process of realizing that I was depressed took so long, and is so foggy, that I don't quite know when I went from a girl who decided she could do anything if she worked her butt off, and took disappointment in stride, to a woman who believes her life is spent trying to convince everyone she's intelligent and competent, and who lives in fear that, sooner or later, she'll be found out for the fraud she is and laughed out of her profession, her family, and her friendships.
Today, for example, I went to see an old professor to talk about the job market and get his advice on some project proposals I had put together. I spent the drive down (and most of the weekend, it must be said) imagining him saying my proposals were shallow, derivative, had nothing to contribute to scholarship, and on top of it all, were so poorly thought-out he had to call up some colleagues and laugh about it. I'm exaggerating on the "had to call up some colleagues and laugh about it" part, but in my mind, it didn't matter that I've known this man for ages, that he and I consider each other colleagues and friends, that he's shown nothing but respect and support for my work, and has never once said anything bad about my stuff; I was convinced, or at least the relentlessly negative part of my brain (i.e. most of it) was convinced, that this would be that inevitable time when the scales fell from his eyes and he found himself wondering what the goddamn hell he saw in aesc to begin with.
And I just... I don't fucking understand it sometimes. Call it the stupidity of youth, but I did some fairly dramatic things when I was younger, some gambles that involved either peril to my physical health or long-term financial consequences, and they came up aces. I used to ride horses competitively, and I rode amateur/owner and open by the time I was 18--the step beneath professional/grand prix, basically--and that entails doing some fairly demanding things demanding of all the courage and foolhardiness in your ovaries. And, y'know, I did them. And I was pretty kick-ass. If I won, that was awesome, and I rode the high for days (even a great round where I didn't win is still a fucking great thrill to remember, I wish I could describe it). If I didn't, well, it was back to the grind, fixing the problems, and knowing I'd work past them. Later on I dropped my major, moved 1,500 miles away, transferred, and basically started on the course I'm currently on with no guarantees that the things I wanted--grad school, a career in my favorite field--would ever happen. But I did it, because the potential gains were worth the risk.
So it bothers me--no, "bothers" isn't the right word... torments? Tortures? Rides me like a demon, I suppose, that the part of me that pulled off all sorts of stupid shit and made it work now hesitates, or outright refuses, can only think of rejection and failure where once I would have said "The hell with it, let's do it and see where it goes." It's like my skin has thinned, my tolerance for failure, my ability to see failure as temporary and able to be corrected, has diminished to where I'm now a ball of anxiety and insecurity.
I want to be back in the day when I believed everything would be alright. Even when I was thirteen and ruthlessly ostracized at school and coping with merciless classmates and a body I hated, some part of me knew it would be okay, because all that misery would vanish when I climbed onto my horse and the world got back into its proper rhythm again, the three-count of my horse's canter as we worked our way around a course. Everything would be all right because I could work to make it so; I knew what I was going through would pass over eventually. Now, though... I don't know. Whatever's broken in me steadfastly refuses to be fixed, this conviction that lies underneath the things I know intellectually, that says I'm really not very good at anything except the most trivial things, that I'm always on the outside of the places I only wish I could be.
So, yeah. I don't know why I can't go for it anymore, why I'm so surprised when good things happen--when I get fellowships, when someone likes my fucking art, for god's sake, when people actually want to be around me and talk to me. Good things do happen, everything will be okay with work and, yes, some luck. I'm talented, I've got guts, so why is it so hard now to push aside that small "maybe you shouldn't, you won't succeed anyway?" voice and just fucking go for it? When you're going for speed on a course and you can cut time by taking a line of jumps in four strides instead of five, you go for it right after the horse lands from the first jump. You don't hesitate; you go all in, you get it done. And when it works, it's the best feeling in the world. I want to shout, just thinking about how that feels. My postdoc and novel might not be as immediately visceral, but why the fear? Why am I so convinced they are and will be terrible, and utter failures?
A lot of the time, people talk about wishing they could go back to their younger selves and give them advice. I wish my younger self could tell me a thing or two. Like, you know, everything will be alright (sic). Since neither she nor I can time travel, though, I'll take what I can get--in this case, a helpful reminder from someone who, like me, may have ducked in because she'd had too much coffee on her morning commute and, while waiting for events to unfold, remembered she had a permanent marker in her purse.
So, anonymous bathroom user, this screwed-up, appreciative human salutes you. And you too, MTBA custodian, for not going in with the steel wool and acid and magic eraser.